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Weekly Contest #351
Sam Stone is starting to despise his guitar. Strange turn of the tides for an instrument he's long considered to be something like a life partner or an extra limb. He's played the same Taylor acoustic for more than four decades, ever since he was a kid kicking rocks across the Oklahoma panhandle, dreaming about becoming the next Woody Guthrie. Though it's stained and dented and scratched up to all hell, the Taylor still plays just fine. The emergent problem is that Sam and the guitar are no longer on speaking terms. He has always started h...
Weekly Contest #327
We meet on the long road from Gilead. He’s a lone figure marching eastward, to match my lone figure marching west. The sun is high and fearsome bright, threatening to scorch the sight from my eyes should I remove the double-lensed goggles strapped tight to my head. Ruddy and bloody, his face is the facade of a building just bombed-out. Tall, blockish, criss-crossed with scars old and new. Close-cropped hair, wide beaming grimace, several dark holes where teeth should be, and one tarnished gold incisor. He has straight razor blades affixed to...
Shortlisted for Contest #223 ⭐️
The clock on the back wall strikes three, and I’m not entirely sure what side of the day we’re on. I’m wrapping up my last ever final paper in a basement computer lab that I favor for its casino-effect. Down here, I can’t quite tell how long I’ve been up for. The din of outdated monitors echoes inside my skull, filling the little crevices in between all the Big Ideas fighting for my attention. If you listen closely for long enough, you can hear the impending twirl of the clock’s second hand. Every twenty minutes or so, the hulking copy machi...
Weekly Contest #204
With her eyes locked on a distant target, Esmeralda stops walking to fill her six-gun half full. To her name she has only these three bullets and twice as many silver dollars. The money won’t stretch far, but the bullets are two more than she needs to take the life of Anse Weitzel, the white man who had taken Esmeralda against her will. Raising the weapon level with her sightline, Esmeralda flicks the revolver’s chamber closed, then rotates the loaded cylinders into place so her shots will fire true. Biting deep into her lower lip,...
Weekly Contest #186
April 4, 2023, 11:13 PM Empty empty empty empty. Same word repeated for page after tear-stained page. Journal tucked beneath loose floorboard, begging to be found. Caked with dust. Covered in rodent bones. 1121 Lexington Avenue, Boise. Corner property. Quiet part of town. Five houses each side of block. Right side neighbors hear screams. Twice monthly, like clockwork. The 7th and the 17th. Place abandoned 20 years, maybe more. Ask Old Man Hubbard. Really? How quaint. Local cops stumped. Said screams always correspond with disappear...
Weekly Contest #180
For want of religion, Arthur McGovern spends most days wrestling one-armed bandits at the Miner’s Claim Casino in Blackhawk, Colorado. On this day, he’s hunkered down in front of a Wild West-themed slot machine called Buffalo Bill’s Round-Up. Dropping in the requisite token, he reaches across the machine awkwardly to pull the lever with his opposite hand. At his age, he must alternate his pulling arm to keep from wearing out his shoulders. The wheel revolves through cartoon illustrations of mining equipment, gold nuggets, and precious stones...
Weekly Contest #178
Sweet Tooth by Phillip Norman Lights out, with a belt looped around his neck and tied to the closet rod behind his head, Ervin thumbs along his cellphone screen to find the picture of mom sitting in “Willie’s Corner” at Texas Roadhouse. Willie like Nelson. He’d taken the photo at her birthday party last week. The table where they sat was plastered with old album covers and tour photos, tucked way at the back of the dining room. Must be where they always stick the liberals. It’s freezing in his room tonight. Dead of Colorado winter and he...
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