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Weekly Contest #327
My witch is lonely. She holds me in her lap sometimes and presses her face into my fur. Whatever she does makes my fur wet, and she makes strange sounds like she’s struggling to breathe, but she isn’t afraid like she’s choking, so I think she’s okay. Her heart sounds sad to me, but she doesn’t leave this space that holds the sadness for her in it. The unknown is too great for her to face, she says. She spends her days tending to her tasks. My witch has many tasks to keep herself busy with. Silly, mortal things - tidying up her desk, ar...
Curled up in the passenger seat of Seneca's noisy, ancient Volkswagen, I cupped my hand around the locket, staring at the hated, beloved picture of her inside. Seneca’s eyes, sharpened by years of mortician work and trained to read details from the stillness of corpses, missed little of what her living friend was feeling. “Ava, quit torturing yourself,” Seneca said. “The whole point of this trip is to get your ex off your mind, not to give you a two-hour drive to obsess about her.” I snapped the locket shut and glanced at the clock. Half pas...
Weekly Contest #252
I know my friends think I've been here for too long - that I come to the grave too often. They don't know how to say that, of course - nobody has a satchel full of poignant phrases to adequately express feelings like, "I've been really worried about you ever since she died," or, "I think you're spending more time in the past than is helpful right now." Maybe if there were such phrases doled out in emergency aid kits, the kinds that you keep in your car for that one day that you never hope comes, maybe she wouldn't be dead. I don't know what ...
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