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Weekly Contest #371
The door gives up with a moan; light spills on the floor like oil from a drum. How strange to be in such a familiar place that feels so alien. How many times had I walked through this door in three years? Hundreds? Thousands? Impossible to know for sure. How unimportant it seemed at the time. It wasn’t a great job—working at the local movie theater. Whenever I’d complain, my dad would say the same thing: “Work a shitty job now, appreciate the better job later.” Maybe he was right, but I never got to experience the better job. And I never wil...
Weekly Contest #357
“Watters, you gotta convince him, man.” “I know,” I say, slipping into my worn-out running shoes. “If you don’t, we’re all fucked.” “I know, Tim.” “And he has to make the decision. If the C.O. sends him, he’ll be back—” “Jesus Christ, I know, Tim. He has to say he feels unsafe here. And that he can’t come back. It’s not my first day. Just let me go do this.” “Sorry,” Tim says. He’s taller than me, skinny and lurchy, like a twelve-year-old who never outgrew his awkward phase. “I know this sucks for you. But I think of all the guys in this uni...
Weekly Contest #309
“I’m goin’ out for a sm—” is what I say, or what I have started to say, only to be interrupted by the infuriating sound of the kitchen’s POS system (that’s Point Of Sale, not Piece Of Shit), a beep-beep-beep that does everything it can to sound chipper and cheerful; however, the feelings it elicits from your humble narrator are anything but.“Ah, so close,” Andy, my kitchen manager laughs. “I’ll see you out there.”“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, reaching for the box of blue, powder-free nitrate gloves. “Every fucking time I try to go for a smoke. Ev...
Weekly Contest #287
The whistle howls from the stove. I dart across the small kitchenette to grab the kettle—the insulation on the handle has cracked and fallen away, and the exposed metal is scalding hot. My hand shoots back like a whip, and I curse myself, as though I hadn’t learned this lesson already when I was a child. This sensation—this pain—brings me back to a time gone past, the day my life took an abrupt turn that would lead me right here, to this very moment. My full name is Carmen Alejandra Flores-Mendez de la Cruz, but for the entirety of my life, ...
Weekly Contest #286
“Bro! Bro. Did you see that game last night? Tell me you saw that fucking game.” This is Pat. This is how Pat says hello. Pat does not say hello like a normal person. No, I tell him. I did not see the game. I also tell him that I’m pissed at him. Pat blew off work this morning, and I had to do lunch all by my lonesome. But Pat is undeterred by such irrelevant details. “Oh, bro. Bro. I wish they’d give me a chance. I wish they’d give me one chance to talk to management, because I know I could turn this team around.” Is this basketball? I ask....
Shortlisted for Weekly Contest #285 ⭐️
My brother died twenty-five years ago—twenty-five years to the day. I wish there was some kind of poetic poignancy I could attribute to this fact, that this seemingly random date holds some cosmic significance beyond my own personal tragedy. But the fact that I’ve arrived at this significant moment in my life precisely one quarter century after this fatal accident seems to be nothing more than coincidence. The memory remains visceral in my mind, not as though I have recently experienced it, but if I were constantly experiencing it, an u...
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