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Weekly Contest #371
This story contains themes of suicide & physical violence. Claire wanted big.— I don't want a castle.She kept her eyes on the screen.— Just a hall where the chairs don't shake.— Nobody cares about the chairs.— No. They say they don't care.She wanted a big hall. Real tablecloths. Flowers not from the supermarket. No fluorescents. Fluorescents kill dresses. Matching chairs. Garlands over the tables. Glasses lined up.She kept pictures on her phone.At night, on the edge of the bed, she scrolled through them. The blue screen on her face. Clea...
Weekly Contest #342
CW: Physical violence, sexually suggestive content Four in the morning and I was there in the dark. Sleep had left a while back already and it wasn't coming back, that much I knew. There was this smell in the room. The formaldehyde and the soap and the skin and then underneath all of it, like it was hiding, something sweet. Vanilla. Her shampoo. The one she bought at Walmart in the yellow bottle and always left uncapped on the rim of the bathtub.Faye.She was downstairs. In the oak casket I'd picked out myself, cream lining, bronze handles. I...
My mother held the Book. She held it against her belly the way she never held any of us. Both hands on it. Her thumb crushed against the edge so the pages wouldn't move. They'd made room for her on the front seat. They'd wedged rags so it wouldn't knock around in the turns. The Book traveled well. It traveled better than us.Father's pickup was loaded. Crates, tools rolled in rags, bags of laundry tied shut. A sheet over everything. The vehicle sank on its axles. It drove slow. We were in the back. Piled in. Knees in ribs. Elbows in soft bell...
Weekly Contest #341
CW: Themes of mental health, stalking, gore, sexual content and the threat of sexual violence. Do I know you?She didn't scream.I hadn't planned for that.In my head she screamed. She always screamed. The scream was the starting gun. The shot fired. Six hours. I'd been in her closet for six hours.Do I know you?Three words. She stood in the doorframe of her bedroom. One hand on the light switch. The other clutching a rolled-up towel. Her hair was dripping. Water ran along her temples and down her neck. It smelled like coconut. Sweet. Clean. Too...
Shannon had never trusted a white man. Not once. It wasn't an opinion. It was the body. The body had known since Scott Street. Since the landlord who came up on the first of the month with his eyes that counted before they looked. Eyes that saw the rent before they saw the woman and the lateness before they saw the child. Shannon had learned white faces that way. The tics. The lips. The nostrils. The way a neck stiffens when a white man steps into an elevator where there's a Black man.That morning, the guard in front of his cell had a differ...
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