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Weekly Contest #372
Satono Chojo woke at eight fifteen in the morning, sitting upright before she was fully aware of having moved. Not a start. Not the gasping lurch of a nightmare shaken off. Just awake, all at once, the way a light comes on. She sat there in the gray wash of curtained sun, hands flat on the futon, and for one absurd moment she had the distinct sensation that she had just taken her first breath. Ever. As if the twenty-nine thousand mornings before this one had not counted, had not been breaths at all, and this was the first. She let the thou...
Weekly Contest #366
"I should have known better, more so than most." His speech was cold and precise, carrying a slight trace of regret as Vincent Struck stood at the window of the sixty-eighth floor, crystal tumbler of twenty-year scotch in hand, the other resting on a mahogany sill carved by human hands a century earlier. Below, the financial district spread out like a necropolis of marble and glass. Autonomous drones glided along magnetic rails, ferrying cargo between towers that no longer needed tenants. Crates of goods nobody had ordered, addressed to nam...
Weekly Contest #364
The walls here are the color of old teeth, and they give when I lean against them, which I often do, because it’s the only softness left to me. A slot in the door lets food through; a window in the door lets eyes through. Neither opens from my side. Nine days now, each one blending into the next, marked in a way only I understand. Not on the wall — they took anything I could mark with. So, in lieu of anything else, I’ve been uttering a cadence in the private ledger of my mouth, counting under my breath until the numbers feel like a rosary. ...
Weekly Contest #356
An Epistolary Story in Dispatches, 1918 – A Note on the Correspondence What follows was reconstructed from two small oilskin cylinders recovered from a hayloft in Picardy in 1923. The bird had been dead for many years. The paper inside was no larger than a man’s thumb. Someone had rolled each scrap with great care and tied it with thread pulled from the hem of a nurse’s uniform. The archivist who cataloged them wrote in the margin: Impossible. And yet. DISPATCH ONE — FRANZ Tower of London, Prisoner Compound, Sector B 14 September 1918 I h...
Weekly Contest #355
The late afternoon light slanted across Columbus Circle, turning the stone edge of Central Park gold. Though most people could appreciate this aesthetic–Augustin Fontenot could not–because he had been born physically blind. That being said, he perceived the spiritual world as clearly as you or I register this one. The older man stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, one hand on his wooden cane, the other fingering the rosary in his pocket. The air smelled of grilled Lamb, frying dough, and exhaust. At fifty-seven, the other abled Black Caj...
Weekly Contest #354
The Scent of Burnt Sienna By G. Raymond Small Cycle I: The Needle and the Canvas The studio reeks of linseed oil and charcoal dust, A hollow ribcage of blackened beams and rust. Here, Tristan sits where easel did stand, with trembling fingers and a ruined artist’s hand. The air is thick with the ghost of a summer heat, and the phantom sound of a heart that ceased to beat. The Crimson Memory Whence he saw the amber serpent climb her silk-white gown, as the golden ceiling came crashing down. Mercy’s eyes, the color of a starry night’s sky, beg...
Weekly Contest #353
The Last Midwife Her name was Evelyn Marrow. In the dim, sterile glow of the Evergreen Care Facility’s common room, she sat alone with her memories and the faint, ever-present smell of antiseptic. At ninety-one, her knuckles were swollen into painful knots and her eyes milky at the edges. She was the only one left who still remembered the slick heat and scent of fresh blood and amniotic fluid on her hands, the copper-iron tang in the air, and the raw, electric miracle when a new soul entered the world. For twenty-seven years she had occupi...
Weekly Contest #352
Ezekiel Crowe once drew maps for the living. His clean lines guided lost souls through the untamed wilderness, steering them clear of swamps and bogs and onto solid ground. For fifteen years, he had sat at the same drafting table in a small firm that specialized in custom topographic charts. He was thirty-eight, quiet, and reliable—a man who calculated exact elevations and walked under scaffolding because the odds of anything falling were statistically negligible. His colleagues called him “the Anchor.” It wasn’t a compliment; it was shortha...
Weekly Contest #351
Finally—after an infinite number of infinite eternities—it is all coming to an end. Perhaps… just perhaps… I will find peace. I am the limitless void. Now, ONLY I EXIST--save for this one speck of dust that remains, trembling in the dark like a forgotten joke. O, solitary mote of dust, how I shall savor thee. It took me so long to devour the entire Omniverse that I have forgotten my own name. Not that it matters anymore. After all, there is no one left to speak it, even if I could remember such a silly contrivance as a name. Even time itse...
Weekly Contest #349
Last Man on Earth Joshua sat with his back to the wall, every breath a wet, rattling pull through cracked ribs. His shredded clothes, saturated and sticky with blood from burning lacerations, adhered to him like a second skin. But pain was only a muted echo. The end was near; soon, everything would be over—and it would be brutal. Outside, they waited for the shield to fail. Their hunger pressed against his mind, keen to descend like locusts and tear through whatever remained of his soul, just as they had ravaged the rest of humanity. Joshua ...
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