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Weekly Contest #373
“I need to pee,” I pronounce. My passengers sigh in syncopation. Irene, in all her engaged majesty, gruffs. “O, c’mon Hilary, hold it. We’re almost at the border.”I cast a long, languid side eye in her hunched direction. “Irene, it’s been two hours. I am human, after all.” Wryly, “and I need to be loved.” She’s loud in her silence; her clenching tensing me more than my own nether-y urges. We keep rolling down the pine lined highway, open windows airing out the final hours of an abysmal bachelorette getaway. All that’...
Weekly Contest #372
My toenails curl at the sight of her. And yet, she’s there, waiting. I can feel her. I’ve covered the hallway mirror with a magenta plaid scarf as a pitiful attempt at sparking joy and self-control. The scarf is now slipping, and the glimmer of some oily inky hair teases me as I try to circumvent her on my way to the kitchen. Instead, I step barefoot on a pen cap, and bounce, rattling a disgruntled shoe bench, causing the sensitive floor to quake, tremors flowing up to the scarf. My feeble line of defense flops to the ground, and all is...
Weekly Contest #256
Lola doesn’t particularly like him- her father, that is, but says she’s learning to tolerate him. He doesn’t particularly like her either, and he learned to accept her. Accept all the traces of her mother in her, from the stout frame flinching at any conciliatory gesture of affection, to the pinched looks and angry sighs whenever he emerges from the depths of his room, sleeping off his early shift. Today is a special day for Gerald. Wimbledon is in the works – three weeks away, and he is in the final stretch of straightening out the gro...
Weekly Contest #254
Sensitive Content: Animalistic love. With the evening dew settling into his oversized buckles, Pierre chuffed at the cold. By no means at all did he measure up to the hale and hearty stockiness of his brothers and sisters working the fields, nor did he quite yet attain the misshapen corpulence of the well statured servants. Simply put, Pierre was a runt. The frills of his court uniform hung limply into his concave chest, while the over-starched tails of his coat outshone his skeletal frame in propriety. With his wig askew (his slick oily hai...
LOCAL SUBSTITUTE CONTINUALLY FAILS TO MAKE TEAHer limp hair and gnarled face won't distract you from the fact that she has no idea how to use our 20th century vintage electric kettle furbished by some ole teacher of yesteryore. Ms. Harring, who shuffles in leisurely 19 minutes past the first bell every morning while gargling loudly into her speaker'd phone between slurps of syrupy iced decaf tea, has the nerve, the complete oblivion, the gall to walk into subsequent rooms asking for a teacher to come help her instead of struggling to take at...
Weekly Contest #50
The grandfather clock struck 8 o’clock. Dinner was still not ready. The leftover taper candles rustled out from a drawer's depths were long extinguished. Greta passed her hand over the cavern of her shrinking belly, sighing in nervous relief. Hannah, meanwhile, fretted with the napkin, peering over the maze of crystal glasses, rapidly cooling gravy boats, potato tureens, and empty placemats. She tried not to, but the voices seeping through the corridor clutched the pit of her stomach. “That’s not how you sear chicken. Add more sour cream,” s...
With the evening dew settling into his oversized buckles, Pierre chuffed at the cold. By no means at all did he measure up to the hale and hearty stockiness of his brothers and sisters working the fields, nor did he quite yet attain the misshapen corpulence of the well statured servants. Simply put, Pierre was a runt. The frills of his court uniform hung limply into his concave chest, while the over-starched tails of his coat outshone his skeletal frame in propriety. With his wig askew (his slick oily hair a childhood contention of his moth...
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