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Weekly Contest #378
Dad had stopped looking at the camera sometime in the spring, and I'd put that down to the dementia. The calls came through at ten on Sunday mornings, three in the afternoon at Ashdown House. I'd prop the phone against the fruit bowl and get on with something. That week it was eggs, in a pan I'd paid ninety dollars for and was still trying to justify. 'There she is,' Dad said. 'There's my kiddo.' He was in the armchair by the window, angled so the camera caught him three-quarters on, and he was smiling at a point just to the left of me, abou...
Weekly Contest #377
We’d been in the house on Dalby Road for nine days when Izzy came down to breakfast and asked if the man in her room was allowed to be there. She asked it the way she asks if she can have a biscuit. Dan put his toast down. ‘What man?’ ‘The old one. By the chimney.’ She climbed onto her chair. ‘He doesn’t turn round, even when I say hello.’ ‘You were dreaming, Iz.’ ‘I wasn’t. I was awake. I needed a wee and he was there, so I didn’t go.’ Dan laughed and looked at me to laugh too. I didn’t. At about three the night before, I’d got up for the l...
Weekly Contest #376
02:47 The first rule of live television is that you never go to black, and in fifteen years I never have. I've kept us on air through a fire alarm, and through the night a lighting rig came down in Studio 2 and Gail sold forty-one sets of Egyptian cotton bedding while two sparks dragged it off the floor behind her. Black is what the viewer sees when nobody's holding the wheel. There's always somewhere else to go: a wide, a graphic, the looped VT of a woman laughing at a saucepan. You don't go to black. At quarter to three on a Wednesday morn...
Weekly Contest #307
The air in her London flat tasted of ash and stale dreams, and Alice awoke feeling as dead as the paint on her peeling walls, yearning for anything to prove she was truly alive. She wasn’t looking for a secret society, or forgotten gods, or anything remotely sinister. She was just looking for a painting. More than that, she was looking for a spark, a flicker of inspiration to reignite the dwindling flame of her artistic spirit. Her tiny Southwark flat, perpetually shadowed by the gleaming Shard, felt smaller and tighter each day, squeezing t...
Weekly Contest #304
Awakening. It began not with the gentle hum of twilight, but with a jarring disruption to the ancient quiet of the Richmond cottage, a sharp, insistent rap echoing from the surprisingly sturdy oak front door. Greg Strigoi, the cottage's sole, nocturnal inhabitant, stirred. His awakening was usually a slow, deliberate affair, but this was different. This was a deliberate, human knock, insistent and desperate. A flicker of panic, a sensation he rarely felt, tightened his chest. Visitors were… unheard of. Undesirable. Dangerous. He rose silentl...
Weekly Contest #300
Eldermoor was a village cradled in the embrace of time, its cobblestone streets glistening like polished bone under the mist that rolled down from the Blackspire Mountains. The peaks, jagged as the teeth of some ancient beast, loomed over the valley, their slopes cloaked in dense firs that whispered in the wind, their needles carpeting the earth in a soft, fragrant decay. Cottages of weathered stone and timber huddled together, their roofs blanketed with ivy that shimmered with dew in the dawn light, while chimneys puffed woodsmoke that curl...
Weekly Contest #299
The gentle caress of morning sunlight filtered through the flowery curtains, casting a warm glow across Lily's bedroom floor. It danced playfully on the worn wooden boards, creating little sunlit puddles that beckoned the world to be not only seen but felt anew. ‘Oh, look! An ocean of light!’ Lily announced to her room, her voice bouncing with excitement. Every shadow whispered tales of grand empires, and every fleeting beam invited a new adventure. Sir Pawsalot, her brave lion with an ever-fluffed mane, seemed to nod in agreement from his r...
Weekly Contest #3
I never thought I’d see my home again after the incident. I’ve been away for almost two years—running, screaming, and fighting. There is probably nothing left there. Nothing. Nothing at all. Even the word nothing carries no emotional charge. No worry or regret … it is what it is, and we all have to do deal with it. Well, everyone who is still alive has to do deal with it. The underground tube barely makes it to a halt, screeching and scraping to the platform. ‘We’re here,’ I shout, pushing myself up from a tube seat and brushing off dust … o...
Weekly Contest #1
Today is chaos. Planning a child’s birthday is harder than flying a man to the moon, in my opinion. So much can go wrong and probably will, but as a mother, I will try and pull off a great birthday party. Being a single parent, working full time, and raising a child has its difficulties, and today is one of them. Today is the only day I’ve had to prepare, which is horrible because my daughter’s birthday is tomorrow. Tomorrow! The first thing is buying all the necessary supplies from the shops. I park my car at the Westfield parking lot in Sh...
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