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Weekly Contest #377
CW: Substance abuse, grief He's put the good scissors in with the rubbish. I watched him do it. Lifted the whole jumble drawer out of the dresser, tipped the lot into a black bag — the scissors, the dead batteries, the birthday candles gone soft, the little brass key — and I stood at his elbow saying the word scissors until my voice went the way it goes, out into the air of that room like breath on a cold window, and gone. Eleven months dead. That's the thing I've learned first: you can shout all you like, and no one will tidy differently ...
Weekly Contest #282
The bell jingled as the door to the small coffee shop swung open. Daniel stepped inside, shivering from the morning cold, and shook droplets of rain from his jacket. It was a Tuesday—he was certain of that, though his mornings had started to blur together lately. Routine made everything predictable, almost monotonous. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around him like a warm blanket. He glanced around. The same red-and-white checkered floor tiles, the same overstuffed armchair by the window, the same soft jazz playing from the speak...
Weekly Contest #279
On the wind-swept plains of Mesopotamia, where the first cities had risen from the clay, I once walked among the ancients. My name is Eshmun, a name lost to history, subsumed into the whispers of the dreams of men. I, too, was a man, once. But I was more than that. I was a mutant. Long before the rise of empires and the scribes etching words into stone tablets, I was a child of the soil, born under a crimson moon that hung low like a curse. My mother had said I was chosen, but she spoke through fear, not divine prediction. I was the first to...
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