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Weekly Contest #380
PING! A rocket scorched off the bat—over the gigantic first baseman. Hell yeah! Take two, Shea. Down the right field line, the ball skipped as the defense repositioned to handle my son’s double. A.J., his best friend, dashed ahead to reach third base and screeched to a halt at the head coach’s signal. Two outs, but two runners in scoring position. Son of a bitch, these boys could still do it. Our half of the Pierpoint High School baseball stands hollered and cheered with one last spark of visitor’s momentum. Meanwhile, the home crowd counter...
Weekly Contest #379
April 13th, 2018 Lilly denied the recurrent urge to check her phone as Judah & the Lion continued an extended string-plucking interlude. “Where’s Whit?” She asked her brother amid the temporary dulls of the modest crowd. “He just went to take a leak, sis. Probably coming back any sec,” Jared said, one arm swaying in the air, the other wrapped loosely around his petite girlfriend’s neck. From inside The Orange Peel, a time-worn brick building on a corner lot in south Asheville, Lilly struggled to grasp her sense of place. One of the only ones...
Weekly Contest #378
4:03 a.m. Seven minutes until doing the only selfish thing Dad ever taught me how to do. Bike riding, shaving, oil changing: all practical. The dead of night departure: the outlier. Selfish in a way, but for the best. Let the heartache cope as a blind alley instead of a yearning pair of disconnected magnets. Every twenty seconds or so, a single droplet pecks the stainless steel sink. Wafts of homemade Parmesan bread linger from last night’s meal. Never imagined this paltry U-shaped kitchen could be a sanctuary, but tonight as I’ve paced arou...
Weekly Contest #377
Two grinning boys dart inside, their parents trailing behind, and the front doorbell jingles—except its familiar sound hardly resonates after last night’s commotion that I cannot dismiss. “Welcome in—to Pensacola’s best!” Justin greets the young family while scrubbing an orange putter beside the laminate countertop. On the bench between us, my so-called breakfast lies unopened: a box of Mike and Ikes. My stomach groans like a pump gurgling swamp air, but my concern keeps returning to the next-door neighbors. Why the crashing noise at midnigh...
Shortlisted for Weekly Contest #375 ⭐️
‘Third time’s the charm’ is humanity’s greatest scam of all time. Sixteen…I’m at sixteen! And those devious administrators said this simulation would take three trials to reach the ‘final destination.’ I lean back from the workstation and the taunting computer monitor, hands interlocked atop my greasy head, absorbing the fluorescent light hum from overhead. GAME OVER! Game Score: 978 Highest Score: 1208 New Game? There must be a secret combination. Every selection. Three options. Besides the main character and the beverage, the choices keep ...
Weekly Contest #374
Service in covert intelligence operations entailed grit, self-reliance, and the most delicate balance of stubbornness known to man. For the past eleven years, Drew Remington had devoted his life to valor, diving deeper into cover—deeper into the void. Dressed to the nines for once, he rolled back his burly shoulders, surveying from the sparse outskirts of the Gala d'art Garnier. “Team two, copy?” “All clear, Rem. Standing by,” crackled in return through the comms. Rem exhaled. Meanwhile, electronic bass music hummed around the glinting two-s...
Palmer Olsen sat atop the white rollercoaster’s metal support platform, overlooking the glassy lake—a punishing shift completed, yet a vital conundrum still unraveled. “Hey! Park’s closed! What’d you think you’re doing?” Snapped into reality, Palmer spun his torso toward the noise. “What—were you trying to scare me? Your voice is the least intimidating I’ve ever heard, Ruby,” he said. From behind his secluded perch, the black-haired lass stood with her turquoise backpack over one shoulder. Her slender shadow stretched from the nearby overhea...
Weekly Contest #370
PMK: Seattle, WA—APR 07 2015 Mariners 4 > Angels 1. Dear Gina, my ultimate adventure has begun. Opening Day in SEA. Spent the past weekend hiking along the coast. Different kind of air from home. Got to the city through the drizzle today. M’s got the W. How much good luck will I bring visiting every MLB team? 1 dwn, 29 to go. Out of room, srry fr th scrbblng. All my love—Javier PMK: Oakland, CA—APR 10 2015 Rangers 10 > Athletics 1. Hope you received my last postcard. Made the drive down the coast this week in good time with the RAV4. Stoppe...
Weekly Contest #369
I tap my fist on the railing’s final timber post and keep moving along. A sightseeing group, wearing an array of Atlanta sports gear, shuffles past in the opposite direction. Is the hardest part of my life always ahead or behind me? Damn, does that word chase and invade my thoughts if I ever slow down for more than a single pace. Maintain daily structure, my grief counselor once said. Set small goals, she added. Reach out to someone—a person who will listen, care, and be a tangible support in difficult times. Mat’s determined company, saddle...
Weekly Contest #364
Under the cross-street neighbors’ immaculate white porch, Logan nods, culminating his Saturday morning’s interrogations. “Sure hope that bird o’ yers turns up. Be a shame if it didn’t,” Dennis says before offering a snide grin. The senior leaves one hand on his wooden cane, raising his other to swing the ajar front door closed. Click! The dismissed visitor rubs his cleft chin, stubbly for the first time all week. Fantastic. Four cul-de-sac neighbors visit for a weeknight dinner party, and none of them confess to knowing how Atlas went missin...
Weekly Contest #363
I swing through the back door, the relieved dogs scampering ahead of me. Their collars’ jingle blends with clicking paws across the walnut hardwood floor. “Phew. Okay, so what’d you decide? Dinner here or out?” I ask. Melissa idles beside the bar stools. Nearby, her denim tote bag rests at the counter’s edge, concealing her lower half. I pause for effect, halfway between her and my car keys, but we’ve not cooked for ourselves on a Saturday night in ages. “Hey, I think we need to talk…” And my heart plunges. Shit. For the first time all week,...
Weekly Contest #362
July 6th, 2008 The stars conceal secrets amid their authenticity—secrets too careful for our mortal minds. I speak to them anyway. And oh ho ho, do they speak back. For exactly twenty years now, I have spoken and listened from the haven that is my garage. Even in today’s Sunday sunshine, those same stars are out there. No sacred time for reading, though. I called Elmore earlier, telling him I could use some company at the Old Spaghetti Factory at 12:30 p.m. Six days ago, I had no need to count the remaining meals we might share. I wish that ...
Weekly Contest #361
Weights clatter over by “Headband Lars” as I concentrate my breath, lowering into a second set of banded pistol squats. Thankfully, his forceful huffing remains under control today, and I’m out of range of his funky stench. The forty-something-year-old enjoys slinging more pounds than his own bodyweight—unimpressively. Maybe he’s fun at parties or drives a Bentley. As my glutes howl, pausing for a minute’s rest, “The Girl” approaches from outside. Hair untied and gym bag over her left shoulder, of course. Four days a week for eight weeks, an...
Weekly Contest #357
The blank walls widen the living room more than they used to, yet they close in more every day. Not as much as the “crate” from long, long ago. Jackson would lock me in and leave during sunlight, but he stays here all the time now. Though he only comes out a few times a day, my ears never stop wondering when he’ll appear. Must be the Border Collie instinct I can’t outgrow. Daily, I will sit beside the bedroom door. Can he hear me? He had never shut it before until seven years ago. That was before we left home for a “vacation.” Visiting the m...
Weekly Contest #354
A fool for thematic music, I press skip, skip, skip until the deep guitar of Vance Joy’s “Red Eye” crescendos into my study. I’ll settle for a smidgen of comfort. The past week of editing this manuscript of mine while home alone has dragged the surrounding walls closer, muted the colored pens’ ink, and drained the desk lamp’s brightness. My fingers cramp, though the pain only strikes when I close my strained eyes. Please get back, Sydney. 11:17 pm. I trust that she’s boarded, settled into a window seat near the back of a commercial airliner....
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