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Weekly Contest #378
I. The house had its original bones. Built sometime between the death of George Washington and the rise of civil unrest in the land of the not-so-free, the place had seen its fair share of history and bloodshed. And while the front facade could tell stories that would keep campers awake in their tents until sunrise, the inside walls bled with information ripe for the gathering...if one were brave enough. Long since abandoned, it sat hollowed but awake, kept on life support by strangers who fed its energy with their own. It called to people, ...
Weekly Contest #329
“It was a dark and stormy night.” The class groaned in one, long voice – a chorus of complainers who had painstakingly practiced for years. “I haven’t even gotten to the story yet!” The teacher at the front of the room set the book down on the nearest desk. As if embarrassed, the pages fanned away from the heckled text. “Yeah, but it wasn’t gonna be a good one,” a student said. “We said we wanted a scary story, Mr. C.!” Mr. C. crossed his arms. While at school, it seemed as if annoyance lived on his face, and this conversation wasn’t helping...
Weekly Contest #169
Shadows moved with the sun. There was no shadow without light–a natural balance the world set in motion eons ago–and everything: all people, places, creatures, and things, could cast one with ease. Lucy Whitlock had two. Her original shadow behaved as a shadow should. It moved like hands on a clock around her body, lengthening in the legs to an awkward degree when the sun was at a certain angle and shrinking as the light sank lower in the sky. Her second shadow–one Lucy earned when she was six years old–stayed fixed, rooted firmly behind ...
Shortlisted for Weekly Contest #169 ⭐️
I. From the Journal of Ambrose Sykes, Aspiring Writer & Poet The Curious Case of Storms in Graveyards – 1849 The graveyard blazes to life in a brief flash of white light, and all at once, the lightning seems to inhabit every space–each imperfection on the silent sentinels keeping watch over the dead. Angelic faces weep. Crosses burn in the heat of it. It is chaos in an instant and no more. When it dies, darkness returns. Layers of the blackest ink spilled–spread across the dotted cemetery, fleeing the long, annoyed groan of thunder as it m...
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