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Weekly Contest #274
"Nagoya," Yuki replied, her voice barely rising above the quiet hum of the train.Yokohama's neon sprawl blurred past the windows, a cascade of colors streaming over the glass to merge with her tired face staring back at her.The old man across the aisle leaned forward, his eyes buried under brows like worn leather, his skin the color of smoked tea. “Long commute."Yuki gave a non-committal shrug, her headphones already halfway over her ears.The man took no notice. "I’m going to Hamamatsu. The five temples," he said, his eyes unfocused, driftin...
Weekly Contest #269
The Wayward Traveler. Dinner. Treasure Hunting. Righting a Wrong. “There it is,” Lyra rocked on her heels. “The Grinning Goose. Most comfortable place in town.” Corven Reaver squinted. “Well, not much to it, is there?” He glanced down at the girl over his beak-like nose. “You’re sure they accommodate Gaelwyn Men?” “Positive. Osmo caters to all in Mosshollow.” Lyra craned her neck. “He makes a keen leek-rabbit stew.” She side-glanced the door before speaking into her fist. “Don’t trust the turtle eggs.” Corven grunted. “Fine. A bargain’s a ba...
Weekly Contest #240
Beyond the window, a blur of drifting pink cherry blossoms obscures the afternoon sun. Its radiance backlights Cordelia, who kindly takes my hand, while my son, David, is to my right. “Mom?” David’s tone is filled with worry. I cringe, gulping down my words. The guilt of my lifelong deception weighs on me. An electrocardiogram issues constant, rhythmic pulses. Cordelia leans in and whispers, “Go on.” I resist, shaking my head; the cannula tugs at my nostrils. Cordelia smiles. “We went everywhere together.” She wears a knee-length, floral dre...
Weekly Contest #239
Bright. The boy shielded his eyes from the sun. Insects buzzed, and a stench of fresh-mown hay and cow manure lingered. Silhouettes of long cattle shelters and silos wavered on the horizon. Dairy farm. A half mile from home. 2,640 feet; a mile is 5,280 feet. In the distance, a yellow school bus rounded a corner to accelerate up the country road. He checked his analog wristwatch, his fingers forming a sharp right angle. Late. Four minutes. There are sixty minutes in an hour. His right hand gripped the edge of a curled poster board protected w...
Weekly Contest #213
Dr. Li Wei entered a featureless gray field. “Office,” he said in Mandarin. A grid materialized under his feet followed by echoes of his footfalls and cane striking the floor. Tiles emerged, followed by desks, conference tables, lab benches, sleek chairs, file cabinets, and glass partitions rose from the grid, followed by objects like computer terminals and keyboards, papers, pens, and flowers alongside pictures of friends, colleagues, and family. Wei donned a white lab coat from a free-standing rack. Wei tasted an electric tang in the back ...
Weekly Contest #212
An Epistle Conveyed by Airship7th day of January 1872My Esteemed Mr. Ambrose,May this missive find you in robust health and high spirits.Acknowledging your eminence as a prodigious savant of the mechanistic arts, adorned with intellect, a cogent psyche, and a countenance befitting a gentleman, it is apropos for me to forewarn you of my decision to set our contraption into motion.Pray, do not construe this communiqué as a provocation to intercede in my endeavor. I beseech you with heartfelt sincerity to refrain from your curious, inquisitive ...
Weekly Contest #211
The Bard. Benzie’s Concerns. Celebration. Voiceless. A cozy birchwood fire crackled in the inn’s limestone hearth. Mounted above the mantle, Truffler - a taxidermied warthog - proudly presided over the festivities sporting a ratty black tophat that (most agreed) leaned too far to the right. In the Halfling hamlet of Pondaroak, the Swindle & Swine was considered an exciting destination to spend Harvest’s End, a holiday celebrating the conclusion of the year’s farming cycle. Halfling folk were drawn from as far as Mosshollow and as c...
Weekly Contest #210
Mars-Moon Transit Corridor. 2291. “Proximity Warning: object on impact trajectory.” “Time?” “Forty-seven minutes, six seconds.” Seated, Carlie Barnes flipped a switch above her head. The flight deck window depolarized to reveal the black of space backdropped by motionless, distant stars. “I don’t see anything.” Charlie Broussard manipulated a three-dimensional model of local space on a flat screen. “Nothing’s in the queue; the schedule’s clear.” “Shit.” Barnes withdrew a pair of glasses from a cargo pocket sewn into her flight suit. Re...
Weekly Contest #209
CW: Strong Language, Mental Illness, Alcohol, Guns, Racism, Religion, Transphobia, Homophobia, Fascism, White Nationalism, and Basically Hate of Every Kind. Phoenix. 87 miles. Nearing dusk, a lime-green 1974 Cadillac Coupe DeVille barrelled down Interstate 93, plowing through the desert heat like a yacht cutting across the surface of an ocean. In the distance, an arid, desolate landscape. The air shimmered. Absent its soft top, the Cadillac’s driver and passenger were exposed to the unforgiving sun and a hellishly-hot breeze coming off the b...
Weekly Contest #206
Ethan reoriented his phone and pushed his stocking cap back to reveal more of his hair before offering his audience a two-fingered peace sign. "Hey-hey, guys! Wazzup?" Aiden raked Ethan’s hand. “Dude, what the Hell?” “What’s gotten into you?” Sam chortled, recording both of them on his phone through a cloud of steamy breath. “Scared?” “No,” Aiden barked, glaring apprehensively into Sam’s camera. “I’m black, moron. Shit like this gets a brother killed.” In response to Aiden’s misgivings, heart, laughing, and smiling emojis floated up Aiden’s ...
Weekly Contest #205
Dame Armaelle Jullou - mounted, field-armored - galloped into the glade, holding a swaddled infant close against her breastplate. Battle-worn and bloodied, she reined to slow the animal, steadied, then stiffly rolled her hip to dismount. Stricken with pain, Armaelle stumbled when her legs met the ground, and, glancing fearfully behind her, cradled the child’s head and trudged on. Armaelle limped into Caer Mawnog under the haunting glow of a full moon. The cemetery rested in a boscage of brooding willow trees with gnarled, reaching limbs that...
Weekly Contest #204
Many Content Warnings.Please Read my Afterword in the Comments. Twenty-six stars sewn into a blue field alongside a cage of red and white hung listlessly from a guidon. Grungy, sweat-stained, and hungover, the standard bearer leaned precariously in his saddle as he escorted a column of three hundred indigenous captives across an arid, nameless wasteland. The sun had baked the soil to clay, trampled to dust by their passing. Farthest to the rear, Nazshoni’s skin burned. Her every parched breath inhaled the land of her people. She resolved to ...
Weekly Contest #203
The red double-decker omnibus jostled along the uneven, cobbled street. Signage displayed Penge prominently above the driver. Reginald P. Blenkinsopp preferred sitting in the first row of the upper deck, even on drizzly days. There was something cavalier about it - the slight breeze, the rush of passing scenery, the risk of soiling his suit. Regardless, he never missed an opportunity to ride up top, if only to evoke a comforting nostalgia for his more reckless years. Nearing his stop, Mr. Blenkinsopp pulled on the floor cable to notify...
Shortlisted for Contest #202 ⭐️
The Gargoyle. Edgar. Routing Evil. In the Free City of Mumling, the gothic cathedral honored Silvanus, a nature deity of Man. It was a looming structure, rectangular, constructed from solid granite blocks, mortar, iron, wood, and glass, topped by a vaulted gable roof covered in vigorous green moss. A spire at its entry reached beyond the roofline, decorated with statues depicting Silvanus’ acts of celebration, and if one were to stand at its harrowing doors, the spire seemingly stabbed the sky like a knife. The followers of Silvanus re...
Weekly Contest #199
“A clear night,” Li Mei Ling texts in Mandarin, leaving the transit station. “Weird, but a good sign.” She turns a corner, her attention fixed on her mobile as she passes a mix of modern and traditional Chinese architecture. Neon colors splatter and stretch across the city street where throngs of young people loiter near vibrant, trendy bars and restaurants. A thrumming bass echoes, and Mei Ling smells the aromas of sizzling noodles, skewers, and dumplings offered by mobile food carts. A pair of pink over-the-ear headphones play The Only One...
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