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Weekly Contest #370
Harlen Price had the Vale loan agreement open beside her keyboard and the phone pinned between her shoulder and ear. “I’m looking at the attachment now.” Across the line, Celia from the lending collection said something Harlen only half heard. She was reading the same paragraph for the third time. Humidity range. Maximum lux. Barrier distance. Approved hanging hardware. “I have all of that.” She clicked to the next page. “What I don’t have is the full conservation report.” Celia went quiet for a second. “It should be there.” “It isn’t.” Harl...
Weekly Contest #367
You know when something has been sitting there long enough that avoiding it starts to take more effort than doing it? That was lunch with my mother. I’d put it off twice already. Once because of work, which was mostly true, and once because I said I wasn’t feeling well. She hadn’t questioned either excuse. Just asked when I wanted to reschedule. I should have said never. Instead, I picked Thursday. I got there early, which annoyed me because she was almost always late. Now I had nothing to do but sit with a glass of water and watch the door....
Weekly Contest #366
I hoist my carry-on higher on my shoulder and shift my weight from one foot to the other, phone pressed to my ear, trying to sound calm while my stomach keeps tightening. “I promise, it’s going to be fine,” I say, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince—my fiancée or myself. On the other end of the line, her voice is soft but strained, tinny with the distance—Singapore, fourteen hours ahead. “Leni… you don’t have to go through with this. You could tell them before you get there.” “I can’t do that,” I say, stepping forward as the line ...
Weekly Contest #365
The zipper stopped halfway again. I yanked it the rest of the way up, turned toward the mirror, and immediately tugged the hem down. Too short. I peeled the dress off, let it slide onto the bench, and reached for the next one. This one fit through the waist but pulled across my shoulders. I rolled them back anyway, hoping it was just the angle. It wasn't. I turned sideways. The sleeves ended above my wrists. I sighed, stripped it off, and tossed it onto the growing pile. I was used to clothes needing another set of hands before they looked l...
Weekly Contest #364
Ethan The latest email had been sitting unopened for eleven minutes. Relocation Package and Proposed Start Date. I knew what was in it. Revised salary. Temporary housing. A start date I had already agreed was reasonable. None of it required eleven minutes, but I had answered three other emails while it waited and was halfway through a fourth when my phone buzzed against the desk. 9:14 a.m. Carter texted, Any chance you can get away for lunch? Elsa wants to meet. I wish. I’ve got meetings most of the afternoon. She says you’ll survive. Barely...
Weekly Contest #363
The boutique sat on a quiet stretch of downtown, the kind of place with old brick buildings and narrow storefronts squeezed together like they were sharing secrets. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of steamed fabric and vanilla. Racks of dresses lined the walls, soft whites and muted creams hanging like ghosts waiting for bodies. A few other brides were scattered around the room with their entourages, laughing too loudly, clapping at every turn of a skirt. Marta, the seamstress, moved between them with pins in her mouth and a tap...
Weekly Contest #362
I knew I had made a mistake before I opened my eyes. At eight fourteen on a Saturday morning in May, I was lying naked beside Daniel while my dress hung neatly over a chair. That bothered me more than it should have. It implied practice. I reached for my phone. Instagram was still open to Ethan Calloway’s engagement photos from the night before. The proposal looked painfully sincere: Ethan kneeling by a lake beside a brunette in a pale blue dress. She looked genuinely shocked, one hand over her mouth, knees bent slightly inward like her body...
Weekly Contest #361
Peter's mother wanted the photo on the dock, same as every year. She called it the golden hour, though by the last weekend of August the gold came earlier and left faster. She'd been planning it since lunch. I'd heard her on the porch telling Peter's aunt to feed the kids by six so they wouldn't cry in the background. It was a collection of Augusts in plastic sleeves, the same boards, the same water, boys growing taller, girls appearing and disappearing at the edges of the frame. Two summers of me in that folder now. I'd assumed there'd be a...
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