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Weekly Contest #358
"Sara wore a chipmunk costume. She wasn't just a chipmunk. She was THE CHIPMUNK. Corporate brown, corporate smile, corporate joy stitched on like a hostage video. Her job was to bounce, nod, and mime delight while being aggressively hugged by sweaty, sunscreen-smelling strangers. She was not allowed to speak. This was particularly challenging because Sara had gone to acting school. A real one. With black box theaters and professors who spoke in long, mysterious sentences about "the work," in return for tuition bills the size of small ransoms...
Weekly Contest #350
The sun had barely cleared the rooftops on Fordham Road when William Shakes—Billy to the block—stepped out of the deli with two coffees and a scratch ticket he already knew was a loser. He wore a loose linen shirt, the kind nobody on the block would be caught dead in, tucked into trousers that stopped above his knees. He didn’t care. He never cared. He spotted his neighbor, Dante, sitting on the stoop of 1630, working his way into a hoodie like a man wrestling an alligator. “Good morrow, fair sir. How fare thee on this splendid day?” Billy c...
Weekly Contest #346
Her mother passed away three weeks before Linh boarded the plane. She had a window seat and a carry-on bag and, in the inside pocket of her jacket, the photograph. She did not take it out over the Pacific. She had it memorized. The gray bánh mì on the cart, the rubble behind her mother’s shoulder, the sleeve of his uniform where her mother’s hand rested, small and certain. She slept badly on the flight and arrived in Los Angeles at six in the morning feeling like someone had rinsed her out. So this is it, she thought, standing in the customs...
Weekly Contest #343
The bride never arrived. Not late. Not stuck in traffic. No second thoughts followed by apologies. She simply didn’t come. After ten minutes, the organist stopped playing. The groom stood at the altar, his boutonnière listing to one side, his hands locked behind his back like he was waiting for a verdict. His cousin in the third row checked his phone. Once. Then again. After fifteen minutes, the pews developed a sound. Fabric shifting, throats clearing. Someone’s child asked a question that got shushed very quickly. The best man touched his ...
Weekly Contest #341
Michael's coffee mug still sat on the counter where he'd left it that Tuesday morning. Michelle walked past it to find the ticket confirmation buried under unopened condolence cards. Admission for one to The Museum of Broken Hearts, 2 PM. Her sister had been calling—three times Tuesday, twice Wednesday, once this morning. Michelle ignored the voicemails without listening. She knew what they'd say. The same things everyone said. The same words that meant well and landed nowhere. She almost threw the ticket away. Stood at the trash can with it...
Weekly Contest #339
The bio was short: Translator. Late thirties. Brooklyn. Likes quiet places and conversations that don't rush. Harvey read it once. Then again. It felt measured. Not an advertisement, not a dare. He imagined someone who listened before speaking, who didn't fill silence just to prove she was alive. In his workshop, he spent hours in quiet concentration, the only sound the tick of mechanisms coming back to life. He understood the value of stillness. He liked that she might too. He wrote back. They exchanged three emails, each shorter than the l...
Weekly Contest #337
Your hands trembled as they reached through the car window for the dollar bills, cracked and weathered now, the same hands that once shot three pointers and palmed exam cheat sheets with ease.I remember those hands from seventh grade, carrying your tray at lunch period, when you sat down at my empty table without asking. Not the popular kids’ table where you belonged, but mine, the one by the emergency exit where I ate alone and sketched in the margins of my notebook.“You drew that?” you asked, pointing at my cartoon of the lunch lady as a d...
Weekly Contest #336
CW: Physical violence, animal abuse, substance abuse, gambling addiction When Mom married him, we thought the lottery was just a hobby. He’d wake from dreams reaching for the pencil by his bed, scribbling down “lucky numbers” and tucking them into his wallet with a wink. Back then, Maple Street, Ford plant paychecks, penny candy, the world felt large enough for hope. It was 1969, the year everyone talked about the moon landing, the Mets, and war protests on the nightly news. Big things were happening everywhere, and in our house, mom hummed ...
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