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Weekly Contest #50
Daniel could almost feel the eyes, stabbing daggers into his back, as he walked. The old fluorescent streetlight flitted in and out, matched the frantic pounding of his heart. The hazy fingernail of the sun, lethargic in its dip below the horizon, seemed to taunt him. The street would be dark soon and Daniel would be far enough from the streetlight that he would be sheltered in suffocating darkness. But soon was not now. And as long as there was light, Daniel could be seen. If he just kept going forward he would be okay. If he just kept ge...
Weekly Contest #47
“So far we have thirty people in flip flops and shorts, five in winter jackets, twenty-six in sweaters or cardigans, and nineteen with umbrellas.” Julie Rowland scribbled the metrics into her notebook without looking, squinting at the street through her oval shaped-glasses. “Wait, no, make that twenty umbrellas. Or is it twenty-one? What did we decide to do about counting people who share umbrellas?”“We decided to mark them as a separate category because it means they’re both watching the same network.” You responded hollowly to your coworke...
Weekly Contest #46
If being a writer was like being an alcoholic then Bri was fourteen years sober. In those fourteen years, Bri had gone from the aspiring writer archetype to an actual adult living in the real world. She thought she had managed to cure the addictive feeling of words pouring out of her head in the blindingly white screen of a document or the barren, empty canyon of a journal. She thought she had destroyed the frivolous ambitions of living in New York City in a one-room apartment, awake by herself at 4 am, a wine glass in one hand and a cheap c...
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