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Weekly Contest #362
“What are you doing in there?” Colton Wallace flinched. The wooden stool beneath him teetered as he twisted toward the stairs, pressing a shaky finger to his lips. “Shhh.” Standing halfway up the steps was his own personal nightmare wrapped in reindeer-print pyjamas. His twin sister, Hadley, rubbed her eyes, mouth wide open in mid-yawn. “I’m telling Mom and Dad,” Hadley mumbled. “They said that was… foreboding.” “Forbidden,” Colton snapped, turning back around. “Just like you’re forbidden from touching my stuff.” Dark mahogany towere...
Weekly Contest #361
I don’t have magic powers, but they always call me the Wizard because I know things that I shouldn’t.I know that in four minutes, the sun will take her shape and step through the diner door. I’ll approach the counter and, in just a few words, ignite a chemistry that will burn hotter than anything she could have expected. I’ve watched moments like this twist themselves in every possible direction—but today feels different. I’m not sure how it will end.First, the waiter will ask me a stupid question in three… two… one.“So, what brings you to D...
Weekly Contest #360
What’s this poor bastard about to do? Kyra Witkoff thought. The man by the window had less than six minutes. She peeked over the cappuccino machine, watching the numbers over his head bleed away—soft blue, transparent, flickering like a dying bulb. The countdown to zero always tightened something in her lower gut. Years ago, Kyra learned the numbers didn’t predict death—only the moment people break themselves in a way they could never undo. A life-changing mistake. Whenever a zero drew close, she trembled, afraid she’d...
Weekly Contest #359
Could she really be here? Dawn breaks through the fog in a way that makes it seem like the dead really could rise, the mist twisting through the branches like a spirit keeping its sinister eye on my every move. I never thought I’d come back here. Then again, I never thought anything could happen to us—to her… not like that. All I want is one more minute. The quiet hits first—no birds or crickets—as I step off South Avenue and creep down the access road. Nothing has bothered to change. The same g...
Weekly Contest #357
I don’t know why my human always gets upset and angry when he takes me to this park. There’s fresh air and lots of fresh-cut grass to run across. At first, he’s buzzing—a bouncy kind of energy he gets when I proudly drop his shoes at his feet. He walks a little faster, nose to the wind like he’s catching a scent that I can’t. He smiles at me and pats my head. But somewhere between a shady tree and the tickly sand of a tiny beach, his steps get heavy. It’s like an invisible leash wraps around his shoulders and yanks too tightly. ...
Weekly Contest #350
Romantic comedies are bullshit. Don’t distill those ninety-minute lies into dating advice. Instead of slipping my fingers into warm, silky panties, they dangled below cold metal handcuffs. I watched the sun rise in the back of a cop car, covered in ketchup, clutching a rose like a deranged Bachelor contestant. As the officer took my statement—just hearing my own words out loud—I realized how catastrophically stupid this idea was. “Thomas Feeney,” the officer said, in the tone of a man whose breakfast was getting cold. “Witnesses report some...
Weekly Contest #329
The smell of chlorine burned Edward Cook's nostrils, but the cold dread that crept across his skin was sharper. The university pool should have been empty—it was near midnight, and he had the only key. From inside the women’s locker room, he heard muffled splashes, like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Something was treading water, waiting.“Filtration,” Edward muttered, trying to convince himself.He placed a Windex bottle on his cleaning cart, exchanging it for a rag-wrapped flask of whiskey. He swallowed a gulp, but the shiver that followe...
Weekly Contest #302
Day 1 – 6:32 p.m.Ivy Freeman stared at a rainbow of wine bottles lining the dusty metal rack. The sticky floor and cardboard aroma of the corner liquor store had become more than a Friday night ritual—it thawed the cold bitterness of the world, at least for a little while.Generic table wine… she thought, snatching the $6.99 bottle. Cheaper than Prozac.“Do you have a Cork Club number with us?” the clerk asked.“5285,” she muttered, distracted as she dug through her purse.“Here you are, Thomas and Ivy Freeman,” the clerk announced, then leaned ...
Weekly Contest #297
The blindfold was damp and smelled like aged cheese, as if it had been yanked from a forgotten gym bag.This is wrong on so many levels, Rupert thought. I’m going to get eaten alive here. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table, like a pianist playing an invisible scale. The vein in his forehead pulsed beneath the tightly wrapped red fabric. He tried to ignore it, but the pressure and darkness heightened his anxiety with every heartbeat.Poisonous thoughts continued to cascade through his body, seizing muscles at every turn. This is stupi...
Weekly Contest #289
“It just drove by again,” said Donovan Hunton, his voice laced with paranoia. He moved his head away from the tiny slit in the Venetian blinds and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “That’s the fourth time in an hour. Can’t you see? I'm not making this up!”His wife, Alicia, stood at the bedroom door, her eyes brimming with tears, a dam about to burst. She took a deep breath as if to suppress her emotions, but her voice came out shrill and cracked. “I just don’t see it, honey. You’re really scaring me. Look at yourself.”Donovan ...
Weekly Contest #286
“I don’t understand why you’re so determined to make me a widow,” said Juliette, pacing back and forth in the cramped dressing room.“Stop with the theatrics,” Pete replied. “Or maybe we should paint your face and shove you into the spotlight.”A slight chuckle escaped his lips, quickly shifting into a raspy, hacking cough. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray surrounded by empty beer bottles. Pete cleared his throat, waved away the smoke, and turned his attention back to the vanity mirror. He dabbed white makeup around his eyes with two...
Weekly Contest #271
The clock read 2:21 p.m., and Luke Keegland’s mind was focused on two things: Pac-Man and his own impending death. Luke couldn’t concentrate as the teacher droned away about integers and fractions. The classroom clock looked too much like the video game character Pac-Man. The two hands were positioned to form a gaping mouth within the circular frame, and Luke felt like one of those dizzied blue ghosts trying to avoid being eaten. Pac-Man was also the nickname given to Chris Sherman, not just because he was big and round, but because his mo...
Weekly Contest #269
“How dare you insult me like this?” Thomas St. Clair yelled in the middle of the busy restaurant. He was perched on a velvet-upholstered chair. His towering red pompadour was beautiful and intimidating like a peacock spreading its feathers. Gin and tonic dripped from his chin after he involuntarily spat out the drink, showering the Pan-Seared Sea Bass and Truffle Risotto. A woman sat directly across the table. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to her mouth, trying to screen her words from curious onlookers. “What is wrong with you?” ...
Weekly Contest #259
Pictures scattered across the desk had captured scenes from the Salem Witch Trials. Not paintings or charcoal sketches, but high-resolution photos taken with a professional camera. The 50-megapixels revealed, with exquisite clarity, the fear-laced intensity in the accused’s eyes. The woman's gaze remained downcast as judges and clergy, dressed in elaborate outfits, pointed at her with palpable anger.“This is some of your best work Tobias,” said a woman behind the desk. “I envision the next issue of the Chrono-Chronicle featuring this picture...
Weekly Contest #258
The abandoned building was shrouded in shadows. The air was thick with dust, invisible particles revealed themselves as they floated past the portable work lights. An old Polaroid camera, mounted on a tripod, was bathed in the halogen glow and focused on the boarded-up storefront. A beat-up aluminum framed door with broken glass windows tucked between two counters. Nearby, microphone arms were clamped to the edge of a folding table, wires snaked down into an audio mixing board and a laptop computer. Cassidy Quinn cleared her throat and licke...
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