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Weekly Contest #342
I first heard of Charles Brown in my eighth-grade class at St. Theresa Elementary. His reputation, however exaggerated, preceded him. It was 1952. My dad, following the untimely death of my mother a few years earlier, had married a woman with two kids and purchased a mansion outside a small Kentucky town. The essence of Southern charm, the house, with an expansive yard, was surrounded by ten acres of land. That summer, I roamed the lavish fields, enchanted by the magic of nature, my favorite spot a fallen tree fronting a narrow cre...
Weekly Contest #297
“Something wrong with your food?”Ray seemed genuinely concerned, as Willow picked at her dinner, despite the fact that she’d ordered her favorite pasta dish. This was their third date. There hadn’t been any sex yet, several impassioned kissing sessions, yes, but not “going all the way,” as her older acquaintances liked to phrase it. “To do or not to do,” that was always the question. Too soon was also too easy and they’d think less of you; too slow and “they wouldn’t think of you at all,” according to dating wisdom 101. A girl couldn’t win. ...
Weekly Contest #283
“That dress is kinda tight.” Greg watched as Tasha, his wife of nine years, studied herself in the full-length mirror. His tone was sour, his expression sullen. Tasha, on the other hand, was almost giddy, as she turned this way and that, seeing how her new outfit accentuated her svelte, curvy figure, the result of over a year of strict dieting and exercise. She’d been taking tucks in her clothing, bigger and bigger ones, and bought several loose, a-line dresses to wear while the fat melted away. She’d waited until her goal of eighty-five p...
Weekly Contest #102
The faces stare out at me from the big red scrapbook, faces of people no longer alive but who formed my history and paved my way into the world. I search for features that resemble my own and marvel at how older relatives looked before I ever saw them. Each recognized face summons memories, torn from the passing of time into segments, like a journal with pages missing. With a sense of eerie sadness, I touch my grandmother’s name. Mary Agnes Tierney. 1880-1960. I knew nothing about her life as a little girl or a young bride, although I know...
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