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Weekly Contest #348
We inherit more than genes from our fathers. Mine passed on his love for heartbeats. Together, we’d cruise into the city to scour used record stores to find them. Although he never explicitly declared it, he was a heartbeat collector.The drive was just over an hour. We left the stillness of his countryside house and traded fresh air for traffic fumes, birdsong for honking horns, patience for urgency. The journey was a crescendo, the car windows throbbed; we were soon in the veins of it all. He would park in the same lot, often the same spac...
Weekly Contest #345
Queenstown, County Cork, Ireland - Spring 1847 My eyes yawn open. The room is dark and still. My back groans as I shift around on the wooden floorboards, they creak a whining apology in return. I sit up and sense the emptiness of the room in front of me. The smell of cold peat ashes reaches me, there’s a sadness in the smell. Revive me, give me your blanket, why have you left me in this fireplace without enough fuel to last till the morning. How could you leave me to die? My movements are almost silent, but there’s nothing to soak up the s...
Weekly Contest #343
The first thing you notice when you begin to see through a person, is what’s behind them. Next, you hear what’s behind their words, the background noise. Your nose peers under their flowery scent and finds an earthy layer gone unnoticed. You try on their words for size and find a bitterness on your tongue, an aftertaste that makes you regret repeating them. Finally, when feelings fade, the intention of their touch writes itself into your skin to read clearly. You look in their eyes, and their soul dances in their pupils unashamedly.I think t...
Weekly Contest #342
I wake up to the first sputtering whistles of the kettle on the gas stove. Its agitation grows, threatening the inevitable ear-shattering whistle. This is his way of getting me out of bed. I don’t know when this started. It never happened at home, only when we’re on the boat, and for the last six weeks it’s got me up like clockwork. The rain patters at the window, like thousands of tiny fingers, tapping to be let in to the dry. It’s hardly warmer in here, I think. I stumble over to flick open the stopper on the kettle spout as it, and I, alm...
Weekly Contest #341
My mother says I was born in the forest, given birth to by a tree. She said she heard me as a newborn gurgling from within the hollow of the trunk. She sent my sister up the tree looking for a hole, a gap, or some kind of cavity where I must have been dropped in. She found nothing but seamless bark.She marked a line around the trunk with a stone, called my father and uncle, and told them to cut it down. She said they must cut along the line exactly, and they did. The great tree waited patiently for them to cut deep enough for it to fall to i...
Weekly Contest #340
I’m swimming blind in the ocean, but I’m not scared. My eyes are open, but there is only darkness for the time being. I float on my back like a barrel. I can hear the waves close to me lapping over my torso, the distant ones crash faintly on a shore I know I’m gradually drifting further from. I feel my body go weightless, lift out of the water. I don’t drip, I’m dry as soon as I exit, I’m warm. It’s perfect. I hear words, but they’re not mine. “You’re were perfect Granda, champion of the world, and when I was with you, I felt like I was too....
Weekly Contest #329
Wursley didn't sit down after stepping onto the bus. There were plenty of seats, but he wanted to make a swift exit, so he stood right by the door. Rain slid down the windows, each wobbly streak illuminated by the yellows and oranges brushed across the sky. His destination felt like the faraway horizon, warm, dry, and colorful. It was hard to remain patient while the bus trundled along under this rain cloud. Wursley gently patted the outside of his jacket to make sure his package was still there. He already knew it was, but he had to be sur...
Weekly Contest #328
The hammer gives this memory rare clarity. We’re adults now, and when the stories come out, I see myself as I was. Sometimes, as I think I was, as I want to have been. Someone else tells a story, and it doesn’t match up to mine. With my memory, it happens a lot. Memories are my brother's strength, not mine. I’ve never understood his memory. You’d think he was reading a journal entry or a movie script. He can tell you not just what happened that day, but what happened before, after, the weather, the clothes, the mood. You get it. He lays out ...
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