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Weekly Contest #355
The priest conducted his sermon in a monotone voice: “…beloved husband to Annabelle. Cherished father of Nathan and Rebecca …”What a crock of shit.William John Bradshaw was a heartless prick. That’s what his headstone should say. Not beloved husband. Not cherished father. Just the truth, carved in stone for every poor bastard wandering this cemetery to see.In thirty-three years, he never once fulfilled the role of father to Rebecca or me. He clothed us, sure. Fed us, provided a roof—nothing but transactional necessities. But there was no aff...
Weekly Contest #353
The field is mostly bare now. Large patches of grasses and bluebells sway in the gentle breeze. I watch as a hare emerges from her burrow, one kitten on her heel. Just one. Last year she produced four at a time. But most of them are gone now. Feral cats and foxes made sure of that. She pauses at the opening of her burrow and pauses. She lifts her nose at first, tasting the air in short, cautious breaths. Then sits up on her haunches, testing the currents of the breeze. The little one presses close to her flank, all tremoring bone and fluff. ...
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