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Weekly Contest #145
Year 0 He dies during lockdown, on his way over to feed the cattle of a sick neighbor. The funeral was rushed and ill-considered, like a battlefield amputation. Two months later, when gatherings are greenlighted again, we decide to hold a memorial service. When we can’t find a decent photo of my notoriously camera-shy father, the event co-ordinator suggests we “highlight a personal item, something to focus on, maybe a favorite mug? His pipe?” Her hair is perfectly coiffed; her suit is immaculate. I become aware that I haven’t slept in two da...
Weekly Contest #144
In the hot, crowded market at Takapuna, sweat trickling under my arm, I pull out my sleek little Nikon 35Ti. It is the final month of our sabbatical in Auckland. Four-year-old Daniel is leaning toward a tray of baked goodies, small glazed confections slathered with gooey white, dotted with teasing reds, sprinkled with edible glitter. On the first Saturday every month, this vendor comes by with tray after tray of exotic delights—and is sometimes mobbed by people “in the know.” But we are not; this is a spur-of-the-moment occasion. “Look this ...
Weekly Contest #143
“The trees encountered on a country stroll Reveal a lot about that country’s soul… A culture is no better than its woods.” ― W.H.Auden Katrina and I were strolling down Lake Road, licking the stubs of the tiger-stripe ice cream cones we’d bought at Green’s Grocery. We were surrounded by the flicker and buzz of an idyllic summer day, one of many we spent at the family cottage during summer vacation. The drone of a motor far out on the lake; the rustle of small creatures in the shaded forest we walked beside: we were oblivious to these noise...
Weekly Contest #142
The world is awash in words, short words and long words, hasty words and well-thought-out words, words that cluster to form books and magazines and all kinds of semi-permanent media. What, then, to read? What teaspoonful to sip at while the tsunami breaks over your head? Behold Conan the Librarian. Conan is ready to recommend what you should read next. He is a librarian par excellence but is most brilliant at recommendations. His spectacles sparkle, his mouth moistens as he matchmakes a reader with what ought to be read. He recommends to an...
Weekly Contest #141
We walked along the wind-blasted shore, where the scimitar wings of a lone osprey sliced great arcs through the late-winter sky. Syrita was about to drive back to the city. She shoved her hands deep in her pockets, cheeks ruddy from the breeze. “You’ve got Room 201 for the long weekend. No car, no cash, no credit card. No Wi-Fi. Just get the damn thing done. Okay?” I nodded. I felt immeasurable gratitude for her “tough love” approach but between us, it was taboo to say anything sentimental, such as “Thanks for rescuing me, yet again.” During...
Weekly Contest #140
“I remember the shooting… but even more… I remember the silence once the guns stopped,” Grimsby said. He paused and fixed an eye on his son, Grimsby Junior. “Does this speech sound like a barnburner or what?” The two men were in the side room to the stage, getting ready before the school assembly. Centering his tie knot, Junior grinned at their reflections in the full-length mirror. “Sounds great… go on.” Grimsby adjusted his service ribbon pin, newly transferred that morning from Fred’s old moth-eaten uniform that had hung in the back of th...
Weekly Contest #139
Today I dropped off three boxes of outgrown clothes: toddlers’ tops and pants; girls’ size-six summer stuff boys’ size-twelve shorts and tee-shirts. Not a tear shed, not a single sigh. My secret, you ask? Arm’s length. All were donations on behalf of my clients to the local Goodwill. I’m a professional packer-upper. My number is posted in the drop-off zones of every school and daycare in the city. Feeling overwhelmed? Your children are in college and you still can’t bear to part with the first communion dress? You need some clothing donati...
Weekly Contest #138
Pete never knew his dad lived in a palace. Like, a real palace, a magnificent shining palace of opalescent stone within sight of Mount Olympus, a palace with a grand hall that he would have to walk across one day. Luckily he was wearing his Dodgers’ cap and the long bill protected his eyes from the worst of the glare as he made his way inside. A palace attendant came running forward, saying, “Tut-tut, no hats in the presence of His Royal Highness King Helios.” Pete shrugged the attendant away and said, “I’m his long-lost son—Dad won’t mind...
Weekly Contest #130
I was taking my evening constitutional through a well-kept graveyard when I saw, at a distance, the tombstone bearing my name. The Hamilton marker stood there, gaunt and gray, like a foul-smelling intruder loitering at the edge of a convivial garden party, an intruder keeping an eye on someone who owed an impossible debt. I was already in a somber mood, what with constant news of the pandemic, and my recent heart irregularities, which had led my cardiologist, Brent, to recommend this daily walk. So yes, the tombstone gave me pause. I asked ...
Weekly Contest #129
In the wincing bright light of a winter morning, Amir glided up the ski lift for the third time to the top of Jackrabbit Hill. All clear below, except for a stand of trees off to one side and one gray-green rock off to the other. Amir stepped off the lift, his skis crunching the snow with a voracious appetite. Ski vacay, hooray! He squeezed his knees and lifted his poles. A rabbit bolted from the trees, at first barely visible with its white on white, but startling him enough to begin sliding before he was truly ready. The gray-green rock wa...
Weekly Contest #128
Darkness was falling as Benjamin Caesar Smith tramped from the Dunfield train station to his mother’s cottage on the village outskirts. Ignoring the pangs of a headache that had traveled with him all day, he scuffed his shoes on the faded welcome mat, careful to remove all visible mud and dead leaf fragments. He rang the doorbell. The door flew open and—“Hellohowareyou!” kiss, kiss, achoo!—Florence scarcely welcomed him before she sprinted away to tend to the shrieking tea-kettle. He left his shoes, heels pushed against the wall, on the mat ...
Weekly Contest #127
My first job application since the lockdown ended and I am all nerves since the benefits cut off months ago and I am not looking my best because no proper haircut. My side tooth is freshly broken and my face contorts from time to time as my tongue keeps exploring the gap where the tooth used to reside. I try not to do this, but it’s practically a reflex. I show up at 3 o’clock as directed by the restaurant email. The maître d’hôtel, who looks like a walking penis, gives me a paper application form and points to a side booth, the table bare ...
Weekly Contest #105
Constable Smith When the call came in at 9 AM July 28 about a missing five-year-old at Ekelin Lake, Constable Kathy Smith was an hour away—or half an hour, if she used the siren, which she did. Policing the land of lakes meant constant driving on secondary highways that carved through lush green forests and around placid lakes and over gurgling rivers. Today, the scenery was a blur. Nine times out of ten, kids were found in the first hour. This one had been gone for two hours going on three. When she arrived, the parents Brent and Courtney G...
Weekly Contest #104
The packed-to-bursting car gave a farewell toot, signaling the start of the annual family camping trip. The ancient Buick Century, top-heavy with its 4-bike roof rack, began cautiously backing out of the driveway. Relief started to spread through Tim, who stood on the front steps, waving good-bye—and good riddance—to his parents and younger siblings. The Buick lurched to a halt. “Whoops, footwear!” Mom hollered from an open window. The youngest leapt from the teetering car, ran into the house, and emerged, holding water shoes aloft in triump...
Shortlisted for Contest #101 ⭐️
It’s late spring in New England, and the sun is warm syrup pouring down, making hikers sticky and hot. Hair clings to Tessa’s temples like scum at the lake’s waterline. The seventh-grade class vibrates with excitement on their field trip and she scrambles to keep up. They carry logbooks and at the gurgling brook everyone halts to record observations. She writes: “Small fish came to my hand and touched me with their noses and rushed away. I think I scared them.” Then they’re off again tramping through scrubland. When the teacher’s back is tur...
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