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Weekly Contest #345
Seville 1812 My name is Guillermo Antonio Cortés. And I am a Flamenco Dancer.“Guillermo,” says Mercédès, my wife. “It is almost time, the crowd is waiting. Ándale.”I look up at her from my dressing table. Her face is painted with a beauty the women on Alameda de Hércules can only dream of. Near-black eyes, shaded dark, deep-brown skin and full lips. Lines wrinkle her eyes: still they burn brightly. Soon, her long hair will be pinned up, tight over her head. Mercédès is an incredible dancer. Being with her again is painful.And exhilarating.“I...
Weekly Contest #341
Mud had already scuffed my brand new clothes. And memories flooded my mind, weighing me down. Even before I sat on the worn out sofa.“Come on, Paul,” said my Dad. “You’ve barely touched your beans on toast. What’s the matter with you? Used to be your favourite.”“He’s got fancier tastes now, Dad,” said my brother. “Paul only eats foie gras.”“What’s foie gras?” asked my sister.I interjected, “No idea, I’ve never had it.”I hadn’t been back to Yorkshire for a while. It wasn’t just my family who had noticed. The neighbours all came out onto their...
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