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Weekly Contest #345
The kettle was full. Nora touched the side of it—cold—and looked at the mug beside it on the counter. A teabag sat in the bottom, dry, waiting for water that would never come. Assam. She stared at it longer than made sense. She bought the same brand in Edinburgh. On the table, a letter: stamped, addressed to someone named Helga in Bremen, unsealed. The last line of handwriting stopped mid-sentence. Das Buch über Humboldt ist sehr gut, besonders das Kapitel über— The Humboldt book is very good, especially the chapter about—. Margit had been w...
Weekly Contest #341
She ran her fingers along the remaining spines the way she had as a child, reading titles by touch. Half the shelves were bare. Cardboard boxes sat open on the floor between the stacks — Austen slumped against an atlas as though the two had given up together. The overhead lights were off. No one had bothered. Late October sun came through the high windows and did what it could. She had not set foot in Starthollow in thirty-five years. That had not been an accident. There had been invitations — her father's retirement party, the library's cen...
Weekly Contest #340
You write her to the edge of the dark and she plants her feet. Not dramatically. She doesn't draw a sword or throw herself against some invisible wall. She just stops walking, the way someone stops when they've decided, and no amount of your fine prose is going to change that. You try again. You lay the path out in richer detail — torchlight catching the bark of ancient oaks, the hush of deep water somewhere ahead, wild thyme growing between the flagstones though you don't recall seeding it there. You write the air thick with evening. You wr...
Weekly Contest #297
The fluorescent tubes hummed their migraine frequency, spitting relentless, shadowless light. Offensively cheerful Muzak ricocheted off linoleum scuffed by the drag and sigh of countless weary soles. Gary propelled himself and his basket towards the checkout sector by sheer inertia.The basket’s weight seemed less physical than existential: a bottle of cheap Merlot, its glass cool and unforgiving; a microwave meal labelled ‘Homestyle Comfort’, suspiciously beige under the harsh lights; generic painkillers. Each step grated. An overpowering ur...
Weekly Contest #295
Dr. Mira Santos aligns her pen at a precise ninety-degree angle to her notepad, then adjusts it to eighty-nine. Perfect precision matters. Her office presents an unbroken landscape of whites and grays—walls, furniture, even the spines of journals arranged by height on custom shelving. Her diplomas hang at measured intervals: Harvard Medical School, Johns Hopkins Fellowship, Stanford Neuropsychiatry. "I keep having these dreams where pieces of myself are missing," Jamie Whitcomb explains, voice carrying an unsettling familiarity Mira can't pl...
Weekly Contest #294
The lantern flickered between us, its light unsteady against the gathering dark. "Three years," Mira said, setting grandmother's brass lantern on the kitchen table between us. "Not even when Dad asked for you at the end." Rain from the Remembrance Storm hammered against the windows—arriving precisely the same week our father had died last year, his body lowered into Penobscot soil while I stood in a Mojave field, collecting data. The memory surfaced with physical force: desert heat, cell phone pressed to my ear, Mira's voice crackling throug...
Shortlisted for Contest #293 ⭐️
Rain pattered on the midnight blue hood of the 1967 Cadillac DeVille. Eliza Thorne sat behind the wheel, key hovering near the ignition, as water streamed down the windshield in rivulets that distorted the view of her mother's Boston brownstone. The funeral had ended hours ago. The other mourners had long since departed for their hotels or homes, leaving only Eliza and this car—her inheritance. She knew what would happen when she turned the key. Family legend was explicit: the first time a new owner drove the Cadillac alone, the previous own...
Weekly Contest #292
The forbidden wing of the Imperial Archives smelled of forgotten things—dust with undertones of leather, iron, and the faint chemical tang of preservation spells. Elara's lantern cast trembling shadows across shelves crowded with artifacts officially labeled as "historically insignificant"—the Empire's bureaucratic euphemism for knowledge deemed too dangerous to circulate yet too valuable to destroy completely. Her forged permission slip had worked; the afternoon guard had barely glanced at the curator's mimicked signature before waving her ...
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