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Weekly Contest #344
The morning started with rain, soft and steady, soaking the straw. Then came a small voice over the rail. After that, I knew I had to keep the child from going under.But I'm getting ahead of myself.My name is a sound the keepers make. Harambe. It rolls off their tongues like river water, and I've learned to turn my head when they call it. Seventeen winters have passed since I first opened my eyes. What I do remember is rain in the place before this place, where trees grew wild and my mother's arms were warm caves.Here in Cincinnati Zoo, rain...
Weekly Contest #342
I am not a proud man. I sell ceramic owls and midcentury ashtrays on eBay from my apartment. I vacuum up packing peanuts every night and wake up to more of them, like they're breeding. I have an art history minor I've never once used for its intended purpose. I also have an eviction notice taped to my door that says I have until the end of the month, which is eight days from now, and a voicemail from my landlord that I've listened to once and will never listen to again.But when I walked into the Willoughby estate sale and saw that painting l...
Weekly Contest #341
Lawrence Wray planned his death with the same careful geometry he used in his writing. Everything centered and justified, stripped clean of anything unnecessary.The oak desk held a laptop, a ceramic mug of cold black coffee, and a stack of rejection emails he'd printed and filed in a manila folder labeled "Capstone." One hundred and three of them. Each identical. Each arriving Saturday morning at 9:00 AM sharp. He kept them because he kept everything. Darla used to say he'd file his own obituary if he could.Darla had been dead four years.The...
Weekly Contest #339
The truck passed close enough to knock me back a step. Its exhaust smelled wrong. Tropical. Like suntan lotion. I coughed, then grinned. No ordinary rig burned coconut diesel; only one man mixed that recipe, and he taught me how to light my first Bunsen burner.I stood on the shoulder of Highway 50. The heat came off the asphalt in waves. It cooked the rubber of my boots. My cardboard sign lay in the gravel. It said CARSON CITY in black marker. The truck was a silver Kenworth. It hit the base of the grade and the engine pitch dropped. The gea...
Weekly Contest #336
“People think they fight over the house or the custody schedule, but they don’t. They fight over who wins the history of the war.”Kathy Murphy spoke these words to herself, a private mantra before every mediation. She sat at the head of her conference table, its mahogany surface polished to a mirror finish that reflected the overhead lights like pools of oil. The soundproofing in these walls had cost her a year’s profit. Worth every penny to contain the venom that leaked from failing marriages.Across from her, David and Sarah Hartley occupie...
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