Short Story
Working Late
“How may I help you?” “I’m stuck, and need help; it hurts.” “Where are you? What is hurting?” The caller didn't respond. Renee was in the last few minutes of her 3-11 p.m. shift. She and her co-workers called the time immediately before clocking out the last call . And when the phone rang, it was literally the last call during her last call . Her shift would continue now, and she wouldn’t be paid overtime.
By Andrea Corwin 15 days ago in Fiction
It's always the husband.. Honorable Mention in Last Call Challenge.
New York is a place where late-night calls feel just as normal as conversations at happy hour. But when a married man is calling you after midnight—well, you know how the story can go. It was only four months into my counseling sessions with Dion and Anna Caruso when his messages became more frequent and more predictable after our Wednesday night sessions. We ended at six, and like clockwork, by midnight, my phone would vibrate. At first it was casual frustration; then it got more personal. He’d mention arguments with Anna that he didn’t speak about during our time with her. From my experience, they needed a divorce— but of course I didn’t tell them that — what kind of therapist would I be? The Carusos were well-off, and maybe I used that to my advantage. I took Dion as a private client, off the record, while continuing to counsel them together every Wednesday. Yes, it was unethical. Anna didn’t know. And yes, legally, I was potentially losing my neutrality, but I felt bad for Dion. One Friday night, I was on my sofa going over some patient notes. Michael hated when I took work home with me, but that night he was on an overnight shift at Mount Sinai, so I had the apartment to myself. My work phone kept going off. Message after message. It was Dion . I didn’t answer right away. It’d been the same old thing with him. Talks about leaving Anna, dragged out until all hours. Anna was drinking again, calling him every name in the book. They’d fight over whose turn it was to pick up their son from Trinity—a prestigious Manhattan prep school. He said Anna complained about constantly catering to their son’s extracurriculars alone, then rushing home to make dinner. It left her no time to get her highlights done, so Anna hired a young maid to take the load off and accused Dion of gawking at the poor girl. Julia. Answer your phone. Please. I need you. Something happened. Pick up. I live a convenient three blocks away from my office on the Upper East Side. It took Dion eight minutes to get there from the San Remo to 86th and Madison. It was 1:23 in the morning. I was by the window when I heard heavy knocks at the door. Before I could even turn the knob, Dion pushed the door open with his shoulder, stumbling inside, grabbing my arms. Blood all over his palms. Now on my wrists and my blouse. I flung my arms away from him, and he collapsed to the floor. I pushed the door shut, and he reached, hugging my legs. I backed away. Disheveled, reeked of bourbon, and his hands drenched in red. Whatever the hell he had done, he had brought it to me. “Julia. Please.” He was sobbing on my floor. “Just listen.” “Whose blood is that?” I maintained my composure. Someone had to. “Who do you think?” “Where’s Anna?” He kept sobbing, burying his face in his palms. I yanked them off, knelt down beside him. “Where’s Anna? I know you can hear me, Dion. Where’s Anna?” Lost. Less sobbing, exhausted, his empty eyes wandering past me. “She’s gone. Julia…” “Gone where?” Naive question. We both knew where. “Gone.” “Did you kill her?” He looked up at me as if the question were absurd. But who in their right mind would believe him if he said no ? He was the husband and everyone knows— it’s always the husband.
By tatiana vitas15 days ago in Fiction
Tea with Friends
Note: the prompt for this Challenge was the following lyric from The Doors: Women seem wicked when you're unwanted I have heard this particular line many times, and I still think it is one of their best songs ( 'People Are Strange' ). And I think a drabble is in order.
By Kendall Defoe 15 days ago in Fiction
Quiet Bar, Silent Strains. Honorable Mention in Last Call Challenge. Top Story - September 2026.
Rose liked the bar’s quiet atmosphere. Here, her mind could expand. Ideas for her story were already forming. Charlie the dog lay in front of the fire, absorbing the comforting heat.
By Ruth Stewart16 days ago in Fiction
The Last Innocent Second
The bomb bay doors snapped open at 8:15:17. Gravity took the weight Colonel Paul Tibbets had hauled across the Pacific for three days, and Little Boy dropped free, ten thousand pounds lighter, the Enola Gay jumping upward like a spring let loose. Tibbets threw the aircraft into a diving turn of one hundred fifty-five degrees, engines shrieking past their limits. The switch had thrown. A man can steer a plane. Recalling a bomb already falling through open air lies beyond him.
By Nolan Reed16 days ago in Fiction
Vivace. Top Story - September 2026.
Clouds churned on the horizon, a deep slate veil over the vibrant blue sky. In hours those clouds would consume the southern horizon. A young girl peeked through a hole in the turret wall, where a boulder had smashed through long ago. She wore a hardened leather outfit crafted by her father, an older cordwainer who once made armor for the armies of the old kingdom.
By Casey White16 days ago in Fiction
bartending for endlings. Runner-Up in Last Call Challenge.
The last person to utter the words "last call" knew she wouldn't live to see another day. A storm was coming. The storm to end all storms. Even now, it raked its way across the continent, annihilating everything, sparing no one.
By Tyler Clark16 days ago in Fiction
Barring Decisions
The bubbles glided above the glass in front of Frank. He stared at it for hours while the chatter went on around him. The drink had been poured hours ago, and Frank could only look at the drink he used to love so much. His worn face matched the disappointment he heard around the room. A young man sat at the table, laughing and reaching for the drink as Frank grabbed his arm.
By Sarah Danaher16 days ago in Fiction
