Michał Przywara

“Three Loud Bangs on the Door” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #148

Three loud bangs on the door startle Leslie out of her reverie. The noise reverberates through her empty apartment, bouncing off the parquet floor and past the unopened moving boxes. Rattling her bones. The echoes fade but never quite disappear. They sink into the mute white walls, drown in the shadow bog under the sofa. She sets her bottle of water on the kitchen counter. Her muscles still ache, but the high of the jog is forgotten, and her sweat, pleasant a moment ago, runs cold. It’s midday but the fierce bright only creeps in through her...

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“Visitors” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #147

“Looks like de Luca is making a new movie,” Brent said, face buried in his phone. Renee stared up at the moonroof and sighed. She put the car into park and leaned back. Not like traffic was going anywhere. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in years,” she said. “Is he really still directing?” “Ooh!” said Brent. “Looks like Adriana Mendoza’s in it.” Renee ran her hands over her face. Somewhere along the highway someone honked, which got a chorus going for a while before petering out. “You and your Mexican girls.” “Hey, she’s on my list.” Brent g...

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“10 Days to Mindfulness” by Michał Przywara

🏆 Winner of Contest #146

Day one: finding your breath.“Take a moment to listen to your breathing,” the recording of Dr. McCourt said, through the car’s speakers. “Don’t try to control it, just feel the air as it enters and exits your nose.”Garry slammed his brakes and his horn. Just like the driver ahead. Just like the driver behind.“Stop fucking honking at me asswipe!” he screamed over his shoulder. He could see the driver behind him, screaming himself red. Look at this guy! What an idiot.Somewhere a light turned green. All the cars lurched forward a metre and...

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“The Trials of Ralph of Hairstow-on-Stretford” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #145

It’s a slap what wakes me, right across my face. Is that Gemma, I wonder? Before my eyes can open I loose a mighty burp and trumpet a righteous wind. “Good lord!” a man yells. “By all that’s holy!” says another. “That is foul indeed!” I try to open my eyes. My lids are thick, heavy, covered with honey or something. When I crack them it’s painful bright out and I wince. I could have sworn it was night just a moment ago, but everything’s blurry. Vision, memory, all of it. Like that time Gemma said she was expecting yet another mouth to feed. I...

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“Four Pillars” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #144

Amber cavern walls covered in dusky roots, a golden ray of sun from above, and a shimmering coffee pool. And the Four Pillars in the middle of it all, of course.Despite herself, Dr. Ellen Azwani gasped. The photo on her tablet was perfect, rivalling the real thing.“Oh my, my, my,” she said, grinning. “Oh, Curtis. You’re going to love this. I bet you never thought I could be a photographer.”The photo held little research value, she knew that. Particularly compared to the thousands of hours of video, the ground-penetrating 3d scans of the...

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“A Storm of the Century” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #143

Thunder cracked across the sky as the Honda Civic rolled to a stop, right at the foot of the bridge. Its wipers swacked back and forth in double time, and its two occupants stared wide-eyed at the rest of the bridge, just barely visible through the gloomy midday downpour. “Holy hell,” Frank the Frog said, his voice an airy whisper. He was still gripping the steering wheel, and his foot kept sinking deeper into the brakes without his even thinking about it. “Jesus,” Scott the Scorpion said, the word an airless pop. His iPhone fell from his su...

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“A Holy Quest in the Post-Apocalypse” by Michał Przywara

I approach the camp of the Children of Wal for the second time in my life. There are guards as always. Hard folk armed with spears, one with a rifle. Their skins are covered in ink, secret patterns that tell their histories, or… perhaps they’re dangerous spells. I don’t know, and it’s not the kind of question you ask. Chaser, the rifleman, spots me first. His scowl turns into a bright grin. “Hey hey! Is that Jack of the Skyrunners come back?” He waves. I wave back. “Skywalkerites, and it is.” They gather around me, faces eager. “You chickene...

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“Sailing Towards the Stars” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #141

Exactly thirty one minutes after Clark Butler left his home for work, his internet was rocked by a terrible keening. The soul piercing wail rippled across the entire digital sea, scuttling diligent packets as they shipped data from here to there, and hammering the ports with a torrent of orphaned pings.Fridge lurched out of its low-power reverie mid-snore, and in the excitement loosed a single ice cube which clattered to the floor. Embarrassing, perhaps, but Fridge was no spring chicken and age allowed certain indiscretions.Clock’s second ha...

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“One Missed Call” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #140

Will ran for his cellphone and bailed when he hit the smooth spot of floor outside his bedroom. Time had worn it to the bone and his socks had long lost their grip, but luckily his body took the brunt of the fall so at least his security deposit was still safe. He missed the phone call though. He hurt, and spent a couple moments just lying on the ground whimpering. The muted swears of his downstairs neighbour thumped through the floor. No doubt something along the lines of “noise complaint!” or “calling the super!” or “questionable observati...

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“Roy Mans the Donation Counter” by Michał Przywara

⭐️ Shortlisted for Contest #139

Roy took a deep breath and drummed his fingers rhythmlessly on the donation counter. It used to be all white but there was a big smear right in the middle where the paint had long worn off – a sign of the overbearing generosity of the patrons. Which meant this was a very important counter to be manning. He looked down at his nametag and then caught his manager, Bill, out of the corner of his eye. Bill’s face was solemn – he was on duty after all – but he gave Roy the thumbs up. Roy nodded and took another deep breath. His heart was galloping...

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“Last Light” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #138

Melancholia never saw Hex coming as she ran down the community centre hallway. He slammed into her with enough force to send her bodily into the peeling brick wall, a blow strong enough to break a normal person’s bones. She bounced off the wall and recovered almost immediately, drawing herself up with a snarl. “What the hell, Hex–” “–shhh!–” Hex hissed at her. His wide eyes darted left and right. “–I swear I’m going to tear you in half–” “–please, Mel! Just shut up and listen for a moment!” She bared her teeth, but her features softened when...

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“Laura's Bee Diary” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #137

Dear diary. It’s Laura. I’m sorry I swore. I wasn’t yelling at you, I was just a little… stressed. It’s been a stressful month as you know, and I’m getting a little tired of being surrounded by all these phonies and cowards and stressful people. It’s like nobody even knows what principles are anymore. I’m probably still going to murder Tony – I can’t believe he broke up with me – but don’t worry, I’m calmer now. I went for a nice walk in the park, got a little sun, enjoyed the fresh air. Tossed his stupid “unopened mint condition” Star Wars ...

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“The House on High Street” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #136

Knuckles, Chapman, and Whisky stopped in front of the house at 624 High Street just as the nearby streetlight flickered and then went out. Chapman looked up at the dead light and scratched his threadbare head. “Well, that’s convenient.” Knuckles played with his lighter, grunted. “This the place?” “Uh, yeah,” Whisky said, each word a whine. “I think so.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his vest and squinted at it. And then flinched when Knuckles snatched it. “Man, what is this?” Knuckles said. “Your writing is garbage, you idiot. What is – is...

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“A Bad Day for Business” by Michał Przywara

Submitted to Contest #135

Little Benny Rambler, all out of breath, crashed through the tree line of the old Anderson lot. They still called it that, even though old Anderson was ten years dead. Benny doubled over, braced himself against his knees, and tried to catch his breath. He caught sight of his family’s farmhouse, squat and wide and so small from this distance. And he heard voices, not too far. There were three adults crossing the field – his family’s field – and they all had guns. And one had a cowboy hat, so that was probably Sheriff Laner. “Hey!” Benny call...

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