SCARBOROUGH FAIR is currently hosting a Flash Fiction and Poetry Contest open to all University of Toronto Students. The strongest pieces will be selected by a panel of judges and be published by Scarborough Fair.
CLICK HERE for complete submission details.
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Filtering by Category: Creative Writing
It was the last week of summer, and I was at my cousin's when it happened. Sweat pooled down my back, and the nerves in my right shoulder twitched. Faint pins pricked along my face, but I ignored them. It'll go away soon. They always do.
Read MoreMy dad picked up a navy-blue dress shirt, ironed to a crisp. He eyed it for a few minutes, turning it around, upside down, then he checked the tag and wrinkled his face.
“Too expensive”, he muttered to my mom.
The big, bright red sign read “$50 and less!”
I shattered to pieces.
Read More“A story on the challenges of expectation, pressure and overcoming fear.”
Read MoreMy family follows many traditions. Some were passed down to them from their ancestors, and some they created on their own. One such tradition, which developed when we were living in India, was to visit a different city every year. When I was seven years old, my family and I visited the state of Himachal Pradesh. We drove to Rohtang Pass. Rohtang, literally meaning “pile of corpses”, is the destination made famous because of the numerous people who have died in bad weather trying to cross the pass. Perhaps the danger is what made it such a popular tourist destination...
Read MoreHe and I were lovers long before he began painting. Before today, I hadn’t even known that there was an artsy bone in his body. Regardless, this would be his first and last exhibit, and seeing as it was dedicated to me, I knew that I had to attend. I hadn’t seen him in 12 years. Not that I would see him today, but I still felt the occasion was worthy of my most elegant gown.
Read MoreBeing awake at 6 am is almost a feat in itself. Sunbeams begin to weave through the clouds, and this pisses me off, because what good is sneaking off in the dead of the night when it’s not even the dead of the night? My flair for theatrics has been thwarted by my vanity, as I have spent far too long applying “natural” makeup and choosing the perfect pair of underwear, because heaven forbid I get caught wearing granny panties on the day I throw myself off a bridge
Read MoreSnow crunched underfoot as Malcolm walked through the trees. These woods were familiar. He knew the paths the deer took. He knew where to wait for them.
Read Moreby Victoria Loder
We were making love beneath the moon when I turned to him and said, “I used to be a writer.” He smiled wanly at me, thick teeth set beneath thin lips. I watched his chest tremble with the quiver of laughter, but heard no sound.
Read Moreby John Dias
Dried blood covered my face like tribal war paint. Corpses littered the town streets, over and under the broken bricks that were once towers. Trails of shattered foundations were now scattered across the city like sorrowful pathways leading nowhere but down. Only one thing was certain: bombs would dig deeper pits and salt them with the dust that was once our bodies. The heights we once knew were sinking, dragging us to hell with them.
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