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Weekly Contest #370
CW: Grief, graphic depictions of decomposition, and ambiguous loss. August 22nd, 1997 Dear Alex, Remember Otzi the ice man? And how when we were little we'd play Otzi and the neighbor's dog would lick your face and ruin the game? If you were stupid enough to die down there, you picked a really shitty place. People don't mummify in Georgia or Florida or wherever. They turn into ooze and muskrats eat them. And honestly, Florida? Gross. It's like... all old people and kids in Mickey ears. It is not fit for oozing or living. You literally could...
Weekly Contest #356
It smelled like her. It smelled correct. Like bread proofing and cawl on the cast iron stove. Like wood smoke and peat and the mineral tang of wet stone. It smelled like beeswax and sweet, soapy old oak. He dropped his bags and pulled the door shut behind him. He ducked beneath lintels and beams with the practiced ease of someone who'd grown up with them. Grown into them. The kitchen was a still life. A dishrag crumpled on the slate worktop, an ellipsis. Like the person who'd been using it had just stepped out to take a call. A bowl of wrink...
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