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Weekly Contest #345
You might call me an an artist, but! I confess — an artist, only in the way that someone standing motionless in a well-stocked kitchen can be called a chef.Every night, I sat at the old drawing desk and drew out a fresh white sheet. I owned all the necessary tools, and arranged each meticulously in the appropriate fashion. The paint tubes, of course, in rainbow order. The brushes, finest to widest, bristles clean and soft. But only one of these tools did I touch, and that was the pencil.Here was my ritual: sharpen the pencil, though it was h...
Weekly Contest #309
Was it vanity? She didn’t know but supposed it must be, though the word didn’t seem to fit. She could remember before. As a young girl when her hair was still fine and blonde and curled into bouncy ringlets. Before her hair curdled into limp mousey locks, before pimples, before her chest swelled into sore lumps.That feeling of impossible confidence, unreasonable and utterly unexamined. She had loved her body, the things it allowed to her do. Loved tumbling over the grass in cartwheels and roly-polies. She could do a handstand and tip backwar...
Weekly Contest #308
On Midsummer’s eve in Burnsall, England, the villagers awoke to the discovery of a crime most despicable.“Thieves! Scoundrels!” shrieked the woman, racing down the street, dressing gown flapping behind her.“We’ve been robbed! Pilfered! Plundered!” If she’d had a bell, she would have shaken it like a frenzied Town Crier. Curtains twitched and faces peered from windows as the woman staggered past at full pelt, never ceasing her piercing alarm call.At last she came to number seventeen, a neat little house with hedges trimmed into perfect right ...
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