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Weekly Contest #375
The crackle of the campfire is the only thing that I can hear. There is no rustle of leaves, no snapping of twigs. There isn't even the occasional hoot of an owl in the dense forest. Which itself isn't alarming. What's alarming is that there should be the snapping of twigs and the occasional rustling of leaves, because every so often I see a flicker of yellow eyes staring back at me from the darkness. I prod my campfire, and those yellow eyes vanish again. Meryl was supposed to be back with the firewood moments ago, but I don't hear her foot...
Weekly Contest #294
The paint felt sticky on Mili’s hands, bits of it drying and flaking and getting stuck to her fingernails, and other splotches of cerulean smearing between the lines of her palms. It’s why she hated painting in the first place. With a heavy sigh, Mili replaced her paintbrush in its wooden well; an actual, miniature well, where the ropes that might’ve held a bucket now held nearly a dozen paintbrushes aloft in the swirling mix of muddled colors below. It really was more paint than water in the well at this point. Perhaps that’s why all the co...
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