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Submitted to Contest #330
I wake before the sun. Not out of discipline. The woods simply don’t allow you to sleep late. The birds start first — the jittery ones with wings like flicked paper — then the wind follows, slipping through the pines in long, steady breaths. The forest stretches awake, and my body wakes with it, stiff in all the places age has claimed. For a moment I lie still in my nest of branches, letting the world settle into focus. Twenty years I’ve slept in this tree, ten feet off the ground in a cradle I wove myself. I climb down, careful on the last...
Farvel.Thick acrylic, sky blue, two coats. I paint the V first — one downward stroke, then the angled return. The bristles leave faint ridges that level out as the paint settles. When the surface smooths, I attach the sign to its pole, snap the locking tab into place, and wheel it to the staging area behind the ride’s exit corridor. Au revoir.Gold script on lavender. I line the curves of each letter with a tapered brush, refilling only when the color thins. The dot above the i lands perfectly round. I set the piece under the heat lamp, rotat...
Submitted to Contest #329
My name—at least the one used by the few who still speak to me—is Fred. But my true name is Nikos.I am, by my best estimate, roughly 2,500 years old. I won’t subject you to an exhaustive chronicle of my existence. Immortality, as people imagine it, is far less glamorous when lived in real time. Suffice to say my story contains what you would expect: violence and beauty in equal measure, indulgence and restraint, long stretches of wandering, and brief, piercing intervals of love. I’ve stood in the courts of kings, in the mud of battlefields, ...
In a weathered house on a quiet street,Where roses climb and floorboards creak,The kettle sings, the clock hands glide,And time drifts gently, side by side. Jack and Bea have made it home,Where their story took root and children roamed.Now what remains, through days grown long,Is love that lasts, true and strong. Jack is stubborn, slow, set in his ways,Grumpy and regimented in his days.He reads of war, great battles won,Then watches the news till day is done. Bea is sweetness, quick, sharp, and bright,With kindness fierce and wit just right....
“Time to get up!” the little boy cheered,Early on a Sunday.“Let’s go, Daddy—Let’s go outside and play!” He hopped upon his parents’ bedWith carefree leaps and bounds.Then bounced upon his daddy’s belly,Letting out “boing, boing” sounds. “Five more minutes,” said the father,As under the blankets he huddled.“But before we start our day, my boy—Come here. We must cuddle!” After their hugs,They went out back,Picked up their trusty mittsAnd a brand-new baseball pack. “Alright,” said the father,“Here comes pitch number one—My famous fastball.Bet...
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