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Submitted to Contest #94
It’s in the quiet moments—the stagnant silence after the children are tucked in bed and the only sounds hanging in the air are an electrical hum and rhythmic breaths—that I think of the murder of Henry Horowitz. The years are no consolation to the maggots of memory, the parasite that perennially awakens and reminds me of the truth. My wife stirs in her sleep by my side, and I wonder what it must be to be pure of guilt, what it must be to feel like death will grant you upward ascension. Not that I believe in God. If He were real, I would’ve e...
Submitted to Contest #70
Most people never leave Clairsville. It is the type of town that has one of everything, one doctor, one bank, one school, one baker, and one woman that desperately yearns to escape it. The woman sat erect on the train station bench, impatiently awaiting the sound of screeching metal, the sound of her new beginning. It was not as if Clairsville had ever wronged her, or had been unpleasant in the slightest, in fact, the very gloves she adorned were a gift from the town seamstress, the woman who used to watch over her while her father was at th...
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