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Weekly Contest #379
Pilgrimage for the Great Green Oak Steam billows through the gaps of the portcullis, long since rusted shut. The room is a massive cavern of sheer basalt, exposed mineral veins, and white oil paint. Pipes burrow and snake across the concrete-covered ground as I shuffle to avoid falling into the great towers of coal dust that collect on the floor. The pale-faced, soot-covered congregation ignore these hazards, banging their heads into the webs of obstacles in rhythmic collisions as they scatter. They chip at the rock with pickaxes and jackham...
Weekly Contest #356
The Trench Poets of The Somme In memory of the million men killed at the Somme River. War never changes, humanity can. Marching off to battle Cadence Poem By Private John Hobbes Marching off to battle! Marching to battle! We are we are marching off to battle! Isn't it beautiful to go! Why I'll never know! We are we are marching off to battle! Left our families home! Hell am I alone! We are we are marching off to battle! Will my wife be cheating? Will my children be eating? We are we are marching off to battle! Why did we do this, though? Bom...
Weekly Contest #354
The Night that Laughter Burned November 5, 1938 To be a marionette, there is no better life. Move with the ropes, follow the tug of the string-bound sinew. Obie was a marionette like no other. He moved with the pull of the rope as swans floated on the Rhine. Fresh varnish gleamed on his wooden joints and lacquered horsehair fro. He danced Wagner on the wooden platform and performed Shakespeare on the mini-Macbeth sets. But what he loved most of all was to make the local children laugh. They did not merit a puppet as professional, poised, and...
Weekly Contest #347
That Which Doomed July July 25, 2226 "Why must the sky be a sickly smog-soaked grey?" "Why must the water in our clouds melt our tongues and salt our land?" "Why must we accept the times our forefathers forsook us with?" A low hum shook the breakroom. The tremor shook me out of my daze as I sat straighter on the breakroom synthfur sofa, the plastic frills squeaking with my movement. The man on the screen, Senator Vael, broad-shouldered and teeth-bright, stood in front of a holographic blue sky as artificial as his veneers. I’d always hated w...
April 13th 1977 Cold war rages, Pentagon hasn’t been empty in years. Two hundred feet of reinforced concrete and bedrock above our heads, an armored door, and thirty soldiers waiting outside. The air was a stale, recycled soup, a single overworked vent belching a tired groan as the analog clock on the wall sounded off. Five men at the massive slate table–a presidential pin, a marine general’s uniform, a lab coat, an Armani suit. And me. A black box the size of an old telephone booth rested in the center of the table. The cavernous concrete s...
Weekly Contest #345
The Trench Poets of The Somme Marching off to battle Cadence Poem By Private John Hobbes Marching off to battle! Marching to battle! We are we are marching off to battle! Isn't it beautiful to go! Why I'll never know! We are we are marching off to battle! Left our families home! Hell am I alone! We are we are marching off to battle! Will my wife be cheating? Will my children be eating? We are we are marching off to battle! Why did we do this, though? Bombs' fiery glow. Why are we marching off to battle? Children in these places. Burnt hungry...
Weekly Contest #344
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