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Weekly Contest #309
Please note, this story contains themes of war, violence and suicide. He can smell garlic salt and coffee. Last night, he forgot to shut his blind, so the weak, white winter sunlight spills onto his bed. There is the peculiar prickle of snow in the air and he can hear cars, trundling through slush for the morning commute. Spurred by the smell of breakfast, he puts on his big socks, slings a granny blanket around his shoulders, and slopes downstairs. In the kitchen, his mother is kneading dough under her sun lamp with an unlit cigarette pokin...
Weekly Contest #308
My skin was burning, but I didn’t care. My eyes seared, vision flashing white, then black, then adjusting to the red sand and the blue, blue sky. Aggie looked ridiculous. She was wearing her wide straw hat and a shawl was wrapped around her head and face. Her eyes were hidden by her darkened spectacles. ‘Bobby, you’re burning.’ I danced away from her, spinning in the sand, relishing the glorious burn of the sun on my skin. ‘Aggie, the air,’ I said, ‘isn’t it the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted?’ I took a comically big gulp of air, as if ...
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