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Weekly Contest #288
TW: Substance Abuse, Violence, Mental Health, Some Language____________________Vermont, 1997.The rain pelted against the narrow overhang of the motel, its steady rhythm broken only by the occasional clap of thunder in the distance. Chris stood under the faded light, the sharp sting of a cigarette on his lips, and a million thoughts racing through his mind. The parking lot before him was empty, the asphalt glistening with water, reflecting the dull neon of the motel sign. He had been standing there for what felt like hours, eyes darting aroun...
Weekly Contest #287
TW: Descriptions of death Roman sat at his usual booth in Rancher’s Rest, a crisp newspaper spread across the table before him. The headline sent a shiver down his spine: LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD—GRIZZLY ATTACK SUSPECTED. The article detailed the gruesome discovery—Martin Lovell, 43, deep gashes across the torso, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, and an expression of terror frozen on his lifeless face. Yet something didn’t sit right with Roman. There hadn’t been a confirmed bear sighting in years, and even if there had been, the way the body ha...
Weekly Contest #286
TW: Alcohol Use, Some Profanity, BloodManhattan.Dark tenements loom like jagged teeth, tattooed with gang affiliations. Hollow-eyed black windows reflect the void. Garbage and urine scented air, with a whiff of street food—greasy and burnt—fills my nose. Sirens of emergency vehicles, honking from taxis, footsteps and disputes, hollow laughter, and the occasional gunfire filter through my ears. A harmonious cacophony. A tang of rot and copper lingers on the back of my tongue, like a green penny. The sharp wind cuts at my skin like a thousand ...
Weekly Contest #285
I remember the first time we saw the house. Dale was the one who found it. He had his heart set on moving out of the city–on finding somewhere quiet for us to raise Theo. Away from the noise, the pollution, the rush of everything that calloused folks around us. The house sat on a patch of land that seemed to have been forgotten by time itself. It was an old two-story farmhouse, sagging under the weight of years, its wood greyed and splintered. It leaned slightly to the left when you looked at it from the road, as if it were tired...
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