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Weekly Contest #365
When Amos Vick died, the red dirt under his fingernails was the only part of the farm he took with him. The rest went to his sons. That was what everyone in Weller, Oklahoma, believed until the will was read in the back room of Daugherty Funeral Home on an afternoon so hot the flies had gone quiet against the windows. Clive Vick sat in his father’s church suit, though it pinched under the arms and smelled faintly of mothballs. Across from him, his younger brother, Ellis, wore clean jeans and a white shirt without a tie. Ellis had always bee...
Weekly Contest #364
The first time the numbers failed, Ethan Brooks assumed he had made a mistake. Surveyors were taught to distrust themselves before they distrusted the land. A loose tripod. A prism pole leaning a fraction of a degree. A coordinate entered incorrectly. The mistakes were always human because the earth, for all its faults, did not quietly rearrange itself overnight. Ethan had spent 23 years proving exactly that. At 46, he worked as a cadastral surveyor for the Bureau of Land Management outside Moab, Utah. His days were divided between satellit...
The first letter fell out of the chart on a rainy Thursday in October. Thomas Avery had owned the navigation chart for nearly 20 years. Folded inside a flat oak drawer in his workshop, it was one of dozens he had collected after retiring from the Coast Guard. Most had long since been replaced by electronic navigation, but Thomas liked paper charts for the same reason he liked mechanical clocks and brass compasses. They aged honestly. Every crease, stain, and penciled correction reflected the hands of someone who had depended on them. The cha...
Caleb Dunn found the first open gate before daylight. The chain hung from the post as though someone had taken the time to remove it carefully. It had not been cut. The latch was not broken. Nothing about the gate suggested panic, weather, or an animal forcing its way through. Someone had lifted the chain, pulled the gate open, and left it that way. Caleb stopped the truck and let the engine idle. The headlights reached across the snow and caught the wire fence disappearing toward the foothills. Beyond it, shapes moved slowly through the dar...
Weekly Contest #363
At 4:17 every morning, Declan Moriarty walked the harbor. Rain, snow, wind, heat. None of it mattered. Weather changed. People complained. Routines endured. He left his apartment in Dorchester at 3:41, drove the same route through South Boston, parked beneath the same dead streetlight near the edge of the Seaport, and began walking at exactly 4:17. He did not choose the time because of superstition. Declan did not believe in luck, curses, signs, or divine intervention. He chose 4:17 because the first sanitation trucks reached the waterfront ...
Weekly Contest #362
I reckon folks with full bellies think food is about flavor. Fancy words like "notes" and "mouthfeel" and "presentation." They swirl wine around in a glass, close their eyes, nod real slow like they're decipherin’ the meaning of life from fermented grapes. They spend forty bucks on a steak no bigger than the palm of my hand, then tell each other how the chef "elevated" the experience. Hell, where I come from, if somebody elevates your supper, it's because they dropped it on the floor and had to pick it back up. I ain't never understood peopl...
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