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Weekly Contest #89
“What bloody use is it sending us out here on our own?” Said the new gunner. A young lad named Robertson. He had come from London with a fresh batch of replacements. Monty’s Eigth Army had taken a beating across the North Africa campaign. Sergeant Day had grimaced when he first saw him. Fresh faced, clean shaven. His uniform was finely pressed and his boots sparkled. Day had got him shy of them quickly. Those thick army boots got in the way of the foot pedal trigger for the 75mm cannon - their personal weapon of destruction. They found him a...
Weekly Contest #54
Slates toppled from the roofs, and with a great crash Linwood Secondary School was no more. Torn down in the everlasting pursuit of modernity. And in this world there was no room for the withering, vegetating, (and to honest quite vulgar) building, an artefact of the brutalist 70s. A few tears were shed from the visitors; old pupils, brought in for posterity to see the building that had been the home of their education, and for some the roots of their being in which their character was moulded from the rough clay and slip into the shape many...
Weekly Contest #51
The air hung thick with the smell of boot polish, formalities on greeting cards, and formaldehyde. The drizzle came and went, circling above the collective, reminding onlookers of their existence. A square two dozen feet gathered around the freshly clod hole in the earth as the casket was lowered. Next doors son stood straight and awkward, his expression remorseful. By him the school master, aged now, more so that he was in school. He too looked sorry."Ashes to ashes" said the preacher, his words were mute against the crashing weight of the ...
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