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Weekly Contest #41
England, 1997.Twelve-year-old Mary May was in a much brighter mood than usual that evening. She was sat at the kitchen table as her mother prepared the family’s evening meal. She was only half concentrated on Jane Eyre and her brother and sister were sat either side of her revising for their exams. Eleanor’s head bobbed back and forth to the music coming from her Walkman, and Mary May thought she could hear the faint strains of “If You Wanna Be My Lover”; James was intent upon some insane looking algebra. The kitchen filled with the steamy c...
“He’s dead.” I can hear her sobbing down the phone. Her breath is ragged as though she’s been running. At first I don’t know what to say, and I lower my phone and stare out the window. The orange glow from the street light in the back lane seeps through the trees, softly illuminating my pathetic excuse for a garden. The cheap twin patio set my mum bought for me in the summer when I first moved in is covered in an inch of snow, making it almost pretty. “Soph? You there?” I come back to myself and lift the phone to my ear.“Yes! I’m here,” I pa...
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