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Weekly Contest #292
It may be the drying paint you watch in a corporate office when it’s cold and the lights are hardly, truly, lights. They are more like dying fireflies. You can feel little shards of paint in the air, floating into your nostrils. It’s ticklish. And there’s the polar touch of newspaper under your nimble fingers. You rub it and feel its softness, but you also feel where the recycled bits and bumps peek through—little mountains, on an empty field. Your nails, slightly grown, crease and fold every edge of the newspaper you...
Weekly Contest #253
*TRIGGER WARNING* — Story includes representations of poor mental health and self-harm. June 6th, 1955 I met him at the library. That’s where grandmama told me that she could always “snag” one, a good one. Unfortunately, that’s the place where I find a lot of peace, a kind of peace I want to remain undisturbed. Of course he said hello to me, I don’t know why, but it just seemed like fate. An awful, bittersweet fate, like some sweet licorice wi...
Weekly Contest #171
There is the sound of footsteps present in my house at all times, even when I am in bed. Even when there are no visitors, at least none that I know of. Even when there are no animals loose – there could not be – I do not own any. But it does not matter what I do. I search every corner of my house, and the sound still goes on. I think they might be Rebecca's footsteps, but I always forget; she is not here anymore. I have called the police, I have gone to therapies, there is nothing much I can do. I take my medicine and yet, nothing ...
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