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Weekly Contest #110
The truck stop beacon is a 50-foot tall neon waitress trapped in an endless purgatorial motion of kicking one high-heeled foot back while holding an immortal tray of drinks, her faceless smile, faceless wink beaming out on the interstate for miles around in the falling dusk. The advertisement seems unnecessary considering the only other options are a decaying Exxon that you passed an hour ago and the uncertainty of the long night ahead. Robin feels that the giant waitress is a kind of lighthouse. A sort of north star for the weary traveler, ...
Weekly Contest #81
I was sixteen, and you were seventeen. It could only, ever, have ended in tragedy. I will never forget the day we met, though it is many lifetimes ago. We were so young—that is how I will always think of us, as being young. The first time we spoke, I was struck with the inimitable certainty of some force, some great preternatural movement, having brought us together. We were pulled towards each other like planets to their stars. Like tides to their moon. It was like the crawl of continents, suddenly meeting in an inevitable slide, crashin...
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