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Weekly Contest #245
The thirtieth flame of the northeast. Fifty days and counting. Gone and guttered out. I continue to row. A coldness spreads over my skeleton of tissues, its veins branching and connecting and wrapping. It’s been a month and twenty days since I touched the oars, but the anchored tempo, its steady rhythm of fluid swish and swash, feels almost like second nature — a slicing all around me, wagging mottled shells and letters, billows sweeping over the shrouded mist and stars. These patterns are the true comfort, a hindrance in a state of utter da...
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