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Weekly Contest #192
She found Rawmeat at the bottom of the box. The dinosaur plushy was more or less still the same color for which he was named, a distinctly, voraciously anatomical shade of pinkish red that had faded only a little. His name had no spaces, she thought, a swooping attack of a name in a single breath—Rawmeat. Rawmeat was a gift from a relative. Their father, actually. She couldn’t remember the last time he had visited them, and when she tried to picture him his features emerged only in spasms: a thick, triangular brow, an apostrophe of a scar o...
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