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Submitted to Contest #336
They called him Daniel because the chart said Daniel.He didn’t answer at first. The substitute stood at the front of the room, squinting into the attendance sheet like it was a map she didn’t trust. The class was already warm with whispering. The radiator knocked once. A pencil rolled and stopped against a shoe. Three names had been crossed out and new ones typed back in with a ribbon typewriter. Which was strange, as there was no typewriter in the room. She would have certainly heard it.“Daniel Hart,” she said again. He had learned that cor...
Submitted to Contest #335
Flour in the GardenArthur knew the exact moment the silence between him and his wife, Clara, had become a physical presence in their home. It wasn’t a hostile silence, not at first. It was a soft, woolly thing that settled into the armchairs and muffled the ticking of the grandfather clock. Over the years, it had grown denser, taking up space in the hallway, absorbing the clatter of cutlery at dinner, until their conversations became mere annotations in its vast, quiet text.It was a Tuesday, the most mundane of days, when Arthur discovered t...
Submitted to Contest #334
Gas Street, The Other Sideafter the Shuck sighting, not the myth (1,057 words)They always run. Or freeze. Or look away so quickly they bruise something behind their eyes. I’ve grown used to it. Centuries of standing in the wrong light will teach you not to take it personally.The stories don’t help. Black Shuck, they call me. Doom-bringer. Death’s dog. They say if you see me you’ll be dead within the year. They say my eye burns red as hellfire. They say I pad through churchyards looking for souls to drag down.None of this is true. Or rather—n...
After spotting Herne, not the myth..a retelling of the folk tale warning people to not go into the woods.They say Herne appears in Windsor Forest, not in the Lake District, which is why Jamie didn't bother slowing when he saw the antlered man standing ankle-deep in the dry beck at dusk. A stag poacher doing something theatrical, he told himself. Some local pulling a social-media stunt. The antlers real enough to carry weight—wide, branching, darker than bone—but the face too human, too still.His grandmother had warned him about the woods. No...
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