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Weekly Contest #303
The bar hummed with a silence that felt deliberate, like even the shadows were holding their breath. Rain sketched jagged paths down the glass, dragging the neon “OPEN” sign into a bleeding blur of red and blue. At the far end sat Cara, a glass of whiskey untouched, its amber glow catching the edge of a chipped ring on her middle finger. She wasn’t looking at the drink—she was looking through it, like she could divine the exact second her world cracked wide open. The door moaned on its hinges. The wind followed him in, cold and familiar—he a...
Beneath the Weeping Stones In a crooked valley where the mists seemed to cling a bit tighter to the bones, there lay a village called Briarthorne. If you asked the locals, they’d say it was an unremarkable place — a handful of sagging cottages, a crumbling church, and the old stone circle at the hill’s crown, known by everyone as The Weeping Stones. Tourists never lasted long. The air felt heavy there, like the sky was leaning on your shoulders, and the wind that threaded through the stones whispered things that no one ought to hear. Locals ...
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