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Weekly Contest #363
The wind quit around four in the morning. I sat at the kitchen table in the dark and counted the silence where it used to be. One. Two. My thumb pressed my palm on each number, an old habit surfacing the way a bruise does, days after the fall. I hadn't done that in months. I did it again now, without deciding to.By the time the sky went the color of dishwater, I went out in my father's canvas coat, the one still on its hook by the door because I'd never found the nerve to bag it for the church drive. The yard looked wrong the way a well-used...
Weekly Contest #362
The candles threw warm light across twenty faces. Nina knew them all. She sat beside Dean, and his hand found her knee under the table. She covered it with her own. His skin smelled of cedar soap, the kind he'd been making since before she knew him, bars of it curing on shelves in their room.The table was heavy. Roasted squash split open like offerings, seeds shimmering in the candlelight. Bowls of dark grapes, platters of braided bread. A lamb's leg glazed to amber. Clay jugs of wine passed hand to hand along the wood, and the low hum of co...
Weekly Contest #361
I have sat on this throne for nine thousand years, and the stone beneath me has never been cool.That is the first thing. Not the dimming fires or the wailing gone familiar as silence. The stone. My fingers press the armrest and the obsidian gives back nothing. No heat. No heartbeat of the deep heat that has been my companion since the fall from paradise.I draw my hand away. I set it back. The coolness holds.My name means light-bearer. I have not said this aloud in eight millennia. It lives in me the way a scar lives in skin: visible to anyon...
Weekly Contest #359
She has forty-seven freckles across the bridge of her nose, and I have counted them on seven hundred and twelve separate nights. This is not adoration. This is what I tell myself.The moment she falls asleep is the moment my work begins. I pour through the dark of her flat the way cold air finds the gap beneath a door. No sound or ceremony. Only the threshold of her sleep, and then I am beside her bed, and the contract settles over me like a harness cinched in place.The paralysis takes her promptly tonight. Her chest stops its easy rise. Her ...
Weekly Contest #314
I know Arthur by his smell. Always have. His scent lives in my nose the way sunlight lives in morning grass. Worn flannel that holds decades of Saturday mornings. Old books with their patient, dusty whispers. The gentle soap he uses after his evening shower, clean and honest as rain on hot pavement. This is my master. This is home. But something is wrong. The wrongness started three weeks ago, creeping in like fog under the back door. At first, I thought it was the heat. Summer has teeth this year, and they bite deep. The air hangs thick as ...
Shortlisted for Contest #252 ⭐️
Jack Thompson’s fingers drummed a chaotic symphony against his cluttered desk, surrounded by the remnants of unrelenting perfectionism—crumpled paper mountains, an army of empty coffee cups, and the flickering screen of his laptop displaying the solitary bulwark of his creative struggle: one stubborn sentence. This single line of text, which he revised with the same unyielding dedication some might reserve for disarming a bomb, had been his nemesis and companion for five torturous years. “The sun erupted over the horizon like an overzealous ...
Shortlisted for Contest #246 ⭐️
Once, in the recesses of Josh’s cluttered study—a space so densely populated with crumpled papers and half-finished manuscripts it could have been mistaken for the lair of a particularly literary breed of dragon—a plot of exquisite pettiness took root. Josh, an author whose disposition was as sunny as a thundercloud, and whose success in the literary world was comparable to a lead balloon in an origami competition, harbored a grudge. This was no ordinary grudge; it was an epic, monumental, could-be-the-subject-of-a-Greek-tragedy kind of grud...
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