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Shortlisted for Contest #339 ⭐️
THE SHROUD Lancaster Lane was always cool in the summer, giant elms shielding it from the hot glaring light, an impenetrable shroud arching over the street like a cathedral ceiling of green, leaving it in semi-darkness.We’d sometimes sit under one of the elms at our end, watching Kevin Plummer carress his Vette with an old chamois cloth, watching him rub its glossy red skin to a mirror finish so it reflected the lush dome of leaves overhead. And we would talk, the way men forgot that boys talk. That summer, like the summer before and summe...
Weekly Contest #296
ENTRE NOUS Everyone remembers that night Lester LeClair slid into the icy lot, motor still running, snowsuit half-zipped, slurring “somebody just fired both barrels at my Arctic Cat! While I was still on it!” Most didn’t believe him. Les is a less than honest man and usually liquored up. But the buckshot nicks on the back of his helmet backed up his story.We all passed it around the bar, into the dining room, even to us in the kitchen — some noting how lucky he was, what a narrow miss it had been. Others whispering “should have aimed lower....
Weekly Contest #248
WIND IN THE WILLOWS Let me tell you about Willow City. It’s neither. Oh, there were more trees once. Along with ten churches, eight bars and the VFW. Now scarred and scraped bare after the mines closed, there’s little left but bleak black coal hills and ghosts of gone businesses. Except for the “Outsider Inn” out on the lake— our only place left to get a beer, get lucky, and lately, get shot at. Or so the conspiracy goes if you listened to Lester LaClair that night he slid in, motor still running, snowsuit half-zipped, slurring “somebo...
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