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Submitted to Contest #340
Small ExpectationsThe sun was a tired, orange coin that had slipped behind the jagged teeth of the city skyline. Viola, a calico of unremittant rage and fierce territorial loyalty, watched the light fade from her perch on the velvet-upholstered arm of the living room sofa. This apartment was usually a vibrant hum of human presence. It had settled into an eerie, early, and unnerving silence.6:52.She knew the time not by the sleek, digital clock on the microwave—a cold, alien thing—but by the rhythmic clink-whirr of the ancient radiator kickin...
Submitted to Contest #339
The Glazed WindowpaneThe apartment on the sixth floor purred with the comfortable quiet of a shared life. Elliot was mixing a whiskey and soda at the small, granite counter, the ice cubes sounding like soft, rhythmic clockwork. Clarice was on the sofa, scrolling through news articles. The blue light from her phone was painting lines of concentration on her forehead. For seven years, this was their rhythm—a lulling, if somewhat muted, symphony.It had started with a sudden crash of cymbals. A riotous summer affair, stolen hours in a borrowed s...
Karly Moller Her day was an agony of waiting for a chat with her manager that never happened. It was really the only reason she had come in to work that day. She was on a salary, it was a three-day holiday weekend, and she had things to do… Finally, around three-thirty PM, he told her that the issue had been “resolved without consulting her.” She could have done laundry, shopped for flip-flops, or done anything other than hanging around on a Friday afternoon. Work without the work was just a bummer. It wasn’t that she enjoyed the accounting...
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