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Weekly Contest #342
On Valentine’s Day, the city dressed itself in red.Not aggressively. Not gaudy. Just subtle enough to feel intentional. Storefront windows glowed in soft blush tones. Restaurants pretended to be intimate. Even the February air felt warmer than it should have, as if it understood the assignment.Emma loved days like this.Not because she needed grand gestures — she didn’t. She liked the quiet rituals. The grocery-store bouquet. The cheap champagne. The way Daniel always burned the first thing he tried to cook and blamed the stove like it had pe...
The legal system and I have a complicated relationship.It insists we’re not exclusive. I keep paying into it anyway.Two years ago, it invited me to a December sleepover I did not consent to. There were handcuffs. Pajama shorts. Flip flops. The kind of cold that makes concrete feel personal.Romance was not present.Anyway.I paid a $250 cash bond.Cash. Bond.Which is the legal system’s way of saying: “You are innocent until proven guilty… but financially suspicious in the meantime.”Prepaid innocence.It prefers deposits. Collateral. Something to ...
Weekly Contest #341
Dr. Elena Marlowe built her career on eliminating doubt.She did not believe in intuition. She believed in margins—what could be measured, narrowed, closed. The clean percentage points that turned human chaos into something admissible in court.At twenty-two, she believed in a man instead.Adrian Hale was ten years older, divorced, steady in ways that felt permanent. He stood with his weight shifted to his right leg—an old soccer injury he never corrected. His house smelled faintly of garlic and detergent, a domestic scent that made everything ...
She Never Remembers FacesEveryone in the city knew Lena Moreau.Lena did not know everyone in the city.That was the problem.She drank the way some people scrolled—endlessly, compulsively, without noticing how much time had passed. Tequila on Tuesdays. Vodka on Thursdays. Whatever came in a sweating plastic cup on Fridays. She loved the blur. The way faces softened at the edges. The way awkward silences dissolved into noise.By twenty-six, Lena had mastered the art of waking up without context.New bruises. New phone numbers. New selfies with pe...
I take care of my equipment.This is not a personality trait so much as a lifestyle and, frankly, a moral stance. My 2011 travel trailer is stored under cover. It’s washed with the correct soap. The roof gets inspected on schedule. The seals are conditioned. I own a torque wrench and I know where it is. I winterize early. I dehumidify proactively. I don’t “eyeball” anything.My camper has never been “ran hard and put away wet,” as the saying goes, because I do not treat property like it’s disposable entertainment. I treat it like a machine tha...
I swore I would never come back to Freedom Frontier RV Supercenter.Freedom Frontier is not just a dealership.It’s an ecosystem.Derek is the general manager. He believes every problem can be solved with confidence and, if necessary, louder confidence. He only calls me when something is on fire. Sometimes literally. Frequently spiritually. Occasionally both.Max runs service. He is calm in a way that feels engineered. If something explodes, Max will blink once and ask for torque specs like we’re in a lab and not a building that smells faintly o...
1999hello!futer me can read this one day. grandma betty is helping me rite it becuz some of the lettrs go the rong way (like b and d and sometiems s is backwards and i dont care).i hop you still like to ride bikes and play barbies. i am realy fast on my bike now and i can do it with no hands for a sec but dont tell mom.sometimes the police come to our house. they stand in the kitchen and talk quiet. my bruthers tell me to stay in the room and not come out so nobody takes me. i dont know who would take me but they say it like its important.da...
Weekly Contest #340
THIS VERSION IS FINEShe says, Let’s start with something relatable.I say, Relatable to whom?She doesn’t answer.She opens a new document anyway, which feels like an answer.I am trying to tell this story correctly. The problem is that every time I start, she shows up.She has a clipboard. Not physically. Bureaucratically. The kind of clipboard you get when someone has decided you are a process now. She keeps smiling like this is collaborative.She says the opening needs a hook.I say, Well then I’m the bait, baby.She does not type that. She does ...
In TransitI am not where people end up. I am where they pass through.That distinction matters.I am designed for movement, not resolution. My doors close so other doors can open. My purpose is temporary by design. If I do my job well, no one remembers me for very long.Dispatch gives me coordinates, not context. An address and a tone that means now. I don’t ask what happened. What happened is rarely useful once I’m moving.I move because I am told to move.Traffic reacts to me in predictable ways. Some drivers pull over early. Some too late. Som...
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