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Weekly Contest #361
Summer was over, and so were we. That was the sentence I kept repeating to myself as August loosened its fevered grip on the city. I said it while walking home beneath trees that had begun to look tired of being green. I said it while watching the last cicadas rasp themselves into silence. I said it while standing at my bathroom mirror with one hand on the sink, staring at a face I had fought so hard to become and still did not always know how to comfort. Summer was over, and so were we. It sounded clean that way. Finished. Almost merciful. ...
Weekly Contest #360
Parental death, hospice setting, family estrangement, emotional abuse (non‑graphic), end‑of‑life themes. Jessie had been staring at the hospice clock for so long, she could have sworn it was slowing down. The second hand seemed to hesitate before each movement, lingering long enough to make her wonder whether time itself was reluctant to continue. Outside the window, rain drifted through the darkness and streaked the glass. The hills beyond the parking lot had disappeared into fog, leaving the room suspended in a world of gray light and qui...
Weekly Contest #359
The station clock read 11:17. It had read 11:17 when April first sat down on the wooden bench beneath it, though she could not remember when that had been. An hour ago, maybe. A lifetime. The distinction seemed less important in the station, where rain stitched silver lines down the high black windows and the departure board clicked and clicked without changing. Trains came through sometimes, or seemed to. A low thunder beneath the floor. A smear of light beyond the glass. The long metal cry of brakes somewhere in the dark. But no doors open...
Weekly Contest #358
The road disappeared long before the map said it should. Claire Bennett noticed it just after sunset, when the pavement narrowed into cracked asphalt and then into a pale gravel track swallowed by trees. Branches leaned over her car like dark hands. Her headlights caught fragments of the world, a leaning stone wall, a rusted gate, the white flash of an owl, before losing them again to the dark. The inheritance letter lay folded on the passenger seat, its creases splitting from how often she’d read it. A distant relative she had never met had...
Weekly Contest #357
I was the one who stayed.People like to romanticize that, as if staying is a virtue, as if it’s a choice made from loyalty or love or some noble sense of duty. But the truth is simpler and uglier: I stayed because someone had to. Because the house was already sagging under the weight of unspoken things, and if I left too, it would collapse, and because I was good at silence. Good at swallowing my own wants until they dissolved on my tongue.My sister, though we didn’t have that word for her then, left at nineteen. She walked out the front doo...
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