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Weekly Contest #321
My right hand won't stop shaking since the Marshal arrived. I tell myself it's age - sixty-two years will do that to a man - but I know it's a lie. Angus McCloud never lied to himself, until today. The young man sits across from me, little notebook open, pen poised like a loaded gun. Thomas Hartwell. Pretty name for a boy who's got the eyes of an old wolf. Came in this morning on the nine o'clock train, asking about James Morrison and asking questions a regular Marshal shouldn't know how to ask. "Sheriff McCloud," his voice cuts through the ...
Weekly Contest #302
The first word he did not understand made him cry—not from confusion, but from the echo of it. Henrique Duarte, twenty-seven, translator of obscure briefs, stared at the envelope left beneath his Copan Building door during the night. The handwriting on the label wavered like fireflies trapped behind frosted glass; still, it felt familiar, as though sketched in another century by a hand he himself had forgotten being. Inside lay thirty-two rust-colored sheets that smelled of lightning after rain. The printed symbols danced between balding ide...
Weekly Contest #296
The last photograph Gabriel Neumann would see with clarity was of a dead bird on wet asphalt. In the darkroom, his fingers found the negative by muscle memory. The central spot devoured his vision—first the details, then the shapes. He blinked, useless. The diagnosis was just words three days ago; now it was tangible reality. Macular degeneration. The center fades, the periphery remains. A photographer who can only see the edges of the world. Gabriel stored the negative and turned off the light. The familiar darkness of the darkroom, once a ...
Weekly Contest #293
Martin Weiss had the same face I remembered, now framed by gray hair at the temples. I watched him approach down the airplane aisle, checking his seat number—next to mine. My fingers, which hours earlier had danced across ivory keys for an audience of a thousand, now twitched nervously on the armrest. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. I wasn't prepared for this encounter. Not today, when each applause still sounded like an accusation in my ears. The tour had been a success in everyone's eyes but mine. Six countries, eighteen concerts, e...
Weekly Contest #289
The forest was alive, though not in the way we usually think of life. It was an ancient existence, conscious, pulsing in every leaf and every drop of dew. The trees whispered among themselves in a language I could almost understand, their roots shifting beneath my feet like the veins of a colossal organism. The air was thick, laden with meanings that slipped just beyond my comprehension. It felt like walking inside a dream that refused to let me sleep—keeping me awake, aware of every moment, of every choice that had brought me here. The prom...
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