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Submitted to Contest #330
NOVAThe hospital always smells like citrus disinfectant and warm plastic—clean in a way that feels dishonest. Nothing about grieving children is clean.I sign the last form with a hand that won’t stay steady.The pen scratches across the page—Attending Physician Signature—and when the ink settles, so does the final, impossible truth. The hospital corridor hums with fluorescent light, machines beeping behind closed curtains, nurses speaking quietly at their stations, but everything feels muffled, like the world has been wrapped.She hands the cl...
Submitted to Contest #329
If someone had told me Wickham Shore would smell like a wet ghost crawling inside my nostrils, I would’ve stayed on the bus. The scent envelopes every breath, heavy with the must of seaweed and the lingering taint of an unlucky shipwreck. Instead, I step off with Bronwyn, Duncan, and Damian, and breathe in a combination of salt, rotting kelp, and the faint chemical tang of old paint surrendering to the sea. The fog sits low, as if the sky has given up and is now squatting over the town.Bronwyn’s short red bob is already frizzing sideways, fr...
Submitted to Contest #328
I was sixteen the first time I realized our village was wrong.Not in the usual ways people complain about. It wasn’t just that we scraped wax for lanterns while the rest of the country used floating solar bulbs. Or that our school’s single, cracked chalkboard had been passed down like a family heirloom. No, it was something quieter, crooked under the skin of the place. The kind of wrong that did not shout. It breathed. There was a persistent, intrusive sensation that followed me everywhere—a faint metallic taste that tinged the back of my to...
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