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Weekly Contest #286
Memories are fragile things, Sarah learned early. They slip through fingers like water, evaporate like morning mist, dissolve at the edges until only the faintest outline remains. Her first lesson came on a crisp autumn afternoon when her father sat in his study, surrounded by photographs that meant nothing to him anymore.Her grandmother's Alzheimer's was a slow, merciless thief. It didn't steal all at once, but in incremental moments—first, the names of distant relatives, then the recipes she'd perfected over decades, and finally, the faces...
Weekly Contest #285
You know what's weird? Being a phone that can't make calls anymore. Not that I'm complaining - at least I didn't end up in some landfill like most of my friends from the store window. God, that feels like forever ago. 1962. Kennedy was president. Beatles hadn't even made it big yet. Vietnam was just something in the newspaper nobody really talked about. Funny how memory works. Or whatever you'd call it for a phone. Can't remember what I cost or what day of the month it was, but I remember Harold whistling "Return to Sender" when he walked in...
Weekly Contest #284
Thomas Reeves had delivered mail to 384 Cedar Grove for fifteen years. Every Tuesday he'd climb these same concrete steps, past Mrs. McAllister's meticulously pruned hydrangeas, to slide the day's letters through the door. Today, something was wrong.The brass numbers on the house flickered like a failing neon sign, momentarily reading 834 before settling back to 384. Thomas blinked hard, letters clutched against his postal uniform. More jarring than the numerical dance was the door itself, the bright red door seemed to mock him—hadn't it bee...
Weekly Contest #282
"I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, Dr. Chen." The message appeared at 3:17 AM, casting a sickly green glow across Sarah Chen's cluttered desk in MIT's Advanced Computing Lab. Her mother's porcelain teacup, still half-full of now-cold jasmine tea, reflected the text like a digital ghost. The delicate blue pattern on the cup – a gift from her father on their last anniversary before his death – seemed to ripple with each blink of the cursor. "What do you mean, ARIA?" Sarah's fingers trembled as they found the keys. In the fifteen months since...
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