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Weekly Contest #303
The first time I saw him, he was standing in the shadows behind a velvet curtain, smoke curling from his lips like a promise whispered too close. I should’ve walked away. But I didn’t have a choice. The Crimson Room was a haven for the lonely and the dangerous. A place where the rich went to lose themselves in low lights and jazz. And me? I was the voice behind the piano. A songbird in satin. My name wasn’t really Lila Rose, but the club gave me that one, and it suited me well enough. I knew how to sell a fantasy—sweet notes wrapped around h...
Weekly Contest #302
Some things are so simple, they defy translation. A glance. A sigh. The way someone slices fruit for you in silence and lays it on a plate without a word. And sometimes, it's not the words we misunderstand, but the meanings we load into them — the histories, the hurts, the assumptions we didn't know we carried. This is a story about a mango. And something far less sweet. It began with a mango.Not just any mango, but a perfectly ripe Alphonso — golden-orange skin blushing red at the tip, velvet-soft to the touch, and aromatic enough to halt c...
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