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Weekly Contest #334
The unforgiving Chicago cold was seeping through the bus window and burning Mila’s cheek. All around the city, people were remarking on how fine a day it was, but only just that morning, Mila’s toes had been sinking into warm Tampa sand. To her, the sun here was not benevolent, like they said, and the sky wasn’t pleasantly bright–it was grey and plain. So grey that it was hard to tell what time it was, hard to tell how long she’d been cramped into her too-narrow seat, shamefully sneaking chips into her mouth. The wind, too, had an unkind dis...
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