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Weekly Contest #50
The sky was still grey when we walked to the water, each carrying the things we thought we would need. You with your microscope and your notebooks, me with my books. More than one, because who knew what mood the day might bring?I loved your strong, narrow back flexing as you passed the paddle left, then right, then left, as we paddled into the mist. We paddled into the grey, and with you it seemed rosy.We stopped on the opposite shore, onto the solid ground surrounding the bay. We pulled the canoe high onto the pebble beach and clambered, ba...
From Harlan, he receives the following: "She's a real bitch," delivered with all the gravity of a terminal diagnosis. Alistair chases her outside and down the alley. She disappears around a corner; when he reaches the turn she has vanished. He waits, listening: there, a muffled sob from behind that fence. He pushes open the gate. "Betsey?" he whispers. She's leaning sideways against the fence, facing away, knees drawn to her chest. In the moonlight he can see the line of her spine sticking out through her thin shirt. It's a cold nigh...
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