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TW: Blood and depections of warArtois, 1915Mud seeped into Georges’ boots, cold and unrelenting, as if the very earth wished to swallow him whole. The thrum of artillery echoed over the ridge, distant for now, but always coming back, always louder the next time. He leaned against the rough trench wall, eyes closed, breath steaming in the chill.And then—Sunlight.Dust motes dancing through the slats of the workshop in Dijon. The scent of shaved oak, linseed oil, and fresh bread.“Georges!”He turned, wiping his hands on his apron. There stood Ma...
Weekly Contest #237
TW: mentions of attempted suicide and the death of a family member are mentioned. The winter evening was cloaked in a serene chill, with delicate snowflakes gently descending onto the frost-kissed pavement. The festive glow of Christmas lights wove through the streets, casting a whimsical shimmer on the snow, creating a picture-perfect scene reminiscent of a holiday postcard. Couples, wrapped in scarves and mittens, strolled leisurely, leaving soft footprints in their wake. Nestled at the far end of a quaint block of shops, a small, unassu...
Weekly Contest #232
My father often recounted tales of a mystical flame, a legacy deeply ingrained in our family's history, stretching back centuries. It was more than just a mere fire; it was the heart and soul of France, a symbol of our nation's enduring strength and resilience. Passed down through generations, we were entrusted with a sacred duty to keep this flame alive. As a child, I listened to these stories with a sense of wonder, yet the true magnitude of this responsibility eluded me – until the fateful day the English laid siege to our land. "Héloïs...
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