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Weekly Contest #363
“A puddle of mud is not a body of water!” June insists. “Is a swamp a body of water?” I counter. “Yes.” “A muddy puddle could technically be interpreted as a very small swamp.” She snorts. “By who?” “Me, of course.” Our training sessions often dissolve into banter like today. We're meant to be studying for a preliminary test to enter the Keeper Trials, where we may compete for the sole position of Conlectus’ ruler. The Trials occur approximately every eighty years, assuming that the current Keeper is in good health. They're timed for the en...
Weekly Contest #362
When the sea falls in love with the sky, what is to be done but watch each other from afar, knowing that a simple embrace would mean the end of the world? I force myself to settle for the most minimal of interactions with the Sky, only those which nature would force on its own. Each time a bird swoops into my seas, I’m allowed the faintest taste of his essence. Once the bird catches a fish and soars into the skies once more, he is allowed a taste of me. He tastes like an airy gust, refreshing and warm on my tongue. He tells me that my taste...
Weekly Contest #360
TW: Mental health, physical violence/gore/abuse I don’t remember much of my time in the war, rather just a short period of bliss and its repercussions. The monotonous routines, the rhythmic shouts of orders, and the melodic smash of boots against the ground in perfect intervals escape me most days. I led a platoon of a decent size, about forty young men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. I’m ashamed by how many of their faces remain a blur in my mind of camouflaged gear, hard hats that made a clunk when flicked, unnecessarily heav...
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