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Weekly Contest #307
They say Northpointberg only ever truly glowed before the world took notice—a secret hemmed between riotous green ridges and a restless, silver-dappled sea. Every map called it quaint, every travelogue called it forgotten, but the old vendors under the moss-blackened eaves knew truth glimmered in the creases of their market and the hush of fading constellations. Listen close, and you'd hear of dusk-lit deals—rough hands bartering river rubies for slow laughter, the scent of woodsmoke, tamarind rind, and brine making the town pulse like som...
Weekly Contest #305
Lamtinaland shone always at a precarious meeting point between cheerful commotion and absolute chaos. Sunlight bounced off radiant, rain-speckled hills, swept over crowded market stalls, and carried the tangy bite of the sea through narrow, jumbled streets. Evelyn knew the city not by its landmarks, but by life's minutiae: her neighbour's dry laughter, her mother's perfect piecrust folding, her father's half-magic coin tricks, or the scratchy jazz through every floorboard come breakfast time. Evelyn slipped into the swirl by instinct, piecin...
Weekly Contest #304
Raymond Kwokson finally woke after what felt like years: there was actual quiet, a soft-sided bliss, at 8:30 am. No red-eye emails, no punctilious markups, and—miracle of miracles—no deadlines nipping at his spine. Emerging zombie-like from his bedroom, he wandered to the kitchen, longing only for a bowl of fish congee and some colourful Hong Kong-style pickles, finally, a break from the world's constant pings.Instead, he found himself confronted by a new mystery. Spread across the counter, stacked on the chairs, wedged even between the rice...
Weekly Contest #303
Odelia lingered beneath the old camellia bush, the fragrant petals brushing her knuckles, dew catching in her wild hair. In the blue hush before dawn, she studied her own reflection in the window's dark pane. The face she saw was still elegant, full of sharp memory—a face that once dazzled crowds and won the city beauty crown, Richard's arm proudly circling her waist. She traced the old line of her jaw, thinking how beauty distils the world's attention yet leaves the soul unguarded.House 16, Rosary Street, loomed above her, its flawless gard...
Weekly Contest #302
In the vibrant, ever-glowing metropolis of MongKokia—a city stitched together with midnight glass and rivers of neon, alive with alleys scented with jasmine and spice—Camila moved as a living mystery. Her pallor shimmered in a way that sunlight rarely touched; her blue eyes held secrets colder than the mountain melt. She glided through crowds of burnished gold, deep ebonies, olive greens, luscious browns, her air almost too silent and always apart. MongKokia buzzed with the hum of countless dialects rooted in distant places, but none rang lo...
Weekly Contest #301
In Lamtinaland, a city alive with neon towers and ceaseless technological hum, the clash of human aspiration and unpredictable fate was never far from mind. I, Emma Lockhart, a journalist, seeker, and one-time conductor of narratives, often trust too much in my ability to make sense of things.Yet, at the heart of my Christian faith, I was reminded that we were not the Lord. That Latin echo—"Evita", to listen for those who have ears, had become a lesson I was still learning. There was a wisdom, kinder and more immense than any human narrative...
Gaga Wodkrthuh crashed into her Tokyo life not with careful plans but with bright-eyed bravado—a suitcase crammed with manga, hair in rebellious tangles, and a mind seething with wild schemes shimmering miles ahead of reality. The scent of Soka University’s manicured grass and chalk dust had barely faded from her coat when the city swept her into a kaleidoscope of neon—electric pink kanji humming over streetcorners, yakitori smoke curling beneath the pale moon, distant shrieks from midnight traffic. She said goodbye to the tidy campus and he...
Weekly Contest #300
Since childhood, Arisa had battled type 1 diabetes, a well-guarded secret that shaped every aspect of her life. Bound to an insulin pump and vigilant about every morsel she consumed, she lived with discipline and a twinge of longing. Her doctor, compassionate but strict, only allowed her one small indulgence—a single scoop of ice cream each month. That rare moment of sweetness was more than a treat; it was a celebration of freedom, no matter how fleeting. That day, it was very hot, so Arisa made her eager way to the ice cream cart. She notic...
Dr. Francis Alvarez’s hands—steady, scarred, always faintly scented of iodine—were legendary in the battered Kowloonya camp, symbols of hope whispered among shaking children: “Saint Francis knows every bird, listens for every broken heart.” Adults clung to his evening promise, “Every heartbeat is a note in our song; the world keeps playing it because you’re in it.” When darkness crowded out courage, Francis softly sang, “Make me a channel of your peace, where there is hatred, let me bring your love…” The simple melody, trembling on his lips,...
Benedit’s apartment in Lyon was filled with the chatter of relatives and the aroma of coffee. I found him, settled behind his work desk in a sunlit sitting room, carefully writing on a sheet of thick, white rice paper. The bold, fluid lines of calligraphy captured my attention: a quote from "La Grande Étude"—the virtue, renewal, and goodness he so prized. He looked up, a flicker of warmth and sadness in his eyes. Our conversation skimmed from practical details to gentle teasing, but beneath the words, I sensed the finality of tomorrow’s cere...
Weekly Contest #299
Look, in the Hong Kong trading jungle, the investment banks, the traders, the dealers, nobody ever fails—at least, not out loud. Not Banker Benny “Big Beef” Lee. Here, if you make a bad call, you'd better have a story ready. If you so much as mention the word “mistake,” you might as well turn in your market badge, your karaoke mic, and your hopes of ever eating dim sum with the high rollers again.A baking-hot Friday in Central. Skyscrapers gleamed, tempers simmered, and Benny was about to make investment history—just not the good kind. Lions...
Weekly Contest #297
People called me Christopher Tam, and I always thought of myself as an ordinary guy. If you asked me, I’d tell you I wasn’t much to look at—plain, unremarkable—a face easily lost among the crowd. My features rarely attracted attention, and the mirror often reflected someone so nondescript that I sometimes wished it didn’t reflect anything at all. I buried myself in routine: chasing quotas as a salesman for semi-manufactured computer chips. Numbers were safer than emotions. The back-to-back schedule of work comforted me—not because I loved it...
Weekly Contest #296
In 1978, nestled against the shadowy curves of Whispering Mountain lies Orchid Hollow, a rural village steeped in crimson devotion. The homes are small and weathered, yet almost every one is unified by a shared icon: Chairman Lian, the national savior. His portrait, framed in delicate wood and lacquered in shades of vermillion, adorns living room walls like a shrine to a deity. With piercing eyes and a majestic green shirt, his image watches over families as they whisper prayers for guidance and strength. Mei Mei, a young girl left in her gr...
Weekly Contest #295
Late one evening in Yulin, Guangxi, a cryptic announcement appears across social media and local news outlets: “A murder is announced: June 21st, 8 PM. Location: X Street. Supporters are encouraged to attend.” The chilling message spreads like wildfire, sending waves of fear and curiosity throughout the city. For some, it’s a macabre invitation; for others, it's a silent threat. But for one man, it feels like destiny—a grotesque alignment of his darkest desire. In a shadowed tea shop along the bustling X Street, Gregory Hales sits alone at a...
Weekly Contest #294
The room shimmers with a golden glow as the grand Oscars stage commands the world’s attention. Applause bursts like waves through the theater. Vivian García’s heart pounds against her chest, her body frozen in disbelief. She hears her name ring through the air—Ariana Grande, radiant in a gown fit for the stars, calls it again. “And the Oscar goes to… Vivian García!”A Lifetime Condensed into a MomentAt 45, Vivian sits motionless amidst Hollywood’s elite, her face a canvas of shock and raw emotion. Tears fill her eyes as the sound of her name ...
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