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Weekly Contest #307
I The laundromat on Rue des Cygnes rarely inspired poetry. Under moody fluorescent lights hung in weary racks, the hypnotic hum of machines thrummed gently against glazed white tiles thin as old porcelain. The air held hints of melted plastic, chamomile fabric softener, soap powder, and the familiar, sorrowful scent of resignation—senses Mara Volkova knew by heart. Nearly undetectable schlager warbled softly from a battered radio, the tunes crashing gently into static crackles like waves breaking at the fuzzy edge of memory. Tuesday’s sky lu...
Weekly Contest #305
I saw him clearly for the first time, the day the sea reclaimed our house. I remember how the salt-water crept through shattered doorways, slow and thick as old blood, until it lapped at our ankles. Our belongings floated around like lost thoughts: upholstered sofas, custard-yellow mugs, photographs of people we no longer knew. That afternoon Margarit stood mute beside me, her hand gripping mine like iron, her stubborn jaw cutting forward in defiance as my husband delivered his ultimatum. He looked between us once more and spoke those weigh...
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