Scott Contor



xxxxxThe temperature in the small apartment has always been kept at just south of frigid. Barry has maintained the chill for so long, dating back to his college roommate from sophomore year, the one whose nose whistled when he spoke, that his reasons for wanting the apartment so cold have long been forgotten. The cool air escaping from floor vents dotted along the base boards simply brought comfort to Barry, while simultaneously guaranteeing unease for friends and family while paying in frequent visits. Barry's parents preferred the warmth of Florida; his friends just preferred their work.
xxxxxBarry calibrated the thermostat every morning, forever tweaking and refining according to the local news stations projected forecast. Barry knew he had successfully reached his target when a thin layer of frost crept across the monochromatic kitchen appliances supplied by his on-line shopping account. He would then brave his kitchen, marveling at how his bare feet left spots of moisture on the sterile white tiles, or the way a handprint marred the silvery surface of his toaster for a fleeting moment, before his warmth dissipated in the overpowering cold. The pristine kitchen wares, impervious to human touch, have claimed Barry's apartment as their own.

The Elitists say: Scott's story won our little competition hands down. Every "editor" (we like to call ourselves that from time to time) was taken in by his incredible word usage and Scott's talent in conveying detail to the reader. Personally I think Tennessee Williams would consider Scott a kindred spirit.

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