The minutes of the committee meeting were typed on a machine that leaked a faint, metallic scent of hot oil.

The minutes of the committee meeting were typed on a machine that leaked a faint, metallic scent of hot oil. They sat in a room where the radiator hummed even though it was July, a dry heat clinging to the beige wallpaper.

"Point four," Arthur said. His voice was sandpaper on wood. He tapped a pen against a stack of manuscripts, the plastic nib worn down to a dull grey. "The eligibility criteria for the new cycle. We need to clarify the residency requirements."

On the table sat a bowl of oranges, their skins dimpled and slightly tacky to the touch. One had a patch of white mold blooming like a miniature continent in its pores. Outside, a fly struck the windowpane—a rhythmic *thud-tap* against the glass.

"The timeline is fixed," Sarah replied. She didn't look up. She was tracing a frayed thread on her cardigan with a steady finger. "July first through August thirtieth. We keep the window tight. It prevents the stories from becoming too bloated by the end of the season."

The air in the room felt weighted, heavy with the dust motes dancing in a single shaft of light. It caught on the fibers of the carpet—a low-pile weave pilling at the edges. They discussed the definition of 'new,' a word that felt increasingly hollow as they chewed on their pens.

"Let's record it as settled," Arthur said. The printer whirred, spitting out a sheet of paper that was slightly curled at the corners, warm to the touch.