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Write a story that involves a reflection in a mirror.
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Heather Lynn Finds Her Groove
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Heather Lynn Stone was a Caucasian female, as well as an albino. The white eyebrows accented the icy blue eyes and her many, various tattoos accented her beliefs. With a face full of metal piercings, there was something freaky about the teenager. Her hair, usually worn in braids, was also white.
She often looked into the mirror and cried.
“Why was I born such a freak?”
She hailed from Compact, which had been named the most racist place on the planet and the international criticism was duly hailed on the town. The mayor and town council in order to shake that particular label, decided to take one white student and put them in a totally black school and take one black student and put them in a totally white school.
There had been a very emotional assembly at both schools and everyone clapped and cheered when Heather Lynn’s had been selected. The rebellious girl had responded by flipping the entire school assembly school assembly — students and teachers — the double international salute.
Mr. Harris, the principal calmed everyone down; it took a few minutes.
“Heather Lynn we know that you will represent the school with pride.”
He smiled at the girl who returned his cheerfulness with total hostility.
“Why would I be proud to be part of this stupid school full of morons and losers?”
Nobody had an answer to that. The girl glared rudely at everyone and then stormed off.
The hatred had begun since the first day she had walked into the place. Being a teenager and being physically different wasn’t a great way to make friends. She had covered her body with numerous tattoos and had put enough metal in her face to raise the shares of surgical steel.
In her first week, she had been walking down the stairs and someone had fallen ahead of her. Instead of seeing if the person was okay, Heather Lynn simply walked over them and continued on her way. The injured student had ridiculed and bullied the girl.
The rumours started to circle that she had pushed the person after they had made a comment on her frightening appearance. Others claimed that she had stepped on the person. Some even said that she had kicked them in the kidneys before proceeding.
At the all-black school, Rodney Johnson had been chosen and there were cries of anguish and disbelief. He was the president of the student body, a prized athlete and someone who had halted fights and brought peace and calm to the student body.
Heather Lynn walked into the all-black school and everyone was a little in shock.
“Man that chick is white on white,” said one boy. Luckily the comment hadn’t been heard.
When Heather Lynn walked down the hallway looking straight ahead, the whispers behind her back were strong and vicious. One day, she stopped and glared with total hostility at a group of black girls encircled to give them strength.
“You got something to say to me? Are you sacred to say it to my face?”
“We don’t want any trouble,” said Felicia Brown, one of the toughest girls in school. Everyone was taken aback. Usually, she didn’t back down from anyone.
“You’re all pathetic.” Screamed the albino girl and walked away slipping inside the bathroom. There was only one girl inside and at the sight of the ‘white witch,’ as Heather Lynn was quickly called, a name that had carried over from the old school, booked out of the bathroom quickly.
Heather Lynn stared at the mirror and tried not to cry.
“You’re a freak in the all-white school and you’re a freak in the all-black school. I wonder if they have a freak school?”
Suddenly, she saw a black face standing over her shoulder. Heather Lynn turned around and was ready to face the girl.
“I don’t think you’re a freak,” said Kayla Moore. She was a pretty girl with frizzy hair and glasses and an inviting smile.
“Oh, really, then what do you see?”
“I see a young girl that has a strong spirit, the type of spirit that can handle any situation in life including being different and unique.”
“I don’t want anything to do with anyone in this place.”
“I really don’t blame you. It must be really hard to be transplanted from your comfort zone into a place where everyone zones in on you because you are different.”
“Is this conversation done?”
Kayla shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know, is it?”
Heather Lynn marched past Kayla.
It was the next day and the assembly was staged in order to welcome Heather Lynn. She had wanted to stay home, had pleaded and begged, but her mother wouldn’t let her.
The announcement came over the P.A. system and the student body moved toward the gymnasium. Heather Lynn walked alone and nobody dared to look at her for very long.
She sat in the stands alone and everyone stayed clear of her.
The principal Mrs. Clay, stood at the podium and overlooked the situation.
“This is not going to be easy,” she said to one of the teachers.
Once everyone was settled in, she smiled.
“Hello, everyone, I hope that you are all well today. As you know, we have a new student for the next month. I would like to ask Heather Lynn to please come on down.”
The albino girl just sat there defiantly arms crossed with an icy stare that could have turned lava into ice instantly.
Mrs. Clay feigned a smile.
“Heather Lynn, please come down,” she said with a shaky voice.
It took a long minute before the girl moved. She walked down the seating and made it to the floor, with all of the attitude and sass the teenage girl could muster, Heather Lynn arrived in front of Mrs. Clay.
“I’m here.”
“I can see that.”
There was a lot of silence punctuated with a couple of coughs and a burp.
Suddenly, Kayla popped out of her seat and rushed over to Mrs. Clay. She waved at Heather Lynn and smiled, which was not very well received or returned.
She whispered in the principal’s ear and the middle-aged woman nodded her head.
“Bring it in guys,” shouted Kayla.
Two rather large boys slowly and carefully wheeled in a giant mirror on wheels. It was placed almost in front of Heather Lynn.
“Hi everyone, as you know I am the president of the welcoming committee in school and it is my job to make everyone new feel welcomed.”
Mrs. Clay smiled and nodded her head.
“Heather Lynn, I just want to say that on behalf of the entire student body it is really nice to have you be part of our community. We want you to have a great month at our school.”
Heather Lynn didn’t change her demeanour.
“As part of being part of our community, you have to be initiated and it is nothing bad. I just want you to look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”
Kayla smiled and everyone looked at her like she was a little crazy. The white girl looked like a cat that had been throw into the pool against her will.
“Please, Heather Lynn this is just harmless,” gently spoke Mrs. Clay.
Heather Lynn walked in front of the mirror and stared for a long minute before she started to cry.
“I see a freak. I see someone that doesn’t belong here or anywhere else. At my old school, that hell hole, they called me the ‘White Witch.’ I hated those people.”
She stepped away.
Kayla was still smiling. She grabbed the microphone.
“Would someone like to say what they see when they see Heather Lynn in the mirror?”
Felicia Brown slowly moved down trying not to step on anyone. She waved at everyone and nobody knew what to expect. She smiled at Mrs. Clay who tried to smile back at the girl that had spent a fair share of her time in the principal’s office.
“You have to stand in front of the mirror,” said Felicia.
Heather Lynn glared at the nice looking black girl and slowly moved in front of the mirror.
“What I see is not an ugly girl but a breath of fresh air. Look around you, we’re all black and to tell you the truth it is kind of boring. Sorry, guys, no offence. I always thought I was tough, but tough is your spirit. You are different and I just love that.”
There were a few people clapping throughout the auditorium.
“It is like looking at a parking lot and all the cars being red or blue or green. It is boring. But, if you have a hundred cars that are blue and one that is red, then that is cool. It is different. There isn’t anything wrong with different. I like different.”
Heather Lynn looked at her and shrugged her shoulders.
“I guess I am different.”
“You are different only because you are an individual. You are the only one that isn’t afraid to self express their feelings or their beliefs. That takes guts. You are fierce and true warrior princess.” Kayla smiled at Heather Lynn.
“I never looked at it like that.” She looked in the mirror again.
“Anyone else want to say something?”
“I do,” said Mrs. Clay.
She walked behind Heather Lynn and placed her hands on her shoulders.
“My father abandoned us when I was just a little girl. When I was eleven, my mother died. There was no family member wanting to take me and my three siblings in. But, mom was friends with this white couple and they took us in. They had a boy and a girl. It was the true meaning of a blended family; six kids as different from each other as possible blended together to make a family. I always wanted a black child and a white child. As some of you know, I married a white man and we have one of each.”
Slowly everyone started to clap and then it got louder and louder. Mrs. Clay had not taken her hands off of Heather Lynn’s shoulders. Everyone stood up and they clapped for five minutes.
Eventually, everyone stopped clapping and sat down. There were smiles all around.
“I want to welcome you to our school. You are not a freak, you are not a blemish, you are one of us. You can look in that mirror all day and think all the negative thoughts, but I see a spirited girl, a bright girl who has a nice smile if she ever smiled.”
Heather Lynn wiped the tears from eyes and shook her head. She took the microphone.
“I am not a freak.”
Everyone started to clap again and stood up. They cheered: ‘Heather Lynn is not a freak!’ ‘Heather Lynn is not a freak!’
“I am not a freak!” She shouted over the clapping and whistling and cheering. She put her arms up in the air and screamed it.
The louder the cheering began the wider her smile grew.
The next morning, Heather Lynn walked into school like she owned it. She greeted everyone.
“Good morning, how are you?” She hugged everyone and they all hugged her back. There were high fives and hands holding hands and the widest smiles ever.
There were no whispers behind her back anymore. There were just laughter and friendship.
She became involved in school activities and made friends with Felicia and Kayla. At the end of the month, it was time for her to leave. There was an assembly organized to send her off. Everyone looked a little sad.
“Well, it has been a very different month in this school. Do you realize that none of you have visited me once? Is everyone feeling okay?” Mrs. Clay asked and everyone laughed.
“Heather Lynn it has been a joy to have you in our school. Actually, I have to correct myself, the one person that has visited me is Heather Lynn. I will sorely miss our chit chats.”
Heather Lynn walked up to the microphone and hugged Mrs. Clay.
“Hello, everyone,” she smiled and waved at everyone. They all waved back. “I have some very interesting news. I am not going anywhere. I don’t care what the deal was because if they try and send me back, I will go to court and fight it. I have already talked to the school board and told them that this skinny white girl would sue their sorry asses all the way to the supreme court if they tried to remove me from my home.”
The entire school body exploded and they ran out of the stands taking turns to hug her, spin the girl around and jump around.
Someone put some really cool dance music on and the entire student body danced including Mrs. Clay and the teachers. The spontaneous celebration was a celebration of the variety of human spirit.
Heather Lynn Stone graduated from the school and went to the prom with Rodney Johnson. They were voted prom king and queen.
The teenage girl had found a permanent home and the experience left a positive permanent mark on her and everyone’s soul.
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6,078
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Write a story about an adventure in a small town.
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A lake in the middle of a forest
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I remember Anna, she told me about the lake in the middle of a forest which was in the middle of our busy town. The Forest Lush green and scary It was Pete, Anna’s brother, a little boy of ten, with a fancy hat and chirpy smile, who walked out of his home, when their parents started to yell for the fourth time that day. Anna told me that she stayed back at the school library for a history class project. Pete walked ten minutes then paused and looked around in an attempt to remember the way. He wanted to trace the steps, retrace them and draw them on his palm with the stain of rotten fruit. Anna said he did exactly that. She would always sense his movements, that’s how she found the forest. Anna sat on the floor with a book on bird watching in one hand and half-smoked cigarette on the other. She said the forest was haunted. ‘Why do you smoke’ my brother asked. He was not concerned about Pete or Anna or the forest and the Ghosts that inhibits. He always wanted to smoke but mother won’t allow and I won’t let him smoke in secret, there are always ways to catch his lies, for him smoking is cool but for Anna, I don’t know. ‘Oh, I like to piss mom and dad, they scared Pete and they don’t give a shit about us’ Anna smiled, a wicked smile, the kind I see on the face of vamps of the daily soaps. ‘That’s not true’ my brother started ‘Ah, well, the forest’ It’s always about the forest and it should always be about it. Pete walked for an hour, Anna could sense the time. He jogged and hopped as he neared towards the forest. He threw his hat down and sucked on the rotten fruit because he started to get thirsty. The fruit stung but his thirst was soothed. The forest Anna said was home to nine different species of reptiles. There were other animals and birds too but Pete only saw a snake, so only reptiles mattered. There was a big banyan tree in the centre, Pete lay there and slept like a baby, not a metaphor, literally like a baby. When he woke up there three heads staring at him from the ground. ‘Were they crawling’ my brother sat up straight, eyes wide and eagerness in his voice. ‘No, no, it was Pete’s imagination’ Pete lay there, he wanted to cry but tears didn’t come. He knew Anna would come for him but the darkness and greenness of the still forest scared him. He felt alone in the world with no one but the trees. Anna stretched her hand and let out a puff, my brother was so close to her that I felt he was breathing in the smoke she puffs out. ‘I was reading about Stalin and the Russian Revolution when I heard him’ Her eyes were watery possibly due to lack of sleep. She said she ran out from the library without even closing the book, the librarian’s voice echoed through the corridors. She didn’t stop, she kept on running as if following an odd sensation that would lead her to Pete. It was their telepathic connection that guided her. She took the same route, the same turns. She jumped and hopped the way he did. It was like watching the same clip on repeat. She ran and ran and ran and ran and then she saw him. He was lying there under the banyan tree, curled up and small as a newborn baby. He was a baby, soft and fragile. She picked him up and held him close to her chest and walked steadier and faster. She didn’t see the lake then but heard the voice, at first it felt like an acoustic illusion, a wicked trick played by her mind. But the further the walked, louder and clearer and almost smothering was the voice. It was the voice of the undead, drowned in the holy river. The Town Filthy Crowd and Noisy Everyone here was sick, they always felt sick. The doctors from the city once told their patients that our town was the haven for the parasites with their dirty pathways and stinky side roads. It was a small town but the magnitude of filth and noise matched that of the Industrial Period’s London like an image from Dickens’ work. Bow-wow-wowie was my brother’s stray dog. He picked her up from an old tea vendor’s shop. Bow-wow-wowie was white coloured dog with large pointed ears that droop at the tip. The day my brother fell sick like most others in our town, Bow-wow-wowie ran towards the forest. I thought of following her but Anna chided, she then said that my brother would be able to sense and because Bow-wow-wowie is a dog, she would not lose track and can return on her own. I thought of Pete, poor kid, he is now a baby, ten-month-old baby. Anna’s parents don’t care, strangely, they don’t even remember that they had a ten-year-old son. They still fight, still, yell and Anna still smokes but when with Pete she wouldn’t let even a tint of tobacco enter his baby lungs. I watched my brother toss and turn in bed and making whimpering noises. Our mother doesn’t bother about him and she stopped making us dinner. I go out and pluck some fruits, mangoes or sweet limes, most of them would be rotten. I would squeeze them with hand and make a floopy juice, so light and uncertain. With some rock salt and pepper, I serve them to my brother. It’s Bow-wow-wowie. He came back not as a dog but a pup, small fragile, bony pup. My brother cried. He wailed and wailed and wailed, ear-splitting and vulgar that Anna stared at him with disgust. ‘I lost my little brother, you just lost a stray dog, stop being a whiny bitch’ she said and walked out. Something is definitely wrong with the forest, I am sure of that by now. I can’t walk in, no one will come looking for me and most importantly I don’t have any telepathic connection with a brother or a pet. Anna sighed and sat next to me. My brother was unstoppable so I made him chamomile tea and lulled him to sleep, taking care of him is worse than taking care of a little baby. Anna and I took a walk around the town. We stopped in front of a tea shop. An old man was sitting on a bench outside and was dunking his biscuit into the tea. He lost his brother last month, Anna said. She knows a lot of people, her mother has a dry cleaner shop and after school, Anna used to sit there with Pete watching and observing people. Kids from school loitered around the corners of the street munching chips or chocolates. Sweet wrappers and leftover food were scattered around them. Anna nudged and said, ‘why no one ever leaves this place?’ No one has ever left this town, people come and then they never leave. Once a man decided to move to the city but his car broke down and the road got drowned in an unexplained flood. Some call it a bit of bad luck and move on, others never bothered. ‘What should we do?’ I asked Anna, ‘there sure must be a way’ ‘Maybe’ Anna and I continued to walk aimlessly throughout the town. There were people we knew and some strangers, most of them were battling one or more issues. Some had a bad day at a job while others had a broken limb. Kids screamed and babies wailed, pets started to go missing and parents seem to forget their own kids. It was the lake. The Lake Dead and Alive Anna said men threw the dead in the lake and the dead never died. I have heard stories of the ultimate salvation and the blessing by the River Goddess. It was all nothing but a mere story for me. ‘It’s not a story, it is true’ Anna said, her face flinched at the thought. We walked and walked for hours and we still haven’t reached the forest. There was an old saying that, ‘only when God wishes, you see the God’. Probably the forest doesn’t want us. There were trees on the outskirts of what Anna said was the forest. Long large oak trees acting as a shield. There was a sound of water from somewhere close, closer than I have been near water. ‘It should be the lake’ Anna said. ‘Why can’t we enter’ I asked. We never thought of what to do when we enter the forest. Anna took another cigarette, a habit she refuses to let go. I thought of my brother, curled up in his bed, crying or sleeping, fear-stricken and sad. Then I thought of Anna’s brother. Anna smiled, a sad sorrowful smile at me, her eyes were thick with grief so deep that I cannot possibly understand. ‘We are in the middle of the forest’ Anna said, half relieved and half worried. ‘What to do?’ ‘We don’t know, wait, maybe’ It was the most ridiculous plan ever. To wait has never done anyone anything. I looked around. It was not a forest but some big trees sheltering us, comforting and making us almost fall asleep. There stood the banyan tree, the one where everyone slept and changed. I nudged Anna, she nodded and we walked towards the tree. The lake that Anna mentioned ran right behind the tree. It was silvery and magical. The possibility of wandered spirits on the lake sounded bizarre. Anna must have dreamt but then Pete no longer was a ten-year-old boy. I looked at Anna, her face soft and tired. She looked so old, that I felt she aged a decade being in the forest. I wondered how I looked, as old as Anna or older. The lake shined brighter, I could see my reflection, a confused face staring back at me in utter bewilderment. She picked some fruits and nuts from the ground, gently rubbing the soil off, she took a bite. They always advise us to wash the fruits before eating and Anna of all the people I know would never ever break that rule. ‘It’s the lake’ she whispered, ‘but I am hungry’ She forwarded towards me a half-eaten berry. ‘No, let me look around’. I walked away, leaving a perplexed Anna with the Banyan tree and the lake. The forest-like they said was indeed haunted for I could hear voices of people, strange and familiar, dead and forgotten. Some cries of help while other howls of vengeance. They are sad and angry and they hate us. They hate the town, they hate the people, they hate anyone and everyone who are not them. I lay down crying, the sadness was engulfing me. I don’t know how long I slept. When I woke up, Anna was beside me, smiling, a calm, tender smile. ‘Come’ she said, ‘Let’s go’. As we stepped outside the forest and was far away from there, I asked her, ‘how old was Pete?’ ‘Why? He is babe’ ‘Just asking’ ‘Ten months’ she said. *** I will always remember Anna and the story about the lake in the middle of a forest which was in the middle of our busy town The End.
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10,964
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Write a story from the different perspectives of two people meeting for a blind date.
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Anatomy and Blind Dating
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©
While sitting at the upscale bar in a fine restaurant, I wondered how big a mistake this was. What’s the worst that can happen - an early night and web surfing back home? A beautiful black woman came in and looked around. I forgot to ask about race. I tried to catch her eye and flaunted my emerald green “It’s ME” scarf. She looked past me and I looked through her classy outfit. Just as I imagined my tongue lapping hers, she lit up and greeted her actual date. Merde!
Minutes later, a tall, slim, barely tanned woman hung up her coat but retained her emerald green scarf that sharply contrasted with her deep blue dress. When she saw me, she gave me a half smile, hung her scarf, and meandered toward me. She didn’t seem happy to be here either. We were in for a great night! Whoopee! As she approached, I saw a familiar shoulder gait with sexy swiveling hips above a very long slit from high calf to just inches below her groin. Her sexy, toned leg fascinated as it peeked in and out from her dress.
“Hi. I hope you’re Al!” She said brightly. I stood and nodded as I waved my scarf ends at her. She pointed back to hers and smiled a surprisingly warm smile. “They told me you were ‘OK’ looking and I’m glad they lied.” She winked.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know. They told me you were ugly and needed a mercy date then they bribed me to meet you.” She smacked my arm and faux blustered. “You KNOW that’s not true, but they lied about you too. Regardless, you know you’re hot and I agree. Let’s sit at the bar until our table’s ready.” I held the armless, leather quilted stool for her to mount and watched her legs as she did.
“Well thanks. Are you staring up my dress? See anything you like?”
“Yes, I am and yes I do. I love how toned and svelte your legs look . . . ” and cheekily added “. . . and I can’t wait to get better acquainted with them. They also said you were a tomboy and hated pc speech. Is that right or should I slow my roll?” Here was her chance to end the date before we got too deep into it and save me $100+ bucks for a wasted night.
“What else did they warn you about, I wonder? Your directness is refreshing, but you’re not fooling me.” She smiled her wry smile. “I’m pressing you too for an excuse for an early night. So far, you’re out of luck and stuck with me. Anytime you feel the need, feel free to tell me you want to end it early. I’m enjoying you so far, even letting you look up my dress isn’t bothering me!”
“Hmm . . . you are an interesting bird. OK. I’ll stick it out a few minutes longer. Have you ever had such an honest first date, blind or not? As a tomboy, you probably had a few adventures and got a few scars. Anything interesting you can share?”
“Hmm, a funny bone. That’s nice.” She smiled and winked seductively at me. She pushed her slit skirt off her leg exposing a very attractive thigh. “See this scar above my knee? Umm, LOWER, you perv!” She winked again.
“That ragged scar is just below where my leg broke when I tried surfing a stairway. A loose nail ripped open the skin and left me with that nice souvenir.” Pushing my advantage, I stroked gently across the scar, pretending to evaluate it while blatantly fondling her thigh.
“Interesting. I have a big scar on my right leg also. Here, just below my knee.” I pulled up my pants as I offered her my leg. “Comb the hair aside until you can see the two by half inch scar. I didn’t get stitches and you can feel how smooth and bald the scar is. I’ll FILL you in later. . . . IF, you’re very lucky.” She ‘harrumped’ my comment and looked, stone faced, as she fondled my scar at my obvious invitation that countered her subtle one.
“Well, don’t plan on getting too lucky tonight. I’m not especially shy, or afraid of, uhh, being filled in, but other things excite me more.” I wondered what that meant. We traded scar stories, I: a small, deep burn; cuts around a vein; a toe broken in a motorcycle accident; a knife stab in my hand; my broken arm and one I left for last. She: broken ribs, fingers, hand and arm cuts. “There’s one more large one, but I can’t show you . . . not here anyway — exhibitionist or not.” She pointed at her groin. I didn’t miss the subtext or self description.
“Ohh, I too have a large one; one that you’ve been staring at, yet not seeing since it IS hidden. I’ll show you mine if you promise to show me yours.” I dared her to prove herself. Surprisingly, she merely arched an eyebrow at that. Maybe I could press her unshyness?
“I know what you saw. But the scar I mean is at the top of my inner leg. We ALL have legs, what’s the big deal if everyone sees mine even here?”
“I’ll second that. But, you’re describing the top of your femoral artery. Rupturing that is near certain death. Let’s take a look; open up.” Before she could say no, I added, “I expect you are healed, but I want to see it. Unless you are too shy?” Challenge accepted; she lifted her chin defiantly and opened her legs. “Lift your butt a second so I can see it.”
Tina looked around then pushed up and off the stool and I slid her dress up nearly a foot until her scar was exposed in the dim yet focused lights. I put my hands on both knees and gently opened them wider. She accepted my dare. When I pushed her lovely, toned leg over the side of the stool, I saw a hint of an old, coarse scar.
When my fingers dug into the leg juncture, I rotated the flesh of her muscular thigh for a thorough view. “All I see now is beauty and perfection and this well healed mark that seems to be nearly an inch away from your femoral artery. You were very lucky. How did this happen? I’m also glad your delicate parts weren’t torn.”
“Jeez! Me too!” She breathed deeply, but didn’t object. “How did we get HERE so soon? I don’t put out easily and don’t allow third base access so quickly.” She reached out and boldly clamped onto my leg. As she squeezed it and I scraped up and down her muscles, she added “Isn’t it odd how easily we ‘connected’ over scars? I’m so oddly comfortable with you and never do THIS on a first date - certainly not in public.”
“Yes. I feel like I’ve known you for ages.” We were suddenly aware of the hostess standing just two feet away, biting her lip and staring wide eyed at Tina squeezing and scraping my leg as I stroked hers. As she continued to silently watch our unabated mutual, public contact, she flushed. We watched her face redden for some time; neither of us wanted to back off our mutual, unspoken dare.
“Ahh, hhexcuse, ahh me. Your table is ready whenever you are.” She dropped her hand to her side and stepped back. She continued to watch us until we finally stopped rubbing each other and allowed her to guide us to a secluded, tall-backed booth. “Your server will be withhh you shhortly.” She gasped and left.
Tina raised and held her skirt as she slid past the dense, starched, white tablecloth and I slid next to her. The server, holding the table away from the bench, got an eyeful and a wink from naughty Tina. His eyes never left her leg as he reset the table and positioned the menus. After enunciating “My name is Mark and -I- will happily be your server tonight.” He left with a broad smile.
“Where were we?” Pushing her dress and legs open, I slowly ran my hand up her shapely thigh until it found her scar again. She latched onto my still firm leg and gently stroked it.
“You’ve seen mine; now I want to see yours. I mean your scar of course!” She grinned in her awkward, wry smile.
“Then you’re looking in the wrong place.” It was fun watching her disappointed pout. “You can remove your hand from my leg and look closely at my eyebrow. . . . No, the other one. Comb it down. The small scar you see is about 1/20th of the whole scar hidden behind my whole brow. It was split wide open, hung down and blocked my eye. I’ll share that long story with you another time.”
She closed her eyes, sighed, and leaned back. Johnny, umm Mark on the spot had a better view than I did. I called him over to move the table a foot away from us. “Mark is getting a better look at your -leg- than I am, so I guess we don’t need to tip him tonight! Honestly, your gorgeous legs and teasing took my eyes prisoners. I want a better look.”
“Mmm, you say the nicest things.” I saw our hostess peeping at us around Mark, her eyes locked on our contacts. She finally blushed again.
A busboy approached with a basket of warm bread sticks. His eyes flittered between her chest and legs. He backed away slowly with his mouth drooping.
“Ohhh, I-I feel dizzy; in a good way, in a way I don’t remember. . . . I-I’m not hungry — for food — any longer. Can we just head out to my place?”
We shared our first kiss in her driveway and ignored any neighbors who might see her rubbing my leg in the streetlamp-lit tarmac. I broke away from our passionate kiss, though maybe it was our lot that night to perform for others?
After a brief respite to open the front door, we twirled down her hall in a dizzying, passionate embrace and kiss. Lingually toying with my tonsils, she still managed to retain control. We tumbled ruttishly onto her dark leather sofa. Instead of crudely diving in, I explored her. When I nudged her hot spot, she twitched as if electrically shocked.
I couldn’t stop smiling in satisfaction, hers and mine. I took that pause to gently examine the tattoo I noticed earlier. It looked familiar, but was still mostly occluded. We lay there a few minutes gathering our breaths and kissed as we could. “That’s a hell of a first and blind date!” she whispered.
“My best ever blind date. For now, I need water! Who was it who said ‘this is a thirsty business?’ A gracious and eloquent British king I think.” Smiling, I watched her muscular rear sway toward the still open front door and followed her. On the way to the fridge, I noticed a family photo. Shocked, I asked, “Is that Philomena Croce in front? How . . . how do you have her photo? Are YOU related to her?”
Tina was closing the door when I asked about the photo. “How do YOU know who she is? Are you . . . ?” We looked up and down each other in awe. After minutes of tracing family histories, we determined that we were both related, distantly, to old Philo.
On a hunch, I knelt before her and took a closer look at her tat. She confirmed it was not a tat, but a deep blue birthmark. I stood and said, “Check this out. I have the same ‘sea horse’ birthmark in the same place! Is this going to be a problem?”
She kissed my mark. I guess being fourth cousins didn’t matter. “I’m on the pill and don’t plan to have kids, so we’re OK.”
We drank a bottle of water each and toasted our matchmakers before resuming a less feverish, yet still intense and loving evening — past sunrise.
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284
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Write a story where someone sees the shadow of someone standing behind them.
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At Dawn There Are Poppies
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This story contains sensitive themes including: mental health, grief, death, and blood.
At Dawn There Are Poppies
On the last night of August, when the hazy summer heat blurred toward an autumn chill, Emily found a single poppy growing in the woods behind the house.
A spot of sunset in the dark of the forest floor, the red-orange blossom shone like blood among the ragged brown pine needles. Emily dropped the plastic container she had been carrying so quickly that the tender, late-summer blackberries burst like fresh bruises on the ground.
“Mom?” she asked. Her teeth chattered in a sudden chill. She studied each shadow through the grief that gnawed at the edges of her vision. Emily’s voice cracked. “Mom?”
A crow squawked. Emily grit her teeth and squeezed the blackberries in her fist until they smooshed and thick syrup seeped out between her knuckles. “Mom!”
Mom was gone. That day two years ago—the door open, the house empty. And Emily just plopped onto her bed and opened a book. Now, the shame from that day burbled up in her gut. She hadn’t gone to the neighbors. She hadn’t called the police. But by the time Dad came home from the mill, she had been sobbing. Where is Mom?
Emily glanced around, pausing to peer at the shadows between the trees. She picked the poppy and hurried home.
At night, Emily’s heart ached. For two years, she had often dreamed of her mother. Emily imagined the soft caresses on her cheek and warm kisses in her hair as she fell asleep. She wished for Mom to find her way in the dark, to find herself, to find a map or whatever it was she needed to come home to Emily.
Sometimes, when she lay in bed staring at the meandering cracks in her ceiling, or when she closed her eyes on the bus to school, it was just that Mom had needed a break. In her mind, Emily saw Mom slip on her heather-purple sneakers and green sweatshirt. She smiled as she slipped out the door. A day off, a walk alone, just until the kids came home. Mom had strolled through the neighborhood in the morning drizzle...and...something had taken them from her.
When Emily slept, a gloomy silhouette skulked outside her window. It bled on the blackberry thorns and dragged its broken body through the woods to the back door, crying to be let in. On the phone from his dorm room, Dylan reassured Emily he used to have nightmares too.
Emily dug an old photo of herself with Mom out of a stale cardboard box and set it in the backyard—by the broken bird bath by the edge of the woods—with a pair of turquoise earrings. Emily placed the poppy there, too, when she found it that night in August. And all through September, when she woke too early from the nightmares, when her froot loops tasted like cardboard and the kitchen glared too empty and fluorescent bright, Emily settled onto the soft earth by the broken birdbath and picked weeds.
On a chilled October evening, Emily wrapped herself in one of Mom’s sweaters and wandered into the woods behind the house. The blackberry bushes were bare now, their vines retracted and shriveled back into themselves.
And here, clawing up between the brown needles, another poppy.
Emily’s breath caught in her throat. She dug with bare hands around the layers of old pine needles, crackled leaves and dirt.
Just one poppy, a brilliant blood-orange. In October. In the same spot tucked in the woods behind the house.
Emily picked it, folded it into a torn piece of paper, and stashed it in her pocket.
Between classes the next day, she whispered this strange secret to Anna.
“They were your mom’s favorites, right?” Anna asked, much too casually for the severity of the situation, as they hurried down the hall to Geometry.
“Yes,” Emily breathed, stopping herself from grabbing her friend’s arm and shaking her to make her understand. “And it’s October, Anna!”
Anna lifted an eyebrow skeptically.
“Why would they grow now? Dad said they were marigolds. It’s not a coincidence. It’s the same spot!” Emily squeezed the paper with the flower tucked inside. The tears burned the corners of her eyes. “Tell me I’m not crazy, Anna.”
“Maybe,” Anna started. She hesitated, slowing as they approached the classroom.
“Maybe what?”
She brushed her hand across Emily’s. “Maybe your mom is gone.”
The words crashed into Emily’s lungs like stolen breath. “But...we...” she tried. Her heart stuck and made the words thick on her tongue. “Even if that were true,” she said, “What is with the poppies? What are you saying, Anna?”
She was saying Mom was gone. Dead. That God or Mother Nature or even Mom herself, from wherever she was, had sent the these stupid orange flowers in this stupid orange month to bring Emily some half-assed comfort. “Bullshit,” Emily said.
But the next day, and the next, the poppy reappeared. Overnight. It grew, the whole flower in full bloom.
Emily snuck out in the dark to try to spy the next one growing up through the dirt with apparent unearthly speed, to witness it bloom. Whenever she checked, night after night, she found only litterfall, moist earth, and her own footprints. But in the morning, the lone flower was always there. Waiting for her like a tiny lame sentry.
She was crazy with grief, that was all, Emily told herself. Or Dad was playing some sick prank in a terrible attempt to keep her hope alive so they could both pretend Mom was coming home someday.
But she was dead.
Two years. Still, how could Emily admit she was dead? How could she know without knowing for sure? The world had moved on. The community, Dylan, even Dad. But Emily needed to know. The uncertainty would haunt her forever.
In the quiet of the night, alone in her house, Emily whispered in the dark. She sobbed, ripped the wilted poppies into pieces. Dylan away at college. Dad at work. And Mom gone.
But she kept fragmented petals, stuffed them into a recycled yogurt cup, hid them behind a stack of books under her bed.
Most nights, she lay awake in bed, alone, thinking about Mom. Emily ran her skinny hands through her hair, scraping out tangles, letting little rat nests pull free around her fingers. She dreamed, sometimes, of much gentler hands, of her mother’s sweet voice, her breath like blackberry jam and a flower-soft kiss on her forehead.
One night, she dreamed of poppies—overflowing into her palms, exploding spring blooms that denied October’s chill, that call back into the ground. The flesh of the petals veined blood-red and pooled all around her, filling up the floor, creeping up her legs extended on the bed, embracing her. The sun-yellow center smiled at her, but the black stamen wriggled like spiders. Emily reached as if to crush them. They crawled higher and higher.
In the morning, her sheets were soaked in sweat. She extracted the hidden jar—still stuffed full of petals.
The single poppy, a shining beacon of red-orange in the woods, no longer surprised Emily. She snatched it from the ground, roots and all, cradled it in her arms as she carried it to the broken birdbath. There, she poured the contents of the jar across her mother’s photo and the turquoise earrings. She threw the latest full flower down, too.
“I don’t know what to do,” Emily whispered. “Mom, please. I don’t know what to do.” Don’t be gone, Emily wished into the growing light. But if you are gone...if you really are. Show me. I need to know. Please. Mom.
**
Emily read every story of Halloween, Samhain, Día de los Muertos, the Devil’s Bridge festival in Borgo a Mozzano, Daimonji, Walpurgis Nacht, and any other ritual or holiday on any month of the year that brought the living closer to the dead.
“I need to know if she really is gone,” Emily admitted in the dark of her room, whispering on the phone. “I can’t shake it. It’s eating me up, Anna. I just... can’t. I can’t go on like this without knowing.” She swallowed the memories, the wondering and wishing. The nightmares that burrowed deep into her skull, wiggling like worms throughout the night and invading her dreams. And those stupid poppies. “I need to know.”
“Okay,” Anna said carefully, gently. “What are you gonna do?”
**
On Halloween, Emily hugged Dad hastily as he put on his coat. “Bye,” she said, not too eagerly. Not too nervously.
He frowned and tugged up the zipper. “You okay? Not too spooky for my poppy, huh?”
Emily winced. The image of those orange petals scattered over the ground flashed in her mind. She forced a smile. “Dad, I’m almost sixteen. Johnny and Emilio have to be home by eight anyway.”
“And what about after that, Em?” he asked, hesitating even as he opened the door. “I know it must get lonely without...with Dylan away at school and me at work and—”
“I’ll watch some creepy movies with Anna. Her mom said I could stay there or she’d drive me home, either way.”
“Alright,” Dad conceded, awkwardly patting her arm.
“See you tomorrow, Dad.” Emily waved him off. She waited, watched him climb into the truck, flash his lights in farewell, and drive off into the twilight.
From under her bed, Emily gathered the supplies. This is stupid, she thought as she examined them. But the poppy returned every single day, like an incessant, harrowing little phoenix. I need to know.
She scraped up every piece of petal from the altar by the broken bird bath and carried it, along with the photo, earrings, and other supplies, to where the poppy always grew. For weeks she had arisen at dawn to pick the flower, and now she descended upon the hollow amid the towering pines and curled, barren blackberry bushes.
The evergreen canopy blocked out the light already dimmed by the clouds and creeping night. Emily brushed away the twigs and few golden leaves that had fallen since she visited this morning. The earth was bare, damp and dark. She dug her fingers into the soil, breathing deep.
Four white candles. Careful runes in the dirt, ones that called for the thinning of the veil between worlds, between life and death, between here and gone. Emily and Anna had spent hours huddled together in the back aisles of the library poring over heavy, dusty books of history, mythology, about tarot and witches and magic.
Emily crushed the petals with a mortar and pestle, studying the orange, darkening in its juices. With a kitchen knife, Emily slit a long line into the flesh of her palm until the blood welled. She let it drip onto the flowers. She didn’t cry. She just needed to know.
She wrapped her hand with a shredded kitchen towel. Lit the candles with a neon-pink lighter from the corner store. In the dark, the flames flickered weakly.
With her uninjured hand, she scraped away the soil to make space in the earth. In this womb, she tucked her mother’s earrings, the poppy from that Halloween morning, and the orange-red mixture of ground petals and her blood.
Emily swept the earth back over the sacrifice. Far in the distance, children’s laughter echoed. She thought of Anna and her little brothers knocking on doors for tootsie-rolls. She thought of Dylan—probably at some campus party— and of Dad already at work. She thought of Mom.
Emily read, from a scrap of notebook paper, some ancient words meant to call across the void. I just need to know, she repeated silently.
The words done, Emily bowed her head, closed her eyes. She listened. The woods creaked. The wind hushed them. She heard no animal’s calls. No voice.
Emily dared a peek at the candles.
They sputtered with a force unseen. She glanced around her, wanting, yearning, begging and praying for something, anything. Her breath caught, a strangled cry on her lips. The candles’ flames burned brighter, higher.
And went out.
Emily exhaled sharply, but she did not move. She waited, alone, trying not to sob there in the dark. She waited for something, for some sign. I just need to know. No matter what. No matter what.
With shaking fingers, she picked up the lighter. Her thumb traced the rough track. A tiny light.
Nothing.
A car’s horn blared in the distance.
Still, Emily waited. For hours upon hours until she was falling asleep on the cold ground, until the rain drizzled through the green and soaked her and, defeated, she went home.
**
Maybe that’s it.
Emily stirred. The sun was already glaring through the gaps in her curtain. Hope dared to tickle in her chest and make her limbs light. I just need to know. Maybe I do now. There was nothing. A smile crinkled the corners of her mouth. No sign from beyond despite the “ritual” she had managed. Had it been enough? She had devoted hours and...
Maybe Mom is out there. She breathed, looking out her bedroom window at the trees. Maybe, somewhere, she is out there.
Or maybe you’re just a dumb teenager playing in her backyard on Halloween.
Into the kitchen, Emily crept with the weight of a new and more unbearable grief. Maybe I’ll never know.
“How you feeling there, Em?” Dad clinked a spoon against his cereal bowl.
Emily groaned at him. He chuckled.
“Come on, you got a chocolate hangover? Stay up too late with Anna?” he gestured toward the table.
“I just...” Emily started, then jerked upright. “I just need to check something real quick.”
She darted out the back door.
“Em!” Dad called, following her as she ran outside. “Emily! Where are you going?”
“Just—just wanna get some blackberries for my cereal!” she yelled.
He followed her onto the back porch as she hurried toward the woods. “Emily!” he shouted, and his voice rose and carried even as she ran away from him.
White puddles of wax and crooked, dead candles. The rain had washed the runes away, it seemed. And...no poppy.
Dad was still shouting, but Emily knelt in the dirt and dug around with her bare hands. Where was it? Had she really ruined this strange gift? Just a stupid coincidence, Emily thought. You’re just a stupid teenager who got obsessed over a stupid flower. She scraped her nails into the ground, softened by the rain and her previous disturbance. A stupid, desperate dream because you can’t move on. It probably wasn’t even a poppy, just a marigold after all.
“Emily!” Dad was closer now.
But where are the earrings? She pushed away the dirt. The mud caked under her nails, squished between her fingers. I just need to know.
She touched something. Cold and hard. Not the earrings. She shoved away the dirt.
“Emily! Where are you!” Heavy boots in the mud. A shadow grew taller behind her.
Emily was cold. Tired. Her father’s shadow hung over her. She pulled her hand away from the white thing, so cold, damp and forgotten in the mud. The shadow cast over the protruding from the ground, just the very tips of fingers that had once caressed her, that had once plucked the sweetest blackberries, that had once held her hand, that had once been her mother.
“Em?” Dad asked, that shadow behind her.
“I just needed to know,” she said.
Dad put a hand, too firmly, on her shoulder. His voice was without warmth. “What did you find, poppy?”
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956
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Write a short story about someone who refuses to write New Year's resolutions.
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Entertaining Yesterday Now
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“What’s the point?” “The point is: resolve to make a change in your life,” said Beatrice with soy-firm resiliency as she sliced her toast with a butter knife. “For the better?” “If you’re so inclined, I supposed that’d help.” Beatrice shrugged, her jade moon-faced necklace glittering in the morning light from the kitchen window. “Just do it.” What was she promoting: his need to craft a New Year’s resolution or a Nike ad for new cross-trainers? Jericho shook his head and began toying with the copper-colored button on his denim Levi’s jacket, stone-washed, torn and frayed in the collar and sleeves, looked to have been attacked by an angry seamstress at a Men’s Wearhouse before he bought it. “Maybe you should eat something. That’ll help you get started. We are on vacation, love. A little protein’ll help wake up your brain. You need to think ahead. And don’t look back.” Beatrice finished off her last bite of scrambled egg atop a slice of gluten-free toast with boysenberry jam; she nibbled on a mint leaf to cleanse her palette and stepped to the sink with her back to her husband. A tiny voice whispered in Jericho’s ear: “Your time’s comin’. Whether or not you make any resolution will be very telling. For you, my love. Don’t worry, though, it’ll all end very soon. Everyone does it. It’s just a matter of time. Don’t believe the hype. Dying’s great.” “Penelope?” whispered Jericho, with one eye on Beatrice, now getting a second cup of Jasmine tea. “Who’s dying?” “Everyone dies sometime. So...you gonna make that resolution? Up to you.” He wondered what Penelope was getting at, but decided not to press the point. She always had a playful banter about her. “You’re in on this resolution charade, too?” Penelope took a seat at the kitchen table, dressed in a plaid miniskirt and green blouse. She crossed her long slender legs, smooth as moonbeams. Her hair was the color of cooling molten lava. Just like he remembered her. Eyes the color of a midnight sky, flecked in God-like gold. “Tell you what,” said Beatrice from the kitchen counter, “I’ll let you use one of my nice pens and you can write your resolution in my tablet.” She disappeared down the hall and up the winding staircase, possibly in search of her famed leather-bound tome with a silk bookmark glued to the spine, something she used for journaling and whatnot. She took it everywhere she went.He stared at Penelope, a good long moment. Sometimes just watching her soothed him. “Why am I the only one who can see you?” “Listen, love, we had it all. And we can have it again,” Penelope said. “You really don’t need to make that New Year’s resolution. We didn’t do that kind of poppycock when we were together.” He smiled as Penelope’s physical form shifted; she became transparent. He could see right through her. She was, for all intents and purposes, a spectating specter from the Land Beyond, as he liked to call it. At least that was what she proclaimed. And he believed her. “Yeah, but that was, according to you, a marriage in a past-life. Now I’m trying to live out this one, with Beatrice. I do love her, you know.” “’Course you do, love. But we’ve had many past lives together. You’ve just forgotten. The most recent past-life we were married. For forty-nine years. A lovely dance indeed.” “Boo,” he said, crafting a crooked crescent with his lips. Anytime he spoke with her, it eased his racing thoughts. Being a school teacher at a local high school was lathered in both stress and moments of joy. But the stress, at times, went on and on. And the joy came in mirror-reflected sunlight in the eye. There and gone in a blink. She raised her hands, as if signaling touchdown, grinning with childish enthusiasm. “That’s the spirit. I’m here to remind you: today’s the big day, a day of true change. Not to get too dramatic or anything but your loved one, myself included, are preparing for your departure.” Later that afternoon, Jericho sat in an antique Victorian chair of plush red velvet and began penning his thoughts. Beatrice rested a hand on the railing of the second floor hallway overlooking the living room decorated in oil paintings, a fire crackling within an old stone mantel. The seashore of Avila Beach in San Luis Obispo could be seen, and heard, through the bay window. “Nice to see your penning your resolution. Excited to hear what you write. I know you’ll feel better. When you’re done, let’s take a walk on the beach.” He nodded to her and smiled as Penelope brushed past his wife, taking graceful strides down the staircase, her molten hair flowing down her back. He wrote: Today’s a new day, for all of us. I’m here to write my plans. And this is not a New Year’s resolution. Nothing of the sort. Today I spoke to my wife, from a past-life. She informed me that I’d be leaving soon. I presume she was referring to this: it was (is) my time to move on. You know: die. How will I go? No idea. When? Doesn’t really matter. But I do know this: I love my life; I love my wife; I love my time here on Earth. But it’s time to move on....for those of you reading this, those close to me, those who think I’m penning a suicide note. You’re wrong. Dead wrong. I’m writing to tell you that life’s eternal and I’ve been offered a glimpse into my past. One of my past-lives anyway. I was married to a beautiful woman, oh, about two centuries ago. And I’m married today. Happily. And when I visualize my past-life I am actually seeing into my future. In the bigger scheme of things—yes, the physical realm is one plotted scheme after another—there is no past, there is no future. There is one omnipotent NOW. If you spell now backwards, you get: WON. Yes. You have won. I have won. WE all are ONE.
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5,374
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Start your story with the arrival of a strange visitor in a small town.
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Garnet
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Adelaide Runner’s cow died the morning the stranger first came to town.
It had been ailing for weeks and had been unable to give over any milk. Adelaide had known for some time that the cow would have to be put out of its misery, yet she could not help putting off her part in such an event. She hoped every morning that the thing had taken things into its control and simply died in its sleep.
As Adelaide stood over the cold and rigid corpse of her last heifer, swatting away the worst of the summer dust and flies, she considered how best to remove the cow from its stall. Could she entreat some neighbours to help her drag it away?
“Addy!”
The voice of her younger sister Daisy broke Adelaide’s concentration, and she brought a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the blinding sun, in order to take in the shape of her sister as she ran out of the light and into the cool shade of the barn. Daisy was out of breath and stooped for a moment with her hands on her knees, struggling to catch her breath amidst a fit of dry coughing.
“What’s got you flying like a dervish, girl?” Adelaide scowled at her sister, who managed to straighten up, wiping her sweaty forehead with dirty hands.
“You’ll never guess. Not ever.”
Adelaide gently kicked at one of the cow’s prostrate legs, testing the stiffness that had long since settled in the limbs. “I don’t intend to waste my time today by doing so. I’ve you’ve something to say, best to do so now.”
“There’s a man walked into town this morning.”
Adelaide’s eyes tore themselves from her dead animal and found Daisy’s, where they searched the brown eyes for any sign of mischief or mockery.
“Truly?” Adelaide was skeptical. No one came to Garnet anymore, especially not walking under their own steam.
“True as blue,” Daisy assured her, eyes wide and stupidly honest. “Just came ambling in all haggard-like. Heard tell that he was holding his ribs like one might-a been busted.”
“Heard it from who?”
“Mabel. She was opening up the store and saw him come in. She told me so when I stopped by to pick up some coal.”
“Men don’t just walk into Garnet,” Adelaide said aloud this time.
Daisy just smiled her simple and stupid grin, all crooked teeth, her face bearing a clear expression of excitement. Adelaide, who at twenty-five was too old for such girlish behaviour, sighed in exasperation at her sibling’s antics.
“If you’ve the wind to run about telling tales, how bout you run over next door to Keeper’s and ask if we might borrow the small tractor to get Bess here from her stall?”
“But Addy,” Daisy whined, “I want to go to town! I want to see him!”
“And we will,” Adelaide replied tartly. “But let’s get this blasted creature out of the barn in the hopes that these blasted flies will follow. She accentuated her words with another slap at the insects who were beginning to swarm the cow. One lit on her bare arm, and the flesh there began to sting painfully. Adelaide slapped at it quickly, brushing off the stain of blood that remained on the side of her cotton shirt.
Daisy pouted, looking down at the cow between them angrily.
“Girl, get you gone!” Adelaide’s temper was up. It was too hot to argue, and though she would never admit it, she wanted to see the stranger too.
Daisy stuck out her tongue and kicked the poor beast in its sunken side. A tumour there burst, sending forth a dark and pulpy liquid that sloshed tangibly unto the soiled straw beneath. She turned quickly before Adelaide could yell again and took off back into the dust and sun.
“A man has come to Garnet,” Adelaide whispered into the still barn, disturbed only by the constant low and heavy buzzing of the flies.
***
By the time Adelaide and Daisy had made their way to town, the stranger had been moved to the old schoolhouse. Though far from a large building, the school was the only place in Garnet that could afford enough seating and space for the crowd of curious onlookers gathered at the news of a visitor. Adelaide pushed her way through with Daisy at her heels. The townsfolk might have muttered as Adelaide Runner elbowed her way through them, but not one dared raise their voice higher than an outraged whisper or hiss. Adelaide was a survivor, and more importantly, she was clean. Susan Gunner bared what teeth remained in her mouth as Addy passed her, and a red flush crept into her pocked and mealy cheeks.
The sheriff stood at the front of the room, gun proudly on display in a hip holster that suggested wear and familiarity of use. The stranger sat in a chair before the crowd, eyes fixed anxiously on the sheriff’s hand that hovered over the gun’s grip. Adelaide took in his hair, black and thick, and the dark stubble on his cheeks. He was thin, and the worn boots on his feet suggested long wanderings, and he had the lost and haunted look of someone who had been too long away from people and too long in the out. His hands were bound behind the chair he had been dumped into.
“What do they call you?” The sheriff’s voice was low and steady, ignoring the pulsing energy of the gathering crowd.
“Ben,” the man said quietly, gaze darting from the gun to the crowd and then back again. “Ben Jones.”
“What kind of a name is Jones?” The question was whispered in the crowd, its speaker unknown, though the others took up the thought in small murmurs.
“Quiet,” growled the sheriff. “How come you make your way to Garnet?”
The man, Ben, licked his dry and cracked lips, and Adelaide felt the person next to her shudder. She shouldered her neighbour squarely and glared down at them.
“Be still,” she grunted. The shuddered obeyed.
“I’ve been walking for weeks, maybe months. I don’t know how long I’ve been out there. I was with others, but they ain’t with me no more. The sand took ‘em.”
Nods and murmurs of understanding. The sands were quick, and they were deadly. Their faint glow reached the hills of Garnet when the skies were clear, the luminescent green enough to light your path even in the deepest reaches of the night.
The sheriff stood, thinking. The thick, beefy arms crossed themselves before an ample chest, and the voice growled. “How come you ain’t got worse than a hurt rib? Are you clean everywhere?”
“There’s no mark on me,” Ben said quickly, glancing into the crowd, eyes searching. “I ain’t got the sickness, but I can see that some of you good folk are suffering. I’ve got some learning. Let me tend the sick ‘uns.”
“He can tend to me,” came a loud and boisterous voice from the back of the room. A few brave or possibly hysterical members of the crowd giggled and guffawed before a sharp look from the sheriff shut them up.
“You close your mouth Lou Digger,” the sheriff called. “Fore I knock out what’s left of your teeth.”
More laughter at this. Quieter. Crueller.
The sheriff crouched down before the man and removed the pair of sunglasses that hid one blue eye and one empty socket that oozed thick green pus. The man looked away quickly and seemed to be fighting the urge to retch.
“We don’t need men like you coming in here telling us what needs doin’,” the sheriff said gently, eye fixed on the man’s sallow face. “You’ve come here, and as you can see, there ain’t any of your kind here.”
A different kind of murmur and energy passed through the crowd, and Adelaide felt the hunger that followed it. It had been a long time since a man had walked into Garnet.
“Did you think we’d welcome you and let you wander about amongst the good people here? Your kind is a menace. Your kind is danger, and death, and bleeding.” The sheriff’s low voice was steady and quiet as she leaned in closer to the bound man. “Keeper?”
Emily Keeper stepped forward from the crowd, her daughter Gail close to her side. Emily stood strong and tall, and although Gail’s bald head was covered in the marks of her sickness, she did not falter at her mother’s side.
“Bring this man that he might be kept with the others. He seems clean though, mind you, so be careful not to put him with the marked stock.” The sheriff spoke without taking her gaze from the trembling man.
Emily nodded and came forward, reaching the man in a few strides and bending to unbind him from the chair. He did not fight her as he rose though he winced at the pain in his side. Emily Keeper’s family had been charged with the town’s stock for years, and she moved Ben forward with practiced ease.
The crowd parted for them as Emily and her charge approached, Gail trailing close behind. The excitement and whispers in the crowd did not dissipate as the man was lead from the room and seemed only to grow stronger as he was finally brought back outside.
“Shut it,” warned the sheriff in a drawl. She placed her dark sunglasses back on her face and seemed to scan the crowd. “Adelaide Runner? You here?”
Adelaide stepped forward, though a brave and unknown member of the crowd scratched her viciously on the arm as she did. The offender hid themselves well, and the guilty fingers drew back quickly into the safety of the mob.
“You still clean, girl?” The sheriff’s tone was easy, all business.
“I am,” Adelaide replied. “Had a dead cow this morning, but it don’t seem to have affected me none.”
The sheriff nodded, pleased.
“Well, seems to be about your turn then. Make your way down to Keeper’s tomorrow. She can help you through the ordeal.”
Daisy was at Adelaide’s side then, gripping her hand. A huge grin adorned the younger girl’s face, and her eyes shone brightly from behind deep and dark circles.
“A baby in the house!” Daisy’s voice was a happy squeal. “Finally, our turn to have a baby in the house!”
“You can be happy. Ain’t you that’ll have to carry and bear it.” Adelaide felt a little annoyed but understood. She was clean, and so was the stranger. These occurrences were becoming rarer and rarer.
It was her turn.
She turned then, still holding Daisy’s hand, and faced the sea of women before her, cramped into the small and stifling schoolhouse. Some were clean, like Adelaide. Others bore the rotting and putrid marks of the sickness. With any luck, Adelaide would bear a girl, a clean girl, who could be brought up in Garnet and who could work with the next generation to keep the town running.
As Adelaide and her sister made their way to Keeper’s farm, the older girl thought once more of her dead cow and reminded herself to ask again about borrowing the small tractor.
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14,745
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Set your story in a Gothic manor house.
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Hidden Under the Floorboards
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“The art of investigation is a fickle one. Many think of themselves as one of those marvellously witty detectives you see on tv. But few ever put their energy into the mysteries that matter. The legends of ghosts lurking in the dark and monsters out of sight. The cases that get you labelled as the craziest nut in town. Those are the ones worth taking. I may not be a detective by day, but every fibre of my being knows that it's what I’m meant to do. The moment when the last pieces of the puzzle click together, that rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. That is what I live for.” My voice broke at that. The thousands of flashing cameras shone in my face expectantly, each worming its way through the crowd of reporters crushing me within their ranks.
A young woman thrust her microphone through the flailing arms. Her breath came in hurried jabs as she rushed to speak in a clipped professional tone.
“Miss Prior, can you tell us how you solved this truly confounding mystery?”
I nodded, gathering my breath.
“I guess you could say it began a few weeks ago,” the woman pushed through the crowds with renewed vigour until the microphone was directly in front of me.
“A friend of mine had recently been visiting from London. He and his partner had been looking forward to the trip since I first proposed it. My friend Howerd's partner Mathew had an intense fascination with gothic literature. The perfect hobby to have in an area like this, Fardale Manor is perhaps the most prominent feature of the entire countryside. Anyway, before arriving at my place the two had decided to take a tour of the manor. It was only to be an hour long so they should have been at my house at around three in the afternoon. So I waited, and they never came...”
The audience had fallen silent now. Each reporter relaxed their grip on their cameras and made way for others to listen to my tale.
“Their phones gave me no answer to their whereabouts,” as only the monotone drone of my mobile dialling them answered. Concern and panic began to blossom inside my chest. Howard and Mathew were nothing if not punctual. Even when I contacted the Manor tour guide I was no closer to locating them. I pushed the problem aside thinking that perhaps one of them had fallen ill, or something else of the sort had occurred. Yet the week flew by with no word from either of them.
I had now talked with a few other locals who had sworn they saw the two in town. The couple were hard to miss with all their joyous energy. Then I realized that the last anyone had seen of my friends was just before they toured Fardale Manor. That was confounding at the very least. The tour guide had made it very clear that he had not seen even the slightest glimpse of the two men who had undoubtedly been in his presence. I made a decision then, I picked up my phone and booked a tour for the next day.
The tour was unusual to say the least. The history of the house was familiar to me as I had studied it during school, but the tour guide told the tale with clear disdain. In my group, there were around five others. We had each been given a slip of paper stuck to our chest with our names scribbled in black Sharpie. I glanced around at everyone’s as the stout toad of a man serving as the tour guide led us through the manor. At regular intervals, he would stop and raise a pale hand to point out a feature of the house, then he paused in front of a child’s bedroom.”
A small gasp escaped from several of the reporters in the crowd, every person within ten kilometres of Fardale manor knew what I was talking about. The legend of the Fardale children was one that the children of the town thrived on. There was something so enticing about the legend and its sick nature.
The manor had been owned by none other than Dr James Fardale. An eccentric lunatic who was obsessed with the ideas of the creatures of the night. His most passionately loved myth being that of the vampire. The man was a fanatic when it came to the creatures. He sought to replicate their pale skin with unnerving accuracy and was spotted on multiple occasions donning a long black cape over his frilled white dress shirt. He was so fascinated by the idea of such creatures that he drove himself into striving to become one.
Fardale was immediately shunted out of his profession as a doctor for such outlandish thoughts. But that didn’t stop him. In a month he purchased the imposing gothic manor and set up multiple children’s bedrooms for his plans. Every month from there on, several street urchins from near by cities would be warmly welcomed into his home. The man was hardly ever present and the children lunged at the thought of a house to themselves. Soon, however, they would find themselves locked in with no escape. One by one the once grimy midgets roaming the streets would disappear until Fardale was suddenly welcoming a new batch of unsuspecting children into his home.
Back in town people thought nothing of the matter. While in the city there was an increasing concern. It was true no one could care less for the young thieves roaming their streets. But a threat to them was a potential threat to their children, and so the town glumly agreed to investigate the manor.
And what they found shocked them. Piles upon piles of human corpses littered the attic of the manor. Each face leached of all colour with a long jagged gash along their throats. Fardale had been murdering children and draining them of blood to satisfy his urge for months without any notice. Soon after the town folks revelation, Fardale returned to his home with yet another batch of children The townsfolk desperately scrambled to apprehend him in rage, but they were too slow. The children’s blood stained the dark walls and Fardale fled to the outskirts of town. Some say he’s still there, having succeeded in unlocking the secrets to vampires and their longevity.
With the manor empty the townsfolk converted it into a memorial for the Fardale children, and in more recent years a tour service had opened to the public. But nothing could ever quite quench the fear of Fardale still burying his teeth into the soft flesh of one's neck.
I shook my head in disgust, everyone knew the story there was no reason to tell it again. I grasped at my mind for where I had left off and continued again.
“I had, like every other member of this community, already known of the tale of Fardale manor. So instead I turned my attention to scrutinising every inch of the house while we stood there. Within minutes I noticed the floorboard beneath a large flamboyantly dressed man's foot, it's dark wood was just as scuffed as the rest from years of treading feet. But the groves along each edge were abnormally deep and almost certainly wider than the others. Politely I asked the man to remove his foot paying no attention to the fact that everyone's eyes were now on me.
I knelt and pressed the wood lightly with a finger, it slid around in the confined space as I tried to shift it with my finger. The man who had moved his foot for me then pried into the corner of the panel and yanked it free of its position. A heavy industrial leaver lay in the cavity rusted to the concrete beneath. With a heave, the other group members and I swung it up despite the tour guides objections. We soon wished we had listened to his pleas.
A door sprung open next to the child's room, revealing a manky prison-like cell. It seemed as though the tales of old had come back to haunt us. Bodies, swathed in modern-day clothes, all ripped to bloody ribbons and laying limply on the floor. The group gasped and stepped back, I walked in. Then a choke caught in my throat. Hanging above the door like marionettes were Howard and Mathew. Their hands still entwined in death despite the obvious fear scarring their faces. My friends, some of my only friends. Murdered like they were nothing.
Everyone ran from the house then, even the tour guide followed us while hindered in his unflattering clothes from the era of the house's construction. I called the police and now we’re here.”
Murmurs began to spread throughout the crowd once more as I finished my tale. The woman who first thrust the microphone at me withdrew back into the crowd to allow others their time. I sighed, weighed down by the stark reality of it all. Recounting Howerd and Mathew’s death had only made it more real.
Ignoring the hail of questions combing their way towards me I lazily scanned my eyes over the crowd. Just in the background barely visible was the tour guide standing with the other group members. My eyes widened. He opened his mouth in a villainous snarl revealing two, needle-sharp, teeth.
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1,649
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End your story with a character looking out on a new horizon.
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Hippo Campus
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This story contains substance abuse, explicit language, and mention of brain surgery.
You saw it floating in a jar before the doctors did the procedure. One of the best brains money could buy. A bioartificial brain. They took stem cells from your bone marrow which to be brutally honest hurt like a bitch.
Then the doctors put the stem cells into a plastic sac to allow them to grow into the brain that would be inserted. What grew is a brain that is grey with a long brainstem; it looked strong.
` A specialized neuroscience team then had to go through the memories stored in your original brain. They picked out any memories connected to substance abuse, taking away your memories of what it feels like to be drunk, high, or tripping along with emotional and physical trauma throughout your lifetime.
In a way, it was almost like rapid therapy and cost more than it would have been if you just put in the time and energy to get your shit straightened out. But you fucked up hard and you wanted to mitigate the amount of responsibility you had just been given.
You don’t know anything about brains. All you know is that this new brain is going to be connected to your spine. You will then have your original consciousness transferred.
The dude who is doing the surgery, you met him once. He seemed almost more nervous about the procedure than you; as if it was his skull that was going to get cracked.
Maybe he just understood the cost a lot better.
This wasn’t your first choice. Your first choice was to continue to live your life, do whatever you want, and enjoy yourself. Granted, it’s been hard ever since your mother died and your father decided that getting regular sex was way more important than his daughter’s sanity. Or at least that’s how you saw it.
Maybe he actually does love your stepmother, but it doesn’t seem like he loves you enough to stop her from being an emotionally abusive bitch. You never completely understood how in just one day, at the age of 12, you lost both of your parents. A piece of your father went into the incinerator with your mother. The person that you knew growing up as a kid faded. Then you became the problem, the chip that never fell off his shoulder. Your stepmother hoped that once you left the house, maybe your father would repair himself.
***
The paper gown did nothing for the coldness of the gurney which made my ass feel numb, even with underwear. They have me in a room with no windows which does wonders for my anxiety. I’m already hooked up to an IV, just waiting for them to start the process. A bruise is forming from the nurse being incompetent and missing my veins multiple times.
I close my eyes to try to center myself after counting ceiling marks does nothing. I’m getting a new brain. I’m getting a new brain and consciousness.
Fuck.
They are going to crack open the back of my skull and take it completely off. That 3ish pound mass. This old one is “contaminated”. It’s interacted with too many hormone imbalances and chemicals. Too much acid, shrooms, coke, and other substances. Once the new brain is in place they will reattach my skull, sew me up, and transfer my consciousness into my new brain or some shit like that.
Of course, I’m scared. I don’t even know what consciousness looks like. Does it have a form? Is it a specific color? A few months ago was the first time I heard about the possibility of it being transferred. The doctors said this has worked before; in the beginning stages but they still have good results.
I think I want to have a stable life; maybe that will be nice. Not needing to forget. Maybe meet another stable human being who has never dealt with any hardship and we fall in love like a fairy tale, then get married and have all the kids and shit. I’ll admit, now before I get knocked out and possibly no longer myself, that there is a deep hole in my chest that goes as deep as the Earth’s core with no possibility of getting filled despite my trying.
All these years resenting my parents and this is what it has brought me; a cracked skull, new brain, and consciousness that is no longer completely my own. Quite a hefty price.
I should have just taken more responsibility for myself and who I wanted to be in this world. Hopefully doing this won’t cause me to have to start from zero all over again. I hold this, lungs crushing down, throat closing, eyes holding back tears, and then three nurses come rushing in. One wearing glasses with golden hazel eyes peers down at me.
“Please stand up slowly. We are going to wheel you to the surgery room.”
Those words surely don’t help. And the chair isn’t comfortable it’s colder than the gurney. I feel like my ass is showing but I doubt they care; they’re about to see the inside of my fucking skull. They quickly move me into the surgical room. The lighting is darker and the music of beeping machines surrounds me. I stand up slowly to sit back down in the surgical chair.
“Ok, breathe into this mask and count back from 10.”
Ten. ok, what do I want to think about last? Eight. I hope to still like crab rangoon, bbq chicken pizza, avocados smashed on top of a cheese quesadilla Six. Hopefully, I can still masturbate and have sex as I used to Four. Despite the ending that snapped like a string, causing me to lose myself, I’ve grown, I think...
To be honest, I didn’t want to be cured. My depressive thought process was every bit a part of me as my right hand or the dimple on my left cheek. In the past ten years, the craving to escape has been as commonplace as my cravings for sour patch kids, sex, or a cup of morning coffee. That burning that appears in the back of my throat, similar to when I try not to cry. There’s a knot in my gut and those thoughts that burn roads in my brain go haywire.
I always thought it made it easier to be a person alone in a studio apartment without a future trying to escape my past and present. Not enough sunlight from the windows. A marketing job that pays to survive.
It was only a crime after I smashed the car into the Smith’s bright green mailbox. The mixture of tequila, anxiety and a sweet, little calico cat slowly crossing the road led to me swerving right then left then right into the mailbox. I just really didn’t want to kill that innocent cat.
But no one cared that I was drunk at Aunt Claire’s funeral and it was only a quarter afternoon. Or that summer I just sat in the backyard, in the sweet Philadelphia heat, and drank white wine while binge-watching The Handmaid’s Tale.
There is the whole breaking someone else’s property that comes into play and I paid for their new mailbox; it’s now bright red. The police also had to escort me to jail because I passed out in the driver's seat of my car after breaking the mailbox.
That was some embarrassing shit. To have someone wake up at six in the morning to start their routine and find their drunk neighbor passed out in her car after crashing it into their mailbox. I mean, I was sleeping like a baby, drool all over my steering wheel.
Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Smith felt some empathy for me at first but once it was understood that I was quite frankly fine, they were livid. That phone call to dad was unpleasant, I could hear my step-mom yapping in the background.
“That drunken daughter of yours! How many more times are we going to have to save her ass?”
Shrill as fuck. One of the most embarrassing nights of my life but I definitely could not foresee myself getting to where I am now.
There was first the court visit where the judge went through my file and history of drinking from various accounts; my family was never outspoken in their disapproval of my drinking before but they certainly are a bunch of silent grudge holders or I was really too far gone to even notice how displeased they were.
The order by the judge was to either do time and be on house arrest or go to a medical treatment facility. I choose the latter; the thought of something else on my record didn’t sit well with me. It felt final and I still had hope that I could change.
The first doctor that I met was stern, monotone, and tired Dr. Farmer. He went through a series of questions that ranged from upsetting childhood memories to how do I feel when I’m drunk. I tried to answer honestly because I was curious; curious to see how ill and disturbed I was.
It ended up being that I’m a perfect candidate for a particular study. I was intrigued. After spending so many hours reading stories on reflections of the human mind and various hypothetical experiments on brains, I agreed to be a part of the study. If I could go back, just quit cold turkey, and do the whole 12 steps, even if it was complete bullshit, I would.
***
My mind is tangled in thoughts. I feel my limbs but they are not connected. I’m afraid to move. What if I can’t open my eyes? Where am I? A hospital. There was surgery. I got surgery. I got surgery on my brain. I got a new brain! Wait, am I still myself?
I pause for a minute and take a couple of deep breaths. Let’s try to open my eyes. The overhead light is fuzzy and blinding. I want to stop but the need to open my eyes is urgent. Finally, I succeed in opening my eyelids. It takes a moment to stabilize my vision but I can finally see the room.
The window shows a sky outside that was close to reaching night with the egg yolk sun breaking down, into the other side. I can’t move my body but mainly because there is a cloak of pain that has fallen over me. I can feel my body start to pulse as sweat begins to appear around my forehead, neck, and back. Anxiety.
The beating of the machines matches my heartbeat going faster. My mind can’t make sense right now. I keep looking over at the chair across the room for a while then later stating “chair”. Something is not right with my brain. I would call for a nurse but I can’t move my arm.
My chest feels like there’s a small demon sitting on it. I want to pass out but I also want to get help, figure out what the hell happened, and if I’m ok. Deciding to close my eyes and possibly get some sleep because at least then the radiating pain would stop, I start to breathe deeply, in and out. I drift off into unconsciousness.
***
The air is wet and warm in the room with the smell of freezer burnt ice cream. A fan is facing directly where I’m sitting but it does nothing to alleviate the humidity. Marlow and I are spread out on the couch glued to our iPhones. The last two months of our time together has been like this, sometimes with music but rarely talking.
With greasy jet-black hair down to her shoulders and dull, hazel eyes, Marlow has few words. We met during the therapy group circle where we discussed ways of relearning how to work our minds and know our bodies. They are mandatory after having brain transplant surgery.
I never paid attention during those circles; my mind forever drifting. The doctors said my ability to concentrate would build up as I got stronger from the surgery but it’s been almost a year and a half yet doing basic mental work is still hard. So Marlow and I go on Facebook with our phones for hours, mindlessly scrolling. This is better than alcohol, right?
I haven’t had a solid human connection since the surgery, mainly because forming words and thoughts are not skills I’ve remastered. For a bit, my old friends did try to reach out to me to see how I was doing or if they could visit. It was hard to do that though because of all the therapy on top of forgetting many of the memories I had with these people.
I even forgot about Amy; I forgot about someone I considered another piece of my soul. Yet alcohol rarely prevented me from speaking and connecting with others, in fact, I’m a chatterbox when I was drunk. Drunk, drinking, drinks.
It’s so hot and my throat is constricting with a slight itching sensation in the back from the lack of moisture. The only thing Marlow has in her fridge is milk that might have gone bad. There is tap water but I crave something more. Scrolling for a few more moments, I begin to get up to leave.
“You goin’?” Marlow’s voice is a light string barely flying over the fan and into my ear. I cough to clear my throat before speaking and to get my tongue ready to say something.
“Yeah, I need to get something to eat and drink.”
I walk closer to the door with my phone still in my hand. Marlow grunts, meaning it’s all good and she’ll hit me up tomorrow or the next day; hanging out is never urgent.
Once I am in my car, I see a bottle of Coca-Cola and take a swig, realizing way too late how hot it is, causing the bubbles to burn down my throat. While the air conditioning starts up and I slowly recover, I connect my Spotify to my radio, put on sunglasses, and begin to drive home.
The first year after my surgery I lived with my father and stepmother in their hellish suburban house. I was able to talk them into allowing me to get a place of my own after proving that I was not brain dead nor itching for a drink. While his toxic antics definitely watered down since I became a cyborg, his wife has continued to ride the bitch train. This is funny because I’m barely verbal enough to fight back.
I can ride a bike and run for a good ten minutes but make me give a thirty-minute lecture and I’ll start spazzing out. That’s the most annoying thing about this whole situation. My body has healed but my mind is still fucked. Was this the doctor’s plan all along? Leave me so fucked up I wish I was brain dead?
The driveway to my cottage is guarded by trees. Strong Oaks, Weeping Willows, and vibrant Japanese Maples. When you don’t have the urge to spend all your money on boozes and drugs it’s easy to save. And when your parents feel a small urge of shame for fucking up your mind, they buy you a cottage in the middle of the woods.
I open my door and Greta is there to greet me. This silvery Maine Coon gives me all the affection I can receive. You can’t mumble yourself through a Tinder date. And then try telling someone that you can’t drink because your brain has been repossessed. Guys want unique, not batshit crazy.
They must have fucked up some other shit because I don’t even get the need to find a hookup or even masturbate, which is truly the more fucked up reality. Probably reprogramed all my pleasure centers or some shit.
So for now all I have is ice-cold lemonade, microwave dinners, shit reality tv, and Greta. After I’m finished eating, she sits on my lap and purrs; reminds me I’m still a loveable being
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15,149
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Write about a character who wakes up in their past life, or as a future reincarnation of themself.
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New Year's Eve Dinner was a Superb Affair
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December 31, 1999— a new millennium would begin in a few hours.
I finished my glass of wine and went through to the sitting room, cozied into my favorite chair near the fireplace, smiled at the mayhem surrounding me— and died.
All of my living children, two daughters, and a son, along with thirteen grandkids and five great-grandchildren, accompanied by various spouses and significant others, were crowded into the dining room at two long tables. The latest addition, a great-great-granddaughter, sat in a highchair next to me at the head of the table.
My son stood, tapped a spoon three times to his glass, a hush went over the two tables. The baby looked at me with her bright blue eyes and screeched at the top of her lungs—the room filled with laughter.
“Maybe you would like to give the toast, little miss,” Jesse smiled and touched a finger to his great-granddaughter's nose.
“Come here, Kit-Kat.” I reached over and pulled her out of the highchair and started to bounce her on my knee. She put her tiny hand to my face to feed me a smashed-up piece of cupcake—the chocolate icing oozing between her fingers.
I licked some off her finger and made an mmm sound and smacked my lips. She giggled and tried to feed me more.
Maria Katherine O’Brien was named after her great-great-grandmother, my wife. God rest her soul. She had the same blue eyes and already a thick crop of wavy black hair that fell unruly about her face. The resemblance brought tears to my eyes. I nudged my nose close to her hair and made a raspberry into her ear.
Jesse tapped the glass again then raised it above his head. “A toast to Dad.”
“No, Son, wait.” I stood up and repositioned Kate into one arm and raised my glass. “Happy first birthday to this little one, the fifth generation in the room, and happy birthday to your mom. I miss her so much as I am sure you all do. She would have been ninety-five today.”
“Happy birthday Mom, happy birthday Kate, happy birthday Gran.” Everyone stood and drank from their glass.
“To Dad,” Jesse said again. “A century on this earth. One hundred years tomorrow.” He raised his glass high. “You’ll probably outlive us all.”
“To Dad, to Grandad, to Pop” Thirty-some voices all shouted in unison. Kit-Kat gave me a big chocolatey raspberry on my cheek.
The first to notice was my youngest granddaughter, Nora.
“Pop,” she said, “You okay” as she shook my shoulder. I slumped over to the side of the chair.
Nora was a nurse and quickly felt for a pulse. She dropped to her knees and pressed her head against my chest.
“No, no, no.” She began to sob and held me tight.
I hovered above the room before settling on the stairs with a few of the youngest children. We watched as the hysterics took over, the wrenching of hands and gnashing of teeth. Tear dampened faces staring in disbelief, glasses of wine and whiskey turned bottoms up. The older children consoling each other, the younger ones not knowing how they should feel.
Nora’s daughter Cailin came up the stairs and sat on the step below me. She hugged her little cousin, young Tommy.
“It will be alright. Pop-Pop has gone onto a better place. He’s gone to see Granny Kate again.”
“But he is still sitting there in the chair.” Tommy pointed, his arm protruding through the banister rails.
Cailin leaned her head on his and whispered, “I’ll miss you, Pop.”
“I’ll miss you too, m’chroi.”
She turned her head and looked up the stairs.
“Tell me the story again, Pop, about when you came from Ireland.” Cailin could listen to the tale every day if she had the chance.
She summoned the cousins to come and listen. She arranged them on the floor around my chair, placing the smaller ones closer.
“Shall I fetch you a glass of Guinness, Pop?” She knew I would need a drink if it were the long version I was to tell. She’d surely frown and pout her lower lip if I requested a Jamison on the rocks, knowing the tale to come was the abbreviated version.
Her eyes showed bright when I said, “A pint of the black stuff, lass.”
“Dinner’s almost ready, Da, don’t get too carried away.” My oldest daughter Deirdre called from the kitchen.
It always started the same, “I was but a wee lad, the same age as you, sweet Cailin.” The younger ones all turned and looked at her as if she was somehow part of the story.
“Me Da had gone off two years now. To Dublin in search of a paying position leaving Ma and me and four younger sisters to fend for ourselves. I found work on a fishing boat over on Galway Bay. A Galway Hooker with red and black sails.”
“The Bad Mor,” said Cailin.
“Now then that be the type of boat she was. Bad Mor means Big Boat. But her name was An Rosin Dubh- The little black rose. We just called her Rosie.”
“Tell them why the sails were red and black now, Pop.” Cailin interrupted.
“Who’s telling this story, little miss?”
“He had to rub them with butter,” she said.
‘Ew’ was the consensus from the younger generation.
I smiled and took a drink of beer. “Go on then.” I winked at her.
“He had to lay the sails out on the ground and crawl all over them with a bucket of butter and tar rubbing it into the cloth. And every year the sails got darker and darker.
“And sometimes he would slide over the sails on his belly.”
Another round of “ewes”. This time from the grown-ups. Giggles from the children.
I picked up the tale. “When I was a bit older we would sail far out to sea and let out long lines with hooks tied to them. Days and nights we sailed until we filled the ships hold with all sorts of fish.”
“Time went on and Ma got to thinking I should go to America. The ship was packed with lost souls leaving for the promise of a better life. The captain said we might have to change our destination if the British still had a blockade along the coast. They had started another war with the colonies in 1812.”
“Pop, that’s not how you came, it was a steamer out of Queenstown.” Cailin quickly corrected me.
Something was happening. I stopped and took another drink. The memory of horns blasting as the White Star line steamship pulled away from the quay at Queenstown blurred with the two masted Star of the Sea rounding the windward side of the Aran Islands a century before.
My mother told me of my birth in the Claddagh, the small fishing village situated where the fresh waters flowing swiftly from the River Corrib spilled into the tidal flats at the head of Galway Bay. It was new years day 1900.
“The weather blew us off course and instead of Boston we ended up in Philadelphia.” My voice whispered the words.
Another memory drifted out of my mind. A fog covered coastline. I rode in a long boat with a dragon’s head at the bow. On the shoreline, a band of people wearing animal hides and feathers in their hair appeared from the mist then vanished. I remembered the dragon boats. Five, maybe more raided our village along the coast. I woke up staring at the endless stars. We traveled for months across the sea always sailing toward the setting sun.
“I was fourteen, we rode overland along the Post road to Baltimore. The British attacked the second day I was there.”
“Pop.” I heard my son say. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. I think I said “How do I know that?” aloud.
“We lived in a wood and earthen hut over the winter. Many of us died but I returned across the sea the next spring.”
“Who died Pop?” Cailin asked.
“Dinner’s on the table.” My daughter’s voice broke my spell.
The clock struck midnight as two men in green blazers with a funeral logo on the lapel placed me on a gurney.
They brought Kate over to me. “Give Poppy a kiss so he can go bye bye.”
She turned and reached her arms towards the staircase.
“Poppy,” she called out.
“Poppy’s right here on the bed,” her mother said. “Give him a kiss night night.”
She squirmed and wiggled in her arms. “Poppy,” she said reaching for the stairs.
I floated down to her, and she blew a raspberry into the air.
Centuries of memories filled the room. I saw the children from other times running through the parlor. Family gathered around the table, their faces so familiar yet distant. A fog blurred my vision as I lost a grasp on the room.
January 1, 2000 Galway
The young man skidded to a stop at the emergency room doors. He helped his wife into the lobby.
“I’ve gotta push,” she screamed.
Five minutes later the bells chimed all across the hospital intercoms.
I opened my eyes and gazed up into of a pair of bright blue eyes emanating unconditional love. She leaned down an kissed my forehead and spoke her first words to me.
“My sweet boy, born this new year’s day, may ye live to see the next century.”
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3,591
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Write a story about waiting — but don't reveal what's being waited for until the very end.
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Sommelier
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I pull the wine through my lips and think about what it would be like to be someone’s first taste. It’s a dry one, sharp on the tongue, bitter in the throat. Something made in Argentina, I think. Dry. Sharp. Bitter. It would be an assault to the senses for a first-timer. But for someone who’s older, who’s lived enough, that taste is a welcome massage to a jaded existence.
I enjoy another sip, close my eyes, inhale the bouquet of it. Pretend that I know anything about wine. I don’t. It might as well be blood. It looks just like it. Like Luke’s blood.
Last year, my brother was murdered. I knew it would happen a long time before it did because I’m what the dictionary calls a ‘clairvoyant’. But as it is with everything else, I take my brain with a grain of salt. Things can always change. They often do.
Nothing changed for my brother, Luke. He was stabbed to death, just as I’d seen years before. I never told him, never told anybody, what I knew. Never tried to prevent it. Hell, we were in a stupid sibling squabble over my mom’s birthday party plans when I got the news that Luke was dead.
I run my finger over the rim of the glass. There is no sound. The deep red of the wine latches into my fingerprint from where my lips rested only seconds ago. No sound. Deep red. Just like Luke.
It’s sort of similar to one of those things where someone falls and you think they will catch themselves, so you don’t reach out to help. Except, they don’t catch themselves and there you stand, empty arms outstretched, having the ability all along to prevent the mess, but you didn’t.
I didn’t catch Luke.
He used to beg me to do something about my visions.
“You can’t live like this, Libby,” he’d always say. “It’s killing you. Always helping other people out, never worrying what it’s doing to you. Why can’t you just let fate just take its course? It’s eating you alive, sis.”
“I can’t just toss away my gift,” I’d argued. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Luke.”
“‘Gift’,” Luke had scoffed. “You’re not tossing any ‘gift’, Libby. You’re freeing yourself of a curse.”
My brother wasn’t wrong. But he also didn’t realize that I wasn’t always so generous with my gift. I foresaw a lot of things that I didn’t touch. Grain of salt. Things change. I’d never seen a death in the future, so I chalked Luke’s up to a nightmare in the form of a day daze. Mind wandering to macabre things. Everyone does it.
Now I know that as a freak who can see hazily into the future, I’m not even remotely qualified to be lumped in with ‘everyone’ after all.
I drain the rest of the wine from the glass, the brunt beam from the towering streetlight above me decanting the alleyway. I settle into my own shadow, tossing the glass into a wide sewer grate. I’ll never see that glass again. No one will. It’ll probably lose itself in whatever current it ends up in.
The glass is a metaphor for me.
I’m going to grant Luke’s wish. I’ll go far away from everything, from everyone. Visions can’t hurt as much when you’re alone, with no one left to love. And I’ll figure out how to unchain myself from my curse. I will. I’ll float along into an endless evening, embracing riptides of all sizes, spates of all directions, to send me where I need to go. I’ll disappear just like that wine glass.
I peer over the top of the peeling green paint, careful not to clutch onto the edge of the dumpster. Nothing has changed. Nothing has moved. I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter past four a.m. I’ve been curled behind this dumpster for five hours now. I drag a long inhale of the cold night air into my lungs through a clenched jaw, and I slowly sit back behind the dumpster, hidden from sight again. I close my eyes, count backwards, steady my body, steady my mind.
You got your wish, Luke. I’m going to get rid of the curse. But I can’t just yet. There’s something I have to do before I fade into the world. I open my eyes and look down at my watch again. It won’t be much longer now that I’ll have to wait.
Half an hour later, there is a new illumination into the inky sky. I stand up from my post and move in small beats against the crumbling brick sidings lining the dank alleyway. I stop just under the new haze of light coming from a second-story window. I stand completely still outside the exit door the window’s apartment leads down to. I wait, on the fringes of what will happen next, a chef knife in my grip. Everyone has to come outside eventually. Everyone does.
It’s nearing sunup when the door finally unlocks from the inside and opens slowly.
I couldn’t catch Luke before his fall, but I would catch his murderer. I’m going to slit his throat. I’m not squeamish. The things I’ve seen in my foreshadowings are the worst kind of things you could imagine.
It happens quicker than I expect. Easier than I expect. My brother’s assassin is a crumpled heap on the doorway threshold in under twenty seconds. He makes a weird gargle sound, clutching at his freshly cleaved neck, which has become an Old Faithful of blood, staring up wide-eyed at me. I lean over him, breathing in every one of his last breaths.
The blood. Deep red. Wet, sharp, bitter. I can’t look away at the endless fountain of life spiking the air. A spray of it hits my hand and I instinctively put it to my lips, sucking in the skin tenderly. The bouquet is rich and evading, a handful of pennies.
The police wouldn’t catch me. I could see it. I was seeing a lot of new things now.
Okay, Luke. You got your wish. I’m getting rid of the curse. And I’m transforming it into something all my own.
A gift.
My cheeks hurt from the near childlike smile on my face as I walk away from the dead man. Justice for you, Luke. Who knew there was such an alchemy to the ichor?
Turns out it’s okay that I didn’t save you, brother. In your death, I am reborn into an ample night. One that is as unique and special as I am.
The blood—it’s a lot like the wine, really. I don’t know much about it.
But I will.
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1,525
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You thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you.
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Tarnished Blade
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“Have you ever considered how far away the stars are,” Alice asked,” how big they are... then pretended they were on a canvas not much higher than your reach?”
I rolled up to my feet,”I don’t know how you can see the stars with so much light pollution...”I smirked and held out my hand.
“You just have to pretend then,” she said stretching and smiling, deliberately not taking my hand.
“Ok you may be crazy, but at least you should try to get proper sleep”
“Proper sleep is for the losers who care about their grades”
I smirked, she was the one who went on frequent tangents of hyperventilating over a B-... well back when that could matter. I squeezed my eyes shut opening them up to find the cursed sword in my hand.
“What is this,” Alice asked.
“A dream,” I responded, falling to the ground and grabbing her hand,”maybe we could stay a little longer?”
“It feels pretty real to me.”
“That’s because it was at one point,” I lay back on the grass.
“The first second you were so ready to leave,” she began with a giggle,” the next you're the only one who wants to stay.”
I exhaled loudly, knowing what waking up would mean,”but,” Alice continued,” I guess I could stick around...”
“You would do tha-,” a sharp pain embedded itself into my side, my eyes flashed open slicing through the darkness, into the ‘punctured canvas’ where so many more stars flashed and blinked without light pollution.
I sat up with a start looking for the reason for the stitch of pain in my side, to find a rock that I rolled onto. I groaned looking at my watch to five o’clock A.M.
I pulled myself up to my feet, I always could justify get up early during camping, besides I would not sleep anymore anyway. I stretched and pulled open my sachal, looking for the jerky we had. Assessing the jerky I decided I would eat when I finished hunting. Besides, Macie would probably enjoy eating when she got up.
Trotting down the mountain into the abandoned streets I strung my bow. Most of the animal life hid here now, after the monsters attacked. People thought the undoing of humankind would be the zombie apocalypse would be the end of human civilization but one day an army of things attacked and scattered us.
I dropped off a small ledge rolling to a stop in front of an orchard, glancing over the fence to see if there were any deer looking for an early morning snack. One was not a problem, if there were two the second it would run away, but five with a stag...
I drew back the string and aimed... touch to the left and, thump, a deer reared and charged bumping into a tree falling to the ground, the stag gave a solid stare up to the roof where I sat. It gave a snarl, do stags do that? Then ran off, with the rest of the herd. I exhaled, jumping to the fence then the ground.
I prodded the deer and it didn't budge, so I half carried half dragged it into the nearest house and started doing my pathetic job of gutting it. I must admit I was getting better. I shoved the hide in my extra satchel and started some makeshift jerky in the oven, looking at my watch verified my guess within mere minutes, seven thirty three.
Something crashed down the stairs, I strung my bow and slowly crept down. At the bottom was a door which led to a basement. I notched an arrow and pushed the door open but before I could pull back an arrow some medal thing came flying at my face that I assumed was pretty hard so I ducked just in time, I stood straight up knowing something was off. The common monster was nowhere close to intelligent enough to pull a stunt like that. I looked back to find another chair flying at my face. This time I caught it hurting my hand but I then had enough time to see a girl about my age throwing another chair at my face. I swatted it away with the one I had in my hand.
I had to do something or she would just keep going,“Would you stop that?”
“Wha?”
“Yes I appreciate not getting a chair thrown at my face,” I responded somewhat sarcastically. Now that I could actually take in the room, small and hardly furnished probably because all the furniture was thrown at my face. The girl was say fifteen or sixteen, and was a complete disaster. She probably had not had a shower in three weeks, no make that a month, since it had been a month since the monsters attacked.
“Now hold up,” she said,” who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
She seemed slightly confused and really mad,”how much food do you have left?”
“I asked you a question”
“I have a bow, and a notched arrow”
Her face screwed up into angry contemplation,”three days worth.”
“There is a resistance,” I started,”I am one of the organizers... I am also heeded that way if you would like to come, now why I am here is I am cooking about six months of food in your oven,”
“Uhh, how far is it?”
“I, uhh... about thirty miles..ish?
“How safe is it?”
“Well considering your chair throwing skills it's pretty safe,” I said with a smirk.
She gave a frustrated glare... maybe this was not the right time for a joke,”I can’t guarantee anything but it is pretty safe.”
“Jack, Lucy,” she said, as two young children, maybe five and nine emerged from a door that led to under the stairs,”I need you to guarantee their safety.”
“They have my sword as they should need or even want it, and I can guarantee that they will be the first to get it,”I responded
She gave me an uncertain look,”you don't have a sword.”
Duh that’s what I was forgetting, my sword! Well that was fine I had a bow,”I have one- well like three back at camp but I have my bow now.”
She looked at her sibling's uncertainty,”what do you think?”
“We don’t have much food left,” the young girl ‘lucy’ said.
“Ya,” the boy said,”and it would be a really cool a a what’s that word... que no, well it would be awesome!”
“An adventure? A quest,” the little lucy asked like the older sister she was.
“Yea,” the boy,Jack pumped his fist like there was no sarcasm in her tone at all.
“Ok I am leaving in two hours I’ll let you guys talk it over and get packed-if that’s what you decide,” I said turning and walking up the stairs,” oh if you have swords and knives they tend to be a little more effective.”
I packed some jerky in the spare satchel and then in the two new ones I made with the hide of the deer. The trio I left down stairs allowed me to use their sewing machine to make things in preparation for the long journey ahead of us. Well ‘a long bening’ like four days because of the youngsters. We packed all the water we could and headed out making our way towards the spot I left macie, she was getting up when we got there.
“You really need to tell me when you go hunting,” she said, seeming a little frustrated but too tired to really do anything about it,”Who is this? Well who are they.”
“Macie this is Jack, Lucy, and Grumpy,” that's what I called the girl my age because she refused to give me her name, then got mad at her younger brother because he told me she was Rebecka, so I still call her Grumpy.
I sat down and pulled out a strip of fresh jerky out of a bag. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful besides a couple squabbles against goblin like creatures. I used my long sword to dispatch them quickly without much fuss.
I lay against a tree keeping watch, to my back was a small valley, I pulled a small out a small picture. I was sitting at the base of a tree smiling lightly, then Erich was hanging upside down, his messy brown hair hanging loosely form his messy hair cut with a goofy grin, Alice standing leaning against the tree here shoulder length dirty blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail... at least she was safe. Belladonna, or Bella sitting on the grass lounged out relaxed, who knew where she was.
“Who is that,” a small voice said, totally catching me off guard.
I looked back to see Lucy and Jack looking at the picture, pointing to some random place, nearly impossible to tell,”come here,” I guesterd a hand to bring them over here, they walked over somewhat nervously.
“This”, gesturing to the entire picture,”are the founders of the resistance. That right there is Bella, she disappeared, we don't know where she is,”there was something emotional about saying it out loud, but I refuse to call her dead... after all the movies,” That is alice, she is safe in the resistance base.”
“Who is that,” Lucy asked pointing at Erich,”who is the goofy guy hanging from the tree?”
“That is, Erich,” I responded,” those two liked each other,” gesturing to Alice and Erich.
“What happened to him?”
I took a deep breath,” here sit down and let me tell you a story... Once when we were in high school,” That seemed like an eternity already,” we were out eating lunch outside, that is when the monsters attacked. I told them to get inside, I on the other hand was a trained fighter... I yanked on a loose branch of the neerist tree and started fighting them, soon I had a sword from a fallen goblin. But there were so many and I was getting overwhelmed, I knew it was the end of me but I keeped fighting for my friends, soon I was cornered and fighting desperately when suddenly the door swung open, smashing in the faces of some goblins, Erich charged out with a desk and started smashing them with me.” I took a long deep breath,” we together drove back the monsters, we both were swinging two swords and soon we had won the fight. Or that’s what we thought.”
“What happened,” Jack asked intrigued.
“There was a monster as tall as the building, we fought it with all our might, but in the end Erich got hit with the club, I switched from calculating too deadly instincts, I was pretty battered by the end but the monster was... much worse, but when I finished with the monster I rushed to Erich but he was too weak to move on, he told me to leave, to make a safe place where people could be protected by skills like that, to give humanity a chance...”
“Wow,” Jack exclaimed,” is that a real story?”
“Of course it is dummy,”Lucy petronized,“it is his story.”
There was a shift back at camp so I glanced back to see grumpy in a more awkward position, she had been listening, I smirked at myself.
I string my bow and knock and arrow, pulling back aiming... right, down, left... fire! The arrow shot out at a lowly snake like monster with arms, and well it pinned its tail to the ground. I drew my fine molded sword given to me from my last birthday out. It’s heat and pressure tempered extra hardened alloy of several strong medals, glistend white in the morning sun, its 47’’ was perfect for me.
I jumped out of my cover and the others were hiding behind me, I charged pulling a parry and a slash splitting skin on it’s arm. It howled in pain swinging at me, I jumped back bouncing back with incredible speed slashing through its body blocking its second sword and quickly dispatched it.
We moved to a rode up one of the many canyons, and hurried up, we made great time getting to the base in two and a half days. I knocked two then three times and within seconds the door shot open seconds later. With Alice panting and red her eyes brightened then darkened with concern,“where is Erich.”
My eyes fell,”I promised him I would get as many people to the safe haven as possible... so I am leaving to collect whoever I can.”
She shot forward pulling me into a tight hug, a tear rolled down her face,”be careful we are all that is left, we have each other.”
I hugged her back lightly, my intentions were to get people here then draw attention to a spot and kill the filth that took my family and my friends,”careful is relative, so I will be care full,” I pulled out of the hug,” oh this is Lucy, Jack, and -”
“Rebecka,” she said,”it’s Rebecka,”she winked at me.
I turned back and started down the path losing track of time until I snapped out of my trance there was a human standing on the road... I thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of me on the street, smiling at me. No my eyes were playing a wicked ilusion, I rubbed them... no he was there,”Erich!”
We walked to each other, why were we just walking? I don’t know but-
“Hey man,” he held out his hand and we did our man hand shake thing fast as ever.
“How?”
“Well I was laying there just about to die when I remembered your strength, I wasn’t about to die in the place of someone who can bench press half as much.” he gave his strong comforting laugh.
“Now I have a feeling you were gona do something stupid,”he said with his older brother nudge. He always had the sense for that sorta thing.
“Let’s get to the hideout, then we can make a plan from there.”
“Ok... it is the sunshine inn lodge.”
“Figured you would pick that one,” he said with his grin.
We walked up the path to fall upon a group of several goblins and things larger and stronger... Maybe orks? One in the back blew a large horn and they charged, I drew my sword, Erich had two but mine was much heavier and longer, we rushed them and fought with centergy, they never stood a chance... until ogers made their way down the mountain, two of them, duh the horn.
My mind flashed back to the first time I lost a friend, I was not going to lose him, or any one! I gave a roar and charged dispatching the first one with efficient speed, when I got smashed in the side, I went flying smashing into a nearby tree. I could not make a sound, my everything hurt. I opened my eyes, waiting it was still black, slowly getting lighter, I stood feeling impossibly light.
A humanoide approached, she had white armor and long blond hair, her smile would change and one's evil intentions. Come with me, she beckons, her wings glowing behind her. I took one step.”no.”
She smiled a light hearted smile, your troubles are over, come with me.
“No...”I could not... I had friends I could not leave! My hand fisted, wait... it would not close, I looked down and lifted my hand, I felt the weight of my sword,”I have something I need to do.”
“If you do that you will not be able to return until you have earned your way again,”her face in a morning frown.
“How do I do it?”
“Keep doing what you are,” she turned around.”good luck young hero.”
I gripped the sword, lifting it and swinging it. Everything slowly faded into a black and grey mist. I felt several dark spots pushing repulsing me, I just knew these were the monsters, then a light a red white blue light. That was my friend, he was angry. I sprinted towards the darkness and slashed the darkness whent green which I felt ment really confused. Green from my friend too but I could not worry about that. I started slashing and cutting down the darkness, I felt mass and when I hit it, a shrill clang of medal resounded off. I rushed and slashed the large monster most repulsing of all.
“A flying sword?”
That was Erich, I could feel the sound from him.
“Erich,” I said,”it’s me!
His aura gave off a slight green but a heavy yellow. Exhausted I fell to the ground sticking my sword in the ground.
“Dude! You're a sword!”
“No I... wait, put my sword in my hand please,” at this point I just was going off feeling, after a second I felt a shell I was being pushed away. I pushed back and somehow managed to get into the shell, a warmth flooded over me but was quickly replaced by sheer pain in every part of my body.
Opening my eyes I saw an expanse of colors, I could see shapes, but wait I could see behind me as well, I stood up and saw a bright green and yellow emanating from the form of Erich.
“How are you?”
“Ow’
Let's get you back to the lodge.
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9,962
|
Write about a character who keeps ending up in the same place.
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Ten for you, Twenty-six for me
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The metro I take to work, the polluted air of Mumbai, the faces I smile at and the faces that don’t smile back— they are stained a coffee-brown. The same color as old pages and medieval fables. The lives lived in abandoned childhood homes. Memories turned cinder. The air inside the all-women compartment threatens to asphyxiate me; smoke whisks into oxygen as cigarettes burn against already scorched fingers of these strangely familiar women surrounding me. The word crowded has no meaning here. An open seat is rare and silence a chimera. The two women across from me wear saris— which were once bright red but are now a notably washed-out maroon— and mismatched bangles. A set of emerald greens with a single silver bangle adorns the taller woman's bony hands. Similarly, the other woman also wears a set of silvers with a lone green bangle. I wonder if it was a gift to each other or just an impulsive today thing. Either way, they make a beautiful couple. An older lady eyes them before letting out a nasty tch in their direction. They seem to take notice, shift in their seats, whisper nervously amongst themselves, then lean forward to spread their knees apart under the layered cloth of their sari. As if manspreading to exude dominance. I’d call this— this boldness of these middle-aged women, their air of defiance— progress, but we are sitting in an all-women’s compartment, and they did have to imitate men to remind others of their rights. I stare out the moving metro from the big window, partly painted off-white by birds, as I core the mango my daughter handed me before I left for work. The inertia of the moving train bleeds into reality and suddenly I’m under the illusion that the window is a theatre screen, the memory of you a movie I must rewatch over and over, the idea of us trapped in the past forever. Do you remember those days? Your grandpa had planted that lofty mango tree, our favorite hang-out spot as sixteen-year-olds, in your backyard. And we had nurtured it against May heatwaves and July rainstorms and arid Decembers. In return, its scent of sweet fruit and terpene whiff never fizzled from your home. Like a canopy of orange aroma sheltering us from sniffing the acrid disapproval of the then less forgiving society. The last day we saw each other, we’d taken our time climbing the tree. Then, once we’d heaved ourselves atop the sturdiest branch, we’d begun bargaining. “Fifteen?”“Pfft,” you’d snickered at my request, apparently absurd to you. “Oh, come on.” I’d flailed my arms a couple times in an attempt to seem more distraught than I actually was. “Fifteen’s reasonable.”“Ten.”“You’re joking.” This time, I’d only gaped at you— half incredulous and half mesmerized by your amber eyes, the lightest I’d ever seen them, in the sun. Through the dense cover of leaves and fruit and twigs and an occasional bird’s nest, the sunlight had swayed across your adolescent face, sometimes landing on your cheeks a little too long to avoid a rosy tint to them. “Dead serious,” you’d answered. “Ten mangoes for you, twenty-five— oh wait, twenty-six— for me.”“That’s unfair.” At this point, I was genuinely upset. “I picked most mangoes. You couldn’t even manage to climb to where the bigger ones were.”“Yeah, but this is my tree.”“It’s my labor.”“Nine.”“You’re being mean.”“Mean?” Oh right. You hated being called mean or rude or selfish, all words your mom called you as a part of her victim complex. But at least that was the worst of your problems. “Mean. Fine. What do you need all these mangoes for? Don’t even have a family to share it with.”I know you had regretted it as soon as you’d said it because you’d blurted out an I’m so so sorry and an I didn’t mean it all in the same breath. Your jaw had slacked, and nose released from a slimming grip as your attention drifted from your insecurities to concern for me, our friendship, and the one other thing either of us barely ever mentioned. I couldn’t tell you then how your words hadn’t hurt me one bit. How I’d expected worse because you were the type to bite back, especially with that short temper of yours.So, I’d averted my gaze, let my smile sink to a frown, slumped my shoulders. You’d immediately cupped my face with your dainty fingers, a warm palm pressing against my cheeks. That is my clearest memory of you. You’d forced me to look at you: amber eyes with flecks of green and black, a nose that had no curve but descended with a constant slope right from where it began, an inch wide scar South-West of your left eyebrow. You’d cut your hair up to your ears that summer. That is why, every time a woman with hair that short walks by me, I turn to look. Always searching for traces of you in strange faces. Some days like today, I bring a photograph of you along, tucked deep in the front folder of my work bag. I fish it out, place it on my lap, and stare. The truth is, and I felt bad about this till I learnt to forgive myself, the you I remember looks nothing like the girl in the photograph. Your image in my mind is much more mature, perhaps to make up for the fact that I’ve never met the adult you and probably never will. Back then, you’d asked me about us only once: that very day I’d tricked you into consoling me, loving me unknowingly, your hands moving from caressing my face to squeezing my hands. “Can we hold hands in school?” “What do you mean? We do hold hands in school,” I’d said. Under the desk, in blazer pockets, on the terrace. “No.” You’d turned my hands around, palms facing up. Your fingers had traced my palm lines as if you’d find an answer through them. “In front of everyone. On the table. Walking down the corridor. In front of everyone.”“They’ll know.” I’d hesitated, but said it anyway, “They’ll know we like each other.”You’d looked at me heartbroken— and I was too, believe me— and whispered, “What’s wrong with that?”I’d chosen to pretend to not have heard it. I was too cowardly back then and honestly, if I could go back and make the decision all over again, I’m not too sure I’d be any braver. I was terrified of being buried a scandal, of you being buried a scandal. So, I ran away from us. I’m out of time now, at least for today. The metro comes to a stop, and the world outside the window grows dark inside the station. I don’t stand till the couple in front of me do. The taller one pokes her hand out from behind her for the shorter girl to grab before they dive into the swarm of people pushing to get into or out of the compartment. Then there are those that are stuck in the middle, stumbling to wherever the current takes them. I stalk the petite girl, her hair short enough to be blown in every direction by the hot city air, to the chai stand. Her tote, a quaint margin of blue flowers embroidered years ago, looks like the bag we used to collect the mangoes in. Our little bag of happiness. While they order themselves a chai, I drop the photograph of you, sitting on a branch of our mango tree in your basketball shorts and oversized tee, into her tote bag and walk away.I’m trying to forget you. Trying not to return every day to the memory of a girl I can’t even remember right. My regret sits quiet in me: it doesn’t bubble up to rage or impulsivity or even tears. But it does demand reparation. And so, I hope she can give you much more than I could: a bangle for keeps, a hand to hold on to, a bold declaration than a weak reassurance of love. I’m sorry that you couldn’t recognize me but do remember me. Behind the photograph, you’ll find scribbled the conversation we had every day, our mundane arguments, and silly bargaining: Ten for you, twenty-six for me.
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11,919
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Write a story featuring an element of time-travel or anachronism.
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The Bloody Regret
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Five years had passed.
The alarm clock rung with the humming of the birds outside, and Larry still woke up with the unforgettable nightmare he had for five years.
In the nightmare, an emaciated and short boy stood in the gym feebly with a long scout rope in his hands. Larry clearly know that he was trying to save the boy, but the boy always vanished without a trace when Larry ran across him.
And then, he woke up and realized that he was panting breathlessly as if he was at the scene in person.
No one had ever asked about his feelings after the nightmare. He organized two reasons for the phenomenon: first, he was already a senior at college now; second, he knew that he didn’t deserve anyone’s care.
The photo with two boys smiling together still laid under his bed. Not being moved for almost five years, it had already been covered with thick dust.
Notes were written down in the notebooks as if the writers were robots for taking notes. As one of the robots set in the classroom, Larry couldn’t move out any place for him just to guess how much time was left until class dismissed.
The dull ring of the last bell slightly came in. As the bald economics professor strode out of the classroom, everyone began to pack their bags and leave for the wondrous and dazzling night. Walking straightforwardly out of the campus, Larry headed for the bar far away from the college with insanely quick steps to avoid overthinking.
Ralph, standing at the bar counter rolling the Bloody Mary, habitually let out a yell when seeing the patron walking toward his favorite seat.
“Hey, Ralph,” said Larry. “Nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you!” Ralph continued rolling the drink and recalled the patron’s unchanging order. “Bloody Mary, right?”
“On the rocks,” Larry put his backpack onto the stool next to him and said.
Ralph tipped some ice cubes into the drink, put it on Larry’s seat, patted his own overweighted belly and laughed, “Never seen such a customer who’s so young but comes here every day just for a Bloody Mary on the rocks.”
Larry nodded. It was a promise he used to keep, but he remembered that it was him who cruelly broke it first.
He put the glass cup onto his lips and tipped a bit of the cocktail into his mouth. The spicy feeling didn’t change; it was still the familiar one he usually tried.
“Hey, young one,” Ralph called out while Larry was about to swallow the drink in his mouth. “To be earnest, I’m quite curious about the reason why you come here and have the Bloody Mary every day. Like... have you kept a promise with any important person in your life?”
Larry panicked in an instant, almost spilling out his drink. He was astonished by the fact that Ralph could clearly detect his mind even if he had never shared anything related to his darkest past.
A sense of fear and anxiety burned from the depth of his body to the top of his brain. He had the feeling of being stuck in the water without any fresh air——the more vivid feeling was that it was just like being tied with a scout rope at his neck.
“Do you regret anything? If the answer is ‘yes,’ I can surely give you my method to make up for the error.”
Ralph’s voice swung around his ears at the bar, on his way home, and even in his bedroom.
Unexpectedly, he was prompted to take out the photo covered with dust. Gently wiping off the thick dust, he finally could see his seventeen-year-old self, and the feeble boy next to him.
Both of the boys were smiling in the picture. Larry looked at the feeble boy first, and then he looked at the younger him. Out of the blue, he felt the Bloody Mary he just drank ran up from his stomach to his throat. The disgusting feeling he underwent after seeing himself in the photo almost made him vomit. Trying to hide away from the feeling, he threw the photo away toward a random nook and strode to the toilet to vomit. The spicy vomitus had him undergo the painful mood he just experienced once again.
The next day after class, he didn’t go to the bar. He was afraid that he would be forced to reminisce about all those scandalous stories during his high school days when he met Ralph.
Being adapted to his usual schedule of going back late, he spent almost the whole evening wandering in the streets surrounded by the noisy cars, the polluted air, and his contaminated mind. Finally, he could head back to his bedroom when it was about 11 in the night, which is his usual time going back.
That night, he didn’t look for the photo. However, he suffered from insomnia. More into the night, he could even see the scene of a boy hanging himself. He felt like he was in the usual nightmare.
The familiar feeble boy was there, with a scout rope in his hands. Larry tried to run toward him. Different from the nightmare itself, this time, the boy didn’t vanish. The boy stepped onto a stool, tied the rope onto a waling on the ceiling of the school storage, and then he hung himself without Larry’s notice. Larry tried to save him, but his whole body was frozen at the place where he stood at. He lost the ability to move or even call the boy’s name to ask him not to hang himself.
And then, some fragments of what occurred after that slightly came back into his memory. The boy passed away, and Larry began to live with cumbersome regret. Larry regret for not only not saving him on time, but also didn’t protect him from the harm he had suffered before hanging himself. They once promised to go to a distant bar and drink the Bloody Mary together after going to college, but it was broke now. Being overwhelmed with regret, Larry kept considering himself the selfish and the brutal one to break the promise with the boy. In an effort to alleviate the painfulness, he began to show up at the bar alone after school just for a glass of Bloody Mary on the rocks, and it was also the drink that gave him the opportunity to acquaint himself with Ralph, the bartender.
Larry sat up from his bed, and then he stood up with the shimmering moonlight gazing into the room. It was 4 a.m., which was the usual time he woke up with fear on account of the nightmare. Having the memory pieces gathered up together, he finally had the courage to face the deepest and the darkest secret he had kept for years.
He inhaled deeply and gently moved away the shelves around his bed, looking for the photo he once ran away from. He had no idea where he had thrown the photo toward, so it took him some time to find it.
Finally, he found the photo under the small plastic wardrobe. He bent down his whole body and picked it up, looking at the feeble boy, and then he turned to the back side of the photo and saw two names written on it.
“Best friends, Larry & Dan”
The feeble boy was Dan, his departed best friend during his high school days.
Tears of reminiscing about his old friend rolled down his cheeks as he had expected. The tears contained not only the shining memories they had created together but also the regret that he didn’t speak out for Dan when Dan was bullied.
The reason why Dan was bullied, Larry looked back, was too funny to believe. Those people in his age bullied Dan just because of his divorced family. Larry remembered that they always called Dan names such as “the kid whose mother didn’t want him.” Dan always came to Larry to complain about the bullies, but the only thing Larry did was telling him that everything would pass.
The bullies then became more and more coarse toward Dan. They put garbage in his cabinet, hid his homework assignments, and even secretly threw his lunch away to the trash bin in front of him. And then, it led to the result that Dan hung himself because he couldn’t bear the pain from the bullies anymore. However, Larry had never stood up against the bullies, while Dan still naively trusted him.
Ralph’s words came back into his mind.
“Do you regret anything? If the answer is ‘yes,’ I can surely give you my method to make up for the error.”
Yes. Larry thought. He regret that he didn’t protect Dan at the right timing.
Not caring about how late the time was, he got himself dressed in his casual clothes and headed to the bar to meet Ralph. He had to tell Ralph about the story, he thought with full determination.
The board with opening hours of the bar was taken away. Larry was disappointed at first, but thinking about Ralph lived upstairs from the bar, he was relieved that he might see him even though the bar wasn’t open.
He pushed the door which was the entrance to the bar, realizing that the door wasn’t locked. Walking into the bar, he couldn’t believe his eyes that Ralph was sitting at the bar counter.
“Welcome back, young man,” Ralph smiled at him.
Larry had his determination ready and plucked up all of his courage to tell Ralph the whole story between Dan and him. Ralph continued to nod constantly, and his smile didn’t fade away.
The moment when Larry finished the story, Ralph rolled a new cup of cocktail. “I got it,” he said. “Now I’m rolling a special cocktail. You can definitely make up for your past mistake after drinking it.”
Larry was fascinated. Ralph added some water, a bit of Vodka, and some pineapple juice into the glass. After the rolling of the cocktail, he put a cherry at the side of the cup. “Remember to eat the cherry first,” said Ralph after serving the drink to Larry.
Larry nodded, ate the cherry, and then gulped the whole glass of cocktail.
Ralph smiled, feeling proud of his perfect work.
The cherry could send Larry back to his high school days, while the cocktail could give him more courage to do the things he didn’t do due to his formerly cowards personality.
The moment when Larry opened his eyes, he was in the cafeteria of the high school he stayed.
“Wait for me here,” said Dan. “I’ll be in the restroom for a while.”
Larry nodded. He had the memory that it was the day when the bullies threw Dan’s lunch away. He remembered that Dan forgot his lunch box in his locker, and a mean girl would open it and threw his lunch away in the girls’ restroom.
He rushed back to Dan’s locker and opened it. There were Dan’s schoolbag, some books, his lunch box, and a lot of garbage.
Larry took out the lunch box, hid it in his jacket, and cleaned up Dan’s locker as fast as he could. After claiming that his locker was clean, he rushed to the place where Dan called Larry to wait for him.
“Where have you been?” Dan cried with worry when he saw him coming back.
“You’ve forgot your lunch box,” said Larry. “I also cleaned your locker; next time I’m gonna beat those bastards up if I see them messing up with you again.”
Being overwhelmed with overflowing excitement, Dan patted Larry’s shoulder with so much happiness they both had never imagined.
“Let’s go. We should get some seats now.”
The next morning, the assignment the math teacher asked them to finish should be handed out, and it was the most important one that Dan’s got hidden and forced him to get a detention after school.
Larry, as usual, walked to school alone and was about to meet up with Dan, who always arrived at school earlier than him.
After putting his schoolbag into his locker, Larry saw a tall guy opening Dan’s locker. That guy was quite familiar, thought Larry. He should be the one hiding Dan’s assignment!
Larry went straight into the tall guy’s eyes, took a deep breath and said, “What’s the matter messing up with my friend’s locker?”
“None of your business,” said the guy, and then he began to insult Larry. “I remember you haven’t acted as a superhero like this, right, kiddo?”
“I’m not acting as a superhero,” said Larry. Suddenly, he found out he virtually had nothing to say——
The photo he took with Dan flashed into his mind. “Best friends, Larry & Dan...” He thought of everything a “best friend” should do. Maybe stating that he was Dan’s best friend?
“I’m Dan’s best friend, and it’s also none of your business that I want to care about him and help him out when he’s in trouble. Hence, leave this place or I’m gonna sue you.”
Larry panted after saying such a long sentence. The guy found the act boring and left Dan’s locker. That day, Dan smoothly handed out his assignments and didn’t get any detention.
Finding his plan going on with a smooth pace, Larry began to continue his acts of speaking out for Dan. There were also times that he faced difficulties communicating with the bullies, but he still managed to have some methods to protect Dan, and there were more students agreeing with the fact that they shouldn’t be so brutal to Dan just because he was a part of a single family.
Finally, it was the day which once caused Larry’s nightmare. He decided to ask Dan to go to school with him.
The moment he met Dan, he realized that Dan had gained much more happiness and confidence than he thought.
Larry finally could confidently say that the plan of time-traveling with Ralph to save Dan was a total success. In the end, he could have a clear conscience. Eventually, they could graduate together and have two glasses of Bloody Mary after class during college.
He had to thank Ralph, he thought. Luckily, he still remembered where Ralph’s bar was at.
The first day of their college days, Larry took Dan to Ralph’s bar. Ralph, same as the one before the time-travel occurred, still talked with the boys as if they were his old friends. Dan ordered two glasses of Bloody Mary, and Larry stated that his should be on the rocks.
The moment when Ralph served the drink to him, Larry went to his ears and whispered, “Thank you, Ralph, for helping me save my best friend.”
Ralph laughed. “You have no need to thank me,” he whispered, “It’s you who plucked up the courage first.”
Dan, despite being unclear about what went on, still laughed with Ralph’s laughter. Having a naive friend was such a fortunate, thought Larry.
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14,097
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Write about an animal species that doesn't exist in real life — an alien, new discovery, imaginary creature — it's up to your interpretation!
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The usual knight in shining armour story
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The chainmail suit was starting to itch. Badly. The long trudge had started at dawn and now here I was, sweating buckets as the sun blazed over my head. I pondered my dilemma. In one hand I carried a giant wooden shield, in the other my sword. I inspected the glinting sword carefully. Sharpened steel seemed like the perfect back scratcher. Sighing, I decided against it. The soft grass under my feet gave way to hard stone. It finally pulled me out of my thoughts. The mountain before me was small compared to most and was a deep black. It had been armed with sharp and jagged boulders protruding every which way. Halfway up was the mouth of a cave. A thin, winding road (more of a ledge really) was snaking its way up to the entrance. I looked up at the cave, it’s mouth waiting hungrily for me. I laughed to myself quietly. It wasn’t the cave that wanted to eat me. It was the giant fire breathing reptile that did. I was quite proud of myself for that remark, then I remembered the terrifying stories I heard about dragons. They described forked tongues and bloody sharp teeth. I gulped, this one could probably swallow me whole.The noise it had been making was keeping my village awake all night. It had been going on for weeks. The bone-shaking roaring, backed by a symphony of the screaming from the nearby houses was not exactly my kind of lullaby. I was the only knight available at the time (the other’s had disappeared mysteriously when the roaring started) so the village told me to “slay the dragon”. Though, I’m pretty sure they sent me to “be its lunch”. I finally traced the path up to the den. I stood at the cave mouth, it’s size gave me a feeling of insignificance. The small amount of confidence I had wilted and died. Moping, I dragged myself into the cave. It was almost entirely bare inside. The sun brightened the middle of the space but near the edges, it was completely black. The floor was smooth stone and I could just make out boulders hidden near the edge of the opaque shadows.“Mr.Dragon? Can you hear me?” No answer. “Mr. Dragon, I just want to let you know I need to slay you. If you would cooperate that would be great.” The room was engulfed in dead silence. I decided to wait ten minutes before leaving, just in case. After five, I remembered that I didn’t want to get eaten. So slowly, just in case the dragon was asleep, I backed away toward the entrance. I turned around when I was near my escape, preparing to run out of the cave, when I noticed something scaly wiggling near my foot. I suffer from Ophidiophobia or fear of snakes, so screaming like an old woman who just saw a mouse, I started to beat it to a pulp with my iron covered shoe. I immediately realized that it was a mistake. My biggest hint was probably the roar of pain that left me vibrating even after it had stopped. A long scally neck turned and I realized that most of those hidden boulders had been my fire breathing nightmare. Looking down I saw that it wasn’t a snake that I had tried to turn into ground beef but the dragon's tail. Great, I thought sarcastically. It stared down at me. It's yellow eyes hardened in anger. It’s ginormous muscled body was covered in sleek black scales.“Who goes there?” The dragon demanded threateningly.“Ummm.....me?” “What is your name?” The dragon said, asking the generic question in a low rumbling voice. “Lunch... I mean Lance!” “Why have you come here?” He asked. I mumbled my answer. He looked at me skeptically “What?” “I’m here to slay you” I repeated, just loud enough for him to hear me. He looked at me the same way most people did. One of his invisible eyebrows were lifted and a look of confusion crossed his face. Probably wondering if I had been dropped on my head as a kid, I thought.“Ha!” The dragon continued to let out a bellowing laugh. “You? Defeat me?” I couldn’t understand it. In every story I’d heard, the dragons always said the same thing. The reptiles probably all read the same How to be evil for dimwits. Rule 1: Be overly confidentRule 2: Kidnap a princess - You’ll get at least two knights for dessert.Rule 3: Forget hygiene - If your looks don’t kill them, your odour willPro Tip: An evil cackle goes a long way.The dragon turned serious, almost pitying. “You know this means you're not getting out of here alive.” “I know,” I answered as my shoulders slumped. “You’ll turn me into a turkey dinner” I didn’t dwell on that thought for long. I started to hop around him, slashing the air with my sword. “En garde!” I yelled racing towards him. With the swish of his tail, I was slashed to the ground. Getting off my now bruised behind I looked at the dragon. He was barely interested in the fight. I was kind of insulted. Three butt bruises later I thought that a plan would probably help my odds. After a few seconds of quick thinking, my head started to hurt and I had a pretty good idea. “Please don’t kill me, Mr. Dragon! I never really wanted to slay you. I was just doing what I was told!” Begging wasn’t exactly a knightly thing to do but it was that or have one of my rib bones become a toothpick for after his meal. I explained to him the whole reason I was here. I told him about the sleepless nights and the sleepless knight. When I finished he responded, “You do realize that you could have just asked me to leave.” I looked at him shocked and perplexed. Was it that easy? It could be finished just like that? I stood up and looked up at him with the hope of a young child. “Really?” I asked.“Of course not!” He growled, lifting me from the ground. “I knew it” I muttered as he ate me whole.
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12,602
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Start or end your story with someone saying “You’ll never know unless you try.”
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You’ll never know unless you try.
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“You’ll never know unless you try.”Her eyes were as blue as the ocean behind her. As I stared into them I half wondered if someone was playing a trick on me. Like if someone had put a cardboard image of Sarah in front of me, with the eyeholes cut out. The waves rolled in over my toes, it felt nice but did little to wash my doubts away. As the water retracted all that left was the ground beneath my feet. ”What do you say?”, she continued, excited and sparkly. ”You should just go for it! It will be fun!”Her smile hovered above me like piano keys. I looked over at the diving board platform floating not far from where we lay. It wasn' ́t too big I thought. I had jumped off cliffs taller than that. Many times however, I almost chickened out but forced myself to take the plunge due to friends and others around cheering me on. I wasn’t a particularly brave man. But I wanted to be. The diving board out there seemed like the perfect way to show off. Simple, not too high, no danger. ”Look”, I said. ”There are no people there. Perhaps it’s closed or something.” Sarah didn’t look away. Her hand on my chest felt heavy and I could feel every grain of sand against my skin as her fingers moved. The sun was high in the sky, making her hair seem on fire. She laughed.”Why would they close it? Other people have been out there all day. Jumping and having fun. Besides, you don' ́t like it when there’s too many people around. Now is the perfect time to do it!”Although I knew she didn’t mean it like that, it felt like a dig. I really didn’t care much for people. Didn’t want to share space and avoided large gatherings. She was right. But it made me feel boring. The kind of feeling that could force me to jump off a cliff.The ocean was so calm the sky merged with the surface, making the diving platform seem suspended in mid air. Only one storey, a wide white staircase leading up to the platform about seven or eight feet high. The pontoon itself seemed too small to carry the structure. It was weird it didn' ́t topple over. But what did I know about physics anyway?A splash of water snapped me out of my quandary. Sarahs laugh poured over me as the salt burned my eyes.”Hey mister! Where you off to? If you’re having heatstroke you should cool yourself off before you self combust!”I looked at her. Strands of wet hair with trembling droplets framed her face. Her skin had a rosy sheen from the heat and her freckles had multiplied in the sun. Though her eyes looked like pools of ice, they had warmth in them and her smile made my heart swell. She really was beautiful.I had met Sarah at the hotel we worked at. She was teaching aerobics to people who only did it once. I was an entertainer. Odd job for someone who doesn’t really enjoy the company of others huh? But I was good at it, and the fact that I was made me enjoy it. Sarah was sprightly and fun. Always cheery and ready for anything. It was hard not to become infatuated with her at first sight, and even harder to let her go as she passed. Me, I was the opposite. Sure, I could be charming, in song or between sets. But that was mainly due to years of trial and error, and if you saw me three times, you’d hear the same lines at least twice. I was also shy and as before mentioned, not really good with crowds. So when the others went out, I mostly stayed in. Reading about guys I wished I could be.Sarah also used to have a boyfriend. Andrew. A self proclaimed alpha with slicked back hair and frosted tips, whitened teeth and abs. I didn’t like him. I don’t think anyone really did. But confidence can sell most things. No matter how hollow they are. Or how short...As it turned out, me and Sarah became friends. Unlikely, but due to location and happen chance. We were all miles away from our families, cooped up on a tropical island in a luxury resort. Hearing our native tongue created a sense of security and home that bonded us all close together.Many times, after a drunken night out, when emotions overflowed after a fight or missing her family, Sarah would knock on my door late at night and I would console her until we both fell asleep. Her tears still wet on my chest.Perhaps I was naive to think it would stay like that. And perhaps I should have said no when I felt her edging her head closer to mine one of those nights. But I didn’t. And the kiss that followed left me wanting.Andrew left a couple of weeks after that. I don’t know if they broke up then or later or before. I didn’t care. Me and Sarah lived in a bubble where the days were always warm and the weather always nice. Should it rain, the rain would only be romantic patter on the window as we lay together in bliss.But the season was winding down and soon we would be leaving for home. To seasons that would be impossible to ignore.Sarah sat up next to me and took a sip of water. Over her shoulder I could see other people on the beach, couples, families, children. I couldn' ́t make out their faces. Maybe they were looking at us too. Seeing a young couple in love. ”Look.”, Sarah said. ”You wouldn't even have to swim to get there now.” She pointed out to sea. The diving platform had drifted closer. It looked taller than before.I reached out and touched the small of her back. Her wet hair felt cool against my skin. I didn’t understand it. She was exciting, fun and gorgeous. Why was she with me? I didn’t drink. I didn’t plan parties. I didn’t attend birthdays or social events. Was it just because I was safe? Or was it something else. Sharing a blanket with her on the beach used to feel like walking the red carpet on the premier of my own movie. People staring, envious of me for being the guy who got to be with her. Wondering what hidden gems I kept from them. I wanted to be that guy. I just wasn’t sure I was.”If I’m going in the water are you coming with me?”I opened my eyes just as a shadow passed over me. She was standing now.Silhouetted against the blue sky, a golden lining around her head.I sat up on my elbows.”Can’t we just stay here? Like this. I feel so good right now.” My voice was dry like paper.Sarah turned and the sun hit me in the eyes, blinding me. ”I think you should try the tower”, she said. ”It’s right here.”I blinked and put my arm up to shield me from the light. And I saw it. The diving platform floating right in front of us, not even two feet from the beach.I sat up and pulled my feet towards me, away from a gripping wave.”Come!” Sarah held her hand out. I still couldn’t see her as my eyes hurt from the sun. She was standing next to the platform now. The water reached only as far as her knees. ”But Sarah”, I whispered. ”It’s too close to the beach. The water is too shallow. I will hurt myself!”The diving platform bobbed against the waves sending swells in over our blanket. The Sarah silhouette kept her hand still. Still reaching out for me.”Come!”I sat up. As usual I had kicked the covers off during the night and it lay crumpled like a bad poem at the foot of the bed. I looked over at Sarah. She was sleeping calmly. Slow, rhythmic breaths joined with the hum of the ceiling fan. My heart was beating fast as the sudden yank from the dream had startled me. The sheets were damp and my mouth dry. My hands and feet were tingling as if I’d held my breath for too long.Our luggage stood next to the door of the tiny one room apartment the hotel had supplied us with. The bags were packed but not yet closed. Tomorrow would be our last day here.Sarah stirred a little in her sleep and I jumped like she’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t. But she didn’t wake.I however, was wide awake. And I had a choice to make. One I had put off for a long time, something I wished I never had to do.Putting things off until the last minute was the cowards way. I wasn’t brave. But I wanted to be. And then I remembered what she had told me in the dream.“You’ll never know unless you try.”
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1,006
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Start your story with someone receiving a one-star review.
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"The one star reviewer". ⭐
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CW: contains some abusive words.Notice: This story doesn't aim to portray "critics" as bad reviewers. In some cases if necessary, Critics are very important to any writer who wishes to publish a book. They can serve as a guiding light to a writer's piece of work for the best interest of his readers.----- The Laptop beeps twice. A new message has come in. It's certainly a feedback from one of my readers, about my recent online story.- I thought. I sprinted out of the bathroom, wrapped around in a white towel and with a tooth brush in my mouth (still in the process of trying to get my teeth whitened). I landed heavily like a bomb being released from a warplane, and down to earth, on my fluffy bed which has now suffered the huge impact of the landing, and forcefully throwing out the two pillows set on two ends of the bed onto the ground, also having a side of the mattress being torn at one end. I scrolled down to see who it was. Not surprisingly, it was "he". And Only "he". My worse Nightmare, who could've done this.👇👇Ratings. ⭐Comments: "Not captivating. This story made no sense to me!!. Your reasons are not sensible at all. It's more like a waste of time and effort.This is a poor work.- Michael Cohen - reviewer." Michael Cohen again!!"- I said angrily." Who's this guy?".- I asked. Shortly after reading his comment.------At the Beginning...Reading positive reviews on my blog post, and getting a five star rating on it from active readers, was a good sign that my stories were making a positive impact on them, and interested them even more. For this reason. My joy knew no bounds since I started this blogsite.Nevertheless, in all of this good moments. All, but "one" of this active readers, failed to acknowledge my writing prowess since I started receiving his feedbacks on my every post.Since he became an active commentator on my blogging site, prolly a year ago. - i guess. I had sometimes dared not to read his feedbacks, for fear of risking my heart to over-beat, and then, likely to pop out of my mouth all of a sudden. He had always sought a way to disparage my work, and was ever static to rating it with one golden star emoji.(a reason I'm yet to find out).Sometimes, I wondered why he hated my posts so much, no matter how beautifully written i think the story might have been.I started blogging at age 20. Now I am 25, and yet, was still not a very much accomplished writer to some critic readers like " Michael Cohen"- I couldn't agree more. I am known to manage the popular blogging site " the scope", for years now.Usually, I write and post on political issues, or sometimes a piece of information regarding human rights and freedom. But this time around, I had decided to write a Non-fictional short story which I titled " the more they say...", relating it to an experience a girl friend of mine(Linda), once told me concerning her sad relationship with her fellow work mates.I started this blogpage five years ago. And ever since then until now, I had not gotten a two star rating or more, or even a positive comment on any of my posts , but only for this 👉 👎 and the usual "one star" ⭐ from One " Michael Cohen" - My worse Nightmare - I always thought.I searched through the site to read through all of Michael's reviews on my works and this was all I could find there.👇👇👇On Feb 16th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " poorly written Dave".👎👎Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnFeb 20th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Not inspiring".Michael Cohen- reviewerOnApril 4th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: "I noticed some errors in your spellings".Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnApril 25th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Your idea wasn't explicit enough".Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnMay 1st.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Your story seemed to incite violence".👎👎Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnMay 24th.Ratings. ⭐.Comments: "You don't have any idea of how the government operates!!".😠Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnJuly 10th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: "Are you in anyway trying to suggest that all women should seek political power??!!".😠😠Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnJuly 20th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " You have to take down this post Dave!!. It's so unnecessary.😠😠Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnAugust 15th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " I had to stop reading and take some fresh air. I just couldn't continue with such piece of nonsense!!".👎👎Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnAugust 25th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " This story is all garbage!!.🤮🤮.Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnSeptember 18th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: "Correction Dave!!🤚🤚. I noticed you wrongly misinterpreted a quote".Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnOctober 19th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Are you trying to suggest that we all should revolt against the government!!?". You had better not be!!.Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnNov 18th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Dave, this post made me sick". 🤒 🤮 🤮Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnNov 24th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Bullshit!! Dave.😠😠Michael Cohen- reviewer.OnNov 30th.Ratings. ⭐Comments: " I wouldn't recommend this to anyone".👎👎Michael Cohen- reviewer.---- Later...Dec 3rd.At Sunrise. I sat on my bed with a tooth brush stuck in my mouth. Scrolling and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling on my laptop to read some reviews. And then, when I get to the just sent message, which is from Michael. I get sickened at what he has to say.👇👇Ratings. ⭐Comments: " Not captivating. This story made no sense to me!!. Your reasons are not sensible at all. It's more like a waste of time and effort. This is a poor work.- he typed.I walked into the kitchen to make coffee in my favorite red mug. Taking a sip out of it, i stared for a while at the laptop, thinking of a very-very really very bad word to say to him, at least it would help do a little relieve from the burning rage that has now engulfed my inner body."Such a well satisfied f**ckin fool!!, Michael Cohen!!"- I cursed aloud. Not knowing what it meant.I decided to briefly search through his profile page to know more about him. But only discovered that he was a writer too just like me (majorly on writing articles). A professor of philosophy at Rutgers University and a father of two kids also.His pics seemed to suggest that he might be of a mixed racial background."He would probably be a blend of Indian and American heritage"- I presummed quickly.Still going through his page. I begged to ask him, "why he always saw my every posts as offensive, and going further to rating it with just a star ⭐ ( signifying a lack of interest or disapproval for the story).- A review I find offensive too.So I quickly typed down some words in form of a letter while he was online." Dear, Michael Cohen.I have noticed that your every comments on my blog post was always of the negative kind. And for this reason. I beg to ask. "What do you always find disturbing or unpleasant in my posts??. Do well to kindly explain to me, your hurts.Dave.I sent it to him waiting for his response, with my heart already beating heavily and repeatedly.He took a few minutes, before replying to my question.Dear Dave." Young Dave. I have read tons and tons of your post over the time. And I don't expect you to be anyhow pleased with my remarks. But i think it's important to let you know that there are other "critics" like myself who reads a writers work. And give feedbacks, based on our findings. Usually, we search for errors or mistakes or things unrelated to the post and give a negative remark based on our observations. It's how we work. It's why we're critics."Michael.I still couldn't wrap my head around all this "critic" stuff and its meaning. Worse more, this whole explanation made no sense to me at all, that i so wished to fully understand it. So i decided to look it up on my goggles app, and found the meaning of the word.Critic: " A person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something".- I read it aloud.I thought for a while. And after a few minutes, I made up my mind not to care anymore about Michael's comments, since it should now matter less to me." Well, atleast I'm able to get other readers to highly rate and comment positively on my posts. Not to mind some stupid- dumb readers like " Michael Cohen" who give silly excuses to disapprove of it"- I said to console myself.Then i started typing a new post on the site, on the theme "Reasons why critics should be made to hold back their thoughts, and not be allowed to rate a writers work". A brilliant idea that was birthed from my conversation with " Michael Cohen".- My one star ⭐ reviewer.
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8,891
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Start your story with a major news event breaking — one that will change the world forever.
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Breaking News Not For the Weak
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Breaking News Not For the Weak
Patty Morland sat at the anchor desk with the map of the world behind her. There was a red dot at the centre of attention. The hot button was Detroit, Michigan.
“It has been completely confirmed that aliens have landed on earth. I repeat aliens have landed on earth. This is not a hoax. I repeat, this is not a hoax. They have landed in Detroit, Michigan.”
She turned around and looked at the map and shook her head.
“The National Guard have been dispatched and we have sent a reporter out to investigate. We will make contact in just a couple of minutes. Things are very confused over there.”
“In the meantime, I am joined by Leslie Trumbo, one of the foremost alien experts on the planet.”
Leslie walks into the studio and takes a seat.
“Hello, Leslie, thank you for joining us. You must be very excited at the news.”
“Well, Patty, yes I am. Over the years, I have chased thousands of leads only to be disappointed with the results. But, this one seems to be the real deal. From the hundreds of photos that have been splattered all over social media, it appears to be the real thing.”
“Do you think you will be able to communicate with the aliens?”
“This is one thing that I am hoping to do is to communicate with them. There could possibly be some language barriers, but there has to be a way of working things out. We have lined up a number of translators and are anticipating that one of them will be able to decipher what they are saying.”
“Where do you think they are from?”
“Well, the universe is a vast place and they could be from anywhere. Of course, we don’t know any of the names of the planets, but I am sure that they will tell us.”
“This could of course could open many doors.”
“Absolutely! If everything works out well, then we might be able to reciprocate. We could send a team out to their planet and maybe they would be able to solve some of our problems. After all, if they have figured out how to get to earth, then they must be truly advanced.”
“So you think they could help us out in what way?”
“They might be able to solve a lot of our pollution problems. After all, it is obvious they are aliens, but I am sure that they have similarities that will make us able to share experiences and possible solutions.”
“Do you think that there will be some kind of friendship that might develop?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Do you think that people will have an open mind?”
“We are hoping that the average citizen and the authorities are graceful and understand that it will take time and cooperation in order to make a truly honest and strong connection.”
“So you want to make friend with the aliens then why was the National Guard called out and put on high alert?”
“This is strictly a precautionary measure. We are hoping that the aliens are friendly, but at the same time we just don’t know.”
“How do you think this is going to change the world?”
“It will change the world forever. I mean we have made real, unrestricted contact with aliens from another planet. This isn’t fiction, this isn’t Hollywood, this is reality of the moment we live in.”
“We are just moments away from meeting the aliens. To our knowledge they have not disembarked from their spaceship. I would like to thank my guest today, Leslie Trumbo for joining us today.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Patty. The reason that I was on this show was to extend an invitation to the aliens and to try and make the human race aware that there is no need to overact or to be afraid. After all, we don’t know what they want and hopefully it is friendly.”
Leslie was about to leave when
Patty stopped her.
“Hang on, Leslie, why don’t you stay with us?”
“I would love to.”
“My producer is indicating that it would be to our benefit for you to stay because you can add informal insight into the conversation and what is about to unfold.”
“It is my pleasure to be your guest anytime and help out if I can. I guess we have to wait with bated breath until they emerge from their spaceship.”
“We have pictures of their spaceship is it what we are usually expecting it to look like?”
“Yes, in some ways it is and in some says it isn’t, but that is fine. We have been so overwhelmed with photos of spaceships in the last seventy years or so that our mind has formed a complete mental picture of what an alien aircraft should look like.”
“Of course. I have just been informed that there is a delay in the whole process. The aliens are locked up in the spaceship and have not been open as to when they will appear.”
“If I might just add something?”
“Absolutely, Leslie, we welcome your insight.”
“There is a delicate balancing act to walk here. We don’t want to scare the aliens off with a show of military muscle or any type of aggression. However, if they are hostile, we don’t want them to think that they are going to enslave us.”
“That is understandable.”
“The problem here is that we have been spoiled and in some ways poisoned with images and built-in ideas of aliens. There have been so many movies and TV shows and books that have painted visitors from another planet in a very unfavourable light.”
“Yes, we are definitely operating from behind the eight ball in a manner of speaking.”
“Yes, this is a very closed minded situation.”
“My producer is telling us that we are ready to connect with our reporter Rhonda Neuron. Rhonda can you hear us?”
“Yes, Patty, I can hear you loud and clear. There is a great amount of anticipation and excitement and some fear. Nobody knows that to expect. But, it is agreed that this is going to change the world forever. This is not a hoax or some movie or show.”
“When do they expect the aliens to appear?”
“They are going to appear right about now.”
The area had been blocked off and there was a lot of room surrounding the spaceship. The National Guard were ready if there was a problem. The local police were keeping the crowd back. Sharpshooters were on the roof just in case there was a situation. All that was left, was the aliens to walk out.
The door to the spaceship slowly opened and everyone’s breath stopped. Their hearts were in their mouths.
The door closed and there was a tremendous thrust of power. Suddenly, without warning, the spaceship took off and quickly disappeared in the bright blue sky.
There was a lot of disappointment and some people shed a tear.
“I am so disappointed,” said Leslie Trumbo.
“So am I,” said Patty. “However, you have to admit that this has changed the world forever.”
“I do. From this point on the debate of whether there is aliens is over.” Patty smiled. “Do you think that they will ever return?”
Leslie looked at Patty.
“The debate will range on.”
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1,267
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Two strangers meet at a New Year's Eve party. They spend the party together, and then never see each other again.
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FIRST LOVE
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It was a New Year's party at my friend's house.I had designed a new three piece dress.The dress was made with a soft synthetic fabric in wine colour.A short skirt,contrast top with frilled neckline and a short fitted jacket in the same floral print fabric was the dress.To add grace to my walk I selected a high heeled sandal and gathered my hair at the top of my head to look grown up, letting a few strands of loose hair to fall sideways carelessly.A wrist watch,gold ear studs and gold finger ring were all the accessory I needed to complete my dress.I sprayed a dash of my favourite perfume,got my handkerchief and a small clutch purse and ran out of my house.My mother told me not to be too late from behind but I was hardly listening to her.My father's car took me to my friend's bungalow through the busy streets. Soft music was wafting from her living room.The front door was wide open and the place was decorated with flowers,lamps and balloons to mark the celebration.I heard voices from inside the room and I knew that the party had already begun.I suddenly felt shy and hesitant for no particular reason, and shrugging it off with irritation I entered the party.Several eyes turned towards me at once.My friends came forward to greet me and we embraced one another and I joined them with bottled up excitement.After a while, when the initial euphoria of meeting my friends during winter holidays had worn off, I casually swept the room with my eyes.I noticed several boys and girls I didn't know.They were not from my school"They must be the neighbours or cousins"i thought to myself.Soft drinks was being served in a corner and I went and took a glass for myself to keep my hands occupied and joined my friends.We were all chattering.One of my friend suggested that we play a game.We were equal number of boys and girls.The game was about selecting popular movie star pairs,write their names separately on chits of paper.The matching pairs were written same number in every chit so that nobody got confused so as to who was to pair with whom.The boys gathered separately from us in a group and we gathered in another group.The chits were put in plastic bowls separately for boys and girls.Each of us selected one chit.I don't remember now which movie star's chit I got.I hardly watched movies in my younger days but a tall boy came up to me and said,'I think we are paired.I looked into his chit but couldn't recognise the film star's name.Our numbers matched with each other so we said hallo and sat together as pair like everyone else.Every pair had to give some performance which could be a song, a dance, an act from the movie in which the pair acted or dialogues from the movie or we could do something totally new.My partner,the boy said he did not know how to sing or act.He didn't know any dialogue from any movie either but he said he could dance.I had never danced in front of anybody.The friends only knew that I sang so I felt unsure,excited as well as shy all at the same time.I told him I knew how to waltz.He said he could waltz too.So we took each other's hand and amidst giggles from my friends and elbow nudging, we danced together on a popular English music.When the music stopped we were laughing because we had both made mistakes in the steps and both of us had almost collided.After the dance the boy joined our group.we ate together from the buffet arrangement and he asked me about myself.I took it all in fun.we had a band of amateur musicians and my band members were also invited to that New Year Party.After eating we sat ina circle and they started playing their musical instruments.I sang some popular bollywood songs.He was right to say he did not sing.He sang like a crow but he sang with me.We were all enjoying then someone said 'let's play musical chair'we agreed and hurriedly arranged the chairs and found a pillow to pass around.The music started playing and one by one my friends got out of the game.We remained till last and shared the prize, a box of chocolates that we ate together.All the time I found him beside me and he made me laugh with his jokes.when the clock struck 12 a.m we bursted the balloons and went out to the lawn and watched the fireworks that the boys had arranged.After the fireworks we all shouted happy new year and wished each other.Some of my friends went inside the house after that.The boy and I stayed behind on the lawn.We sat on a chair beside the damp flower bed and talked.I was enjoying his unwavering attention.He told me about his life,his family his plans for the future.He said he was preparing for a tough examination so that he could study in his dream university in England.I told him I wanted to go to Australia where there are large farmlands with cows,horses,sheep and Shepherd dogs.He started laughing.'you want to go to Australia because of such things'?'Yes' and once there I want to marry a wealthy Australian farmer who has jets of his own',I said solemnly.He became silent.Then he said'I want to own a large company and have many employees working under me'.'we both seem to have different dreams and expectations from life'I said after a while.'Yes,but I like you.'I didn't say anything perhaps i thought it was too soon and I didn't know how I felt.It was past 12 at night and it was time for me to go home.We went into the living room together and I went to gather my clutch purse.He stood quietly at a distance looking at me as I said my goodbyes.I waved him goodbye and left the party with a friend who lived near me and I had to drop her on the way.A few days passed.Our school reopened and I got busy with school work.One day, a letter came for me at my school's address.My name,class's Ecton were all written clearly on the envelope.My friends were all surprised.Who had sent a letter to me at my school address?They were full of curiosity.One of my friends sniffed the letter like a dog.'This is a love letter'she exclaimed.'It's perfumed',she said.It was a two-page letter written with red ink full of poems and praises of me in lines of popular bollywood movie songs.I laughed along with my friends as I read the letter.I read the letter several times in solitude.Then I put it in my cupboard inside a heavy hard covered story book so that nobody could read it.He had written that he would write again and had given his address in the letter.Maybe he wanted me to write something to him.But I did not write anything to him.I remember I started writing poems on nature after that bur I never wanted to show my poems to anybody.My friends must have conveyed the massage to him that I had read his letter and thought fondly of him.So a few more cards came from him to my home address.The cards seemed to be thoughtfully chosen.I treasured all of them for many years but I never wrote anything to him.Then he wrote that he had passed his exam and was going to his dream university in London.He wrote and requested me to keep in touch.I did not even send him a farewell note but I told my friends to convey my congratulation to him.He did not write after that.I graduated from college and went to a bigger city hoping for better opportunity.My dream of going to Australia did not materialise.I kept dabbling in this and that.I heard from a mutual friend that he was doing well and was interested in me as a life partner but I was far from wanting to settle down with anyone.I was still searching for my reason to be.I heard about his father's untimely death and his mother's illness.I lost touch with most of my friends.Some got married and moved to other cities and new life.Some left the country to go abroad.He remained in my memory as a shy,young boy who had dance with me on a new years party.
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13,166
|
Write a post-apocalyptic romance.
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Pandemic Yearning
|
“It’s funny”. He spoke through a rictus grin. “I don’t remember you being this angry”.
“Angry”? She said sarcastically. ”Why would I be angry”?
“I don’t know. Especially as, if I remember correctly, you were the one who made all the decisions”.
“Decisions?”
Zack leaned a little closer to her.”Not to meet me? Not to even discuss what we had promised to discuss?”
Hey! Sandra, what happened?
Sexy feet...! Sandra murmured.
Huh what, Sandra?
‘I said 60 feet social distance, Sandra asserted.
Zack laughed aloud, ’oh no!It’s just 6 feet!
Sandra had become paranoid after the Pandemic set in.
Zack came forward, Sandra screamed, ’don’t touch my bag! Whenever she touched a surface, a door knob or a simple parcel lying outside her door, she would panic to think “Did I touch COVID-19?”, and wash her hands frequently throughout the day.
Zack grimly,”Sandra, get a hold on yourself!
Liza came pushing her trolley full of groceries, she almost dashed into Zack.
Hey, Zack, you are back on your two feet!
Zack tried to silence her with a gesture. But Liza babbled on,’ you know Zack, those 7 weeks at the City Hospital, I had the urge to call Sandra and tell her about you’.
Sandra cautiously came forward, Liza jumped to hug her but Sandra took a step back.
‘What happened to Zack?’
Liza turned to Zack, ’so, you didn’t tell her?’
‘Tell what’, Sandra pestered.
‘Zack was on a ventilator for weeks inside the ICU. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, he was kept in isolation.
Sandra gasped, oh NO!
Zack grinned, ’I am ok now. ‘Sandra, I know you would dread ‘the news that I had COVID-19.
.
The last time Sandra met her fiancé, Zack; it was at a restaurant, on March 17,2020. They promised to meet again on April 7,2020 -- birthday of Sandra. Zack had bought a special birthday gift, a diamond ring; to surprise Sandra with his proposal. Little did they know that on her birthday, Zack would fall sick and test positive for COVID-19.
Sandra was livid, ‘so you thought you could just disappear from my life, without a trace’.
Zack lowered his lids,’ Sandra! Listen!
Sandra,’No, I won’t listen!
‘Check your phone, note how many hundreds of calls, texts, emails I did!
Zack,’calm down’, calm down please, Sandra.
Zack hugged her.
Sandra shrunk away,’oh NO!
Zack knew Sandra suffered from hypervigilance about cleanliness and the ‘social distance’ norm, she was taking very seriously.
Zack smirked,’ see, you shirk being touched, how would you respond if I told you, I was in ICU for COVID-19?
Sandra blushed,’umm...I.....I
Zack told her,’I know, leave it unsaid!
.Seeing Zack suddenly in the supermarket on 14th September, 2020 it was like waking up from a stupor. They stared at each other for a moment. Zack looked exactly the same, Sandra thought, no –better, damn it-
Both were wearing masks, it was just the two of them, marooned on their part of the supermarket. It was a strange meeting, both knew hand-holding, hugging and kissing were taboo!
You never were a big one for commitment, were you?” Sandra angrily flashed.
She felt his eyes on her and flushed. Shut up, she told herself. Other people were only a matter of some 15 feet away.
Zack’s voice dropped to a murmur. ”Are we really going to do this?”
Zack felt the need to confess, worried that his proposal might come to a pretty humbling denouement, if Sandra didn’t respond, He might still be hung up on what might have been.
Sandra felt a kind of recklessness building within her. How many times had she wanted to have this conversation? How many times had she rehearsed all the things she wanted to say to him? How could he stand there and behave as if nothing had happened after all?
“You really want to get into this now, Sandra?”
“Why not?” she said, waving back. ”It’s only been 5 months. I figure that’s a pretty decent period of time to put off an argument.”
“
“NOT TO MEET YOU?” She turned and stared at him. ”Are we talking about the same relationship during Pandemic”
Both in self isolation to protect from the deadly infection of a bat-born, spikey ball-shaped, gorgeous-looking infinitesimal virus with a name befitting a royal!
“The day you left,” he hissed beside her,” you were going to meet me at The Hub, so that we could discuss our future, and you never even turned up. There was no way to contact you, Sandra! You refused to answer the phone and you avoided me like the Corona!
“The Hub?”
“And you knew I couldn’t reach you once you handed in your work phone. What was I supposed to think? Don’t you believe that after everything we’d been through, everything we had promised each other, that I deserved a little more than just a no-show?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.”It was The Hilltop” we were due to meet at “The Hilltop”. And YOU were the one who didn’t turn up.”
Their eyes locked.
People were increasing in number in the supermarket; Zack was feeling an electric jolt as their hands made contact. “Two hours I waited.”
They stared at each other. For a moment, everything disappeared, She was there on a wet Friday, weeping into her jacket in almost empty “The Hilltop”.
“There’s nothing to say. We’ve moved on.”
She felt the faintest pressure and realized with shock that it was his leg against hers. From day one on Earth, lovers are hardwired to touch, hold and kiss one another.
“Have you”? He said quietly, and the words went through her like a seismic tremor. ”Really”?
“All this time”, Zack said quietly, ’both of us believing the other had bailed out.”
I just figured you’d tired of my indecision.”
“I’d waited the best part of a year. I would have waited”.
“You never said that”.
“I hoped I wouldn’t have to.”
She had grieved for him. His lips closed in. She again yelped. Coronavirus stole the sweet magic of kissing. She head-butted him and squealed, and that was the end of it.
The “touch starvation.” has affected the psyche of lovers.
Both coronavirus pandemic and the protocols that came with changed the trajectory of the relationship between the two.
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6,167
|
Write a day-in-the-life-story about a first-time parent and their newborn child.
|
THE FIRST TIME
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Advice from a mother to her adult child when she becomes a new mother: The first time I saw your face, I was in love. You were soft to the touch, and crying uncontrollably. I was so emotional looking at your distress, desiring for your free flowing tears to stop streaming down your cheeks. Your arms and legs were flailing all about. Your father first held you in his arms before I had a chance to. When I held you in my arms, I was captured, forever in love. For nine months you had been protected in my womb and all you had need of was automatically supplied. I wanted to cry with you for the world is an incredible place as well as a dangerous one.
Now, I would never see anything from only my perspective. You would be in my thoughts, dreams, decisions, and future plans. You looked uniquely like yourself, with no resemblance to either parent. You had eyes of blue, blonde curly hair, dimpled cheeks, all your fingers and toes. 21 inches in length and 9 lbs. and 10 1⁄2 oz. in weight. As I rested while watching you sleep, I noticed how you slept on your knees with your bottom in the air. You were a beautiful living baby doll. Too good to be true!
You had a soft spot on the top of your head that is called a fontanel. It is 2.1 cm in diameter and sometimes takes a year to grow and close up. Your brain is continuing to grow and expand. I must be extremely careful when I hold you, until that fuses together, you might suffer injuries in that vulnerable period. There could also be times you feel insecure unless you are snuggled close. That is what I want to experience with you my firstborn, the process of bonding. Bonding is defined as: the formation of a relationship between mother and child.
Skin-to-skin contact between mother and child have some health benefits. For the infant it helps to lower blood sugars, regulates body temperature, heart rate, breathing. Contact calms the infant and helps with the baby’s first feeding. For the mother skin-to-skin contact helps the uterus contract, decreases heavy bleeding, and stimulates milk hormones.
Breastfeeding started in the hospital, and at first was awkward, my nipples became dry and chapped. Staying focused and interacting with you was life changing. This natural bonding experience became easier when we were in the privacy of our own home. Seeking peace and quiet by listening to lullabies, and relaxing with you on a pillow in front of me prepared us for this nurturing time. Lots of practice, times when we drifted off to sleep together.
Feeding you developed into a family affair. Your dad fed you a bottle the first day at home. Grandmother purchased a breast pump, filling the freezer soon after we came home. They were able to spend precious moments with you. I was able to take a sitz bath. You averaged eight feedings your first day.
I knew you were hungry by your fussiness and gnawing on your little fist. You would become alert and interested in your surroundings when you were full. Burping needs to take place when a baby swallows air while eating. Burping rids baby of excessive air to relieve gas or being colicky. Burping was done with a firm pat to your back or placing you on your stomach on my lap. Patting gently on your back until a burp is emitted.
Swaddling is a practice of bundling your infant that helps them to feel secure and sleep better. This keeps the baby warm, and safe without a blanket in crib that is a smothering hazard. Swaddling prevents the baby from having the startle reflex. This practice should only take place for four to six months. Swaddling then may be stopped as the infant is growing, stretching arms and legs.
On the first day coming home from the hospital, you travel in your own car seat. You are buckled in and I want to hold you in my arms. Arriving home you are carried in and are rocked back and forth in the old rocking chair. I sat in this rocker anticipating your birth and here you are. The evening falls and night begins.
The first day in completion is upon us. Sounds in the night are comfortable and somehow reassuring. Crickets are chirping in a symphony as I stand on the front porch holding you in my arms. Stepping back inside we continue with feedings every two to three hours. Changing your diapers about eight times in a day is satisfactory. Sleep seems like one continuous doze, and we are told at about three months of age the baby should be able to sleep through the night. Their weight will be about 12-13 lbs. when they are sleeping through the night.
Temperature must be just right, neither too cold or too hot; between 68 to 72 degrees. Try to avoid sudden noises, by using a white noise machine. There are times it isn’t easy to determine why the baby can’t sleep and is in distress. Physical signs can be crying or bringing their legs up to their chest and kicking. When newborns coo and make gurgling sounds it sounds so pleasant. Grunting sounds is usually related to digestion. The baby is adjusting to mothers milk or formula.
At night, develop a before bedtime routine. First a nice warm bath, pat dry and put on some lotion. Give the nightly feeding and apply a clean diaper. Dress in clean sleeper pajamas, the kind that covers little hands so baby won’t scratch their face. Sing a song or lullaby to the baby. When you put baby to bed place them on their back.
Make sure no noises disrupt the baby’s sleep. Dim lights in the evening. Swaddling your baby for more relaxing and better sleep especially at night. Try to keep baby awake as much as possible in the daytime. Use natural lighting, you can open curtains or blinds. Throughout the day go outside and sit in the sun or take a walk. During the day keep household lighting and noises as you would normally. Enjoy this new part of life’s journey and the role you have in it!
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End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
This is a medium-length story dataset introduced in LongStory: Coherent, Complete and Length Controlled Long story Generation : https://arxiv.org/abs/2311.15208.
The dataset was collected by the authors from Reedsy Prompts : https://blog.reedsy.com/short-stories/, as of May 2023.
In the original paper, the authors use a 60k/4k/4k train/validation/test split.
For comparison:
WritingPrompts (Fan et al., 2018): ~768 tokens per story
Booksum (Kryściński et al., 2021): ~6,065 tokens per story
BookCorpus (Project Gutenberg): ~90,000 words per story (approx.)
(ours) ReedsyPrompts : ~2426 tokens per story
Use this :
from datasets import load_dataset
ds = load_dataset("Iyan/reedsyPrompts")
print(ds["train"][0]['index'])
print(ds["train"][0]['prompt']) # the prompt of the story
print(ds["train"][0]['name']) # the title of the story
print(ds["train"][0]['story'])
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