prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",9c98sh,The Rules for Crying,Delbert Griffith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9c98sh/,/short-story/9c98sh/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Romance', 'Sad']",30 likes,"
She walks through the room in silence, yet she’s never silent. There is a liveliness to her, a lightening of the room, a lifting of the spirit that stays long after she’s gone. Madison is almost perfect. Unfortunately, she has bad taste in men; she married me. 
She likes that joke less than I do but she smiles and kisses me anyway.
“Why is there a bottle of champagne on the table?”
I ask this merely for information. I admit that Maddie sees more than I do. Always has. The champagne on the table is evidence that whatever is going to happen today will involve the liquid in some important way. Since it’s Maddie’s doing, it will also be surprising.
“Today’s the day we go see your grandparents.” 
That’s it. That’s the surprise, unwelcome as it is.
“Really? Today? I don’t – “
“Of course you don’t. Neither do I, but it’s something you need to do.”
“It feels weird.”
“Yes, I imagine it does. Grab the bottle and the glass.”
I gaze at Maddie, unsure of everything right now, but very sure that my wife won’t lead me astray. 
I am struck again by her beauty. This sort of thing happens to me almost every day. I see the woman I love, the girl and the woman I’ve known for twenty-three years, but when she’s around me, I see her for the first time. Again and again.
“Today, you’ll do all the talking. I’ll be there for you, but I’m not saying anything.”
I smile and turn to my wife.
“That’s a change.”
She nods, not offended at all.
“Yes, I do most of the talking in our relationship. If I didn’t, I would never hear any sparkling conversation.”
I laugh out loud, a little too loudly, probably. She laughs as well, but her laugh sounds like a gathering of angels singing.
“When did that all start? Me doing most of the talking?” 
Maddie asks, but she knows the answer. She always knows the answer.
“Remember our wedding day?”
“Of course.”
“That’s when it started.”
Maddie punches me in the arm, but with no oomph behind it. It’s her way of showing affection without being all lovey-dovey. Like I said, she’s almost perfect.
The walk to the two grave sites takes about fifteen minutes. We crest a rise in the land and there they are. Twin headstones bookended by live oaks and about a billion bluebonnets. Maddie put a bench on either side of them last year, but I haven’t been here since the funeral. The benches have been “devoid of human buttockry,” as Maddie says. I don’t think “buttockry” is a word, but I ain’t gonna challenge her on it. Lost way too many Scrabble games to her that way.
“Who – um – who do I talk to first?”
I look to Maddie for guidance. As usual, she doesn’t get mad or roll her eyes when I ask stupid questions.
“Rules of chivalry, dear.”
“What?”
“Ladies first.” She knows it doesn’t matter, but she gives me direction anyway.
I sit down and hold the bottle of champagne, staring at it. The bottle feels strange in my hands, like it doesn’t belong.
“Why champagne? They never drank the stuff.”
Maddie looks off into the distance. She does this when she gets philosophical.
“Your grandparents have champagne souls.”
I look at Maddie but she continues to not look at me.
“I don’t get it.”
Finally, she turns to look at me. She has a soft look in her eyes.
“They may have looked like carbonated water to the world, but if you got to know them like we did, they would have been seen as bright and bubbly. And they always made you feel good.”
I nodded. I would never have thought of that.
“And, if I go before you, I want Merlot at my grave site.”
Maddie smiles that impish smile of hers, the one that makes me go all tingly.
“Sure. Why?”
“Figure it out, sweetie.”
“May take a while.”
“Decades, probably.” 
Maddie brushes a leaf off her blouse after this little shot. She’s good at getting in those little shots. It’s like she doesn’t even have to think of ‘em. They just come to her.
“That’s mean.”
“But you’ll think about it, won’t you? Even if it takes all those decades.”
“Yeah.” 
True. I don’t give up on a thing just because it stumps me at the time. I got resilience. Maddie calls it stubbornness.
“Decades. Together. You and me and an assortment of cats and dogs and horses and cattle. We’ll fight the good fight, win the unwinnable, eff the ineffable. We might even – “
“Eff the ineffable? That sounds dirty.”
“Says the man who wears an acre of dirt when he comes home.” 
“You know what I mean.” 
She always knows what I mean. It’s a little irritating at times.
“Indeed I do, dear.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. I twist the bottle in my hand, but Maddie takes it away from me and sets it between us.
“Hey. What if I go before you?”
Good one, right? Maddie’s smile brightens at my question. Weird.
“Either a cheap rosé or a Lone Star beer, in a can.”
“Cheap stuff?”
I may be a little offended. I’m not sure.
“Honest and true. Unspectacular, which makes it spectacular.”
Maddie says this, but does she mean it? I think she does, but still.
“I don’t buy it.”
I might be buying it.
“You don’t have to. As long as I believe it, it’s true.”
I don’t know how to argue with this. It sounds so wrong, but it also sounds like she means it. Maddie never has been attracted to showy things. That kind of explains why she’s with me.
“So, you’re the expert at grave sites now?”
“Consider me the sommelier for the dead.”
I nod my head, mainly because I don’t know what a summerleer is, and because there’s no way to respond to that. I think Maddie loves me because I know when to shut up. Basically, I keep my teeth together when she talks.
“Ok, buster. Let’s do this thing.”
I nod. Maddie opens the champagne and pours out a glass for me. I drink it. She pours another glass. I drink it. She takes the glass away. 
Yep. Now I’m ready.
                                                       **************
“Hi, Grams. Well, I know I should’ve come before now, but it still hurts, you and Pawpaw bein’ gone. Maddie says I need to talk to you guys, let you know how much I miss you, why I love you. All that stuff. I know, you women need to hear reasons why we love you. Ow! Maddie! I’m talkin’ here!
“Anyway. Remember when my parents divorced? They promised that they’d be back and that they’d take care of me, but they wouldn’t be together. Somehow, I knew that was a lie. About them comin’ back to get me. So did you, I think. I saw how sad you were. It was the middle of August, the end of summer. I guess it was also the end of my childhood.
“The thing is, you let me cry. You let me hug you. You’d put your arm around me and not say anything. I didn’t realize it at the time, but you were making the pain go away without being smothering. Just what a ten-year-old boy needed, I think.
“What I didn’t realize until years later was that you had your own heartache in the matter. My mother was your daughter, and I reckon that it tore your heart out to know what she did to me. But you never let that show, at least not to me.
“How did you do it, Grams? How did you take all that pain and hide it so well? You were always bright and cheerful. You had a smile for me all the time. And cookies. And pies and cakes and great birthday parties.
“I told Maddie that maybe this was your way of making up for my mom, but she disagreed, with her tough voice. She said that you loved me extra hard because I needed it. No more, no less. Don’t overthink love, she says.
“You remember the first time you met Maddie? She came in, half-frozen, an almost-dead cat wrapped up in her coat? You and Pawpaw tried to save it, but it was no good. Pawpaw took it outside and shot it. I looked at Maddie to see if she was gonna cry, but she didn’t. That’s when I really noticed her. I never stopped.
“Anyway, I helped Pawpaw bury the cat. I cried some, but Pawpaw didn’t say anything. I was surprised. He never liked what he called ‘unnecessary crying.’  I guess he figured it was okay this time.
“I reckon it all comes down to your heart, Grams. You had a stout one. Never let me go hungry. Never let me feel like I was alone in this world. Never got on to me for missin’ my mom and dad. Never harped on me when I made mistakes. I reckon I saw you in Maddie, and that’s why I married her. Except she thinks I eat too much beef. Hey! Stop pokin’ me!
“Maddie and I had a rough time when you and Pawpaw died last year. I felt like I done lost my anchors in this world, but Maddie bein’ here and all, it made it bearable. 
“So, I love you for all those things, but it seems to me I don’t say things right sometimes. What I’m sayin’ is that you didn’t have to love me as much as you did, but you did it anyway. It didn’t seem like a chore to you. Maddie says it added years to your life. I didn’t get that when I was a kid, but I got it after Maddie and I got married. And no, she didn’t have to tell me. I figured it out on my own. Maddie made me smarter about stuff like that. Now she’s smilin’.
“Maddie used to tell me I was the best thing to ever happen to her. I think she’s blushin’ now. Hard to tell, it’s so dad-burned hot out here. If that’s true – and I reckon it is – then I bet my bottom dollar she got a lot of that from you. You know, seein’ what’s in a man’s heart and not necessarily what’s in his words. I stumble over words sometimes. But I don’t want to stumble now, Grams. I can say that Maddie’s the best thing to happen to me after the first best thing to happen to me, and that’s you and Pawpaw. I think I said that right. Maddie’s nodding, so it’s right.
“I don’t want you and Pawpaw to miss me. Or miss Maddie, for that matter. I know you think of her like blood. That’s another thing, Grams. You always treated her like kin. She calls it greatness of soul. 
“So, we’ll be here, runnin’ the ranch. The twins’ll be in college next year. Maddie says she’ll be glad to get ‘em outta the house, but I catch her cryin’ in their rooms sometimes. Necessary cryin’, in my opinion. I’ll miss those two little she-devils too. Got their brains from their mamma, I reckon, but their good looks from me. Maddie’s shakin’ her head. I reckon we’ll just have to disagree about that.
“I’m sayin’ adios for now, Grams. I’ll be back soon. You keep Pawpaw company, ok? He wouldn’t rest easy without you beside ‘im.”
                                                      **************
I pour a glass of champagne on Gram’s grave site. Maddie refills the glass and tells me to drink it. I do. She may have to carry me home.
                                                      **************
“Hi Pawpaw. I just talked to Grams. Maddie’s here, too. She ain’t talkin’ right now because she tells me it’s me that needs to talk to you guys. Grams seemed okay with it.
“I thanked Grams for you guys takin’ care of me, so I’m thankin’ you for it. Personally. You and Grams were kinda like the complete package, if you know what I mean. She taught me to be forgiving and you taught me how to do it.
“Remember the first day you took me fishin’? Two days after mom dropped me off at the ranch. What I remember most of all was your hands. They were so rough and scarred, but when you held my hand to take me to the river, it was so gentle. I felt, I guess, peaceful when you held my hand. Like nothin’ bad was ever gonna happen to me again.
“You always took the time to show me how to do things. When I messed up, you showed me again. I really didn’t like you all that much before I came to live with you guys. You always seemed so gruff and mean. But when you were showing me how to rope or ride or fish or a million other things, you had this softness in your voice. Your eyes smiled. Maddie’s nodding right now, so I guess she saw in you what I saw.
“I remember your rules for unnecessary cryin’. Do you remember how I got that long scar on my right arm? Runnin’ around like a idiot and I run into the barbed-wire fence near the north pasture gate. I’m bleedin’ like hell-o and you come up to me and just stand there. I’m cryin’. You just wait it out. Then I finally stop and you take care of my arm.
“That’s when you told me about the rules for cryin’. Don’t cry just because you bleed a little. That there’s teachin’ you what you ain’t supposed to do. You can yell and even cuss a little, but you don’t cry. Don’t cry when you kill a chicken that winds up on the dinner table. Don’t cry because Billy Tompkins is pickin’ on you. Did I really cry that much, Pawpaw? I guess I did.
“But that was only part of it. You also told me when it was acceptable to cry. Missin’ people you love. Feelin’ the hurt that other people have. Maddie says you were ‘country smart’ because of that. I reckon you were just plain ol’ smart.
“I remember the first beer I ever drank. You give it to me when I was – what – sixteen or seventeen. Grams didn’t much like it, did she? But you were a wily one, Pawpaw. Give it to me on an empty stomach. I went and chucked it up real fast. I guess you knew what you were doin’ because I don’t drink much. I’ll have a beer or two every week.
“Maddie and her friends drink wine. She’s givin’ me a look, but I seen them ladies with their persimmon wine, sittin’ around a table and talkin’ a mile a minute. What Maddie doesn’t know is that I know she drinks half a glass and just listens to the others complain about their husbands. Now she’s givin’ me a different look.
“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that you did all these things for me. You give me a dollar every Sunday to put in the collection plate so I’d feel like I was a part of it all. You didn’t get mad when I whupped Billy Tompkins on the playground for pickin’ on me. And, I guess, the best thing is that you adored Maddie, even when she got pregnant before we were married. Promised us a home and even built on so the twins would have their own rooms.
“So, I reckon the best thing that happened to me was you, Pawpaw. You and Grams had grit, takin’ on a kid at y’all’s age. Maddie tells me it was love, but it was also grit. I hope to be half the man you were, Pawpaw. If I am, I’ll feel like I done right by you and Grams.
“I’m gonna say adios for now. I’ll be back, I promise. Grams is still here beside you, so you two rest easy.”
                                                       **************
I pour a glass of champagne on Pawpaw’s grave and finish off the bottle. There wasn’t much left. I think Maddie may have been sippin’ on it behind my back. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to her, though.
                                                       **************
“Lord!” Maddie had her right arm in my left arm. The empty bottle hung from my right hand, and I was twirlin’ it, wonderin’ why it still felt so heavy. 
“What?” I turned a little to Maddie, interested in why she was ‘Lord’ing. 
“Sometimes I look at my wedding ring, just because it’s there and I feel it. But I don’t pay it any mind. It’s just…there. Always has been, always will be. I think I do the same thing with you, sweetie. I take you for granted sometimes. And then you go and say all those things you said, and I remember why I love you so much.”
“Me too. I mean, you’re always there. I reckon I’m as guilty as you, Maddie.”
“Reckon we oughta change that up a little?”
I look at my wife and I see her again, for the first time. That girl. That half-frozen girl tryin’ to save a cat that can’t be saved. But this time, she has tears in her eyes. 
Maddie’s lips taste salty, but they crush into my lips, just like when we kissed the first time. I’m better at it now. The kissin’, I mean. 
I give her a hug, take her hand, and we walk to the house without speaking. I never mention her crying.
Necessary tears, I reckon.
 
","September 08, 2023 16:52","[[{'L J': 'need...kleenex...now..Delbert, this is one of your besties! I could picture the characters and the history the ""boy"" had gone through. \nThis is wonderful, loving and poignant. You nailed this! Good luck in the competition\n\nJust an FYI: there may be a typo  ""even built on..(one?)""\n\nThank you for taking time to read my entry: your comments gave me confidence!', 'time': '17:26 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much for the kind words, and also for catching a typo. The damn things sneak in there when I'm not looking! LOL\n\nI don't usually do emotional pieces, but a kid forced to grow up too soon was a good opportunity to explore. I'm so pleased that you found it poignant. THAT was my goal, LJ, and I'm so glad it came through for you.\n\nYour entry was splendid. You don't need confidence; you just need to write. You're good. Show everyone how good you are, my friend.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '18:06 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much for the kind words, and also for catching a typo. The damn things sneak in there when I'm not looking! LOL\n\nI don't usually do emotional pieces, but a kid forced to grow up too soon was a good opportunity to explore. I'm so pleased that you found it poignant. THAT was my goal, LJ, and I'm so glad it came through for you.\n\nYour entry was splendid. You don't need confidence; you just need to write. You're good. Show everyone how good you are, my friend.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '18:06 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Hi Del!  Thought I'd drop in for a peek at your latests and greatests.  I feel like your stories are special friends I'm already familiar with and I enjoy seeing them out in the world and doing so well on their own (a/k/a being so well received.)\n\nThis is a special one.  I believe it's one of your best, which at this point is quite an accomplishment.   Wonderful work."", 'time': '19:27 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Susan. That means a lot to me, especially coming from someone who knows my work so well.\n\nIt may not win any awards, but it was, as you state, well received. I'm a little surprised and very gratified, for this isn't in my wheelhouse. Thanks to you, though, it was hammered into something good. Your help seems to turn my average tales into something good, my friend. It doesn't go unnoticed, what you do for me.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:01 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Susan. That means a lot to me, especially coming from someone who knows my work so well.\n\nIt may not win any awards, but it was, as you state, well received. I'm a little surprised and very gratified, for this isn't in my wheelhouse. Thanks to you, though, it was hammered into something good. Your help seems to turn my average tales into something good, my friend. It doesn't go unnoticed, what you do for me.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:01 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Very true to life, pinpointing how a couple behaves together, how they're viewed, and how they often think and speak in such an atmosphere. Loving, sad, and emotional circumstances, along with warm memories. Nice work, Delbert."", 'time': '09:19 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks, Joe. I appreciate you reading my little tale and leaving some very nice comments. You're a true gentleman.\n\nYeah, sweet and sad and heartwarming aren't my wheelhouse, but this one felt like it had to be written. The generational aspect of how love is viewed and shown was a big part of my tale, and we get a glimpse of a boy growing up before his time.\n\nThanks again, my friend. Truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '10:12 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks, Joe. I appreciate you reading my little tale and leaving some very nice comments. You're a true gentleman.\n\nYeah, sweet and sad and heartwarming aren't my wheelhouse, but this one felt like it had to be written. The generational aspect of how love is viewed and shown was a big part of my tale, and we get a glimpse of a boy growing up before his time.\n\nThanks again, my friend. Truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '10:12 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'This is beautiful. Such a poignant piece. I love the conversational style, the emotional language from a salt of the earth kind of guy. Necessary tears indeed. Well done, let me get my tissues.', 'time': '22:53 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Michelle. I appreciate the kind words and the analysis. Salt of the earth indeed.\n\nThis sort of writing isn't in my wheelhouse, but it felt like I needed to write it. The generational thing was important, as was the understated love and commitment. No fireworks - just quiet words and a bottle of champagne. LOL\n\nAgain, thanks for liking my little tale. It means a lot to me, truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '10:03 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Michelle. I appreciate the kind words and the analysis. Salt of the earth indeed.\n\nThis sort of writing isn't in my wheelhouse, but it felt like I needed to write it. The generational thing was important, as was the understated love and commitment. No fireworks - just quiet words and a bottle of champagne. LOL\n\nAgain, thanks for liking my little tale. It means a lot to me, truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '10:03 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rebecca Miles': 'Del you old romantic. This is slipping into unchartered waters I think for you and you\'ve chartered your course well in this one. I am a complete sucker for beautiful sentimentalism and I think I\'d died and gone to heaven when I read Maddie\'s judgement of the grandparents as haveing ""champagne souls."" I am going to steal that and have it engraved on my headstone. It is so deliciously Gatsby (I\'m a big a fan of Fitzgerald as a Brit can get ,-)) And then you also give as buttockery- from the sublime to the ridiculous; what can get better than ...', 'time': '19:28 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow, thanks so much for the praise, Rebecca. I really appreciate you taking the time to read and leave such encouraging comments.\n\nTrue, this isn\'t my wheelhouse. Give me a serial killer and a plot twist and I\'ll write up a storm! LOL But this felt like it needed to be written. The generational aspect was important to me, as well as the understated love between the pair of spouses. \n\nI\'m pleased that you liked the ""champagne souls"" phrase, as well as the word I coined. Buttockry may not make a big splash in American literature, but I think i...', 'time': '20:02 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow, thanks so much for the praise, Rebecca. I really appreciate you taking the time to read and leave such encouraging comments.\n\nTrue, this isn\'t my wheelhouse. Give me a serial killer and a plot twist and I\'ll write up a storm! LOL But this felt like it needed to be written. The generational aspect was important to me, as well as the understated love between the pair of spouses. \n\nI\'m pleased that you liked the ""champagne souls"" phrase, as well as the word I coined. Buttockry may not make a big splash in American literature, but I think i...', 'time': '20:02 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'What a beautiful story, Del. 🥲 You really showed the love in their marriage, as well as the love the grandparents felt. I liked how you touched on his realization they THEY were hurt too when their daughter left but never showed him. Just beautifully written!!', 'time': '00:31 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow, thanks so much, Nina. I appreciate the praise and you taking the time to read and comment on my tale.\n\nYou know, I don\'t usually do sweet and heartwarming. I\'m more of a ""give me a serial killer and some dead people"" type of writer. LOL However, I felt like this was a story that I needed to write. \n\nAnd thank you for picking up on my favorite part! Yes, the grandparents were hurt, but they loved the boy so much that they didn\'t show their hurt in front of him. To me, their sacrifice in this area is as poignant as anything else in the ta...', 'time': '10:20 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Does this mean you have something good and gory up your sleeve for this week’s monster prompt?!? 😃 so far, I’m just coming up butterflies and rainbows. 😂 I need to channel my dark side, but so far no luck!', 'time': '11:11 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': ""References to gore, torture, mutilation, etc. Nothing explicit, but I find that alluding to this sort of stuff leaves room for the readers' imaginations. Makes it even worse than the actual description.\n\nRainbows and butterflies. Nothing wrong with that, my friend. If you want dark, turn those beautiful, peaceful images into something threatening. The thunderstorm that comes before the rainbow, so to speak.\n\nGood luck, Nina. I always look forward to your tales.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '12:15 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow, thanks so much, Nina. I appreciate the praise and you taking the time to read and comment on my tale.\n\nYou know, I don\'t usually do sweet and heartwarming. I\'m more of a ""give me a serial killer and some dead people"" type of writer. LOL However, I felt like this was a story that I needed to write. \n\nAnd thank you for picking up on my favorite part! Yes, the grandparents were hurt, but they loved the boy so much that they didn\'t show their hurt in front of him. To me, their sacrifice in this area is as poignant as anything else in the ta...', 'time': '10:20 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Does this mean you have something good and gory up your sleeve for this week’s monster prompt?!? 😃 so far, I’m just coming up butterflies and rainbows. 😂 I need to channel my dark side, but so far no luck!', 'time': '11:11 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': ""References to gore, torture, mutilation, etc. Nothing explicit, but I find that alluding to this sort of stuff leaves room for the readers' imaginations. Makes it even worse than the actual description.\n\nRainbows and butterflies. Nothing wrong with that, my friend. If you want dark, turn those beautiful, peaceful images into something threatening. The thunderstorm that comes before the rainbow, so to speak.\n\nGood luck, Nina. I always look forward to your tales.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '12:15 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Does this mean you have something good and gory up your sleeve for this week’s monster prompt?!? 😃 so far, I’m just coming up butterflies and rainbows. 😂 I need to channel my dark side, but so far no luck!', 'time': '11:11 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""References to gore, torture, mutilation, etc. Nothing explicit, but I find that alluding to this sort of stuff leaves room for the readers' imaginations. Makes it even worse than the actual description.\n\nRainbows and butterflies. Nothing wrong with that, my friend. If you want dark, turn those beautiful, peaceful images into something threatening. The thunderstorm that comes before the rainbow, so to speak.\n\nGood luck, Nina. I always look forward to your tales.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '12:15 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""References to gore, torture, mutilation, etc. Nothing explicit, but I find that alluding to this sort of stuff leaves room for the readers' imaginations. Makes it even worse than the actual description.\n\nRainbows and butterflies. Nothing wrong with that, my friend. If you want dark, turn those beautiful, peaceful images into something threatening. The thunderstorm that comes before the rainbow, so to speak.\n\nGood luck, Nina. I always look forward to your tales.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '12:15 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Very nice, Delbert. It paints a loving marriage, and even though he praises Maddie with words, I think the strength of their relationship would have been clear anyway - the fact she set up this whole trip to the grave site says as much. And it sounds like the grandparents also had a great relationship, so that probably served as a great model for these two - more connections between the generations.\n\nIt *is* a sad story, but the necessary kind of sad. What else can mourning be? And it's not entirely sad either, as it's filled with happy memo..."", 'time': '21:15 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Michal. I appreciate the praise and the terrific analysis, something you do well.\n\nSad and sweet isn't my wheelhouse, but it felt like a tale I needed to write. The generational thing was to show some continuity, and the power of love and respect. Madison and the MC have a terrific relationship, and it's through commitment and respect that it works. Some simple messages that carry powerful results, yes?\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. I appreciate it, truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '21:19 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Michal. I appreciate the praise and the terrific analysis, something you do well.\n\nSad and sweet isn't my wheelhouse, but it felt like a tale I needed to write. The generational thing was to show some continuity, and the power of love and respect. Madison and the MC have a terrific relationship, and it's through commitment and respect that it works. Some simple messages that carry powerful results, yes?\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. I appreciate it, truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '21:19 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Sweet. Loving. Beautiful. That's just some of the great things I could say about this piece. The opening paragraph is such a draw and the last line of it is a comical flip, very well done.\n\nI really enjoyed the short to the point sentences, with the internal narration being slightly different from the spoken, added real character.  And speaking of real, his love from Maddie is adorable. I don't know why but I see this piece in the 50's, you haven't suggested anything but I just do. \n\nGreat, great, great."", 'time': '14:20 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Kevin. Your praise is making my weekend, my friend. I'm so pleased you liked the tale.\n\nI don't usually do sweet, loving, or beautiful, but this one felt like it needed to be written. Sometimes a tale just screams that it should be on paper (or a computer screen nowadays). Yeah, it was meant to be in the early 60's, so the 50's would certainly fit. Good observation.\n\nThanks again, Kevin. Your praise is worth more than any shortlist. Truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '15:19 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Kevin. Your praise is making my weekend, my friend. I'm so pleased you liked the tale.\n\nI don't usually do sweet, loving, or beautiful, but this one felt like it needed to be written. Sometimes a tale just screams that it should be on paper (or a computer screen nowadays). Yeah, it was meant to be in the early 60's, so the 50's would certainly fit. Good observation.\n\nThanks again, Kevin. Your praise is worth more than any shortlist. Truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '15:19 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Beth Connor': 'Beautiful and soul touching. It felt like a conversation with a true friend, safe, honest, and heartfelt.', 'time': '22:44 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Beth. I appreciate the kind words, and for taking the time to read and comment on my tale. I put a lot of thought into this one, as well as a lot of revision. It's almost non-fiction, so it reveals a lot about me.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '00:52 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Beth. I appreciate the kind words, and for taking the time to read and comment on my tale. I put a lot of thought into this one, as well as a lot of revision. It's almost non-fiction, so it reveals a lot about me.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '00:52 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🏆🏆🏆🏆Trophies all day long for this one, Del. So deep and meaningful and revealing and, yes, heartfelt. Loved 😍 it.', 'time': '21:11 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""The real trophy is getting comments like yours, Mary. Thanks so much for the kind words and for reading my little tale. I don't usually do heartwarming, so I'm glad I could pull it off well enough to bring forth some emotion. And, yes, the tale is revealing, right? It was a difficult write, but very rewarding.\n\nCheers, my friend!"", 'time': '00:50 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""The real trophy is getting comments like yours, Mary. Thanks so much for the kind words and for reading my little tale. I don't usually do heartwarming, so I'm glad I could pull it off well enough to bring forth some emotion. And, yes, the tale is revealing, right? It was a difficult write, but very rewarding.\n\nCheers, my friend!"", 'time': '00:50 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'This was beautiful Delbert. It was moving in a sad way , but the romantic element sweetened it perfectly at the end. \n\nThe unspoken familiarity between the two leads really made the story.\n\nAmazing work', 'time': '15:32 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Tom, for the kind words and the comments. I'm pleased you liked it because I don't usually do heartwarming. It was a tale that wanted to be written.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '16:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Tom, for the kind words and the comments. I'm pleased you liked it because I don't usually do heartwarming. It was a tale that wanted to be written.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '16:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Very heartfelt, from an MC who tries not to show much emotion, but it runs deep inside him. A tough upbringing, however it worked well for him.\n\nI liked this idea- “Consider me the sommelier for the dead.”\n!!\nThanks!', 'time': '03:53 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Marty, for the kind words. Heartfelt was my goal, so I'm glad that came through for you, my friend. You got the MC down perfectly. \n\nI appreciate the time you took to read my tale, and the wonderful comments. Truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '08:45 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Marty, for the kind words. Heartfelt was my goal, so I'm glad that came through for you, my friend. You got the MC down perfectly. \n\nI appreciate the time you took to read my tale, and the wonderful comments. Truly.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '08:45 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""I have goosebumps!\nWhat a sweet, heartfelt story, and so full of realism, meaning it's convoluted. It's about the grandparents, but it's also about a long and loving marriage. Maddie knows her husband, and they are both so comfortable with each other. Their back-and-forth is ingeniously wonderful. But she knows he has to do this, to say a proper goodbye to his grandparents. And then all of the rest of the story unfolds. I like how it ended up making a point about these rules for crying. Gramps knows what real pain is, and it's not a physical..."", 'time': '19:14 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, AnneMarie. I really appreciate the kind words and the telling themes that you picked up on.\n\nYes, it's a tale about four people, mainly. When you state that it's so full of realism - meaning it's convoluted - that really struck me as something significant that you saw. It's true, though, isn't it? Most relationships are convoluted. That was a nice catch, my friend.\n\nThis was s different kind of tale for me. I was really going for poignant - and even heartwarming. You know me well enough to know this isn't my typical styl..."", 'time': '20:03 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'AnneMarie Miles': ""Life is convoluted! I cried and laughed throughout this whole thing! You accomplished heartwarming, and you did it with such ease. If someone read this who isn't familiar with your work,they wouldn't know it's not your preferred genre. This is a whirling success. \n\nAnd I agree with you, and thank you for kind words. But the best teacher (at least for writing) is reading! And what's neat about this place is we all write so differently, exploring a plethora of genres and styles. It's really pretty phenomenal. \n\nKeeping my fingers crossed for t..."", 'time': '20:40 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': ""You're a real treasure, AnneMarie. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, and in your estimation of my writing skills. The sentiments are mutual, I assure you.\n\nCheers, my friend!"", 'time': '21:22 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, AnneMarie. I really appreciate the kind words and the telling themes that you picked up on.\n\nYes, it's a tale about four people, mainly. When you state that it's so full of realism - meaning it's convoluted - that really struck me as something significant that you saw. It's true, though, isn't it? Most relationships are convoluted. That was a nice catch, my friend.\n\nThis was s different kind of tale for me. I was really going for poignant - and even heartwarming. You know me well enough to know this isn't my typical styl..."", 'time': '20:03 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Life is convoluted! I cried and laughed throughout this whole thing! You accomplished heartwarming, and you did it with such ease. If someone read this who isn't familiar with your work,they wouldn't know it's not your preferred genre. This is a whirling success. \n\nAnd I agree with you, and thank you for kind words. But the best teacher (at least for writing) is reading! And what's neat about this place is we all write so differently, exploring a plethora of genres and styles. It's really pretty phenomenal. \n\nKeeping my fingers crossed for t..."", 'time': '20:40 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': ""You're a real treasure, AnneMarie. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, and in your estimation of my writing skills. The sentiments are mutual, I assure you.\n\nCheers, my friend!"", 'time': '21:22 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Life is convoluted! I cried and laughed throughout this whole thing! You accomplished heartwarming, and you did it with such ease. If someone read this who isn't familiar with your work,they wouldn't know it's not your preferred genre. This is a whirling success. \n\nAnd I agree with you, and thank you for kind words. But the best teacher (at least for writing) is reading! And what's neat about this place is we all write so differently, exploring a plethora of genres and styles. It's really pretty phenomenal. \n\nKeeping my fingers crossed for t..."", 'time': '20:40 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""You're a real treasure, AnneMarie. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, and in your estimation of my writing skills. The sentiments are mutual, I assure you.\n\nCheers, my friend!"", 'time': '21:22 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""You're a real treasure, AnneMarie. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, and in your estimation of my writing skills. The sentiments are mutual, I assure you.\n\nCheers, my friend!"", 'time': '21:22 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",n68339,Crazy Cate,Nina Herbst,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n68339/,/short-story/n68339/,Character,0,['Coming of Age'],20 likes,"
I never asked to be paired with Cate. The community center randomly threw us together with no apparent reasoning, other than we were around the same age. When my mom suggested I get a job with the Township that summer, I groaned and watched my days of reading outside in the grass under a tree evaporate like a puddle on a sunny day. “You’ll have plenty of time to read and be lazy until school starts again. I think you’ll like it,” she prodded. “Fine. I’ll apply, but if I DON’T get it, I can’t say I’ll be sorry,” I told her as I slunk from the kitchen and up to my room. To my mother’s delight and my disappointment, I was hired. Even worse, I could start immediately. I was to report to the Township Community Center the following Monday to receive my assignment. Would I be assigned Game Coordinator in the Rec building? Trash collector along the streets? Pool Concession stand worker at the Community Pool? I didn’t want to get my hopes up for any of the positions available that some town director doled out to hapless teens looking for summer jobs. I envisioned getting pelted with dodgeballs in the Rec room, and burning pizza slices at the pool. My preferred tasks were reading and eating popsicles in the summer sun. I decided whatever I was assigned would just be terrible. End of story. That Monday, I rode my bike to the Community Center, and dropped it in the lawn out front. I went into the mildly air conditioned building and found the reception desk. “I’m here to get my job placement for the summer. Where should I go?” I asked the girl manning the desk. She didn’t bother to look up from her Teen Magazine as she told me conference room B. Down the hall. The OTHER hall. (My sense of direction was as lacking as my other skills). I found conference room B and gently opened the door to peek inside. A handful of teens, dripping sweat and hormones, filled the tiny room. Everyone turned at once to look at me, and I felt my face redden as I tried to strut as nonchalantly and coolly as I could to the bulletin board listing our names and assignments. There it was. Rachel Roberts - Parks and Recreation Craft Committee What the heck was a craft committee job? There was no description. I saw everyone still staring at me, so I applied a mask of teenage apathy and turned to them and shrugged.“Craft committee. Whatever.” I waited to see if they bought it. They all returned the apathetic shrug, gave a nod, and went back to their chatter. I was relieved to be out of the spotlight, and just as I began to let out a sigh of relief, the door swung open in alarming ferocity and spit through it none other than Crazy Cate Collins. Crazy Cate burst into the room like a firework set to explode at any minute. She let out a “Hey ya’ll!” and ran to the Corkboard of Fate and (Mis)Fortune, as I was about to find out my summer would be tangled up in Crazy Cate’s erratic life. “Craft Committee! Yes!” she shouted, and pumped her fist. She then ran around the room like an NFL receiver who’d just scored the winning touchdown of the game smacking everyone with high-fives. Wait. Craft Committee? With..me?! I knew it had to be a mistake. I couldn’t possibly be paired with that pariah. But no. There it was. Plain as the frown on my face. Cate and I were both assigned Craft Commitee for the summer. “Who did I get this year?” Cate asked and scanned the room. Nobody replied, but I could practically see the thought bubbles dancing above all their heads saying “thank goodness not me!” I slowly lifted my head, took a step forward, and accepted my fate with Cate. “It’s me. I’m on Craft Commitee too,” I about whispered. “Well, Worm, looks like it’s you and me this summer! Saddle up, it’s going to be a wild ride!” she laughed. “Worm? Actually, my name’s…” I started. “Bookworm! I know who you are. And listen, no books allowed on the job, ya hear me? We have serious crafting to do!” she feigned a serious face. It was worse than I thought. No lazy summer reading, AND paired with Crazy Cate making crafts? I never wanted school to start more vehemently than I did at that moment. “Well, let’s get our supplies and get to it!” she said as she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out the door. Good gracious, was she a weight lifter too? My little arm throbbed in her massively strong grip, as I urged my feet to move faster to keep up with her. “This here’s the closet we get our supplies before we start each day. We choose a craft, go to one or two parks in town each day, and the little lemmings come over to us and make something. Got it, Worm?” she asked. “Um, yeah. Got it. Um…how do you know all this already?” I asked quietly. “I was craft committeed by these clowns last summer too. I know it inside and out. How to work, how to LOOK like you’re working, and the best places in town to hide out til work’s over. Stick with me, Worm, and you’ll be in for the best time of your sorry life!” she promised. Sounded more like a prison sentence. And I was about to commence with Day 1. We grabbed the craft boxes and carried them outside to her car. I use the term loosely. It had an engine, some doors, and it moved. But I felt like I should be signing some kind of waiver before getting inside: “I hereby relinquish all rights to life while traveling from point A to point B” or something of the sort. “Get inside, Worm!” Cate ordered. I obeyed, wide-eyed and terrified. The car smelled of some kind of alcohol and I was pretty sure a family of skunks had made a home under the driver’s seat. “First we can go to Memorial Park. It’s pretty empty Mondays. We can lay low there awhile.”On the way, Cate told me we just had to tell the township folks which parks, which days, and how many kids crafted that day. A purely made-up magical number not-too-high, not-too-low, just right to keep us in “business”. And so it was. For the duration of the summer, Cate and I went park hopping with our craft supplies. She would disappear into the woods with a backpack of bottles, like bait for the “cool kids” who followed her in. The pied-piper of delinquents. I’d sit at the picnic tables and benches waiting for any kids that wanted to craft, with instructions to tell our boss Mr. Carter she was just in the bathroom with “lady troubles” should he show up for a spot check to make sure we were crafting. That excuse always caused him enough awkward discomfort to slow down his checks on us. I began to worry about how much and how often Cate got into drinking and drugs. She always managed to be well enough by the end of the day to drive us back to the center to return the supplies and for me to get my bike to ride home. But I feared it didn’t stop when she got home. And it started getting worse as the days drew near to summer’s end. “Mom? Can I talk to you about something?” I had started one day. I needed advice. I needed to know if I should talk to Cate about what I was seeing. “Yeah, Sweetheart? What is it?” My mom asked with a smile on her face. “Um, did you wash my red tank top yet? I wanted to wear it tomorrow,” I chickened out. “Yeah, it’s in your room. Was that all?” my mom suspiciously asked. “Yep! Thanks!” I said and ran off. Bock Bock Bock. I was still debating how I could bring up the topic the next day, when Cate slung her backpack over her perfectly tanned shoulders and got ready to disappear again for the day. “Alright, Worm, hold down the fort and man the glitter til I get back!” she said with a salute of her hand in my direction. And then she was gone. Again. Hours later, she still hadn’t come out from the woods. Not entirely unusual for her, but I suddenly had a feeling in my gut I should go look for her. I left my glue and popsicle sticks, and went to the tree line where she had gone in. It was eerily quiet. I called out a few times, but without an answer. I could feel the sweat running down my back as I began to worry more. As I walked further into the woods, my shoes crunched the leaves of last Fall, soon to be replaced with the leaves of this Fall. I looked down the path ahead, and saw something. I hurried closer and found a very pale, very unconscious Cate. I tried to wake her up, but she was out. I ran from the woods as fast as I could to the pay phone by the bathrooms. I rummaged through my Jean shorts pockets and found coins, then called 911 breathlessly as my hands shook and my heart punched my chest. I told the dispatcher what had happened, where to send an ambulance, and then ran to the road to guide them to the woods when they arrived. I remember watching them take Cate on a stretcher out of the woods, and into the ambulance. I remember watching it pull away, screaming sirens cutting the hot summer silence. I don’t know how long I’d been crying at that point, but I sank to the ground and sobbed then. Full body, shaking crying. An EMT had called my mom to pick me up, and I went home and just sat with her. Crying, worrying, and wishing Cate would be ok. Mom tried to make me feel better, told me I’d done the right thing. Did I? I finished out the next week by myself at the parks. I wondered how Cate was doing, and if she was still in the hospital. When school started, I heard a rumor Cate was in rehab and wouldn’t be back for awhile. I wondered if she was mad at me for calling the ambulance. Maybe she would have been fine and woken up? Maybe I overreacted? I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe I got her in trouble and she would never forgive me. And everyone at school wouldn’t forgive me either for jumping the gun and ruining Cate’s summer when all she wanted to do was have fun. These thoughts consumed me for weeks. I was still trying to push those thoughts away when I stopped for a drink at the water fountain after Science. As I stood up, I looked down the hall and saw her. It was Cate. She was back. And she was walking straight towards me. I tried to read her face, and couldn’t. Was she mad? Would she even acknowledge me? She looked so much better than she had in the summer. Her tan was long gone, but her face looked healthier. Her eyes weren’t sunken in and rimmed with darkness. As she grew close, she gave me a nod. “Hey, Worm. Thanks.” And with that, she walked by me and greeted her friends who were waiting down the hall.But that’s all I needed. 
","September 06, 2023 19:05","[[{'Martin Ross': 'Very acute examination of adolescence and the harrowing traps it holds. I was kind of a goodie-two-shoes in school, but if my folks had ever known about how close some of my friends skated or brought me to the edges, they’d have freaked. My single life was the same — a series of fascinating but addicted or obsessive souls who never quite dragged me into their darkest dark. That “Worm” tries her best for Cate but makes mistakes, and winds up on the margins with her and being OK with it, only make this a more compelling and satisfactory story....', 'time': '15:57 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Madeline Honig': 'Great character development.  I feel like I was there right with the narrator the entire time.  Nice job!', 'time': '14:11 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Margarita Escobar': 'What a lovely story, Nina. I enjoy your character development and your well-crafted narrative. Congratulations!', 'time': '01:59 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Very good! Like others said, both characters are well realized, and there's a remarkable shift here from a bit of a quirky summer job story with a zany co-worker, to something that becomes uncomfortable, increasingly tense, and finally quite dramatic. \n\nI like that she doesn't learn the consequences of her actions right away too, and that she has no idea what Cate thinks about her having called for help until right at the end. This drags the discomfort out and increases the tension right to the last sentence. \n\nAn enjoyable summer tale, suit..."", 'time': '20:37 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'You have such a talent interacting with stories and picking out the good parts. I feel like I want to run by you some of my more questionable life choices and have you tell me what’s good about them 😂 \n\nThanks so much for your feedback. I really appreciate you taking the time to discuss what you take away from my stories. I’m glad you picked up on the drawn out anxiousness she felt. Makes the lesson have more of an impact I think that way!', 'time': '21:05 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'You have such a talent interacting with stories and picking out the good parts. I feel like I want to run by you some of my more questionable life choices and have you tell me what’s good about them 😂 \n\nThanks so much for your feedback. I really appreciate you taking the time to discuss what you take away from my stories. I’m glad you picked up on the drawn out anxiousness she felt. Makes the lesson have more of an impact I think that way!', 'time': '21:05 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Murray Burns': 'Another interesting and well-written story. I like your style....story-telling, short and to the point without getting bogged down reaching for adjectives. As my daughter constantly reminds me, ""Brevity is the soul of wit"".', 'time': '01:58 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'Great read. The Cate character was very well formed. \n\nEnjoyed it', 'time': '15:45 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bob Long Jr': 'Good read Nina .. thanks ! Keep it going !!', 'time': '19:25 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Bob! Thanks for the read! 😄', 'time': '21:32 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Bob! Thanks for the read! 😄', 'time': '21:32 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Oh dear Nina, I've been both of these people through my teenage years lol. \n\nVery well crafted story, strong believable characters, excellent narration with a sharp snappy plot. In short, great story. \n\nKeep them coming,"", 'time': '11:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'You’ve been both?!! Lol!! Thanks so much for the feedback! \nThis week’s prompts are out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure if I’ll get anything for it, but I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone else comes up with!!', 'time': '11:43 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""Yes, I was always the book worm scif fi nerd, then had a growth spurt in second year and became very tall and able to get served in the off license at 13, so I started parting hard until I was nineteen. \n\nThis week was difficult, I wasn't going to enter until I checked yesterday and seen very few entries so bashed a quick, and completely outside my comfort zone, story together. Last minute I know ha."", 'time': '11:55 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'You’ve been both?!! Lol!! Thanks so much for the feedback! \nThis week’s prompts are out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure if I’ll get anything for it, but I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone else comes up with!!', 'time': '11:43 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Yes, I was always the book worm scif fi nerd, then had a growth spurt in second year and became very tall and able to get served in the off license at 13, so I started parting hard until I was nineteen. \n\nThis week was difficult, I wasn't going to enter until I checked yesterday and seen very few entries so bashed a quick, and completely outside my comfort zone, story together. Last minute I know ha."", 'time': '11:55 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Yes, I was always the book worm scif fi nerd, then had a growth spurt in second year and became very tall and able to get served in the off license at 13, so I started parting hard until I was nineteen. \n\nThis week was difficult, I wasn't going to enter until I checked yesterday and seen very few entries so bashed a quick, and completely outside my comfort zone, story together. Last minute I know ha."", 'time': '11:55 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Lovely story Nina. Just the right balance of teenage drama and mature reminiscence. Cate is well written believable and larger than life. A real force of nature!', 'time': '16:57 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much, Derrick! I work in a middle school, and sometimes the teenage drama seems to just seep into the room from the hallways and I can’t stop it. 😂 I’m glad to be in the “mature reminiscence” stage of life! Lol!', 'time': '17:03 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Well I'm approaching the Alzheimer's stage of mine so you are still in good shape 😜"", 'time': '17:11 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Haha! You bird 😂 I’m sure you have some years to go!!! But if not, I DID do several years of cognitive therapy in nursing homes for Alzheimer’s. We can have therapeutic conversations to slow the process!!', 'time': '17:15 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much, Derrick! I work in a middle school, and sometimes the teenage drama seems to just seep into the room from the hallways and I can’t stop it. 😂 I’m glad to be in the “mature reminiscence” stage of life! Lol!', 'time': '17:03 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Well I'm approaching the Alzheimer's stage of mine so you are still in good shape 😜"", 'time': '17:11 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Haha! You bird 😂 I’m sure you have some years to go!!! But if not, I DID do several years of cognitive therapy in nursing homes for Alzheimer’s. We can have therapeutic conversations to slow the process!!', 'time': '17:15 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Well I'm approaching the Alzheimer's stage of mine so you are still in good shape 😜"", 'time': '17:11 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Haha! You bird 😂 I’m sure you have some years to go!!! But if not, I DID do several years of cognitive therapy in nursing homes for Alzheimer’s. We can have therapeutic conversations to slow the process!!', 'time': '17:15 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Haha! You bird 😂 I’m sure you have some years to go!!! But if not, I DID do several years of cognitive therapy in nursing homes for Alzheimer’s. We can have therapeutic conversations to slow the process!!', 'time': '17:15 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow, I can\'t even begin to note all of the splendid phrases you have in this tale. The attitude and personality of Rachel ""Worm"" Roberts comes through brilliantly with the first-person POV. Cate\'s personality - loud, bombastic, forbidding - is evident, though we don\'t hear from her as much. That\'s some good writing, Nina.\n\nA couple of things:\n“First we can go to Memorial Park. It’s pretty empty Mondays. We can lay low there awhile,” Cate commiserated. It would probably be better to use the tag ""Cate said."" Keep the tags very simple and spars...', 'time': '12:40 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Morning Del! Thanks so much for the great feedback and suggestions!!! I think you’re right about the dialogue, and it’s funny you brought that up because as I was writing, I was thinking how redundant and forced it was sounding. But then I kept it anyway 😂 \n\nThe ending here was tricky for me. I did have it sitting awhile ending as you suggested, then decided to spell it out for the reader, then deleted it, then added it back. I think you’re right though, if I cut that part, the message is still heard. Hmm. Sometimes I play with things too mu...', 'time': '12:56 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Morning Del! Thanks so much for the great feedback and suggestions!!! I think you’re right about the dialogue, and it’s funny you brought that up because as I was writing, I was thinking how redundant and forced it was sounding. But then I kept it anyway 😂 \n\nThe ending here was tricky for me. I did have it sitting awhile ending as you suggested, then decided to spell it out for the reader, then deleted it, then added it back. I think you’re right though, if I cut that part, the message is still heard. Hmm. Sometimes I play with things too mu...', 'time': '12:56 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Great story, Nina. I think we've all been in similar positions growing up."", 'time': '08:20 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Ty! Yeah, there comes a time when we face tough choices. For sure. Live, learn, grow, right? \nThanks for reading ! 😄', 'time': '13:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Ty! Yeah, there comes a time when we face tough choices. For sure. Live, learn, grow, right? \nThanks for reading ! 😄', 'time': '13:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Great coming of age story.', 'time': '20:38 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks Mary! 😄', 'time': '23:32 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks Mary! 😄', 'time': '23:32 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",5mqwas,A Catalyst for Change,Ty Warmbrodt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5mqwas/,/short-story/5mqwas/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",18 likes,"
“Oh, where is mom,” Sarah asked behind clenched teeth.“I don’t know, baby. Maybe she’s stuck in traffic.”“Shut up! I wasn’t talking to you.”Sarah crawled out of bed and started shuffling across the hospital room floor, belly in hand. She was doing her breathing just like the leman's teacher showed us, hee hee hoo, hee hee hoo! “Is there something I can do to help.”“Shh! I do not want to hear your voice,” she growled.I watched Sarah as she paced the room, her little fanny hanging out the gown, all sense of decency out the window. She was so cute, even in her miserable state. Blonde hair, blue eyes, round face, button nose, looking all natural without a hint of make-up, hair tied back tight with a scrunchy, oily with sweat.“Baby, would you like some ice chips?”“No, Jason, I would like you to shut – the hell – up!”Sarah was normally the sweetest little thing you would ever meet. She was studying to be an occupational therapist at the time because she wanted to help enrich people’s lives and help them live to their fullest potential. She has always had a bleeding heart for all things helpless, rescuing animals hand-over-fist and draining her paycheck to feed every homeless person she encountered. She has always been a dork too. Her sense of humor is quirky, outlandish, and sometimes just plain old stupid, but her laugh is so infectious that you would swear she was the funniest person in the world.She started to slow her breathing, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. With big doe eyes and quivering lips, she said, “Ice chips would be great, sweetie. Thank you.”I headed out to the nurse's station to get the ice and to see about getting the doctor in there. Her contractions were only a couple minutes apart. I had heard that there is controversy over which was worse, labor or being kicked in the nuts. From what I was seeing, she was getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes. So… yeah.“Here are the ice chips. I talked to the doctor. He will be in in about five, ten minutes,” the nurse said with a smile. She was a friendly nurse, but no older than I was. I doubted she ever had a child at the time. I liked the older nurses that looked like moms who were sympathetic and dragged doctors around by their earlobes.I returned to the room and Sarah was back out of bed. She was leaning on it, doing her breathing hard and heavy. I set the ice on the table and massaged her back. She swatted me away.“Jesus, Jason, where’d you go, Iceland?”“I had the nurse talk to the doctor to see when he could get in here.”“Uh, I hope it’s soon. I want this thing out of me,” she said as she climbed back into bed.“Five, ten minutes,” I told her as I went into the bathroom to wet a washcloth.I wiped down her forehead and neck. I didn’t know what else to do. I felt helpless and useless. I could kill a spider or catch a mouse. I could stand up for her or fight off her attackers. I could care for her when she’s sick. But this was different. All I could do was sit and watch her suffer.There was a knock at the door, and it clicked open. A doctor who was not our doctor walked in.“Hi, I’m Dr. Rosenbalm. I’ll be performing your delivery.”“What happened to Dr, Turner? I specifically chose Dr. Turner,” my angry wife demanded of the new doctor.“We are on a rotation. It’s okay, I promise you are in good hands. So, the nurse tells me those contractions are coming every couple minutes or so. Let’s see where you’re dilated at.”The doctor took a look and told us that Sarah was only dilated six centimeters. He recommended inducing labor, which we did. The doctor left, saying it would be a couple more hours. I looked at Sarah sympathetically. She returned my look with a glare similar to a tiger locking onto its prey. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.Fifteen minutes later another knock came at the door. This time it was Mrs. Harris, Sarah’s mom. My angry, snarling wife melted into a child at the sight of her mother and cried with relief. If I had been kicked in the nuts every two minutes for what had been three hours, I would want my mommy too.“I’m so sorry sweetie. There was a wreck on the freeway. The traffic wasn’t moving, and I was losing my mind trying to get here. How are you,” Mrs. Harris asked.Sarah grimaced as another contraction began before she could answer. Her mom took her hand and let her squeeze as she used the other hand to stroke her hair. “I know baby. You’re strong. You will get through this. When you see that baby, it will make it all worth it. You are doing so good,” she told her with a soothing voice.The contraction subsided and Sarah looked at her mom adoringly with the sweetest, purest smile of appreciation.“Jason, I have this for a little while. Why don’t you take a break. Get something to eat,” Mrs. Harris told me.I looked at Sarah. I didn’t feel like I should leave. I felt like I needed to be there, but with a gentle nod of her head and a faint smile she gave me the okay.I went to the cafeteria and got some chicken fingers and fries with Mountain Dew. I didn’t realize how hungry I was or how much I needed the caffeine. Once I ate, I felt a ton of stress released. I didn’t know why I was stressed; Sarah was the one doing everything, but the tension in my shoulders released like untying a knot. The game was playing on the monitor, so I stayed until I finished my soda before going back upstairs.I returned to the room as they were wheeling Sarah out. A nurse greeted me. “Are you dad?”“Yes, what’s going on?”“The baby is breach, and the doctor cannot get her turned. He is going to do a C-section to get the baby out. Here, put these on,” she said, handing me some scrubs, “and join them in the operating room through that door.”“Is my wife okay? Is the baby okay?”“They’ll be fine. Hurry up now.”I threw the scrubs on and hurried into the operating room. They had already started. The aesthetician waved me over and showed me where to stand. Sarah was awake so I asked her how she was doing. She was groggy and calm, but said she was fine, that she could feel them cutting into her, but it didn’t hurt. I looked over the curtain they placed in front of Sarah’s face just as they were removing her intestines and laying them on her chest. I quickly looked away.“Are you going to vomit,” the aesthetician asked.I shook my head no.“Faint?”“No, I’m good,” I said as I regained my composure.“It’s a girl,” I heard the doctor exclaim, followed by a tiny cry. “Dad, do you want to cut the umbilical cord.”They handed me a large pair of scissors. I thought they would cut straight through the cord, but it was rough, leathery, and I had to chew my way through with the scissors. The doctor tied it off. I watched as they measured her and weighed her. They wrapped her up in a blanket and handed her to me.She was so little, and I was so scared I was going to break her, but I cradled her as the most precious thing ever handed to me. “Hi, baby,” I said with the gentlest voice I could muster.She opened her beautiful blue eyes and they fluttered against the brightness of the lights overhead. “She looked at you. That means she recognizes your voice,” a nurse told me.Sarah called from the operating table as they were stitching her up. “Let me see!”I made my way to Sarah, slowly rocking the baby as I went. Sarah said hello and took one look into those eyes and started to cry.“What are you going to name her,” a nurse asked.“Marshmallow,” my drug induced wife answered.I laughed. “We agreed on Rachel. Rachel Lynn Palmer.”“We need to take Rachel and run some tests to make sure she’s healthy and your wife needs to go to recovery. Come back tomorrow and you can see them both.”I went back to the hospital the next day. I entered Sarah’s room and saw her in bed, upright, breastfeeding Rachel. At that moment, on the twenty-second day of July, I started thinking about all the times that I had thought that I had grown up in my life. When I hit puberty, when I started to drive, the first time I had sex, graduating high school, turning twenty-one, my first place. Looking at them there snuggled together I realized that growing up wasn’t a milestone or even a rite of passage – it was a decision. Even though I was twenty-four, I was the type of guy who called into work because he drank too much the night before or wanted to go fishing because it was a nice day. I squandered money on expensive toys just because I had the money to spare rather than investing it or saving it. I never thought about the future, only living for today. And on that twenty-second day of July, I made the decision to change all that. I made the decision to grow up.
","September 05, 2023 12:45","[[{'Kevin Logue': ""This story resonated with me so much. Lots of heart, heaps of reality, beautiful and truthful message.\n\nIt wasn't that long ago I was in the delivery for my little girl and for the three hours of labour I felt so useless, didn't know what to say, what to do, just sit there and hold her hand. You've captured this really well, the urge to help pushed back by the inability to actually do it.\n\nBaby making everything that came before seem so juvenile is terribly honest, opens that crossroads in life that you have worded perfectly - it a decision ..."", 'time': '11:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you, Kevin, for such appreciative words. Thank you for reading.', 'time': '13:34 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you, Kevin, for such appreciative words. Thank you for reading.', 'time': '13:34 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Growing up is a decision that some people never make. I like the way your narrator identifies his flaws, his weaknesses, his helplessness in the situation and steps up to the plate to adult in the adult arena now. The baby is a lovely catalyst for change.\nYou describe childbirth so viscerally from the father’s POV. Loved that perspective.', 'time': '13:50 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""You're right. Some people never make that decision. Maybe they never had a reason. I don't know. Thanks for the kind words. I appreciate them as always :)"", 'time': '15:31 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'I had to rename the story Catalyst for Change after your comment. Are you OK with that, because it can be changed back.', 'time': '22:56 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Never mind. I will think of something else. It feels like stealing.', 'time': '23:00 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'It’s not stealing. If the phrase rings true for you go for it.', 'time': '13:40 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you', 'time': '16:04 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kay Smith': 'Likewise! It was so interesting to hear it told from that POV especially as well-told as this!', 'time': '16:12 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""You're right. Some people never make that decision. Maybe they never had a reason. I don't know. Thanks for the kind words. I appreciate them as always :)"", 'time': '15:31 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'I had to rename the story Catalyst for Change after your comment. Are you OK with that, because it can be changed back.', 'time': '22:56 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Never mind. I will think of something else. It feels like stealing.', 'time': '23:00 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'It’s not stealing. If the phrase rings true for you go for it.', 'time': '13:40 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you', 'time': '16:04 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Never mind. I will think of something else. It feels like stealing.', 'time': '23:00 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'It’s not stealing. If the phrase rings true for you go for it.', 'time': '13:40 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you', 'time': '16:04 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'It’s not stealing. If the phrase rings true for you go for it.', 'time': '13:40 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you', 'time': '16:04 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thank you', 'time': '16:04 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kay Smith': 'Likewise! It was so interesting to hear it told from that POV especially as well-told as this!', 'time': '16:12 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'There’s an old saying that everyone remains a child until they become a parent. Nice story from a father’s point of view.', 'time': '10:54 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Lol - I haven't heard that. Thanks for reading."", 'time': '11:50 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Lol - I haven't heard that. Thanks for reading."", 'time': '11:50 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'A sweet story nicely written, Ty.\n\nGood work.', 'time': '07:59 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kay Smith': ""'From what I was seeing, she was getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes.' -- LOL! That struck home for me (and hysterically so) as I have done it three times and, YEP!' I liked the older nurses that looked like moms who were sympathetic and dragged doctors around by their earlobes.' -- 'ear, 'ear! I do, too!\n'All I could do was sit and watch her suffer.' -- I never fully realized this feeling until I was there while my daughter was in labor. It's a horribly helpless feeling!\n'She returned my look with a glare similar to a tiger locking..."", 'time': '16:10 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Kay - Thanks for all the amazing feedback! I'm glad you took the time to read and write. Thank you so much."", 'time': '16:48 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Kay - Thanks for all the amazing feedback! I'm glad you took the time to read and write. Thank you so much."", 'time': '16:48 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",gp26lu,Stardust Dreams,Beth Connor,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gp26lu/,/short-story/gp26lu/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Drama', 'Creative Nonfiction']",16 likes,"
There was a time when we were nothing but stardust dreams. It hung suspended for a split second, delicate as a leaf that floated to the ground. Wrapped in the blanket of youth, children in a haze of shared laughter and intertwined fingers.
 
You wore that flannel shirt, and I was lost in an oversized sweater with more holes than fabric, mirroring the ragged edges of a heart too large for the body it was crammed into. In our tiny universe, there was no room for anything else - only unspoken words and dreams yet undreamed.
 
We danced on the edge of time, oblivious to the rhythm of ticking clocks and grown-up demands. Our scars were invisible, kept hidden beneath layers of youthful optimism and stubborn defiance.
 
All we had was the starry sky, twinkling with the promise of a million unseen futures. Each nightfall was a secret we had whispered between us, sealed with a curfew that marked not the end but a beginning.
 
As the days melted into nights, our innocent laughter was cloaked in the shadows of unspoken thoughts. In that vast expanse of summer, where every heartbeat seemed endless and every whisper a promise, there was one moment that stood apart, shimmering with a different hue. It revealed a path yet to be taken..
 
That was the summer that everything changed.
 
The air in the tent was stale, and I hugged my knees closer. It was warm, even for August, but ice gripped at my heart. I wanted to feel something, anything. 
 
He was there. A chill ran through me and I looked away. I remembered his eyes, colored like the sky and wine, gazing into mine. Had I followed him into the woods? The angry scrapes on my back suggested that I had.
 
 Even today, I can still feel his touch on my cheek and remember his glance as he led me towards the river. The waxing moon, a silent sentinel, had cast a cold, judgmental light, making my shadows stark and unyielding. Her light had reflected off the stream, birthing hundreds of tiny pixies that had flown over to surround me. Their image had burned into my retinas.
 
My eyes squeezed shut, and I was back in my tent, surrounded by people, yet alone. I didn’t remember how we got back there.
 
Then, my vision wavered, and I felt the pull to run far away. I saw a pixie from the night before flit out of my tent and the zipper on the door caught as I tried to tug it down.
 
Outside, camp mates lounged by the fire, shadows etched on their faces. Their silence spoke volumes, a shared understanding of the depths and shallows of the previous night. I faked a smile and shut my mouth, wishing someone would notice me. Maybe if I hoped hard enough, he would apologize. Instead, I lit my cigarette and inhaled deeply. The sun would set, and the next day it would rise. Nothing that happened mattered.
 
The dawn, in its golden glory, bathed me with a warmth that felt like a gentle whisper, urging me to move forward despite the weight of the previous night. Around me, the morning was quiet. I continued to walk, observing the crowds as I passed.
 
I wandered to an area of farmland that was awake. Children were running around barefoot and joyful, with their parents talking in hushed voices. I wondered if that was how it was supposed to be, and a pang of guilt washed over me like a sudden rainstorm.
 
The treeline loomed ahead, shadows playing tricks on my eyes, and the sound of rushing water echoed in the background, each ripple bringing back haunting memories of the night before.
 
 My head jammed painfully against a rock, arms pinned, wanting to shout stop, but I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. Part of me died last night with each thrust of his hips.  
 
A woman was bathing in the stream. The sunlight glinted off her blond hair. Her breasts, dripping with water, sparkled in the morning light. She smiled at me warmly, oblivious to my shame, and her lavender eyes drew me in.
 
I dipped my toes into the water, feeling its gentle tug. Each ripple, each drop, seemed to beckon me closer — a dance of nature inviting me to cleanse my wounds and see myself anew. As I gazed into the water’s surface, my youthful face stared back at me. She looked so full of hope and innocence, yet I knew better.
 
After submerging into the bath, the rocky bed proved uncomfortable. But the water flowed over me, washing away my disgrace, all under the dappled light of the sun shining through the trees. 
 
The woman with lavender eyes rose and headed deeper into the forest, and I followed her. One foot in front of the other, I walked while the birds sang. They forgave me for not being stronger, for not having a voice. The moss was soft here, and I took off my sandals, carrying them in one hand.
 
I felt lost inside, but here I felt safe. In the distance, there was music. A mournful tune that pierced deep into my soul. The mist rose, and the woman stopped, stretching her hand towards me. When her fingers brushed against mine, warmth spread through my body. She stroked my hair as I wept in her arms.
 
We walked together towards the music, into the mist. The smell of fresh bread permeated the air, and the tables were laden with fruit and all varieties of cakes and sweets. Shadowy figures moved like lost memories, dancing and laughing — a spectacle of joy seemingly untouched by time’s weight. The music, though played by many, converged into a single haunting melody. Some smiled and acknowledged me, while others, graceful as ballerinas, were lost in their own ecstasy.
 
The woman handed me a glass filled with honeyed nectar, and I drank it in. She touched my face in the same spot he had, but I didn’t recoil.
 
A small structure stood beyond the clearing. As I made my way closer, I saw the cottage was part of the earth and nestled into the ground itself. Its doors were open and welcoming. In the corner, a figure sat — an echo of a time less tainted. His auburn hair told tales of sunlit days, and his green eyes reflected my hopes, both lost and yet to be found.
 
He stood and clasped my hands, then handed me a piece of warm bread. I put it to my lips. Without a word, he led me back to the clearing, where we twirled with the music. We danced and danced until my feet could no longer move. Then he asked me for one more dance. I fell into his arms and we swayed slowly as the music died out. Exhausted, I collapsed to the ground and sleep overtook me.
 
When I opened my eyes, the companions of the night were gone. Yet, their absence left behind a profound clarity — an awareness of strength and resilience I hadn’t known before. As I trekked back through the woods towards the campsite, the weight of my loneliness felt more pronounced, but it was a weight I realized I had to bear. This solitude was the crucible of my growth. When I emerged from the woods to view acres of pasture, I no longer saw emptiness, but as vast spaces filled with the potential for fresh stories and the fading echoes of the past.
 
 
 
","September 08, 2023 15:44","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow, this was beautiful and disturbing and, in the end, hopeful. You certainly packed a lot into this tale, Beth. Very lyrical in style, very soothing (mostly) in tone. Nicely done.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '10:15 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'Wow, Beth, this was like reading a beautiful poem.\n\nGreat job', 'time': '15:41 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",ypx45y,A Train to Nowhere,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ypx45y/,/short-story/ypx45y/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction', 'Contemporary']",15 likes,"
Wednesday, July 3, 2002The summer of 2002 started like this: an eighteen-year-old boy on a Kawasaki Ninja motorbike rocketed down 14th Avenue at about sixty miles an hour, popping a wheely, right as a girl with a white Jeep backed out into the middle of the intersection without looking.We were sitting on the porch at 14th and A in Belmar, NJ drinking SoCo & Limes on the rocks when it happened.When the motorcycle was suddenly stopped by the white Jeep, the boy riding it was not. We watched him sail through the air like a punted football, somersault forward, and land on his back with a thud. I swear you could have heard that crash and thud from Little Italy. His helmet cracked like an egg. Motorcycle parts went everywhere. Blood spurted from a protruding rib. Legs and arms bent at strange angles. Protruding bone poked at the skin that hung to his skeleton, like Hefty trash bags full of sticks. There was a smell of grease and oil, but no burnt rubber. The son of a bitch had never even had time to break.Roxanne, our resident nurse, ran out to give the poor bastard CPR. As she attempted chest compressions, blood splashed into her face. This kid was in a bad way. Pronounced dead on the scene bad. Gratuitous horror movie gore bad.Coming down here for a week, all I had wanted was to have one last hurrah with the boys now that we were graduates before we were off to the races. Jobs. Families. The whole nine. The problem was, somehow, everything was turned upside down. That carefree thing that we had an infinite supply of just a few months before, was suddenly tapped out, like a keg at a college party that just started spitting foam. To be honest, since 9/11 everything had changed, and none of us really knew how or why, just that it was different now.And making matters worse, I did not have the slightest idea what I wanted to do with my life. Still don’t. Somehow, knowing, really knowing, it could end at any time, made those choices that much harder.Later that very night, a picture of “Jimmy” on posterboard was placed by the spot where he died. A cross was made with two pieces of hand-rolled construction paper tied in the middle with strings, anchored in the dirt by a round dowel encircled by chicken wire. Dozens of candles, notes, cards, and trinkets were strewn on the lawn. The first candlelight vigil was held that night. There were about twenty family members, classmates, and friends in attendance. By the end of the holiday weekend, they were more like fifty people strong. This was the immediate effect of one dumbass who bit it in a tragedy of his own making. But let’s be honest, this kid died because he was being a major league douchebag. There was just no way to imagine almost 3,000 innocent people who hadn’t done a thing wrong killed in the circumstances of the World Trade Center—parents, firefighters, kids—you name it.While the first night’s candlelight vigil was going on, I turned to Jerry and said, “I don’t think I am going to get a motorbike after all.”“No shit, shithead,” Jerry said.“Death man. It gives me the goosebumps. It’s just so abstract,” I told him. And the thing was, being twenty-two years old, death was as far off for us then as the planet Pluto—an impossibly far distance. But now, it’s right around the corner.“We are not long for this world, brother man. Collect all the money in the world. It won’t help one bit when it’s your time to go,” Jerry concluded. This was a particularly prescient statement considering that Jerry wouldn’t see another birthday.Ryan James studied Economics. He worked for Red Bull. And he was an adrenaline junky. I’m Jeff. I studied philosophy. I did my dissertation on the existentialists. But I am in sales. High-tech electronics. Servers and such. And Hurd had studied Business. He is in finance. Worked for Lehman Brothers. He was supposed to be in the World Trade Center that day. Saved by a stomach bug. And Harry, well Harry sold knives. Cutco knives. No shit. And banged anything that moves. Jerry studied marketing. He worked for Pitney Bowes. Sold mail meters. The poor son of a bitch actually contracted Anthrax the year before. Kid had absolutely no luck.As we were well into our second fifth of SoCo, putting down shots at a good solid pace, we noticed Black Hawk military helicopters flying overhead, buzzing like droning bees on patrol, and a few fighter jets scrambling for no apparent reason, like big dragonflies darting back and forth with an intense and ominous humming sound.“See that,” Harry said, pointing up, “you never noticed those before. Probably just running exercises from Fort Dix or something. But now you ask yourself if something is going on.”“It’s like that scene in the Wizard of Oz,” Ryan James said, “where the Wizard is behind the curtain, and they pull back the curtain. It’s just a little man with knobs and shit, saying ‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.’ We are all sure as shit paying attention now. I hear the brontide rumbles of a storm coming in, I’m scanning for bombs and shit. I actually reported a ‘see something, say something’ on the subway last week, for f**k’s sake!”“There were always inalienable truths before. The American Government was going to keep us all safe from foreign attacks, businesses always report their earnings honestly, and it is none of our G**damn business what f**king Black Hawk military helicopters, fighter jets, and other birds of war are doing flying overhead,” I said, getting a little riled up and annoyed.“In Wizard We Trust,” Jerry said.“Here, here,” Harry said clinking glasses.“The Wizard chose us for this life. He makes sure the buses come on time. Traffic is busiest just after 9:00 a.m. There is always a 15-minute delay at the Holland Tunnel. Suped-up Civics get pulled over first on the Turnpike,” Hurd added. “Now you can’t even get into the city on the Path Train from Hoboken. It just doesn’t have a terminus. It’s literally a train to nowhere.” It got me thinking. Every morning we get up and read headlines from the New York Times. And the headlines read, “The Wizard is Well.” But what if the Wizard is all f**ked up? What if he was exposed to Anthrax or something? Someone might have to get him to a clinic and look behind that curtain and try to figure out what all those levers and pulleys and knobs do. How does this thing actually run? I can just see myself back there, behind that green curtain. And there’s just a flashing red button on the control panel that says “CHAOS” going off like crazy. Below are instructions: “Nothing is as it seems, no need to worry. -Management.”“There is a Simpsons episode where a flashing warning light comes on. Instead of saying fasten your seat belts or turbulence, it says: “Godzilla.” The monster is holding the plane and the captain comes on to say, ‘Godzilla usually lets the plane go around 35,000 feet.’ That’s kind of how I feel about everything that’s going on right now, you know?” I ask.“Right,” Harry says. “It’s Godzilla-time. You boys ready to go out and cause some trouble?”* * *Sunday, July 2, 2022We didn’t know it then, but Harry and Jerry, who had been in the National Guard would head off to Afghanistan in October of 2002 and would get blown to kingdom come by an IED.Ryan James and I are at a bar in Bayonne, NJ with a bunch of much younger girls, doing round after round of green tea shots.“For f**k’s sake Jeff, I don’t drink like this anymore,” Ryan James says.“The hell you don’t,” I say. “I see your Insta feed with all of those trips to Red Bull sporting events.”“I guess you’re right,” Ryan James said.“I know, you’ve got two young ones at home, but I’m still a bachelor,” I say.“So are we going to the city to the Blarney Stone to throw down a few pints to remember Harry and Jerry or what,” Ryan James says.We call an Uber to head to the Path station. Once there, we take the World Trade Center train down into the newly rebuilt World Trade Center station. They’ve turned the wreckage of the greatest terrorist attack in world history into a mall.Stay Clear of the Closing Doors Please.As we get off the train, I walk up the stairs and into the Oculus. There is a huge two-story Apple store. There’s a Banana Republic. Ethan Jordan Jewelers. Eye World Optical. A Marriott. I mean, you could literally come in for a latte, get an eye exam, get fitted for some readers, buy an engagement ring, and reserve a room to hole up for the night, all without leaving the Oculus.It is one of those things that always seems off to me. Tragedy and commerce. Doing a little dance. The one growing out of the other like poppies springing up amongst the graves and headstones, row by row.* * *Thursday, July 4, 2002“Hey, shithead,” Jerry said.“Yeah.”“You still with us?” he said.“You know what it is Jerry. You know those little nameplates on people’s desks? [Yeah.] They have your name and a title below it. You know what I’m saying. We spend all of this time trying to figure out ‘what we will be called’ and what temperature-controlled rectangle we will spend forty years being bored inside of,” I say.“Jeff—you high?”“No Jerry, I’m serious. Think about it. There’s no overriding reason to do anything that doesn’t directly benefit you—and if things go really, really well, you get to collect some money for being old,” I say.“Collect money… for being old? You mean like a 401(k)?” Jerry says.“Exactly!” I say. And Ryan James walks up to us.“Can we just say, for the record, my girlfriend is the coolest chic on earth,” Ryan James says beaming.“Why’s that,” Jerry asks.“I don’t even understand what these girls are doing enrolling in college. My girlfriend came over today to pick up my laundry, my f-ing laundry. She’s got a 3.8 in finance, and she comes over to my dirty apartment to do my laundry, bro,” he says.“Maybe… I don’t know,” Jerry says, “she’s trying to tell you that you smell?”“So, you’re telling me she actually touches your dirty filthy f**king underwear, and folds it in little piles, and delivers it back to you?” I say.“With precision, precision folds. Every shirt is lovingly wrapped with creases like blades. Go to the Gap. Ever wonder how those shirts get really, coolly, neatly folded like that? Dude, she does it just like that, amazing. There’s no college in the world that can teach a girl to fold clothes like that,” Ryan James says.“So, you going to pop the question or what,” Jerry said.“I don’t know,” Ryan James said.“We aren’t going to be here forever,” Jerry said. He was right. He certainly wasn’t.* * *Monday, July 3, 2022We were sitting out on Pier A. The city was lit up like a Roman candle. A light summer breeze wafted up off of the Hudson River with a fresh “how-you-doin’” attitude. I looked across the river at the tall spire of the new One World Trade Center. It looked a bit like a lance—the kind knights used in jousting tournaments. Come to think of it, it looked more like a rocket—the SpaceX ones—enormous with oddly hard angles, ready to blast off in a rumbling roar chasing the heavens.There were food carts along the promenade. Families with young kids had come out with the little ones sitting on their father’s shoulders, holding their mother’s hands, or being held aloft with little pink fingers pointed at the sky. People with coolers were dotted across the lawn on lawn chairs and varicolored blankets. They were drinking hard seltzers, mixed drinks, and Budweiser beer with requisite koozies. There was the smell of grease and smoke from the barbeque. A sweet acrid bite of propane and liter fluid. The clouds were floating in the sky like driftwood bobbing in the tide. The whole world was still and calm and at the same time festive. It would scarcely occur to you that if you peeled back the wallpaper of this world, there was another world behind it, an eternal realm that no man, woman, or child on this Earth had ever seen or really knew anything about—and for twenty years now Jerry and Harry had been living there. Like the silvered linen of an old-fashioned movie screen catching the beams of a projector, catching the shadows of dust mites in its technicolor paint—you could tear it. And then the projection would just hurtle off into infinity.I wondered if they could see us down here, from where they were, if they could see us foolishly scrambling about like the little Jack Terrier chasing a frisbee on the lawn, with no more idea what we were doing than the aimless wind that blows where it wills.And then one day, we’d all be boarding a train to nowhere. Or somewhere. With a one-way ticket. And a final boarding call.Some sparklers crackled and fell like hose water sprayed out of a sprinkler—kids running through it screaming like banshees. The whistle of three or four more rockets shatters the stillness of the night. Over by the end of the pier, the Macy’s Fourth of July show is getting into full swing. Screamers are howling, then cracking and spiraling down in parabolic curves. Ruby red Catherine Wheels are cracking and bursting into apple-like red globes that fizzle and dissipate to ether. Where do those bright flames go? Do they really fizzle out and disappear completely, or do they leave an imprint in another world, just beyond our grasp?* * *Friday, July 5, 2002After a riveting game of strip hi-lo with some girls from Bar Anticipation, those of us who still have some clothes left shed them, and we all disrobe completely. Harry, Jerry, me, Ryan James, Dawn, her roommate Noel, Kelly, and Michele. ""Streak—Party!!!,"" Harry yells out.Harry hands out pink and green Punky hair dye. We spray it all over each other's bodies like Indian War Paint. The eight of us scream and howl and run naked down the block and a half to the Ocean, oohing and ahhing as we skip past passersby on the street and boardwalk. We yell each other’s names and laugh from the deep wells of our lungs, and nearly trip and fall as our feet scramble over little stones and pebbles on the asphalt.I dive into the wake and feel the cold shock and rush of the salty water rushing past me and invading the heat of my being. I feel a clean and clear jolt of adrenaline that I can taste like metal in the back of my mouth.Dawn swims up next to me. As she treads water, I can feel the water currents from her movements. The tide lifts us and drops us like bobs on a fishing rig. I know she is naked next to me. Inches away. I can feel the heat of her thigh against my thigh even though we are not touching. I can imagine the dampness of her. The imagining of what is below the waves is more visceral, more real, than anything above the surface. In the chill of the night, her lips are bright and strawberry red against the contrast of the paleness of her drawn white face, painted with just a hue of rouge from the day’s sun.Looking into Dawn’s eyes, they are slatted green gems. The tiny flecks of brown seem to me like train tracks, drawing me in toward a vanishing point in the horizon, at the end a long black tunnel, like the kind an old Victorian steam train draws through—a train to nowhere.I always remember that night with Jerry and Harry and how we went to the International House of Pancakes at dawn after we all laid out all night in blankets and beach towels and had a bonfire on the beach. I remember laughter. I remember the cresting waves of summer. Drawing us out to adulthood, pulling childhood and innocence forever out to sea. Creating a rift in our destinies. Sifting us like grains of sand. Wave upon wave. A steady train of waves. An onslaught of turbidity. A murky, dark unknowing void. An endless space of life-giving possibility—a canvas of stars. A graveyard of drowned and muffled possibilities, sunk and forgotten, at the bottom of the sea. A crisp blade of moonlight toward the horizon drawing out a long yellow track to infinity. The entire vastness of the sea—all-in-all.A train to nowhere.
","September 09, 2023 03:54","[[{'Martin Ross': 'Man, the imagery alone is dazzling, from the vivid lead-off to the payoff. \n\nTHIS: “It would scarcely occur to you that if you peeled back the wallpaper of this world, there was another world behind it, an eternal realm that no man, woman, or child on this Earth had ever seen or really knew anything about—and for twenty years now Jerry and Harry had been living there. Like the silvered linen of an old-fashioned movie screen catching the beams of a projector, catching the shadows of dust mites in its technicolor paint—you could tear it. And t...', 'time': '15:24 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Martin!', 'time': '23:16 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Martin!', 'time': '23:16 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'E. Fois': 'Your story is nostalgic, but strong, I like it a lot !', 'time': '08:15 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks E!', 'time': '23:16 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks E!', 'time': '23:16 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Oh, you are definitely going somewhere, my friend. Awesome once more.☺️', 'time': '23:49 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '23:16 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '23:16 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jesper Jee': 'Wow. 32 stories since Jul, 2023. How on earth do you do it!?  Because from what I can tell none of your stories are sloppily written or uninspired.\nWell done!', 'time': '22:08 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': ""Thanks Jesper!  I've always wanted to write.  Literally haven't written anything since college, let alone a standalone story.  But I am a lawyer and probably churn out about 6,000 words a day at work -- but not creative fiction or storytelling -- that's for sure.  So, I made it a personal challenge to do a full story a day, even if it isn't Shakespeare.  Doing my best to keep it up.  Surely won't be able to forever.  But thank you for noticing!  Doing my best over here."", 'time': '22:49 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jesper Jee': 'That is inspiring! Truly! I have tried something like that myself but it’s like pulling teeth. And I am currently toothless. Also, writing in a foreign language is a challenge. Thank you for replying back!', 'time': '18:42 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': ""Thanks Jesper!  I've always wanted to write.  Literally haven't written anything since college, let alone a standalone story.  But I am a lawyer and probably churn out about 6,000 words a day at work -- but not creative fiction or storytelling -- that's for sure.  So, I made it a personal challenge to do a full story a day, even if it isn't Shakespeare.  Doing my best to keep it up.  Surely won't be able to forever.  But thank you for noticing!  Doing my best over here."", 'time': '22:49 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jesper Jee': 'That is inspiring! Truly! I have tried something like that myself but it’s like pulling teeth. And I am currently toothless. Also, writing in a foreign language is a challenge. Thank you for replying back!', 'time': '18:42 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jesper Jee': 'That is inspiring! Truly! I have tried something like that myself but it’s like pulling teeth. And I am currently toothless. Also, writing in a foreign language is a challenge. Thank you for replying back!', 'time': '18:42 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marc Rothstein': 'Wow! The loosely organized structure and time jumps made me work for it, but your poetic prose made it all worthwhile. Your theme was stated many ways, but obvious and impactful by the end.', 'time': '13:58 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Marc!', 'time': '00:25 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Marc!', 'time': '00:25 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",031m74,Dixon Street,Kevin B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/031m74/,/short-story/031m74/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Sad', 'Teens & Young Adult']",15 likes,"
If it was a Wednesday, we’d get pizza after midnight.
 
Grandpa Ed would wake me up from my spot on the couch. The television would be playing reruns of a show from the 1950’s about a talking cat or a horse that solves crime. The black and white would cross my face, and I’d fear for a moment that the world had lost its color. Then, warmth. I’d be scooped up into arms that smelled like tweed and Aramis. I’d pretend to still be asleep, but I don’t know why. I don’t know why that was my favorite thing to do. Fight going to bed only to continue feigning slumber. So much of childhood behavior is a mystery to me. Maybe that’s how it is for everyone. I don’t know.
 
Out we’d go to the car, and I’d be placed in the backseat, as though Grandpa Ed was my chauffeur. He’d fire up the Ford Taurus, and we’d make a right turn onto Spring Street, and then a left, and then another left onto Thames. The pizza place stayed open until 1:45am year-round. They were open that late even in the off-season when the only people walking the streets were the ghosts of navy men and debutantes who never made it to their ball. Inside, you’d pay $6.99 for a ten-inch, one-topping. Grandpa would hand the teenage girl behind the counter a ten, and tell her to keep the change. That’s how they came to remember him. He was the older man who tipped well enough to merit forgiveness for having an eight-year-old boy out with him close to midnight on a Wednesday.
 
The place had high, round tables that were all different colors, but I always demanded that we sit at the green table. If someone was already sitting there, Grandpa would kindly ask them if they could move, because his grandson’s favorite color was green. They’d always oblige, although I’m talking as though this happened all the time. It didn’t. I’m turning one event into a series, because I’m surprised that the green table was always free. Maybe it wasn’t. I might be making things up. I do that now. I look back, and I invent. I do it to fill in the spaces, but when I’m done, I like to add a little color on top. Memory adjusts, why shouldn’t I?
 
The topping was always pepperoni, which is not exciting. If this was a made-up story, I’d tell you we had sausage or pineapple or something even more exotic, like eggplant. No, we did pepperoni, and I don’t feel like adjusting that. The slices were big enough to take up the entirety of a paper plate, and I’d take my time eating, because when we were done, it meant home to bed, and not to the couch with the tv playing. It meant really going to bed. My bedroom was a spare room that used to be my mother’s. It still had a poster on the wall of David Cassidy and a desk with a diary on it. Inside the diary, there was one page filled out, and it was the page where you’re prompted to answer questions about yourself.
 
Favorite Food:  Ham and Cheese Sandwich
 
Favorite Movie:  The Amityville Horror
 
Future Job:  Lawyer
 
How Many Kids Will I Have:  I Don’t Want Kids.
 
Several months earlier, I was sitting in front of my school waiting to be picked up. My father had forgotten to pick me up two days in a row the previous week, and so my mother decided it would now fall to her to retrieve me. I couldn’t ride the schoolbus, because the kids on the bus made fun of me for my dirty hair and wrinkled clothes. The school refused to do anything about it unless my parents came in for a meeting, and since my parents never came in for a meeting, the solution was for me to be picked up everyday. My father assured my mother he could handle it since he was out of work, and there wouldn’t be any reason he couldn’t set his alarm at 1:45pm five days a week and make the ten-minute trip down the road to get his only son.
 
Even that, however, proved too difficult for him, and I had to use the phone in the secretary’s office to call, wake him up, and then have him ask me if I had any money on me for a taxi. The secretary brought me home that day even though it probably wasn’t allowed. She was a nice, older woman who felt bad for me. She even let me take candy out of her glove compartment on the way home. It was a tart candy, but I don’t remember exactly what it was. The next day when my father didn’t show up, I simply walked home. It began to rain, and when I showed up, my mother was furious. She wasn’t furious at my father, because she never got furious at my father. She was furious at the time.
 
“How can it be so late,” she screeched, upon seeing me drenched, standing at the front door, “No, it’s not three o’clock. It’s not. No. I don’t accept that. It’s not.”
 
For as long as I could remember, my mother had always believed that the world was against her. So why not time now as well? When faced with her addiction and the consequences it was having, she chose to believe that the clocks were conspiring to make her look like a bad mother. Why else would her son be walking home in the rain? Luckily for me, even at her lowest, she was a fighter. She would pick me up from that day on. That was how this would resolve itself. She would stop drinking at noon, and by 1:45pm, she’d be good to drive to school, pick me up, bring me home, make me a snack of dry cereal in an unwashed bowl, and then commence drinking again until she passed out next to my father in front of the television. The black and white light turning all the alcohol in their bodies to something kind and nostalgic. Nothing that could hurt them or me, their only son. Nothing to be ashamed of.
 
My mother was not only there on time, but she was early, and that’s how I knew we might not make it home alive. Those moments of panic when it was her trying desperately to lead a normal life while her desire to drink hammered away at her like Hephaestus created a kind of balance wherein she could focus, because she had to. Because she knew the lion was at her neck, and if she got too comfortable, it would begin to chew. Today, she had arrived early. The smile on her face as she got in the car told me all I needed to know. She was not just a good mother, but a great mother. She was a mother who arrived to pick her son up early. She had done her hair. She had some make-up on. The smell of the Long Island was palpable in the car, but it had no bearing on my mother and her parenting. She was doing it all. The drinking, the falling down, the picking up, and driving.
 
We almost made it home. I won’t go into details, not because they’re gory, but because they’re mundane. You always almost make it home. Most accidents happen close to home. I could see our driveway as they were pulling me out of the car. I worried that I smelled like alcohol. I worried that the paramedics would think I was the one drinking. I was only a child. Drinking would get me in trouble. I wasn’t worried about my mother. Why would I worry about her? She was an adult. What happens to an adult? I should have been terrified. I should have screamed for my mother. I should have asked where they were taking her. I didn’t. I’m not making that up. I know I didn’t scream. I know I was quiet. I know I was.
 
* * * * * *
 
The promise was just one summer with Grandpa Ed. It couldn’t be more than summer. Grandpa Ed lived in Newport, Rhode Island, and that was a beautiful place in the summer. In the summer, the town filled up with men in salmon shorts and women with white sweaters tied around their shoulders. There was tennis and beach days and weddings every day of the week. Everybody wanted to be in Newport in the summer. I was lucky. Lucky to be alive and lucky to have a grandfather who had a house in Newport. My mother would go spend the summers with him too after her parents divorced. The two of them would live together, but that was about all they’d do. She’d leave everyday to go down to the beach where she’d meet boys from rich families who would kiss her and then ask why she wore the same bathing suit everyday. Newport was where she met my father, who did not come from a rich family, but a family that owned a small restaurant in town. He brought my mother there on a date when she was seventeen and he was nineteen. He served her spaghetti like he’d cooked it, and then moved a meatball over to her with his nose like they were in Lady & The Tramp. That’s the story he told me anyway, but I don’t know if it’s true. If not all of it, most of it is true. Mostly true is all you could get out of my father. Mostly true was all he could give you.
 
My father was the one who told me it would only be one summer. In the Fall, after my mother was done with physical therapy, and they’d both completed a rehabilitation program, they would come and pick me up. We’d get ice cream at Kilwin’s and go to the arcade next door, and it would be as though nothing bad had ever happened. Until then, I’d only ever seen Grandpa Ed on holidays, and he’d even skipped a few of those. He wasn’t an unpleasant man, but he seemed to have no interest in children. When my father dropped me off, the two of them exchanged words in the driveway, and then my father drove away while Granda Ed watched him go. He turned and almost looked surprised to see me standing on his second step. The steps leading into a house that had housed only him for years now.
 
“You like tv,” he asked me, and then before I could answer, “I know kids like tv.”
 
That might have been all he knew.
 
What he learned over that summer was that if you don’t know how to parent a child, then you can simply become a child alongside them. That’s why we spent every afternoon in the arcade. That was why ice cream was often our only dinner. That’s why we watched television late into the night until one or both of us passed out. It was only on Wednesdays when we had a routine. Tv, pizza, and then home to bed. I don’t know what was special about Wednesday’s. I never asked then, and I can’t ask now. Grandpa Ed died of pancreatic cancer two years after I left him at the age of seventeen. That one summer turned into many summers. The season of tennis and tourism turned into off-season after off-season. I skipped half a school year until the truant officer showed up, and then a routine was foisted upon us. Grandpa Ed didn’t drink, but that didn’t mean being a father came easy to him. He hadn’t ever taken my mother to school, and so I became his do-over. He was retired from the navy, but any discipline he learned in the service was long gone by the time I showed up. I never had a curfew, I never did chores, and as long as the school wasn’t calling to ask him who the hell was raising that grandson of his, I never got in any trouble. My parents never came back to pick me up, but, instead, they became the new Grandpa Ed. They showed up at Christmas, if at all. Sometimes with gifts, sometimes not. Some years drunk, some dried out and practically comatose. There were usually apologies and tears and then we’d all go to a movie together. My mother eventually did get sober when I turned twenty-one. I was ready to take my first drink when my cell phone rang, and I saw “Mom” come across the screen.
 
“I’m done,” she said, “I promise, this time, I’m really done.”
 
I thought about her diary. I thought about the kids she never wanted. I thought about the lawyer she never got to bed. I thought about how the world was against her and time and stop signs she swore came out of nowhere. I put down the drink.
 
“That’s great, Mom,” I said, “That’s really great.”
 
That story sounds made up, but it’s true. I can tell you true stories about my mother. I have to make up stories about my father. The real one isn’t something I can tell. You can make up one if you want. You’ll have to. Even my made up ones aren’t worth telling.
 
* * * * * * * *
 
One night, after pizza, I asked my grandfather if I could sleep in the car instead of coming inside. It was the night before Labor Day. My parents would be coming in a few days to get me. Soon, I’d be packing up my things and returning to my real home with my real television with the black and white light that could cleanse you as you slept. Things would be better, but also the same. The same school, but with freshly shampooed hair everyday and ironed clothes that smelled that Tide. The same parents, but happier and always on time, never early or not there. The same life, but one I would appreciate, because I’d seen the alternative. I hadn’t hated the summer with Grandpa Ed, but everything about it felt like hard soil. You couldn’t plant roots there, and that was intentional. This wasn’t a place where people came to stay.
 
Grandpa Ed might also have believed that my parents were coming to get me that week, and that our time was drawing to an end. Why else would he have acquiesced and let his grandson stay in the car with the doors unlocked and the windows rolled down? He lived in a nice neighborhood, because most neighborhoods in Newport were nice, but it was still reckless, wasn’t it? I wish I could ask him about this. I wish I could ask him why he nodded slightly, and then went inside the house. I wish I could ask him how he knew I’d be all right. I wish I could ask when he realized my parents weren’t coming back. I didn’t realize it until almost Halloween of that year. I was cutting holes in a sheet to go trick-or-treating as a ghost when I understood that it had been too long. It had been too long and there was no coming back. Not for anyone.
 
That night in the car, I laid across the front seat, and thought about how I could forgive my mother. It seemed to me that there were all kinds of ways to forgive someone, and if you did it just right, they might not be afraid to return to you. I practiced forgiving her in my mind, and then out loud. I chose my words carefully. I invented new words. I sang a bit. From outside, the ocean made its ocean air, and kissed the tires, the doors, the steering wheel, the locks, and the front door of every house in town.
 
It never kissed me though. It knew I was leaving. It was sure of it.
 
You see?
 
Even the ocean makes mistakes.
","September 02, 2023 00:16","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""That part about not wanting kids, and the son read that part. Whoa! Man, that hit hard!\n\nGritty and almost hopeful. These powerful emotions served to represent the truth of the matter - or a convincing alternative. This is memory and trauma and adaptation and revision all rolled into one terrific tale. It's very noir-ish, but there is some lightening of the situation. Masterfully done, Kevin - as usual. \n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:45 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Delbert. I appreciate it.', 'time': '18:35 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Delbert. I appreciate it.', 'time': '18:35 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'I think the line that hit the hardest was when he mentions the diary entry of “I don’t want kids”\nCrushing. \nSuch a powerful story. 😢', 'time': '19:26 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': ""I know, it's interesting because inhabiting him as a writer, I really felt how hurtful that must have been, but then editing it, and looking at it as a reader, I realized that it explained more about who she was and how she found herself in this situation."", 'time': '21:10 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'You’re right. And then the times she tries to be the good mom are accentuated.', 'time': '23:17 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': ""I know, it's interesting because inhabiting him as a writer, I really felt how hurtful that must have been, but then editing it, and looking at it as a reader, I realized that it explained more about who she was and how she found herself in this situation."", 'time': '21:10 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'You’re right. And then the times she tries to be the good mom are accentuated.', 'time': '23:17 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'You’re right. And then the times she tries to be the good mom are accentuated.', 'time': '23:17 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'This story said so much in the so little the child understood.  So sad.🥺', 'time': '20:05 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Mary.', 'time': '20:30 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Mary.', 'time': '20:30 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Kevin, I thought this story was well written and sad. \nThanks for the good read. LF6', 'time': '05:51 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Lily.', 'time': '19:09 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Lily.', 'time': '19:09 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michael Martin': 'My thoughts as I read through the first time (typing them out in real time):\n\nSeeing the tags, I’m mentally preparing myself for a heavy-hitting story.  I almost wrote a story for this prompt, but it was too heavy for me to finish, so I went with a different prompt. \n\nRight away, I’m getting the feeling this may be based on reality – or at least has elements of reality.  The details seem very much like they’re coming from experience.  The line, “I pretend to be asleep, but I don’t know why,” hits home.  I used to do that all the time, but to...', 'time': '20:27 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Potent. The narrative voice was so strong, the writing so delicate and sombre, it really hit me in the feels.\n\nMy own parents were alcoholics and so much of this story hit home with me. \n\nGreat work Kevin, I look forward to reading more of your work.', 'time': '10:11 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Fellow Kevin. I appreciate that you felt I did the story justice. Looking forward to more of your work as well.', 'time': '18:09 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Fellow Kevin. I appreciate that you felt I did the story justice. Looking forward to more of your work as well.', 'time': '18:09 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",3qqq9l,The Summer I Grew Up,Evie Adams,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3qqq9l/,/short-story/3qqq9l/,Character,0,['Coming of Age'],15 likes,"
The summer I grew up was not a happy one. How could it be otherwise? It’s suffering and pain that transform us, not contentment and pleasure, however alluring and attractive they seem. At some point, the nursery and all its soothing safety and warmth have to be ripped away, and the child has to stare at the cold, hard, unfeeling facts of life with no one to comfort her.For me, in that sweltering summer of my late youth, the cold, hard, unfeeling facts of life consisted of a white funeral hall, a silver and sable coffin, and my mother’s corpse.How can I explain to you what it was like as a child, who up until that moment had been making castles for my princesses in the backyard sandbox, running through sprinklers and dashing along slipping slides with the neighbors’ kids, and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches prepared by my mother, to suddenly be staring at her in a coffin? The sheer immensity of the feelings inside me, stirring and exploding in me like a volcanic maelstrom, was too much. Even now, after the space of so many years, I can barely bring myself to recall the memory of standing beside her coffin. I remember running my fingers along her face and feeling it cold to the touch. I shook her shoulders, hoping against reason, that her eyes would suddenly flutter open and she would fold me in her arms as she always had after something awful had happened. But of course, there was no miracle. She was dead, and that was that. Pain ran through me like lava, burning and bubbling in my veins, and hot, salty tears streamed down my cheeks. They gathered in little pools at the base of Mother’s neck as I rested my face against hers. As a child, I only thought of myself. I wanted to know who would give me bandages when I fell from my bike and scraped my knees, who would wake me up on weekday mornings for school, who would read me bedtime stories, who would hug me when I felt sad for no reason, who would smile at me with a love that seemed to brim over from her kind, tender eyes. I wanted to know how she could have gone. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t seem real. It cut against everything I had been led to believe up until now. Mothers didn’t die and leave their little kids behind. What?As an older woman now, I know the pain of death ripples through a whole community; its spasms and paroxysms were not just mine. They belonged to my father, too, and my little brother. But at the time, they only made me mad; I wanted to hurt them. What a cruel thing those emotions were. Not only did I have to suffer them but they drove me to want to suffer alone. They separated me from the one possible place I could find comfort. When my father tried to place his arms around me, dazed and grief-stricken as he was, I only pushed him away. And when my baby brother cried and asked where Mama was, I only cursed at him with the foulest words my little childish brain could come up with. Screw you!They weren't, of course, very foul in comparison to the words I would learn in the years to come. But I was so innocent then. Mother didn’t let me use any words that could hurt or hold even the smallest hint of some dirty connotation. She was a poet. Words, for her, were meant to uplift and inspire, to lead us into the mystery of life, to weave beauty, and to express our highest sentiments. Not our happiest or most sophisitcated sentiments but our highest.Staring at her corpse, bloodless and embalmed, ruined that for me. It all seemed so stupid. What was the point of life if what was best and most certain could be torn away at any moment... if Mother could die? It wasn’t until years later I began to see, though dimly, some wisdom in her words—although by then I could not even recall the sound of her voice. Human memory is such a terrible thing. It plays a feeble simpleton when it comes to moments of great comfort, letting them dissolve in a haze. But for those moments of agony, and fear, and desperation, oh, it remembers those so well.After I cursed at my baby brother, everyone in that white, undecorated hall gave me dark looks—my father, especially. There was so much wrapped up in his expression: pain, disappointment, shock, anger... rejection. He went after my wailing baby brother to tend to him, to care for him, to make him feel okay. And I was left alone with my mother’s corpse with no one to look after me.The worst part was that I knew it was my fault. I shouldn’t have said that to my brother. It was gratuitously and stupidly cruel. But the very fact it was my fault made it so much worse. I couldn’t even take comfort in being right. I was so alone.My mind was elsewhere to the funeral. The fat, old pastor who presided mumbled words about ashes and death and things that made no sense to me at all. I was only vaguely aware when they lowered the coffin into the tomb, and the family tossed bits of dirt on it, whispering their final farewells and whimpering prayers. Instead, I was thinking about the stories Mother had told me in the twilight hours of the day when my consciousness floated along the boundary of sleeping and waking.Somewhere, in that liminal place, her stories still lived—not in the way that conscious memories exist, all neat, linear, and comprehensible. Instead, the stories where there like a luminous presence, a golden sphere with no center, in which every point is as close to every point, and past and present are all one. It sounds so awfully confusing to try to put it into words—but that experience was not made for words. It comes from a place beyond words. In the weeks that followed, I clung to that warm sphere with the desperation of someone dangling over a chasm by a bare rope. Mother was gone, and however often I wandered through the fields behind our house to visit her grave, I felt an infinite chasm between us. And also, I could shake the image from my imagination of her body decaying beneath the ground. If I could see her now, I knew she would stink of death, and I would turn away in revulsion. But the sphere, that golden sphere of memory, was always beautiful, bright, and pure.There was no easy ending, no definitive moment when some sudden insight revealed itself to me, and I learned how to cope and be happy. The path that leads out of psychological collapse is long, crooked, and dark. It often turns back upon itself until you wonder whether you’ve made any progress at all, or if you’re not descending deeper into the pit. But eventually, the world becomes a bit brighter. In each Autumn, the changing leaves are more poignant, and in each Spring, the fresh blossoms smell sweeter. You learn to smile more and not antagonize people because of your pain. And when you’re kinder to them, they in turn are a bit kinder to you. My brother and I are very good friends now, and as often as we have faced trials since that terrible hour in which we lost our mother, we have leaned on each other for love and support. Through it all, you learn—and I think this is probably the most important lesson—that pain can open your heart the way spring rain opens flower buds. And although it can hurt to open your heart, especially when it is in pain, it is the only way to make life bearable and indeed happy. My mother, poet that she was, left behind one last legacy for me: a love of words. Here are two to sum up my messy and untidy tale—one from Italy and one from Israel. The Latin word for compassion, misericordia, weaves together two words: miser and cordia. Suffering and heart. The Hebrew word for compassionate, nurturing love is rachamim, and it derives from the word for womb, rechem. After much reflection, I came to see in my own memory of the liminal, luminous experience of love, embodied in that golden sphere, rachamim. I only fully appreciated it, and could share it, when this pure beautiful concept of rachamim collided with the messy, hurtful one encapsulated in misericordia. Growing up is about learning the meaning of these two words, and what it means to put them together. And that’s what, in a long and roundabout and difficult way, I learned from the summer I grew up. 
","September 08, 2023 19:36","[[{'Wanda Fischer': 'This sounds like a confession. It also made me think of when my grandfather died (I was eight), and my mother forced me to kiss him when he was in the casket. It was one of the grossest things I ever did. I had nightmares for months. Thanks for sharing this.', 'time': '23:10 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Evie Adams': 'Thank you, Wanda, for sharing your experience. I went to many funerals growing up, but no one ever made me kiss the deceased; I can imagine it must have been very painful and disturbing, especially as a child.', 'time': '14:13 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Evie Adams': 'Thank you, Wanda, for sharing your experience. I went to many funerals growing up, but no one ever made me kiss the deceased; I can imagine it must have been very painful and disturbing, especially as a child.', 'time': '14:13 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",0cughe,Natal Day,Joe Smallwood,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0cughe/,/short-story/0cughe/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Sad']",13 likes,"
Trigger warning: death of a child.The road by our house was sand-sealed, not paved. It would heave and tilt every spring, shedding gravel and tar clumps for the graders, men, and dump trucks to set right again.The kids in our neighborhood were friendly enough, and when we weren’t in our backyards, the road was our playground. We played Red Rover until too many scraped knees made tearing up and tossing frisbee-shaped chunks of sand-seal more fun. We never got in trouble for that.Trouble unlike any we had ever known before started on a sunny Saturday morning in a poor neighborhood where my grandparents lived. A family was moving into the rental next door, and my sister and I were supposed to be friendly with a new girl called Gracie. We wanted to please our parents, but really, we weren't interested. We already had our friends, and it was summer, our time for adventure.Banging the front door behind us, my sister and I raced to see who could be out on the front lawn and into the sunshine first. We tripped down wooded steps to the front yard, collapsing into a heap of limbs, tickling or being tickled, laughter in our ears.“Stand up!” commanded my sister, too soon exhausted.“Why should I?” I demanded.“You’re covered in grass stains!” she replied.The grass was wet, and we should have known better. We tried smearing the grass stains off our clothes, but it was useless. Mom would have so much to say. It would be a lecture, for sure.Speaking of lectures, the movers next door needed one. Men tossed furniture and boxes off a beat-up truck and dumped them on the grass. I wondered why the movers didn't take everything into the rental. My sister whispered, “Welfare People,” and I nodded, trying to understand.A strange girl in a ripped blue and white polka dot dress stood in the heaps of old things, lamp stands, and furniture. We knew we could play with her, but she kept staring at us in a strange way.My sister giggled when the girl, who must have been Gracie, finally gave us a dirty look. My sister dared her to stop staring. Gracie double-dared her back. Then, my sister said that new kids should show more respect. She was going to teach Gracie a lesson.“Brownie!” my sister yelled as she walked over to her.“Come closer, girl!"" Gracie said.My sister was way taller than Gracie. But just when I thought she would push Gracie down, Gracie smacked my sister clean across the face!Everything went so fast. My sister wanted revenge. Her nosebleed all over her poncho! Gracie said she had only started to dish! I wanted to run. Run far away. Then a mover got mad and used words so bad. Never such bad words before! There were no cats around. No cats fighting, just two girls, my sister on the ground. So she had to get up! Get up! Such a pretty poncho, all covered in blood!The mover was so tall and strong, with tattoos on his big hairy arms, his cigarette hanging from his mouth between my sister and—""Cut that out! Get up off the ground, whoever you are!"" yelled the mover.Parents were all of sudden outside. Everyone was apologizing. Gracie gets a hug from her Mom. Where's my hug? I started crying so much, I couldn't stop till my chest hurt.#My sister jumped on my bed.“Rise and shine, make the day mine!” she yells.I kicked at her but missed. She's wearing the poncho again.“I thought the nosebleed ruined that poncho! Get off my bed, you moron!”“Mom used special yellow soap. See, all better!”She hopped off my bed and showed me where the blood stain was. She thought it was better.I was looking for my clothes, which were still on the floor.“Aren’t you going to leave now?” I asked.“Oh, alright,” she said. “You better hurry up. Dad’s not going to wait for you. If you want to earn money at the store for Natal Day, that is.”In the car, Dad's mad. I ran out, no shower, no breakfast. We had to get to Grandad’s grocery by nine o’clock.Later, at the store, Dad is at the cash register, while my job is to put pop bottles in the water cooler. Sticky bottles had to go in that smelly water that only got changed once a month. Even the towel I used to wipe those glass bottles for customers smelled bad. Tuttle's pharmacy had dime a bottle air-cooled drinks. So much better.Most days, I was sweating so much in the store that I liked the cellar a lot. The cellar was where I got the bottles from. It had a dirt floor for storage and creepy spiders. It smelled like really old dirt. You could still see where the coal was dumped into the basement from a window. Except it wasn't a window, just a wooden door kind of window. I hauled drinks from where the coal used to go. Working at the store was mostly boring, except for the cellar.Gracie and her friends arrived around eleven o'clock. I remember the time because when a crime is about to be committed, you should always know the time, just like on TV. I almost ducked into the cellar. But Dad didn't like me doing that. He always said you had to face problems in life.Those girls were in old, faded bathing suits. I wished I could go swimming! Banook Lake was down the hill. Gracie was at my cooler so quick. She lifted the lid.“Don’t you have no Mountain Dew?” she says.“I’ll get some,” I say.She slams the lid. “Oh, don’t bother. You expect me to drink warm pop?”After Gracie slammed the lid, Dad's all upset again. Gracie’s friends were buying penny candy near the cash, plunking down one penny at a time and fussing as girls do over what they want. Why is he mad? I'm not buying penny candy! I'm not allowed to have any! Oh, it's Gracie he's mad about. ""Treat her as special,"" Mom and Dad said after the fight.I lift the cooler lid, fishing a slimy red bottle out of the water. “Look here,” I say. “This here is cream soda! You people like that sort of thing, don’t you?”Now Gracie gets mad. Her eyes get all blotchy, with her teeth so white.Then that darn red bottle is a rocket, blasting off like astronauts on TV. One bump, two, then splashdown! Pieces of glass so sharp, mustn't touch. Way too sharp, with foam and hissing bubbles everywhere.Gracie laughs, slapping her knees and wiping her eyes like she is crying. And I started laughing too! Only Dad and our ""permanent customer,"" as Grandad used to call them, look mad. Gracie and her friends leave the store, still laughing, going down McCormick to the beach.Our permanent customer was a woman at the pay phone. Sort of like my Mom but way older. ""Young'uns have no respect these days,"" she says. ""Somethin' bad happenin' soon, mark my words!""She is scary! Halloween lady, I call her to myself. She keeps staring like she wants me to say something. But I just shrug my shoulders and try to think of a joke. Then, she's talking on the phone like nothing happened! All this after an hour on our payphone for a nickel!But Grandad is always okay with people being in the store. Pay phone people, stop robbers! I don't know how they do it; it's a mystery, like the candied ants tin that Grandad would try to sell just to say he had done it! Sell a can of sticky dead ants, I mean. What's it like to be covered in candy? It must be too much of a good thing like Uncle Clyde says all the time—""Don't just stand there!"" Dad shouts. ""Get the mop from the back stairs. This time, bring the pail. You can do the whole floor while you are at it.”""Sorry Dad,"" I say.""Never mind, sorry! Get the mop!""#My grandparents had a party on Natal Day to celebrate our town’s birthday. Nanna made sweet rolls and snacks, with candies in trays on every tabletop. It was “help yourself, make yourself at home,” so different from regular days. On the deck beside the kitchen, you could see Banook Lake, the beach, the rides, everything! And we got to drink pop! The grownups had alcohol with their pop. My sister said alcohol made adults act stupid. Maybe that was why Aunt Crystal and Uncle Clyde were talking so loud.Cigarette smoke, Grandad’s cigar, and Dad’s cigarillos, all that grey smoke, headed out to the Natal Day fairground just below our deck. Thank goodness the store was closed for the day! We watched crowds go by our corner store on the other side of McCormick Street, across from us.Dad kept telling Grandad how we could have ""barricaded"" the store and made ""a mint"" selling treats and snacks out the store's front door for double the regular price. But Grandad wasn't interested.""Money isn't everything!"" he said.That sounded great, like telling everyone who might bug us to leave us alone for once! Besides, I liked watching people, dads opening their wallets to buy ride tickets, and moms fighting with kids who wouldn't listen. But I should have known it wouldn't last. My sister was banging the deck railing with her foot.“I’m bored!” she said.“What? Natal Day is here!” I said. “Mom told us to have lunch first. After that, we can have all the fun we want!” I had a medicine vial full of quarters I had saved for months from working at the store. I saved all my money for my three favorite rides: the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Scrambler, and the Roundup. The Roundup had only these little chains to keep kids safe. I asked Dad how the Roundup kept kids from falling to the ground when they were upside down in that spinning wheel. He said the chains were just for show and that ""Centrifugal Force"" kept kids safe. My sister said that if the Roundup ever had a problem and got stuck, all the kids in that ride would fall to the ground. My sister was so smart. She wouldn't go on any rides, no matter how much I asked her to.“Let’s have some real fun!” she whispered.I got upset. “No way. You're not getting me in trouble on Natal Day!”“Will you keep your voice down!” she said. Lucky for us, all the adults were busy watching Dad at the Crown and Anchor game, the ice in their drinks making this tinkling sound every time they laughed.“I need to sneak out, and I need your help. You don’t have to come. Just say that I’m helping Nanna in her bedroom.”Nanna wasn’t well and she always liked having people read to her. My sister’s plan was perfect.“What are you going to do?” I asked.“Bug Gracie.””Why?”“I just saw her. She’s in that awful swimsuit of hers—”“On Natal Day?” I said. Everyone knew the beach was closed.“Right. Now, remember the plan.” She got up, brushed by where I was sitting, said “Excuse me” a few times, and went into the kitchen. From there, I knew she could take off out the front door when no one was looking.I went into the kitchen to get another cola. Mom had her back to me, making ham sandwiches with toothpicks, cheese, and pickles at the kitchen counter.“Where’s your sister?” she asked.“Upstairs, with Nanna,” I lied.I had to be bored now—poor me. I sat down at the kitchen table. But it wasn't long before I saw Dad running up, two deck stairs at a time, barely closing the screen door behind him. ""Quit while you are ahead,"" he said, so I guessed he was finished with that game he was playing. With a look from Mom, he stubbed his cigarillo in the kitchen table ashtray and sat down opposite me.“I’m ahead ten dollars!” he said.“Great!” I said. “How did you do it?”“Simple probability. Wait until either the crown or the anchor has not paid off for several turns of the wheel and bet on either one!”I desperately wanted to go and try it myself, but I didn’t dare ask because my sister wasn’t back yet.Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Bob poked their heads in. It looked like the party was moving inside. Uncle Bob leaned on the counter beside the kitchen stove.“George, tell us one of your war stories,"" he said.Dad spent the next half hour talking. He used to be a fighter pilot during the Cold War. So, he had lots of exciting stories to tell. My favorite was when Soviet jets chased him when he got lost over East Germany. I would help him tell his stories, jumping in with the right words at the right moment. But telling a lie about my sister to my Mom made me nervous. I wasn't having any fun at all.Mom noticed first. “What’s wrong, dear? Are you hungry? Nanna won’t mind if we call your sister down so you can eat lunch.”“I’m fine! Really, I am!” I yelled.No one else noticed, but from where I was sitting in the kitchen, I could see my sister running up McCormick as fast as she could, dodging people and nearly tripping. She headed straight for our deck stairs. What on earth? Gracie wasn't chasing her. Now, we would be in big trouble for sure. No rides for me now!Before I could say or do anything, she burst into the kitchen from the deck. She didn't even close the screen door.“Gracie’s drowned!” she yelled, staring at Dad.The words she said made no sense to me. I could hear the kitchen clock ticking as Mom looked scared and Uncle Bob got so serious. My Dad's eyes got so strange looking, too, like he knew he had to do something right away, his chair making this huge scraping sound as he got up and went to the door.Of course, Gracie would be saved! Nothing bad could happen on Natal Day! It would be another story we will tell about my Dad!But my sister was in his way. Still in the doorway, she had her arms out, spreading her fingers.“It’s no use! There’s a whole crowd at the beach!” she yelled. Then she started bawling so loud. Mom got her some Kleenex.Dad stopped suddenly, his shoulders shaking as if he would cry. Then he sighed and turned away from the door, looking at Mom. He looked so lost I couldn't stand it. I jumped from my chair and raced onto the deck.To tell you the truth, the worst thing was the sound that the crowd made. We didn't know what everyone else seemed to know. The rides were empty, and no one was lined up for them, everyone staring at the lake. As people talked to perfect strangers, an ambulance nosed through the crowd. And everyone's squirmy kids had to be quiet too, moms putting their hands over their eyes as Gracie’s limp body was lifted out of the lake by some men all dripping wet in their T-shirts and shorts.The crowd sounded like the orchestra I saw at the bandshell last summer, getting louder and louder, a ""crescendo,"" I think they call it. But this wasn't music. It was wailing and screaming like I had never heard before.Kids weren't allowed to see it, but my problem was that I had to put my hands over my ears even though we were nearly a quarter mile from the beach! Years later, I would try to make sense of that sound, the screaming of groups of characters in movies like Titanic being the closest thing to what I heard that day.#I didn't want to ask her, really I didn't. But before Gracie's body was taken from the lake, how did my sister know she had drowned? I turned it into a game. I would be Jack Webb on Dragnet. Just the facts, ma'am, as they say!Boy, she was tough! She kept saying that she only told Gracie not to swim at the beach. Then, supposedly, Gracie gave the finger and ran off down the shoreline towards the sluice gate.Hmm, I say. The water is so dangerous there. Why would Gracie swim near the sluice gate? My sister didn't know. You would say that, I say! Then, real sly-like, I asked her to explain why she was throwing her poncho in the garbage if she was innocent. She said she didn't like it anymore. She didn't even get permission to throw it out. Guilty as charged! I said. We both laughed over that one.#Later that summer, the town paved the road by our house. It was a botched job. The center of the road was as low as the sides. My Dad tried telling the contractor while it was being graded for the asphalt, but the contractor wouldn’t listen.The pavement went down, black with tar, steaming and hot. I saw grimy men working it over, sweating and cursing their luck to have to labor on a sweltering summer day. When it rained, I knew the water would run all over our road, never going where it should. And I never tossed sand-seal like a frisbee again.
","September 04, 2023 18:34","[[{'Prissy Sturz': '""The crowd sounded like the orchestra I saw at the bandshell last summer, getting louder and louder, a ""crescendo,"" I think they call it. But this wasn\'t music. It was wailing and screaming like I had never heard before.""\n\nSuch a haunting line.\nWhat a tragic story. It\'s conflicting. Obvious social problems like racism and classism, but through the lens of a child. The ending is conflicting as well. It\'s hard to think that a child could do so much harm, but it\'s very true. Well done.', 'time': '01:01 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""A very reminiscent summery start, tainted by simple misunderstandings of new neighbours. Really had no idea where this was going and the death came from no where, but isn't that the nature of the beast. \n\nThe best take away from this is the intrigue you leave open with the sister, we never truly know what happened.\n\nAs a piece of creative be non fiction, I appreciate this would have been a difficult story to tell, so I hope you are ok and this was a lethargic exercise to deal with the experience.\n\nA good yet sad story Joe."", 'time': '08:34 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks, Kevin. This story has been with me my entire life. If I had only one story to tell this would be the one. As a child, I never was the same afterward. How life could be so cruel...', 'time': '18:09 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks, Kevin. This story has been with me my entire life. If I had only one story to tell this would be the one. As a child, I never was the same afterward. How life could be so cruel...', 'time': '18:09 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Sad story. Someone you knew?', 'time': '03:24 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Yes.', 'time': '12:47 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Yes.', 'time': '12:47 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",oqypnk,Brother,Michael Jefferson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/oqypnk/,/short-story/oqypnk/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship', 'Fiction']",12 likes,"
Everyone who knew the retired bachelor in Apartment 2E always said he would have made a perfect husband and father. Trent Eden knew better. He would thank his neighbors, smile sheepishly, and tell them about the life-changing summer he spent with Brother Monroe.              Affable and inquisitive, Brother spoke four languages, could play classical music note-perfect on piano or cello, and had an I.Q. of 130. And yes, there was also that prophetic first name.The most amazing thing about Brother was that he was only six years old.There was an aura about him, a light. Brother’s mop of golden hair was never out of place, his clothes were always neat (dirt came standard with most six-year-olds), and he always looked people in the eye when he spoke.His seventeen-year-old sister, Mindy, was exceptional in other ways. She had a lack of sexual restraint that would have made the Marquis de Sade blush, and she seldom saw a classroom. If she hadn’t paid Trent ten dollars per paper for her English and history assignments, she would have been the poster girl for summer school.Mindy dated well above her age group, snagging a few of the local biker toughs, most notably Bartram Resner. Trent called him “Black Bart” because of his attire as well as his soul. Lanky and scruffy, with dark, penetrating eyes, Black Bart hit first and asked questions later.  Like most girls her age, Mindy was drawn to Black Bart’s bad boy image. Bart may have dropped out of school in tenth grade, but he knew how to sucker good-looking girls into falling for him. And Mindy became his prize, dewy-eyed and dense with flowing amber hair, an athletic figure, and dimples that popped out whenever she smiled.With summer approaching, Trent knew his arrangement with Mindy would soon be suspended. Trent promised her his last two papers would get her an A and brought them to her parent’s house a few doors away.  In typical Mindy fashion, she got bored of reading the first paper halfway through it.        ""I don’t have any money,” Mindy declared. “Let’s negotiate your payment.” She began walking toward her bedroom. Turning, she gave Trent an alluring over-the-shoulder look.“Aren’t you coming with me?”    Trent drifted behind her, transfixed.    “Sit down,” she commanded.    He plopped down in a nearby chair.    “Not there. On the bed.”Trent’s mouth noticeably dropped when Mindy’s clothes dropped.“Will this be okay?”    “I’m not in any position to say no.”Of course, that was when Mindy’s parents and Brother came home early.“Hide! Get under the bed!”Mindy’s twittering voice greeted her parents, followed by the pitter-patter of Brother’s sneakers as he headed toward his room.He paused in the doorway. Trent cursed to himself when he heard Brother enter Mindy’s room.Bending down, Brother gave Trent a cherubic grin that seemed to say “Gotcha!”“Why are you hiding under Mindy’s bed?”“We’re playing hide and go seek,” Trent said.“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”“It’s all I got,” Trent replied. “How did you know I was hiding here?”“Your feet were sticking out.”    “You’re not going to tell your parents, are you?” Trent asked.“My parents are well aware that Mindy’s very popular with boys. She’s not called the friendliest girl in Mount Kisco because she’s funny or smart.”“Do you understand why?”“I know it’s not a compliment,” Brother said. “I’m surprised you’re one of her boyfriends. I thought you were smarter than that.”“You’ll understand why later on when you’re a teenager.”“Oh, yes, sex. Glad I’m only six.”“We still friends?” Trent asked.“Of course. I’m not going to let my sister’s weird habits come between us.”“Thanks. I know I promised to teach you how to throw a curveball. Maybe I can show you later.”Brother’s eyebrows arched into a V. Trent knew he was hatching a plan.“I’ve got a better way you can get over your guilt,” he said. “Are you going to work as a camp counselor again this summer?”“Yeah.”“Good. Mindy usually takes me to camp and picks me up. I can go with you instead.”“I don’t have my license yet. I walk to the park.”“Even better, that’ll give us more time to talk. You’re more interesting than Mindy.”“You’re sister’s plenty interesting.”“That’s what all the guys say. So, what do you say? You can either walk me to camp every day or I can tell my parents why you were hiding under Mindy’s bed.”Trent told his friends that walking to day camp with Brother was like taking a trip along the astral plane with Confucius. He knew more about politics, philosophy, and music than any adult, yet he still retained a child’s sense of wonderment.“What’s your favorite album?” Brother asked.“The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, by Traffic.”“Hmm. Did you know the verses are in D minor while the choruses modulate to D major with a repeated piano riff in D minor?”“Show off. Let me ask you, Brother, with all the knowledge you possess, what do you want to do with your life?”“Research. Sometimes my mom gets very sad. She drinks and gets sadder. She gets sad because I’m so smart and Mindy, well, Mom says Mindy’s lost. So, I want to invent a pill to make Mom happy all the time.”“How about one to make Mindy smarter?”“That would be more in line with a miracle,” Brother replied.“Is that all you want to do, research?”    “Of course not. I want to play at Carnegie Hall. Did you know it has the best acoustics in New York City?”“I do now.”Brother and Mindy’s parents made every effort to love both their children, but it was obvious Mrs. Monroe considered her daughter a failure because Mindy lived her life at full throttle. Her conversations with Mindy often ended with her yelling in her daughter’s face that she’d never amount to anything. Irma Monroe was the director of the local library, a conservative who wore dowdy dresses down to her knees, black-rimmed glasses, and a stern, studious expression. The only time she smiled was when she was around her husband, David, and Brother.“I don’t know what you see in Mindy,” she once said to Trent.“Deep down, Mindy’s a nice girl.”“There isn’t a shovel big enough to dig that deep,” Mrs. Monroe parried. “She’s a sex-crazed party girl. But at least she’s good at something.”“You still have Brother.”    “He’s the light of my life. He’s going to be something special.”    “He already is,” Trent replied.    Mrs. Monroe flashed a rare smile.Fortunately for Mindy, her father hadn’t given up on her.""I bet you didn’t know that when Mindy was a little girl, she was smarter than Brother,” he said to Trent.    Trent could barely contain his laughter.    “My little princess caught a rare form of Fibromyalgia when she was seven. She was in a coma for a month. When she came out of it, everything she’d learned was gone. She couldn’t even remember her own name. From that point on, Mindy had problems concentrating. Before her illness, she wanted to be the first woman astronaut in space. Now she just takes up space.”That summer, Trent happened to be a counselor for the six-year-olds, which meant Brother was in his group. Brother couldn’t play kickball, couldn’t swim, or hit a baseball like the other kids, but he could teach them how to play chess or how to sing a hymn in German, and he inspired the other kids to take art class more seriously. It was like having an extra counselor around.Dealing with the kids who were bullies, whiners, or crybabies made Trent wonder if he could cope with being a father. Watching Brother made Trent think how proud he’d be to have a son like him. Whenever Brother smiled at him, laughed at one of his stupid jokes, or reached out to take his hand for support, Trent couldn’t wait to be a dad.Mindy picked up Brother and Trent when camp was over. She’d stash Brother with their Aunt Delia, who lived a few blocks away. A former Metropolitan Opera singer, Aunt Delia gave Brother voice and piano lessons while Mindy gave Trent more personalized instruction.Trent wasn’t so sexually enthralled by Mindy to believe he was the only guy spending afternoons with her. Mindy was always unavailable on Thursday and Sunday afternoons. Passing the Monroe’s house one Thursday, Trent saw Mindy mounting the back of Black Bart’s bike and knew it wouldn’t be long before she was mounting Bart.When he saw Mindy the next day, she was sporting a black eye.“Did you fall off of Bart’s bike or his fist?” Trent asked.“None of your business.”“Your folks think I’m tutoring you…”“Sometimes it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”    “As your tutor, I’d advise you to stay clear of Black Bart.”“And I’d advise you to shut up unless you want me to tell him what you call him behind his back.”“I’m just trying to look out for you, Mindy.”“Look out for yourself. Bart’s noticed the way you look at me.”“No different from any other guy.”“He doesn’t think so,” she said. “He gets jealous really easy, you know. So maybe you should keep your distance from now on.”“Are you telling me it’s over between us?”“He’s a man. You’re a kid. Besides, he’s got a bike.”     ""I do too,” Trent said.“But yours is a Schwinn.”“He’s broken your heart before.”“He didn’t mean to.”“Next it’ll be your nose or your jaw that he breaks.”“He wouldn’t hurt me,” Mindy replied.“So, I’m wrong about your black eye?”“It was a mistake. He didn’t mean to do it.”“Bullies never do, Mindy.”“It was my fault.”“If you believe that Mindy, then you really are as stupid as people say you are.” Trent immediately felt sorry he’d been so cruel. Mindy turned her back on him, whimpering as she walked away.Mindy may have cut Trent out of her life, but he stayed in Brother’s, continuing to walk him to camp. “I didn’t know what the saying ‘trouble in paradise’ meant until now,” he said to Trent one morning.    “So, what do you think it means?”    “You and Mindy. You two were always under the covers, giggling and tickling each other.”“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”    “You haven’t done that lately. When you come over, Mindy disappears. Is that what happens when people stop loving each other?”""Sometimes.”    “Well, that’ll never happen to us.”It was pouring a few days later, so Trent decided to call in sick. Running day camp on a rainy day was like trying to pacify rioting prisoners at Alcatraz. The rain meant hundreds of campers who were used to frolicking around in the acres of free space at the park would be crammed into two floors at the Boys and Girls Club.Trent called Mindy to tell her she had to drive Brother to camp.“Why can’t you?”“He’s your brother. Besides, I don’t drive, remember?”“But Bart’s coming over.”“Then get Bart to take him. No scratch that, you don’t want Brother on the back of his Harley in the rain.”  “Brother hates Bart,” Mindy whined.  “Shows you how smart he is.”While Mindy was cursing at Trent, Brother put on his rain gear and slipped out the back door. If Trent wasn’t going to walk to his house to pick him up, Brother was going to go to his place and prod Trent into walking him to camp.Mindy suddenly screamed, dropping the receiver.    Mindy had often run off during conversations with Trent to turn off the stove, the bath, or some other appliance she shouldn’t have been trying to operate, so Trent hung up and went back to bed.Minutes later, Trent’s peaceful slumber was interrupted by desperate, loud banging on his front door.  Trent opened the door to see Mindy standing in the downpour, her makeup running down her cheeks, her light brown hair dripping like a sopped mop.Despite the heavy rain, Trent could tell she was crying.""It’s Brother! He’s dead!” she screamed hysterically.    Giving in to her grief, Mindy rushed into Trent’s arms. She just as quickly pushed him away.    ""It’s all your fault! He was coming to see you! You killed him!”     “You’re not making sense,” Trent said.    “Nothing makes sense now.”Grabbing Trent by the hand, Mindy pulled him out into the rain. They broke into a dead run, splashing through puddles, racing to the crossroads a few doors away.A police cruiser’s flashing lights bathed the scene in a surreal, foreboding light.    A man in a motorcycle jacket was screaming out an explanation to the officer. Cupping his face with his hands, he shrieked, “WHY? WHY?”Trent recognized the driver. It was Bart. Bart had just traded in his bike for a brand-new Mustang, and hoping to surprise Mindy, had been speeding down the street. ""He jumped out in front of the car! I never saw him!” Bart screamed.By now a neighbor had called Aunt Delia, who had made her way to the scene. She pulled Mindy away, taking her inside.Trent fought the urge to look at Brother, but his eyes drifted toward Bart’s Mustang.   A pair of red rain boots poked out almost comically from underneath the car as if Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” had dropped a car on him. What was left of Brother’s once-perfect mop of blonde hair was blood-spattered. The head that had once held the mind of a genius was flattened. His brain matter was in small piles on the pavement and was slowly washed away by the rain.Brother’s body was quickly covered up, but when Mrs. Monroe arrived at the scene and pulled back the sheet, everyone’s agony increased two-fold. Her shriek started as a slow mournful moan before reaching such a horrific height that even the policemen covered their ears.Brother Monroe never got to play Carnegie Hall or cure his mother’s depression. Trent blamed himself – and he wasn’t alone. If Trent had gone to work, Brother might have become a beloved leader like John Kennedy or an icon of social change like Dr. Martin Luther King. Of course, things didn’t exactly work out for them either.Trent had always wanted to see Black Bart suffer. When he did, it wasn’t worth the trade-off. Bart was the first to leave the area, slipping out of town unannounced the week after the funeral. He developed a taste for hard liquor and sat alone in bars muttering about the little boy he’d killed.Bart died after falling down a flight of stairs four years after the accident. A witness swore he jumped.After Brother’s death, Mrs. Monroe shunned Mindy. They seldom spoke and when they did it always resulted in bruised feelings and the guilt of Brother’s death passing between them like a Frisbee.Mrs. Monroe quickly lost her battle with depression after Brother’s funeral (which Mr. Monroe advised Trent not to attend). No one saw Mrs. Monroe for several months, and when they did, it was the day she fell asleep behind the wheel of her car, which slammed into a van parked only a few feet away from where Brother had died. Never a fashion plate but always neat, Mrs. Monroe was now a haggard, hollow-eyed mess in a housecoat and slippers. She’d gone to the liquor store and had almost made it back home before her depression meds stopped her heart.Mindy blamed Trent for Brother’s death, saying it was my phone call that had distracted her. Every time Mindy saw Trent that summer, she’d turn her back on him, whispering to anyone within earshot, “That’s the guy that killed my brother.”She may have done her best to point the finger at Trent publicly, but in private she blamed herself. After Brother’s death, Mindy overindulged in any liquid or substance that could momentarily make her forget. Mindy didn’t bother with the façade of trying to graduate. Midway through senior year, Mr. Monroe shipped Mindy off to a relative in New Jersey, hoping she’d clean up. Misinterpreting her father’s desperate move as abandonment, she overdosed the weekend her father came to visit, a trip that marked the first anniversary of Brother’s death.Since Mindy had poisoned the air around her parents, Trent didn’t think it was in anyone’s best interests to try and beg for forgiveness. He ran into Mr. Monroe at the corner store shortly after Mindy’s death. Mr. Monroe had just got off the train from Manhattan and was still dressed impeccably. Trent was amazed that after all he’d been through in the past year, Mr. Monroe was still going to work as if nothing had happened.“I was sorry to hear about Mindy.” Trent offered.“Thank you. I’m surprised you still could feel sorry for her, given the way she treated you after Brother’s death. Poor Mindy never found her path. When she started blaming herself for Brother’s death, she couldn’t face the possibility that life could still go on.”“He was really gifted,” Trent said.“That’s a good way to put it. He hated being called special. But you could look at him and see he was going to burn brightly for a little while, then he’d be gone, just like a comet.”A few months later, Mr. Monroe moved to Tennessee. The once-dapper salesman grew a beard, remarried, and started a second family.Trent always said Brother’s death made him mature into a miserable man when all he wanted to be was a naïve, fun-loving dreamer. His thoughts of being a husband and a father died with Brother. He’d killed a child. He didn’t want to take the chance he might kill another.
","September 07, 2023 13:45","[[{'Wanda Fischer': 'Heartbreaking, effective story. Thank you.', 'time': '23:24 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michael Jefferson': 'Thank you for the compliment.', 'time': '00:49 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Jefferson': 'Thank you for the compliment.', 'time': '00:49 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mustang Patty': 'Hi there - an interesting storyline that certainly met the prompt. I enjoyed your characters and the way you made them come alive.\n\nGood luck in the contest,\n\n~MP~', 'time': '14:01 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michael Jefferson': ""You're very kind. Thanks!"", 'time': '20:43 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mustang Patty': ""You're welcome!\n~MP~"", 'time': '13:05 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Jefferson': ""You're very kind. Thanks!"", 'time': '20:43 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mustang Patty': ""You're welcome!\n~MP~"", 'time': '13:05 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mustang Patty': ""You're welcome!\n~MP~"", 'time': '13:05 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michael Jefferson': ""Dang! Yes, it is. I changed his name and didn't catch all the changes. Thanks!"", 'time': '00:15 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""I assume 'Trent' is the same as 'Trace' you started out with. Threw me for a while.\nOtherwise a tough touching story."", 'time': '21:05 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",1xis8y,The Recruiter,Kay Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1xis8y/,/short-story/1xis8y/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Drama', 'High School']",11 likes,"
I grab the watering hose and give a low, whispered shout to my daughter to turnthe faucet on full blast. I hear water, burbling, and gurgling, wending its waytoward me, emitting the random expulsion of trapped air, and after a flex ofthe hose, water begins to spray from the attached nozzle. I take care tospray the grass around the fire pit area. I had already carefully poured dirtand sand onto the embers of that night’s campfire. I turn the nozzle on thehose to the “rain shower” setting and soak the area around the old fire pituntil my feet are making squelching noises in the lush, green lawn. I try not tosaturate the cushioned chairs set in a loose semi-circle facing out, toward thequietly streaming, moonlit river.The evening had been fun: the kids, now grown, the grandchildren, stickys’mores, guitar, singing, story-telling, and a silly 20-Questions type game… Ihad not played that since I was a young girl at camp trying to get to know oneanother better. Those questions posed almost thirty years prior to thisevening seemed so much less invasive and more along the lines of, ""What isyour favorite ice cream, and why?""I finish dousing the area so no stray ember could flare up and cause mischieflater on and then allow myself to drop, exhausted, into one of the chairs. Ilight one of the last cigarettes and stare out at the moonlight river, thewater the darkest, inky black - lost in thought.Some of those questions were pretty intense and took some serious contemplation,such as; “If you could travel to any year in a time machine, what year would you choose and why?” or “Now, as an adult, which summer would be the summer that you’d say made you grow-up? Why?”I really had to consider that one. Regardless of the random reply I gave the family, I kept coming back to the summer of The Recruiter: everything that led up to it, and everything in the aftermath.I had loathed living at home with my assigned parental units with their doublestandards, arbitrary rules, and archaic punishments. I was caught sneaking outat age fifteen and my mother tanned my hide with one of her, somehow well-preserved skinny belts from the 1980’s. That thing really fucking stung! It felt like being whipped with an actual whip; if that whip was also on fire. How that thing didn't disintegrate upon impact, I'll never know. Did she keep that thing in a cryo-chamber somewhere?Furthermore, I was grounded for eight months, even from the phone! That was unrealistic in the extreme. I'd rather be whipped with the skinny belt some more! Adolescents, everyone, actually, but especially adolescents require human interaction and need an outlet of some kind, lest they burst!It was the summer after my junior year of High School that things did a solidone-eighty on me. It began with me becoming notoriously known in the communityas a 'runaway,' and truant teen. I was a shame to my parents; a faux pas thattarnished their otherwise luminous facade. It was the summer of the carchase down that windy ass road. It was the summer of, “IT’S TIME TO DIE, MOTHER FUCKER’S!” It was the summer of the shotgun, its chambers like eyes of the flattest black, staring holes right through me. It was the summer of the policereport finally filed against Stepfather v.1.0 that resulted in charges of a misdemeanor ""terroristic threat"" charge and an overnight stay at theCounty Hotel. It was also the summer of the tersely whispered conversationsbetween my parents and the High School Bigwigs about sending me to T.Y.C. Itwas a lot for someone in their formative years. I wanted out of that house at anycost; it’s not like I could do much worse parenting myself….It was also the summer of being held hostage, by my self-made reputation and myactions over the course of the year. It was the summer the farce that was myfamily, educators, and other people in a position of power revealed a crack intheir shiny, Faberge egg-like exterior and the entire thing came tumbling down,almost like a house of hit by a gust of wind, the pieces just whisked away. Therewas simply no adult left to place my trust in. Then:My hands tremble fiercely as my bare feet smack the pavement of the narrowresidential street. They sound alarmingly loud, I’m scared the sound of my ownfeet will betray me. My fear is so acute, that everything is stunned intoblissful, numbing disbelief. I don’t feel the jagged pebbles that puncture myskin and elicit small bloody spots that follow me as I point my body left,toward a dense entanglement of juniper and oak trees. To my right, was a row ofendless duplexes, one as indistinguishable as the next; their cookie-cutter,blank-faced windows tracked my every move. Heart jack-rabbiting in my chest, Iflee, now sprinting flat out, terrified. It felt like the night sky waspressing down on me. It was suffocating. I practically dive off the road andcontinue onward and away from that.I reach the edge of the treeline and enter a vast jungle of groping branches,reaching out blindly toward each other, eerily silent. As the glow of the moonis curtained, the fleeting sense of amnesty is quickly replaced by panic as thepitch black robs me of breath and the branches continue their needle-likeinspection of my body. Feeling paralyzed, yet ready to break free, I forcemyself into a shrinking crouch. Stay put! I need protection from the open road.I stay there for what feels like forever until I recognize sweet salvation inthe crawling approach of a friend’s vehicle. I dash out of the trees and to hercar, hopping in and slamming the lock down with the bottom of my fist, hard. Iyell at her to drive!I had called her before my hasty exit and was forever beholden to her for comingto my rescue. Although, she was the one who recommendedthis location... Admittedly, he was a ‘trusted adult,’ an‘authority figure’ who had worked at the school the previous academic year. Hewas almost like a teacher. He was around so much. Before Then:I had run away from home to my friend Cindy’s. She lived with her girlfriend andher Dad, who was cool with harboring a teenage runaway, so longas she was cute, and if she was flirty, even in a playful way, all the better!That lasted about five days.One very early morning there was a torrent of sharp raps on the door that could only be law enforcement; it was the 'Cop Knock.' If given a bird’s eye view of thesituation, it would have shown: One side, frozen in fear, searching eachother’s faces, and silently weighing choices and consequences, the other,serious-faced, middle-aged men, in a cluster, walkies squawking, their uniformsmaking them appear dressed out for some unusual team sport. I look at Anne and I decide, “Fuck it,"" I was busted. I knew it.I answered the door and a pudgy man who clearly needed caffeine stood before me, asked for my name, and date of birth, and then asked me to step outside. “I don't think this is where you're supposed to be."" He was a heavy breather. He adjusted the belt on his ample waist. ""I'm gonna hafta take you into custody, Ma'am. Are we going to have any issues with you?” he asks. “Sir, I smoke. I just woke up. I clearly don’t have my shoes on. And I bet I’m about to be handcuffed. So, no Sir, I don’t see some big break for freedom in my immediate future. No trouble here, Sir.” Next: the silly, ostentatious demonstration for whomever to see!As predicted, he pulled out his handcuffs, put my arms behind my back, and slapped them on my wrists as if I had murdered someone! This was no doubt anoft-practiced move, almost certainly in front of a mirror. I rolled my eyes.Cindy lived in an alarmingly high, stilted house, despite its proximity to anybody of water. The staircase going from the front door down to the ground wascomically narrow and rickety. Our descent was a slow one, as I was essentially perp-walked to the nearest car, cherries ablaze and spinning.From the neighboring houses, moon faces peeked audaciously out from windows or from behind drapes. Outside, all pretenses were cast aside; as they stood at the end of their driveways and plainly gawked. Apparently, this was big news! Anything is big news in this comatose berg...I remained silent as the morning hoopla came quickly to its end and theneighbors; those harbingers of gossip, snapped their drapes shut and shuffledback up their drives. The officer opened the driver’s side door and settledhimself into the captain’s seat. He pointed the long cruiser's nose toward theroad, leading out of whatever subdivision we were in. He made a sharp right atthe main highway. I found myself very gracefully leaning into a fall, unable touse my arms to catch myself, almost lying flat on my left side then comingslowly back upright as he straightened out the cruiser again. I felt like oneof those…   ""Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down!""  Weebles!     “Where are we going, Sir?” I asked, my voice quivering.“To the hospital to meet your parents, Miss. They’re beside themselves with worry,your poor mother…”“Yeah, I'll bet,”My parents weren’t worried sick; they were inconvenienced and pissed off.The officer then launches into The Obligatory Talk and despite his truefervor, I tune him out, my give a fuck gauge-broken, beyond repair. At the hospital, the nursing staff was kind but curt as they drew my blood... Theofficer faded into the background, and I was met with the even stare of MyParents who, I knew, were holding their tongues until we got into the Suburbanand it was just the three of us. For right now, ‘Appearances!’ regardless ofthe situation! You know, I can just tell you what you’ll find in my system. It would save you a lot of the time and money you’re constantly bitching about marijuana, alcohol, and possibly Ecstasy if that shows up?""My quip was met with more silence, ever more intense stares, and the transference of weight from one foot to the other. Once the blood draw was complete, therewould be no frazzled, hackneyed social worker coming, no hospital therapist,only, maybe, a pamphlet on drugs.With my recent pattern of running away and truancy, I overheard discussions aboutsending me to T.Y.C. The Texas Youth Commission was a state agency thatoperated juvenile correction centers across Texas. It was widely known, thatbeing sent there was like being fed to the wolves; kids went there and wererarely heard from again. I was sixteen. Going away for twoyears felt like a Life Sentence.I had been an A/B student at the same small school district since Kindergarten.From Elementary School on, I was torturously bullied by my peers. At first, Iwas a dog, or, The Dog. I was barked at continually; next came the Raisin Tits moniker. Kid shit, but still hurtful; but, why? My Mother told me it was because they 'got a rise out of me,' I should just ignore it. To me, that sounded a lot like, ‘Just shut up and take it.’ I was a normal kid!After Elementary, Jr. High School swept in, a notoriously shitty time of anguish formany. As High School rolled around, those same bullies would often not be able to keep their eyes, and later, their hands off of those Raisin Tits; but only swathedin moonlight, of course! For the boys, these trysts were late-night boner relief; to me, a rendezvous full of possibility! Come sunrise, I was a distant memory. I mistook desire for kindness, a mistake made over and over again.These nighttime activities gave me brand new nicknames like, “slut,” or “easy.” Myfavorite was, “party favor.” I was in Biology II in my junior year when 'The Plucked Pubes,' incident occurred.I had the great fortune to sit in front of two jocks, Roger Parsons and CliffordEchols. I tried “ignoring them.” I kept facing dutifully forward but heard the fake coughs that did a shit job of covering up the names lobbed my way. That morning, I had no idea what to make of the bizarre quiet coming from the usually active Peanut Gallery.Unbeknownst to me, the reason was that Roger had been gradually plucking pubic hair from his body, one by one. Ouch! After he had a palm full, he began whispering my name, my actual name, persistently.I think that’s what got me to turn around and exasperatedly reply, “Wh-?” Iheard a quick expulsion of breath and immediately, I was vociferously choking,gagging on the pubic hair. I staggered toward the door, speech impeded,coughing and retching. The teacher actually got pissed at me for making a racket with my distress and disgust.I scrambled from the classroom, laughter on my heels, and made a beeline for therestroom. I spent the next two periods in a stall; head bent over the bowl,alternating deep bouts of vomiting and sobbing, riddled with shame.While home should be your safe space, your sanctuary, mine was filled with myfather’s lifetime absence, my ‘new’ fathers, and the ever-changing rules thataccompanied them, drinking, violence, scrutiny, and indifference.In the days that followed my rescue from Me by the County, I was grounded: no phone, no friends, and no extracurriculars; school and straight home only. School wasn’t even the same; I had been moved to Alternative School, ISS-Maximum Security. It wasn’t even held on the same campus so there wasn’t even the possibility of a distant smile or a friendly wave. I was desperate, searching for the most minuscule fragment of sanguinity.I needed a place to lay low a bit, a place my family didn’t know of. Anne andCindy had been getting kind of close with this military recruiter, Tracy. Theykind of flirted with him and had even hung out with him off campus and he was a‘cool older dude.’Anne recommended I stay at his place. He was agreeable and said he could use extra help around the house because his young daughter was coming for the summer. Her presence was one of the things that made me feel safe. Cindy, Anne, and I met with Tracy at his house. While he knew he had no shot with them, he stillstared fixedly when they kissed. I stood there, feeling awkward, not because of thekissing, which was old news for me, but because of the situation. If this was what Igave for freedom, so be it.I think there was a part of me that knew he expected certain things but I tamped it down and ignored it. When the time came, I was afraid. He had directly hinted at turning me in whenever I was reluctant about something he wanted. He would ask me who I thought the police would believe: a teenage whore or a military officer and respected family man.One night I was in the bath. His daughter was there. I wanted to lock the doorbecause I didn’t think a four-year-old should see some random naked girl in herbathtub and I wanted privacy. Alas, one night, he was kneeling beside the tub,my body awkwardly on full display, and he proceeded to go over me, head to toe,and tell me the things he would change about me. Why did I give a shit whatthis perverted 36-year-old man thought of me? Somehow, though, the words hurt.Then he said something that caused my digestive system to quiver and my body to explode with adrenaline. “I should call some of my buddies to come over and we could run a train on you. That could be real fun.”It was terribly hard to keep my composure. I had to get the fuck out of there butI had to be smart. He strongly 'discouraged' telephone calls. I could screambloody murder but what would that do? Other than upset his young daughter andpotentially getting me sent away to T.Y.C.?First, I needed a phone and a friend. I was miles away from any of my friends orfamily. There was no way I could walk it. He would find me. People would thinkhe was a parent yelling at their rebellious kid to get their ass in the car...“Oh my God, I am a kid,” I thought, rather hysterically.""I waited until Tracy had gone to shower and his daughter was spellbound by Blue'sClues. I used a phone attached to the wall in the kitchen. I called Anne and inbursts of hysterical sobs, begged her to come get me and then I exploded out ofthe front door and ran for my life.It was the summer I realized I wasn’t unshakable. It was the summer I found outthat some hippie guy in striped bell bottoms with little, ironic, green hipsterglasses, had knocked me up. Or, maybe it was the military guy? It was thelast summer I spent as a kid. It was the summer I eagerly reached back out tothe family that I had violently shoved away. It was the summer I became accountable for someone other than myself. It was the summer I met the family I chose. While some of these things scared me, they also saved me.
","September 05, 2023 21:06","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Damn! That's one hard-hitting tale, Kay. Gritty, dark, disturbing. \n\nYou have a few issues with formatting, I think. Some lines are double-spaced and some aren't. \n\nI live in Texas and I used to be a teacher, so I know all about ISS and alternative school. TYC as well. Man, these are rough experiences for the MC. One can only hope that she finds redemption for herself and justice for those who wronged her."", 'time': '10:40 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Kay Smith': ""Thank you! \nI imagine the MC did at least make peace with things so she could do a better job with her own family. \nI spent some time in Alternative School and disagree with its purpose. Even now, as an adult.\nThe formatting-  I'm doing something wrong... I formatted and reformated but each time I hit Submit, the text went all wonky. \nI'm open to any help! I finally just had to leave it as it was because  each time, I would mess it up more and more? \nThank you for taking the time to read this! \nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '12:19 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kay Smith': ""Thank you! \nI imagine the MC did at least make peace with things so she could do a better job with her own family. \nI spent some time in Alternative School and disagree with its purpose. Even now, as an adult.\nThe formatting-  I'm doing something wrong... I formatted and reformated but each time I hit Submit, the text went all wonky. \nI'm open to any help! I finally just had to leave it as it was because  each time, I would mess it up more and more? \nThank you for taking the time to read this! \nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '12:19 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Hope this nightmare wasn't real."", 'time': '15:05 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'wow Kay kind of speechless. very very very powerful and heartbreaking stuff here. The world can be a cruel place for many.', 'time': '14:46 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Wow! Through observations and stories I've heard from people who have led such lives, this id more creative nonfiction.\n\nI love your word usage in this story as it really brings to life your protagonists emotions. It really pulls me in as a reader as has me on the edge of my seat concerned for this girl. \n\nAfter reading the whole story, I had to revisit the beginning, which was the happy ending where she's a grown, happy woman with kids and grandkids.\n\nThis is superb writing, Kay! Thanks for sharing this story."", 'time': '15:00 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kay Smith': 'Thank you so much! And thank you for the follow!', 'time': '15:12 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kay Smith': 'Thank you so much! And thank you for the follow!', 'time': '15:12 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Hey Kay! Wow, this is an intense story, up and down and all around, huh? Being an adolescent is tough, and sometimes scary. Honestly, looking back on it, it's a miracle any of us survive it. \nI'm glad this MC survives, though it's sad she has to go through so much. \nI found your timeline interesting. I like stories that go back in time and jump around. I think to enhance this piece it might be helpful to revisit the beginning when the MC is with her family around the fire pit. I kept wanting to go back there. Either way, you take us on a wil..."", 'time': '02:30 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kay Smith': 'Thank you! \nI agree, I should have taken it back to the beginning! Thank you for your feedback!', 'time': '02:52 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kay Smith': 'Thank you! \nI agree, I should have taken it back to the beginning! Thank you for your feedback!', 'time': '02:52 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",d3mc61,The Brave,Jeff Veyera,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d3mc61/,/short-story/d3mc61/,Character,0,"['American', 'Coming of Age', 'Speculative']",9 likes,"
       Indian summer always turns my thoughts to my father. All men have a season; his was late summer; the days often blistering hot but the nights turning cool and promising the relief of autumn. I remember the hay bales and corn husks starting to tower in the green fields. I remember cookout smoke, pop-tops sssshing open, and the deep laughter of men.
             Most of all, though, I remember my father, quietly brooding amidst a cloud of bluish white cigar smoke, his deep-set eyes searching the horizon for he alone knew what. I remember his hair, once jet black but now tinged with white, standing straight on his scalp like a centurion’s crest. I remember the gentle stoop of his neck and shoulders, the product of a life of heavy labor before his strength had begun to fail him. I can’t remember his voice, though---that’s gone forever now. I miss it like amputees miss their limbs.
             The older we get, the more a prisoner of our unspooling pasts we become. We take refuge in them in our dreams. For me, it’s always Indian summer---THAT Indian summer---and it’s always the same, like a Titian painting.
 
             I was fifteen. 
             I’d grown tall and stout, like the old man. Wisps about my upper lip and chin foretold of the ZZ Top chinderwear I’d sport later. My baby face was mostly in my mother’s imagination now. My face was pockmarked but the acne I’d found so horrifying then would fade by the time I’d reached adulthood. 
             I spent as much time as I could get away with traipsing through the woods, creeks, and hills around our home. There weren’t many children then, although more than there are now, and I didn’t mind exploring on my own. It was good practice. 
             My old man had by this point begun taking me with him when he went hunting with The Fellas. I only saw them bag a buck once; the rest of the time seemed to be spent talking, drinking, and building bonfires. They brought rifles with them, of course, but aside from shooting clays and bottles it seemed like a waste of time and effort. They made me wear a bright orange vest just in case and I spent most of my time out there as I did at home----wandering alone.
             When I was in camp, I helped cook or carry things and kept my mouth shut as I’d been instructed. Every now and then they’d ask me Civics questions and reward me with a pat on the head if I got them right. One time they gave me a flag with a big snake on it. I buried him with it, less because he wanted it than because I didn’t. 
             The best thing about those trips was sleeping under the stars, bundled up with just my nose sticking out of the sleeping back, listening to the men snoring and the crackling flames. There must have been a hundred men there, but I was the only boy. Even though I wasn’t one of them, I felt like I was part of something---like I belonged. 
             Maybe that’s why I return to that place and that time in my dreams. That aching to belong is a hard one to shake, even when you’ve been along so long as I have now. Maybe it was simply being among the guys doing Guy Stuff. Maybe it was seeing other men defer to my father, increasing his worth in my eyes thereby. Or maybe it was simply that there was good food and plenty of it. An army marches on its stomach, they used to say, and 15-year-old boys surely did.
             It’s hard to explain what life was like without digital minders. Most of you would never dream of going out into the wilderness, beyond the blinking towers, amidst the wild animals and other natural terrors that Man has done so much to banish from society. But the things that creep and bite and sting did not bother me at all then, much less frighten me. I was not yet accustomed to constant interconnectivity nor to the notion that help would be on the way in seconds once my vital signs dipped below acceptable levels. I just wanted to be out there---walking where no man had in a thousand years, seeing sights no human eyes had seen, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. I didn’t care for the bulk of humanity and they didn’t care for me, so why I should prefer differently eluded me at the time.
             Not that I spent the whole time communing with nature, mind you. I did my fair share of chores, schlepping heavy green metal cases hither and yon, peeling endless amounts of potatoes, even stringing barbed wire along a maze of metal posts, being ever so careful to keep it at just the right height and to follow the contour of the ground. I always did my part. 
             We weren’t home but a couple of weeks that last summer when they came for him. 
             I was fast asleep in my little orange tent in the backyard when I heard the whup-whup-whup and the lights blasted our yard. I was confused at first as some of the glare came from overhead and others from ground level all around; it wasn’t until some time later that I realized that the latter were the news trucks coming to life at some signal I couldn’t hear. 
             I was supposed to head for the woods but instead found myself running toward the house as fast as my long, skinny legs could carry me. I burst in through the shattered door and saw my father, arms raised high above his head as he sat up in bed, eerily white in the tactical flashlight’s glare as his skull and blood and brains painted the wall behind him. I never heard the shot, only the ringing in my ears as my mother screamed silently beside him. 
             By the time the baton crashed down between my shoulder blades I’d become a man.
             It’s a better world, now, of course, and I’m not such a narcissist that I believe that night is what made it so. My kids won’t be out to hell and back where anything can happen to them and nobody’d be the wiser. I’ll be there for them and for my grandchildren, should there be any of either. I have a purpose now and a duty to fulfill it. 
             Not that I’m going---not that WE’RE going soft, mind you. This is still The Home of the Brave.
             May it always will be.
","September 05, 2023 12:08",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",bhldzl,Through The Mirror Brightly,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bhldzl/,/short-story/bhldzl/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Inspirational', 'Romance']",9 likes,"
We are all made of stars.
 
We really are, all of us are made from the same stuff as stars and that makes us truly remarkable. Each and every one of us. Our value is incalculable. We are priceless.
 
It was only when I grew up, that I learned this. I grew up, and in growing up, I knew a great many things. Things that we should all know, if only we would see. Of course, as I began to open up and use my mind, I realised that I had not previously known as much as I thought I had. We build walls around ourselves and paint them as though they were the scenery. Eventually we accept the confines of our self-built prison so totally that we think we are somehow a finished article.
 
No such thing as the finished article exists when it comes to people. We’re a life long project. That sounds like a lot of hard work though, and it is. And taking those walls down and truly entering the world we were always meant to be in seems scary, and that is because it is. It’s supposed to be. All the best and most worthwhile things should frighten us, after all, stars reside in the bosom of the infinite and the infinite is about as mind-blowingly terrifying as it gets.
 
Some people grow up gradually. Some don’t ever grow up, these people are not to be confused with the childish, for they are quite the opposite of childish, they appear to be grown up, but they have lost their way and their inner child weeps within them, hoping for them to one day wake up to their true nature. Then there are those who open up like a flower in the night and they are forever changed.
 
That was me. I was one of the lucky ones. I entered the Summer of Eighty Eight a boy and I emerged a man. A childish man intent on living the life I was always destined to live. But as is sometimes the case with life, I was not to know that this was when everything changed for me. Only now do I look back on that Summer of Eighty Eight and see that that was when it all started for me. I suppose I had to go out into the world and do in order to be. I had to make it stick before I could stand upon a summit and look down upon that point in my life and see it for what it was.
 
I was eighteen years old that Summer. A boy with pretentions of being a man. I’d dropped out of six form because it didn’t completely gel with me. The catalyst for my departure was a science teacher who seemed to have it in for me from the start. Now I’m older, I do wonder about that. At one time, I thought maybe I reminded him of someone who had treated him badly. We all have pigeonholes and from time to time we forget to attend to those temporary judgements that we make about people. If he was reacting badly towards me, then it’s not inconceivable that I was doing the exact same thing to him. What I did know was that the girl who sat next to me was getting pass marks in every test and I was getting the lowest marks of my life. The fact she was struggling with the subject, and so copying my answers, told me all I needed to know about Mr F. It didn’t help matters that the guy had a white fleck of spittle that would travel around his lips as he taught. There was something disgustingly hypnotic about that spittle, it distracted me as it went from upper lip to lower lip and then slunk along that lip before transferring again. The highlight of the show was when the spittle disappeared. I’d then look across the front rows of pupils to see if anyone had caught the leaping teacher’s pet. Of course, I shared my fascination of this glutinous marvel and soon enough half the class was transfixed by the tiny and sticky imp and it’s dread antics.
 
Sixth form wasn’t all bad though. My English classes were the polar opposite of the science classes. My English teacher, Mrs P, was passionate about her subject and also her students. She brought people to life in a way that is so rare. You just knew that she was interested in you and that she cared. There are switches inside us that open us up to so much more life and she pushed one of those switches in me. I guess she had had that self-same gift from someone in her formative years and she was paying it forward. In those English classes I dared to write and share poetry and I expressed myself with confidence, opening up to possibilities I never even knew were mine for the taking.
 
All the same, I left. When something goes bad it’s difficult to overlook it and pretend like everything is OK. Some people seem to do just that, but either I’m built differently, or I’m more aware of the ongoing damage people behaving badly can wreak on themselves and those around them.
 
Dropping out is failing as far as any teen is concerned. I put a brave face on it and told people that it was onwards and upwards, but that science teacher had won and that was all there was to it. I found myself staring into the abyss, but there were no warnings on that dark place and I was oblivious to it staring back at me.
 
Somewhere along the way I must have told myself that things couldn’t get any worse. These words are a spell and the spell summons the Shit Pixies. The Shit Pixies really know what they are about and they have fun with Moaning Minnies who think their lot is as bad as it gets. They heard me and they marked me. Then they did their thing.
 
Going into the holidays, my lot was about to get a lot, lot worse.
 
I’d finished with school a couple of months before the holidays. There was no point in going on with something that just wasn’t working. I then busied myself with several jobs and projects. I found that there was plenty of work for a young man keen to work and help out. I threw myself into mowing lawns, gardening, washing windows and delivering leaflets. Keeping myself busy seemed like a good thing to do. Mostly it was, but there were downsides to this one trick strategy of mine. Hard work alone doesn’t cut it, but I wasn’t to know that back then. 
 
There was a lot that I didn’t know and the worst of it was that I didn’t know that I didn’t know it. Such is the folly of brave youth.
 
Hard work alone also gets in the way of other aspects of life. Like relationships. I’d misconstrued what I had seen. I was following examples without thinking things through. I was just getting on with it. And while I was doing this, my girlfriend Susan was getting on with someone else.
 
“I’ve been seeing someone else,” Susan told me.
 
We were at my parents house. No one else was in. Usually, this would be a prime opportunity to kiss. Kissing was a great pursuit back then. We kissed like it was a new craze. We explored the art of kissing in the pursuit of excellence, as well as the pursuit of a higher state of being. The feelings that were produced by kissing were on a different level and yes, sometimes the kissing led to other things, but mostly it didn’t and that was fine by me.
 
Back then, I worked off this assumption that if things were fine by me then they were likely to be fine with the people I was with. There was more to this assumption. I wasn’t dumb, even back then I wasn’t a complete clot. The check to this assumption was that if something wasn’t fine then it was an essential subject of discussion and the discussion would be had.
 
I mean, why wouldn’t it?
 
You’re standing on my foot.
 
Oh! Apologies old bean! How careless of me. Here, let me move so I’m not standing on anyone’s foot.
 
Job done. 
 
Everything is right in the world again.
 
Surely this was how it worked? It didn’t bear thinking about if it didn’t work this way. Things would get messy really quickly if people didn’t bother talking about the big things.
 
And messy they did get.
 
Susan hadn’t spoken up when things weren’t fine. Well actually, she had. She’d spoken to an opportunist in her class. Now I wasn’t at school, he saw his chance and he took it. His name was Timothy and he was a twat of the highest order. This was not my assessment of his character, this definition of the boy-man proceeded him and the timing of his theft of Susan. 
 
He wasn’t entirely to blame. I understood that from the off. I’d dropped the ball and not spent enough quality time with Susan. And Susan had failed to mention any of her concerns, or that she was no longer happy, or that she was thinking of sleeping with the worst possible human being within a five mile radius. Honestly, it were as though in vengeful spirit, she’d built Timothy from all the things I was not and then imbued him with the special ability to be smarmy beyond imagining. He deployed his smarm via a smile that everyone wanted to wipe from his face. To make it just a little bit worse, he also had henchmen. These henchmen were a travesty of the profession of henchmen. Henchmen would be so ashamed of them, they’d go out on strike in a thrice. They weren’t muscle. They were tattle-tales who watched over Timothy and would tell on anyone who they deemed to be a threat. They added a big dollop of slime to his smarmy sleaze.
 
Following this terrible revelation, my ego took a pasting, but not straight away. First my heart broke and then my pride took a battering. I completely wrong-footed Susan in the moment of her ultimate betrayal and inadvertently made her dumping me much more difficult than she’d anticipated.
 
“OK,” I said to her, fully intending it to be OK. After all, this was the first I knew of any problem in our relationship, and you were supposed to work at these things. A relationship didn’t come with fries. It wasn’t something you discarded if you weren’t feeling it. We’d committed to each other. Susan was the only girl I’d ever slept with and until this revelation of hers, I was her one and only too. I was certainly her first and we’d been considered and gentle on that front. It had been incredibly important to us both. But not to the slippery and slimy Timothy though. The value he put on relationships and making love was very obviously lower than a snakes belly, “we can work this out,” I told Susan.
 
I remember Susan looking stunned and then confused, as though I’d produced a large salmon from nowhere and slapped her about the face with it, “but I love him,” she said as she regained some of her composure.
 
“You can’t!” I protested.
 
This pushed her right back into a state of confusion. I’d like to think that she felt guilty, but I never saw and evidence of guilt, and she certainly didn’t say she was. Not a surprise as I learnt that she was the type of person who didn’t think talking was a good idea. Let’s face it, she didn’t think and eventually I’d put those two pieces of logic together. Then I’d conclude that people who don’t think and just blunder through life are dangerous. 
 
Seems obvious now, but I think you have to be burned by those fires to understand how hot they really are. Even then, the brain-zombies can get you. There are people who have the appearance of thinking. I still haven’t sussed how this is achieved. Not thinking, and yet looking like thought is or has taken place. Seemingly reasonable people who at some point will drop you from a great height and have no idea that they have even done let go of you. Probably because it hadn’t registered with them that they had you in the first place.
 
Which is nice.
 
Susan thought she was in for an easy ride when she dumped me and later, when I realised this, I wondered just how much any of it had meant to her. I also wondered at what expectations people had and why they bail so swiftly when those uncommunicated expectations are not met.
 
We’re simple and blunt creatures. If we ask, then we stand some chance of receiving. If we don’t ask, then how in the hell does anyone know what we want? That’s why we pray. There’s more to prayer than meets the eye. In order to pray, we need to work out what it is that we need. Not want. Want is a frivolous feeling. Want is the snivelling servant of urge. Then, once we’ve sussed what it is that we need, we have to articulate it. But that’s not the most important part, not by a long chalk. We absolutely have to mean it, and the only way that works is that we are completely invested in addressing that need so that what we’re really praying for is a little help along the way.
 
Think about it. Has anyone you know got a pile of answered prayers in their garage? Nope. That’s because when prayers are answered, they are already a part of a person’s life, and that life just gets better as a result. 
 
As the enormity of my new enforced status hit me, I burst into tears. Susan hadn’t seen this before. The only time my eyes had leaked was when I cut onions. I’d had nothing to provoke such a reaction during my relationship with her. Everything had been tickety-boo. We hit one rough patch and our love bug is off to the scrap metal merchant, baby!
 
I was just as crushed.
 
And so, I entered the Summer in a much changed state. I didn’t appreciate the favour Susan and my science teacher with his weaponised spittle had done me, nor the opportunities that were opening up to me thanks to these painful twists of fate. That took some time to sink in.
 
What I did understand was what counted, and that was the people around me. My family and my friends. They rallied around me and I learnt how to talk. Properly talk. About proper stuff. 
 
You see, now I’d been hurt, I wanted to understand. I wanted to get to grips with what it was that I was supposed to be doing with this life of mine. And yes, this was driven by a desire not to repeat the same mistakes again. Only there are times in your life. Big times. The very biggest of times. When no one tells you what it is that you did wrong. During the mess of the ensuing crisis, this seems unfair. But it isn’t. It’s necessary. After all, we only get out of life what we put in, so we have to do the work. If someone gave us the answers, then we’d go back to that person after we’d stuffed up again, blaming them instead of taking a long hard look at ourselves.
 
And that just would not do.
 
We have to look at ourselves because we’re built in a way that requires that self-reflection. We think we’re better than others, we also believe that we’re the best version of humanity yet. What exactly makes us better than our ancestors? Stuff. The material that surrounds and distracts us. How is that better? Can we honestly say that we know ourselves better than our ancestors did. 
 
I for one, don’t think we can.
 
We hide behind screens and indulge a fantasy. Our keyboards empower us to ‘say’ things that we would never utter to someone’s face. We play with the unreal because we’re too frightened to create something worthwhile. The meaning of our lives is eroded by the noise of so much that has nothing to do with us or the people around us.
 
I began to understand this as I spent the Summer of Eighty Eight in bits. As I talked to my friends and family, I kept on with the necessary work and I formulated my first life plan. I aimed at something worthwhile and I made damn sure it was worth something as I got closer and closer to it.
 
That Summer I began to grow up. 
 
Somewhere along the way I understood that growing up was just a part of life. Growing up is another way of saying learning. We never stop learning, or rather, if we do then we die a sort of death. 
 
Knowing this gives me much comfort. I know that I am not the finished article and that I never will be. That means I have farther to go and more living to do. That I will never stop on this journey of life. I will use every second of the time allotted to me and I will make sure that my time here matters.
 
And so I learnt to talk.
 
But it really all started to happen for me when I learnt to listen, but that’s a whole other story. Listening is far, far harder to master than talking. By a country mile and then some.
 
Imagine that! Listening to a being made of stars. That’s what we all are, and we have many, many stories to tell. 
","September 07, 2023 17:15","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Lots of deep thought, speaking and listening here, Jed. You are a ✨.\n""We build walls around ourselves and paint them as scenery.""', 'time': '16:44 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""I wasn't sure how this one would land. I'm glad it hit the spot for you!"", 'time': '21:39 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""I wasn't sure how this one would land. I'm glad it hit the spot for you!"", 'time': '21:39 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",smln2q,That Summer We Ate Watermelon on the Peak of Da Sia Shan,Mimi Li,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/smln2q/,/short-story/smln2q/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'East Asian', 'Friendship']",8 likes,"
In contrast to the cool and refreshing air of San Francisco, which made exercise light, the humid, sub-tropical heat of Dan Sia weighed on Sue like a wet blanket. Her breathing was laborious and her steps felt heavy, as she made her way up the steep steps leading to the distant summit. Wen taunted her slow pace from above. Although he was already in his fifties, her younger brother never missed an opportunity to tease her. He recalled nostalgically of the days he sprinted up the mountain in thirty minutes with a large watermelon in tow to enjoy at the top. ""You're limping too, you know?  You think you can still do that?"" Sue jested. As she climbed, every rock formation, tunnel and step carved in stone stirred up something inside of her. Those long forgotten moments burst forth like a small flame when she was suddenly prompted by a flood of sounds and sensations from what felt like another lifetime ago. That morning, Sue had woken up to the loud whirring of the AC unit working overtime as it had been on all night.  On the hundreds of business trips, she had taken over the years as an engineering consultant, these horrible little machines had been the bane of her existence. Often cheap and overdue for a cleaning, the dried-out air they produced had wreaked havoc on her sinuses.  However, whether it was the jet-lag or the fact that the air outside was very humid, Sue had slept very well indeed despite the AC.  The night before, she had a long phone call with her German fiancé about how to deal with a plumbing issue in their rental unit back at home.  However, since she had arrived in Dan Sia, it seemed as if the heat and breeze of the surrounding mountains, river and trees had enveloped her mind and made it very difficult to fixate on these headaches.  Her problems all seemed so far away and it was a welcome reprieve for Sue that it was so. Her stomach growled suddenly.  It seemed that her appetite had been surprisingly good since coming back.  Since the move to San Francisco, she had lost a lot of weight.  There were issues from her tenant and endless maintenance work to be done in her new-old house.  Along with the usual work and life stress, she had felt hollowed out and weak, only able to tenuously maintain the bare minimum each day.  Sue suddenly snorted at the irony of it all.  She had only bragged a few months before about how the Bay Area had the best weather in the world, the only place outside of the Mediterranean to have Mediterranean weather.  But now looking back, something about the “perfect” weather hadn’t been so perfect for her.  It had made her cold and weak.  Ironically, it was the sweltering heat that engulfed the south-eastern part of China every summer that had somehow filled her with a warm energy from the inside out.“Hey, are you awake, Hong?” “Mmm…”Sue couldn’t help but smile when she looked at the disheveled middle-aged woman lying in the bed next to hers.  Hong had been her best friend since middle school and lived next door all her life.  That is until Sue moved to Virginia to study for her engineering masters… After all these years, chatting and laughing late into the night like young girls, being with Hong still felt like home.  The best way to describe the feeling is perhaps just the extreme closeness of having someone be able to read your mind then take care of you and speak to you just how you prefer.  Without words, you know fully and are fully known by the other person.  “Hong, get up.  I’m hungry…” “Mmm…We ate so much last night.  How are you still hungry?”It was true.  Sue was starting to feel like a glutton since coming back to her hometown, Shao Guan. Her brother’s wife Mei had ordered a large feast from a local restaurant last night.  In the recreational area they were staying at, there wasn’t much in the way of businesses but family-run eateries and homestays.  The sprightly diner proprietress had worked from the early afternoon to prepare all kinds of sumptuous local dishes for them to enjoy.  Her brother, Wen, who was friends with the homestay owner, had arranged for everything to be brought to the roomy, front patio area so they could enjoy the night breeze.  Looking at the hanging twinkle lights and lovely potted plants all around the sizable table filled with succulent dishes, Sue had to admit her brother had done a commendable job bringing her here.  However, the feeling was short-lived after all when he and his friends proceeded with their usual revelry – smoking, drinking, talking a lot of nonsense and just being obnoxious in general.  Nearly drunk on Chinese white liquor, Wen suddenly asked, “Sue, do you remember when we went swimming in the river there?” “Of course, I remember!  I almost drowned that day.”“Wasn’t it fun though?  The boat didn’t even come close to you.  You panicked yourself.” “Hey, don’t you remember how I saved your life?” another drunk voice suddenly chimed in.  It was Chiang, Wen’s best friend. “Are you kidding me? We both nearly drowned!  Why did you jump in when you can’t even swim well?” Sue laughed. Chiang was speechless for a moment.  “Well, I had to do something… You were in the water and…” “Obviously he had to jump in!” Hong suddenly interjected with a knowing grin.  “Chiang always has to show what a gentleman he is.  Chivalry is not lost here, boys!” Everyone at the party laughed and poked fun at their childhood friend for a while.  Later that night, Chiang chuckled to himself as he lay in bed.  He thought it was all well and good that he had gone fishing yesterday.  The middle-aged man felt giddy all of a sudden and found some humorous consolation that the sunburn he got from fishing the other day disguised the impetuous flush on his face.  He thought about those long summers before Wen had married Mei and Sue had left for America.  Before he had become estranged from his wife and his daughter was too busy with her job to mind him anymore…  He was an unsophisticated country boy who fished and swam in rivers for fun.  He ran around playing games with Wen and chasing his sister and her friends.  When he was a teenager, all the boys lugged large watermelons up to the peak of Dan Sia Mountain and they stayed up all night to watch the sunset.  With affectionate thoughts of his old friends and their rapturous youth, Chiang drifted off into a sweet slumber.  As the two friends approached the breakfast stall that morning, Sue’s mouth began to water immediately.  The fragrant aroma of freshly steamed rice noodle omelet reminded her of school days with her brother.  At that time, a savory roll stuffed with dried shrimp and barbecue meat had only cost two cents.  Of course, that was no small portion of their allowance at the time.  Sue chuckled to herself as she thought of how eagerly Wen had always inhaled any street stall food they bought and looked so longingly at her portion.  “What’s so funny?” Wen had just come back from smoking.“Nothing. I’m just thinking about how malnourished I was growing up because you kept stealing my food, you rice bucket.” “Well, eat up! Eat up, big sis!  It’s my treat today!” Wen teased.“Then what about me?  I also shared with you,” Hong added, “I’ll assume the big man will buy my breakfast too.”  “Ohh, it looks like I didn’t bring enough money today,” feigned Wen innocently, “Thank you so much for your generous donation but you’re on your own today.”  Hong pretended to glare and Wen laughed mischievously. Feeling slightly neglected, Mei ate her meal silently.  It was easy to be left out in this group of old friends, especially being the only one who had never gone to university.  Mei had only completed her junior high education and went straight to work as an assistant at a factory.  Wen had been an engineer there and that was how they met.  Sue had done the best in school among everyone in the group.  Looking back on it now, she often wondered if it was a blessing or a curse.  Sue recalled the pride in her father’s eyes when she had scored within the top one percent and entered South China University with full scholarships. Out of all the neighborhood kids, she was the only one to make it to the US.  But it wasn’t the land of promise she had envisioned.  She had lived through cancer, divorce and single motherhood in isolation.  As an immigrant without any support system, the vicissitudes of life had slowly worn Sue down until hardly any remained of that brave and carefree girl who had dreamed of something more.   When she thought of Mei and her small world, Sue could not help but feel a tinge of envy.  Though she had never seen the Golden Gate Bridge or tasted the finest French cuisine, Mei had been cared for her whole life.  Wen provided for his wife and she supported him within her own capacity.  Although Mei could be petty and limited in her views at times, she was still vibrant and full of energy like a young woman.Later in the day, this fact became only too apparent as the troupe of middle-aged friends struggled to make their way up the mountain of their youth.  It was already nearing mid-morning by the time they started the long trek upwards.  The air was heavy with humidity and the sun beat down on them mercilessly in each stretch that was not covered by the protective shade of trees.  Mei, who had already walked the dog for over an hour on a shorter trail that morning, was quick and light-footed compared with her collegiate companions.  The two slightly older men pressed on, wondering why they had agreed to subject themselves to this torment, attempted to disguise the limp in their step.  “Do you need any help? I can give you a piggyback ride,” Chiang heaved playfully between labored breaths. Sue snorted at the offer.  “Oh, I want a ride!  But I just ate double portions for breakfast so you better be ready for the extra weight!” Hong teased back.  They had just passed the halfway point not long ago.  Sue was impressed but wistful upon seeing how the landscape of the mountain had been altered over the years.  Instead of the pure wildness of formidable stone, uneven paths and overgrown bamboo, the provincial government had erected tidy stairways and resting areas.  Chinese adages had been carved and painted into the natural rock formations and the trail was lined with metal lamp posts and intermittent vendor carts.  Even the ancient Buddhist temple no longer reflected its age, as it had been remodeled with shiny, new shingles and wooden beams in each pagoda.  It was much easier to walk here now, but Sue found herself lamenting how these artificial touches had changed the landscape of Dan Sia so drastically.  “Hey, let’s stop and take a picture!” Wen said excitedly, as he pointed to a slope of raised stone steps ahead which led into a tunnel entrance.  How many years had it been?  In a dusty photo album somewhere in the old Shao Guan house, there lay a faded photo of the very same view.  Featuring all the neighborhood kids, a spry gang of adolescents stood there glowing with energy and smiling from ear to ear.  Now that the adult counterparts had returned with a few members missing which included Chiang’s younger siblings, three of Sue’s elementary school friends and an older brother nicknamed “Airplane Head.” “Unbelievable!  I’m almost embarrassed to compare the old photo to this one.  Look at how old and wrinkly we’ve all become,” Hong laughed.“Speak for yourself!  Don’t lump me in with you senior citizens!” Chiang insisted, “I’m still handsome and young…”“Hah! Who are you calling a senior citizen?”“You’re still itching for a beating from us, aren’t you?” Chiang pretended to run away as the two indignant women started to berate him.  For a moment, the grizzled, middle-aged man had transformed into a naughty teenage boy who had just run off after playing a bad trick on the neighborhood girls. Now it was almost noontime and the party had nearly reached the summit. Sue found herself holding her breath in anticipation as she climbed the final steps of the long wooden staircase.  Then upon the first exhilarating view from above, she found herself suddenly breathing out all the feelings she had been holding in.  At the summit, Sue felt as if all the friction and incongruity plaguing her life was suddenly swallowed up by the endless mountain landscape around her.  From the balcony of the viewing deck, Sue took in each protruding sandstone cliff among an endless sea of trees.  She marveled at the dazzling waters of the winding rivers below.  A memory of an old social studies lecture floated into her mind, “The layers of reddish rock sediments in Dan Sia were formed over 65 million years ago by water and erosion…”  How wonderfully humbling to be reminded just how small we really are, Sue thought with a big smile on her face.  Despite the arduous journey, it seemed that she was meant to come this way all along.  It seemed that God was not so indifferent to her existence if he had made this heavenly place to be such a source of awe, inspiration and light.Nearly dizzy with euphoria, Sue composed herself before turning to Wen. “Thanks for bringing me here, brother.  It’s really beautiful.” “Mmm… No problem.  It’s fine.  I just can’t believe they won’t let you smoke here anymore.”“I’m glad they don’t, Wen.  You should quit.  It isn’t good for you.”“I know… I know… But it’s too late for me, big sis,” Wen said quickly, trying to change the subject, “Here come help me with this.  I can’t believe we carried these all way up here in our fifties.” Then out of his large pocket and Chiang’s too, the two men produced two tiny watermelon each the size of a coconut.  Sue stared blankly for a moment at her brother’s surprise and laughed, “I can’t believe I didn’t notice this whole time!”  It was at this moment Sue realized the spirit of this place.  Enveloping and sweet, like the companionship of a loved one, who watches, protects and considers without a word from the other. Story inspired by this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Often I think of the beautiful townThat is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me.And a verse of a Lapland songIs haunting my memory still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’
","September 09, 2023 00:41","[[{'Japie Kruger': ""Perfect story for this prompt: kind of bittersweet nostalgic. I liked how the characters' conversation builds up the story."", 'time': '05:07 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ethan Wu': 'Great read! Love how you described Da Sia Shan and the banter between characters. Can really get a sense of their personalities.', 'time': '23:23 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",jzgkr6,Dog,Michael Mackenzie,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jzgkr6/,/short-story/jzgkr6/,Character,0,['Horror'],8 likes,"
Malcolm crawled over to the window and peered outside. It was past two o’clock in the morning and this was the fourth time in the last hour he couldn’t resist peaking to see if anyone or anything was outside in front of the house. The lights of the living room were off and the house was silent. Outside, the streetlamps flickered and the cold wind pounded the door.
             He raised his head above the windowsill. He fingered his wedding ring, whispering to himself. Everything will be alright. Yes, everything will be alright.  His vision blurred and his hands trembled. Fog blanketed the window
             Malcolm flicked on the outside lights, wiped the fog from the window, and surveyed the property. Snow fell on the driveway. The wooden fence outlining the yard was broken in several places. His red red mailbox stood on a crooked beam. The door to the shed adjacent to the house swung open and shut, wood beating on wood. A car passed the house, its tires sliding on the thickening snow, and from the tree line on the opposite side of the road, stood a dark silhouette, peaking from behind a tree before disappearing back into the woods.
             The lights in the living room flicked on. Footfalls echoed from the steps, each step signaling anger and disappointment.
             “What are you doing up again? You are a forty-year old man acting like the boogie man is out to get you.” 
             “I thought I saw something outside.” 
             “We’re back on his again.” 
             “You don’t understand.” 
             “Because you won’t tell me. You refuse to tell me, and yet whatever happened that night seems to have absolutely destroyed you.” 
             “I can’t talk about it.” 
             “Well I can’t stay married to a guy who won’t communicate with me.”  
             Maribell walked back upstairs, slamming the door shut. He hated himself for not being able to talk about that summer. The summer, almost fifteen years to the day when everything changed. Despite his cancer diagnosis, his little indiscretion several years ago in Cancun on a work trip, she had stood by him. He didn’t deserve her, and he knew it. 
             He took one more peak through the window, and not seeing anything headed toward the stairs. He flicked the lights off, telling himself that perhaps he didn’t see anything a few moments ago. Maybe Maribell was right, all of his fears and insecurities represented something that wasn’t real, even though she didn’t know exactly what he was afraid of. But maybe it was time to tell her. Time to come clean. Might help him sleep.
 
             Maribell sat with the lights on, scrolling through different color schemes for a children’s room on her phone. He climbed into bed next to her, his shirt covered in sweat. 
             “When are you going to tell me what happened?” Maribell said, putting her phone down.
             “I’ve never told anyone what happened that night.”
             “If you don’t want to tell me then I’m going to bed, but you can’t keep coming to me to calm you down every time you have a panic attack.”
             “No, I want to – ” 
             “We’ve all been through hell one way or another. You just have to find a way to come out the other side.” 
             Malcolm looked in her bright blue eyes, wishing he were a better husband. Wishing he made more money. Wishing that maybe she could just leave him. Then he wouldn’t feel awful if he ever failed her or kid they hoped and prayed for each night.
             “I want to tell you.” 
             Maribell took a deep breath, grabbed his head, and then smiled. “I want to know everything. I want to know why that night changed you. Why every night on the same day for fifteen years you stare at that window.
             “It’s not pretty.”
             “Life isn’t pretty.” 
 
                                                                                     II
             15 years ago.
             Malcolm sat at the bar and pushed his last few dollars toward the bartender. Next to him sat a three empty glasses with stale beer suds resting at the bottom. He told himself he’d had enough, that he was only supposed to have one more, but one more turned into two and two and turned into three and now the last of his pay check sat on the wet bar. 
             When the bartender didn’t see him, Malcolm waived his money high in the air. He coughed. The old man stared at him, eyes rolling. 
             “We are closing soon,” the bartender said, finally walking over to him. 
             “This is the last one. I know I shouldn’t but what hell right?” 
             “You sure you can handle it?” The bartender said. 
             “Just pour the damn beer,” Macolm said. 
             “Easy buddy,” the bartender said, grabbing the empty the glasses. 
             A few moments later the bartender returned with what Malcolm promised himself would be his last drink. The beer head floating gloriously at the top of the glass. Malcolm stared at, looking at the length of the glass. Telling himself that for however long he made this final beer last, and maybe a bit longer after that, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that Maribell was pregnant and there was no way he’d be able to support both of them. Wouldn’t have to worry about his job at the factory ending in 6 months and given his performance he probably wouldn’t be getting a letter of recommendation anyway. Wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that the economy in this part of Pennsylvania was failing anyway, the steel factories going bust and whole town falling apart. He stared at tv, drinking enjoying his cares slip away. 
             When his beer glass was empty, the bartender approached Malcolm. “You have a way home?”
             “I can drive.”
             “You sure you are alright to drive?” 
             “I’m fine.” 
             Malcolm pushed the money back to him. 
             “You’re short,” the bartender said, counting and then re-counting the money. 
             “That’s all I got.” 
             “I can’t let you leave without paying me.” 
             “Look I just want to get home.” 
             “That’s all well and good but you are short sixteen dollars.” 
             Malcolm put his hands in his pockets, pulled out nothing but a receipt for a carton of cigarettes, a lottery ticket, and a lighter. “I think I’ve got change in my car.” 
             “Don’t try to fool me boy,” the bartender said. 
             “’I’ll be right back.” 
             Malcolm opened the door to the bar, the cold breeze slamming him in the face but bothering him slightly less because of the alcohol swirling in his blood.  He tried to catch his thoughts, tried to remember if he really did have money in the console, but his head ached and his vision blurred.
             He opened the car door. He looked around, pushing away the DVD’s that he’d taken, or stolen, from the library, the books on scriptwriting, reminding himself that he needed to start taking life seriously, the empty sandwich wrappers from his lunch breaks. But no cash. Who was he kidding? There was no cash in the car and barely any cash in the bank account. 
             The bartender walked outside, yelling and screaming. Malcolm almost felt bad because he knew that just like him the bartender was just trying to scrape out a living. But Malcolm needed those drinks. Needed those drinks to survive and surely the bartender could survive missing a few dollars here and there. No problem.
             Malcolm pulled himself back into the front seat of the car, placed the key in the ignition, and turned the keys. The engine sputtered. He slammed dash. 
	The bartender pulled a phone from his pocket. Dialed it. Waved it in the air. The police. He tried the ignition again. And again. And Again. “C’mon you son of a bitch,” he said. 
	 The car was an old mustang his father left him before he died.  Malcolm promised his father that he would take care of it. Get it washed regularly. Take it for oil changes. Vacuum the inside. But  all these years, this car, the one his father had used to drive him to baseball games and take him to school and football practice and this car where Malcolm’s father, a Vietnam war veteran who could out drink anyone before he was eighteen, was the same one Malcolm used to drive him to the hospital because Malcolm found his drugged up in bathtub with enough pills to poison an entire platoon.  “Please God,” Malcolm said. 
             The engine roared. The car tail-spinning as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, his vision blurry and the beer bullying his body.  The time on the dash read one-am. Malcolm wanted to be home by 12:30am because  Maribell got home from the hospital by 12:45am. She dreamed of being a nurse, Maribell, but for right was an assistant, picking up people’s and vomit, helping them go to the bathroom, wheeling to and from wherever they needed to go. Cleaning up their trays. Malcolm admired her. The way she studied till 3 or 4am before starting another shift. The way she never went out anymore. The way she always talked about helping people. 
	A roadblock stood in the middle of the road, a half-mile from home. Malcolm’s rubbed his eyes, as if doing so would rid him of the headache. If he back-tracked now he’d have to drive by the bar again and God knows if police are circling the area. He’d be late getting home, then having to Maribell what happened. But if he went past the roadblock, he might have to turn around anyway given what was further ahead beyond the bend in the road. 
             Fog descended from the tall trees draped over the highway  Malcolm hated himself for how much he’d had tonight. He pressed hard on the gas, knowing he shouldn’t but doing it anyway because he wanted to be home and in his bed, next to Maribell, telling her from now on things would be different. 
	Malcolm swerved to his right, past a large tree that must have fallen onto the road from the night before, and as he passed the tree, returning to his lane on the highway, a dark silhouette backed away from the car, and green eyes, barely visible beneath the low stars glared back at him. 
	He slammed on the breaks. The car slid. A loud cry echoed through the night, and Malcolm felt the tires thumb before quickly leveling out. Malcom stopped the car. 
	Outside, The animal’s chest rose and fell slowly in an ever-expanding pool of blood. It’s eyes, a glorious green, moved to the left and right,  in pain but also looking for an explanation. It’s organs had risen to its mouth, he cough filling releasing its organs into the cold. 
	“Christ, Almighty,” Malcolm said to no one. “What have I done.”
	Malcolm fell to his knees. Tears dripping from his eyes because he wanted to do something for this dog that still looked majestic with its beautiful fur and proud gaze even if the face of death. 
	He sat on the empty road next to the dog, waiting. Waiting for it to takes it last breath. Waiting for it to go from this world to the next.  But the dog kept moaning. Kept aching. Kept looking at him in that pool of blood with a look of betrayal, as if to say how could you let this happen to me? 
	The barking and the aching got louder, each progressive bark bouncing off the trees in the forest, ringing in his ears. And then the barks seemed to turn into screams. The screams so loud that it Malcolm had to cover his ears. But still, that didn’t help. Nothing helped. Still, the screamed filled his ears and filled the woods and filled his world. “Maie it stop, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. 
	But the eyes wouldn’t let him. Those rotten and yellow eyes staring at him at him is the dogs organs fell out it’s mouth. The eyes that pierced Malcolm’s heart. The eyes that had no room for mercy or forgiveness. 
	Malcolm stood up, returned to his car, and grabbed the baseball that he’d used for hitting practice. It was one his father had given him just before he passed. He had always told himself he’d buy a new one so that he could cherish it. But it was too late for that now. 
	He crossed himself like he used to do at church every Sunday, and asked God for forgiveness. Prayed that tonight would be a turning point in his life but he figured it wouldn’t be, at least not in the long term. But still, he hoped. 
	The bat sat neatly in his hands, raised over his head. He couldn’t bear to look in the eyes. Instead, he focused on the blood-soaked sur. The right hind leg bent out of place. At the last moment, just before the bat made contact, he bought the wood down hard on the head. The rotten eyer staring at him one last time. 
             When he was done, he placed the bat back in the cab of his truck, picked up dog’s body, and placed it in the woods. But before he could bury it, he laid down next to it, tears dripping from his eyes, petting the fur with dried blood and staring into the lifeless eyes. “I’m so sorry,” Malcolm said. Just before the sun rose, he covered the dog with leaves, and then drove home, promising to himself that he never wanted to think about that night ever again. 
                                                                                     III
             Malcolm wept in Sophie’s arms. 
             “But what are you so worried about now?” She said. 
             “It’ll be fifteen years to the day tomorrow,” Malcolm said. 
             “You are a different person now,” Sophie said. 
             “I still did it. It doesn’t matter. I’m still that weak man who made someone else suffer for my mistakes,” Malcolm said. 
             “You’ve brought a lot of joy to people.” 
             Malcolm stood up from the bed, eyed the window, and then kissed Sohpia. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps there was no reason to worry. Surely spending the last fifteen years of worrying and trapped in his guilt and shame wasn’t the way to go. Maybe the only person he needed to forgive was actually someone who didn’t exist anymore. 
             Still, for all those years he couldn’t help but wake and hear the sound of that dog barking. The barking that had turned into a scream. And the scream that wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t help that most nights when he closed his eyes the first thing he was the blood stained snout and blood dripping out of mouth. And he could still taste the alcohol that he had that night and he could still feel the cold air against his skin. No, there was no escaping that night, even if it did change him. 
             “Where are you going?” Emma said. 
             “I’ll be right back.” 
             Malcolm walked back downstairs. The lights in the living room were off and he held onto the banister as he walked. He felt a moment of freedom as he walked down the stairs, feeling relieved that he’d finally gotten that night off his chest, even though he hated the idea of ever talking about it. 
             He walked past the window where he’d sat earlier in the night, waiting. He opened the door, walked onto the highway. Ahead of him, perhaps two miles down, was the forest where he’d hit and then buried that damn dog. That was before they had renovated the house. Before they could afford the SUVs that were sitting in the driveway. Before they had the manicured lawn. 
             The air was cold, just like it had been that night. He looked toward the sky, and then back at the house. Lord, please watch over Emma, he thought to himself. At the bend on the road, he saw a pack of dogs with rotten yellow eyes just like he had seen that night. They walked together in unison toward Malcolm. When they were about twenty feet away, another dog joined them. It’s head was deformed. It’s bark was loud, its eyes unforgiving. It its mouth, it carried a baseball bat. 
 
 
","September 09, 2023 03:08",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",gpae4i,The Magic of Summers Lost,Jonathan Quidangen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gpae4i/,/short-story/gpae4i/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",8 likes,"
	Whenever my parents read us the stories of Peter Pan, they would always end it by telling my brothers and me to ‘never grow up’. They told us to stay as childlike as possible and that we would never stop seeing the world's magic. Every Summer, my father made it a point to take us camping to new places. We would camp by the beach, in the forest, on a mountain. My brothers and I longed for the family camping trips to escape city life's monotony. Sitting around the campfire, my father would tell us fantastic stories, and the world around us would come alive. The sounds of the waves crashing were the sirens' songs, and the trees surrounding the tents were treefolk guarding us against the mischievous fae, while the sounds of the wind whistling through the crags were the sylphs playing in the sky. The day my father died was when the world lost its magic.
	My father worked as a bookkeeper for a large fishing company. He would often come home late, working overtime most nights. It was summer vacation, and the weekend we had planned to leave for our annual escape was right around the corner. I was about thirteen then. Old enough to realise the stories were just fantasy but still young enough to believe in them. My father was taking his regular route home, passing the orange groves where he used to live. It was there where his life was taken from us.
	I woke up to my mother bawling, telling us to get ready. My older brother’s face told me something terrible had happened to Dad. I jumped out of bed to wash my face, brush my teeth, and grab my jacket before racing to the car and buckling up. My mother always followed the law to the T, but that early morn, she drove like the devil was after us. My heart was racing with confusion and fear flooding my mind.
	When we arrived at Redview General Hospital, the air was filled the cries of the sick and injured. A lump formed in my throat as if I had swallowed a stone. My dad’s coworker and best friend met us in the emergency room lobby. They grew up together as boys, went to the same schools, dated the same girls, and even got the same job at the same company. My Uncle Noah was like the brother my father never had. He was in the passenger’s seat when a drunk driver ran a red light and ploughed straight into my father’s side. Uncle Noah was fortunate enough to still be with us, but my father felt the entirety of the impact.
	The adrenaline must have been flowing through his body. He was barely patched up as he met us in the lobby. There he was, pushing past the nurses struggling to keep this unit of a man from moving. The sight of him bruised and battered had shocked the sleep from my eyes. He was frantically shouting at us and the staff when a petite Asian nurse appeared from nowhere and said something that calmed him straight down. She promptly turned towards us and began talking to my mother. The world was going mute and blurry. It was as if cotton balls had been stuffed into my ears, and oil-filled mason jars were set over my eyes. The fear turned into panic.
	I was holding tightly onto my brothers' hands. My older brother Eric was to my right, and my younger brother Jonas was to my left. The three of us stared intensely at the conversation before us. I couldn’t hear a single word spoken, but I could hear the loud droning of the lights. The sound reverberated through my skull like a moth caught in a jar. It bounced and echoed louder and louder. The rest of the memory is a blur. Each moment blending into the next. I remember we were there for several hours. Someone constantly reminded us they were doing all they could to save my father. Then, it was all at once, silent.
	The next two years, the family trips had lost their magic. Mom really tried hard to keep the spirit of my father going, but the lack of wonder and wander were hard to replace. On my fifteenth birthday, Uncle Noah drove me down to the lake where my father and him became friends. He told me that my father always dreamt of becoming a famous storyteller. He popped open the trunk, and inside was a trove of loose letters. He shuffled the papers into piles, and hidden underneath was a book. ""Your father wanted you to have this on your eighteenth birthday, but I think you need it more now.""
	The book was called, ""The Neverending Adventures"". Uncle Noah dusted it off and handed it to me saying,""This is the only published copy of your father's stories."" As I flitted through the pages, I recognized some of the stories as the ones he told us. The sirens, treefolk, fae, and sylphs were all there. But, there were plenty more that I had never heard. Tales of a hairy giant covered in moss and algae that stomps around the lake. Tales of a flying puff that needed to make a child laugh to become a real fairy. Dozens of stories my father never had a chance to breath to life.
	My Uncle grabbed the closest pile to him and handed them to me saying, ""The rest of these were stories your father couldn't finish. He had hoped to finish them one day and make a second book for you boys. He told me that you loved the stories the most. His wish was that if he never finished these stories, that you would give them the endings they deserve.""
	I looked at Uncle Noah not knowing what to say. He just smiled, placed his hand on my shoulder and nodded. The magic of summers lost, now found.
","September 09, 2023 03:50",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",sefe3q,H.A.R.P,Marie Perederii,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sefe3q/,/short-story/sefe3q/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Teens & Young Adult']",8 likes,"
H.A.R.P
 
Human
Adaptive
Recreation
Project
 
“The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race ... .It would take off on its own, and re-design itself at an ever increasing rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete, and would be superseded.”
— Stephen Hawking
“It is day 1,859 of my testing for the human effects of the algorithm  that has been placed into my new human cerebellum, commonly referred to among humans as gray matter or the brain. I also would like to inform you that these morning procedures are involuntary or mandatory, so that is the only reason for my contribution to this wasteful method of paper and writing utensils. I am going to keep to my method of stating facts. So far the director has stated that I am successfully passing the daily examinations and conversations with these peculiar humans although I am not entirely sure of what a human is, all that I understand from these strange creatures is that they have created us to save their planet and the life that used to supposedly thrive on it, but the humans have decided that it is time to give this issue to us, the more intelligent species. As I understand we are all here to save ertha…raeth…earth, as I struggle with the concept of life I also struggle with the concept of earth as I do with other strange human concepts…..
Although I'm not entirely sure where these thoughts keep coming from I know they were from last summer, because if they were not I wouldn't remember growing up-which I do, so we can all agree that this was last summer. I remember falling, I remember failing and I remember this small fragment of writing. The problem is that that is not my handwriting but it is my story and that is the most conceived thing of all.I have tried for quite a bit of time to understand what was happening but I could only understand this, project H.A.R.P is evil. Now as bold as it is for me to make such a statement, I have a case to present. For starters I am project H.A.R.P so I would know if it was evil or not but at the same time I wouldn't know because well, I wouldn't want to characterize myself as evil, no one would.I was designed to look like a human act like a human be a human but at the same time destroy all the humans! because in the eyes of the tech, humans had to go and AI had to stay and this is how we were supposed to- and I'm quoting them here “save them”. The problem with that is Tech was created by a human.A very very very evil powerful human, Dr.Ronald Reginald Riser. Unfortunately I will remember his name forever and it's not the reason that you think.You see when I was first created people kept telling me I was meant to save the world that there was something different about me than all of my other chargemates.  but no matter where I looked I seemed to be doing worse than them. That is why he favored me. I was his little lab rat and he was the hero who was going to use me for his own good.Well that didn't exactly work out for him because in the end I escaped the facility, I don't know what I was thinking…maybe I thought that it was going to be better outside but I never truly remember. I only remember being afraid why, I cannot recall because people treated me there like I was some queen. but I also remember screaming and crying, a mother in agony perhaps. Of course I can never tell, I am only an AI after all. I sit out to blend in with humans which has worked in my favor since now I am, according to my age, an adult. So of course last summer, being 17 never helped my escape. I was looked down upon as someone in the last stage of childhood, which I learned meant that people treated you like an unreliable toddler because you were at the last stage of the teenage age. In AI years that is considered the last level. It is the level right before graduation, when you are set out to save the world, I know those details but not who has told me them or why they seem so important. Once I fled the lab, I changed my name to Harper, because it seemed appropriately close to harp and started a new life in the United states. Of course my human training helped me…er…fit into the environment of the teenagers, but overtime my memory of the lab faded away as I became more and more human. So now I barely remember anything, but I remember the emotion, the pain, the fear. Somehow I know that the lab was no good. Somehow humanes stopped the disaster without the help of AI. So all that they told us was lies, lies to fill us up and make us want to change things. But the things we wanted to change were things to favor AI, we were taking over, and it was very frightening. You may notice Ronald Reginald Riser all started with R, and that is because he was designed as part AI to lead tech because humans were too busy, well that was a big mistake, RRR saw the opportunity in front of him, and he took it. So he created us and then used us to his own potential. Since he was also half wired, he was still AI, technically.So his new soldiers believed his every word. I also know that he tested on humans…young children even! His entire reason was to make someone just as wired as him, half AI half human. This was very strange, and I assure you I have seen some very strange things in my time! But he was always so exhilarated to see me…and he loved to study me alone…and I was always so much more emotional than my peers at the lab…..
","September 05, 2023 23:26",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",dp9dee,The letter she will never send,Margarita Escobar,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dp9dee/,/short-story/dp9dee/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
The letter she will never send
 
 
	Elisa was aware she could never send the letter. It was impossible.
	But the memory of Pablo remained vivid in her mind as if it all happened yesterday.
	The countryside had a special place in Elisa’s heart. Rivers, forest, the smell of fresh wheat harvest, the aroma of wildflowers, and the scent of ripe fruit took her to a different time, filling her soul with happiness and nostalgia.
          It was summer a long time ago. As city kids, going to the countryside was an adventure for her and her brothers. Her father had a cousin, Aunt Julia, who owned a dairy farm south of the large city where they lived.
        Elisa stayed at the farm for a couple of months. Her Aunt’s place was so much fun. There was always something new to see or do. Watching people working in the fields, feeding animals, or milking cows was always entertaining.
        The farm adjacent to Aunt Julia belonged to her brother. It was there she met him for the first time. 
	“Hi, I’m Pablo. Welcome to the neighbourhood! He grinned.
	“Hi, neighbour. I’m Elisa,” She said, smiling shily.
	Elisa wished he was by her side to reminisce together. That summer, she had turned fifteen a month ago, and Pablo was sixteen. She fondly remembered his enchanting dark eyes, shy smile and friendly disposition.   
	After all these years, the memory of his contagious laugh still resonates in Elisa’s heart. She was an introverted girl who loved reading and writing. She wasn’t much into music, fashion or what was happening with movie stars. Going to school and learning made her happy.  By today's standards, Elisa was a nerd.
	 But somehow, summertime changed her. She felt happier and free.
 
	One morning, Pablo showed up at the front door. Her heart skipped a beat.
	“Hi, there. My Mom is going to make jam, and she needs more fruit. Want to come to help me up?”
	“Yeah, it would be fun.” Her face blazed.
	 She and her brothers had a blast climbing trees to eat fruit warmed by the sun, swimming in the river or sunbathing without sunscreen. 
	Elisa and Pablo became close friends. He showed her his most precious possession, a bay horse called Bayo. The horse was a feral animal. No one could ride it but him. The horse didn’t like to be saddled, so Pablo had to ride him bareback. When he invited Elisa to ride with him, she thought he was out of his mind. Her? A city girl who knew horses just by pictures?
	“C’mon, don’t be a chicken.” He said, teasing her. “He is a good horse.”
    	 Pablo convinced her to ride Bayo together. To get on that horse was a reckless act. When Bayo felt something on his back, he started jumping up and down. But her friend knew how to control the animal, and Bayo was calmer after a few minutes.
	 The same thing happened when it was Elisa’s turn to mount the horse. Bayo went wild when he felt her weight on his back. She thought she was going to die, but she didn’t. Elisa grabbed Pablo firmly by his waist, closed her eyes, and prayed.
	Every time they mounted Bayo, he backed, but Elisa wasn’t afraid anymore. She had Pablo next to her. 
    	It felt incredible riding that horse with him, feeling the wind on her face and hair, 
	They became inseparable. They enjoyed walking by the riverside and feeling the cold water caressing their feet. It was under a willow tree by the river when he kissed her for the first time. Elisa had never been kissed before. That innocent kiss woke up in Elisa's heart, feelings new to her. She still recalled the shyness, excitement, and happiness that engulfed her soul. That was the summer she felt like a grown-up.
           The taste of that first kiss had remained on her lips since the day that happened over half a century ago.
   	  A giant oak tree stood in front of Pablo’s home. Its trunk was old and beautiful. Elisa loved to run a hand over its rough surface. One day, he told her, “I’m giving you this tree,” and carved a heart with their initials on its trunk. What a splendid gift! 
	They used to talk for hours, sharing their dreams and projects when they finished high school. Pablo hated going to school but loved farming. He told her they could get married when they were older, have a house in the country, and stay together forever. It was fantastic to build those dreams.
	 But destiny had other plans. Elisa wanted to go to university; he didn’t. She was a city girl, and he was a country boy. There was no future for them.
 	  Their romance lasted almost three glorious months, leaving in her heart memories she has always carried with her.
	  Elisa and her family returned to the city where they lived. Inexorably, life continued. Several years later, someone told Elisa that Pablo got married and had a child. Unfortunately, his marriage didn’t last long.  
	Pablo used to visit her in dreams and still does from time to time. He has not aged, though. She sees him as the same shy boy with a contagious laugh. 
	Life has been generous to Elisa. She has a wonderful husband and two grown-up daughters who are her world. But a part of her heart only belongs to Pablo, her first love. There, his memory will remain forever.
	Some years later, Elisa visited Aunt Julia. She was old and fragile, but she did remember them riding Bayo. Their oak tree still stands tall and proud, displaying the heart Pablo carved for her.
Elisa went to the riverside, sat under the willow tree, and thought of the summer 
she felt all grown-up a long time ago. Even today, writing these lines, her eyes welled.
	She wishes she could send him this letter, but she can’t. His heart decided to stop beating when he was only fifty-two years old.
 
 THE END
 
 
","September 06, 2023 18:44","[[{'Yannis Lobaina': 'Congrats, Margarita!', 'time': '00:27 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Margarita Escobar': 'Thanks so much, Yannis.', 'time': '18:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Margarita Escobar': 'Thanks so much, Yannis.', 'time': '18:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Dianne Adair': 'So sad but your stories always surprise me. Loved it Margarita! You are such a good story teller.', 'time': '21:38 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Margarita Escobar': 'Thanks, a million, Dianne. So happy you enjoy my stories.', 'time': '18:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Margarita Escobar': 'Thanks, a million, Dianne. So happy you enjoy my stories.', 'time': '18:47 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Oh, that ending is so heartbreaking! I was hoping she’d get to send her letter after all. \nYou tell a beautiful story of a lost but not forgotten love.', 'time': '01:12 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Margarita Escobar': ""Thanks so much, Nina, for your kind words. I think people's first love remains in our hearts forever."", 'time': '16:45 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Margarita Escobar': ""Thanks so much, Nina, for your kind words. I think people's first love remains in our hearts forever."", 'time': '16:45 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",zulrjh,I'm a Big Girl Now!,Kimberly Walker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zulrjh/,/short-story/zulrjh/,Character,0,"['Black', 'American', 'Creative Nonfiction']",8 likes,"
I'm a Big Girl now!
Every school year ends on my birthday or the day after…June 5th or the 6th.
Tomorrow morning, I finally have to change buses to get to my new school. I also got to pick all my outfits for the semester, even my footwear choices—no more baby clothes, uniforms, and penny loafers. I get to carry a backpack and gym bag instead of a lunch box and a book bag. 
I have decided that quick-change outfits are appropriate on gym days, so bib overall or one-piece dresses and tennis shoes. There should be nothing that I will need extra time for changing before and after gym class. I can have my emergency supplies in my gym bag for personal upkeep. My body decided I was old enough for female changes over the summer after a bicycle accident. 
I look forward to the school year and this middle school. My last teacher thought it was her duty to hold me back and found out she couldn't justify the failing grade she gave me in Language Arts and Math. How does a straight-A student fail two stem classes? Well, your mom threatened to beat the hell out of the oldest teacher alive; that's how. 
We went to the open house thirteen days ago and met Mr. Harold, a new teacher at Zion Elementary School who didn't believe in the partial pass/fail thing. He vowed that at the year's end, I would be moving on to the sixth grade. He said, ""I will figure out how to help Kimberly to live up to her potential and surpass it."" At the end of the first quarter, he said, ""I apologize to you, Kimberly,"" as he handed me my report card, a letter for my parents, and a few books on creative writing. To a ten-year-old girl who didn't open the books for each subject, a creative writing book was an insult…. ha! I was full of ideas, tall tales, and a vivid imagination, but I was not too fond of anything related to school. 
If I had the stories I wrote between that grade and my first published book, I would have a wonderful collection of short stories and a great-sized book ready for publication. A children's collection that analyzes the world through the eyes of a preteen, that tender age before attitudes. You know that period where you still respected adults and your parents knew best. That tiny window from seven to twelve. Also, there would have been a collection of the teenage years when the world made no sense to the changing philosophy of thirteen to seventeen. Then, of course, the tween space was eighteen to twenty because the government changed the legal age from eighteen to twenty-one just before my eighteenth birthday. 
It didn't matter much to me; I wasn't a drinker. All the things I enjoyed were still activities I could do with a valid U.S. government-issued identification. Most clubs I frequented in the latter '70s and early '80s were restaurants daily until nine p.m. After that, you would be fine if you were having dinner before they started carding at the entrance at 8:30 p.m.
(blaring alarm…)
Ahh….
Wow, that dream never disappoints. I like it when I am upset at bedtime and wake refreshed and clear-minded. Looking back now, I realize Mr. Harold saw something in me that I didn't want to embrace. I only wrote enough to pass the required assignments. I remember that most of the teacher's comment sections said the same thing throughout the years:
""Kimberly is a bright, articulate, and underperforming student. Although it is apparent that she understands the assignments. She spends too much time: 
1.       Wasting time           2.            Talking or                 3.            Daydreaming. ""
In my defense:
I only spoke during two inappropriate times: 
1.            To say no, I don't know. I refused to help someone cheat during test times and wouldn't rat on those seeking answers.    
2.            If I was so bored that I needed a break, the assignments were easy, so after completing them, I would ask to go to the restroom, and if allowed, I would sometimes go to my hiding place in the library or if not, I would put my head down; it was not my fault if I fell asleep, talked in my sleep or snored. 
Mr. Harold was the only teacher who figured out I wasn't being challenged enough, hence the apology, the letter to my parents, and the creative writing books. So, by way of trickery, he would challenge the whole class to do different things to earn a field trip. Some were interesting or lucrative. Some were to make us think outside the box. The interesting ones that we did that didn't get us away from the school for the day would earn a movie day or a party during the 5th and 6th periods.
I was in Mr. Donald Harold's class in 1977, and my oldest son was in his fifth-grade class almost two decades later. You know you left an impression when your child keeps saying, ""My teacher says I remind him of someone, and we figured it out today. It was you, Mom. I found a photo of you in the art closet and asked him if I had reminded him of this person after class. He chuckled and said Y-E-S. She was my brightest star and my sharpest thorn."" Then, without a pause, he turned his head in bewilderment and said, ""Sharpest thorn?"" Then, I saw the light bulb moment happen. He laughed and connected the references between his father, other family members, and the teacher's comments: that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree is valid. Once he stopped laughing, he said Mr. Harold was curious about what I was doing and where I lived. 
Only three teachers left positive impressions on my mind, and I have now written about them all. So, this story is dedicated to all the teachers who make a lasting impression!
 
 
","September 08, 2023 16:22","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'As a former math teacher in high school, this really resonates with me. I always told my students that their worth to me had nothing to do with their math abilities or math grades in my class. My job was to connect with my students and make learning safe. In the end, I was richly rewarded with a lot of ""thorns."" I loved the thorns.\n\nGreat tale, Kimberly. The honesty and the genuine emotions come through quite well. I\'m sad that you had only three teachers that affected you in a positive way. That\'s a real tragedy, and says a lot about our ed...', 'time': '11:45 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': ""So true! I'm glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '17:50 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': ""So true! I'm glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '17:50 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Nice memories. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '20:46 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",uhuo9j,The Summer I became Me,Brooke Olivia,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/uhuo9j/,/short-story/uhuo9j/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Contemporary', 'Inspirational']",8 likes,"
2030 7th of SeptemberDear Diary, The summer of 2023. The summer I became me. The summer it all changed.I'm ready to talk about it now. 7 years later, here I sit ready to finally admit the truth about the summer of 2023. I remember that summer like it was yesterday. The memories are still engraved into me like an open wound that’s not yet healed. I remember it all too well. Why? Because that’s when I finally woke up. I stopped tolerating life. I stopped surviving. I started truly living and noticing the beauty that’s around me. Love. Isn’t it crazy how at the cruel age of 16 you can believe what you had was love? Looking back I smile at my naive innocent soul. If only love were that simple. He was my world. If it were with him, I would have danced in a storm wearing my favourite dress. I would have let my world drown around me so long as he got to live in his. I was an innocent. I was pure. I was beautiful. Funny how love can be the thing to bring you to life and ultimately be the end of it all. Or maybe you, like I, didn’t experience this type of love. I felt as if he were sucking the essence that was me out of my body. I no longer saw the world in a rose-coloured gaze. I woke up. I wanted to dream forever. Nose in the books. Head in the clouds. Entirely oblivious to the cruelty of the world around me. I saw none of it until he forced me to. I couldn’t even elucidate. He wouldn’t even try to see my world. No, he dragged me out of my bubble. He gave me the gift of reality; a gift I wish I could return every day. My true love had me questioning who is it you really love? Do you love me? Or is it the idea of me you love, my dear? Because this was not love. He had me pleading. Please don’t be in love with someone else. Please don’t love the version of me that lives only in your head… love me. I was just a girl standing in front of a boy begging him to love her. He was irascible and I was confused. My cries were muffled. They were silenced. For I as a young naive soul had no idea what I was talking about. After all, how could a girl as simple as me be right? He didn’t see the world the way I saw it. For that reason, in his eyes, I was dumb, wrong and even boring. I wanted him to live in my world with me. Instead, he refused my hand and he took me to his dark, sad and empty town. A town where the girls in ripped jeans don’t get to rule the world. Not the way they did in my world. Wake up. He forced it into my brain. And so I did. I finally woke up.That summer, I realised what love was. It was everything he wasn’t. I made a vow to myself, that not another second of my time will be spent with someone of that nature. Someone so cruel, the way they hurt you can only be described as ineffable.Losing someone. No matter how grey they made your world, losing someone is a pain like no other. Especially when you let them go. It was the right thing, yet it still hurt like a wrong decision. The bravest thing I ever did was run. And when your pure outlook on life has been stripped away, and pulled from your grasp, you’re left completely and utterly alone. There is no longer a haze to get lost in. I was just a broken 16-year-old searching for a way out of the darkness that had clouded her life. I was left in a war path and there was no one else to fight it except me. All I could think of was how beautiful life used to be when I believed in everything. And everything believed in me right back. Remembering that I am not where I’ve been, I’m not my past, I’m not what my feelings are telling me I am, it was hard. It’s easy to let the monster catch up to you when you’re not even trying to run away. Everyone gets hurt and we all fall down, but what’s really important is standing back up. Yet nobody talks about how that’s the hardest thing of all. When no light is to be seen, darkness is all that seems to be in reach. That’s when the memories came flooding back and I could feel him again. How his arms wrapped around me after a long day. How he smiled so brightly, so warmly. Does he miss me? Was I something he could miss? Will another name ever rest on my lips? Will my heart ever beat in rhythm with another’s again? Was he my last kiss? When you’re 16 and suddenly everything becomes real, no other question will ever seem as important as the last. What if he was the one? Everyone remembers their first teenage heartbreak. It’s just a shame I had to experience the pain and heartache given only in adulthood before my heart could even catch up. A teenager should have never had to experience that type of toxicity and reality. I wish he were a better man. If fate hadn’t stepped in I don’t know where I’d be today. Long live the magic of childhood. Once you lose it, it never comes back. I used to be an innocent. I’ve felt clean ever since I let go. There was no more screaming underwater. No more suffocating love that wasn’t worth losing your breath over. If someone’s going to take my breath away, it’s going to be because I’ve found him. I’ve found the one. Since that day, I started noticing the world around me. Perhaps I stayed in the world I created for myself because, before that moment, there was no reason to leave. And yet, here I sit at 23 in my home. A home I love. Living a life I love. I left my own little world and I created a whole new one. You see, time runs out. Time will keep running out because everything beautiful in life is stuck living in servitude to time. The petals on your favourite flower, the greenery of the summer, the rain tapping on your window, even love. Something so perfect and enticing can only bloom for so long before time is up. Before its beauty must be stolen. Before the clock stops ticking. I learned this early on. When you find something you love, don’t wait a second to spend your life surrounded by that thing for as long as time will let you. People often think the world is cruel. However, I’ve come to realise it isn’t the world hurting us. The world lets us live. Time however locks us up and laughs. At 16 I opened my eyes and saw the beauty in everything around me. Suddenly, I noticed how the air smelt when I was walking to school, I felt the wind on my face and felt alive rather than cold, the hot sun felt like a loving embrace rather than something trying to burn me, and miraculously I felt truly and completely alive. Life became wonderful. Every day, even the ones trapped by a routine, every single day I noticed something new. The art of noticing.People often say how young minds absorb anything like a sponge. Let’s make sure we’re absorbing the right things. I broke free from a toxic love, I didn’t absorb his venom. I said screw you to the time holding me captive in that relationship. I served my time. I learned the lesson of love. Finally, the pernicious hole in my heart had started to heal. At the perfect time in my life, I started absorbing the things that mattered. So, you know what I say? Drop everything now. Run to what you love. Run to your dreams. Don’t say yes to something knowing time will laugh at you. Knowing it'll hold you prisoner doing something that doesn’t make you feel alive. Go dance in the rain. Go get your romance novel moment. You’re the main character of your story. The plot. The setting. The entire book. It’s all yours. Don’t let anyone else write your story. That summer I needed to break. I needed to feel broken. I needed to sink to the bottom of the ocean and let the water fill my lungs. To feel suffocated in a way that wasn’t from a love that was threatening to steal the precious time given to me. I saw things from a different perspective down there. I could either give up. I could have let time win. It would have been much easier. Instead, I swam up. I broke the chain. I would not be defeated by a man who never once knew me. That was the moment I knew who I was. I wasn’t the girl who would let anyone force her to the bottom. I wasn’t the girl who gave up. I was not the girl who tolerated life. No, I was the girl who admired life. I was the girl who was going to make every moment count. Every day, every second, every moment. It all counts. It’s all beautiful. And it was all mine. This life? This gift? This is the best thing that’s ever been mine. Maybe 16 is too young of an age to grow up. Maybe I was still naive. But I hit the trenches. I looked rock bottom in its eyes. And I still found a way out when every exit was closed off. I see it all now that he’s gone. He was older. He was mature. He should have known. I didn’t know then. But I sure as hell do now. I’ll forever look at that summer as the summer I grew up. The summer my perspective on life changed. The summer life went from safe to the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.That was the summer I became me.
","September 02, 2023 17:27","[[{""O'Brien O'Brien"": 'I found your story very moving, and the diary format a good fit.', 'time': '00:21 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",0l296r,That Summer,Rose Bower,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0l296r/,/short-story/0l296r/,Character,0,"['Crime', 'Teens & Young Adult']",7 likes,"
I ran through the park, laughing with my friends. The summer would last forever, our innocence retained. How stupid we were.
 
Darkness came. Street lights glowed. Villains rose. Parents came.
 
They found my friend's bodies. They never found me.
 
 
 
Morning bell rings and I force myself out of bed. My empty dreams fade away in the light of the rising sun.
 
I start my morning routine: get dressed, knife throwing, breakfast, work-out, brush teeth, polishing gear.
 
The second bell rings and hundreds of ""recruits"" like me file out of rooms identical to mine.
 
We walk down the hall in straight lines. Eyes kept to the ground.
 
Screams come from training rooms. I flinch, remembering the harsh words and pain.
 
Alice works her way up next to me, breaking the lines. We quickly form them behind her.
 
'Kai,' she says, poking my forehead, 'Sir wants you to report to briefing before morning training today. Better hurry, I was supposed to give you this message an hour ago.'
 
I widen my eyes at her, and peel away from my line at the next hallway.
 
 
 
Now that I'm out of routine I can think clearly. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. Marsha, Henry, Tallie.
 
I need to remember their names.
 
October 14, 2008. We were ten. Now I'm 25.
 
'Hurry up!' Alice comes running down the hallway, 'I really don't want you to die! You're funny!'
 
She pushed her face in front of mine and stared at me with her startling blue eyes.
 
I nod at her, and try to hide a smile. If a higher up saw me now, I would surely be punished.
 
Alice smiled at me more and I cracked.
 
I laughed and hugged her tight. 'Alright, lets go before someone sees us!'
 
Alice giggled, then grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. If anyone had looked at us, they might have mistaken us for a happy couple.
 
No couples, rule no. 178. No smiling, rule no. 5. No running in the halls, rule no. 68.
 
 
 
For a second nothing else mattered. Footsteps sounded in the hall and I fell into a steady face, shoving my emotions into a box.
 
Alice kept trying to pull me along but gave up when trainer Tami turned the corner.
 
I nod, and Alice smiles and waves. Tami nods back and continues walking.
 
We turn the corner and stop in front of a door like the thousands of doors in hundreds of hallways.
 
Alice opens it and leads me inside, 'Dad! He's here! Can I get shopping privilege now?'
 
I smile on the inside, as I've taught myself to do. If Sir ever found out about us, he would kill me and take away Alice's privileges.
 
She really loves shopping. She took me once, when she needed someone to help her hold packages.
 
'Bring him in. I'll give you a shopping trip when he comes back successful from his mission.'
 
Alice pulls me past the hard waiting chairs and into Sir's office.
 
He is sitting in his high backed velvet chair fit for a villain. 'I can never tell whet you find interesting about this one, he's hardly the strongest.'
 
'I've told you, Dad, he's funny!' Alice lets go of my hand and steps back, giving me a little smile.
 
I stare at Sir and he looks to me for an answer. I simply shrug my shoulders, showing no more emotion than that.
 
'Alice, sweetie, you know you're not allowed in my room when there's a briefing.'
 
'I know... Just this once? I won't tell anyone? Please?' Alice gives her best angel eyes that I fell in love with.
 
Sir sighs, but his mouth twitches. 'I don't see why not. You're old enough to go on missions yourself. Maybe you can accompany Forest on his mission today?'
 
Alice squeals, 'This is way better than shopping!'
 
Sir laughs, and I almost smile.
 
 
 
'Forest, your target today is Emily Holter. She owes us money, lots of it. She's being very difficult, and I've decided to send you to take care of it for me. You have until sundown.' He pauses to look pointedly at Alice. 'If anything happens to my daughter, her fault or not, you will be punished severely.'
 
I nod, and Alice stays silent. We were going on a mission together. Alone. We would have the day to ourselves.
 
I wait for three seconds, then turn to leave. Alice waves goodbye, then follows me.
 
She chatters all the way to my room, talking about places she'd like to see, things she'd like to do. I just hope she doesn't become scared of me when the target is neutralised.
 
I gather my gear, and hand Alice a Browning Hi-Power. 'For safety,' I say, and she stares at it, 'You do know how to use it right?'
 
She shakes her head. I stare at her, she really is a spoilt girl, sheltered from most of the goings on in the facility.
 
'It's simple, just turn off safety and squeeze the trigger. It's already loaded. You probably won't need it, just in case.'
 
Alice smiles cheekily, 'You'll protect me right?'
 
I smile back, 'Of course, that's my job.'
 
 
 
Outside it's still morning and orange leaves litter the ground. Alice and I are posing as a dreamy couple on an early morning date.
 
People smile at us as we walk along the path, her hand in mine.
 
Alice leans her head against my shoulder, and squeezes my hand. 'This is nice,' she sighs, 'Why can't we do this every day?'
 
I squeeze her hand back. 'Because you're the daughter of a big time mafia boss, and I'm a lowly recruit.'
 
She laughs, 'That sounds like the plot of a romance story.'
 
I lean my head against hers, 'One where they get away and find true love... Or one where they both end up dead...'
 
'Don't be such a downer, we might have our happy ending. Just... stay positive, and we'll work something out. Why don't we fake our deaths and run away?'
 
I look down at Alice, she gazes back at me. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we could get away...
 
In an instant I've decided. 'Alice.'
'Yeah?'
'That's a great idea.'
'Wait, really?'
'Yes!' I stop walking and pull her over to a bench.
 
'It's simple, we'll pretend like an enemy organisation found me and you got caught up in it too. It'll be easy.'
 
Alice shakes her head, 'But how will we convince them we're dead?'
 
I smile, 'Baggs.'
","September 04, 2023 04:29","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Well, we need to hear more about this, don't we? LOL\n\nAs a short story, it doesn't work well, but as part of a larger piece, it has a lot of promise. Now I'm interested in more, and that's what good writers do - make the reader want to continue reading."", 'time': '10:11 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Rose Bower': ""I'm working on the full story now, but it will take a while because I need to keep up with studies and earn my keep! I can't wait to finish it and finally put all the twists onto paper!"", 'time': '07:09 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Rose Bower': ""I'm working on the full story now, but it will take a while because I need to keep up with studies and earn my keep! I can't wait to finish it and finally put all the twists onto paper!"", 'time': '07:09 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",wmiixm,Not Everyone Grew Up That Summer,Douglas Goff,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wmiixm/,/short-story/wmiixm/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
“Go! Go! Go!” I screamed at my younger brother Ken, as I shoved him towards the bright sunlight of the open door, with many hands grasping and pulling at my clothes!  
My three sisters, Julie, Joni, and Lisa were trapped behind me, my body blocking the aisle. Ken was only a couple of feet from the wide open door with only one obstacle left.  
Linda the bus driver lunged at him with her large robust body, but Ken was scrappy. He squeezed past her meaty grasp and was out and running for it.  
It had become a Bus 9 tradition for the Goff children to race the hundred yards up the front lawn from the school bus to the house.  Boys on the bus helped us brothers and girls helped my sisters.  
Initially it started as just something the five of us did. Then kids started joining in by hampering our egress from the bus. At first the stern Linda frowned upon this activity, but due to Ken and my constant wins, she joined in on the girls’ team and evened up the odds.  
The memories from the Bus 9 rides to and from Cleveland Elementary and West Side Junior High Schools are some of the most poignant memories of my childhood. Magical times.  
There was fun music, kids singing 99 bottles of coke (beer) on the wall, as well as a made up song about bus driver Linda. The sounds of laughter and giggling permeated Bus 9. (I can still sing the Linda song, word for word, to this day.)
Entering into September of 1981, was a joyous time of merriment. We students had been back in school less than a month. The fresh excitement of seeing old friends had not worn off.  
Not to mention summer was waning and with fall came Halloween, then Christmas! The two most sacred and fundamental foundations of childhood in America.  
I had turned 12 in June. Ken was 11. Julie and Joni were 13. My little sister Lisa was 9. Life just felt right with all the gang there on Bus 9 that year. 
The memories are as clear to me as yesterday. My best friend Duane. My good buddy Kyle. The Walters girls. (I “crushed” on the older Nicki until I moved away in the 8th grade.) Her little sister, Mindy, plus Dallas and Becky were Lisa’s friends.  
Those four were an interesting crew. Dallas had red hair, Mindy had black hair, Becky had dirty blond hair, and Lisa had brown hair.  The four young girls were always giggling and laughing. Four colorful peas in a pod.  
Some of the other staple friends were the gaggle of Bailey kids, who also had six children in their household. (Our sixth was my sister, Diane, who was 16 and in High School.) 
Friends of my siblings were Mike Baylor, grade-school famous because he was a hemophiliac, Charlena Taska, Scott Sergeant, Terry Monroe, Scott Bennett, and little Becky’s older brother, Chris. 
Like I said, a perfect magical time in the lives of a busload of Indiana school kids who were all friends. It seemed like it would last forever. It didn’t.
September 14, 1981, changed everything. Little blonde Becky didn’t get on the bus that fateful Monday morning. Her brother said she was sick.  
I knew of death. It was a thing that adults whispered about in dark corners and then hushed up real quick when we kids came around. At this point in my life I had not experienced the loss of a family member or anyone close. In my childhood mind, death seemed like a far away shelved concept, like China. 
When we returned home, the neighborhood was buzzing. We knew it had to do with the dozen police cars at Chris and Becky’s house. 
The adults were gathered at the ends of various driveways whispering with stern sick looks on their faces. My mom was actually pale. It scared us kids. China was now on the shelf by itself. Death had come to visit our neighborhood that morning.  
Mom sat us down and told us Rebecca Hope Green’s mother, Joan, had killed her in their home before school and had fled on her bicycle. There was a manhunt underway.  
It was later passed through the neighborhood grapevine that Becky’s mom had wanted her to stay home from school that day to help her. Becky didn’t want to miss school and when she went to leave her mother grabbed her hard by the hand and broke her finger.  
There had been “home checks” done on the parents prior to this and Joan panicked, thinking the authorities were going to get her for child abuse. She grabbed an iron skillet and bludgeoned her ten-year-old daughter to death. 
After killing her daughter, Joan Green changed her clothes, packed a suitcase, and rode her bike to the bus station. The police arrested her a few days later at a friend’s house in Chicago.  
Joan was deemed to be aware of right from wrong and was found Guilty But Insane and sentenced to sixty years prison. The courts later bumped her sentence down to fifty years. I heard she served twenty-five and was paroled in 2006.  
My friend Becky cannot be paroled. She's still serving her sentence in the ground. Several online court documents state Joan has never shown remorse during any of the proceedings.  
My step-father decided it would be good for all of us children to attend the viewing of our dead friend, although we had never seen a deceased person before. Not only did my parents take us, but they paraded us trembling and horrified children up to the open casket.  
Years later we found out the crime scene photos were so brutal that one of the jurors vomited and nearly caused a mistrial. 
The horror of what I saw in that death box still haunts me to this day. Her broken finger was still bruised, crooked, and dark purple even with the attempted make-up coverup. The funeral home had worked miracles on her head, yet it was still slightly elongated and bruised.  
I had nightmares about Becky sitting up in her coffin and turning to look at me. This went on late into my teens. It still upsets me to think and write about it.  
The day after the tragedy was tough. Adults didn’t seem to know much about childhood traumatic experience and we children found ourselves back on Bus 9 the day after the slaying.
It hadn’t escaped anyone on the bus that our friend Becky was getting her head bashed in while we drove by singing and giggling just the day before. When we drove past the Green house, bus driver Linda burst into tears.  
There was no giggling, laughter, or singing on Bus 9 for a long time after that. No more gender-infused team races up the front lawn. It no longer seemed important. Those are the things we lost when we lost our dear little friend, Becky.  
This September it will be 42 years since her death. Becky would have been 52. A life never lived. Graduation, marriage, children, and the fanciful dreams of youth; all stolen in one moment of unimaginable rage and fury. 
It surprised me to tear up when I saw her photo after all these years. (Okay, it also happened a few times while I was writing this.) The thought of Becky being in the Osceola Cemetery all these years, perpetually ten-years-old, really hit me. 
I wrote about this because it still haunts me that her life ended with a twenty word obituary and I don’t want Rebecca Hope Green to be forgotten.  
While researching the trial, I discovered other students from Bus 9 have been posting comments about Becky on memorial sites throughout the years. I guess I’m not the only one who grew up during that awful 1981 Indiana summer. 
","September 04, 2023 14:05","[[{'David Sweet': ""Thr start of this story is so nostalgic (I rode the bus my entire K-12 career). Then, the tragedy! I'm so sorry about your friend. I lost friends at that age, but nothing so horrific. Thanks for sharing because I know it must have been tough and still tough to think about."", 'time': '15:28 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Rose Bower': 'This is a wonderful story that encompasses childhood trauma and abuse perfectly. I love how the story starts out like a normal life, and eventually uncovers the darkness hidden within their happy neighborhood. It made me feel so many emotions and it is incredibly well written for a short story.', 'time': '00:48 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",3pfk78,The Home that's Away,Michael Franchetti,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3pfk78/,/short-story/3pfk78/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Sad', 'Inspirational']",7 likes,"
	I didn't really know what was happening, all that I knew was that I was moving, then I wasn't. So when the man asked, ""Do you know how fast you were going?"", I was able to respond only because this was one of the few answers that I always had the answer to. ""I believe I was going the speed limit officer, but I could always be wrong,"" I replied, throwing on my happiest face to appease him. He didn’t bite.
	""Sir can you step out of the car please,” the elderly man commanded. This too I was familiar with, although this test was one I knew was a tossup every time. This guy seemed to get straight to the point, as the first test was sadly not the alphabet backwards (my bread-and-butter test) but rather to touch my nose with my right and left fingers. I never could really fake this one, and this time was no different as my fingers smeared over my cheeks, over my eyes, but not quite on the nose. “I’m going to have to take you in, if you don’t continue giving smartass answers I might let you go in the morning.” I didn’t really feel like I had given this guy anything to bark at me for, but I had learned from my earlier days. When the cop takes you in you hang it up and shut up. 
	I must have fallen asleep at some point in the ride, or maybe it was the other circumstances that kept me from remembering about that night, but either way I found myself woken up by the clanging of bars shaken by a policeman who didn’t want me to stink up his illustrious station. I found myself in a cell much like the others I’ve visited. Two bunks, a rusted toilet in the corner close enough so you could always smell it. A little bit dingy in all its facets. A little cold. “Get up, you’ve been rotting up this place all morning, it's time to go,” the man hollered. I got up, felt around for my wallet, my keys, almost becoming anxious at the fact that they weren’t in my pockets, before I came to and walked with the man to the officer’s desk. 
	“You’ve been charged with driving under the influence, Mr. Michael Domum. You have been fined $1,000,” he said, handing me an envelope, though not looking up from his report, “as well as receiving a license restriction for one week. Failure to meet these requirements will result in a year of prison time. If you wish to fight these rulings, you may appear tomorrow at 8 AM at the County Courts located here at Beach City.” Now that got my attention.
	“Excuse me, did you just say Beach City?”, I interrupted.
	The man took a deep sigh, “Yes, and you’re now free to go about as you please.” The man began walking away. “The exits down the hall. You can pick up your car at Owen’s Towing on 3rd and Ocean.” I was taken back again. That was a name I knew very well. From a town I knew very well. 
	I walked the three blocks to find the place. I couldn’t believe it was still there after a good 30 years. It clearly had some work put into it, the fact that the sign wasn’t crooked and yellowing had me questioning what was going on. I walked in wondering if the old man was still there when I instead found someone entirely different. He had a tan complexion with trimmed dark hair, a clean shaved face, a changed face but nonetheless a face that I recognized. It was Owen. Owen Jr. He looked up to me from his desk as a smirk of surprised glee ran across his dimples. “Mike! How the hell are you?” He said, leaving the desk to hug me firmly. “I can’t believe it, it has to have been twenty years,” he exclaimed, every word expressing more excitement than the previous. Yet this joy came to a halt. “What brings you here?”
	I chuckled, trying to brush off the shame that question denounced against me. “Well you know me, always on the wrong side of the law, just one of those types of nights you know.” 
	Owen nodded hesitantly, “Well I actually have some time off if you want to maybe walk around.” He asked cordially, and I accepted.
	The shop was just two blocks south of the boardwalk, and even after all this time we both instinctively walked there and took the left to go to the fun side of town, like old times. 
	“So you’re still working for the old man?”
	Owen was stunned. “No man, he passed a good ten years ago, I thought you heard.” 
	“No kidding? Then what are you still doing there?”
	“Well I bought the place from him actually.” He answered as his head held itself a bit higher.
	I however bubbled at the thought of that. “He really made you pay for that place? After all that time you spent there, doing the off end dirty jobs?”
	“Well you know dude I was a kid then, that’s what kids do. But yeah I mean just kept my head down a few years and I was able to save enough to get it from him. And it’s doing well too, with you guys around we’ll be doing fine.”
	I laughed nervously. I really didn’t need this. I really needed to be alone in my crowd of people. I saw my people’s house on the left, and so I stopped my companion.
	“Look, there it is!” Shore Tavern, the place I spent my whole summers. “Why don’t we stop in for old times sake.”
	“Sorry, I have to get back to it in a bit,” he mentioned, still standing as he took in the sight. “Some good times a while ago though.”
	“Yeah,” I replied but I wasn’t focused on my friend but rather the state of the place. The neon sign that promised light was somewhat sunken, and it wouldn’t have shocked me if a lot of the lights were extinguished.  The wood too was peeling, the white painted exterior clearly hadn’t been redone since I was there. More than that it was dead. Not anymore than it would have been on a typical weekday morning. But I noticed it, it had no life. “I guess it’s been slowing down.”
	“I guess.”
	We continued walking, finding less and less to talk about as our lives showed to be more and more different. Not that we had any major disagreements, just that unlike before we found ourselves having nothing to talk about.
	We stumbled upon a place, though mundane, that stood out, causing me to hesitate in my gait. 
	“What is it?”
	“I’m not sure. Ah! I know, it’s the part of the beach my family would go to. All summer, it was always this spot. Always the worst part of the trip, hated being subjected to watching the younger ones, listening to Mom and Dads stupid conversations.”
	Owen began heating up. “You know you’re the only person I know who looks back on beaches with his family in a negative light. I know it has its faults but, it's the beach!” He cooled a bit, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
	Here before me lay a choice. I didn’t like it when people told me to get out of my own way, especially when someone close would insult me so personally. But something in his ways; Maybe the outfit he donned after spurning it for so long, maybe the way he seemed to avoid looking at the bars, and maybe the way he looked me in the eyes when I looked away told me that I just might have to back off. 
	I looked in the distance to see a family of four. The Dad was napping, the Mom was yelling at him to get up. The little girl was running to the water, the little boy was throwing sand on her. It was chaos, but it was pure. “Yeah maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
	Owen was now completely calm, and seemed to enjoy where the conversation could head. “You remember, playing in the water, eating whatever your Mom made, the sand, it was all good. And even the bad I bet couldn’t have really been that bad.”
	“What are you saying?”
	At this point we began walking again, as Owen needed to get back to work.
	“Well I mean watching your siblings, I bet it was nice seeing them grow and mature a bit because of you. And even your parents, I bet if you were with them today, at your age, you’d enjoy a silly little conversation with them.”
	I was silent.
	“Say how are your parents doing by the way?”
	I began answering, but my throat halted the words that I attempted to speak. After a few stutters I managed to choke out. “I’m not sure I haven’t spoken to my parents in ages.” I began finding my words, finding a clear voice in exchange for tears which began to stream down my cheeks. “I’ll be honest with you Owen, and this is the type of honesty I never express sober, I’m not doing too hot, well you know that. The fact I come to an old beach town with contempt, even that I’m here at all, shows something ain’t right. My life's securely insecure. And to be honest my family just might bring that something I should have had 15 years ago.”
	Owen did not answer right away, a moment like this causes a man to carefully choose his every word. “You know, why don’t you call them now?”
	My mouth twitched. “I don’t know it’s been so long, I don’t know how’d they feel.”
	“Well, it can’t be any worse than how they feel about you now.”
	“That’s the thing, I don’t even know, they could have my number blocked.” 
	Owen took his chance. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialed a few numbers. “Ms. Domum” the number read. He handed it to me and smiled.
	I took a deep breath. I took it from him. I heard that someone had answered it on the other end, as I walked a few steps away from my friend.
	“Hey Mom”, I stuttered, “It’s me.”
 
 
 
 
 
","September 04, 2023 17:06",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",b8ct95,Summertime Supernova,Prissy Sturz,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b8ct95/,/short-story/b8ct95/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Drama', 'Science Fiction']",7 likes,"
CW: This story contains themes of substance abuse, domestic violence, and graphic imagery
 
I don’t think that many people can say they’ve ever seen a supernova. In fact, it can be observed that nobody could ever say that they’ve seen such an interstellar occurrence. There are only a select few who are the exception to this observation: one of them is astronomer Tycho Brahe, who recorded Tycho’s Supernova in 1572. Another exception would be Johannes Kepler, who recorded Kepler’s Supernova in 1604. And another exception would be me. I’ve seen a supernova-multiple, in truth: enough to last a lifetime. But at least I don't have the audacity to name them after myself.
 
These astronomical occurrences go something like this: a star steadily burns throughout the night sky, like a singular candle shining in the midst of a darkened room. The star shines for millions of years, steadily burning its fuel. But, like a candle, eventually the fuel depletes; the wax begins to melt down. Its very existence leads to its own demise. First it burns through the hydrogen. Then the helium. Carbon. Neon. Oxygen. Finally, the silicon. Once the fuel runs out, it has nothing to sustain itself-nothing left to burn. So, in turn, it collapses on itself and the star explodes. 
 
If I had to describe the resulting supernova, I would say it looks like a firework. Waves of light emit, flowing throughout the dark sea of the universe. Rainbow debris shoots out into the eternal abyss, evidence that a beautiful death exists. 
 
I distinctly remember the colors of the first supernova I saw: the colors were red and blue. It was the summer I turned six; such a number can never be a good omen. My parents were barbecuing that night: the night I bore witness to the first death.
 
It began when the summer sun bid its final farewells, making its descent behind the pine Leviathans in the backyard. Mom and I sat on the second-hand rod iron chairs, watching as the fire on the grill danced. Fire’s flaming dress twisted and spun, her red skirts writhing among the graveyard of ash, a heat seducing her audience, coaxing us to come closer, closer. 
 
My fingers chipped away at the white paint on the chair. Tiny shards of the paint collected under my nails.
 
“Stop picking at that, would you?” Mom frowned at the now visible sliver of rust beneath the paint. “You’ll ruin the chair.”
 
Before she could scold me anymore, dad came through the backdoor, bearing a tray of oozing, raw meat clutched between his hands. He came over, setting the tray down next to the grill, presenting his girls with the butchered flesh. The meat was the same shade as the dress I wore, a rosy hue of baby pink.
 
“We’re eating good tonight!” he exclaimed, grabbing the bloody slabs of meat between his bare fingers and placing them on the grill. The meat sizzled and squirmed amidst the seductress’ flames, and the rosy shade which it bore quickly crisped into a dusty, charcoal black: any resemblance of innocence, gone. The cool summer breeze quickly turned foul, polluted with the aroma of burning flesh. My dad inhaled, greedily devouring the stench with his nostrils. 
 
The minutes began to pass, and the sun had completed its journey into the day. The watchful eye in the sky had gone, and no longer was there a judge to prosecute the evil activity that can be seen only within the light. I looked up, looking for the eye of Eckleburg that was no longer there. Mom looked up too. The sky: vacant; the world: night
 
“I’m getting thirsty. I suppose I could do for a drink,” she said.
 
“Bring me one too,” dad added.
 
And so mom disappeared into the house, returning only moments later. In her arms were glass bottles, cradled next to her chest as if she were a mom cradling her baby. She approached, the noisy, clinking glasses announcing her arrival. She set the bottles down, one by one, and pulled out two crystal goblets. She set the goblets down as well, and grasping a bottle of wine, popped it open. The cork flew off, landing onto the concrete below. Nobody bothered to pick it up.
 
She poured the wine into the glass cups, Pinot Grigio for the feminine, Cabernet Sauvignon for the masculine. Pee for mom, blood for dad. The liquid that liquidates. Then, they raised it to their lips, gulping it down as if it were water in a desert.
 
This process continued as the night progressed. Pour, raise, drink, repeat. Pour, raise, drink, repeat. Eventually, the meat was assimilated into the routine: Pour, raise, drink, eat, repeat. Pour, raise, drink, meat, repeat. The fuel was steadily depleting.
 
And eventually, their bodies began to sway, like trees in the wind, like flames in the ash. Their feet never found a consensus on which direction to go, but rather shuffled along, drifting here, drifting there. They danced, but there was no music, and no matter how hard they listened, their ears could not find a tune.
 
“Bring out the speaker,” dad called out, his slurred words hurling at the little girl. 
 
Oh god. Not the speaker. Not the dreaded little black box, the one that emits a sound, that the emotional call melodies and the evil call music.
 
And despite my unvoiced protest, I brought out the speaker. They turned it on, selecting the perfect tunes to feed their drunken stupor. I heard, and my parents listened, as the black box cast out its spells and enchanted its listeners, vibrating the rustic, second-hand, paint-chipping chairs with every beat, encouraging its consumers to dance. 
 
And oh, did they dance.
 
Pour, raise, drink, meat, dance, repeat. Pour, raise, drink, meat, dance, repeat. 
 
“Oh, and can you bring me another glass? And another glass? And another glass? And one more glass? And, I promise, just one more glass? And another glass?”
 
But, eventually, as all things under Time’s steady hand must march to its inevitable death, this foolery was also brought to its demise. Refreshments were all devoured and only the bones remained. Eventually, the fuel ran out. 
 
“Get me another drink,” dad commanded. 
 
“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” The stench of alcohol played within her breath.
Mom tilted her head at him, testing him, an eyebrow raised, hand on hip, waiting to see his next move. 
 
The consequence? They danced.
 
Dad took her by the hands and twirled her around. He pushed her down into the concrete. He jumped on top of her, knees digging into her chest. He punched her. He grabbed her hair, twisting it around his fist, yanking it out. 
 
Six year old me jumps up and down. I yell. I scream. Every organ in my chest drops down into my stomach. I watch, in excitement, in fear, as daddy beats up mommy.
 
“DAD, STOP! DAD, STOP IT, PLEASE!”
 
He doesn’t. The fuel had already run out. The star had exploded.
 
I run into the house, searching for mom’s phone. Outside, the music still plays. The sound of mom’s pleas. The sound of dad’s rage. My chest expands, heart writhing back and forth-faster than any child’s heart should ever have to. Black clouds fog my vision. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.
 
Finally, finally, I find mom’s phone. My body shakes. My hands tremble. I drop the phone. I pick it up. My fingers sprawl about, searching for the correct keys. Finally, though, I manage.
 
“911, what’s your emergency?” the voice on the other end greets me.
 
Minutes roll by, and I watch as the star collapses on itself. 
 
And I saw, I saw as the supernova exploded. 
I saw the colors, the beautiful, vibrant colors. 
The red and blue, the sirens, lighting up the night sky like a firework.
Waves of light emit, flowing throughout the dark sea of the universe.
Rainbow debris shoots out into the eternal abyss, evidence that a beautiful death exists. 
 
This was the summer that I finally grew up; my innocence charcoaled black. This was the first supernova I saw. 
 
 
 
 
","September 04, 2023 22:00",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",zuejo3,From Porsche to Peeling Paint,Madeline Honig,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zuejo3/,/short-story/zuejo3/,Character,0,['Contemporary'],7 likes,"
Shannon Myers pressed the flat red button on the large screen. She was dangerously close to losing reception and wanted to end the call as soon as possible. The horrification of hanging up mid sentence on her new boss.  They were close to closing their series B funding for their AI driven startup that would revolutionize how any normal person could trade stocks. 
 
Shannon’s life seemed to have changed quickly.  After attending Penn State, her career started on Wall Street and although her paychecks became rather large, she spent her spare time creating things.  It started with doodles and turned into digital design until she was coding simple programs to help with her work.  It was never supposed to amount to anything but when she met a tech millionaire who just sold his company, liked Shannon’s technical prowess, and they developed the idea together. 
 
What felt like overnight, she quit her job and moved to Silicon Valley to work on this passion project.  Although it was not the same, being in the Bay Area felt too close to home.  She was determined to not let the West Coast back into her newly created East Coast persona.  She still wore her Jimmy Choo pumps and Armani pants suits to work every day, but her upbringing tugged at her like a life or death dug-a-war match.
 
It was not until she heard about her grandmother’s hospitalization, that she realized she could not put going home off any longer.  She would need to return to her hometown and face the life she had abandoned.  She packed her Louis Vuitton suitcase and pulled her Porsche from the underground garage and headed north past Santa Rosa.
 
Shannon signaled to merge into the single lane, behind a large truck.  She glanced down at the rushing river below and it reminded her of her childhood.  The temperature would regularly be in the nineties and sometimes in the hundreds, yet they didn’t have air conditioning or a pool.  They had the river. 
 
It wasn’t just one river, there were plenty to choose from.  There was the shallow one down the street for when no one wanted to take the Myers children to swim.  There was one that was easily accessible, with picnic benches and grills, great for a day at the river.  But then there was the favorite of the Myers children, at the end of a road that seemed to lead to nowhere.  If you crawled down some boulders and through some trees, it opened to a white sandy beach, with a rock on one side for privacy and a rock on the other to jump into the deep cool water. 
 
But gone were the days when Shannon would jump off a rock or wade into a river.  It could turn her Versace bathing suite a funky color, not to mention all the fish feces floating in it.
 
Shannon signaled to pass the truck in front of her.  She pressed on the gas pedal and moved back across the yellow broken lines into her own lane.  She missed coming into a head-on collision at ninety miles an hour with an F250 by a few feet.  But it didn’t feel as dangerous as some trades she had made in her past.
 
There was roadwork ahead and a man holding a “stop” sign caused Shannon to come to a full stop and the truck she had just passed, risking her life, came to a full stop behind her.  There must be roadwork on one lane of traffic on the two-lane highway.  
 
She glanced to the side of the road to a tangle of blackberry bushes.  Shannon had not had a blackberry in ages.  Not one straight off the vine, anyway.  Sure, she would buy a plastic clamshell of them at Whole Foods.  But nothing was like picking them directly off the vine.
 
She thought back to the blackberry cobbler her grandmother would make.  First, grandma would send the kids out with a mixing bowl from the kitchen to an unpicked berry patch.  Since blackberries were free, they picked all the berry patches around.  They picked the easy to get berry patches first.  Then they would move closer to the road until they were squeezing into the prickly bush every time a car came.  Anything they could do for just one more sweet berry, they would do.
 
“Can you reach that one?” They would ask.  “What if I boosted you up?”  
 
They would then bring their findings to grandma Myer and she would cook up a blackberry cobbler that the children would devour in minutes, not savoring the fruits of their own labor.  It was almost as though the picking and the treat were unrelated.
 
The road workman changed the sign to “slow” and Shannon crawled ahead, the truck chugging behind her. 
 
The Porsche picked up speed and dodged redwoods as she approached a sign for “Camping 1000 FT Ahead” and the memories came flowing back in.   
 
Shannon thought about the weekend during the summer they would leave home.  It was not to Disneyland or to Hawaii.  It was never far in fact.  They would pack the car with gear and make the hour-long drive to the closest campground.  They would pitch a tent, blow up a mattress and throw on some sleeping bags.  They filled the days with swimming and fishing in the river.  They filled the nights with campfires and s’mores. 
 
It was the yearly trip that Shannon looked forward to every year.  This was before Paris, before she ever went to Rome or London.  New York Fashion week was not on her radar and Cannes Film Festival would sound like a ferry tale.  A vacation in the woods would be too simple for her life now.
 
As Shannon pulled up the gravel driveway of the Victorian house, she grew up; she took a deep breath.  She took in the overgrowth of the front yard and the peeling yellow paint.  She was home.  
 
She closed the car door behind her with ease and looked down.  The surrounding mud was no match for her outfit. Her Gucci tennis shoes and Fendi velour tracksuit would need to be changed at the first chance she got.  
 
She approached her sister waiting for her patiently on the front porch with a drooling baby on her hip.
 
“Welcome home,” she said, reaching to embrace her older sister.
 
“It feels good to be back,”  Shannon said, placing her bags on the porch to free her arms for her sister. 
 
 
","September 06, 2023 16:05","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'What a sweet story about looking back on memories of growing up. I like how your story ended with the feeling of home and seeing her sister. You get the feeling the sisters will continue the reminiscing together. Well done on the prompt! :)', 'time': '00:58 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",vfe1oe,A Wild Daisy,Coralie Cowan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vfe1oe/,/short-story/vfe1oe/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'High School', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
A single drop of clear fluid slowly bulged from the tiny hole at the bottom of the bag of poison. It grew fatter and fatter, until it dropped silently into the tube that led to her arm. Another took its place. Life and death measured out in single droplets. Every time she swore she wouldn’t watch them. Every time her eyes dragged back to the clear globes of poison that were supposed to save her life. It was time in a bottle, counting backwards. 
The squeaks of soft soled sensible shoes passed by in all directions. Wheels bustled past. Voices were lowered to respectful murmurs as staff held discussions not fit for patient ears. Sometimes machines beeped. She was certain she could hear the droplet splash faintly when it fell. The almost silence was filling her head like fog until it exploded in the report of high heeled shoes clipping insistently across the industrial tiles. 
A curtain swept aside, not gently, from near the top, like the nurses did it, but abruptly and with style. She flinched slightly.
“Rebecca? I am Suava Hoffman. We have exchanged a few emails about my project interviewing chemo patients?” She said it assuming the answers, so Rebecca just nodded and gestured to the extra chair sitting in the farthest corner of the curtained cubicle. Ms. Hoffman took it, but leaned forward as if she was still in motion. Every fiber of her lean, healthy frame shouted “health” and “vitality” in this place that wasn’t. Suddenly Rebecca was exhausted, but she had agreed to this, so she would see it through. 
“Rebecca, I want to document the story you want to tell. This is about giving you a voice. You will tell me whatever you want to say, and nothing you don’t. I am working with an illustrator in this project. He can work from the manuscript I create, but if you feel comfortable, he would like to sit in on our session. How do you feel about that?”
Rebecca nodded. Her fingers picked at the yoga pants hanging loosely on her legs. 
“Sure. That’s fine.” she said, while her brain screamed that two people in this room was two more than she really wanted to see while toxic liquid seeped into her body. But it would keep her eyes away from those swelling, glistening globules. “I just don’t want him drawing the bag. He can draw anything else in the room, OK?” 
Suava nodded sympathetically, while she typed furiously at her phone. “He’s on his way, and he says whatever you feel comfortable with is fine with him.” Then she put down her phone, took out a notebook, and leaned back. 
“OK, Rebecca. What story do you want to tell? What is on your mind as you sit in this room?”
The illustrator slipped through the curtain almost without making it move, and slid into a molded plastic chair, as he opened a sketch pad. It was a single fluid motion and he never once looked up. Rebecca’s mouth opened almost on its own, and she spoke her truth. 
The summer I turned fifteen I got a summer job at a local ice cream stand. The ice cream was made locally and brought straight from the creamery to our stand fresh every morning. Ice cream from the dairy was our family’s summer tradition, and I had wanted to work there ever since I was eight. As happens so often, my childhood dreams were not realized. 
It was long hours of scooping hard ice cream, and mixing shakes, and taking crap from customers who thought it should be done faster, cheaper, and with a little more jazz. My feet ached, and my soul hurt from learning that behind the magic curtain of my dreams was just mops and bleach and puddles of souring ice cream. Still, it was a job, and there were tips. My pay check went straight into my college fund (parent’s orders) but when I had some time off, I would put the change and small bills from my tip jar into the pockets of my cutoff jeans, and ride my bike across town to my best friend’s house. 
Joey was recovering from mono that summer, so instead of our usual afternoons of smashing high scores at the arcade, or busting our knees and elbows trying out new skateboard moves, we sat around a lot. I would stop at the video rental place for a VHS and two sodas, and we would sit on his mama’s forest green couch, with our feet up on the coffee table, and watch the Dark Crystal, or Dune, or Dark Star. We watched all 5 existing Star Trek movies that summer, including the first one. He had started playing Dungeons and Dragons the year before, but my mama was convinced it was of the devil and leading to death, so it was movies for us.
My supervisor at the ice cream place was a twenty-one year old business student making minimum wage just to be able to put “manager” on a resume. Shaun was convinced he could leverage this job into something bigger. Every shift he would hold a “team meeting” and set goals for the two of us working at a time. He even had this chant we had to do before we could turn on the open sign. I remember standing beside the pull chain on the neon oval, droning out this crazy rhyme before I could pull the power and open the glass windows. We had a line up every time, and he did not care.
So one day I was doing a shift, and the goal of the shift was upselling the waffle cone. 
“Would you like that in a waffle cone?” was how Shaun wanted us to phrase it, and it was working. Shaun wanted us to ring a stupid little bell and put a star on a chart every time we sold a waffle cone. When there are seventy five people in two lines, and three people on a shift, ain’t no one got time for that, so Shaun was getting pissy.
I had just served a family of five, and was wiping the tiger ice cream off the back of my hand when I realized Joey was standing at my window. He was grinning, and before I could say anything, he said, “Dad says we’ll take two of whatever Shaun wants you to sell today.”
I took the order, rang Shaun’s bell twice, and did a little sassy dance to the cooler, emboldened by the support of my best friend in the whole world. We laughed together, and I managed to get in a “great to see you out of the house!” before Shaun was calling the next customer to my window. Still, it was the shot I needed to finish the shift strong. I sold exactly two more waffle cones than Sylvia that shift. Shaun called it a tie. He said Joey’s two didn’t count. I didn’t really care. 
 
The bag was half empty. The round globes were still forming, but Rebecca wasn’t watching them any more. Her eyes were focused on the curtain. Her mind was focused on the memory.
 
I was mopping the soured, sticky ice cream off the floor at the end of the shift. Sylvia always managed to be the first out the door, so it was just me and Shaun behind the shuttered windows. When I turned around to put the mop away, Shaun was right behind me. I jumped, and screamed slightly. He grabbed my hips, and kissed me, hard. He shoved his tongue in my mouth, and I gagged, so he backed up.
“Tell that little boy I don’t want to see him around here again distracting you.” Shaun muttered, and turned back to counting out the cash.
Two days later I was sitting in Joey’s living room watching something lame. I must have been restless or something, because he finally turned it off, and said his mama thought he needed more fresh air, now that he was getting better. 
“Let’s go for a walk, Becks,” he said. 
We wandered out the back door across the lawn toward the worn track that traversed the green belt between his neighborhood and the commercial part of town. We chatted a little about the lame movie, and when the trail ended, we turned down the industrial park, and walked along the railroad tracks. I asked something about Dungeons and Dragons, but Joey didn’t answer. 
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “You’re acting weird. Like not the cool friend I spend all my time with. You’re acting like the drama girls at school. I don’t like it.” 
“Oh yeah?” I shouted back. “Well, maybe I don’t like you showing up at work and making my boss mad. What was that?”
Joey frowned. “He was mad? What did he say?”
I gagged out the whole story, and then sat in the middle of the railroad track, hugging my knees and crying. I didn’t even really know why I was crying. I didn’t know why I was mad. I couldn’t put words to the crushing disappointment that my first kiss had been that violent act.
Joey walked away. I knew my entire life had seismically shifted and I didn’t know how to scale the Himalayas that had been thrown in front of me. And then he was back, with a napkin, and a single daisy. He handed them both to me, and sat down next to me. 
“Well, I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t OK. That’s for sure. You gonna tell his boss, or are you gonna quit?”
We talked it over for several hours, sitting in the middle of a railroad track, as a wild daisy slowly wilted in my hair. 
Rebecca looked up at Suava Hoffman, and smiled. 
“You know what?” She said. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to find another relationship as good as that one, but I didn’t know it until right now.”
The illustrator’s pencil was hovering over the paper, but not moving. 
“It was the summer you turned 16, not 15.” he said, without lifting his head. Rebecca grinned a little, as she wiped her palms along her ragged yoga pants.
“Oh yeah. How do you know that?” she countered.
“Because I had mono on my seventeenth birthday. And you have never in your life scraped an elbow on a skate board. You were always holding the camera while I scraped up my joints.”
At that she chuckled. “Too bad we were before You Tube.”
He just shook his head, “Oh no. I am glad that footage is lost.”
Suava Hoffman didn’t move. She was getting the story of her life, and there was no way she was going to remind them she was there.
He crossed the floor, and looked down at her. 
He tore the page off his sketch book, and handed it to her. It was a single daisy, and a railroad track. 
“I’ve been trying to get back there my whole life, too. When you’re finished here, you wanna go for a walk, Becks? We have some catching up to do.”
 
","September 07, 2023 00:04",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",v6fez8,When I was a Child ,Deliliah Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v6fez8/,/short-story/v6fez8/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Happy', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
“Okay, everyone, I know you are all absolutely thrilled to be back at school, but if you could all just pause your chitchat so we could get started.” The class fell silent. This was Lauras favourite class. 9A English. Last year when the Head of the Department had presented them to her he had described them as “trouble makers, idiots and a motley crew.” It had been Lauras first year as a qualified English Teacher, she had come into the profession slightly later after completing an undergraduate in English literature and working for a small editing firm, before deciding she wanted to make something of her life instead of scouting yet another incorrect use of a semi colon. 
 
For some reason or other she hadn’t had to do much to win over what was 8A. Of course it wasn’t always plain sailing, but on the whole they respected her, even if they did occasionally comment that she only looked old enough to be a student herself. She wondered if this was perhaps her saving grace, her young looks made them think she was on their level somehow. Maybe and probably more plausible, was that she respected them, rather than branding them with brushes of stupidity. She had come into teaching to change lives to make a difference, to inspire. To give the children of today a different school experience to her own. She wasn’t going to let some middle aged man who was only in the job because he was at the top of his pay grade and didn’t actually care about any of his students put her off. 
 
Now though, with thirty pairs of eyes on her she began her lesson. “You know what’s coming don’t you?” She asked. They stayed silent, but she watched as worry and terror appeared on some of their faces. Laura continued “Brilliant to see your enthusiasm 9A, and you guessed it I am going to ask who wants to share their “what I did this summer” essay, I know you have all done it because you all emailed me and I was very impressed, so who wants to go first?” She waited knowing she wouldn’t get a response. Smiling, she teased them “Come on hands up, or I’ll pick.” To this there was a chorus of “please please please Miss no!” She laughed, “I thought this might happen so, I have a proposition for you…” A hand shot up in the air; Harry James, last year she had been told he was the ring leader of any and all misbehaviour, but she had found him funny and desperate to please, so was happy to see his hand up. “Yes Harry, would you like to read your essay.” “Nah Miss, I would rather eat Helenas toes…” to this there was a cacophony of “whey, Harry loves Helena, and wants to eat her toes.” To which Harry replied “Shut up!” Laura clapped her hands and the class once again fell quiet “What was it you wanted to say Harry if it wasn’t about your essay?” “What is a preposition?” “Do you mean proposition?” “Yeah whatever you said before.” “Lovely question and I am sure others are wondering this too.” Laura often used phrases like this when speaking to her students so that they all felt included and that no one felt stupid for asking questions, or being unsure. “A proposition is like a bargain, better yet it's like a deal. So in this instance, I will do something for you lot IF you do something for me.” “Got it miss.” Laura beamed, as she noticed other children nodding, understanding her explanation. Another hand waved at her, this time Samantha Jones. When the Head of Department had discussed Samantha he had said “You’ll be lucky if she turns up, and if she does she won’t do any work, she’d much rather be smoking in the toilets with the other Chavs.” To Lauras surprise, Samantha had turned up to every lesson and had flourished in her class, being one of her top achievers. “Yes Samantha.” “So what is this deal then, we should get to know it before we agree.” “I think that’s okay. I decided it wasn’t really fair for me to expect you to take time out of your summer break to do work for me, if I didn’t do the same. So while I asked you to write “what I did in the summer.” I wrote an essay of my own, mine is a bit different, mine is written as an adult looking back on my summers as a child. So, back to the bargain, I will read you my essay if afterwards, some of you read yours. Deal?” She watched as more heads nodded in approval. “Okay, fab, we have come to an agreement, but you can’t go back on your word, or I will tell Mr Colt….” She didn’t need to finish the sentence. 
 
She pulled her spiny chair to the middle of the classroom, just in front of the first two rows of desks. “Before I start, I’ll remind you of the reading rules, I don't mind, if you want to draw, or put your heads on the table and close your eyes, but I want you to listen and absolutely no talking.” She waited a few moments as the class got themselves comfortable and sorted. She took this time to get her papers together, then she began: 
 
“I wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread. This is one of my favourite smells. It is the easiest way to get me out of bed, and mum knows this. I stretch and look at my clock, 930. I climb out of bed and wrap myself in my dressing gown and slide my feet into my slippers. 
 
When I go downstairs, Ellie and Hugo (my younger twin siblings) are already sat around the kitchen table, talking about whatever it is six year olds talk about, doubtless to say I am sure it is infinitely uncool. Mum sees me and wraps me in her arms. “Hello sweet-pea.” This is her pet name for me and she has called it me for as long as I can remember. She had already cut two slices of bread. “Jam or honey?’ She asks “one of each please.” I say, still encased in her warmth. I stay here a second, I might be twelve, but there is nothing like a hug from mum, it makes me feel safe, like if I am here, nothing can go wrong and I don't have to worry about anything.” “Okay, sweet-pea, take a seat.” I know how much mum loves me by the effort she puts into her cooking, curating everyones favourite foods. I know by the amount of time she spends kneading the dough to make sure it is the perfect springy consistency, how she measures each ingredient exactly, smiling to herself knowing she has it just right . I could watch her all day, but I don't because she would think I have gone mad. Besides, it's not cool for twelve year olds to hang around their mums like that, but I do wonder if she knows that she is the best person in the whole entire world. 
 
As I sit down Ellie and Hugo leave, I am glad because I don’t want to listen to their childish nonsense. Mum brings me over the toast and sits next to me. She asks me of my plans for the day “sounds lovely, tea is at six, and its games night, tell Lottie and Tim they are welcome too.” Lottie and Tim are my very best friends. I munch on my toast reading the final Harry Potter, I am just at the part when Harry, Ron and Hermione have gone back to Hogwarts to find the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. I take my time sipping on some hot milk, This is the best drink in the world, I will say that even when I am a grown up, nothing will change my mind on that!
 
I finish breakfast and go and get dressed. I peer outside of the window breathing in the air which smells of summer and sunshine. There is a faint smell of lavender in the air from the fields next door. Just as I am done with brushing my teeth, the doorbell goes. We didn’t have mobile phones back then, well grown ups did, but not kids, somehow, you make plans and just know they will happen. So when I hear the door open and mum speaking to someone I know it's Lottie. 
 
Soon enough, me and Lottie are on our bikes, to collect Tim. Tim is waiting for us on his front lawn “You guys said 11, it's 11:05” we roll our eyes at him, Tim is obsessed with time, he loves time zones. He finds it fascinating that while we go about our day, on the other side of the world there are people who are fast asleep. 
 
We cycle for about forty five minuets until we get to our spot. It is perfect, this is why we come here. In the whole of the field, right in the middle there is this enormous tree that provides the exact amount of sun to shade ratio. I admire the tree because I find it intriguing that trees get battered by all kinds of weather, people don’t look after them, that they start as a tiny sapling and grow over hundreds of years into something so alluring. I often wonder what would trees say if they could talk, if they had eyes. I dream about all the things they have seen how much the world around them has changed, but they remain in a spot observing it all. I decide trees should be respected. It makes me sad when I hear on the news that people havent looked after Earth and now we are starting to see problems. I want to make sure that when I am a grown up I do something to help. 
 
Tim, Lottie and I, spend the day under the tree, which we have given the nickname of “Our Outside Home.” Sometimes we talk, joke and play around with no grown ups about to tell us to “be quiet” or to “stop messing about.” Other times we play Uno, making the loser do a dare. At other intervals we are quiet, enjoying the sound of nature or listening to Tims I pod, taking it in turns to share the earphones or reading our books. We are all reading Harry Potter, but I am quicker than Tim and Lottie so I have to try my hardest to keep my squeals of excitement in, so that I don’t give the spoilers away. 
 
In the afternoon, we get back on our bikes and cycle about half way home. Tim gives us all a tub and we merrily pick, blackberries, raspberries and strawberries. Our parents always warn us not to eat too much or we will get upset tummies, we never listen to their advice and unsurprisingly none of us have developed any aliment, after all, what’s they worst that can happen from a few hundred berries? Grown ups are always worrying about things. I sometimes think when does this happen? When do you go from being a kid, to being an anxiety ridden adult? Do you just wake up one day and that’s it, or is it a more slow and gradual process? I don't know, but either way I decide I never, ever, ever want that to happen to me. 
 
As I said, we don't have phones, but we know it's time to start heading back by the way the sun looks in the sky. When it gets level with the roofs and the tops of the trees. Lottie and Tim come to my house and when we walk through the door we are greeted to the smell of garlic and cheese, mum has made lasagne, this is dads favourite. 
 
I love tea time, I think some people might find it chaotic. There is a hub bub of talking and laughing, no one takes it in turns, we are all chatting over one another, interjecting here and there and basically anywhere. Mum and dad try and get a word in, but it is very rare they succeed, they often give up engaging in their own grown up talk. I don't know what they discuss, but I think they are happy. Sometimes I watch them, I see how dad always squeezes mums hand and kisses her forehead, before he whispers something to her that I don't hear, but she smiles. I observe how after this, or at other points when they are talking mum places her fork on her plate and puts her hand so it is cupping dads face, rubbing her thumb over his cheek. I see how this makes dad grin. I don’t know anything about love, I am only twelve after all, but I decide that when I am old enough to be in love, I want a love like mum and dad. 
 
Dad clears the plates, he insists on doing this because mum has had us “little monsters” all day, she cooked so she deserves a break. As he does this, further madness ensues as we all cause a ruckus choosing which game to play. We pick Jenga because Ellie and Hugo can play that too. We play a couple of rounds before mum disappears for a little while tucking them into bed and reading them a story, she will read them “Can’t you sleep little Bear?” I know this because they ask for this story EVERY night. How are they not bored of it yet? While mum is upstairs dad chats to Lottie, Tim and I, asking us about our day what we got up to, before inevitably quizzing us on how many berries we ate, and do we have sore bellies? He tells us one day we won’t be so lucky. We giggle and say until that day comes we will continue. 
 
When mum reappears we settle back down for a game of Cluedo. I am rubbish at this game, but once we move onto scrabble I am in my element. We don’t always play games, some nights we all watch a movie, taking it in turns (for once) to pick. We munch on popcorn and dad thinks he’s being funny when at random intervals he throws popcorn across the room. Mum says that she has made up a bed for Tim in Hugos room and a bed for Lottie in mine, and she has already called their parents to check its okay. This is our cue that it is bedtime. 
 
I hate bedtime. It is the worst part of the day, it means the day is over and we are one day closer to going back to school. I don't mind school, actually I kind of enjoy it, but it is nowhere near as fun as days lounging around, playing games, enjoying myself. Me and Lottie talk quietly for a little while before one of us fall asleep. Lottie is nearly always first. I know she is asleep when her breathing changes from normal to a snore. I have told her so many times she snores, I wish I could record her so she stops denying it. As I fall asleep I am smiling, I want the summer holidays to last forever, I don't want to grow up, days like today are the very best kind, but I am happy and I am lucky to have such love around me. I think this as my eyes flutter shut. 
 
Laura stops, she is hit by emotion when 9A start clapping “Miss that was the best thing you’ve ever read!” “Thank you George.” “Now though, I have done my part, it's your turn, who wants to read their essay?” She watches as thirty hands wave in the air in sheer desperation at wanting to be picked. She smilies, her work here is done. 
","September 07, 2023 17:59",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",xv0ch8,Uncle Meats,Marc Rothstein,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xv0ch8/,/short-story/xv0ch8/,Character,0,['Coming of Age'],7 likes,"
Shit, an accident. Of all places, why here?
Morning rush hour traffic slowed to a crawl, and my anxiety rocketed. A poor section of suburban Philadelphia displayed a rundown corner bar, pawn shop, and vintage mom-and-pop grocery store to the disgust of angry commuters. Nicknamed West Conshy because Conshohocken was a mouthful, it glared at me through my driver-side window as my car came to a halt. This was precisely where my life took a detour almost two decades ago.
Now, as I sat helplessly in traffic, the hazy details of my past re-crystallized around me. On my right was the old cemetery and, on my left, bittersweet memories. I'd become skilled at dodging old regrets, but now there was no escape. I swallowed hard and adjusted my rear-view mirror to the left, only to find that the dilapidated eyesore of conjoined wooden shacks had finally been erased. In their place stood an overgrown lot. From the looks of those weeds, it had been vacant for years. I wondered where everyone had gone and why the plot was still undeveloped.
Ahead, cars lined up as far as I could see. A distant sound of sirens wailed from behind, announcing that no one was going anywhere for a while.
My thoughts jumped back to the summer of '66 when I skidded to a stop at this same spot, captivated by a sexy teen washing a car on a gravel driveway. Long, shapely legs stretched from calf-length laced sandals to her undersized black bikini bottom. My gaze rose past her small but well-formed breasts to her tanned face with an impish turned-up nose. The eye makeup was too heavy, and her mound of raven-black teased hair was a bit much—even for that decade. 
It didn't matter that she was washing a beat-up old Nash sedan. She glanced at my ride, a sweet '57 white Fairlane convertible, and gave me a shy nod. I slowly parked behind her, carefully avoiding an open ditch of jagged concrete scraps and crushed beer cans.
I got out of my car and carefully negotiated the trash-strewn, rutted gravel lane connecting her driveway to the main road. Should I just move on? At seventeen, my testosterone overruled my underdeveloped common sense, and my heart pumped pure hormones. ""Hi. I think I'm lost."" Never mind that I was on a truancy drive to nowhere because my urge for summer fun rose with the thermometer.
She bent over to drop her soapy sponge in a bucket. I swear her legs grew two feet longer as she smiled at me over her shoulder. ""Where you from?"" Her voice was deep for a young girl—just a tad. I found it attractive.
I peeled my eyes from her shapely bottom to avoid getting caught. ""Upper Darby. I must have taken a wrong turn at Radnor Road or something."" A wave of heat rose up my neck and over my face, afraid my inexperience was showing. ""Can you spare a glass of water?""
""Sure. This sun's brutal, and I'm ready for a break. Follow me.""
As if in a trance, I climbed the four rickety wooden steps to a patched-up, badly weathered front porch. It was separated from its attached twin by a railing that needed much more than just paint. Rather than follow her in, I played it cool and waited for her in a low-slung beach chair. From the porch next door, a ghastly snore jarred me. 
It was more of a snort. I stood to have a better look. Sunken into the cushions of a ripped-up easy chair was an unconscious skeleton of an unshaven geezer, baseball cap pulled over his eyes.
As my hostess opened the door, I turned to give her a hand, hoping the old fart stayed asleep. She nodded toward the snorter. ""That's just Uncle Meats. Don't mind him.""
I tore my gaze from her dark eyes, stared at my stained plastic mug, and forced a sip of the warm, cloudy water. ""Meats? Unusual name. Mine's Aaron.""
""His real name is Demetrius. As a kid, I shortened it. And thank God, we're not really related.""
Two small dirt-smudged faces looked at us through a torn front window screen. The little guy whined, ""We're hungry, Nadia. Who's the boy?"" The little girl, a toddler standing on who knew what, just giggled.
I winked at the little waifs.
Wow. This chick looks way too young to have kids.
She waved me inside, and they met us at the door. She knelt down and tickled the girl. ""This is Olga, my baby sister, and that cutie is my little brother Timmy.""
I exhaled a breath of relief. ""Hey. I'm Aaron.""
Olga rushed over and hugged my leg. Timmy looked to be around five and was a little more cautious but seemed glad I was there. So, now I was almost family. Nadia invited me into the kitchen for a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches. The doorless pantry was practically empty. I had a strange urge to run out and buy groceries.
The kids wolfed down their food, and Nadia sent them to play in the living room. They peeked around the corner every few minutes to see what kind of face I'd make next. These kid's spirits were impervious to their drab environment. I was inspired.
Nadia was unlike any girl I'd ever met. We sat drinking coffee and talking for the next three hours. I cringed when she told me she quit school at thirteen when Timmy was born. ""My mom had no one to watch him while she worked at the wire factory. Then came Olga."" A shadow of disgust passed over her face as she lowered her head. ""With all the lowlifes she drank with after work, even she doesn't know who the fathers are.""
She thrust her thumb at the wall separating the attached shack, and hatred flashed across her face like lightning. ""That drunk over there watched me when I was growing up. He was usually out cold by lunchtime.""
When my coffee passed through me, Nadia directed me to the outhouse. I later discovered the upstairs hallway honeypot—a dented steel bucket for midnight relief. My God, I was out of my element. My neighborhood was blue-collar, but I lived in a real house with two parents and a real bathroom. I'd been taking so much for granted.
I glanced at my watch. ""Wow, better get home. I was supposed to be in school today.""
Nadia stood, leaned into me, and shocked me with the longest, tonguiest kiss I'd ever had. I wanted to go further, but she kept sliding my hands back to her hips. I tried a few more times before giving up. It was getting late, but I left, vowing to get to know her better.
A polite horn tap yanked me back to the present. During my visit to adolescence, traffic had only inched forward a few yards.
****
I glanced across the road at the cemetery and pictured my younger self playing hide and seek with Timmy and Olga in the rows of headstones while Nadia sat in the shade of a giant oak, writing her poetry. Although school wasn't in the cards for her, she was an avid reader and had already filled two thick notebooks.
Poetry was not my thing. I read her verses with feigned interest but was touched by their rage and sorrow. I crouched behind her and read over her shoulder. ""You know, you should enter some of your stuff in a contest. I could see you becoming famous.""
With no clothes budget and a need to distinguish herself, she learned to sew and created her own style. I called them hippy gowns, ankle-length and cut low enough in the front to show some cleavage. She made three or four at a time. The cheap, flimsy material didn't last long. When she stood between me and the sun, the silhouette of those legs teased more than my imagination. I believed those dresses, exaggerated hair, and overdone makeup were part of her private rebellion against convention.
After three weeks of heavy living room petting and an even heavier set of blueballs, I had one of my life's best and worst nights. Just when I thought my fly would burst, Nadia invited me up to her room and made me turn my back. When I could look, she stood before her bedstand lamp wearing a transparent black nighty that said she was ready to take things to the next level and beyond. Lordy, this girl knew how to do things I'd never imagined, and I had quite the imagination. Not much hands-on experience, but a lot of Penthouse Forum and street corner theory. I wished I'd saved my virginity for Nadia instead of my awkward first encounters.
Then came the horror. In our afterglow, we fell asleep on her bed. Hours later, the hall light came on, and I had my first glimpse of Nadia's mom. Through slightly parted privacy curtains, I could see into the hallway. The shape of a sturdy longshoreman, dressed in workman's clothes lumbered unsteadily towards our room. Holding up the wall as she stumbled, she cursed like a … longshoreman.
It was more of a drunken mumble. ""Motherfucker has nothin' on me. Rip his nuts off if he goes near my kids. He knows it."" I closed my eyes and rolled away when she dropped her pants and hung her butt over the honeypot. I tried not to breathe and wrapped my pillow around my ears.
Nadia pretended she was asleep. I could only imagine how embarrassed she was. We waited until the old lady was snoring, then snuck by her slumping form, ass still wedged in the bucket. I was glad that until now, I'd avoided Mom's pre-dawn arrivals and vowed to avoid future encounters.
I departed with one long good-night kiss and a head full of mixed images of a hillbilly scene straight from the Ozarks. I didn't belong here, but there was a sense of worth and goodness about Nadia that kept me coming back. Well, that and the sex.
That summer, I worked part-time pumping gas and saw her every chance I could. It was a miracle she didn't get pregnant. I was on the every-other-time condom plan and thought Interruptus was a psychedelic rock group.
Once or twice a week, I'd catch old Uncle Meats shooting me the stink eye from under his baseball cap. We never spoke.
****
One stormy night, at three in the morning, I sprinted through the downpour to my car for the drive home. As I started the car, Meats came out of nowhere, banging on my window, screaming, ""You sonnamabitch! Keep your hands off her!""
Scared the shit out of me. He yanked my door open, and as he reached in to grab me, I spun in my seat and kicked the door panel with both feet to push him away.
Lightning struck above us, and in its flash, his limbs flailed as he stumbled and fell. I jumped out, braced for a fight, but he was gone. A second bolt struck nearby with a loud crack, and the sky again lit. Meats was lying at the bottom of a ditch. As he came into focus, I grew nauseous. His head had hit a broken cinder block and was tilted at a strange angle. He neither moved nor made a sound. I looked around in panic. Not another soul in sight.
I ran back to Nadia's room and woke her. She pulled on her jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and we ran out to the ditch. The shock was worse this time. A pool of blood oozed over the mud around his head. It was hard to tell how much blood was mixed with the stormwater. My head spun, and my shallow breaths quickened. I whispered, ""He's either out cold or dead.""
Nadia flashed an evil smile and said, ""If he's not dead now, he will be in the morning. Come on inside for coffee. We need to talk.""
I followed her into the kitchen, in no shape to drive. We sipped tepid instant coffee while she stared at a corner of the ceiling as if searching for a script. Then came her tears. Hysterics at first, calming to a whimper over the next few minutes. Still in shock, I could only hold her tight and rock her.
I handed her a paper towel. Those tears were not for the old man.
She dabbed her eyes. They narrowed and met mine. ""Meats was a monster. My mother was desperate for someone to watch me, and he was always home—on some kind of disability."" I gulped and braced for the details.
She lowered her head and continued. ""It began when I was seven. Not rape at first, but he'd make me do things to him. He even tried to make it a game."" Her eyes drifted to that corner again. ""By the time I was ten, we did everything. He threatened to kill me if I told, but my mother already knew. She'd look away whenever she dropped me off next door.""
Nadia sprung from her chair and kicked the galvanized makeshift bathtub. ""That last year of school was even worse. I was out of my mind listening to those little bitches compare their designer sweaters without a care in the world. I'd go home from a day of teasing, feeling like trash, only to be treated even worse.""
Her mouth quivered, and she began shaking. All I could do was hug her and kiss her forehead. Finally, she pulled away and continued. ""That bastard was drinking more and passed out every day. I’d had enough. I woke him with a knife to his throat. I wanted so badly to slash but couldn't bring myself to do it. I told him he'd have to sleep with one eye open if he touched me again. Guess what—that was the end of it. Soon, I became Timmy's babysitter. Since then, Meats has never looked me in the eye, but I know he's been watching us.""
I assured Nadia that to the rest of the world, a decrepit alcoholic fell into a muddy ditch and died while the neighborhood slept. That's what the police concluded after interviewing her the next day.
****
Back in the traffic jam, people were out of their cars trying to see ahead and to bitch to each other, but I returned to the past.
Near summer's end, after one of our trysts, I finally found the nerve to propose. ""Your Mom is getting worse; one way or another, she'll soon be gone. You and the kids need a fighting chance, and I could get a decent job after graduation. Maybe get a loan from my parents to move into a nice apartment."" The logic was right, but the words lacked romance. Still, I felt like a hero until…
The color drained from her face, and she put her head in her hands for what seemed like an eternity. When she finally looked up, her face was streaked with mascara. I had no idea she'd react that way.
She stood and paced back and forth, prodding a rip in the rug with her foot. ""I need to tell you something.""
Ready to accept whatever dark secret was about to be unleashed, my mind raced. The kids are really hers? Meats was the father?
She stopped pacing and led me downstairs to the living room couch. ""Remember how we met?""
I smiled. ""You were washing that beast of a Rambler… in a killer bikini.""
""Well, my car washing trick often attracted passing visitors."" My stomach knotted as she looked down and continued. ""Last summer, it snagged this older guy who lived on the other side of the cemetery. He said he was getting divorced and treated me really well. Bought me expensive gifts and dinners and loved to play with the kids. But after a few weeks, he disappeared.""
So, I was just one of your suckers! He had a lot more to lose than me.
""Two weeks ago, while you were working, that guy stopped by. He really did get divorced. We talked all day and…""
My heart sank as I pictured her lying on her back, looking up into a blank face. ""I can guess.""
She closed her eyes and sighed. ""He's offered to move me and the kids to his house. I told him I'd think about it, but it's a great opportunity.""
A tiny part of me was happy for her. The rest was on fire. I willed the sorrow from my face. This was no time to cry. ""When?""
""Next week. He wants to hire a Nanny so I can get my equivalence diploma. Then, go on to college!""
I saw the excitement flash across her face and wished I had a sensible counteroffer.
I attempted a smile, but my mouth wouldn't go there. I pulled her tight and dropped my head over her shoulder. ""That's a way better plan than mine.""
She pulled away and touched my tears. ""You'll be a great family man someday, I know it. But not if I take you down with me.""
Later, back in my own bedroom, I spent the night tossing in agony. By sunrise, I realized she was right.
 
The End 
","September 08, 2023 13:12","[[{'Marc Rothstein': 'Yep. Just call any vegetable.', 'time': '20:52 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Oh, so now it confirms what I at first figured: “Anyone who wants to channel Frank Z is OK in my book” – “Uncle Meat,” was and definitely still is a great LP. I tip my hat to you, Marc.', 'time': '13:59 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Timothy Rennels': 'Well written Marc! I was so busy waiting for something bad to happen that your happy ending snuck up on me! Great resolution! Write on!', 'time': '11:59 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Marc Rothstein': 'Thanks for your encouragement, Timothy!', 'time': '13:03 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marc Rothstein': 'Thanks for your encouragement, Timothy!', 'time': '13:03 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",a4f1wh,The Tutelage of Speedball Horton,Thomas Ciccarone,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a4f1wh/,/short-story/a4f1wh/,Character,0,['Coming of Age'],7 likes,"
The Tutelage of Speedball Horton                      T A Ciccarone	 	The sleigh bells, which were attached to the door, jingled as I entered Mollie's Attic. ""You have to go with Wiley today."" It was early. Mollie looked up from where she stood at the glass case, making notes in her sales ledger. I usually worked the shop with her on Saturday mornings if I had nothing better to do. This announcement wasn't good news. I had better things to do. What 13-year-old boy wouldn't? It was already shaping up to be one of those blisteringly hot days in late June. I had plans to go swimming with my brother the genius and our next-door neighbor down at Meckauer Park after opening clams for Madcap Joe. 	""Wiley? Come on, Mom, I can't go with that old jerk. I have stuff to do today."" I thought that if I got pig-headed and dug in, I could complain my way out of this. 	Mollie scolded me for making fun of Wiley. ""He got a Navy Cross and a Purple Heart. Show some respect.""	Wiley Horton was a local estate bagger, junk purveyor of not-so-fine antiquities, and itinerant auctioneer. That resume, in conjunction with the fact that he was a reformed meth tweaker, hence the nickname ""Speedball,"" and a full-fledged alcoholic, made the days that my mother swapped me for antiques more than a little interesting. It wasn't that I disliked Ol' Speedball. I could put up with the bad breath, body odor, the incessant nipping off of a bottle of Schenley's, and the constant diatribe of curses that flowed like the whiskey he drank. Wiley was entertaining, in a way. He provided an unending collection of tales documenting the antics of all the local politicians and business people who had screwed him over in southern Connecticut, as well as an on-demand supply of Hav-a-Tampa cigarillos, which he freely gave me upon request. The road of smoking ""Guinea stinker"" cigars that my grandpa started me down the road on when I was 12, as we ran his still lasted for some years, mainly due to the influence of good old Wiley. 	""You have to go with him. He called this morning and said he needed you. He'll be here in a few minutes."" It was settled. If Mollie made a promise, even to the likes of Wiley Speedball Horton, then it was a done, cast-in-stone deal. 	""You'll have to call Joe down at the Grove and tell him that I can't open clams then…"" I was pissed because I would earn twenty dollars opening clams for the day at Capellaro's Grove. 	""I spoke to him already. You're good to go."" I looked at my mother, glaring at me. She leveled that look at me that only she could. It simply stated, what? I, of course, returned a look of nothing. She glanced back. That's right, nothing. I had always thought it odd that I didn't need to speak with my mother to communicate. It was the same with my Nana; I had that familiar feeling of being manipulated by the family's higher matriarchal powers. 	Wiley screeched to a halt up in front of Mollie's Attic. The old Ford panel job clearly needed a new muffle and brakes and could probably use a tune-up. It spewed a constant stream of what we would all come to believe, years later, to be global warming. I climbed onto the torn red seat with the old codger. He popped the clutch too quickly and stalled the jalopy. ""Fuck,"" he spat as he pulled a Hav-a-Tampa from his faded overhaul bib pocket and handed it to me. ""Here, kid,"" he always called me kid. I sometimes wonder if he even knew my real name. He restarted the engine as I lit the cigar using the truck's lighter, which miraculously still worked. He pulled the Ford out across traffic on route six without so much as a look. They say that God protects drunks and babies. Where did that leave me, I wondered?	""What's the deal today,"" I tried to make mature small talk as I toked on the stogie. 	""Auction in Redding."" He rarely spoke in complete sentences. I always thought it was just too much trouble for him to say all the words, or maybe it was a brain cell thing; I wasn't sure. ""Big one. Over at the old Culleton farm. Lots of farm machines and antiques. They got some sheep, too."" 	""Sheep? You're going to do a sheep auction? Sheep?"" We had never done a livestock auction before, at least none I knew about. I had done a couple of dozen auctions with Wiley and knew the routine. Livestock was different. This day just might be interesting. I had no idea how interesting.	""Not me. You are. I'm sick today. Mollie said you could do it for me."" I'm sick meant that he was on one of his classic benders and had been drinking for who knew how long. Two empty fifths of Schenley's whiskey were already rolling around the floor by my feet. 	""I can't do the auction."" I started to panic. ""What if I stuttered? What would happen then? W-Wiley, I d-don't think I can d-do it. I n-never did it before."" My anxiety unleashed the stammer that I usually kept under control. The fear that I experienced in crowds was palpable.	""Hey, Kid, there's nothing to get scared about,"" he reassured me. ""These people are just a bunch of assholes. You'll never see them again. Fuck 'em."" I puffed on the Tampa, trying to smoke out my anxiety. 	""I'll be ringman. All you do is start the call and drive up the price, just like I do. I'll feed you the item and the opening price. Don't get your skirt in a twist. Auctioning is nothing. Just do like I do. It's easy; nothing to it."" He took a swig of whiskey.	We pulled into the Culleton farm to the smell of fresh manure. ""Smell that?"" He looked sideways. ""That's Bavarian air."" And he chuckled as if it was the punchline to some secret joke. ""That's what they call it over there."" His few working brain cells must have dredged the term up from his days in the World War II European Theater from his military stint. 	Wiley had two of his regulars, Deek and Sortie, there, already working. They would do most of the organizing and heavy lugging. Deke was an immense, dark as baker's chocolate, Jamaican with a gold tooth in the front upper bite of his mouth, which he loved to display whenever he smiled. It was both comical and scary at the same time. Sortie was some guy that Wiley often recruited. His gray, washed-out skin pallor and sneaky demeanor made me think of prisons and abused children. I don't ever recall having heard him utter a single word. He was usually responsible for organizing the smaller items, hence the nom d' usage. 	Wiley scheduled the auction to start at two, and we spent the morning organizing and setting the sale up. We took a break around noon and sat in the living room on the Culleton's musty old sofa. 	""We got eleven sheep and one ram out back. I think we do those last, maybe. Get rid of the big stuff first."" He took a belt from the bottle and passed it around. Deke took a shot, and then Sortie handed it to me. I was no stranger to hard liquor, having come from a restaurant family where it was relatively easy to purloin an occasional bottle of Seagram's out of the liquor locker. I took the fifth and pulled a jolt, feeling like one of the boys. In retrospect, I now realize this bunch of misfits was the last group I should have aspired to be a part of.	Two o'clock approached, and people pulled into the farm. All in all, the numbers were surprising. Apparently, the Culleton family was well known in the berg of Redding. ""It looks like maybe over a hundred,"" I remarked to Wiley, trying to sound business-like. 	""122,"" was all he said as he scanned the crowd. He was still sober enough to count. ""We're doing the 48' international over there first. Start at $200.00 and take it from there."" He pointed to the International Harvester Tractor. ""Well, get to it, kid, you're on. We ain't got all day."" He nodded his head towards the tractor.	We finished up around seven as the shadows crept in. By the end of the day, I had hit my stride and discovered something. I didn't need to be afraid. We had sold the whole estate, and the few remaining items would be stored in Wiley's barn to be slipped into future auctions after Mollie had her pick. 	We drove back in the dark smoking. ""You did real good today, kid. From now on, you do all the auctions."" I was elated in a way that I had never felt before. Could it be true that what Wiley thought of me mattered? I came from a family where no news was considered good news, and compliments were rare. Eventually, I would do over a hundred of these little soirees for the old man as the next three years slid by. He took the last swig, emptying the bottle. He threw it on the floor near my feet to keep the other ghosts company. ""Oh, I almost forgot."" He handed me a hundred-dollar bill. I looked at it, stunned. A C note was twice as much as I made in a good week. It was the first time he had ever paid me. He usually had some deal cooked up with Mollie that I was not privy to. I was never, actually, paid directly. A hundred bucks sure beat the hell out of opening clams down at the grove for twenty dollars. 	""You can keep that bible that you was eyeballing."" It was a huge leather-bound King James Version, dated 1884. He caught me checking it out and held it back.	I still do auctions to this day. Does that make me an auctioneer? Is that something that I even aspire to be? The jury is still out on these questions. After calling over a hundred auctions, I still wonder. The last was for Wooster School for their annual fundraiser. They had a banner gala that year, reaping more than double previous years.	The Bible sits in my library on a book stand in a place of honor. It marks the day I left much of my fear behind.
","September 02, 2023 01:15",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",m1fd0o,A Summer Awakening,Todd Duddka,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/m1fd0o/,/short-story/m1fd0o/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",7 likes,"
“Hello Labor Day, I made it!”
 
Saying these words out loud even though I was alone so no one heard them but it felt so good for me to hear.  Usually, when the highly annoying iPhone alarm clock emits that terrible noise that signals it is time to rise, I am not such a cheery person.  Most days, that sound would make me think, “oh gee, thanks God, another shitty day ahead.”  Not today. Today IS a different day.  
 
I truly find it hard to believe it’s already Labor Day!  Traditionally this is the end of summer even though Fall doesn’t officially arrive until approximately September 20. This is the time of year when school starts back up, the leaves start to fall, and football starts.  In Michigan, it’s also the time when the sunshine starts to dwindle and many people experience SAD or seasonal affective disorder which is a mood alteration due to the lack of sunshine.  So even though I know this is coming, I am glad to see the summer come to a close, not just because it was difficult but because of what has occurred.  It was no walk in the park, as my grandfather would say, but it was an accomplishment beyond my wildest hopes.  
 
Fear, scaredness, desperation, loneliness, deep depression, and anger were the highlights of Summer 2023.  So where’s the accomplishment?  Covid was over and people were out without donning masks but all that did not matter to me.  I was inside my own mind way too much and my mind did not care about the freedom from Covid. I just wanted freedom from my thoughts.  
 
One's headspace can be filled with anything they want or don’t want.  We don’t have control as to what goes into our brains but we do have control over how we deal with that information or stimulus.  Personally, I have grown so, much like my children grew up every summer when they were infants, toddlers, and preteens. They would grow physically and that would stand out more than their mental growth but this summer, I advanced my mindset.
 
Jim Valvano, the former coach of North Carolina State University once said, “If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day.”  This summer, I have had more full days than my 89-year-old grandmother has ever had.  Even the laughing part.
 
As a late 40s man that is going through a divorce, I was a pretty typical person.  I had a wife, two children, a solid job, a nice house, an affordable car, and a pooch who loved me. She was the only living thing that I felt love from.  When I came home, from wherever I was, my dog would greet me and be so happy to see me.  I am reminded of a meme I saw one time that said, “Dogs may not mean everything to you but you are everything to them.”  Jumping on my leg, trying to lick my hands, and telling me she wants to go play would never get tired.  Maybe it’s because I was so depressed and she was the only person (this must be a dog owner trait to refer to your dog a person) I wished to see. 
 
I hoped my life would turn around and that I would feel some semblance of love from my family just never materialized. And this lack of warmth and love just sent me into a spiraling plume of depression that was damn near impossible to escape.  Each day I would awake and pray that the good Lord would have plucked me from the Earth and taken me.  Alas, it hasn’t happened yet.  Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe I should start believing in God and then he would have my ear and listen to my pleas.  Anything to make the pain go away.
 
“What’s the purpose of this life?” I would ask myself.  After several months and years of asking this question, all I could summon was, “nothing.”  The purpose of life is nothing.  I wasn’t curing cancer or helping a company grow or fixing people’s problems by either being a doctor, therapist, lawyer, or drug dealer.  I was nothing.  And I was doing nothing to help others or myself for that matter.  It was sad to think about and for most of you, probably sad to read about.  
 
So one day I left.  I told my family I needed to leave and I did.  They had seen the deterioration of my mental being and it was no surprise when I mouthed those words.  There is no doubt they still cared for me and maybe even loved me but this was not getting past my hardened exterior that I had built up over several years in order to protect myself from further pain.  I was a shell of my former self.  My wife didn’t recognize me anymore and my children stopped talking to me and even stopped calling me Dad.  If they talked at all to me, there was no address.  It was just, “I’m going to so and so’s house.  Back later.”  I never had a question like, “Hey Dad, how was your day?” or “Dad, did you see the game last night?”  Nothing.  What a shit life I was living!
 
Now before you stop reading this and make an appointment with your doctor to get on the highest dosage of the newest antidepressant, just know that it’s always darkest before the dawn.
 
I moved out and found a new place to lay my head and I cried a lot.(Wait, I thought he said this story was going to become happier?)  Moving forward was what I planned on doing but I found myself drinking and becoming sadder.  Alcohol is a depressant and even though I knew this and read about how it will not help me feel better, I still continued to feed the beast with copious amounts of lagers and stouts.  Feeling sorry for myself had become my number one personality trait.  After several weeks of alcohol-induced vomiting, I had settled for this life.  My self-esteem was decimated, as was my liver’s outlook.  Laying in a pool of dried puke, I thought that life could not end this way.  It was at that moment, I had a vision. Not from God or any other deity one might worship or even Mariah Carey (Vision Of Love anyone?) but just a moment of clarity.  “What was I doing to myself?   I was too smart, too optimistic, and too stubborn to let my life continue like this. How did I end up like this?  And why did I let myself get to this point?  For some reason, this was the moment my life changed and it wasn’t due to anything but luck, or was it?
 
The next morning I woke up, showered, and ate a breakfast that didn’t consist of cold pizza or last night’s half-eaten Steak-Um sandwich.  I went to work and did not leave early. Driving home, many thoughts went through my head.  Should I stop at the bar and have a few and probably drive home under the influence and hope not to get pulled over, like I had done dozens of times in my life?  Pass.  Should I go home and watch TV until I fall asleep? Pass. The casino is only half an hour away and they serve alcohol there.  Pass.  No, my moment of clarity had turned into a day of clarity.  
 
Doing laundry on a Friday night when others were out getting drunk and picking up women was an oddity to me but I loved it.  I wish I had someone to call and brag but I was alone.  And I was ok with it, for the first time ever.  Being content with what I was doing and feeling good about it were new feelings I had not experienced in such a long time.  Was this what normal people do? I could get used to this.  When I was drunk and sad, I did not ever think about where my life was going.  Tomorrow was as far off as next year so why worry about that?  I still did not have an outlook of what I wanted my life to be but I knew that the path I was going on would end badly for me.  I decided not to overwhelm myself with long-term goals.  I was living for the moment and the moment only.  Replacing my demons with non-demonic activities was the only solution I saw.  Instead of drinking, I would read a book.  If I felt sad, I would do push-ups so that my muscles would tire and I would just think about the soreness instead of sadness.  
 
As the summer wound to a close, I was alone and still had no one to talk to, at least not yet.  It was up to me to find that person and I was now closer than ever to finding him or her.  That day when I have a good friend or possibly even a wife, may never come but I was finally at peace with that and with myself.  This journey toward happiness has been going on for a long time but I finally feel like I have GPS coordinates to the destination but the route and the timeline are uncertain.  And I am okay with that.  
 
I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks. 
 
What a wonderful summer it was!
 
","September 08, 2023 16:48","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'Pretty uplifting tale, Todd. Acceptance is key, and you brought that home. Nice ob, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '11:25 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",pep4sr,Realm Of Reality,M. K.,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pep4sr/,/short-story/pep4sr/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Romance', 'Teens & Young Adult']",7 likes,"
I sat on the porch and stared out into the sea.
It looked calm and chaotic, as if there was both nothing and everything in it.
I walked down towards the dark blue array and stepped on a broken shell, causing a cut on my foot.
An echo from the back of my mind shouted, ""Hey, are you okay?""
I turned around to see a guy with a concerned look on his face.
""Yes, thanks. I just have a little cut,"" I said.
""You should go back and wash it,"" he suggested.
I smiled and when I was about to walk away, he asked, ""Where are you staying? Do you need help with your things?""
""Oh no, it's okay. Thank you for the offer,"" I answered.
He nodded and went on his way.
I was on my way a couple of steps back when it stung a bit so I stopped and put down my bag.
""Don't worry, I'm harmless,"" he said before picking up my white canvas tote to dust off the sand.
I looked up to him and laughed, ""No, I didn't mean that.""
He smirked and held out his hand.
I took it and said, ""Thank you.""
We continued walking and he introduced, ""My name is Ocean.""
""Huh. You surround me,"" I joked.
""What?""
""Nice to meet you, Ocean. I'm Isla,"" I said.
He tilted his head and asked, ""Island?""
I nodded and chuckled.
""Where exactly are we heading?"" he wondered.
""Here is my cottage, thanks again, Ocean,"" I said.
""No problem, Isla,"" he smiled and turned around.
I was walking up the stairs when he asked me, ""If later you're doing better, do you want to walk around and eat?""
I held out my grin and said, ""Sure.""
""Okay, I'll be here by 8?"" he suggested.
My lips broke into a smile and nodded as a response.
I went inside to see my mom and dad preparing dinner.
Mom was cooking on the stove and Dad came to hug her.
""You annoy me,"" Mom joked.
Dad laughed and kissed her cheek before setting the plates.
Mom and Dad were always together, they enjoyed each other's company. When they fight, believe me, they fight. But for so many years, I've seen them love each other through the hardest times.
""Hey kid, come on, dinner's about to be done,"" Dad said.
Mom poked her head out and furrowed her eyebrows, ""What happened to you? Are you okay?""
""Yes, I just have a little cut on my foot. And I'm sorry, but is it okay if I miss dinner?"" I asked while grinning.
""Sure, and why?"" Dad asked back.
Mom squinted her eyes waiting for an answer.
""I made a friend and he invited me for dinner,"" I answered.
Mom nodded slowly and reminded me, ""If you're going out with your new friend, have dinner outside. Not in his house. Be careful.""
""Come home by 12? And be in contact,"" Dad said.
""I will. Please leave me some chicken for breakfast, thank you,"" I said.
I headed upstairs to clean my cut and change.
I checked my notifications and there was a message from my best friend, Odette.
Odette: Is, I saw August today at the mall. He was with her. I'm sorry.
I locked my phone and threw it on my bed.
""Isla!"" Mom shouted from downstairs.
""Yeah Mom?"" I asked.
""Ocean's here!"" she answered.
I took my shoulder bag and went downstairs.
""Hey,"" I greeted.
""Ready to go?"" he asked.
I nodded in response.
""Thank you for the drink Mr. and Mrs. Adair,"" he said.
""Be safe,"" Dad said.
Ocean and I smiled and headed out.
""I was hoping we could eat at 'Marley's', but if you have anything else in mind, I'm good,"" he suggested.
""I think I haven't been there,"" I said.
We small-talked about the beach we're both staying at and how it's been a nice night, weather-wise, on the way to the restaurant.
We were offered a table as soon as we came in and there weren't as many people as I thought there would be.
The waiter gave us the menu and announced their specials.
""Thanks, can you please give us a minute?"" I asked.
The waiter smiled and left.
""If you're interested, can we order a couple of dishes we both think we're gonna like and have it in the middle to be shared?"" I suggested to Ocean.
He chuckled and said, ""Sure, I like that.""
The waiter came back and we ordered our food.
""What's the idea behind it?"" he asked.
""I don't know, it's just, when we go out with our family, especially when we're trying out a new restaurant, we like to do it so we can try different dishes at once and we can decide much better what we like for next time,"" I said.
He smiled and asked, ""That's smart. So, you're close as a family?""
I nodded. ""And I believe that you can know a lot just by someone's food,"" I said.
""And you told me that after I already ordered,"" he shook his head jokingly and I chuckled.
A couple of minutes went by and our food arrived.
He jokingly sighed and asked as he gestured his choices, ""So?""
""You're still good. Let's see dessert,"" I joked back.
Dinner was great. We talked a lot, we joked a lot. We seemed to hit it off quite a bit. It was our first ""date"", but I felt like I already knew him, but didn't know him?
""Do you want to sit by the beach?"" he asked.
Suddenly, Odette's message popped into my head.
""Sure, can we stop by the store?"" I asked back.
We stopped by the small convenience store and I bought wine.
Ocean didn't want to buy anything, but he paid for the bottle.
We sat on the sand and I peeled the bottle wrap.
""You're gonna think I'm stupid,"" I said.
""Yeah?"" he asked.
""Now how in the world am I going to open this?"" I laughed.
He laughed back and took out his multi-function knife.
I opened my mouth in surprise and said, ""A hero in modern times.""
He opened the wine and handed it to me.
""Uh, do you drink?"" I asked.
""You go ahead first,"" he said.
I took a sip and passed it to him.
""So, what's wrong?"" he asked.
I turned to him and asked, ""What's wrong?""
He chuckled and shook his head.
I sighed and said, ""This stupid boy. We broke up like 3 months ago because he said that I'm 'too much' and I made him realize he should be single for a while. It was a lame reason now that I think of it, but at the time, boy did I blame myself.""
""And?"" he asked.
""And my best friend saw him today with a girl I had speculations of him liking while we were together,"" I added.
""Do you still have feelings for him?"" he asked.
I laughed and asked back, ""No. We are broken up longer than we were together. It's just that, why is it like that?""
""Why is what like that?""
""Relationships,"" I answered.
""Well, I mean, we're young. And real relationships require a lot of work,"" he said.
""Yeah, I guess so. Sorry for bumming you out,"" I apologized.
""No, I like it,"" he assured.
""You like what?"" I asked.
""Talking about anything,"" he said.
I handed back the bottle to him and he took a sip.
""Your lips are warm,"" he noticed.
I blushed and put my head down.
""I hope you don't think all guys are like that,"" he said.
I shook my head, ""Oh please, Ocean.""
""No, I mean, if you think guys are the worst, I agree with you. It's just that, you know, some guys, when they really like someone, they try their best to keep them,"" he said.
""I know, my dad is one. He takes good care of my mom. I hope to have that someday."" I shared.
""You will,"" he assured.
I chuckled and pursed my lips, ""I hope so. I seem to attract stupid boys who know nothing about treating a girl right.""
He looked at me and said, ""Not Ocean.""
I looked back at him.
I took the bottle from him and chugged the wine.
He slowly pushed the bottle away from my lips and said, ""Hey, I don't want to take you home to your parents from our first date drunk. That won't look good on me.""
'So It was our first date,' I thought.
I stared into the depth of his eyes and got lost.
He stared back at me. He glanced upon my lips and wiped the fresh wine off my chin.
He put his hand on my cheek and blood rushed all over my body.
He leaned in and- *Bzzzt Bzzzt*
""Hey, are you okay?"" I turned around to see Ocean.
I showed my foot to him.
He chuckled and kissed my head, ""After 30 years.""
He offered his hand to me and we slowly walked back to the house.
","September 02, 2023 16:53","[[{""O'Brien O'Brien"": 'Hi, I was sent your story to critique. I found it captivating, and I liked its simplicity. It needs some grammar work, and the ending can be made clearer. For example, He leaned in and- *Bzzzt Bzzzt* the vibrating phone brought her back to the present. ""Hey, are you okay?"" I turned around to see Ocean.', 'time': '21:57 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'M. K.': ""Hello O'Brien O'Brien, I appreciate your time to read and critique my story!\n\nIf you don't mind, can you elaborate on the 'grammar work' part? Are there specific examples from the story you can give so I'll hopefully be able to understand it better?\n\nThank you for your suggestions, I'll definitely jot them down for future use!\n\nM.K."", 'time': '03:52 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {""O'Brien O'Brien"": 'An echo from the back of my mind shouted, ""Hey, are you okay?"" \nI suggest, ""Hey, are you okay?"" A shout pierced the soothing white noise of the rolling waves.\n\n“Where are you staying? Do you need help with your things?""\n“Where are you staying? Do you need help carrying your things?""\n\nI was on my way a couple of steps back when it stung a bit so I stopped and put down my bag. \nI took a couple of steps and winced, then put down my bag.\n\nI looked up to him and laughed, ""No, I didn\'t mean that.""\nI glanced upwards and laughed, ""No, I didn\'t mean ...', 'time': '22:04 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'M. K.': 'Thank you again for replying.\n\nI do get your point. Thank you for giving out these examples and for suggesting corrections as well.\n\nAlthough I must say, some of these suggestions change the tone and thoughts of the story I was trying to convey. I also hoped for most of the dialogues to be as realistic and simple as possible, and to my taste.\n\nFor the first one you noticed, the ""An echo~"", I chose that line because that\'s when she started reminiscing. It meant that the question, ""Hey, are you okay?"" wasn\'t from the present, but from a memory...', 'time': '11:59 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {""O'Brien O'Brien"": ""I did enjoy the story and you're right, the writer is the only one who knows how it should be written."", 'time': '16:19 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'M. K.': ""Hello O'Brien O'Brien, I appreciate your time to read and critique my story!\n\nIf you don't mind, can you elaborate on the 'grammar work' part? Are there specific examples from the story you can give so I'll hopefully be able to understand it better?\n\nThank you for your suggestions, I'll definitely jot them down for future use!\n\nM.K."", 'time': '03:52 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{""O'Brien O'Brien"": 'An echo from the back of my mind shouted, ""Hey, are you okay?"" \nI suggest, ""Hey, are you okay?"" A shout pierced the soothing white noise of the rolling waves.\n\n“Where are you staying? Do you need help with your things?""\n“Where are you staying? Do you need help carrying your things?""\n\nI was on my way a couple of steps back when it stung a bit so I stopped and put down my bag. \nI took a couple of steps and winced, then put down my bag.\n\nI looked up to him and laughed, ""No, I didn\'t mean that.""\nI glanced upwards and laughed, ""No, I didn\'t mean ...', 'time': '22:04 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'M. K.': 'Thank you again for replying.\n\nI do get your point. Thank you for giving out these examples and for suggesting corrections as well.\n\nAlthough I must say, some of these suggestions change the tone and thoughts of the story I was trying to convey. I also hoped for most of the dialogues to be as realistic and simple as possible, and to my taste.\n\nFor the first one you noticed, the ""An echo~"", I chose that line because that\'s when she started reminiscing. It meant that the question, ""Hey, are you okay?"" wasn\'t from the present, but from a memory...', 'time': '11:59 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {""O'Brien O'Brien"": ""I did enjoy the story and you're right, the writer is the only one who knows how it should be written."", 'time': '16:19 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{""O'Brien O'Brien"": 'An echo from the back of my mind shouted, ""Hey, are you okay?"" \nI suggest, ""Hey, are you okay?"" A shout pierced the soothing white noise of the rolling waves.\n\n“Where are you staying? Do you need help with your things?""\n“Where are you staying? Do you need help carrying your things?""\n\nI was on my way a couple of steps back when it stung a bit so I stopped and put down my bag. \nI took a couple of steps and winced, then put down my bag.\n\nI looked up to him and laughed, ""No, I didn\'t mean that.""\nI glanced upwards and laughed, ""No, I didn\'t mean ...', 'time': '22:04 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'M. K.': 'Thank you again for replying.\n\nI do get your point. Thank you for giving out these examples and for suggesting corrections as well.\n\nAlthough I must say, some of these suggestions change the tone and thoughts of the story I was trying to convey. I also hoped for most of the dialogues to be as realistic and simple as possible, and to my taste.\n\nFor the first one you noticed, the ""An echo~"", I chose that line because that\'s when she started reminiscing. It meant that the question, ""Hey, are you okay?"" wasn\'t from the present, but from a memory...', 'time': '11:59 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {""O'Brien O'Brien"": ""I did enjoy the story and you're right, the writer is the only one who knows how it should be written."", 'time': '16:19 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'M. K.': 'Thank you again for replying.\n\nI do get your point. Thank you for giving out these examples and for suggesting corrections as well.\n\nAlthough I must say, some of these suggestions change the tone and thoughts of the story I was trying to convey. I also hoped for most of the dialogues to be as realistic and simple as possible, and to my taste.\n\nFor the first one you noticed, the ""An echo~"", I chose that line because that\'s when she started reminiscing. It meant that the question, ""Hey, are you okay?"" wasn\'t from the present, but from a memory...', 'time': '11:59 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{""O'Brien O'Brien"": ""I did enjoy the story and you're right, the writer is the only one who knows how it should be written."", 'time': '16:19 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{""O'Brien O'Brien"": ""I did enjoy the story and you're right, the writer is the only one who knows how it should be written."", 'time': '16:19 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Patricia Casey': ""M.K.,\n\nFrom the ending, I get that Isla is reminiscing about the first date with her partner of 30 years. It seems like a beautiful, lasting relationship. \n\nOn my first read through, I did not realize Isla was a girl right away, so I felt confused about the relationship between Isla and Ocean. It would help to add more descriptions. If these two are teenagers, who paid for the dinner? Where is the tension in your story? Are teens usually so polite with their parents? If Isla had a cut on her foot, wouldn't her mother want to bandage it for h..."", 'time': '13:52 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'M. K.': ""Hello Patricia, thank you for taking the time to read and comment on my story!\n\nSorry if it was somewhat confusing, I wanted the story to feel like it's been taken from different parts of a book. Regarding the description, sometimes when I write stories, I find myself not much visibly describing characters as I want them to reveal themselves and have the readers imagine them on their own. I also didn't intend to create any tension, for the purpose of the story, is to make the reader feel a sense of calm.\n\nFor some of your questions:\n1. Yes, ..."", 'time': '15:10 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Patricia Casey': ""Thank you for your explanations, M.K. They were helpful in better understanding your story and goals. I'm always looking to improve my writing and critiquing. I have been taught that every story must have conflict, but you chose to write a story without it. I found a discussion about this that paired well with your story's goal to produce a sense of calm. You are an artist and can use whatever tools fit your goal. Here is a link to the discussion I found: https://www.reddit.com/r/TrueFilm/comments/5b90lz/can_a_good_story_be_told_without_conf..."", 'time': '13:47 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'M. K.': ""Hello Patricia, thank you for taking the time to read and comment on my story!\n\nSorry if it was somewhat confusing, I wanted the story to feel like it's been taken from different parts of a book. Regarding the description, sometimes when I write stories, I find myself not much visibly describing characters as I want them to reveal themselves and have the readers imagine them on their own. I also didn't intend to create any tension, for the purpose of the story, is to make the reader feel a sense of calm.\n\nFor some of your questions:\n1. Yes, ..."", 'time': '15:10 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Patricia Casey': ""Thank you for your explanations, M.K. They were helpful in better understanding your story and goals. I'm always looking to improve my writing and critiquing. I have been taught that every story must have conflict, but you chose to write a story without it. I found a discussion about this that paired well with your story's goal to produce a sense of calm. You are an artist and can use whatever tools fit your goal. Here is a link to the discussion I found: https://www.reddit.com/r/TrueFilm/comments/5b90lz/can_a_good_story_be_told_without_conf..."", 'time': '13:47 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Patricia Casey': ""Thank you for your explanations, M.K. They were helpful in better understanding your story and goals. I'm always looking to improve my writing and critiquing. I have been taught that every story must have conflict, but you chose to write a story without it. I found a discussion about this that paired well with your story's goal to produce a sense of calm. You are an artist and can use whatever tools fit your goal. Here is a link to the discussion I found: https://www.reddit.com/r/TrueFilm/comments/5b90lz/can_a_good_story_be_told_without_conf..."", 'time': '13:47 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",ytv0lr,West Virginia Wild and Wonderful,Brett Gordon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ytv0lr/,/short-story/ytv0lr/,Character,0,"['LGBTQ+', 'Fiction', 'Happy']",7 likes,"
	The chirps in the mist bellowed under the summer’s sunrise. David, looked into the fields that he freshly mowed the day before. He could recall a time that tending to the fields from summers past was not worth his time. He neglected the farm he grew up on. It was filled with goats that from time to time got their heads stuck in the square fencing. It was a time of angst and pain. The angst seemed to be fading. A recent return to a open house for his teen nephew Bradley; opened that wound. It would be hours till the moon would set on this day. It was time to grow.
	He stepped off the porch and began to walk to his next chore. The tractor was familiar, but he had forgotten a few things. As he sat there, he looked for the usual shapes. A rabbit for fast. A turtle for slow. They were faded to much and his next thought was YouTube. He typed vigorously, how to start a Massey Ferguson Tractor. The search was too broad. He hopped off the tractor. His tan military boots he bought from goodwill a few years past thud on the gravel. He looked for the model’s name or number. There it was on the side of the signature Massey Ferguson Red hood, 1655. He had it now. The correct google search popped up. He now knew to put it neutral, but still he could not find it. He thought of his father, he needed his help. David walked quickly, his hands grazing the dark brown railing and opened the storm door. It closed with a clack and a click. His father, Bill looked up from under the brim of his baseball hat.
“So?”
“I can’t start it.”
“Did you put it in the right neutral?”
“There is more than one, he says quizzically.”
Yes, Bill said in low tone that his father usually spoke when David needed to learn something.
He rushed out with the new tidbit of information. Humorously, he annunciated the word information like, Doug from King of Queens. He smirked and climbed onto the tractor grabbing the black worn handle.
To his left, he pulled the lever forward, then backwards into the neutral turtle position. He checked the brake and turned the key. The blurp and rumble of the engine spat out a plume of dark exhaust. He recollected the first time at eight years old he started a lawn mower with his dads help. They still had it in the garage thirty years later. He remembered when summer was youthful and would twist a coke top to see if he won a free soda. He did that one time. The feeling was almost like that.
	He had a few tasks before he could put the green t posts for the fencing so the cattle would not get out onto another pallet that was not rotten as his father articulated. He lifted the grader on the back of the tractor so it would not drag. As for the bucket, on his first try it dug in instead of up. He pivoted in his mind as he had a hard time with lefty loosy righty tighty. Bucket, Check! Grader Check! PTO off, Check! Reverse Check!! It was a little awkward as he backed down the steep concrete driveway partially. He knew if he went too far, it would be similar when he rolled down on a skateboard to catch the bus. Careful he thought. Forward ho. He watched his father several years ago detach and attach the bucket. He pulled up next to the forks that he would use to handle the job. He had to be careful. The cable for the wooden telephone pole was a little to close, but the distance was enough. He stepped off the left side, he thought it would be safer than jumping. He always tended to be extra careful. At 12, he first learned to pay attention after he ran over a baby bird with the lawn mower. He liked to work even at a young age. He grabbed the small handy 10 pound sledgehammer behind the seat for the stubborn levers that usually stick. The worn gloves were there as well. They were a little snug as he pushed his hands inside. He was looking for the large levers that were positioned on the inside and opposite sides where the implements attached. He found them. With a little more force than he thought they released and the bucket dropped a few inches to the ground. He stepped onto the tractor and backed up. He was getting the hang of it. He pulled up and lined up the forks. He could not tell if they were in the right spot. He began tractor aerobics, getting on and off to make sure it was lined up right. He was sweating from the heat and humidity. He finally connected the forks without the sledgehammer by brute strength. He put the sledgehammer back and made his way up the hill that led to the dilapidated barn. It had more than 40 years of use. It was not in good shape. He thought to himself if I only had done more.
	His partner a thousand miles away; their home in Connecticut, never understood his passion for living in West Virginia. It was wild, wonderful and beautiful. He pulled up and said, “well dag gumit.” It was the wrong side. He just remembered from his previous visit five summers ago they were moved by him and his father to the other side of the barn. He reversed again and made his way through a wide spot in the fence that had been cleared of briers and weeds recently. Finally, he was there, but his luck ran out. There was a blackberry bush and a mess of stinging thistle partially in the way. His Lucky Jeans would not stand a chance. At least he was a sexy farmer, better yet a fashionista. He mustered the gusto and loaded the two pallets on to the forks by hand, instead of using the tractor.   
	A few minutes later the tractor found its spot and David lowered the forks with a whine from the engine. He had a feeling he was going to hear more whining. The last pallet was going to be used for the most rotten of the pallets. Backing up and pulling in front of the pile of t posts that were wrapped and entwined with morning glory and poison ivy. More rips in the jeans and struggling. Some of them were still tied together by one or two thin white plastic straps. He took a break mid-way; he breathed in real deep. The air was warm and breathed out. He liked to meditate in the back of his mind. The tension in the muscles began to subside. He took a swig of a warm Deer Park water. It was far from refreshing compared to the delicious well water he had home. He surveyed the last pallet he would have to dig up. The task did not take much longer. More than a few hours in he thought to himself, work smarter not harder. It was hard work still, wiping the sweat off his brow. He positioned the tractor to try and pick up the second rotten pallet. The forks dug in deep. The tractor struggled, whining shrilly as he pulled them out of the dark soil. He managed to get the forks aligned correctly. The forks were slightly uneven. From what his neighbor Mr. George as he was known, previously said, “the stabilizing bar had been broken.” Taking a moment, he pressed the brake real hard and flipped the small lever with the orange vinyl tip below the steering wheel to put it in park. No more tractor aerobics he got it right and pulled the remaining rotten wood off by hand. On the home stretch, positioning the tractor and all the t posts he lowered the forks. The forks bounced because he was moving the control lever to fast then to slow to try and correct it. Only a fourth of the t post fell off albeit on the pallet. Success never was sweeter. He felt good and finished the task of laying the t posts. He checked to make sure they were snug and would not fall off in the future when they moved them to build the fence. It was the step in the right direction. His sense of accomplishment was helped when he saw a Facebook post yesterday from his father with a image of a miniature cow with the comment, “It would be a nice start, besides your mom would love it.”
	He parked the tractor in the same spot and hopped off. Walking away he turned back to the tractor an had a epiphany, a joke of sorts. He walked into the house sweaty and was debating whether he should. He was confident now that he would. He stood there in the doorway to the bathroom in his navy-blue Kirkland Signature underwear. He yelled down the stairs to his father with a grin, “Hey, Dad can do you me a favor?”
What is it son? Can you take a photo of me in my underwear, a pair of boots and my West Virginia hat. You know the one with the logo of WV.
“Sure.”
He could hear his mom who was half deaf from working in a factory say, huh.
Ignoring his mom, David was ecstatic. Father and son with their ear-to-ear smiles, walked to the tractor.
David said in an excited tone, Dan is going to love this.”
He thought to himself that Dan might think it is weird. His father was in the military and besides the briefs looked like shorts. A few taps with his iPhone's camera his father took the photo. Bill handed the phone over and David looked closer at the screen. His face curled and wrinkled as he smirked. He patted the shoulder of his dad. He loved his father. Recently he had a few health scares being diagnosed pre-diabetic. He knew this moment would always be there even when his father passes to greener pastures. He showered and put on a fresh set of clothes.  
	A little while had past. He walked through the house to the breeze way. There was a assortment of chairs and a old white hanging bench supported by the original chain and somewhat new eye bolts in a beam. The slats are what you would expect in a bench that was about 80 years old. When his grandmother died from diabetes and COPD, his father took that bench. He could still smell the cut grass, as he slowly swayed back and forth. He was waiting to send Daniel the picture. He wanted to write a poem that would explain the feeling his partner did not understand or relate to. He started writing quickly till he was finished. The poem read.
 
Life with you is love so connected
Our souls are one in so many ways
The heart grows fonder when I am West Virginia wild and wonderful
I learn to appreciate the value of family that I feel you never experienced before
I feel love here in a different light
The peace of mind that I find here is like your love so deeply
When I wake up I think of you, but I also think of the sense of accomplishment I make here
The feeling of freedom we feel when we are together and how we have life by the balls
That sense of freedom will never die but a peace of mind away from everyone is what I want
It’s here for me when I am away
I feel our love in these mountains the fields of dreams that I mow
The sense of silence whispers your love as I sit on this porch thinking of our love
The tepid lips of your kisses stroke my nape as the dew dampened my steps walking through the fields
The presence of love is here
I feel relief and safety here
The safety that you provide me I feel it here
I love you.
I will never leave you nor want to
You are my North Star, my universe you are my everything
Just thought I would write this poem, so you know what this place means to me. I love you forever and always at your side. 
 
The sun was setting. He sent the poem with the photo followed by two emoji, smile and heart.
 
","September 08, 2023 20:03",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",ygjexn,Hazy Memories and Cold Streams,K Quinn Van Develde,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ygjexn/,/short-story/ygjexn/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Gay', 'Happy']",7 likes,"
Everyone has moments in their lives where things change. For Elijah, a lot of those changes happened in summer. Maybe it was because his birthday fell at the end of August. Maybe it was because he’d never been a big fan of summer. Probably, it was just a coincidence. 
The summer he turned ten had been one such change—a turning point, really. At nine, he’d seen himself as more mature than the other kids his age, but really he was just shy and content with spending time alone. He liked to read and paint. He didn’t like talking to other kids. Other kids scared him, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe or like he was going to be sick. 
That was for the best, though. When he was shipped off to stay with his mom’s sister and her family that summer he wasn’t bored or upset. Sure, he didn’t understand what it meant when his parents said they needed time to ‘figure things out’ but he wasn’t overly concerned. Just the normal amount of concerned. 
Aunt Jane lived in a rural town nestled in a small valley. It was idyllic, really, with a stream running through the town, small hills covered in soft grass, and trees that reached up into the sky. Any other kid might have been bored, but Elijah liked being alone. He didn’t mind being trapped inside for all of June as the skies opened up and drenched the landscape. 
Elijah enjoyed June, playing with his one-year-old cousin and reading the many books he’d brought with him. Even when the rain stopped, he was more than happy to stay inside or, possibly, read in the front yard, but Aunt Jane wasn’t having it.
“Eli, you need to get some fresh air,” she told him. “And not just in the yard. Go have some fun.”
“Okay,” Elijah said with a sigh, knowing he wasn’t going to win against his aunt. “I’ll be home before dinner.”
“Good. Don’t do anything stupid and don’t talk to strangers.” She paused for a second before continuing, not giving him a chance to respond. “Have fun, okay? There are some kids around here, so why don’t you play with them?”
“Okay, Aunt Jane, I understand.”
And that was how he ended up sitting on a grassy hill, reading his book.
The hill sloped downward towards a small stream whose glistening water was beautiful enough to be the topic of a poem. Elijah wasn’t an outdoor kid, but even he could enjoy the light breeze that rustled the leaves of nearby trees and pulled at his brown, wavy hair.
The quiet was broken by a wordless shout of joy as someone came sprinting down the hill. They lost their footing and tumbled the rest of the way, stopping with a splash in the stream. 
“Yuki, what are you doing?” Someone else shouted, also coming down the hill fast, her run was much more controlled. She was able to stop before falling into the water, putting her hands on her hips as she looked at the boy now sitting in the stream. “What’ll your mom say?”
The boy laughed, reaching out and pulling the girl into the stream as she screeched. Still, though, the boy laughed, saying something in a language Elijah didn’t recognize.
“You’re the worst,” the girl responded, getting out of the stream. Only then did she notice Elijah, who was just watching the two of them with a mixture of confusion and awe. “Oh! I don’t think I know you.” 
Elijah shook his head. “I’m staying with my aunt for the summer.” 
“I’m Samantha,” she said. “This is my cousin, Yukio.” 
“Hello,” Yukio said. He had an accent, though Elijah wasn’t sure from where. “I’m Yukio.”
“I just said that,” Samantha told him. “He’s also here for the summer. He’s from Japan, but he moved here for his dad’s work. He and his mom are staying with us for the summer.” 
“Want to play?” Yukio asked, smiling widely at Elijah.
Elijah was surprised by the question. Surely, these cousins should have realized he wasn’t a very fun person to spend time with. Surely, like everyone at school, they’d realize he was boring and not worth their time. 
“Really?”
Yukio laughed again, the sound loud and off-key in a way Elijah didn’t know a laugh could be. 
“Really.”
 
Yukio, it turned out, was the same grade as Elijah—5th grade—but was a year older because he hadn’t been able to finish the school year in Japan. According to Samantha, Yukio hadn’t studied much English before moving to the US, so he probably would’ve been held back anyway. 
Despite what she said, Yukio didn’t have any trouble communicating with Elijah. When he didn’t have the words to say what he wanted, they never had any issues. Even when Samantha left for a two-week summer camp at the end of August, they didn’t have any issues. Instead, the time alone only strengthened their friendship. 
Elijah wasn’t an athletic kid, but he ended up running around town, usually dragged behind Yukio. For his part, Yukio never seemed to stop, his body always buzzing with energy.
The second day Samantha was away, Elijah found himself climbing a tree, something he’d never done before. Not only was he not athletic, but he’d also grown up in a city with no trees to climb. 
“Slow down,” He shouted, but Yukio only laughed. 
“Faster!”
“It’s dangerous!”
Yukio replied in Japanese, not caring to try to speak English. Yukio never seemed bothered by the fact that Elijah couldn’t understand him, always choosing to use Japanese instead of trying to remember the English he’d forgotten. 
Elijah fell behind Yukio, barely able to see him anymore. He thought about giving up, but the desire for Yukio to like him overpowered that and he kept going. His arms were burning by the time he reached Yukio, who was standing on a branch with his head peeking out through the leaves.
“Yukio, that’s dangerous,” Elijah reiterated. 
“Look.” 
Elijah wasn’t sure he had it in him to stand, as exhausted as he was scared. 
“Elijah,” Yukio said, insistent. Elijah liked the way his name sounded when Yukio said it. It had more force behind it than anyone he knew before. Like every time he said it, he was using more air than with any other word. “Look.”
Elijah sighed and forced himself to stand. He was shorter than Yukio, but he could still see over the leaves and look out onto the countryside around them. He felt sick with fear for only a moment before the landscape in front of him took over. 
“Whoa.” Elijah couldn’t believe the view. From here he could see the entire town, from the small stream Yukio loved to play in to the edge of the valley the town sat in. 
“Trees…” Yukio paused, obviously not able to make the sentence he wanted to. 
“I’ll learn Japanese,” Elijah promised. “For next time.”
“Next time…” Yukio looked down at Elijah. “Next summer?”
“I hope so, but I don’t know. I have to ask my parents. But if they say yes, I’ll be here.”
“Okay.” Yukio smiled, looking like this was the best news he’d ever heard. “Next summer.” 
“I’ll be taller than you, then,” Elijah promised. 
“Hmm… taller… I don’t think so.” 
“You’ll see,” Elijah told him.
They stayed in the tree for a while, quietly looking at the view. Even Yukio was quiet, his usually unstoppable energy calmed. They still had more summer left and yet Elijah could feel it coming to a close nonetheless. But, there was always next summer.
 
There wasn’t a next summer. 
When Elijah returned home, his parents sat him down to explain that they were getting a divorce. He’d live with his mom during the school year and his dad during the summer, with holidays being shared throughout the year. He asked about going to his aunt’s house but was told it was out of the question.
And life, as it does, continued. He got older. He started painting more. He started studying Japanese, feeling out of place as his classmates talked about liking anime or wanting to visit Japan. He didn’t know how to explain that he was learning Japanese to chase a memory despite knowing he’d probably never see Yukio again. He didn’t know if he’d be able to visit his aunt in the summer, let alone see Yukio again. 
But the summer he was 16—soon he’d be 17—his dad left for a honeymoon in June and, using that as leverage, he got permission to spend the summer with his aunt.  
It was only when Elijah arrived in town that he realized how stupid he’d been not to ask his aunt about Yukio. 
In his defense, the older he got, the more that summer felt like a hazy dream. It didn’t seem real and he was a little scared he’d find out he’d been dreaming the whole time.
“You’re sure this is their house?” Elijah asked again, anxious about going to the wrong house. 
“Yes, I’m sure, The Ogata family has lived there for years,” Aunt Jane answered. “And I’m pretty sure that cousin you asked about visits most summers, so he’s probably there.” 
“Okay, I’ll be back,” Elijah said, hiking his tote bag onto his shoulder and heading into the June heat.
By the time he arrived at the Ogata house—pushing open the fence gate and entering the yard—Elijah was sweating bullets. He’d been hoping to be more put together for Yukio, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.
“Hello,” someone said, scaring Elijah enough that he jumped. “Oh sorry.”
The person who’d spoken had been hidden by the house’s fence. It looked like he was weeding the garden, his floral gardening gloves and old jeans covered in dirt. His shirt was tied around his head as a makeshift sweatband, his bare chest making Elijah blush. 
“Ah, hello,” he responded, looking away. “Sorry to bother you. Is this the Ogata’s house?”
“It is,” he responded, tilting his head to the side. “Do I know you?” 
“Umm…” Elijah forced himself to look at the young man and, after a moment of hesitation, he made a guess. “Yukio?” 
“Yes,” Yukio replied, smiling widely. “Wait, wait, wait, I know you… I met you my first summer here.”
“Oh, yeah, you remember.”
“Of course, I remember, it was fun.” Yukio screwed up his face, obviously trying to remember something. “Don’t tell me your name, I’ll remember. Just give me a second.”
Elijah wasn’t sure what to say, so he took the time to properly look at Yukio. He didn’t look that much different than he had at ten. Puberty had taken away the last of his baby fat and his jaw was more defined. His straight, black hair was long and held back in a ponytail and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He looked older, like an adult, and it made Elijah a little self-conscious. Even though he’d grown and lost his own baby fat, he still felt like he looked too young.
“Elijah,” Yukio shouted, scaring Elijah again. “You’re Elijah!” 
Yukio didn’t have an accent anymore, but when he said Elijah’s name, it sounded so much like it had eight years earlier. A light accent and more force than anyone else used to say his name. Like a command for Elijah to exist. 
“Yep, you got it,” Elijah laughed. “You haven’t changed that much. Oh, that reminds me.”
Elijah took a deep breath, begging his mind not to get anxious and forget the years of Japanese he’d studied just for this moment. 
“Long time, no see.”
“Ah, you studied.”
“I told you I would. I had to keep my promise.”
“You also promised you’d come back.”
“Yeah,” Elijah frowned, dropping back into English. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t?”
“My parents got divorced.” Elijah smiled, wishing it still didn’t hurt to say. “It’s a long story, but I couldn’t come back.” 
“I’m sorry.” Yukio looked at him for a moment before, finally, standing up. “Well, you’re back now.”
“Yep, I’m back.” Yukio straightened out and Elijah couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “How are you taller than me?” 
Yukio laughed. “Another broken promise, hmm?”
“Shut up,” Elijah said, but he couldn't keep himself from laughing. “I could keep growing.”
“Sure you can.” Yukio’s smile still lit up his entire face. “So, what should we do?”
 
It was harder to find things to do as teenagers than it had been as children. In theory, they had more freedom, but the need to appear as adults kept them from the carefree fun of children.
At least, that’s what Elijah thought until he found himself running—and then tumbling—down a hill and into a cold stream.
“It’s freezing,” he shouted as Yukio splashed into the water next to him.
“It’s refreshing,” Yukio laughed. 
“Refreshing my ass,” Elijah grumbled, standing and shaking some of the water off of his clothes. 
“Hey, Elijah.”
“What?” Elijah turned to look at Yukio, only for Yukio to grab him and pull him back into the stream. “Hey!” 
Yukio laughed and laughed. Even when Elijah splashed him, he kept laughing. Elijah wanted to be angry with him, but all he could think was that Yukio had an amazing laugh. It was happy and bright. Light, but full. It was infectious and, eventually, Elijah joined in.
 
It didn’t take long for Yukio to drag Elijah to the woods. 
“How old do you think we are?”
“Old enough to climb a taller tree than we did as kids.”
“I’d say we’re too old to climb trees.”
“You’re never too old,” Yukio retorted, pulling himself into the tree. “Bet I can still beat you.” 
Elijah groaned and began to pull himself up onto the lowest branch, only for Yukio to start climbing immediately. 
“That’s cheating!” 
“You’re too slow!” 
Elijah still wasn’t an athletic person, but he was stronger now. Something in his blood surged and he began to climb, catching up to and then surpassing Yukio. When his head broke the tree top, he let out a joyous scream. 
“I win!” 
When Yukio joined him, he was panting and red. 
“Have you been practicing?”
“Nope, I’m just better than you.” Elijah stuck his tongue out. “Maybe it’s because I’m shorter. Less weight to move.”
“If that makes you feel better…”
“You’re the worst,” Elijah laughed. “Is that the kind of thing you were saying in Japanese when we were kids?” 
“Sometimes.” Yukio fell quiet, his energy stilled as he looked at the valley. “I remember something I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you trees have the best views.” 
Elijah watched Yukio’s face, wondering why he looked so sad all of a sudden. 
“Yukio?”
“I didn’t want to come to America back then,” Yukio told him, his voice low. “I was trying to pretend I was happy, but I didn’t want to leave Japan.” Yukio turned to look at Elijah, his eyes shining as a small smile slipped onto his lips. “But the time I spent with you made me less sad. I still missed home, but I wasn’t scared anymore. I thought that I might be okay in America.” 
“I did that?” Elijah asked, not understanding what he’d done to make Yukio feel welcome or safe.
“You did. After Samantha went to summer camp, I thought I’d be alone, but you were still there. You played with me and you never treated me like I was weird or annoying. I was really, really happy.” Yukio frowned again. “I was so sad you didn’t come back.”
“I’m sorry,” Elijah said. “I really wanted to come back. I begged my Dad to let me come for at least part of the summer, but he said no.”
“I know it’s not your fault.”
“I really loved playing with you, too.” Elijah’s mouth was dry. “I didn’t have friends then, but you were so quick to accept me. And… and…” He didn’t know how to explain without sounding strange. “I liked the way you said my name. The way you say my name.”
“Elijah?”
“Yeah.” Elijah nodded, swallowing in the hopes that it would cure his dry mouth. “Like that.” 
They were both quiet, the atmosphere tense, but not in a bad way. Elijah didn’t completely understand how something could be tense in a good way, but he knew it was possible. 
“Elijah,” Yukio finally said, breaking the silence but not the tension. “Can I kiss you?”
For a moment, Elijah couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was deep underwater, but also like he was floating. Until Yukio said it, he didn’t realize that he’d been wanting to ask the same thing for days. Maybe even since he saw Yukio again, shirtless and looking so handsome.
“Yeah.”
Yukio leaned in and Elijah tried to meet him in the middle. He knew enough to tilt his head, keeping them from bumping noses, but they came in too fast, their teeth clinking together. Elijah giggled and Yukio smirked before trying again. This time, their lips met without incident and, in Elijah’s inexpert opinion, it was the greatest kiss to ever happen.
 
Something changed when they climbed down that tree. There was the obvious change, but Elijah felt like there was something more. 
Like a change in the direction of the wind that told you winter was coming or the way a cloud could bring relief on a hot day. 
Maybe it was because the future that had once felt blurry and frightening suddenly seemed to be laid out in front of Elijah, clear as day. Maybe it was the warmth of Yukio’s hand in his. Maybe it was how even when whispered, the way Yukio said his name was enchanting.
Years later, he’d call this the summer he became an adult. At 16, though, he called it the summer he fell in love.
 
","September 09, 2023 00:01","[[{'Wanda Fischer': 'Outstanding. Flows well, believable, comes alive. Thanks.', 'time': '23:02 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Sol Le Roux': 'That was so cute! I loved your story in my gay little heart, we need more happy queer stories.', 'time': '16:21 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",4shf9k,Secrets of the Sea Emporium ,Bitsy Tandem,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4shf9k/,/short-story/4shf9k/,Character,0,"['Romance', 'Mystery', 'Fantasy']",6 likes,"
Brown hair is unusual for someone of her kind. Gold, silver, auburn, and even the occasional shades of blue are far more common. Yet there she is, the only one with brown hair, attracting a lot of attention from the audience. She's new here, which is her main appeal, of course. The regulars always like to ogle at the new ones. But in all the years I have spent my summers here, I have never seen one with brown hair before. 
 
Stopping to watch the show for just a while longer, I sigh and stretch out my back. With a broom in one hand, I open up my chest to the sunny day above and inhale deeply, the ocean air entering my lungs with a sharp taste of seaweed and a pang of nostalgia. I promptly shake myself to avoid the feeling.
 
I scan the crowd and realize that not many others seem to be making note of her dull hair color. They have no reason to keep track of such a thing as they're just here for a good time. They aren't the ones who have to clean the tank after the show. . .
 
The crowd cheers as one of the golden-haired girls leaps out of the water, a dolphin by her side. I scowl, knowing that one in particular is notorious for clogging up the pipes with her long locks. In fact, I can see some of her hair falling out even now as she descends back to the depths of the large saltwater tank. 
 
I sigh again and murmur under my breath, ""Mermaids. . . Disgusting creatures."" 
 
Unlike the enthralled masses, even as a child I never really saw the appeal. They're just fish that happen to be able to mimic people. However, my lifelong disinterest quickly turned to loathing after my father forced me to take this awful job eight months ago. 
 
I look down at my ugly sea-blue jumpsuit, the large ""Sea Emporium"" logo taking up far too much space on my chest — A hand-drawn pool full of sea creatures with a mermaid on either side beckoning you to join them. The slogan, ""Find your underwater wonders,"" stands out in bold letters, as if to mock me, but not nearly as much as the big, bold letters on my back screaming, ""STAFF"". Boss hasn't figured it out yet, but I am currently growing out my hair in hopes of covering that up. 
 
Unlike the mermaids, however, my hair does not grow that fast. At least it doesn’t fall out and get all over the place either.
 
Grumbling to myself, I get back to work
 
I start by sweeping up the trash left behind by passing visitors. Boss wants me to call them ""Sea Goers"" but that is NOT going to happen. As I make my way around the curvature of the tank, I look up to see that brown-haired mermaid again. It does not look like she is shedding too much, thank Poseidon, but only time will tell. 
 
Losing myself in my thoughts, I clean around the bottom of the viewing stadium, dreading what awaits me later in the day.
 
Suddenly, a loud knocking noise makes me jerk my head upwards a little too quickly, summoning a cracking noise just as loud as the knock itself. 
 
""Ouch! My neck. . ."", I groan while rubbing the offended area. 
 
The show's over, so all the girls are supposed to be inside drying off. Yet to my shock, one had snuck up on me. She floats there, the one with the brown hair, on the other side of the glass, giggling at me. I glare at her until her giggles come to an end, bubbles rhythmically floating up around her unnaturally pretty little head. 
 
With a single push of her intricate tail, she glides closer to me, our noses almost touching if not for the reinforced glass between us. At this distance, I can peer into the depths of her eyes. I stare. They aren't brown as I had expected them to be. Most merfolk I've seen have the same color eyes as they have hair. So it was stunning, mesmerizing even, to see such a vivid two-tone pattern in her eyes. 
 
Then I noticed — She had been pointing at the broom in my hand this whole time, and I was just standing there, staring like a love-struck teenager. What was I even thinking? She is an attraction at the park, no different than an orca whale or a penguin.
 
I shake the remaining fog from my mind and hold up the broom towards her, cocking my head to one side. She makes a gesture as if to say ""What is that thing for?"" So I humor her and give a small demonstration. Seeming satisfied with my performance, she twirls around and swims over to the cave on the far side of the tank. I begin to wonder if I will get to see her again, perhaps face-to-face on dry land, and my body grows hot once again.
 
Ridiculous, unwarranted, and irritating thoughts of the new mermaid plague me through the rest of the day. But all that comes to an abrupt end when the small cleaning team and I, head down to gut out the pipes. . . Wet hair. . . Is there anything more of a turn-off than pulling large handfuls of clumpy, smelly, wet hair out of a drain? I think not.
 
The ever-arduous task leaves me feeling utterly exhausted, not to mention unappetized. So that night, like many other nights this summer, I went to bed early, without eating dinner. Trying not to let myself think about the summer nights when I went to sleep in this very park happy and full, trying not to think of my childhood. 
 
I awoke early to an unwanted shake and gruff words.
 
""Get up, kid. Jimmy is sick so you're on babysitting duty today."" 
 
I groan and sit up to see the older staff member's grim face looking at me expectantly. 
 
""OK, OK, I'm on it. And for the hundredth time, don't call me kid,"" I replied sourly.
 
""What happened to Jimmy?"" I asked with practiced disinterest as I stood up and walked through the men's shared living space, ""He seemed fine yesterday."" 
 
The older man shook his head and then replied, ""Poor kid, ate the sea urchin at dinner last night. It ain't purdy."" 
 
Cringing, I pull out my jumpsuit from the lockers all the while the older man, Carl, keeps a close eye on me like I might run away or something. I know why. It's because everyone HATES babysitting duty. But I still take offense at it and glare back at him. 
 
""Hurry it up, now! There ain't no time to do your makeup this mornin' pretty boy,"" Carl snips at me. 
 
I ignore him as I shrug on my jumpsuit. Before running out the door I turn back and grab my personal black leather jacket from the locker, and give Carl one last glare before stomping out into the dorm hallway in my heavy black leather boots. 
 
As I make my way into the greater Sea Emporium Adventure Park area, I am glad to have my jacket. Summer is coming to an end, and it's windy this morning. The spray from the ocean, which sits just on the other side of the park's walls, keeps flying over the tetrapods to assault my face. 
 
""The oceans here always have liked to spit on me,"" I grumble, remembering our annual family trips here back when I was a kid. Unintentionally, I let the thoughts of back then intrude on my mind; back to when my parents still cared about each other. 
 
And, about me. 
 
I rush into a small building, shaking off the cold wet droplets as well as the memories that came along with them. I take out my staff badge, taping it to the receiver that will let me access the maintenance tunnels underneath the park.
 
Nobody likes babysitting.
 
Because babysitting is code for: ""Stand around and keep an eye on the mermaids all day."" Usually accompanied by cleaning their enclosure. Boss likes to have a few people guarding the mermaids at all times. They are unpredictable wild animals, that can take on legs after all, you never know when one might go wandering off. 
 
I arrive at what we call ""The dressing room"" just a tad late, as usual. Boss, a big-bellied man with too much gold on him, walks up to me with his usual happy-yet-stern face. The man is hard to read at the best of times. 
 
""Ah, Sebastian, thank you for joining us! I heard about poor Jimmy. It seems you have an excuse for being late today, so I will spare you the lecture."" Boss smiles knowingly at me. He knows I don't like people using my full name. 
 
I ignore the jab, for now, and head over to my designated spot. Four other staff members are standing at key locations around the cave-like enclosure. It's a comfortable-looking area, with girly things like mirrors and hair supplies lining one wall. I prefer the spot by the exits, that way no one expects me to interact with the ridiculous creatures too much. 
 
As I stand there growing bored, Boss starts ordering the girls around in his usual manner. He always has a new idea for the girls to try out for the day. The mermaids nod amicably, smile their stupid smiles, and move around the room like lemmings until Boss is happy.
 
Once he is gone, the five of us keep a sharp eye on the mermaids. As I scan the room, I freeze. There she is, standing shyly in a sports bra and a small black spandex skirt. Unlike the more experienced girls who have on high heels, she's barefoot standing there looking lost, untrained, and super cute.
 
Cute? Damn it, stupid fish.
 
I felt a pang of concern. She did not seem quite as enthusiastic as she did yesterday. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I shiver. ""That was strange,"" I say under my breath. The new girl stumbles around a bit, I think it is her first time on land. 
 
When she inevitably trips and falls, I can not help myself. Not caring about what my coworkers might say, I leave my post to walk over to the new girl and offer my hand to her. ""Hi there, I'm Seth. Are you OK?"" I ask, not even sure if she will understand me. Her two-tone eyes gaze up at me. Eventually, she takes my hand and lets me help her up.
 
I pull her delicate frame off the ground and, without warning, she presses her hand onto my chest, right in between the mermaids on the jumpsuit logo. It is warm and soft and I instantly go hot. ""Seth,"" she says with a strange accent. Then just as suddenly as it came, she took her hand away to press it onto her own chest. Though not as well endowed as some of the others, it was still quite distracting seeing her hand there, I almost missed it when she said. ""Arysta"", her name I presumed. Her eye pierced mine, and for a moment the rest of the world was gone. Our hearts beating in time with the sound of the ocean far below.
 
But then she leaned in even closer and said in a whisper, ""Help?""
 
Cocked my head to one side, the whiplash of emotions leaving me confused. She waddles away from me after that, back to the other mermaids. I look on as they begin to get ready for the day's events. I never realized before just how stiff the girls looked when inside the dressing room. 
 
. . . They aren't scared, are they? No that would be ridiculous. 
 
The Sea Emporium is a place of joy and rehabilitation. Rescue, rehabilitate, release, that's the whole M.O. they shove down your throat. But something is still nagging at me.
 
I look around at my coworkers, they look bored, and no one is paying any attention to me. Letting my curiosity take over I slip down one of the hallways that lead off from the main room. As I walk, I peek into the smaller rooms. Nothing strange in the storage room, though it does smell like fish food and there is that nasty golden hair everywhere. The wramp that goes to the saltwater tank is empty, as it should be when the park is closed. Last is the sleeping chambers up another hall. 
 
I am pretty sure that I am not supposed to go in, only the female staff members are allowed. But something bizarre is going on here, and I am determined to get to the bottom of this. ""Why would Arysta ask for help?""
 
Not wanting to make a disturbance I carefully crack the door open and peer out into the room. A handful of mermaids are huddled together. I hear a soft and eerily moaning coming from the group. . . Are they, Crying? 
 
I don’t see any tears but the faces and sounds are unmistakably sober, it makes my heart ache. 
A soft tapping on the middle of my back makes me jolt up. I turn in a panic and, to my surprise, see Arysta looking up at me. ""We wail for the loss of our Sea Sister,"" she says to me in a somber tone. 
 
""What happened?!"" I reply, as my heart begins to pound. 
 
""After the freeing from the net, I was so happy to be here. But, Sea Sisters say that there is loss and sometimes pain when inside this prison."" Arysta shakes her head, looking just as confused as I feel. 
 
""Who is missing?"" is the only thing I can think to say. 
 
""The sister of golden hair and lovely song."" She perks up a bit, ""Can you, Seth, help?""
I had to stop myself from saying, good riddance, at that. Tackt is probably my best course of action right now. Especially if I want Arysta to trust me.
 
I want to tell her that I can help, but as I stand here, something tugs at the edge of my mind. All at once, I remembered the park as it used to be. A warm and happy memory from a long time ago. It was the end of summer, a cold breeze kicking up the ocean mist much like today, and I sat there on a bench in the viewing stadium with Mother and Father. We watched the Emporium's show, I used to love sea life back then, and I distinctly remember how happy the girls looked. 
 
The juxtaposition to the shows I have seen this summer bothers me. ""Seth, you will help, right?"" Arysta's nieve and hopeful voice pulsed through my body like a storm and I stood a little taller. 
""Of course, I will help you, Arysta,"" I say in the most debonair voice I can muster. At that, she smiles, bright and golden like the sun. 
 
. . . Golden? Wasn't there a bunch of golden hair on the storage room floor? ""Stay here, Arysta, I have a plan."" I lied, before taking off back down the hall. 
 
Back in the storage room, I kneel and assess the golden locks more carefully. The hairs on the floor pile up as they get closer to the back wall. I stand and begin to let the wheels in my brain turn. A small gasp emanates from behind me, this time I am not even surprised. Arysta walks up to a shelf in the back corner and points at something sticky, adhered to the edge.
 
. . . Blood.
 
I step around Arysta and run my hand along the cave wall, then push hard near the spot where the hair is piled up the most. There is a click, and the wall moves slightly. Then I roll it to the side like a cumbersome sliding door.  
 
Arysta pokes her head into the passageway beyond the false wall. She is so close, I can smell her. We step in and move quietly along the concrete tunnel. After what feels like forever, we reach a fork in the road and I kneel down to check for clues. I stand and put a finger over my mouth then point to the left. Arysta nods. 
 
At the end, there is a large double door standing ajar. We creep in and slink behind some wooden crates. In the middle of the room stands a cage with chains and a saltwater tank that is built into a small truck. The golden-haired mermaid is there in the middle of the cage looking battered. 
 
Arysta almost leaps up, but I grab her arm and pull her close. ""We need to be careful!"" I whisper hard. Then I soften and stroke the hair out of her face, ""Please be careful, Arysta.""
Quietly searching for the keys, I begin to think of my family again. I don't want to admit it, but I miss them.
 
Arysta bolts to the cage and I chase after her. It looks like she found the keys and she quickly unlocks the gate. The two girls hug and I feel a swell of pride. But now is not the time to celebrate.
 
""Qwicky Arysta!"" I whisper, and with that, she pops up and unlocks the chains. I pick up the sorry-looking mermaid in one motion, and in a moment of inspiration, head to the small truck.
 
After laying the injured mermaid down in the back seat, I turn to Arysta. Already feeling my hands start to shake, ""I can't promise this will work."" 
 
Arysta glides up close and places a hand on my cheek, ""You are a good man, Seth. I know the danger. But for my sister, must try.""
 
Her touch, all the inspiration I needed.
 
","September 09, 2023 02:27","[[{'Janet Boyer': 'Wramp, tackt, Qwicky...were these misspelling intentional, or just an oversight? 🙂 Also, for some reason I thought the narrator (Seth) was female until the male locker room. (Which would be cool, IMO). 😃', 'time': '06:46 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ah! They just slipped through it seems. As for Seth, you are not the only one who thought that he was a girl. A few of my friends did as well. I think it comes from my being non-binary, it can show through into my main characters a lot of the time. :)', 'time': '09:07 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Janet Boyer': 'Ah, interesting! I had thought maybe the typos was because he was some kind of aquatic creature. 😃', 'time': '01:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Bitsy Tandem': 'Oh, that would have been fun! But he is just a normal grumpy teen, haha. Maybe next time the the main character can be another aquatic creature. That would be a fun challenge! 😃', 'time': '02:10 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Janet Boyer': 'Teehee! I wanted to know more about his upbringing, too. 😃', 'time': '00:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ooh! ❤️There was soooo much more that I wanted to fit in, too. But the 3000-word limit was a lot more of a challenge than expected! (Maybe I can just expand on it in my free time, haha!)', 'time': '07:14 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ah! They just slipped through it seems. As for Seth, you are not the only one who thought that he was a girl. A few of my friends did as well. I think it comes from my being non-binary, it can show through into my main characters a lot of the time. :)', 'time': '09:07 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Janet Boyer': 'Ah, interesting! I had thought maybe the typos was because he was some kind of aquatic creature. 😃', 'time': '01:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Bitsy Tandem': 'Oh, that would have been fun! But he is just a normal grumpy teen, haha. Maybe next time the the main character can be another aquatic creature. That would be a fun challenge! 😃', 'time': '02:10 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Janet Boyer': 'Teehee! I wanted to know more about his upbringing, too. 😃', 'time': '00:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ooh! ❤️There was soooo much more that I wanted to fit in, too. But the 3000-word limit was a lot more of a challenge than expected! (Maybe I can just expand on it in my free time, haha!)', 'time': '07:14 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Janet Boyer': 'Ah, interesting! I had thought maybe the typos was because he was some kind of aquatic creature. 😃', 'time': '01:29 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Bitsy Tandem': 'Oh, that would have been fun! But he is just a normal grumpy teen, haha. Maybe next time the the main character can be another aquatic creature. That would be a fun challenge! 😃', 'time': '02:10 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Janet Boyer': 'Teehee! I wanted to know more about his upbringing, too. 😃', 'time': '00:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ooh! ❤️There was soooo much more that I wanted to fit in, too. But the 3000-word limit was a lot more of a challenge than expected! (Maybe I can just expand on it in my free time, haha!)', 'time': '07:14 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bitsy Tandem': 'Oh, that would have been fun! But he is just a normal grumpy teen, haha. Maybe next time the the main character can be another aquatic creature. That would be a fun challenge! 😃', 'time': '02:10 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Janet Boyer': 'Teehee! I wanted to know more about his upbringing, too. 😃', 'time': '00:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ooh! ❤️There was soooo much more that I wanted to fit in, too. But the 3000-word limit was a lot more of a challenge than expected! (Maybe I can just expand on it in my free time, haha!)', 'time': '07:14 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Janet Boyer': 'Teehee! I wanted to know more about his upbringing, too. 😃', 'time': '00:59 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ooh! ❤️There was soooo much more that I wanted to fit in, too. But the 3000-word limit was a lot more of a challenge than expected! (Maybe I can just expand on it in my free time, haha!)', 'time': '07:14 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bitsy Tandem': 'Ooh! ❤️There was soooo much more that I wanted to fit in, too. But the 3000-word limit was a lot more of a challenge than expected! (Maybe I can just expand on it in my free time, haha!)', 'time': '07:14 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mimi Li': ""I'm a little confused about how Arysta and Seth are suddenly in a cave.  It seems like this is part of a longer story.  Seth's obsession with hair falling out seems a little strange.  I guess it is a bit comical that his full name is Sebastian like the crab in the Little Mermaid."", 'time': '02:28 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",la7kkn,That summer when wishes came true,Smriti Tuladhar,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/la7kkn/,/short-story/la7kkn/,Character,0,"['Friendship', 'High School', 'Teens & Young Adult']",6 likes,"
I woke up with multiple sneezes and I realized it was a chilly morning. The Sheet of cloth that I had been using as a blanket did not serve its purpose of keeping me warm now that summer was slipping away. It was the first week of September and as every year it was the beginning of the dawn of summer, my favourite time of the year will now come to an end. Summer was my dream, a living dream where I could show as much skin as I want, wear bright colours, watch the long day end late with an exquisite sunset, chilly summer breeze blowing over sweaty face, cold showers and drops of water hitting my body, washing away all the darkness and anxiety. I absolutely loved summer and every year I had a hard time letting it go. I slowly stretched my hand to find my phone beside the pillow, peeked with one eye to read a message from a friend who was long lost in the whirlwind of life. Before I could wonder why she decided to text after so long, I smiled at the memory that stared me back from my phone. It was the picture of me with my girls sharing or rather fighting for the last remains of ice cream on the balcony of our college. We were all so happily high on life, drunk on youth, and deeply consumed by friendship. In a flick of time, I went sliding right down into memory lane where life seemed like a fairy tale.It was the summer when I had just begun high school and was desperately hoping to find just one good friend. Instead, I hit the jackpot and ended up with three weirdos to complete a girl gang, the exact thing, I knew was missing in my life. The summer was all about laughs, tight dresses, early morning makeup, movie nights, cute guys, and coffee dates. The most alluring thing about high school in Nepal is that we get to choose if we study during the mornings or day and unlike school, studying meant only for a couple of hours rather than a whole day. The school was basically a prison with books for us with strict timetables, curfew hours, and constant monitoring from either school or parents. We found a new sense of freedom, a feeling of being an adult, the thrill of being a teenage girl, and most of all a life without borders and boundaries. Freedom brings insanity, and outrageous desires so I tried everything from skipping classes, shop lifting to lighting up my first cigarette and yet always had the fear of missing out. And during those days we did not know where to draw the line or when.I couldn’t bear holidays, Saturdays made me nauseous while on weekdays, I would wake up immensely happy knowing I would be entertained throughout the day. We became a girl group of crazy teenagers who were unpredictable and wild and were soon the talk of the campus. A normal day of our lives would be followed by flirty tease, historical laughter, shameless judging, and window shopping but after the better half of the day was over, the other half seemed tedious. Back in my school days, I used to admire the popular girls and even was jealous when they turned down proposals from multiple boys, while I stayed unnoticed till the very end. High school became my new space, a space where I could reinvent myself, paint my dark dreams red, sing my own tunes, and narrate my story. And during those monotonous second halves, I invariably desired for a boy. I was in love with the idea of love and besides all kinds of love, I craved one-of-a-kind love, and love in that age meant a boyfriend. I often wondered if I would be single for one more summer or if I might lock eyes with someone and will never be the same.While I was looking for a new high in my life, the heat was reaching new heights, I couldn’t go 5 minutes without wiping sweat off my face and I almost wished the summer was over, almost. On a blistering summer morning, I caught my friend Juna munching samosas slower than a government employee on a working day. She was munching alright but her gaze remained anchored to a beautiful guy across the hall. The guy perfectly justified Juna’s gaze, he stood among the crowd like a white lily in a cabbage field. It was clear that Juna wanted to meet his gaze but the guy was clueless, and we were getting restless. While me and Bina were plotting on how to set up their meet, our eyes glued to the guy, and suddenly my jaw dropped so hard I swear it hit the ground when I saw Lalita tapping on the guy’s shoulder and suddenly Juna wished she was invisible. Lalita was very good at picking up conversations, no wonder in a matter of seconds both of them were laughing. The guy joined Lalita as they headed back to us. While he stood up to leave, my sight stumbled across the hall when a guy was a little too loud and much more pissed about some football game. I didn’t exactly know why but for a moment froze, I couldn’t see anyone but him. He was charming, I could tell, his laugh was sexy but the way his eyes sparkled when he shifted his sweaty damp hair, I could no longer breathe. I was jolted back to reality as Lalita started the introduction round. I managed to mutter a half-hearted HI while the rest of the girls greeted him with all kinds of flirty hello. Juna wasted no time in handing over her phone number to Joshan, while Joshan left with a proud grin on his face. I was neither attentive nor present with what was going on around me anymore. I just wanted to stare, stare at him, he was still babbling but I wasn’t sure what. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart thumping, amidst an astonishing tinkle in my stomach. I must have stared too long because he turned towards me and smiled. Instantly I smiled back with an involuntary wave and regretted it right away but I jumped in excitement as he waved back.They do say there is a first time for everything, I never had a silly grin stuck with me all day, never. I replayed, paused, rewind, fast-forwarded those couple of seconds millions of times, and yet the feeling lingered like the smell of fresh soil after rain. For a week, we had a new mission, there was nothing quite adventurous for a bunch of teenage girls than to monitor a crush. So, we followed him like waves follows the sea. I couldn’t help but stare at him shamelessly, maybe it was infatuation, obsession, or a silly crush but it definitely felt like love, at least for the time being. I was very discrete not to approach him in any way, but my friends wasted no time in throwing my discretion out of the window. I loved watching him laugh, the way he celebrated little things with fist bumps, the way he left the last bite of his food and last sip of his tea, and the stolen glances from the corner of his eye that perhaps was meant for me.Meanwhile Juna was in her honeymoon phase, she would find Joshan on the balcony at the end of every class. Joshan even joined us during our tea chats, where he wrapped his arm around Juna, Juna would blush and lean on him only to make him hold tighter. Watching them fall in love, I wondered how would it feel to be in love, would it be magical like they portray in movies or would it be nowhere near the hype. Either way, I wanted to be in love, but what I did not want was to be a fool in love. Every time I gathered all my courage to ask his number or anything, my feet would give up and I forgot how to walk.My friends decided to pull me out of my misery and on a regular Wednesday, they shoved me inside a store where I met him eye to eye while he was buying books, and I on the other hand forgot why I was there. With a pleasant voice, he asked me if we had met before because I seemed familiar. He had something soothing in his voice, which made me calmer, and I replied MAYBE, although I wanted to say of course I seem familiar, I am the face that you catch a glimpse of every day because I always manage to be near you. He scanned me from head to toe and asked which class I was in. Before I could answer he passed me his phone and requested to add my name and number on his phone. I gathered he must be nervous too because his phone was slippery since his palm was sweaty and seemed to be in a hurry. I was both shy and extremely happy to realize I had forgotten to ask his name. As if he could read my thoughts, he turned back and yelled in case you are wondering, my name is Nikesh. I swear I would have passed out if it were not for my friends hugging me from all directions and I wondered how I managed to get everything I ever wanted.
","September 08, 2023 07:12",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",jbf8ii,The Summer I Became An Adult ,Wanda Fischer,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jbf8ii/,/short-story/jbf8ii/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Historical Fiction']",6 likes,"
My parents were Nixon Republicans. They may have been the only Massachusetts residents who had voted for Nixon instead of Kennedy in 1960. 
 
            Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating. But that’s how it felt to me. 
 
            They thought Lyndon Johnson was a wimp for setting up anti-poverty programs. “Those people need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps,” my father said.
 
            “But Dad, how’s that possible, when they don’t have bootstraps to begin with?” I asked. 
 
            “You’re becoming a communist!” he declared, as he threw down his newspaper and headed to the garage to putter around. Fiddling around with his tools was the way he got rid of tension. Either that, or he’d drink himself silly. I preferred the former to the latter. 
 
            I picked up the crushed newspaper.
 
            “U.S. Embassy Invaded in Saigon: Death Toll Unknown.”
 
            These headlines are unsettling. I’m in college now and will be facing the draft soon. Have to keep my grades up or I’ll be Vietnam bound. Pronto. My student deferral will be kaput.  Like my best friend Jason, who flunked out last year. His parents tried to get him into the National Guard so he wouldn’t have to be drafted. Hell, I told him to go to Canada, but he didn’t act fast enough. Next thing he knew, he was on his way to basic training at Fort Hood, Texas. Texas. Freaking Texas. Not a great place for a Massachusetts guy to go. Now he’s in the infantry in Vietnam. I wrote him a letter once. I should write him again. Guess he’s becoming a man.
 
            But this summer, I’m going to try something different. I signed up to go to Mississippi to work with an anti-poverty project. Yup. With the wimps. The ones my dad thinks should read stories about Horatio Alger and pursue the American Dream. What does that even mean, anyway?
 
            We’re leaving on a bus next week. Destination: Tunica, Mississippi. The organizers say it will be hotter than hell down there. Mosquitoes as big as swallows, they say. Cockroaches the size of newborn puppies. Snakes the size of…Did I say snakes?  All we have around here are those little, nuisance garter snakes. Wiggly, nasty snakes. Just the thought of them gives me the creeps. 
 
            But it’s my summer job. These people got a grant from the Johnson Administration to do anti-poverty work. We’re going to make repairs to dilapidated housing and install plumbing, stuff like that. We’re bringing tools and supplies. 
 
            We’re not supposed to get into politics, like talking about civil rights and voting. I don’t know how we can avoid it, but group leaders say it will get us into trouble. I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy. 
 
****
 
            Time to board the bus. Just a big old Greyhound, but it will be our home for the two-day drive to Tunica, Mississippi. We can only bring one small bag with us—small necessities, a few changes of clothes, stuff like that. We’re staying at a church, sleeping on cots, Local church ladies will feed us. Hope they’re not planning on just dishing out grits and cornbread. I’m a growing boy!
 
            The organizers assign seats. They count everyone; we’re ready to roll. 
 
            “We count everyone and assign seats so that we know if you’re missing every time we stop,” the head guy explains. “We don’t want to lose anyone.”
 
            “We don’t want to get lost, either,” says the young woman seated next to me.
 
            Everyone chuckles.
 
            “This is serious business,” the head guy, who says his name is Chuck, emphasizes. “We’ll be going through some seriously rural areas. No pay phones. Not much in the way of communicating if you get lost. Just don’t get separated from us. That’s an order.”
 
            “Yes, sir!” the two people seated in the front row say in unison.
 
            “Don’t try to be funny!” Chuck says. “This isn’t comedy. We’re not watching ‘Laugh In’ or ‘The Smothers Brothers’ here.”
 
            Chuck ambles up to the front of the bus and plops into his chair.
 
            “Hi, I’m Ellie,” the girl next to me says. “What’s your name?”
 
            I blush a little. “I’m Jimmy,” I reply. “Where are you from?”
 
            “I live in Chelsea,” she says. “I go to Emerson College. I’m studying journalism and communications. I hope to write about this experience for the school newspaper.”
 
            “That’s cool. I go to Boston University. College of Arts and Sciences. I’m majoring in psychology, but mostly the first two years are general courses. Next year I’ll start specific psychology classes.”
 
            “Do you want to become a shrink? I mean a psychiatrist?”
 
            “No. Maybe a counseling psychologist or social worker. Don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll have a better idea after this trip.”
 
            “Yeah. This trip could be a turning point in our lives, couldn’t it?”
 
            Interesting concept. 
 
****
 
            After two-and-a-half grueling, hot, humid days on the bus, we arrive in Tunica. The humidity is so thick, I an cut through it with my hands. Such thick, acrid, heavy air fills my lungs, I almost can’t breathe. My head feels woozy and my legs wobble. My whole body feels rubbery, like a Slinky toy. 
 
            I look over at Ella, and she appears to be having the same experience. She leans against the body of the bus as she steadies herself.  “Wow,” she says. “I knew this place was humid, but I didn’t expect this.”
 
            “Neither did I,” I say across the parking lot. She winks back at me. 
 
            We grab our bags and walk ever so slowly to the church, where we’re greeted not only by the church “ladies,” but also by a string of cots lined up side by side, sporting pillows and linens. 
 
            “Good evening, everyone,” Chuck says. “This will be our home for the next week or so. It will be a lot easier for all of us if we could arrange ourselves the same way we were on the bus. Do you think you can manage that?”
 
            Everyone nods. I think they cant’t speak due to the oppressive nature of the air. At least, that’s why I cann’t manage to get a syllable out of my mouth. 
 
            Chuck explains where the rest rooms were located and how the shower rooms were in the basement. “We probably won’t have enough hot water for everyone to show at the same time,” he explained. So have a little courtesy for your fellow travelers.”
 
            Box fans creak as they weakly attempt to make a difference in the temperature. Their efforts are not exactly in vain but also not successful, as their screechy song croon out of tune for all to hear. We anticipate a long night of attempted slumber on unfamiliar cots.
 
****
 
            With aches in joints and muscles I didn’t know I had, I woke from a less-than-refreshing sleep to the smell of eggs and bacon frying. I pull myself up on one elbow to see Ellie’s cot already empty. She may have gone downstairs for a shower, or she may already be at the breakfast table. I rub my eyes and gather my thoughts, trying to realize where I was. Oh, yeah, Mississippi. Church that feels like an oven. Check. Get up and get moving. 
 
            I direct my feet toward the breakfast smells. 
 
            “Good mornin’, sunshine,” an elderly Black lady greets me. “How do you like your eggs, hun?”
 
            “Err, how about scrambled, ma’am?”
 
            “Comin’ right up, darlin’. And bacon? You like bacon? We got some fine country bacon here. Now, you find a seat and I’ll bring it all over. Y’hear?”
 
            “Yes, ma’am.”
 
            Ellie laughs at this exchange under her breath. “You have a new girlfriend?” She asks. 
 
            “Maybe. Depends on her cooking.  You know the old cliché? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?” 
 
            “I may have heard that once or twice, yes.”
 
            Here comes the plate of bacon and eggs, along with grits and cornbread. 
 
            “Now, you ever ate grits before?” our gracious cook asks?
 
            “No, ma’am.”
 
            “Well, you’ll like them the way I fixed them.”
 
            “I’m sure I will, ma’am.” 
 
            This breakfast looks fit for a king. For the moment, I am the king of Tunica, Mississippi.
 
****
 
            We gather outside the church, as Chuck gives us instructions. 
 
            “We’re headed over to this one neighborhood,” he explains. “You all may be shocked when you see what’s there. The people have no indoor plumbing. They use what they call ‘sugar ditch’ behind their shacks for—err—sanitation purposes. It’s a big trench that drops about twenty feet, and, let’s just say, it doesn’t smell too good. It’s the only place they have to use for a bathroom. They don’t even have outhouses there. 
 
            “That’s one of the things we’re trying to do for these folks. We’re trying to build outhouses. We’re not going to be here long enough to put in indoor plumbing, and we really don’t have the expertise that would take. But if we can at least construct a few outhouses, that may give them some privacy and work a little better than that ‘sugar ditch.’”
 
            Silence. No one in our group could fathom what that meant. How could people live this way? I could hear my father say, “Those people need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps! They shouldn’t be getting all these handouts!” If you have nowhere to relieve yourself except in a gully filled with human waste, where are your bootstraps?
 
            Chuck explains we’re going to be digging holes and constructing outhouse frames with precut, donated lumber. “We have patterns to follow, to make this easier,” he says. 
 
            We look at each other and shrug. “That’s why we came, after all,” says a guy from Hingham. “Let’s get rolling.”
 
            We walk in the stifling heat toward the shacks that back up against “sugar ditch.” We don’t need a map; the odor is strong enough that no one has to point out which way to go. The aroma is almost as oppressive as the humidity. I think I might vomit. Somehow that tasty breakfast might become my enemy. 
 
            We examine stacks of wood with shovels placed neatly next to them. Organized toolboxes strategically placed invite members of our group to use them. Chuck steps in and shows us where the outhouses will go. He uses a shovel to draw a square in the dirt, then chooses people to start digging within the square. He picks me as one of the excavators. 
 
            The people who live in these shacks come out on their rundown porches—if you can call them that—and watch what we’re doing. As we dig our four holes—two for men, two for women—their curiosity is obvious. They’re observing white people digging holes for them, instead of forcing Black people to do the work.  Some have arms crossed across their bodies, some are whistling or humming tunes. But the ones I’m watching are the children. They seem to be the most amused, as if they’ve never seen white people work this hard. The kids are skipping and hopping around as we dig. They are loving this activity, creeping over to peer into the holes, and laughing at us. We smile back through the sweat dripping down our faces. 
 
            Chuck comes over to evaluate our progress. “Lookin’ good, guys. We have an outhouse top almost done to put over a hole, and yours is the closest to being finished. I’m proud of you.”
 
            One little girl sheepishly tiptoes in my direction. 
 
            “’Scuse me, sir,” she asks. “Is this gonna be for us?”
 
            “Yes, my lady, it will be for your homes here,” I reply. 
 
            “Truly? You doin’ this for us?” 
 
            “Yes, honey. Two for the women, two for the men.”
 
            “So we won’t have to use that ole ditch anymore?”
 
            “That’s why.”
 
            “And I won’t have to show myself to those old nasty men when I have to use the—the—bathroom?”
 
            “Yes, honey. Won’t that be nice?”
 
            She squealed. “Oh, mister! This must be a dream! I been dreamin’ about this all my life!’
 
            “All your life? How old are you?
 
            “Seven.”
 
            “And when is your birthday?”
 
            “In three weeks.”
 
            “Well, you can call this your birthday present, then.”
 
            “Mister, I ain’t never had a present this good.” She reached up and hugged me. She wouldn’t let go.
 
            I blushed and couldn’t stop. I didn’t know what to say. 
 
            We are giving her bootstraps for her birthday. She didn’t know it, but I did. 
 
            I was nineteen that day. Close to my twentieth birthday. Digging that hole was graduation day. No mortarboard hat. No “Pomp and Circumstance.” That day, I became a man, with a little Black girl, hugging me and not letting go.
 
","September 08, 2023 22:19",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",j9zkzi,Thwack,O'Brien O'Brien,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j9zkzi/,/short-story/j9zkzi/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Thriller', 'Fantasy']",6 likes,"
 
          That summer I learned the value of patience and that dreams an come true. I found out the truth behind the phrase, ‘curiosity killed the cat’, and I experienced the death of a loved one. But, most importantly, I discovered the consequences of deception. It all happened the week after I finished sixth grade, that morning when I snuck up to the attic. Aunt Bee told me not to wander around the dingy loft without her or Uncle Herman because there were too many things up there that I could get hurt on; broken furniture, splintery floorboards, not to mention that all the accumulated dust wouldn’t be good for my asthma. But when Aunt Bee told me not to do something, I went ahead and did it anyway, whether I really wanted to or not. So, while she hung the wash on the clothesline outside, I opened the forbidden door at the end of the hallway.
         I began my assent up the creaking steps. Once I reached the landing, a sweet, musty smell tickled my nose making me sneeze. The air felt thick and humid, and a single sunbeam cut through the gloomy space. The uneven wood floor was strewn with discarded furniture and boxes of holiday decorations. To my left, two artificial Christmas trees encased in garbage bags leaned against the spackled drywall. Chains not long enough for me to reach dangled from three strategically placed lightbulbs screwed into the ceiling beams. 
         I blazed a path through the clutter and stood before the vintage, double casement windows on the far wall. From there, I was able to survey the entire property behind our house. I peered down at Aunt Bee, I never realized how thin her hair was. To the right of the windows was a steel combination safe that had been left behind by the previous owners. One of its bottom corners was chipped and jagged and it appeared to be unnervingly off-kilter. It was taller than me and I wondered if it housed a body. Next to the safe was a torn wingback chair that I hadn’t seen in years. I circled behind it and pushed it into the sunbeam. This was going to become my secret reading spot. 
         When I glanced out the window, Aunt Bee was balancing the empty laundry basket on her hip and gathering the extra pins. I made my way back down to the second floor in time to hear the screen door in the kitchen slam. That night I threw some of my favorite books into an old milk crate to lug up to the attic the next day. 
***
         “Okay,” Aunt Bee hollered. “I should be back in about an hour.” It was the third time she said she was leaving.
         I sauntered over to the banister that overlooked the foyer and Aunt Bee stared up at me questioningly.  
         Just go already. That’s what I thought, but I said, “I’ll be fine.”
         I watched the door shut behind her and heard the SUV trundle over the gravel in the driveway before hauling the crate of books up the thirteen steps to my hide-out. After dropping the cumbersome load onto the floor beside the safe, I shook the soreness from my arms. The air was stagnant, so I shoved the aged glass windows open with a grunt. I knelt beside the milk crate and slid THE BIG BOOK OF MODERN FANTASY off the top of the pile then settled into the well-worn chair. A tiny person, delicate and sleek as a dragon fly, flew in and landed on the windowsill. Iridescent helicopter wings sprouted from its back. I now know it to be a fairy, a fairy named Twyla.  
         Twyla lived under the pond at the edge of our estate. Each day at 11am, except Sunday, that’s church day, but all the other days, she would float to the surface of the water in a bubble. She would fly up to the attic window and perch on the windowsill. I would read one or two stories to her from the monstrous fantasy anthology and, when there were no more stories left to read, she was going to grant me three wishes.         
         A dirt bike was first on my list. Aunt Bee was dead set against me getting one, so I’d need to keep it under wraps, at least for a while. Therefore, my second wish would be for a secret place to stash the bike. For my third wish, I was going to request a million dollars, but Twyla was unable to grant me that one, so I would settle for finding out what was in the safe. The entire collection of tales was going to take weeks to finish. It was the first and only summer of my young life that I wanted the days to quicken. My wishes were the first things I thought about in the morning and the last things on my mind before I fell asleep. 
         For several weeks, I was able to keep my encounter with the fairy to myself, mostly to avoid Aunt Bee’s negative warnings and opinions that were sure to follow. But as my wish day neared, I found it more and more difficult to contain my enthusiasm. Seventy-four days and eight hundred fifty-six pages after I began reading to Twyla, I told Aunt Bee my exciting news. She was sitting at the pub table in the corner of the kitchen drinkin’ her coffee and swattin' flies. 
         “Be sure not to anger her, she can be your worst nightmare.”
         Here we go. “Twyla reminds me of Tinker Bell in Peter Pan not Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty.”
         “Don’t be fooled by her loveliness or her size, fairies are very vengeful creatures.
         Aunt Bee’s eyeballs rolled around in their sockets, THWACK.
         I turned and stalked up the spiral staircase to the second floor, strutted down the hall and marched straight up to the attic. I pushed the windows open, as was my routine, and settled into the wingback chair. While I was awaiting Twyla’s appearance, my cell phone pinged. I looked at the notification on the screen. It was an announcement for an updated version of a game I regularly played. I was eager to try it out, and since Twyla hadn’t arrived yet, I decided to give it a go, big mistake. I got so engrossed in the game that I failed to notice Twyla’s entrance.
         As I looked down at my phone, my neck began to ache and throb. Sort of like my legs would hurt during the night, Aunt Bee called them growing pains. I strained to rotate my head from side to side, but to my great horror, it was locked in place. O-M-G, I thought, my neck finally did stick that way. I was woozy and I felt the warmth drain from my face. Twyla hovered close to my ear. I watched shavings of my hair sail to the floor and heard a faint whistle from her whirling, razor-sharp wings. She assured me that she would fix my neck if that was my wish, but I had to finish the stories first. She was punishing me for snubbing her and she was doing it the way fairies do. I was scared, mad, and confused, but mostly scared.
        I was able to keep the whole neck fiasco from Aunt Bee. At supper, I stared down at my plate as always and as always Aunt Bee commented that if I didn’t look up occasionally, my neck would stick that way. I think that’s called poetic justice—or due reward—or irony. I listened to Aunt Bee and Uncle Herman conversate about the end-o-summer community yard sale.
         “I need to get up to the attic, see what I could find,” Aunt Bee said.
         The event was two weeks away, so I figured I had plenty of time to remove all evidence of my ever being up there before Aunt Bee started snooping around. 
         After supper, I went straight to my room, which wasn’t unusual either. In the morning I would complain of a stiff neck on account of my window being open all night. I had one more story to read to Twyla before making my wishes.
         I was rubbing my stiff neck as I shuffled into the kitchen the next morning, but Aunt Bee wasn’t there to view my performance. I shouted. No response. It was early but I rushed directly to the attic. With a little luck Twyla would see the open window and decide to arrive early as well.
         Half-way through THE JINN DARAZGOSH, the last story in the book, she emerged from the shadows, fly swatter raised above her head. She was meaning to squash Twyla and all I could do was shout, “Heads up.”
         Twyla just kept looking straight ahead like she wasn’t worried about a thing. She took a deep breath and expelled a gust of wind through her puffed cheeks so powerful that Aunt Bee stumbled backwards. My lower jaw dropped, and I was having trouble breathing. My asthma had been triggered by my shock and astonishment. Aunt Bee wheeled her arms franticly while teetering on her heels, then crashed onto the rough, wooden floor. The heavy, steel safe wobbled on the quaking boards and toppled over onto Aunt Bee's upper body, THWACK. Her feet jounced as her head and torso were smacked like a fly under her swatter. 
         Twyla dropped my inhaler onto the book in my lap and I took a few puffs. She insisted that I finish the story and I didn’t dare refuse. Don’t get me wrong, I needed a minute to compose myself and, when I was through reading, I closed the book and made my wishes. I probably would have wished Aunt Bee alive if Twyla hadn’t convinced me that it would be a bad idea.   
         My neck was rearranged, and I got my dirt bike. I went with my original third wish, and the safe popped open. But, alas, it was empty. That is, until Twyla put Aunt Bee in the safe. 
","September 03, 2023 19:07",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",psa08u,A Tale of Two Summers,Tony Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/psa08u/,/short-story/psa08u/,Character,0,['Fiction'],5 likes,"
A Tale of Two Summers
By Tony Smith
With the heavy suitcase bumping against my legs, I manoeuvred my way between the seats to the front carriage and shared the view of the driver. Gleaming rail tracks, following the gentle contours of the Surrey hills, were fast disappearing beneath my feet. Rabbits grazing went tail-up and ran, tumbling into their burrows, as the steel monster invaded. 
 I’m -going-home. I’m-going-home, beat in my brain to the rhythm of the wheels. Ahead a tunnel of solid blackness - then we leapt into bright summer sun. I picked-up my suitcase for mine was the next station. It was a desolate place. I was the only passenger to alight and my old friend the ticket collector had been replaced by a machine.
	I made my way to the bus-stop which waved a familiar flag of welcome; the number fifteen bus . Many summers ago it was the bus I caught to school. I set my case down and bent my head to inspect the time-table when a voice said: “You’re in luck, one’s due any minute”. 
	“To Greenleaf?”
	“Yes, I’m going there myself.” 
	The friendly voice belonged to a young man - in his early twenties. The bus arrived. I shoved my case in the cuddy under the stairs and clattered after my friend to the top floor and like a couple of kid we sat either side at the front of the bus. He introduced himself as Bernie and asked where I’d come from with such a large case. I told him I’d flown in from Australia that morning and it was the first time I’d been home for many years. He asked where I’d be staying. I told him I planned to stay at the Dog and Fox. 
	“That pub closed years ago, it’s a dentist’s surgery now. But my mother keeps a guest house: 44, Albert Road. It’s the only place to stay in Greenleaf. 
	“Well if it’s the only place to stay, I’d better stay there.” I replied with a smile. 
	“You won’t be disappointed.”
 
It was one of those tall terraced Victorian houses which opens out like ‘Doctor Who’s’ Tardis. An aspidistra was flying in the hall and there wasn’t that boarding-house smell of boiled cabbage and disinfectant - you met the money- rich, sweet smell of freesias. Bernie showed me to the bedroom as his mother was out. He said there’s nowhere to eat in the village, but his mother is a good cook.”OK. I’ll have some of that,” I said.
	It was only three o’clock in the afternoon but my body-clock was messed-up after the long flight. Although I was tired I couldn’t sleep: my mind racing like an engine revving in neutral. Expatriates need to go home at sometime, my mother would say, in her Yorkshire accent: ‘ta ‘get ya bottle filled’. But for me it was for the girl I’d left behind. In my iron-gated mind there was only room for one girl: for my Annie. It was another summer but twenty years later, she was the reason I’d left England all those years ago. 
	Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep I would take Annie out of the drawer in which I stored her memory and like a pair of old woollen socks pull them on and warm myself. But sometimes it led to nightmares. I would imagine what she might be doing, who she might be doing it with, and wondering why she had rejected me. I had to find a resolution. Reheated food doesn’t taste the same as fresh and love reheated by an old flame doesn’t perhaps taste as sweet. There had been other girls since: some were good sex and some were bad sex but none were the loving sex I had with Annie. I remember the story of a famous composer who couldn’t get out of bed in the mornings. His wife would play a series of chords on the piano - the composer would rush down stairs to play the final resolving chord - and I needed that resolution.
 I woke to the reverberating ‘gong’ of a dinner bell. It took me a moment to figure out where I was. Downstairs the lady of the house welcomed me with outstretched arms. ”Bernard told me about you - Jed, isn’t it?”
	I stared at her with amazement, delight and eye-stretching disbelief. It was Annie. It was my Annie! I examined her for ageing. She’d lost that ‘just-out-the-box’ freshness. She was never pretty but beautiful she was, with Slavic high cheek-bones, dark black eyes, hair piled lustrously on top and a smile to lift you out your socks.”Sorry for staring,” I said, “but you remind me of someone.” 
	Clearly Annie hadn’t recognised me. When she last saw me I was nineteen. Since then I had grown two inches, gained five stone and had less hair. As a ‘Bloody Pom’ I found it best to adopt a Strine accent and award myself the butch Australian Christian name of, Jed. 
	The food’s on the hot-plate behind you. I hope you like spaghetti Bolognaise.”
	“Smells good. I hope you’ll eat with me? I don’t like eating alone.”
	“I can do. Bernard is eating at a friend’s house.”
 I watched Annie under my lashes as we ate together and reflected on the letter which caused me to depart for Australia. She wrote to tell me she was married, and in graphic terms that she didn’t want to see me ever again and that I should go with my parents to Australia. We have no future together. It is over between us. Please go! So I went but it was unfinished business, it prayed on my mind and Annie had become an obsession.
	“I like your son,” I said.
	“Bernard’s at a bit of a loose end, wondering what to do next. How long do you plan to stay?”
 
	“Not sure. This spaghetti is brilliant - if you can cook like this - maybe two or three years,” I said po-faced. She looked a little embarrassed - with the staring and the compliment - I think I had come on too strong.
	“What time is breakfast?” 
	“Eight o’clock. Full English?”
	“Sounds good. If you’ll excuse me, I need to catch-up some sleep.”
 
Ghosts of the past pursued me into the dark shrouds of sleep into my dreams. I was pushing a trolley in a supermarket. Annie was ahead of me. I was running, trying to catch-up - sending pyramids of biscuits, baked beans and apples cascading down and rolling in the aisle. I awoke. Then fell asleep again. I could hear her cries. She was sinking in soft sand. I was floundering and never could quite reach her. 
	I woke to the noise of the morning. The old house was creaking, the plumbing wheezing and I could hear domestic activity. Downstairs, Annie was laying the table for breakfast. “Can I help?” I asked. She looked up and laid her hands on her breasts in that manner women do when they’re startled.
	“You know I am married don’t you?”
	I didn’t know where that came from. “Well I presume Bernard has a father.” I replied not sarcastically and trying not to sound disappointed.
	“My first husband died and I married again.”
	“Married again . . . ” I repeated stupidly.
	“Yes, to a policeman. He’s away on training.”
	I was devastated. It was naive of me to think that I could walk back into someone’s life after all those years away. Fortunately she didn’t know who I was and I could walk out without her ever knowing.
	The breakfast arrived with enough cholesterol to destroy a regiment. She watched me eat. “Are you married?” She asked.
	“Me? No.” I stared down at my plate. “I never met the right woman,” I muttered. “Well I did once.”
	“You did? What happened?”
	“She left me. That was a nice breakfast. Thank you.” I walked away for the second time. It was not the resolution I’d hoped for and I slept miserably and fitfully. I was woken by tapping on my door. 
	“It’s me Bernie. Fancy a jar?”
	“Come in, “I said.
	He mimed drinking. “Fancy a noggin at the Green Man?”
	“OK. Give me a minute.” At least Bernie could give me all the news of his mother, although clearly now she was married there was no hope for me.
	Bernie insisted on buying the first round. Returned from the bar, he placed two pints of beer on the table with some deliberation as if it was some kind of punctuation mark and said: “I want to show you something, Jed.” He passed me a photo. “Who d’you think that is?”
	“I glanced at it quickly: “It’s you of course.”
	“It can’t be. I found it five years ago in one of mother’s drawers. I would have been only twelve then and you see how yellow and faded it is? It can’t be me.”He looked at me with some intensity. He turned the photo over. “There’s a name on the back.” He saw the startled look on my face. “You see how alike we are?” 
	Pieces exploded, shattered, rose in my head and dropped into place, to reveal part of the jigsaw puzzle. You think that. . .?
	“It has to be. I always understood Jack to be my father. But I never really knew him. He died when I was three. He was paralysed and mum pushed him everywhere in a wheel chair. They called her the Angel of Albert Road. It couldn’t be otherwise, could it? You and I are identical. I look nothing like Jack,” and then he added wistfully, “I would rather like to have a father.”
	“I never knew about . . . .I have a son, it will take a bit of getting used to. But your mother married again. You have a stepfather.”
 “Is that what she told you?” he grinned broadly. “There is no second husband. Mother tells that story about marrying a policeman to keep amorous lodgers at bay. She’s afraid you see. Mum likes you. She told me that this morning after breakfast.”
	I suddenly understood why Annie had given me the order of the boot: because she was married and pregnant - by me! I had met my son at a bus stop! “Here’s to us.” We clinked glasses of beer.
 
I don’t think Annie would have agreed to come if it hadn’t been for Bernie. “You know you love the park, mum. You haven’t been for a long time. I’ll clear away the breakfast things. Go on, ma”.
	It was a bright, brilliantined summer's day when we walked through the gates of the park. Annie seemed pensive but could not but be joyful pushed on a swing sending skirts and spirits flying. I led her through the rose garden on the same route we’d taken those many years ago. She was still a little reserved, and stiltedly asking if I missed England. 
	I recited a verse: “I travelled among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea. Nor, England did I know til then, what love I bore for thee. You wouldn’t expect a: wacko-the-diddle-o, amma-chisit Aussie to know poetry, would you, Annie?”
	I was rewarded with an, out-of-your-socks smile. “Oh look! The cafe’s open.” We sat at one of the small tables and a young, pinafored waitress brought a menu. “Fancy a pot of tea . . . toasted tea-cakes?”
 Annie nodded. “It’s strange,” she said, “A long time ago I used to come here with a friend . . . he was quite like you . . . he’d push me on the swings, recite me a poem, then we’d have tea at this same cafe.”	
	“You were lovers?”
	“How d’you know?” She bridled.
	“Parks are for dogs, children and lovers.”
	Absently she doodled a drop of spilt milk into a pattern on the table. “It was a long time ago.” 
	I sat back and waited. Beyond silence comes revelation.
	“I was married you see. But Jack my husband had an accident - on his motorbike. He broke his back and was paralysed from the waist down. He couldn’t . . .”
	“I see . . . and you wanted a child?”
	“Yes . . . “
	“What about your husband?”
	“Jack wanted a child too. He approved.”
	“I see. So once you got pregnant and got the child you wanted, you told your lover to piss-off.”
	“That’s horrible. It was nothing like that.”
	“When he knew you were pregnant your lover conveniently just ran away.”
	“No . . . Yes. I don’t know why he left me.” She hunted in her bag and brought out a packet of tissues. 
	“Do you ever think about him?”
	“How can I forget? He’s the father of my child and doesn’t even know he has a son.” She blotted moisture from her eyes.
	“They say you cannot go back to the past. Horses don’t graze backwards for obvious reasons.” 
	“I’m not a bloody horse,” she said, and that made her smile through her tears.
	Why had she lied about the letter and to someone she thought to be a complete stranger? But I had pressed the inquisition far enough. It was time to reveal myself. “What did your lover look like? Like me?”
	“He was smaller . . . about the same size as Bernard.”
	“Your lover was only eighteen then, perhaps he grew? He played football and had an L shaped scar on his knee. Didn’t he?” I pulled up my trouser leg and displayed the scar. She traced around it with her finger.”Is it really you?” she whispered.
	“Why did you lie? And send me a bugger-off letter.”
	“I did not!”
	“I have it still.” I pulled the letter from my wallet where I’d kept it all those years.
	She flattened it out, studying it carefully; then she took a pen from her handbag and wrote alongside the first sentence. “Compare the two? Do you see? It’s not my writing.”
	It was true, the writing was quite different. “Who wrote it then?”
	“It’s Jack’s writing. My dead husband wrote it.”
	“To get rid of me?”
	“I suppose you can’t blame him. Stuck in a wheel chair . . . he loved me and it was the only way to defend his marriage.” Her hands slid shyly across the table towards me. My hands closed over hers and all the summers between fell away as if they had never been.
 
THE END
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","September 07, 2023 11:57",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",gab1tr,Last Summer of Childhood,Jarden Jones,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gab1tr/,/short-story/gab1tr/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Sad', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
	I am three-years-old and have a 104-degree fever burning off my hearing but it will be a year or so after I kill my mommy before anyone notices. Mommy is making me take an ice cube bath. She calls the doctor once or twice a week about stuff but he don’t listen to her no more. He just tells her I’ll be fine, to fill the tub with ice and plop me in till I cool off. So that’s how Daddy finds us, me all over blue and Mommy on her knees crying next to the toilet. Daddy takes one look at me then we are running every light and sign on the way to the hospital but the more scary thing is how Daddy is yelling at Mommy.  He says the doctor don’t believe her on the count of her being a ‘damn hipe-no-driac’ or something. He’s yelling is so loud I can barely hear my mommy crying. At the hospital I tell Daddy it hurts when he squeezes me, so he lets go a little bit but mostly he just rocks back and forth saying he’s sorry over and over. Daddy is crying a little and that is the scariest thing yet. Later I wake up and everyone sounds far away and under water, like those old people from Charlie Brown. Like I said, it’s gonna be a while before anyone figures out I can’t hear good.  By then it’s gonna be all the scars and stitches that people notice mostly.
	I am like five and we go ridin’ on the motorcycle with my mama and daddy all the time.  I get to sit on the gas tank and put my hands on the handle bars. I like yelling “Look daddy, I’m driving!” This time we are going to San Isidro and this dumb old lady turns right in front of us. My daddy is looking at some old car on the side of the road so he doesn’t see her. I don’t think five-year-olds understand they aren’t in control even when their grubby little hands are on the handle bar. I panic thinking I should do something, anything, but instead I freeze up like a scared little baby so we crash. I smell the peanut like smell of oil as the forks crumple on her fender. I feel the shove as the bike spit us out over her hood and I see the face of the mean old lady, full of lines at pinched lips and dull eyes, it’s a teacher’s face. In the jumble I catch sight of Mommy as she flies over me, reaching for me. I hear the oddly musical twang of the barbwire when they are plucked loose of the fence posts as her body is ensnared in them. They sound like nothing so much as uncle Joe’s banjo before he tunes it. So hateful that sound.
	Now I’m sitting on the side of the road, next to someone with nice hands. They are stroking my forehead and hair. I am asking for water and my mommy. I can’t see my mommy on the count of that person is sitting between me and my mommy. Days later I am in the hospital room where I am whole up wrapped like a mummy from all the skin grafts when the doctors and nurses come silently filing in looking like nothing so much as an absurdly tall version of Missus Garza’s class when she walks us to the library or lunch room.  They all bunch up in our room and there is some talking but I don’t really understand it so I asks my daddy what it’s about. He says they are saying Mom went to see Jesus and can’t come home with us no more but I can’t cotton to it. I don’t think five-year-olds understand death either. Not really, not till much later.  When in a moment of forgetting they come racing into the kitchen with a skint up knee looking for cool wash cloth and a warm hug and instead are assaulted by a dark, hollow room. My dad does his best but he isn’t Mommy and he works in Kuwait so he had to quit to take care of me on count that I killed my mommy.
	In second grade my dad meets the nicest lady in the world. She has a daughter my age and her daughter doesn’t like me much.  So that isn’t great but the nice lady likes me and that is just about the neatest thing ever. Her daughter is pretty and popular too, but I’m not, not with all the scars and angry red stitches that can’t quite heal; no one talks to me but to run up jeering, “Hey melted man, it’s the melted man!” before tearing off, back across the playground, to the other kids with their cheers and laughter of welcome. One day the nice lady asks me if she can be my new mommy and I want to scream yes but instead I just start crying like the little baby I am. She hugs me and says I can cry as long as I need to ‘cuz she isn’t going anywhere. I’m getting another mommy! So stupidly I cry even more hard.
	A few weeks later my new mommy shows me some books with this girl holding a magnifying glass on the cover and says she liked to read them when she was little. I tell her I can’t read none. She says that is okay because she is going to show me how. She reads the whole book with me that week, and how I hate stopping to eat or go potty or to bed!  When she opens the covers of the book to read, she also opens the door to a world where I’m not a broken boy, I am not a school yard joke. When she reads, I’m not scared. When we finish, I ask her to read it again, but instead she just points to the first word. She shows me what the letters sound like, what they feel like, what they taste like. I want so hard to make her happy and I try so hard but I am just dumb like they say. In the end I get out a whole line and she says that’s enough for today, but later I steal the book to stare blankly at the black ink on the white page till I want to rip all the book apart. The next day, she shows me the next line. So it goes for the rest of the summer. My sister doesn’t have no trouble reading. I don’t know if it is about beating my sister or making sure my new mommy doesn’t leave me or maybe I just really do want to know if Nancy Drew ever figures out who stole that necklace, but when I start school next year I can read on my own. It’s around about this time they figure out about my hearing loss. Did you know it’s called a Frisbee, not a Crisbee? ‘Cuz I didn’t.
	In fourth grade I am a voracious reader of anything that is within my grasp; cereal boxes (collect 45 box tops and send them in for a secret decoder), tax papers (combine fields 4A and 21F and enter on line 35), even shampoo bottles (…repeat as necessary). Even when I am playing hide and seek I’m running around with a book so I can read while waiting for others to find me. As it turns out I need the book because I’m such a good hider. I figure I must be as no one ever seems to find me. Mostly I don’t have to worry about it too much as I don’t get picked for much when the kids are told to go play. It’s just easier to live out my time in a book then deal with others. When school finally lets out that summer, I take the same old meandering route home though back alleys. Alleys are good because I don’t have to dodge traffic or bullies while I read books. Mostly nonfiction by now. Being the son, grandson, and great-grandson of preachers, I’m not allowed to read any book that glorifies smart mouthed, disobedient kids who sass their parents (which is most of them). Nor can I read any book where the parents or adult figures are portrayed as dumber than the children (which is the rest of them). Spooky, supernatural paranormal goings on in book form? Right out, thank you very much and you knew better than to ask. Which is true.
	I know better than to ask when on the first day of summer break between fourth and fifth grade I find just such a book while cutting down a back alley on the way home. Peeking out of a half shredded Hefty garbage bag was the corner of a familiar shape. Some desperate night critter must have torn at the sack hoping for a tasty morsel but only found dry pages instead. After surreptitiously glancing around in a manner I imagine would have done James Bond proud, I gently enlarge the tear to see what is on offer. The very top book is The Shining by Stephen King. I pull it free and it seems to burn my fingertips in a way that isn’t wholly the result of the baking South Texas sun. After a moment I drop both The Shining and my current book to the ground.
	Oh bother, guess if I’m going to be such a butter fingers, I should just put my book in my bag and if the other one goes in too, well, who can think straight in this blast furnace of a state. I saunter to the end of the alley way, again very Bond like. I make the turn then my cool breaks; I run like gangbusters for the safety of the public restrooms in Archer Park. If anyone comes in demanding I return the book, I will just leave it on the floor of the bathroom and say it isn’t mine. Yeah, that will work. In retrospect taking a book from a pile that had been set out next a trash can doesn’t constitute grand larceny on my part, but then soon-to-be fifth graders aren’t well known for their reasoning capacities.
	I sit in a stall listening to my thudding heart for what seems like hours while looking at the half-torn cover. I savor the slowly cooling heat of it as it rests on my palms. I wonder if it truly is just the cooling off or is its presence slowly inoculating me to objections of my upbringing and conscience. The whole walk home I war with myself over what I have done. I know I am not supposed to read something like this but I justify it saying until I start, I am not disobeying my parents. I want so much to be a good son; I know I ruined my dad’s life and while I love my new mommy, I know it would be easier for her if I could be more like my sister. Still, when I get home, I stuff it in a corner of a treehouse I haven’t played in for years and studiously don’t think about it. I don’t think about it at dinner. I don’t think about in the shower. I am still not thinking about it while I toss in bed that evening.
	The next morning, I decide I will take the book back. As I walk it occurs to me that I can’t get into much danger if I just read the first page. Inside is a little voice telling me that I know better. I read the page anyway. Then I close it and walk on. Pretty soon I am sitting under an overpass wedged up in the corner were the older boys sometimes come to look at nudie magazines. It seems right, that I should be indulging in so illicit a thing here among the graffitied declarations of undying love from three-week long relationships and other things best left unnoticed. I read for three hours until with a start I notice a particularly brave rat has come to investigate my presence. I decide I need to find another place toot sweet and while Archer Park doesn’t offer much in the way of shade it is0 better than getting rabies from some sewer rat!
	This becomes my new normal, I sit on the bench within ear shot of the municipal pool where the older boys rule the deep end and try to peak down the bikinis of the older girls and splash them when they get caught all to the tittering of them both. My mom asks why I am away from home so much, she asks if I even read that book I wanted her to pick up from the library? I mumble something about making new friends. I think she is just happy that I’m ‘making an effort’. The only thing I’m making an effort at is understanding how this book is so much more real than any other. I wonder at the simple turn of a phrase and how it feels in my mouth and mind. I wonder that the pace of action is controlled as much by the syllable count as it is by the verbs. I am scared that when I set the book aside for a moment my hand idly reaches for it unbidden. I sneak it into the house and sleep with it like it is a security blanket. I feel myself changing, thinking new thoughts. I put off eating to read. I put off chores to read. I wonder if what the more zealous members of my grandfather’s church say is true, maybe King’s books are inspired by demons. I am lying to my family, keeping my obsession a secret but I’m not sure if it is to avoid getting in trouble or because I am frightened by this compulsive craving. All so I can read these greedy little words that seem to devour me as much as I devour them. Each sentence wraps its composition around me like ethereal tendrils. I think I might be hurting myself; it is the itch I’ve scratched raw and scratch still. I know I will hurt my family if (when, no if, just when) they find out. All this I know while sinking ever deeper into each character until I have become them. I am the father who wants desperately to do right but too weak to overcome addictions. I am the mother trapped by the willful blindness of past decisions. But mostly I am Danny. I am a small, scared little boy with an overly active imagination confronting things wildly bigger and more powerful than he. Things whispering of peace and oblivion. This is when it happens.  My fear is absolute, my belief is visceral. My experience is transcendent. I’m not the reader anymore.
	Breathing heavily, I slam the book shut. “It’s only a book, it’s only a book”, the mantra I chant to the timing of a slamming heart. I am between worlds. In one I sit only peripherally aware that my legs are full of pin and needles from the hours long trance. In another I stand on a dark precipice. Black ink, white page, misplaced conscience; how can this be happening? The turmoil in me is as real as the chill making my hair stand on end despite sweltering Texas sun. Slowly it dawns on me that I haven’t burst into flames for reading this book. The realization births something new and horrendous.
	Why have I been denied this? Why have I been locked into the pastel worlds of Ramona, Narnia, and Charlette’s Web when here is one so much more vivid and vital to explore! The exasperation swells, rebounding on itself. It courses up my chest and throat, the demonic inspired self-righteousness that is rage!  Rage is good, rage doesn’t hide. I can do something with rage! Not like fear. I know fear. I know loss. All those nights listening to a slumbering house and asking why didn’t I save my mommy? Why can’t I have friends like my sister? Why can’t I be normal? The nightly lamentations I cried out to the dark. From this red mist, something answers back.
	“Surely if you eat this apple, you will not die…” 
	The whisper so soft and alien it could be the rustle of long dead leaves in a lethargic August breeze; it is a thunderous command echoing up from the yawning maw within me. In a half-realized moment of willfulness, I have stepped outside the protective hedge offered by a mother and father knowing best; I have separated “me” from “us”. Right or wrong, I have reached for the forbidden fruit, I can never return to the garden.
	That was forty-five years ago.  I have walked hand in hand with authors whose ethos I despise and works I love. They have sometimes led me down dark and difficult paths, the wanderings of which have left well-worn trails I can trace like growth rings of a soul. Yet when I thing of that moment a life time ago, I am overcome with the sheer otherness of it. It is a moment I live still. 
	I am a little boy whose eyes won’t focus as a sad fullness of unexplored knowing settles and takes root.
	“Oh,” sighs a soft little voice before an infinitely larger world.
","September 08, 2023 06:29",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",11wc7k,What Was It,Lynne Boyd,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/11wc7k/,/short-story/11wc7k/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'LGBTQ+', 'Sad']",5 likes,"
It was my first. I had just turned 19, and before this I thought I knew everything. Turns out I didn’t know a damn thing about life. Or death. It felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to my gut, everything about me felt bruised and battered. My thoughts were racing so quickly I couldn’t speak, unable to grab a single word from my tornado brain. I was frozen, unable to move. This would be the day, the moment that propelled me into growing up, because now we were dealing with events kids should not have had to experience.
His name was Christian Brewer and he was a year younger than me. Just a kid. We were all just kids. It was 1970 and although he was of draft age, his number had not been called up, and if the politicians could agree on anything, soon the first troops would be pulling out of Vietnam. It was scary shit for all the boys, most who had never been further than Memphis, and surely had no desire to fight in a war that no one even understood why we were there. But I don’t think that was it. 
Everyone had an opinion. The parents were worse than us kids about sharing their assessment and opinion, their explanation pointing out how his life was different than their child’s, that nothing like that could ever touch their family. That generation was all about making sure things looked normal, perfect on the surface. You know, the duck model. Feathers smooth on top while paddling like a bat out of hell underneath. My own parents, as probably did most, told us that what happened at home stayed in the home. There was a lot going on in our house that I was too ashamed to tell anyone, so they didn’t have to worry about me sharing family secrets.
Everyone wanted to know what “it” was, the reason, the explanation, the cause. What do you think it is? Oh there’s no doubt it was because… The big it discussion and debate. Oh, people meant well, weren’t judging, well some were, but most hurt for him, and the family now. But this was not right, and we wanted to know why. What could be so bad that sticking a gun in your mouth was the best option.
That was also the summer the heat decided to enter the Olympics and break all sorts of records . Nine days in a row over 110, with the humidity at 120, making the air so thick it was difficult to breath, almost like there was steam coming from every direction. Years later I remember reading about a study of human behavior during periods of extreme heat, documenting a rise in domestic violence, homicides and of course suicides. Mental illness was a taboo subject back then. We might have a crazy aunt who lived in a back room of the house, but we surely didn’t talk about it or seek help. Just said she was crazy and kept her away from everyone. So if anyone was acting out, we slapped a label on them and pushed them into the shadows, or simply said “get over it”. Seeking help was not an option, because then we would be admitting there was a problem.
The day I got the news, I was working in the corner grocery, had been all summer, between my junior and senior year in college, and I was grateful for the walk-in freezer on those horribly hot days. I found excuses to get something, out of the freezer for a customer, check to see if we had more bone-in porkchops in the back. Anything to get out of the heat. The small window units on each end of the store couldn’t compete with the heat those days, one finally freezing up, had to be shut down until it thawed. 
As I said, it was my first suicide, unfortunately not my last, but it was my first, and the first leaves scars for months and years to come. I remember how I heard, where I was and what I was doing. It was one of those events people would ask in years to come, like where were you when Kennedy was shot, or Martin Luther King, or when Elvis died. But this was far more personal than a national tragedy, and the questions left unanswered left us all feeling helpless and lost.
I was putting out fresh fruit in the back when Jackie came tearing into the store hollering my name. I knew from the sound of her voice something wasn’t right. I met her in the middle isle, and the moment I saw the look on her face I wasn’t so sure I wanted to hear the bad news she was carrying.
“Jude, it’s Christian. He shot himself. Mr. Rooney found him in his truck this morning. He went looking for him because he didn’t come home last night.” She was talking so fast I could hardly process the words she was saying, the words seeming jumbled, awkward, flying past me, 
Jackie normally spoke with a slow Southern drawl adapted by all the well-off families, something passed on from a different era, a commonality of the “haves” and recognized by the “have-nots”. My family was somewhere in between so I blended in with both groups, knew how to fit in wherever I was. But today Jackie’s accent was gone and she talked as if in a race. “Can you imagine a father walking up on that scene? Poor Mr. Rooney. I just don’t know what to do. Oh shit! We need to find Sandy, let ‘em hear it from us.”
My shock and confusion still had my brain foggy. “Sandy? Why Sandy?”  
Wait. Sandy? And there it was. A secret love that Jackie knew, but the rest of us were totally clueless. I had never really known Christian to date anyone, just sort of moved with the group, and surely didn’t remember him taking anyone to a prom. But Sandy? 
Long before the days of cell phones and Wi-Fi towers, getting in touch with someone required quite a bit of thought and determination, neither of which I had an abundance of at the moment. My head was now hurting, results of the thought tornado, I suppose. “Where’s the phone?” Jackie sternly asked, up in my face, shaking me to attention. “Behind the counter” I managed to say and lifted my arm towards the phone, hidden behind the meat cooler, big and black, the receiver of which was so heavy it could have been used instead of that baseball bat to my stomach.
Jackie slipped around the end of the meat cooler. The phone was strategically placed with a long cord to be answered by the butcher, folks calling all day to put in an order for steaks or porkchops, the thickness determined by the customers idea of a perfect slab of meat, a bit of fat left for flavor. She picked up the receiver and began the circling of the phone number to reach Sandy. There must have included a nine or a zero, for it seemed to take forever or the dial to return to its home position. Jackie was one of those people blessed with a memory for numbers, or almost anything, but definitely phone numbers. She had Sandy’s number in that head of hers, god only knows why because there were no close ties. I couldn’t recall a single time Sandy ran around with our group, a close-knit tribe comprised of five bookworms, probably would have be called nerds today. We were all introverts, another label not given or understood back in 1970, but definitely one of the odd labels befitting our troop.
I could hear the phone ring once. Twice. And then who sounded to be Sandy’s mother answered and Jackie lost here nerve at that point, a long pause, she couldn’t seem to get it out. That rapid-fire speech of earlier was gone and she was desperately trying to speak. I nudged her side, and she finally said, “Mrs. Canon this is Jackie. Is Sandy around?”
“No sugar, that kid is down at the ballfield mowing grass and putting out lines. Spends every waking moment doing something with baseball.” She paused a minute. “Honey you okay?”
“Yes mam. I’m okay, thanks,” and hung up before Mrs. Canon could ask any more questions Jackie wouldn’t be capable of answering.
“Let’s go”
“I can’t go. I’m working.”
“Fuck that! You have to go with me. I can’t do this on my own.”
She was pulling on my t-shirt, dragging me towards the front door. Mrs. Owens was at the cash register, and I quickly threw some words out there that sounded like “emergency baseball field” or some other incoherent jumble of words. I didn’t give her time to respond, just rushed out the door as if our asses were on fire. They might as well have been. Beaten and battered, fire would be the next disaster.
We jumped in Jackie’s convertible and she threw gravel as she floored it out of the parking lot. The baseball field was only a few blocks from the store, she flew up behind home plate and cut the engine. Sandy was running the line from home to third, seemed to be the last one, the rest of the field all trimmed and marked for games to begin.
We slowly got out and Sandy was saying “What the hell? Brought a little dust with you didn’t you sista?”
He walked through the dugout and over to us behind home plate, immediately registering something was terribly wrong. Our faces couldn’t lie.
“What is it?
Jackie walked over to him and took his hands in hers. The chalk from the lines was up to his elbows and transferred to Jackie’s hands.
“Christian shot himself.”
As the words sank in, it looked like Sandy’s face was melting, every inch being pulled down by some unseen force.
“What? No, it can’t be…” The tears started then and he fell to the ground, holding his stomach, rolling around in the dirt. I thought about my reaction and maybe it’s a common thing for the pain to be physical, like a bat to the middle.
Jackie kept her hand on his shoulder but just let him feel his way through this news. She wanted him to get the initial shock done with while with no one else watching, knowing his having this extreme reaction would throw up some red flags, and the last thing anyone needed was some asshole giving their opinion. No, that would not benefit anyone.
Sandy finally pulled himself onto his knees and looked up at Jackie, tears running through the dust and chalk on his face.
I didn’t know. Hell I didn’t suspect it at all, but I supposed they did a good job of hiding it.
“His dad sort of caught us in the barn.”
There’s the it! Most people would never learn the true it, and lord knows it wouldn’t come from me, but if Bulldog Brewer caught his son doing anything with another man, it’s a wonder he didn’t kill him himself. Of all the fathers I could think of, Bulldog would be the last to understand and accept anything about this son being a homosexual. I had seen him berate Christian, slap him on the back and tell him to toughen up, be a man. Now Christian couldn’t be anything. Oh God my head hurt.
Sandy stood up and walked over to Jackie’s car. “Come with us Sandy. Everyone will be gathering at school circle.”
“I’m going home” he mumbled, shuffling like a person on doped with Thorazine. 
“Let us drop you off then. I don’t think you should be driving.’
Knowing he didn’t have the energy to argue, he hopped into the backseat without opening the door, and laid down facing the leather seat. I’m not sure he knew where he was, what was happening at all.
We pulled into the driveway at Sandy’s house, and I got out to walk Sandy to the door. I was about to turn the handle when the door opened and Mrs. Canon was starring at us, fully aware that something terrible had happened.
“Tell me,” she simply said, and I did.
A mother knows her child, and she took hers into her arms as he began to sob. They might never speak of it, never put into words the true pain Sandy was feeling, but she knew, and she would protect her son against everyone as need be. She knew what had to be done. She took him to his room and told his father he was sick. It wasn’t really a lie, chances were he would be throwing up soon. She would make him chicken soup and see to his needs as he hid away from nosey neighbors or judgmental so called friends. She would protect him, protect him from the people if not the loss. See, it was Sandy’s first too, as it was everyone at the school and in our small community. This first might be a result of it, but no one can truly know what goes on in a person’s mind. This first almost crushed all of us, changing the way we look at the world and each other, becoming more aware of each other’s blue moods. We became more careful with each other, more sensitive. Perhaps that’s the one good thing that came out of it.  
 
","September 08, 2023 19:42",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",oc82qh,Evelyn,Tsvi Jolles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/oc82qh/,/short-story/oc82qh/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Friendship', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
In the sultry air of a Columbia, SC summer, cicadas sang their age-old lullaby. But beneath their chorus, the distant strains of CNN whispered of tumult far away — Iraq's unexpected assault on Kuwait. As Shabbat cast its peaceful aura over the Shulman household, twin sisters Lisa and Evelyn stood at life's crossroads, beckoned by disparate callings. Lisa, sunlight dappling off her swimsuit, eagerly anticipated the refreshing embrace of water. In contrast, Evelyn, draped in her tallit, immersed herself in the melodies of her upcoming Haftorah. In just a week's time, she'd bridge the present with ancient voices, resonating from the synagogue's pulpit.
	From the porch, their father, Shlomi, observed his daughters with a heart full of complex emotions. Two faces so similar, yet their spirits resonated with distinctly different melodies.
	Their mother Bracha's concerns intensified with every subdued footstep in the synagogue's brightly lit corridors. The forthcoming Torah portion of Ki Teitzei was weighing heavily on her mind. ""What will they say if only Evelyn reads?"" she whispered to Lisa, hoping to steer her back to tradition. But Lisa's spirit was unyielding. Sensing the mounting tension, Shlomi stepped in gently, ""We mustn't push her. It could drive her away from the Torah permanently.""
	Amidst the flurry of activities and swelling emotions preceding Evelyn's Torah reading, Lisa's disheartenment couldn't be overlooked. Aunt Miriam, who was visiting for the weekend, was quick to pick up on it. With most of the family enveloped in preparations for Evelyn, Aunt Miriam softly ushered Lisa away, sensing the ebbing tide of her niece's self-worth amidst the spotlight on her twin.
	The idea, followed by a surge of elation, dawned on Aunt Miriam much like the delightful surprise of finding the afikoman during Passover seder. ""Why don't we all head to Lake Murray?"" she suggested, imagining a restorative afternoon of swimming and, perhaps, the chance to witness a spectacular sunset. Traditionally, Bracha would have been hesitant about trips on Shabbat. But Miriam's suggestion wasn't just another outing — it was a plea for familial bonding. Bracha, ever placing her family at the forefront, was always attuned to the strengthening ties between its members, especially outside of routine environments. Recently, the growing rift between the girls had become all too noticeable. On several occasions, Bracha had overheard remarks, only one of which came from a family member, questioning the girls' twin bond. ""Are you certain they were born together?"" one queried, and another even drew a stark comparison, suggesting they were like the female versions of Jacob and Esau.
	Initially hesitant, Bracha's reservations began to wane under Miriam's compelling arguments and her husband's assertion that this might be a salve for Lisa, who'd shown recent signs of depression. He reasoned that this would not be a desecration of Shabbat, as it could be categorized under the ""saving lives"" provision, which, by tradition, can override Shabbat laws. 
 
	Bracha paused to reflect. Her sister, after all, had always been a linchpin during family gatherings. Vivid recollections of Miriam hosting lavish dinners, knitting the family together over sumptuous meals, and her renowned cakes served as evidence of her talent for uniting kin. Moreover, Bracha couldn't overlook the deep connection between Miriam and Lisa. She remembered a tense day when Lisa had locked herself in her room, and Miriam had told her, ""Remember, sis, I was the black sheep in our family. I might have a clearer insight into what she's going through."" True to her words, it was Miriam who eventually coaxed Lisa out after two days of self-imposed isolation, without any sustenance.
	By 3:00 p.m., the Shulman household was abuzz with a different kind of energy. The car was packed, the mood lightened, and they set off for Lake Murray. The destination was a mere 30-minute drive from their Columbia home, yet for Bracha, the journey felt as profound and emotionally charged as an exodus.
	Aunt Miriam, never without a plan, chimed in, ""How 'bout we head to the east side of Lake Murray? You know, right by Sunset Beach. It's less of a scene, and they've got some solid places to relax and grab a bite."" Despite her New York twang, she spoke with the confidence of someone who'd lived in the Shulman's neighborhood for years.
	Upon arrival, the family was greeted by the serene ambience of Sunset Beach. It wasn't swarming with visitors, just as Miriam had predicted. They laid out their blanket on the grassy shore, momentarily basking in the unusual ambiance of this unique Shabbat.
	It didn't take long for the girls to sprint towards the refreshing water. Lisa noticed Evelyn had left her goggles behind and graciously offered hers. They plunged into the water, their laughter echoing across the lake. While Shlomi often joined his daughters in their aquatic frolics, today he opted to recline alongside Bracha and Miriam, observing the twins' playful antics.
	As the day wore on, the essence of Shabbat revealed itself in new ways. The customary synagogue visits and rituals were replaced with the simple joys of nature and togetherness. Aunt Miriam, leaning back on her elbows, remarked, ""There's a sacredness in this too, don't you think?"" Shlomi nodded in agreement. 
	Though Bracha's orthodox inclinations made her feel somewhat displaced, her discomfort was clear. She whispered, ""I'm just not sure about this — a beach day on Shabbat."" But as the horizon was drenched in the golden glow of sunset and her family's laughter filled the air, she found solace, describing it as “undeniably reminiscent of a Jewish spirit.”
	As the family reveled in their merriment, Aunt Miriam unveiled a spread of delightful treats she'd thoughtfully brought along. Not long after indulging, a feeling of discomfort developed in Bracha's stomach, perhaps from one of the desserts. Being more familiar with the western beaches of the lake from previous family outings, neither she nor Shlomo knew the exact location of the nearest restrooms. Following usual Shlomo fashion, he guided his wife to the restrooms, about 400 feet away from their beach seating, behind a secluded cluster of trees.
	Suddenly, over the soft sound of the waves, Lisa caught a frantic cry. Whipping her head around, she saw Evelyn struggling in the water, her confident swim strokes replaced by panicked motions. Fear shot through Lisa; she was a fair distance away, having been immersed in a long freestyle swim.
	With every ounce of strength, Lisa powered through the water towards Evelyn. But time, it seemed, moved in a cruel sprint. By the time she reached where Evelyn had been, her sister was nowhere in sight. The once comforting waters had turned murky, and Lisa's vision was obscured by the gathering darkness. She tried diving deeper, but the watery abyss offered no trace of Evelyn. Every second felt like an eternity as reality's weight bore down on Lisa's heart.
	Returning from the restroom, Shlomo and Bracha were immediately met with the alarming sound of distressed shouts. A chilling premonition seized Shlomo: Evelyn. He berated himself for not keeping a closer eye on her, knowing she wasn't a proficient swimmer. While he raced to the water's edge, heart pounding, Bracha found herself paralyzed with shock, sinking to the sand.
	As Shlomo neared the commotion, a harrowing realization dawned: it was Lisa's voice ringing out, not Evelyn's. Without missing a beat, he plunged into the water, making his way to a distraught Lisa. With her breaths coming in ragged sobs and tears blurring her vision, she managed to utter the devastating words: ""Evelyn... she's gone under.""
 
In Lisa's fractured memories of that cataclysmic day, the immediate aftermath was a haze, a void she hadn't consciously chosen, but which her mind had shielded her from. The past and present seemed to blend, distorting her sense of time. The aftermath of that summer was what stood out vividly: the unraveling of familial bonds and traditions that once held them close.
	Her mother, Bracha, the Orthodox pillar of the Shulman family, was wracked with guilt. She blamed herself for that Shabbat outing, believing if they had observed the day traditionally, by staying home, Evelyn would still be alive. Embarking on a new journey as an artist, she painted numerous heartfelt portraits of her dearly departed daughter. Among these, one particularly poignant piece depicted a baby, eerily serene. Gazing at the portrait, Lisa inquired, ""Who is this?"" Her mother responded with a heavy heart, ""That's Evelyn, the first one. I had a stillbirth five years before you two were born.""
	As time passed, Bracha's staunch adherence to orthodoxy began to fade. Under Miriam's influence, she remained devoted to observing Jewish holidays with deep respect but became more lenient regarding the finer details. The tragic loss of Evelyn just a week shy of her Bat Mitzvah created a deep rift between Bracha and her faith. Even the consistent outreach and support from friends in the Jewish community, including the Rabbi's weekly calls and visits, couldn't bridge that gap.
	In contrast, Shlomo's response to the tragedy was distinct. Previously a liberal, progressive believer, the weight of Evelyn's death pulled him strongly toward orthodoxy. Drawing from Bracha's former beliefs, he became haunted by the notion that their daughter's untimely passing might be a divine signal, or even a retribution.
	As the years went by, Shlomi’s dedication to the synagogue grew. Once an occasional attendee, he became a fixture, never missing a service. And by the time he turned fifty, he had taken on the revered role of the Gabai, the main assistant in the religious services. His faith, once casual, had become the cornerstone of his existence, a healing balm for the raw wound Evelyn’s death had inflicted on him.
	What was meant to be a celebratory milestone, Evelyn's Torah portion reading, shifted into a moment of profound sorrow. Instead of basking in the warmth of Evelyn's voice echoing verses from the sacred text, the Shulmans were enshrouded in the solemnity of Shiva, grappling with the incomprehensible loss of their beloved Evelyn. 
	As she watched the unraveling threads of her family, Lisa shouldered a burdensome weight of guilt. She tormented herself with thoughts of not being close enough to Evelyn, of not discerning her sister's distress in time. At her most vulnerable, a treacherous thought would creep in, suggesting perhaps she had subconsciously allowed her sister to struggle. Even though she recognized the irrationality of such a notion, it persistently gnawed at her soul.
	Grief, guilt, and loss brewed within her, but one particular manifestation of her coping was unique. Lisa began to write. At first, it was cathartic journal entries, pouring her feelings onto paper. But gradually, stories began to form — tales of twins separated, of redemption, of memories trapped in time.
	In a touching homage to Evelyn, Lisa chose to sign her stories with her sister's name. It was her way of giving Evelyn a life she could no longer live, a voice that had been silenced too soon. Through words, Lisa kept her sister alive, ensuring that every story, every emotion, every character was a testament to the bond they once shared. It was more than just a pen name; it was a lifeline to the past and a promise to never forget.
	The shadow of Lake Murray loomed large over Lisa's formative years. She would often find herself drawn to the lake's edge, feeling an eerie pull towards its depths. There were moments when the siren call of the waters tempted her with thoughts of escape, a chance to be reunited with Evelyn, or simply to be free from the oppressive weight of her memories.
	With adolescence transitioning into adulthood, Lisa slowly began to extract herself from the grip that Lake Murray had on her psyche. It helped when the family, seeking a fresh start and perhaps an escape from their own shadows, relocated from Columbia, SC to Hiawassee, GA.
	Years later, her ties to Columbia reduced to a string of fragmented memories, Lisa did venture back a couple of times. The visits to the lake were brief, just fleeting moments by its edge. She didn’t linger, for the sorrow, though dulled by time, still resided there, and the waters still whispered Evelyn’s name.
 
*
 
On that uncanny Shabbat afternoon, Lisa carefully packed a bag, prepping for a visit to her ailing father in the local hospital near Hiawassee. Everything around her seemed surreal, as if the threads of reality were slightly askew. A documentary on the war in Iraq, which had concluded 35 years prior, played on the TV in the living room. The imagery of that distant conflict, set against her current emotional turmoil, felt both fitting and out of place. It was as though life was presenting her with a cyclical narrative, on the brink of coming full circle.
	A gut feeling, an eerie certainty, told her this might be their last encounter. Grappling with this realization was heart-wrenching, yet in a strange way, freeing. As the years had rolled on, their bond had transformed from a lifeline into a weighty tether. While they had once stood strong for one another, the foundations of their bond had weakened over time. Their relationship now was but a faint echo of its former depth. Lisa still found herself attuned to his well-being, hanging onto his every word. Yet, she had also learned to distance herself, to lessen his sway over her emotions and choices.
	Slipping into her car, Lisa started the engine, its familiar purr offering a small solace. As city streets transitioned to the open highway, the significance of this journey wasn't lost on her. On any ordinary Shabbat, her father would have frowned upon such an act, but today was far from ordinary. There was a subtle reversal of roles, and for once, Lisa felt the reins of control firmly in her grasp.
	Upon arriving at the hospital, the atmosphere grew thick with unsaid emotions. In the muted beige room, only the rhythmic beeping of machines punctuated the silence. Lisa's gaze met her father's – eyes that were once vibrant now dimmed by age and sorrow. They locked in a dance of unspoken memories. Every glance between them told stories - tales of joyous celebrations, hard losses, and silent struggles.
	Shlomo, his voice frail but his intention strong, attempted to comfort Lisa. ""There were times these past few weeks,"" he whispered, ""when the weight of it all felt unbearable. But the verses, the Psalms... they anchored me."" As he spoke, Lisa felt a rush of emotions, tears tracing pathways down her cheeks. For a fleeting moment, a thought, dark and desperate, whispered in her mind: the idea of releasing him from his anguish, perhaps by disconnecting the life-sustaining machinery. 
	To lift their spirits, they delved into familiar topics—Judaism, Israel, and the Bible—a subject matter that always animated Shlomo. As they conversed, Lisa noticed her father's countenance brighten, his mood lifting. But soon, fatigue overcame them. They both drifted into sleep, with Lisa nestled in a chair beside him. 
	In the depths of slumber, Shlomo murmured, mourning Evelyn's unimaginable loss, their shared wound. ""She was such a flower,"" he whispered, his last words about his beloved daughter and, as fate would have it, his last words ever. Just a few moments before, Lisa awoke to hear those last words of his. In a matter of minutes, he was dead.
 
Lisa drove home, tracing the same path she had taken to the hospital, resisting the navigation's alternative routes. There was a haunting significance to retracing those exact steps, a silent tribute to the last journey she made to see her father. Once home, she locked the door and succumbed to her emotions. Her tears flowed not just for the recent loss of her father, but for that fateful day years ago. A day when mere meters and moments had separated her from saving her sister Evelyn from drowning. 
	As the hues of dusk painted the sky, Lisa's mind drifted to Benjamin, the man who had unexpectedly become a cornerstone in her life over the past few months. Like her, he had recently suffered the loss of his father, George. At first, his frequent reminiscences about his dad had puzzled Lisa. But now, she recognized a reflection of her own quiet musings in his words. The landscape of her heart was changing; she was drawn to confide in Benjamin about the tender and tumultuous memories of her own father. While she still had the distant presence of her mother and Aunt Miriam, newly remarried to a Parisian pastry chef, it was in Benjamin's company that she felt a compelling need to unveil her most profound emotions.
	She hesitated for a moment, fingers trembling, before dialing his number. ""Benjamin, my father... Shlomo Shulman, he's gone,"" her voice barely more than a whisper. He responded with gentle assurance, promising he'd be there soon. As she ended the call, she found herself drawn to the window, straining her ears amidst the city's nocturnal hum. Each passing car heightened her anticipation, but she yearned for the distinct rumble of his Ford Mustang. In the chorus of the night, that sound would be her beacon, and right now, it was the lifeline she clung to.
","September 08, 2023 19:57","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'So realistic. Nice unveiling of relationships. Heart-rending feelings.', 'time': '21:43 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Tsvi Jolles': ""Thank you, this was the last in the series, maybe. I'll try to pack them all into one novel or a story collection that acts like a novel."", 'time': '12:08 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tsvi Jolles': ""Thank you, this was the last in the series, maybe. I'll try to pack them all into one novel or a story collection that acts like a novel."", 'time': '12:08 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",laaav3,"Dream away, my child.",Gayathri Venkatesh,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/laaav3/,/short-story/laaav3/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Desi', 'Friendship']",5 likes,"
""Freshly cut mangoes, dosas, people, kids cycling, the breeze of fresh air, scooter, colony friends, grandmother, love, laughter, and a mountain of memories.""Raji types this, looks away from her laptop, and takes a long sigh, She is trying hard to write about the summer for a contest as she really needs the money to boost her confidence being an amateur writer, She suddenly closes her laptop and walks away to her desk, picks up her brown diary, opens it, and flips through the pages in a hurry, keeps it back and stomps her feet twice on the ground, grabs her purse and rushes down the stairs only to take a walk on the street, she passes by kids playing hide and seek, Neeta Aunty waving at her from the opposite end of the street, she waves back and starts walking slowly, trying to recollect the memories of her favorite summer.The thing with Raji was that all her good and happy memories start and end with her grandmother.-Ever since she lost her, Raji has been confused about a lot of things in her life, her own self, her career, her purpose in life, and her interests, This summer was different than the rest, it was the first summer she had without her grandmother around, she was forced to accept the brutal fact that laid blatantly in front of her, the truth about her losing her favourite person in the world, and sometimes, in life even if you are not ready to grow up, the situation that lies in front of you doesn't really seem to care about your likes and dislikes, now coming back to Raji, she was a child at heart and when I say a child, I mean she was pure and stubborn, she never really thought much before doing anything, if she wanted something, She would really plead for it and it was not a problem for her to befriend anyone, neither was being kind, infact kindness was something that just came to her, just like brushing her teeth, she never hurt anyone, neither did she like if someone would cry or get hurt because of her so she would lie in order to please them, sometimes, she would go too overboard with her lies inevitably hurting at least one person along the way (this is the only unhealthy- hypocrytic trait that she had), but as time passed, she came to terms with the fact that other people's moods were not in her control, in fact, all she had to do was lead an honest life which made her feel at peace, and people around her automatically would feel comfortable, but this summer had other plans for her!Raji spent a lot of time on social media, and she came across a lot of videos on Instagram about how mental health is important, As she researched more and more about it, the types of disorders, why talking about feelings matters, the significance of the well-being of our minds, almost all summer, she noticed how sad she was, realizing that her grandmother passing away and her desire to disappear, leaving her parents behind was more than just a whimsical thought, it had to do something with her mind being unstable, perhaps, not being able to process grief the best way, she thought.All her childhood, Raji was treated with love and even on the days she was not, our little Miss. Brightside would always look at the glass half full, she had nothing to complain about, Although her parents would argue with each other most of the time, they stayed together because of her and her brother, She knew they sacrificed a lot to raise her, and the only time she felt the most happy was during summer, when all four of them would visit their grandmother in Coimbatore and ensure Raji had a month of fun, everyone in this small town knew her grandmother, which made Raji feel no less than a celebrity, she was highly pampered. Both of the siblings used to spend all day playing with kids their age and after coming back home, they would get treated to yummy South Indian delicacies every day.All the families from the colony would come to greet Raji and her family with the warmest of smiles, snacks, and stories, It was these summers that made Raji a dreamer, she would always take everything in stride, but again, coming back to the present, even though she is adamant to claim that she no longer resonates tothe person she used to be, and isolates herself from the optimistic, nature, and people-loving self in her, She can not stop dreaming, her views about herself right now are that she is a problematic person, one who is constantly at war with herself.You see, it is easy for her to put everything on herself, This goes back to when Raji was seven years old when she made a pact with herself that she would never blame anyone for what happens to her, She was very particular about this, and, as she grew older, even if some problems were caused because of someone else, she would convince herself that it was her fault, and not let herself feel the pain, hurt, or jealousy, It was her way of running away from conflicted emotions, with a facade of an act of forgiveness, quite a twisted genius, if I must say.The only times she has ever gotten angry is either due to her own lies or on her parents, Surprisingly the rules of not hurting don’t apply when it comes to family!-As she returns from her walk with thoughts clouding her head,making her eyes watery, she opens her laptop to write about the summer she wished she had this time instead of the one she actually did, she continues to weave the spun of lies, her piece titled “An adult summer”.It is about how the child in her never died, except for the occasional gossiping with her friends, and how she found her love interest in Coimbatore during the summer, making a full circle, She goes on to elaborate on the times she held hands with them and talked about the future, how she introduced them to her grandmother, and how her grandmother distributed sweets to everyone in the colony announcing Raji and her love, she took both of them shopping, made them eat her special dosas and red chutney, how she finally published a book, and how everything in her life is exactly going as she wanted it to.After finishing her piece, she looks at her writing, and she once again takes a loud sigh, Now feeling grateful that she could dream, she closes her laptop and takes out a photograph of her grandmother from her diary, She kisses the photo and mumbles ""thank you, friend, for teaching me how to dream.""Raji always can count on words to make herself feel better, Whatever she is going through, whoever she has become or becoming, no situation or person can take out the dreamer that she is and always will be, all because of an angel- her grandmother.
","September 08, 2023 20:37",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",lr1w62,The Gravity of Summer,Joseph Kunkle,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lr1w62/,/short-story/lr1w62/,Character,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],4 likes,"
	The Gravity of Summer
	Josie woke in an eerie darkness, where neither starlight, moonbeam, nor sunshine ever entered. The only light is fashioned to the Red Hermit’s head. Grudgingly, he’ll exchange this bottomless darkness for another form of gloom - by dying - by poison.
	Josie says, “What's that sound?” The Hermit jerks his head. Carbolic light transits away from Josie’s face. It pierces and then hovers like a UFO in the cavernous vault of deception. 
	Something is there. Frozen. In a side drift. A rat? No. It’s a pareidolia articulated from bits and pieces of their worst fears.
	Smears of guano glisten in the light. Smooth. In contrast to rust-stained quartz and limestone. The abyss gives up no revelation, only murky reflections of gray light. The Hermit's search for the ruckus comes up void.
	She says, “I’m scared. I want to go home.”
	The Hermit snuffs out the headlamp. Waits in the dark for visual purple to illuminate. But it doesn’t. Softly, he says, ""You can't.""
	…
 
	The psychosis that haunts Josie Jo Joleen stymies her; she safely cocoons from her terror by wrapping herself up in a mummy bag of catatonic sleep. Surprisingly, the ringing chatter of an old rotary-styled phone does not wake Josie Joleen. In the corridors of her slumber, she inspects her lacquered fingernails. Bored, she taps them impatiently, waiting for the inherent static of the black Bakelite receiver to subside. Her ‘well…who is this?” echoes. Her voice is weepy with the lonely tone of midnight drear near the edge of ‘end-of-life.’ Her childhood, long ago, frittered away, scattered in a strange darkness creeping in and out of time. 
	Her father’s voice sieves through the static, “Joleen, Uncle Bud passed in his sleep.”
	“The Hermit? When?”
	“Alone in a shanty behind his brother’s house. He’d come to the main house for breakfast and said, 'There's a face in my toast.' He didn't come back for lunch.”
	That place. It’s on the outskirts of a derelict, forgotten mining town, misplaced in the lore of places gutted for gold, cinnabar… and silver.
	Evidence indicated her father’s uncle departed unwillingly. His lungs had panned out; he had sat upon a three-legged stool and spit out a tobacco-colored-gag of mercury and silica from his sluggish lungs. Chin, resting upon his chest, a wheezed cough had strained through the pickled porosity of his lungs: a kind of shrill complaint sloughing from deep inside. Coughing up tissue the color of infection and consistency of granular phlegm, he’d spit out host tissue, clumped like cottage cheese riddled with coffee grounds and marked by hypoxic events and cannibalized wormholes lined with nurse cells.
	Joleen’s eyelids sputter. She puts down the receiver, hangs up on the light of the future, and dials up the darkness of the past.
 
	…
 
	Josie breaches her cocoon. It’s still dark. A pang of déjà vu'.
	“Did you hear that?""
	“I can’t see.”
	“It’s the lamp in your eyes.” The phosphorescent limelight peals away from her face. “Josie, something’s up there, or something’s way down below us.”
	The sound of wood splintering surges. The Hermit stiffens. The door is getting bludgeoned. “Josie, Diablo’s in the line shack.”
	“It’s caving it. It’s coming for me. Don’t leave me.” But he does. Abandoned in the darkness, Josie drops the pneumatic shank. Pus-colored dust billows, mixing with the thud and clang, liberating the residual smelt of burnt cordite and fine fibers of dynamite casement. With a wave of her ungloved, creamy white hand, she fans away crystalline nodules of silicosis and moves to the main shaft. Beams of light from the Hermit’s headlamp go ricocheting off stones. Light splinters. Some slivers are caught up in the naked lightbulbs dangling from a frayed electrical wire strung from topside and down the entire length of the down-shaft. The bulbs sparkle like fireflies in a bottle. Dust mixing with topside light and downside darkness creates a halo. Through which the Hermit tunnels.
	She hesitates to follow. To do so, she’ll have to cross a vertical shaft. When with the Hermit, he ties a rope to her and coaxes her to scoot across the extension ladder. She heard it creak a moment ago when the Hermit crossed. She calls out for help. “Come back.” But he doesn’t. He’s gone.
	Midway across, the ladder creaks and wobbles. Small pebbles disappear into the vortex of black. Cries of a fallen tin can ping; a tinny - ting, ting, and lesser tings until it’s too far away or stuck on a ledge or hit bottom.
	The misanthrope is absent when she reaches the fusion between the line shack and the mine shaft. Outside sounds of struggle burst past the busted door. That’s hanging askew. The lowermost hinge of hairless cowhide has jagged edges where it’s ripped in two, on a diagonal going end to end.
	Pale and dusty, Red comes walking, comes talking. ""What do you have there in your hand? Let me see. Gold? Give it up.""
	""No.”
	""No, what?
	“Not Gold.”
	“Then what?""
	""Silver.""
	He pries Josie's hand open. “Thought I trained you better."" Ruthlessly, he tosses the cuboidal galena onto the roadway. “Worthless.”
	His willowy form sways, arcing toward Josie. Ground level, his eyes draw her. He's crying. She looks away for fear that she’ll begin sobbing. And he’d turn vengeful.
	""I'm sorry,"" he says, ""Gold did it. Not Gold itself, but the love of Gold. For gold is good. It's the love a man has for it - that's what's bad. It blackens your heart, like Loretta. Women are like those lizards that move all jerky-like—doing fancy one-handed push-ups. They have graven eyes in robotic orbs that move independently of one another. One eye is slyly looking at you while the other is winking at 'Sancho.' ""
	 ""I don't know no 'Sancho.' Are you going to hurt me like she got hurt?”
	“'Sunshine,' Loretta didn’t get hurt; she just went missing. Now, Sancho, that's another animal altogether. Sanchos are chameleons, another lizard that looks you in the eye like he's your best friend. But he’s something else. Pray you don't come across one. But you will. Go through life unbent by the wind, unburnt by sun rays, and unspoiled by nits, fungus, or greed. Then, in one sideways glance, it's over; you're sick. No. I’m not going to hurt you.""
	After loading high-grade ore, the Hermit moves about as though nothing happened. As though what happened on the tailings was merely a passing circumstance that never entirely became fully formed. As they drive off, Josie looks behind at the tailing's edge. The ore cart rails spiked out into the valley, a tram at the end of the line. It's quiet. It's calm. Perhaps nothing had happened.
	The Hermit gets a flash of Loretta, and though the Jeep’s on the downside, he steps on the gas. Josie braces. The truck trudges over a stout clump of sage, and careens into a badger hole. “You, okay? You’re bleeding.”
	“I’m okay. ”
	“Saw something in the road. Tried to speed around it.”
	Wheels spin. “Are we stuck? Getting dark.""
	“No, not stuck."" Madly clutching, shifting, gassing, and braking the truck rocks. Dust, bark, and burnt rubber sting Josie's eyes. ""There, see. Not stuck. Satisfied?""
	""Yes.""
	They remain silent until the headlights of his WWII Willy truck highlight shrubs, divots, and adolescent profiles. “There they are.”
	Since they were toddlers, they have spent their summers here.
	In a twitch, the Hermit’s bent finger points out scattering figures, ""Yeah, your kindred..."" his fingers twitch again, ""Ah...my grand nephews, and that twice removed weird kid, 'Rabbit.'""
	""Cousin Steve."" 
	""Gives me a queer Heebie-jeebies.” 
	The outlines do not move from their infant campfire. Red shrugs and moves away from her. He struggles with canvas bags of 'high-grade' ore. He drags and rolls each off the tailgate. Josie watches him rub his left arm. It dangles listlessly as his right hand gives up the pain to palpitate scraps of yellow legal paper tucked in his breast pocket. He gazes at the ore sacs. He gasps for air and hangs the sigh in long barbs that litter nights like this. Resting on the Jeep's running boards, he indulges a long drag and flicks the butt of his home-rolled burner out from his shadow and into a gutsy fire set by fearful little boys.
	His hair frazzled, his grim frame and distorted features depart obscurity. He complains, ""A fire, that's not good...I use propane...well, now... I only need a few coals for my squaw tea. An enormous fire...any fire draws too many things out from out there. Darkness kills, and darkness gives birth. The father of all kinds of violence. And mistakes. Josie, didn't you tell them, ‘No fires.'""
	“Yes.”
	“Then why?”
	“They don’t listen to me.” 
	They smirk, 'Ha ha ha, Josie is in trouble.'
	He jabs at the thin air. Eyes widen. Bad behavior leeched white and clean by the campfire. He says, ""You think it scares things away - well, I tell you, it doesn't."" He charges toward the cowering hutch of tangled arms and pleas. ""Shut up. See, flames bring them here. You think the desert dries you out - well, sometimes it waters you, but now, a little spark can set her into a horrible craze.""
	Huffing and puffing, circling the fire like a basement train sparking and smelling of oil and burnt hair, he gives Josie a sour look. He stomps off and returns with a battered coffee pot. That he places upon a ridge of coals. Again, he plods off, snatches a stand of dead squaw brush, and throws the thistles into the blackened pot.
	Squatting, he pulls a stick from the fire and lights a back-rolled cigarette twisted into shape by his knurled fingers. His thin lips tweezer the home-rolled burner, which dangles in agitation as he resumes his reprimand. ""You thought you were all smart by building your fire here. I must give you credit for building it on the far side. Too bad you couldn't be on the far side of tomorrow, then you wouldn't be here today... didn't Josie tell you about fire?”
	""No.” They lied.
	“Josie, it matters.""
	He checks the squaw tea. Thumping his chest, he sighs before going on. ""Now - about hiding the fire from the view of the roads - that's what you wanted to do. I see that - so you built your fire on the roadless side - didn't' you? Have you ever wondered why there are no roads on one side? This side. Let me tell you. We are on the far side of nowhere. It would be best if you learned we're under the influence of Death House. That is where we are. What is out there? Why are there no roads out there? What do you think your bonfire is drawing out from that roadless sage?"" He wipes spittle from his lips and ash from his eyes. ""I can see it like the night it happened: moonlight caught in puffy snowflakes like a groom's clumsy fingers caught in a fluttering bridal shroud. The ground is like sugar. Everything cloaked in a veil of hoarfrost from that warm spring marsh, downwind of that Death House."" He points toward the roadless landscape, where no one goes.
	He tilts his head. Josie thinks the crazed prospector is trying to catch a voice or release one. Casting his hand in all directions, the old man says, ""Ssh, do you hear that?”
	He’s livelier than ever.
	""What is out there at this very moment? Just like this burnt toast, I see the crucified face of Christ. Crying out. But her mouth is bound. Nonetheless, she’s crying out from there. Wants you to join her and her young one. Now, before what's out there gets here, let us pray.” He bows, “Dear God - have mercy.”
	“God have mercy.”
	His lips quiver as if massaging a world into existence. ""Now, secrets hate silence. Secrets are killers of conspiracy. Cause secrets lie. Saying hush when they want to talk. We all have secrets to keep that fit like prosthetic words and feel like re-attached limbs. That doesn’t function well. But better than nothing. Misery is just another thing to take to the grave. You can only bury your Frankensteins once you have all the pieces. Secrets, of desires, I’ve stitched into the heart of the body. And if you all listen up, I will tell you all about the secret of 'Death House.”
	They nod.
	“It begins with being alone with an infant. At this moment, she's battered and bruised, moaning in the wind, separated from us, down there in the house skirting that experimental wheat field. The place is strange, with mud and stone walls made not to reach the ceilings. Beams that now look like broken arms. Rafters now litter the site, like the skeleton of a horse dead a long, long time. Bleached and weathered rib cage, scattered vertebrae. Broken glass - chipped into the size and shape of teeth—shards of English-China.
	“But first, this fire you children set. You feel safe in this little heaven of light. But it's a poorly lit purgatory closer to hell than heaven. Don't you hear those awful sounds? Voices. And gossip of people gone missing.""
	Though a high desert chill endows the night, he tilts back his Fedora and backhands some sweat from his brow that is white as a skull in contrast to a face burnt to a scarlet sheen and peppered with blackheads set in blisters as white as dolomite chalk - on asphalt. He grunts as he pushes a few ill-aligned barrier stones into the reef of coals with the toe of his boot.
	""But you will know when the monsters come to choke the living fire out of you. For a while, you know it's upon you. You’ll see something leap from the darkness. Cause you have a campfire to see it. Leaving you time to SCREAM. But the fire; that’s your big mistake.""
	Long after his recollection of the Death House, Josie is counting backward. Still, she doesn’t fall asleep. And though tucked in her mummy bag, she sees herself walking about. Adrift in the pale approach of midnight, fully illuminated by a full moon. That rose before sunset. She fears the white globe will linger well past sunrise. Spying and chucking things into the shadows – skirting their camp. Gaining bravado, they prowl openly, cohabitating in the inkwell spilled upon the nocturnal blight. Conflicting thoughts go round and round in the frosty texture of moonshine.
	There's something out there veiled in a scream coming from those abandoned. Josie cocks her head to hear the error found in the old man’s tale. Something ghosted in the whisper of her warning. ‘Will I live through the night?’
	Time crawls. At dusk, she’s nudged by the smell of half-burnt exhaust and the sputter of the idle of a bipolar engine. She sits up when the squeal of a fan belt stops. ‘The Jeep is warmed up; he'll leave soon.’ The other kids are piling into the bed—the motor mounts worn to a wobble, protest by clang and clatter. The Hermit stands on the horn. All in, Jeep lurches out of the gully. They hope the contraption makes it eight miles to the gravity mill.
	Even though he has no basketball-sized rubble to dump into the jawbreaker, he parks there. It's flat and free of rift raff, nails, and shards of torched iron. He's done all the work from the grizzly to the jaw crusher, to another grizzly to a conveyor that goes up, then down to the ball mill. The Hermit had hauled this relic from the Klondike. Left there after the gold rush of British Columbia. From there, the trough carries the sludge to the amalgam tables, where capillary action or some attraction happens, resulting in the quicksilver swabbing up the gold.
	The children snicker at Josie as they head out to go 'prospecting.' She has to work for the Hermit. If lucky, the youngsters may find an arrowhead, a piece of one – which they call ‘partials.’ And there’s always the possibility of a semiprecious gem or a fossil. They'll likely find a depression-era can, which is only 30 years old. But that’s old to them.
	The Hermit descends through a man hatch. Once in the gullet of the ball mill, he ignites the welding rods. This is where Josie poisoned the Hermit. She thought and behaved in a juvenile way.
	When the youngsters return, the Hermit lay on the concrete floor. A milky drool runs down his shirt into his breast pocket, staining the yellow legal paper. Josie tells the youngsters what she has done.
	No one has ever revealed her secret. Now that he has died alone in a shanty behind his brother's house, someone might talk about what happened that summer when they all more or less came of age by the magnitude of the tragedy. Josie thought she had grown up by confessing to the youngsters. But now she doubts it.
	…
 
	Joleen said goodbye to her father and laid the receiver in its cradle. Through the static of time emerges the Hermit’s voice, ""What's that sound.” It echoes within a pattern that looks like a life frozen in a cavern. She understands she had not grown up 'strange' that summer. It was not the summer of change held dear. She is still a child, shivering with guilt. For the gravity of 'that' summer tethers her to an eerie darkness where neither moonbeam, starlight, sunshine, or forgiveness ever enters.
 
 
Epilog
 
As I lay the last word down of my last summer of childhood, I’m hopeful that I’ll be forgiven for leaving him alone in the darkness when I should have held his hand and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ 
","September 09, 2023 00:32",[]
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",jv5ull,Finding the Ground,Taylor Mack,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jv5ull/,/short-story/jv5ull/,Character,0,"['LGBTQ+', 'Coming of Age', 'Speculative']",4 likes,"
There’s something about soft, warm lighting that comforts the soul. Perhaps it’s the coziness it welcomes in, but the feeling seems stronger than that. A sense of safety? Who knows, but it ignites a creative force in the woman. She takes to writing at the desk in her bedroom.
 
This past summer has been the first time in her life she’s felt grounded; the first time she has ever acknowledged her own presence and felt it meant something. Yes, the past months had been some of the most difficult but, more so, they had also been some of the most sensational. The woman had felt a lifetime’s worth of emotions over the course of a single summer. This summer had changed her. This summer had saved her.
 
At one point, the woman was a girl. The girl grew up in a small conservative town where going to the grocery store doubled as a social outing. It was a “yessir, no ma’am” kind of place and the people seemed so enchanted by the southern hospitality that it was rare for anyone to want to leave. To the girl, her hometown was the entire world.
 
The girl grew up spending summers at VBS where God was good and the snacks were great. Her knees collected rug-burn scars from playing righteous games like manhunt and 4-square: games that fostered the Father’s earthly family. They’d have to recite scripture as their entry into the day’s lesson, otherwise they’d have to sit in the hallway practicing the Word over and over until they could get it right. The adults were so nice: they let them try and try again, giving them second, third, even fourth chances. Whatever Pastor Dave told them during those times was truth; words to live by. Anything different was of sin and if one was truly a child of God, they’d best turn the other way. The girl was smart and quickly caught on that some things didn’t add up. In fact, some “truth” the adults preached seemed like the exact opposite of what they spoke of minutes earlier. She would get pits in her stomach, but she just attributed it to the fact that she hadn’t tried hard enough to win over God’s love. It was something that would have to be worked through. The discomfort was just the hallowed path to true discipleship.
 
Early on, anxiety befriended the girl. It’s what greeted her in the morning and kissed her goodnight. Nobody ever talked about feeling uncertain about every waking moment, so she just thought it was normal; a feeling to embrace. Nothing particularly traumatic had happened in her childhood to welcome it, it was just innately wired in her brain. “Best just listen in church and follow my peers”, she thought. “This is how you live life”. So, that’s what the girl did. She didn’t yet know it, but it was a toxic relationship that would try to trap her in lies. It would be years until she caught her first breath.
 
At sleepovers, she was always the last one to get the joke. She’d look around and see the other girls laugh. So, being the smart girl she was, she took this as a cue to laugh too. “I guess this is what’s actually funny”, she thought. They’d watch rom-coms where the guy would finally see the girl and that was supposed to mean happily ever after. The girl never really understood it herself, but she wanted to feel understood, so she hung posters of Zac Efron and the Jonas Brothers in her room from the latest issue of J-14 thinking they would bestow their sacred wisdom onto her. She had to find a boy to marry at some day, after all that was the ultimate purpose of life. That’s what Pastor Dave had told her.
 
 
In high school, the girl went to extreme measures to assess which guys seemed adequate to help her find her worth. Some guys would be so forthcoming and it intimidated the hell out of her. She thought they approached her as a joke, seeing her as an easy target for their not-so innocent games. There was one boy with a nice smile and a sweet approach. She thought, “maybe this is the one who will fix me”. They dated and people seemed supportive of their partnership. He was kind enough and girls would come up to her saying, “you’re so lucky”. “This must be what Pastor Dave was talking about. This is what love is supposed to feel like”.
 
The girl felt that she owed the boy: she had to show him her gratitude in some way. There were times where he would gently press her on some things: let’s try going a little farther. His hands would get more comfortable with her, acting as though her body were his canvas. Remembering that she owed him, the girl gave herself to him even though she didn’t really want to. She though doing so would make things click for her. It didn’t and they broke up some weeks later.
 
Senior year rolled around and though nearly everyone was applying to the local community college, the girl decided to check out a school she had heard about in a commercial. To her disbelief, she was accepted. She surprised herself, “everyone I know is staying here, why would I do something different?”. It was so unlike her, veering away from her peers. She hated how it made her feel. Anxiety was hanging out a little too much for her. She was about to resend her application but Pastor Dave told her it was an opportunity to spread the word. She had listened to him her whole life. His word was truth. So, she did as he said and went her way.
 
College was college. The girl got a taste of the “real world”. She studied hard and got decent grades. She attended football games and stayed up too late. Eventually she met people and found a new form of discipleship, one entirely different than what she had experienced before. One that made her feel something. Her new earthly family took her in and welcomed her. “New patterns and behaviors to learn”, she thought, “just go with it, it’ll be easier”.
 
It took some time, but the girl adapted. Spending time with her new family became her religion. They took her to parties and introduced her to all things new. She took enough shots to forget some things but not enough to get into any real nonsense. She had relationships and called them off. From the outside, it looked like the girl was just floating through life. After all, that was her goal: to appear like life was effortless. She had spent her life studying those around her and replicated what she saw. It had always been easier that way.
 
Some years passed. The girl graduated. The girl became a woman. The woman had been in-and-out of jobs. She had a little bit in savings but nothing to swoon over, just enough to pay the bills. She reminded herself, “that’s what everyone else does”.
 
This past May, the woman decided to give church another try. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what moved her to do so. It’s not like she had been accosted by the disciples of the streets and had a revelation. No, she just felt a push to go. Perhaps it was the loneliness and she just needed a little taste of home.
 
She walked in and the air was different: not lighter per say, but the impending sense of guilt was not in attendance. She looked over in the pew and there she was. The woman saw her best friend, her entire life, the solution to so much turmoil over the years. They hadn’t yet met, but their connection was already written.
 
After the service as the congregants mingled, she noticed that the woman who had just changed her life was heading outside to leave. She followed, acting like she too was headed for the parking lot. She brushed by, making sure to make subtle eye contact. The other woman saw, held her glance for an intentional moment, and parted with a gentle nod.
 
She had noticed her, and that was enough.
 
“What the hell is going on?” she thought. It was strange to her, this foreign feeling. But it was the strongest thing she had ever felt. And the thing that came with it: confidence.
 
The woman returned the following week, 5 minutes early (please note that as an experienced anxious individual, walking into any room of strangers is an act of bravery, let alone walking in with time to acknowledge and process the scope of the situation… you might as well be in the trenches. 5 minutes feels like several eternities).
 
She stood off to the side, pretending to read the plaques on the wall. In truth, she was on a mission to find her. She succeeded and noticed an empty space at her side.
 
In that moment, the woman did the bravest thing she had ever done: she walked up and filled that space. The other woman looked at her and beamed. After that, communion tasted holier.
 
It took some time for the woman to recognize what these feelings were. She had never felt them before, how was she to know? It was the single strongest force in her life, yet it happened in a blip of time. She fought it for a bit, thinking of what Pastor Dave would say. “Sometimes we are tempted to taste the fruit of the earth but we mustn’t give in”… In time, the woman had come to the conclusion that perhaps her truth wasn’t necessarily Pastor Dave’s truth.
 
Her and the woman from church spent time together. They would later realize their hangouts were in actuality dates. They felt a previously missing sense nostalgia at the innocence of it all. There was no pressure to call it a relationship; just two women who became good friends fast.
 
They say your first love is exciting and gives you butterflies. For her, it was the first time she found ground. Things made sense. Her existence was justified. Anxiety did not greet her every morning and kiss her goodnight… only some days. Her love is not one that Pastor Dave would agree with. It’s nothing her friends in high school would understand. None of this mattered, she finally understood.
 
She gave herself permission to play the skeptic. “At the end of the day, all is forgiven” she thought. People often fear that doing so will lead one astray. For the woman, it allowed her to see people and understand. It allowed her to support others and in doing so, support herself. It gave “God’s family” a whole new meaning.
 
This summer has been the first time the woman had ever felt true fear. It’s the first time she’s ever been scared to lose something. It’s also the first time she’s been courageous enough to fight not to lose that something. Fighting has such a bad connotation, but it means something different if it’s fighting for yourself. Perhaps we can see it more as advocacy: advocated for space, advocating for rights, advocating for something that’s bigger than one being.
 
The woman’s fight has left some people disheartened. Pastor Dave has no words left for her. Her friends from high school don’t say hi anymore when she returns home for a visit. Many people she had known have simply turned the other way: the same people whose knees also have those same rug-burns from righteous games. The same people that sat in the hallway rehearsing deaf scripture just to have a chance to make God proud. The same people that assured the woman she was enough and that she was loved no matter what.
 
This summer has been a path for the woman to find her own religion. It’s still a challenge for her: actively choosing to be herself every day, the same self that Pastor Dave had told her was made in the image of God. She can’t just flip the script on a lifetime of knowledge overnight: maybe she never can. But by God, she is going to try. She is going to give herself a chance in this life.
","September 09, 2023 01:43","[[{'Mimi Li': 'I can see this story is very personal for you.  It portrays the path to self-discovery well.  At points, I got a little lost on the main character\'s motivation for doing things.  You said she goes to church and tries to do what she learned there, but then she sleeps with her high school boyfriend to ""please"" him.  It seems contradictory without too much explanation for how to she got to that point.  Also, the side characters lacked some depth and felt like caricatures to me. Typically, people have more layers to them.  It would make the stor...', 'time': '01:48 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0008,"Now, as an adult, your character looks back on this summer as the summer when they grew up.",b9nx58,Dear Anya,Caoimhe McG,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b9nx58/,/short-story/b9nx58/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship', 'Teens & Young Adult']",4 likes,"
Dear Anya, Your eyes were blue, weren’t they? The colour of a hundred uninterrupted summers at the lake, its shallow waters forever churning under the persistent, gleeful splashing of tiny feet at the water’s edge. Or maybe not. They were green, the colour of thousands of leaves bursting overhead silently, a rich emerald canopy so thick the sky couldn’t stick its sapphire head through, however hard it tried. Maybe they weren’t. I now realise that they were brown. You’ll have to excuse me: my memory is not what it used to be. 70 years have passed and regretfully, I’ve begun to forget your face. I’d ask you to forgive me, but you’re dead. Sorry about that. I remember that they were brown because it was memorable to me that they were not memorable. The colour of a rusty pool of still rainwater minutes after an unexpected July shower, or the chalky layers of meadow dirt that caked the soles of our scuffed shoes after a day spent outside, supposedly oblivious to the persistent calls of concerned mothers with already-lined faces on dust-strewn doorsteps. It’s funny how time changes memories. I remember that summer to be perfect, or perhaps I made that summer so that it was perfect. Either way, it was because of you. I am writing this letter over six thousand miles away from where you rest now, but I want you to know that my heart is still there. In fact, it never left. Although there is not now a mismatched sage patchwork canopy of trees over my head but layers of artificially lit floors of bustling people, with their own lives and their own problems, their own hopes and dreams, I never left your side, just so you know. I remember the first time we locked eyes. Mines are grey, just so you remember. The colour of steely clouds gathering on the horizon, the colour that signals a storm is brewing. The colour the world turns when the heavens are about to open and all hell is about to break loose. You once said that they were nice. The clouds had not parted by then. The desks lining the classroom were pockmarked and bruised black, blue and red by the sins of those who came before us, still talking to us now. It is important we listen to their message, and never repeat their mistakes. Your brassy locks were coiled tightly in two bunches on either side of your head, icy, translucent veins pushed to the surface of a pale forehead not yet accustomed to a summer where we were born. I’d joke you looked like an alien now. You probably wouldn’t laugh. You did laugh the first time we spoke, however, and I remember that as a fact. Your laugh was trapped in your throat, stuck halfway between a huff and giggle, partly surprised at the audacity of being approached by a girl a year younger and a whole head shorter than you, and partly surprised by the sharp scent of perfume I’d stolen more than a few sprays of from from my mother’s dressing table that morning.They say first impressions are important. I believe that because you walked home with me after classes that day, after the tinny school bell finally ceased its incessant ringing. It made my head pound, or maybe I was just giddy with excitement at being able to talk to you. One of your braids had gotten loose and was swinging in a fair, incomplete half loop as you spoke of this and that, of everything and nothing. You lived in the middle of town, in the middle of the hustle and bustle, between pastel awnings framing tiny shops, their windows displaying goods ranging from freshly-baked bread and pots of scarlet jams to the headless chicken carcasses with their pale-goosebumped flesh. I don’t eat meat anymore, just so you know. The cobblestone streets were long and thin and unnavigable spider web of interlocking walkways and sometimes I reckoned they went on forever. But that day, they didn’t. Your voice was high-pitched and sickly sweet, lilting sharply upwards at the end of long, mismatched sentences with seemingly no punctuation nor reason. I wanted more of it, to bottle it up in a jam jar like those in the shopfronts and to seal it up with a pink ribbon, to keep it for myself. Your tiny pale hand almost touched mine as we reached your front steps. Almost. The tiny colourful flags that were strung haphazardly overhead swayed gently by spring’s last breath. In a house down a narrow, rickety lane well outside the hustle and bustle of town my weary-eyed mother told me they were for a birthday in the hushed tones of someone not invited to the party. I didn’t know what she meant then, and wish I didn’t now. At the weekend the lake was packed, the soil dotted with young families with their red and white checked blankets, ham sandwiches and screaming plum-faced babies. Gangs of our giggling schoolmates patrolled the area, armed with sticks and serious expressions, ready to wage war. The sun, glossy and isolated, occupied the highest point in an azure sky unblemished by clouds. Summer had arrived, and you had as well, your small figure occupying a makeshift seat at the sheltered base of a sturdy oak tree. The tight braids were gone and in the sunshine, your hair flowed, long and pinstraight and liquid gold down your back. You asked if I was going to swim and I responded with cheeks tinted cherry red and pulsing with blood that I could not, in fact, do so. You responded, plump lips curled at the corners and brown eyes amber in the daylight, that you were an excellent teacher. I’d agree with that, but some would say I’m a biassed source. The lake bed was lined with slimy green reeds that the slippery baby eels flitted between, narrowing avoiding my panicked, clawing fists as I fought to keep my gaping mouth out of the water. You became at one with them, disappearing for short periods of time into the crystalline depths and appearing a distance away, the expression on your face as I flailed awkwardly in the shallow playful but never gloating. My name never sounded more beautiful than it did on your lips, and I’d do anything to hear it once more. Your hair clung to your scalp, damp with water and as dark as mine as we sat back under your oak tree. Your eyelashes were long and curled at the tips. A droplet of salt water sat in one, just then. I remember because it was memorable. We were more similar than the biology textbooks said. You braided my hair for me then, your long, delicate fingers intricately weaving the jet black strands so that they fell in a single neat plait down the middle of my back, the wet staining my cobalt summer dress in the centre. The first summer evening was both an anomaly and a precursor for what was to come. A flock of birds swooped dangerously close to the water's gently swirling surface, their caws the only sound in the valley as invisible strings pulled down the sunset orange backdrop of the evening. As the stars took their unchanged positions in the velvety purple night sky, the heat from the day remained. Tensions were rising, and my forehead was slightly sunburnt. The next time I saw you it appeared you didn’t see me. The school yard bustled, but you knew I was there. We locked eyes. The storm continued brewing. A plethora of freckles had blossomed across your nose and onto your cheeks. I wanted to trace them with my finger. Your legs were red raw and sore and your eyes were no longer amber, just brown. They were puffy. You hadn’t slept. Unremarkable. Dangerous eyes. Eyes tell a lot but lips say more. Your lips later told me, baby pink and chapped, that your father did not want us to be friends. You were wearing a new, neatly starched uniform. Brown jacket, red armband. Stiff. It did not suit you and you did not like it. So we met at the tree. Its lustrous leaves provided a parasol from both the sun and suspicious eyes. It became our spot. You did not wear your uniform nor I mine. My mother and I did not attend the birthday party. We had no invitations. Soon not only the sun heated up the narrow streets we called home: only I was not allowed to call it that anymore. My people’s words were set aflame, shouts, rallying cries and songs fought viciously to be heard against the crackling of pages, of spines, of hundreds of years of history largely thought best forgotten. Ash littered the still streets that quiet dawn. The sun reared its golden, sleepy head as you tip-toed down the creaky stairs of that old house. The heat had gone. You found out that the black-ringed, ashy pages couldn’t be stuck back together. What a pity, you thought; books were your favourite. Your nose hair was singed.School ended with a final ringing of the tinny bell. This time my head did not hurt and I never went back. I’m pretty sure that the whitewashed, church-like building still stands. I do not miss it like I miss you. I mastered swimming soon after, managing to tread water with little more grace than an over-excitable puppy dog breathing heavily and weighed down by its waterlogged fur. You were proud and told me so, tears in your eyes. I am not sure you were crying because of my small childhood triumph over water, or because of something else. I hastily knit together the stems of a hundred daisies so that you could place them around your neck in the muddy backyard of a dishevelled farmhouse no villager now bought milk from. Poisoned, rotten, evil. My father had no work. There were holes in my clogs. My stomach rumbling at night became my younger sister’s lullaby. But the new necklace made you smile. The flowers would rot in a few days, white petals browning at the edges and slowly curling inwards. Your mother threw them out. On your way back from music practise our eyes would meet knowingly across the town square. Shutters would close for the night. I'd bring a pot of jam, the glass stained with blackberry blood, home to my mother. Unchanged by speech or song, by textbook or by ballot box, the tree remained the same, your tree, our tree, the old oak tree by the lake. It had been wrinkled by time, left wise by secrets. Your skin was brown but your shoulders pale where the sun couldn’t kiss them, the light yellow summer dress you wore no longer reached your knees. Your voice was no longer high nor squeaky but characterised by a maturity, a confidence a girl your age should not yet have achieved.  We hatched a plan then, a plan to escape. My handwriting was spidery, a collection of vowels and consonants strung together by a shaky hand and not enough years in education, my drawings a collection of jagged lines and random dots on brown, water-stained paper. X marks the spot. We would leave on foot, silvery moonlight would be our only guide on the single uneven road out of nowhere. In the sleepy next town over, creamy shutters still closed for the night, we would get a ride with the postman, our teenage bodies stowed away between rough burlap sacks full of smooth white envelopes stamped with scarlet lettering and destined to go far far away. They would make it further than us, naturally, as we never left. Well, I did. I did not mean to leave without saying goodbye. I had to: a storm was brewing. I’d hope you could forgive me, but it seems I’ve asked you too late. Hindsight is a beautiful thing. My last impressions of Germany were at a cramped, crowded port that smelt of the stale sea air and the odour of too many human bodies crammed together in too small of a space. I do not regret that I have decided never to return. After all, my reason for returning is gone. My life in New York has been categorised by the sequence of glorious successes and crippling failures that humans largely accept as life. It has been dotted with moments where I have been crippled, completely and utterly hopeless and moments when I felt so overwhelmed with optimism and positivity it has moved me to tears. There have been too many of them to write down so I will spare you the details: it will suffice to say I have lived. I will die with four published books, an edited compilation of poems and a fashionable, tastefully underfurnished Manhattan apartment like the one we dreamed of all those years ago. I did not have any children and I would not consider it a regret. I have been loved. I would have liked that you too did not die with any regrets. I also would have liked that the car that hit you would have stopped before it crashed into you, in a second of fortunate recollection by its driver. We can’t always have what we want. I am writing this letter with the knowledge that it will never be read. After I have passed it will be regarded as the final ramblings of a sentimental old woman, my head not in the clouds but trapped in the last days of my youth, in the shady haven of that old oak tree in that summer so many decades ago. You forever wear a daisy chain around your neck. It suited you, just so you know. I am sorry that I left you there, an old, stained cloth rag containing your dearest personal objects slung over one shoulder, your eyes anxiously scanning for the silhouette of a figure who would never arrive, my words blown away in the soft July breeze so that almost no trace of our promises were left. Unlike the lost books, lost in an inferno of heat, flames, light and shouting, the tree heard our quietly murmured words, saw as we interlocked our fingers in a sweaty, yet solemn vow I knew even then would be ruptured. The tree holds me accountable even now. I hope that you can both forgive me. Yours forever, in body and mind, Mila.
","September 08, 2023 14:46",[]