prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,3aeqg1,Thirteen Roses,Thom Brodkin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3aeqg1/,/short-story/3aeqg1/,Adults,0,['American'],32 likes,"
The bar was dark, as a bar should be. That didn’t bother John. In fact, it was one of the reasons he had stopped by for a drink.The last four years had all made sense to him. Boy met girl. Boy fell in love. Happily ever after. It had been a fairy tale to be sure, until tonight. She wanted roses at their wedding, yet his mom wanted lilies. If you really want to make a bride-to-be angry a week before her big day, try changing one of the major decisions at the last moment to please your mother.John learned that the hard way. Somehow, he knew he should have sided with his fiancée, but he'd spent most of his twenty-three years saying yes to his mom. After all, it was just flowers.John had obviously miscalculated; after the ensuing skirmish with the women in his life, he wasn’t sure there would be a wedding. The only things he was sure of were that he needed a drink and he wanted to be alone. The first was no problem—he was in a bar and over twenty-one. The second was a little more problematic.“Is this seat taken?”John scanned the bar before answering. The question practically echoed as the bar was nearly empty. The stool next to his was, in fact, currently unoccupied.“Um, well, no,” John replied, using his hesitation as a signal that the stranger should find another seat.“Thanks, my friend. I’m Scott. Pleased to meet you,” replied the man as he sat down and ordered a beer.John hoped that the stranger, now sitting beside him at the bar, would drink his beer quietly and leave.No such luck.“What brings you here?” Scott asked, taking the first sip of his beer. “I don’t know about you, but today has been rough for me. I’m feeling kind of lost.”""You have no idea,"" John replied, in a whisper he hoped Scott would ignore.“Do tell.”""Honestly, I'd rather not,"" John answered, darkness hiding a flush of resentment.""Understood,"" Scott responded, returning to his beer.For the next few minutes, the strangers sat next to each other in uncomfortable silence until Scott spoke again.""Listen, my friend. We're both in a bar in the middle of the day, drinking alone. We might as well make the best of it, so lay it on me. Why is today so bad?""John had a decision to make. Should he engage the stranger in conversation or shut the whole thing down? It was obvious Scott needed to talk. Somewhere deep inside, John knew he did, too.“I’m getting married a week from Saturday,” John said, “and I just had the worst fight with my fiancée.”“Fights before marriages are common. Don’t let it worry you,” Scott reassured him. “What was it about?”“Flowers,” John answered. “Roses versus lilies. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. I just want to marry the love of my life. Is that too much to ask?”“Roses,” Scott replied as if he were speaking to himself. “A dozen roses.”“That sounds like a story begging to be told,” John interjected, knowing he would much rather listen to another man's sob story than tell one of his own. “If you share it, I’ll buy you a beer.” Without waiting, John signaled the bartender to refill both glasses. “A dozen roses, you say?""“It’s actually a story about one woman, three men, and a dozen roses, but, nevertheless, I accept your offer.” The two men clinked their beer mugs together, a stranger’s contract signed.“The day she was born was anything but ordinary,” Scott began. “Her mother had been pregnant once before, but her first child was stillborn. The devastation made the young couple fearful during their second pregnancy. Until the little girl was safely in her mother’s arms, neither spoke of the future. Her father had been so cautious that he hadn’t even bought a gift for his daughter, who now slept soundly on her mother’s chest. This, of course, would not do, so he hurried to the hospital gift shop where he bought the most beautiful thing in the store: a single red rose.”“A single rose?”“Trust me,” Scott said, chuckling. “By the end of my story, you’ll have your beer’s worth and a dozen roses.”“Excuse me,” John responded as he bowed slightly, waving his hand like a game show host. “Please, continue.”“I think I will,” Scott responded with a melancholy smile. “You see every girl is beautiful in her father’s eyes, but this daughter was a little bit of a late bloomer.” Scott wrinkled his forehead, deep in thought. “When she turned thirteen, just like most thirteen-year-old girls, she was hopelessly in love. With more courage than sense, she invited the object of her affection to her birthday party. To hers and everyone else’s surprise, he agreed.”“Oh no, I think I know what’s coming.""“Exactly,” Scott replied, shaking his head. “She told everyone she knew the good news...""""But he never showed up,"" John interrupted.""Yep.”“That’s awful.”“Yes, but it’s also the story of the second rose. You see, her dad, having been around the block a time or two, was afraid that would happen,” Scott took a sip of his beer, interrupting his own story. “You’re going to be a dad someday, and my advice is: be prepared."" Scott paused to allow a moment for John to contemplate before continuing. ""Now where was I?”“Her crush didn’t show up at the party.”“Oh, that’s right. So, the story of the rose had been told at picnics, family gatherings, and holidays—ever since the day she was born, so when her dad knocked on her door and came in holding a single red rose, it made a sad girl smile and a very bad situation not quite so bad.”“That's a good man, there,"" John said, offering Scott a small smile. ""That's two roses down. You still owe me ten.""“I’m getting there,” Scott assured him. “As I said before, she hadn’t really come into her own at thirteen. That was not the case at eighteen. She had become a head-turner and had more than a few invitations to go to the senior prom, but she declined all but one. I think she knew that particular offer came from the young man who would become her husband.""""High school sweethearts?""""It was storybook perfect and, five years after getting her second rose, her dad gave her the third rose as she left for her special night. It was a father’s way of saying he approved of her date without using any words. She may have married him without the rose and her father's endorsement, but we’ll never know for sure.”“I hope their wedding went better than I expect mine will.”“Like I said, don’t worry. All weddings are stressful. I’m sure yours will be fine.”""From your mouth to God's ears,"" John sighed. ""So, what’s the story behind the next rose?”“I think you'll appreciate this one. It was on her wedding day and a little like your fiancée, she was angry and hurt that her mom had made most of the important decisions. Her dad found her sitting alone, and as only a dad can, he fixed it with another red rose. With all the chaos of the day, that one red rose brought her back to the simplicity of it all. Two people who loved each other. The rest was just background noise. She didn’t know it at the time, but it was also the last rose she would ever get from her father.”“Wait, you promised a dozen roses!”“I did,” Scott admitted, ""but I also told you it involved three men.”“I’m sorry,” John said sheepishly, more invested in Scott's story than he had realized.""Go on.”Scott took a long overdue sip of his beer and continued. “They call the first year of marriage ‘the honeymoon phase’ because it’s expected that couples will be lost in wedded bliss, but it’s also the time when the worst fights happen.”“Don’t tell me that,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “I was hoping this fight tonight would be the worst.”“Trust me, you’re going to look back on this fight and laugh,” Scott replied with certainty. “In fact, most of your marital fights will be forgotten as long as you remember one thing.”“What’s that?""“Never say anything you can’t take back. When you’re in the middle of a fight with someone you love, winning isn’t the goal. Forever is.”John sighed, turning to glance at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar before looking back toward Scott. “So, there was a big fight? About what?”“Well, the important thing isn’t what the fight was about. It’s how it was handled. She walked out the door, got into her car, and headed to her parents' home. She was met at the door by her dad. In tears, she told him all about the kerfuffle between the sobs. After listening intently, her father went and got…”“The next rose?”“No, I told you the one at the wedding was the last rose from her dad. He went and got his car keys and left his daughter with her mom. She didn’t know it at the time, but he went to talk to her new husband. Although the conversation was just between the two men, it’s assumed her dad shared the story of the flowers as that was the day the rose tradition was passed down. Less than an hour later, her father and husband both drove up together. Her dad and mom went into the kitchen while her husband presented her with a single red rose. No words needed to be spoken. It wasn’t their last fight, but it was the last one that would require a rose.”“So, her husband was the second man in your story?”“He was,"" Scott confirmed. ""That brings us to the next rose which was the most bittersweet.”“Oh no.”“Yeah, there is no good way to lose a parent. The call came in the middle of the night. Her mom didn’t have to give any details. They didn’t matter. There had been an accident, and the girl’s father was gone. There is a bond between a father and daughter that is impossible to explain, but if you ever have a daughter—you’ll understand. Arrangements needed to be made and details needed to be ironed out, but right after the funeral, in that quiet time when there is nothing left to do, that’s when the weight of loss truly hits. A good man knows when to talk and when to be silent, and she was married to a good man. She would say in later years she should have known, but the rose he presented genuinely surprised her. Of all the twelve, that one was her favorite.”“That’s amazing,” John said, wiping away a tear. “I hope I can be such a man.”“I’m sure you will be,” Scott encouraged. “I have a feeling about you.”“Thanks.”“The important thing to know,"" John continued, ""is not every occasion deserves a rose. The next one came on their first anniversary. It was his way of telling her that, as far as he was concerned, the honeymoon would never end.”“Be careful, Scott. You’re giving me hope that all might be ok.” “I told you.”“So what comes next?”“Well, that rose was followed by the one she always said had brought her the most joy. She would only have one child—a son—and on the day he was born, her husband presented her with another red rose.”“Was he the third man you spoke of—her son?”“He was, but don’t get ahead of the story.”“You’re right. I promise I’ll just listen.” The two men broke out into laughter.“So, that was the last rose for many years—the next one, however, was the most exotic. Twenty-five years of marriage is quite an accomplishment, and in honor of the occasion, her husband planned a secret trip for the two of them to Hawaii. When she tells the story, she smiles broadly, recounting tales of blue water and white sand. She laughs hysterically about the wave that pulled her husband's swimsuit completely off. She speaks in hushed tones when she reminisces about the sunset as they walked along the beach, but she truly shines when she talks about the rose. I honestly wonder if she would have been as happy if she’d only gotten that one.”“Noted,” John said with a smile as he used his finger to pretend he was writing reminders on a cocktail napkin. Though he was joking with Scott, he wasn’t with the plan. He decided when he was married for twenty-five years, he was taking his wife to Hawaii.“That’s nine roses, only three to go.”“Yes, three to go,” Scott confirmed, but John could tell he said it with a touch of sadness. “That was the last rose her husband would ever give her. I’m not sure if I should tell you about the next one, considering you’re about to get married.”“You have your beer, and a deal is a deal,” John said, trying to reassure Scott. He needed to hear the end of the story. “You’re right,” Scott continued, a little distracted. “Her husband had plans to give her a rose on their fiftieth anniversary, but he came up two years short. The cancer hit fast and it hit hard. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he was gone. Not since the day her dad died had she been so devastated. No marriage is perfect, but theirs was perfectly imperfect. Afterward, she was lost, unmoored. Her eyes and ears worked, but she didn’t see or hear anything until her son asked her to join him in the family room. Everyone knew the story of the roses, but only one man could continue the tradition, and continue it her son did, as he presented her with a single red rose. In an instant, she felt grounded. Though aching for the loss of the love of her life, her son’s rose let her know, somehow, that everything would be alright.” Scott’s head fell and he choked back tears.“It’s you,"" John said. ""You’re her son, right?”Scott nodded in the affirmative, attempting to keep his composure as he finished his story. “Which brings me to the last rose. My mom died a week ago today. I’m on my way to say goodbye and to give her one final rose. Her life has been defined by her flowers and the men who gave them to her. For my grandfather, my father, and myself, I will give her this one last gift.” And with that, Scott finished his beer, stood, and offered his hand to John. “I’m not sure why I came in here, but I'm glad I did. Thanks for listening.”“It was my pleasure,” John replied earnestly, shaking Scott’s hand. “Thank you for sharing your mother’s roses with me.”As Scott turned to leave, John put a hand on Scott's shoulder. “That was only eleven. You said there were twelve. Where is the last rose?”“It’s my mom,” Scott answered with a smile. “You see, my grandparents hadn’t thought of a name before her birth, thinking it would be bad luck. When my mom was born healthy and her dad gave her the first rose, my grandparents quickly agreed on her name. My mom, Rose, is the twelfth.”Scott again turned towards the door and left without another word. John would never see him again.Alone once again, John came to a firm decision. A quick phone call to his mom let her know the flowers at the wedding would be roses, just as the love of his life desired. His mom protested a bit but soon relented as John was resolute.John didn’t call his bride-to-be to let her know of his decision. He wanted to tell her in person, and he also had a story to share. He paid his tab and left the bar, no longer apprehensive. He jumped in his car and headed straight home—stopping only once, at a florist, to buy a single red rose.
","August 16, 2023 16:00","[[{'Yeisha Lee': '🌹', 'time': '20:55 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Thom Brodkin': 'My favorite comment so far. Thank you. 😀', 'time': '23:10 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Thom Brodkin': 'My favorite comment so far. Thank you. 😀', 'time': '23:10 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Didn't think I had the to read this right now but glad I did. It is a winner.🌹"", 'time': '17:08 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Thom Brodkin': ""I'm so glad you stopped by for a read.  I've been tweaking it a little but I'm happy with it's bones.  :-)"", 'time': '17:31 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Thom Brodkin': ""I'm so glad you stopped by for a read.  I've been tweaking it a little but I'm happy with it's bones.  :-)"", 'time': '17:31 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Thom, such a lovely story. Nicely done. LF6 D)', 'time': '16:33 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Thom Brodkin': 'Thanks Lily.  You always encourage me.  It means more than you know.', 'time': '17:30 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'You are such a good writer Thom. It makes encouraging you so easy. D) LF6', 'time': '18:48 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Thom Brodkin': 'Thanks Lily.  You always encourage me.  It means more than you know.', 'time': '17:30 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'You are such a good writer Thom. It makes encouraging you so easy. D) LF6', 'time': '18:48 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'You are such a good writer Thom. It makes encouraging you so easy. D) LF6', 'time': '18:48 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Winnie Hsueh': ""Thank you for sharing this amazing story, I'm really touched!"", 'time': '01:50 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Rose is a beautiful flower, as is the story.', 'time': '15:59 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Thom,\nOn a personal note, my dear friend is named Rose. I love that you included that in this piece. It was such an epic read. I loved all of those gorgeous details and the story within a story. It was a great answer to the prompt and left me feeling nostalgic and hopeful. The romance was perfectly blended with the beauty of life. Nice work!!', 'time': '02:33 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Hi Thom!  Okay, so I miss reading a couple of your stories (and will offer no excuses why for) but I see the red m, I read the story, every word, and once more, I recognize a work of Thom perfection.  Not one word unnecessary, sentences knit together like a fine tapestry, and the story itself is a timeless one.  A simple gesture that means everything passed like a baton from each male figure in one girl/woman's life, and beyond that.   Well, and then to pass the baton to sad sack at the bar on the way to your mother's funeral?  \n\nNo one writ..."", 'time': '16:20 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jennifer Cameron': ""I don't think I can cope with how much I adore this story. It's definitely in my top 5 :)"", 'time': '07:31 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anna W': 'Really beautiful story, Thom!', 'time': '02:28 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Judith Jerde': 'Wonderfully heartwarming and brought on few tears to my eyes.', 'time': '14:51 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Great one about ‘Pragma’ the enduring love over a lifetime. \n\nA man who is uncertain about his wedding is given a life lesson about what is important in love, and a way to demonstrate it. \nAnd the Best Practice of listen to your wife, not your mom when it comes to the wedding!', 'time': '22:40 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': ""A lovely story, really engaging, and well written. Great how you carried the theme right through to his mother's name. Well done"", 'time': '17:58 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'I just love this. My dad has grown red roses since I was little, and would cut them, remove the thorns, wrap a little foil around the bottom, and then give them to me. Such a great story about all the love and feeling behind a seemingly simple gesture.', 'time': '15:58 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Excellent!', 'time': '09:10 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Getting me all choked up over here Thom! 🥲', 'time': '01:11 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,geec6e,The Best Way to Not Be Loved Back,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/geec6e/,/short-story/geec6e/,Adults,0,"['Speculative', 'Romance', 'Funny']",21 likes,"
“Yet but three come one more.
Two of both kinds make up four.
Ere she comes curst and sad.
Cupid is a knavish lad.
Thus to make poor females mad.”
--A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare
 
* * *
Marissa was a girl who loved a boy who didn’t love her back. At twenty-four she had already found five different ways to not be loved back. Of course, there was one way she liked the best. That was the way she loved Brian Murphy. These were Marissa’s methods, in the order she stumbled on them, and in the order she used them on Brian.  And they were good methods:
 
1.    Tell the other person your feelings, right from the get-go. Don’t hold back. Be totally honest.
 
2.    Give the other person what they want ahead of time. Don’t hold back. Anticipate their needs. Mimic their moods. Be what they want, when they want it; when they want something different, change. Be a complete mirror, a thespian; never break character or reveal what you really want.
 
3.    Set up rules for the other person. Don’t tell them the rules. Get angry when they violate the rules. Hold them accountable. Tell them where they went wrong. Insist that they conform to your will. Be merciless about their faults. Insist on an apology. Fold your cards immediately when they call your bluff.
 
4.    Become friends with the other person’s friends. Neglect your own friends. Get into whatever it is they are into at the time. Become a part of the group. Don’t try too hard to make your intentions known; the friends will be sure to ruin everything and do that for you soon enough.
 
5.    Be there for the other person. Don’t set any rules. Don’t be pushy or muddle with their drama with their friends—take their side when they are dead wrong. Don’t say much about what you are feeling, and act like you are doing the same for them as you would for anyone.  Don’t act. Keep your word. Act steady and put together and above the petty seductions and ruses that everyone else is up to – point them out with disdain. This “put together thing” is an act, of course. Really you are going to pieces inside and pretty much raving mad the whole time in between the times you see the other person.
 
In contrast to Marissa, Rene Paterson was a girl dating a boy she didn’t love back. At twenty-four she was still working off the same playbook of three methods she’d discovered when she was sixteen. That was the way she didn’t love Sam DeLuca. Her methods were flawless, and her execution was enviable:
 
1.    Spend time with the young man’s best friend. Be as seductive as possible with the best friend, even maybe necking with him occasionally, but keep him at a distance. When the time is right, and your young man not only notices, but begins to show signs of jealousy, connect with him. Now intensify the relationship with the best friend artificially. Let the target fight it out with the best friend and win you, if he can. If he can’t, let him anyway. He’ll never know the difference.
 
2.    Put the young man to a series of challenges. Make sure he knows what a classy girl you are, that you don’t “mess around” and that you only are interested in serious relationships. Invent a series of flawed suitors that failed to win your heart. Propose challenges for the young man that involve excelling in ways your invented suitors failed. Give modest praise each time the young man agrees to and succeeds at one of your challenges, but let him know you still aren’t sure about him and something doesn’t feel quite right. Jump in with another challenge right away. Pull him closer and then push him away and then pull him in again. Be unpredictable and difficult, but focused. You can be relatively assured that once he has what he thinks he wants, he will have worked too hard, and will have convinced himself through and through that he had made up his mind that you were the one for him from the beginning.
 
3.    Start a quasi-sexual relationship with the young man right away, then stop it immediately. Let him know that it is “too soon” and you still haven’t gotten over the last young man. This was the most brutal tool Rene had at her disposal. It nearly always worked. It drove them nearly mad with desire and jealousy and she had seen otherwise well-adjusted young men try the grandest gestures, and occasionally unravel altogether, under the pressure.
 
Brian Murphy was a boy who was dating a girl he didn’t love back. At thirty-three, he was getting a little too old for this ‘casual dating’ ruse, but the truth is he really didn’t know what he wanted in life. His favorite way to not love a girl back involved saying, “I am looking for something serious, and I just want to make sure I am with the right person.” And this was the way he didn’t love Marissa. These were Brian’s methods, and they were predictable:
 
1.    Tell her that everything is perfect just the way it is, and why would she want to go changing things?
 
2.    Tell her that she is imagining things, and the real problem is that she’s so anxious and emotional, and if she could just get her head screwed on straight, everything would be alright. There was nothing to worry about.
 
3.    Tell her that he just needs some more time to find himself. He is going through a lot. It isn’t her, or their relationship, that is the problem. The timing is just off. If she just sticks with it, when the time is right, he will be everything she dreams he could be for her, and they will live happily ever after. Only ‘someday’ is always just around the corner, and ‘today’ is never that day.
 
Sal DeLuca was a boy who was dating a girl that didn’t love him back. At twenty-six, he was still using the same methods that had gotten him nowhere since he was sixteen. Of course, he thought he was just being ‘true to his feelings,’ and it had never occurred to him that you can feel a thing and choose to do something else anyway, because you are a man, and you can make standards for your own life and set the rules you live by, and then actually live by them. That is, more or less, what being a man is. This was the way Sam loved Renee—like a puppy on a leash. These were Sam’s methods, and they needed work:
 
1.    Confess your undying love. Leave no mystery. Lower your value by consistently demonstrating your willingness to put up with any bad behavior thrown at you without complaint.
 
2.    Make compromises for your lover that are totally inconsistent with your character and never stand up for yourself, showing yourself to be the world’s biggest pushover, and therefore of low and diminished value as compared with the prize you covet.
 
3.    Put your lover on a pedestal, rewarding her bad behavior, and fail to call her on her shit—impressing upon her that she can get away with murder—and encouraging her to keep it up.
 
4.    Respond to cold brush offs, unreturned affection, and a pulling away by coming on ten times as strong and creepishly and simpishly following your lover around like a lost puppy. Be sure to respond to unfaithfulness with jealousy and unearned gifts and undeserved promises—all of which are going to make your lover question why they started up with someone so weak-kneed to begin with—act out the tired script from a manual on courtly love and chivalry for dummies—as if the great romantic gestures in Rom Coms work in real life.
 
5.    Never bring up your own needs or set the rules and boundaries for the relationship; never communicate your actual feelings, but instead frame the entire relationship as a continuous adventure of trying to win over your unwin-overable paramour.
 
Rene and Brian were not supposed to be seeing each other. Brian was Sal’s best friend, and Sal was with Rene. Rene was Marissa’s best friend. And Brian was with Marissa. Given this dynamic, it was bordering on inevitable that Rene and Brian were going to hook up at some point. They both knew it. But Sal and Marissa were blind as bats. Rene and Brian had a heated ongoing debate about whether to come clean or keep their affair a secret. These were their points of debate, and they were right on target:
 
1.    If they came clean, Marissa and Sal would be heartbroken. They might even break things off. The kind thing to do was to carry on in secret and never speak a word about their affair; to do otherwise would be cruel.
 
2.    If they continued lying, Marissa and Sal would eventually realize neither of them was trustworthy. But Marissa and Sal were too smitten to actually call a spade a spade. So, it was even Steven whether they’d be outed for their lies, even if Marissa and Sal were on to them.
 
3.    Rene was going to break up with Sal eventually anyway, it was only a matter of time. Brian thought he was going to marry Marissa, but he was lying to himself, and he was destined to end up alone or be divorced with a child support payment before long, so he really didn’t have much to lose.
 
4.    Rene and Brian really hated themselves and were bored to death with life itself. They both confided in one another that they were deeply selfish. And one must be true to one’s true nature—so being unfaithful was the only way they could maintain some semblance of happiness—and the guilt they felt was confirmation they were both rascals that deserved to be miserable. And misery loves company.
 
Sal and Marissa were not supposed to be confiding in one another. Sal was Brian’s best friend, and Marissa was Rene’s best friend. Given this dynamic, it was bordering on the inevitable that Sal and Marissa were going to be right for each other, but never know it. Neither one of them knew it. Sal and Marissa were gluttons for punishment. Sal and Marissa had a heated ongoing debate about whether love could win out in the end. These were their points of debate, and they missed the forest for the trees:
 
1.    If you really love someone, you have to love them warts and all. After all, true love conquers all.
 
2.    If someone isn’t giving you what you deserve, you must have done something wrong, so it is your fault. You just have to stay the course and your lover will eventually realize what they have and will reciprocate your affections.
 
3.    Marissa wanted to believe Brian really wanted to settle down. But Sal had known him since they were kids and felt that Sal was Sal, and he’d stay in Never-Never Land until the day he died.
 
4.    Sal wanted to believe that Rene would eventually be ready for something more serious. But Marissa had known Rene since they were kids and felt that Rene was Rene, and she’d only ever torture any man in her life until someone finally called her on her shit—which looked like it wasn’t going to happen this side of forever.
 
Brian and Marissa and Rene and Sal all thought that love was a game to be won. A game of how to not be loved back. But the best way to not be loved back is not to love yourself. And the only way to be loved back is to love yourself first. 
 
These four star-crossed lovers hadn’t figured that out yet. And so they continued on like the movie Groundhog Day, grooving along in the same groove they’d been grooving along in for as long as they could remember, playing out the same old tired song and dance, one day after the next.
 
Marissa was upset with herself, but she forgave herself for being a fool for love. Brian was upset with himself, but he forgave himself for being afraid of commitment. Rene was upset with herself, but she forgave herself for being a narcissist. Sal was upset with himself, but he forgave himself for being a hopeless romantic. 
 
But Cupid hadn’t reconciled with himself just yet—he still had work to do to wake these slumbering devils from their sleep and strain the course of love to unexpected ends—and so Cupid hatched a plan which would bring these loose ends together on a Midsummer Night.
","August 18, 2023 11:27","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'Nobody: “How’s the relationship going?” \nAll Your Characters: “It’s complicated.” \n\n😂 I like how you wrote this with each character’s “rules of engagement” with others! You started with a midsummer night’s quote, but threw in the star crossed Romeo and Juliet allusion - nice! 😄 \nEnjoyable read!', 'time': '14:36 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Nina!', 'time': '16:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Nina!', 'time': '16:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Evan Charles': ""I was captured by your characters' intensity and take on love. I appreciate that the reconciliation can come from within; thank you for the read!"", 'time': '12:33 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Evan!', 'time': '16:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Evan!', 'time': '16:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Perfect story for a midsummer night read.\nThanks for reading a bunch of my stories. You have been busy reading and writing. I fell behind on my reading this weekend as  I attended Killer Nashville Writer's Conference to pick up my Claymore Award for best western category\n Woohoo 🎉🎉🎉\n\nThanks for liking my donuts. Be a while before I'll get to more of yours. You write so fast"", 'time': '15:19 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': ""Big congrats on the Claymore Award--that is really, really exciting!!!!  Congratulations again.  I haven't finished reading that longer work of yours yet--but it is on my list--I find your writing to be very engaging and readable, like a page turner style book.  I can see the characters and anticipate what they will do.  I really like it!  Keep up the good work, Mary!"", 'time': '22:05 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏 for the encouragement.', 'time': '23:17 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': ""Big congrats on the Claymore Award--that is really, really exciting!!!!  Congratulations again.  I haven't finished reading that longer work of yours yet--but it is on my list--I find your writing to be very engaging and readable, like a page turner style book.  I can see the characters and anticipate what they will do.  I really like it!  Keep up the good work, Mary!"", 'time': '22:05 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏 for the encouragement.', 'time': '23:17 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏 for the encouragement.', 'time': '23:17 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""This is insightful. As I'm reading this, I'm nodding yes, I've seen this to each character, but never really stopped to think about. You paint a very visual picture of the characters and grab the reader's attention instantly. Great writing!"", 'time': '02:14 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Ty!', 'time': '22:05 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Ty!', 'time': '22:05 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'L J': ""that was a cute idea! This actually could be out of midsummer night's dream! I liked the quirkiness of it\n\n Thanks for reading, literally, all of my entries. Appreciate your time!"", 'time': '22:22 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks LJ!', 'time': '22:06 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks LJ!', 'time': '22:06 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,9syker,Going through life together,H K Brown,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9syker/,/short-story/9syker/,Adults,0,"['Friendship', 'Fiction']",18 likes,"
I stand here in the columns of the library—the one I’ve ran like a well-oiled machine for the last sixty-one years. Marrying Fred at the ripe age of seventeen I thought I’d start pumping out babies and run the farm while he went off to work like all my older friends were doing. Our marriage was arranged, it was not one of love but of convenience. That was life in the nineteen-thirties. We had the one expected child our families demanded at the age of twenty-four, a daughter named Liz, and remained in our marriage so not to shame them. Love never came for us, but a close friendship grew in time. One that I miss to this very day.
	“There you are, Rose. Did you find it yet?” Gilly, my ex-best friend asks. 
	“Not yet,” I respond. You’d think after the seventy-odd years I’ve known her, I’d be done cleaning up her messes. But here I stand searching the isles that she claims to have misplaced her clutch in. Inside the bag is her journal, the same one that she’s written stories of our adventures through the years. If it were to be found by others and word got out it could tarnish our family names. When you’re a Westchester or a Winefried by birth tarnishing said name comes at a price. “I don’t even know why I help you anymore.” 
	“Just help me find it, will you. You don’t want your business known as much as I don’t.” 
	Gilly and I had a falling out last year around the time my Fred passed away from a long battle with lung cancer. His one-pack-a-day habit didn’t help him stick around for long. I don’t know if it was me spending more time with Fred or what, but she quit coming around and started getting short with me. 
	Gilly lost Joey, her husband, in the war sixty years back and never re-married. Their marriage was one of love. She was devastated when the knock on her door came. Gilly stayed on the farm next door to us and raised their little boy, Charles. Fred and I jumped in where she allowed us to, but Gilly’s pride would only let us help so much. 
	“Here,” I say. As I turn the corner, I see her maroon-colored clutch that’s seen better days sitting on the top shelf alongside the books. “How about we get out of here now. I’d like to go home to Shelby. It’s freezing outside.” 
	January brings in the cold and lots of snow to these parts of Montana. My cat Shelby is an old girl. Our daughter Liz brought her home on a visit one summer nearly ten years ago. It was love at first sight for me. She’s all I have left. Fred’s gone, Gilly avoids me at best and Liz moved off to Oregon for none other than Charles, Gilly’s son, and started a family of their own thirty-six years ago. Visiting is done occasionally. They’re good together and I’m happy they have one another. Their oldest granddaughter, my great-granddaughter, who’s now thirteen, comes to stay with me during summer breaks but otherwise, it’s me and my cat. I like it that way, though. I’ve always been more of a loner.
	“Fine, let’s go. I don’t want to be stuck here with you anyways.” 
	Gilly walks to the front counter setting down her bag, puts on her coat, and bundles up. She turns to leave, forgetting her handbag once more. “Gil,” I holler. “You’re forgetting something.” 
	She turns back around slowly, age is catching up to her something fierce nowadays. It’s hard to see someone you once considered family wither away. Gilly grabs her clutch, turns, and walks out the door, without so much as a thank you. 
	“Figures.” I walk back to the break room, grab my things, bundle up, and head toward the front. After I shut everything off, I leave the nice warm building and step into the cold. I’m thankful that the kids installed this remote start function on my car for Mother’s Day. On frigid days like today when it’s twenty-four degrees with snow blowing across the road, I’m glad I don’t have to sit in an ice-cold car while it warms up. My old bones can’t take it anymore. 
	Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into my driveway. I turn and look next door to make sure Gilly made it home. She did. Even though we don’t speak much anymore, I wouldn’t wish her harm. I love the old bat, even if I’m still mad at her. I pull my hood up and tuck in before stepping out into the elements. By the time I make it inside, I’m a shivering mess. 
	I hang my coat and try to turn on the lights. When it doesn’t come on, I move to the lamp. No such luck. Shelby, my cat, hops up on the side table near me nearly scaring me silly in the dim light. “Hey there sweet girl,” I say. I rub her thick black and silver fur, enjoying it as my fingers sink in. She has the rarest eyes, one bright blue, the other a dark green. In this light I can barely tell. It’s a pity really. “Oh, poor baby you’re freezing.” I pull back my hand and blow warmth into it. 
	Moving across the room, I grab a couple pieces of wood and begin to build a fire as Shelby rubs along my feet. “Don’t you worry sweet girl. As soon as I get this fire going, I’m all yours. You’ll get tons on lovin’ soon.” I get the wood stacked in place and put in my kindling brick. I grab a match ready to light it when a knock sounds at my front door. 
	It’s too cold not to get it going. I light the match and set it in place then use the hearth to help me stand. 
	I walk to the door, opening it, I find a shivering Gilly bundled up in her outerwear and a down comforter. “Come in,” I say, pulling her inside. “What are you doing out in this mess?” 
	“The power is out, and I couldn’t get anyone to come clean out my chimney, so I have no source of heat. Can I warm up here? I won’t stay long,” she says through chattering teeth.
	“Gilly have a seat. You can stay the night. I don’t mind, I’d rather you here than knowing you were out there freezing.” My little two-bedroom modest home is plenty big enough for the two of us and small enough that the fireplace keeps it nice and toasty once it’s going. 
	I move to sit in front of the fire to get it roaring to life while Gilly cautiously sits on the couch across the way. Shelby climbs in my lap, gaining my attention once again. I absent mindedly scratch behind her ear as I stare into the growing flames. Once it’s going, I stand and move to the kitchen to grab a campfire kettle and fill it with water. I lower it to the grate over the fire and wait for it to warm. 
	I sit on the couch opposite Gilly and turn to look at her. 
	“I’m sorry.” She looks over to the fire that’s now lighting the room. “I never meant for my feelings to get in the way of our friendship. I should have been there for you.” 
	I stand and grab the kettle from the fire, making us some cocoa. We’ve gone through our whole life together; how can I not want to reconcile with her. At our age, we’re lucky to wake up the next morning. There have been so many funerals among those I consider friends. Walking back to the couch, I hand her a cup as I sit back down.
	“You should have. But I accept your apology. Gilly, I know you’ve been hurting. Liz told me that your Great Aunt left everything, land included to Charles when she passed. Why didn’t you come to me?” 
	“I didn’t want to hear the pity in your voice. You had just lost Fred, it should have been me taking care of you, but I know somehow you would have been taking care of me instead.” 
	She’s right. When it comes to Gilly and me, I’m the one who acts while she takes time to process. That’s part of the reason I was left penniless until Fred left me a nice size policy last year. My parents—God rest their souls—didn’t like the fact that they couldn’t control their only daughter once I left their home. I left town when I wanted to let my hair down, well all but that one time. 
	“Do you remember when Fred and Joey were stationed in Korea? You, and I got it in our minds to do one of those naughty pictures for them in our bloomers?” I laugh at the thought. 
	“I do,” Gilly giggles. “But if I remember right, you’re the one who talked me into it after seeing it in that magazine. What made you think of that?” 
	“I was just thinking about how I was cut off for not fitting the mold my parents wanted me in. I’ll never forget their faces when they found us behind the barn in our skivvies.” That was a moment I’ll never forget. I have never been so scared in my life.
	“I could have sworn that your dad was going to kill the photographer.” 
	I can laugh about it now but back then things got tense. 
	Dad ran the poor man out of town. I’m not surprised though; Edward Westchester the third wouldn’t dare get his hands dirty so he did the next best thing. He destroyed the man’s business, making him leave Timber Creek for good. 
	Shelby hops up on the couch between us. She rolls over onto her back, exposing her warm belly for pets. I give her the attention she demands and feel her begin to purr.
	“To be young again.” She takes my hand in hers. “No matter all we went through, I’m glad I had you.” 
	“Same to you, Gil. There’s no better person to walk through this life with than your best friend.” I lightly squeeze her hand. “I’m glad you came over tonight.” 
	“Me too.” She leans her head back on the couch and closes her eyes. 
	I do the same. 
	We’ve been through a lot together. Sometimes a life partner isn’t what you expect it to be. In my case, my life partner and best friend is sitting by my side. I couldn’t imagine going through life without her. Sure, I had Fred, but Gilly is where I found love. It would have been one lonely life without her. No matter what tomorrow brings, I’m glad we’ll always have each other.  
","August 11, 2023 20:52","[[{'Samantha Puckett': 'I really enjoyed this. Such a cute story!', 'time': '23:52 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'H K Brown': 'Thank you so much. :)', 'time': '18:04 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'H K Brown': 'Thank you so much. :)', 'time': '18:04 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Dennis Burge': 'Great Story i Really Enjoyed it', 'time': '22:09 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'H K Brown': ""Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '18:04 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'H K Brown': ""Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '18:04 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Very poignant.', 'time': '14:13 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,isclt3,Fish Boil at Death’s Door,Scott Christenson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/isclt3/,/short-story/isclt3/,Adults,0,['Mystery'],16 likes,"
As Ruth Jorgenson waited for the authorities to arrive, she mulled over the events that had taken place at the Edgewater Inn before Sophia was poisoned. Despite being 74, her memory was as sharp as a pin.Earlier that morning, she had been busy preparing the hotel lobby. Three generations of Jorgensen have run the hotel, since the days her grandfather had immigrated to Wisconsin from Norway back in 1904. Each Saturday during the summer season, she would bake a cherry pie, its sweet buttery smell greeting guests as they arrive. It was a tradition she had started back in 1986, Door County being famous for its cherry orchards.As she put the finishing touches on the pie, Ruth heard the sound of the front door opening. She turned around and saw an African-American woman walking in with a teenage boy. Ruth guessed who it was–Ayesha David, who had registered with a Chicago address. Ruth had memorized the guest list in advance, as she always had:“Welcome to the Edgewater Inn,” Ruth said, smiling warmly.“We’d like to check in. I’m Ayesha Davis. This is Mason.” she said, pointing at the boy next to her – her son, no doubt“Well hello, Mason. How old are you?”The boy looked up at her shyly. “Twelve,” he said softly.Ruth nodded approvingly. “Well, you’re certainly growing up fast. You’ll be a young man before you know it.”Ayesha smiled gratefully at Ruth. “Thank you, ma’am. Mason can be a handful, always wandering off and getting into trouble.”“Don’t leave the hotel at night, young man. There are bears in the woods.” The boy jumped.Ruth winked at Ayesha. She pulled a key off the keyboard and handed it to her new guest. “Room 7. The fish boil starts on the patio at six-thirty”As Ayesha and Mason made their way to their room, Ruth couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. It was moments like these – when she could make someone smile, make them feel welcome – that made her job so rewarding.Ruth greeted the next guest to walk in the door, a middle-eastern couple. It was Saturday afternoon and guests from further away usually arrived. Illinois, Minnesota, sometimes Iowa or Indiana.“Welcome to the Edgewater Inn.” Ruth said to the couple. “There’s freshly brewed coffee and cherry pie on the table if you’re hungry.” “Khalid Bennani. I reserved the deluxe lake view suite,” the man said.Ruth handed him the key to the hotel's best room, and his girlfriend Zainab made her way over to the snack table.“Really?” Khalid exclaimed as he watched Zainab help herself to a big slice of pie.“I’m hungry. You wouldn’t let me eat anything in the car,” she said.Beneath the snack table, Ruth caught sight of the suitcase abandoned by a guest last weekend. It was locked. Despite her attempts to contact the owner using the telephone number in the registry, Ruth was met with nothing but silence. She still didn’t feel right about either opening it or throwing it out.As she pondered about the mysterious suitcase, her thoughts were interrupted by the new guest with a surprising question.“Do you have any information on murders in Door County?”Ruth was taken aback. “Murders?” Ruth gasped.Zainab, who was now eating a slice of cherry pie, said, “He’s a podcaster. You know… Only Murders in the Building. Murders in Wisconsin, Chicago and sometimes Indiana.” She groaned, evidently tired of her boyfriend’s hobby.After some searching, Ruth found a tourist guide behind the reception desk. “Door County Trolley Murder and Mayhem tour.” She held it toward Khalid.Khalid took the pamphlet. “One last question,” he asked.“Of course.” Ruth knew from decades of customer service that anyone who had ‘one last question’ would have a lot of questions.“Is the Door County fish boil, halal?”Confused, Ruth asked, “Halal?”“Safe for Muslims to eat,” Zainab said, explaining for her boyfriend again.“I’ll ask my grandson Noel. He lived overseas”Noel was helping Ruth run the hotel this summer. He had just returned home after a year of teaching in Japan. He seemed not as interested in becoming the fifth generation to run the hotel, as in planning his next adventure overseas. But he worked the whole summer at the Edgewater Inn, so there was hope.Troubled young people don’t bother Ruth. She knew to point out their good behavior when she spotted it, and nourish those seeds. She's been doing that for 50 years.“I really liked the way you cut up the potatoes for the fish boil, Noel.”“Thanks grandma.”“You're one of my best grandsons.”“Thanks Grams. Too bad I never hear anything nice from my parents ““They love you, Noel. They just don’t say it. Now keep up the good work. grams has to man the front desk.”Ruth was a woman who left an impression on everyone. She was universally beloved. But if one paid close attention, they might notice she gave only a few minutes of polite conversation to each person–listening to their every word intently and being fully present–before she found a reason to move onto the next thing she had to do.As she climbed the stairs to the reception lobby, her hip ached, but Ruth was accustomed to discomfort and not one to complain.The couple at the heart of the issue, Sophia and Jake, had checked in the night before. From their lack of conversation at the front desk, it was clear they had been arguing. The way they stood, with a certain bravado in their body language, suggested they were single without children. Ruth couldn’t help but notice the way they carried themselves was a stark contrast to parents, who seem to surrender their cockiness in the delivery room when their first child is bornThat Saturday night, the hotel was nearly empty, with only these six guests in the hotel built for fifty. They all stood outside on the lawn, overlooking the water and braving the chilly wind blowing in from Lake Michigan.Noel was preparing the fish boil, with potatoes, onions, and whitefish boiling in a large metal kettle over an open fire. The guests huddled close to the fire.Ruth spoke loudly, “Good evening everyone. You are looking across Porte des Morts, known as Death’s Door. The name from dozens of ships that have sunk in its unpredictable currents. The Potawatomi tribe had settled on our island after being pushed from the peninsula by the Winnebago, a raiding party of Winnebago canoes was swallowed up by Lake Michigan as they attacked…”“Boil over!” Noel said as he threw a cup of kerosene into the fire. Huge flames shot up. The soup boiled, and the frothing liquid spilled over the rim, carrying the layer of oil from the fish out of the pot and into the fire. There was a cheer from the guests.When the flames quieted down, Noel used a ladle to prepare each plate of food. Each table also had a bread basket and a bowl of boiled vegetables with butter.Ruth watched them eat, keeping a watchful eye out for any unsatisfied guest.As the night wore on, the guests drifted off one by one, leaving Ruth alone on the lawn.  She gazed out at the water, lost in thought. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply be still, to feel the ache in her hip and the chill in the air. It was a rare moment of peace for Ruth, one she knew wouldn't last long.But for now, she savored it.When she returned indoors, the reception and lobby were empty except for Ayesha’s son Mason who sat on a sofa in the lobby playing games on his mobile phone.Just before 10pm, there was shouting upstairs. Footsteps came down the staircase.Sophia appeared, her eyes frantic. “I’ve been poisoned, call the police.”“Oh lordy. I’ll call the doctor, but It will take them two hours to get here.”“I’m feeling dizzy. Call the police, my boyfriend Jake did this.”“Why would you think your boyfriend would do such a thing?” Ruth asked. She was an optimist about people.“He runs a blog all about guns and bombs, you might have heard of him, his twitch handle is @BananaFlambe.”Ruth had not heard of Banana Flambe or Twitch.Mason put down his game and ran upstairs. Soon, he returned with his mother Ayesha.“Is everything ok?” Ayesha asked.“Sophia thinks she’s been poisoned.”“I feel sick. And look at my back,” Sophia said. She picked up the hem of her shirt, and there was a bright red rash, as if she had been whipped.Jake stormed down the stairs. “I didn’t do it.”“Stay away from me,” Sophia shouted as Jake glared at her from the other side of the room.Soon, Khalid and Zainab also came down to see what all the commotion was about.Everyone in the hotel was now here in the lobby, except for Noel.“Keep those two apart,” Ruth told everyone present.Ruth went down to the kitchen and found Noel in front of the grill, frying a hamburger patty. He had earphones on. Ruth tapped his shoulder and he jumped.“What?!” Noel said. “Sorry, what is it, grandma?”“I need you upstairs. A guest thinks she’s been poisoned.” When they both came up to the lobby, Sophia was shivering on the sofa. “I didn’t eat anything but your dinner,” Sophia said. “What if the soup was poisoned?”“Did anyone not drink the soup?” Khalid asked.“Everyone drank the soup,” Ruth said. She always kept a watchful eye on the customers.“Everyone feeling ok?” Khalid asked, when everyone nodded, he said, “So it's just Sophia”“So it’s just me. That makes me feel so much better.” Sophia groaned.Khalid stood in front of everyone as if he was a classroom lecturer. “If only Sophia was poisoned, and we all ate the same food, there was only one person going from table to table who had the opportunity. That was Ruth.”“That’s true,” Noel said.“Statistically, Russians are the most likely to poison their opponents,” Khalid said. “Ruth’s grandmother. Yelena Jorgenson.” Khalid pointed at a photo of the Edgewater Inn’s founding couple on the wall. “I did my research before coming up here.”“That was about a hundred years ago,” Noel said, defending his grandmother.“Who thinks Ruth murdered Sophia? Khalid asked, while raising his hand. No one joined him, and he put his hand back down.Ruth cleared her throat. “Now that we have that we have that out of the way, Did anyone else notice anything?”She saw a trace of nervousness in young Mason.“I think Mason has something he wants to share with us.”Mason’s gaze went back and forth between Ruth and his mother.“The suitcase in the lobby. I opened it. Sorry, mom. There’s something strange in it.”“Go get it, and open it again.”Ruth held up its contents, an urn. “Jennifer Johnson. These ashes must have been his wife. He wanted to leave her ashes in Door County.”Sophia started crying. “That’s going to be me tomorrow.”There was a deathly silence.Ruth overheard Khalid whispering to his girlfriend. “I will be able to cover a murder as it’s happening. This will be great for the podcast.”Ruth was calm under pressure. She decided someone besides Khalid needed to take charge. “Ayesha, can you take Sophia to her room to have a rest until the authorities arrive? We’ll watch your son. Everyone else stays here.”Ruth went behind the reception desk and called the Port Sturgeon police. It would take them two hours to arrive by boat. She began calling anyone else on Washington island who might be able to help. From the second floor, there was a shriek from Sophia. Ruth hoped Ayesha was holding up ok. Sophia was becoming increasingly panicky.When Ruth returned to the lobby, Jake was no longer around. He couldn't have gone far. They were on an island and there was no public ferry until tomorrow morning. Noel was missing too. This reminded Ruth that she needed to check up on something about him. She grabbed a flashlight, and stepped out into the darkness behind the Edgewater Inn. Young boys were always hiding something. There was an unused lodge in the back of the property she had seen him sneaking off to. What was her grandson up to?When Ruth returned to the hotel, she found Noel downstairs in the kitchen holding a razor sharp fish knife in one hand. A bucket of whitefish in front of him. He was gutting them one by one.“Noel, what are you doing?” Ruth asked, her voice trembling slightly.“Cleaning the leftover whitefish to put in the freezer.”“Do you think that’s the best thing you can be doing right now?”“It helps me relax,” Noel said with a shrug. “It’s either this or…” “Or what?” Ruth pressed.Noel’s unease was evident.Ruth hesitated for a moment. “I’ve found your secret in the back cabin. Marijuana is illegal in Wisconsin.”“It’s hardly a crime anymore, especially in Door county.” Noel held the knife by his side, and eyed Ruth warily.“What about the magic mushrooms?” Ruth pressed.“Those are shiitake mushrooms. Japanese mushrooms. I’ve been trying to modernize the cuisine here.”“I don’t know if I believe you.” Ruth shook her head. “And, the cuisine doesn’t need modernizing. The guests come for tradition.”“Tradition. That’s all I ever hear about here.”“Noel, you can't be growing things like that on the property, I need it gone tomorrow.”Noel looked displeased. Ruth, for a change, couldn’t care less about the feelings of her grandson. She hurried off to investigate something that came to her mind.An hour later, the police had yet to arrive. Standing in the lobby however, were two nearby hotel managers, both carrying hunting rifles. Ruth thought that wouldn’t help with anything but it was good to have more people, just in case.Ruth knocked on Sophia’s door and then quickly entered. Sophia and Ayesha sitting on the bed.“I have an announcement,” Ruth said. She looked at Ayesha. “Let's get Sophia downstairs.” Everyone gathered to hear what Ruth had to say.“I have good news and bad news. Sophia has not been murdered,” Ruth said.Sophia watched Ruth with interest.“But she has been poisoned.”Sophia eyes widened in panic. “I knew it! Where is he?” she yelled.“She’s been poisoned?!” Khalid said. “Arsenic? Cyanide?”Ruth shook her head. “My grandson Noel is responsible.”Noel looked sheepish and confused. Everyone turned to stare at him. Ruth pulled a book from the shelf, North American Mycology, and read. “Consumption of raw or undercooked shiitake mushroom causes a small subset of susceptible people to develop a dramatic rash which resembles whipped skin.”“Deadly mushrooms…” Khalid said, slightly in awe.Ruth continued reading, “Outside localized itching, the rash is completely harmless and will disappear within 3 weeks.” She closed the book. “Noel put Japanese mushrooms in the vegetable mix and didn’t cook it well enough”“And I thought I was taking care of a murder victim,” Ayesha laughed. “I’m going to get another slice of cherry pie.”Sophia stood up from the sofa. The pain she had felt before gone. “It’s just a rash?” She giggled. “I’ll have to find Jake to apologize.” Ruth felt a sense of contentment wash over her that, at age 74, she solved the problem at the hotel that night. She would offer Sophia and Jake a free stay as compensation and this incident should blow over like a Lake Michigan squall in summertime.She hugged her grandson tightly, “Don’t worry, Noel. I made a few mistakes too when I was young.” She wanted to cherish every summer she had left with him.Ruth hadn’t told anyone about the rash on her side. She hadn’t wanted anyone to worry.**Dededicated to Ruth Jensen, born in Ashland Wisconsin. The best grandmother anyone could ever hope for.
","August 18, 2023 03:57","[[{'Martin Ross': 'You know I love me a good clue and some misdirection! Great cast and regional flavor, and the podcast theme helps propel things. Oh, and I do also love a Door County fish boil, despite the slight petrol-ly smell. Nice job, as always!', 'time': '22:33 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks! Yeah when I was watching the video, was wondering about tossing a can of gasoline under the food. I was sort of picturing a tv drama when i was writing this, a little bit of only murders in the building. There was so many misdirections and twists in that one.', 'time': '01:50 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': 'Love Only Murders, though my wife tolerates it.🤣', 'time': '02:31 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks! Yeah when I was watching the video, was wondering about tossing a can of gasoline under the food. I was sort of picturing a tv drama when i was writing this, a little bit of only murders in the building. There was so many misdirections and twists in that one.', 'time': '01:50 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Love Only Murders, though my wife tolerates it.🤣', 'time': '02:31 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Love Only Murders, though my wife tolerates it.🤣', 'time': '02:31 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Mushrooms dont belong in a fish boil! But other than recipe issue....  ;) \n I liked the sprawling cast of characters and how each had their own part to play in the story. The victim seems to have preferred the attention, she hopped right up when she found out it was just a rash! \n\n Thanks!', 'time': '23:34 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""Yes, was trying to have sort of a glass onion cast, so needed to make them very different to stand out. The procedural of it all got a bit confusing, how do the undercooked mushrooms show up,etc. Yeah, seems the real door county fish boil is a very simple potatoes and fish combo. Even thoguth i'm from the same state just a few hours away I've never been to one. But my neighbor would catch buckets of smelt from Lake Michigan and deepfry them with breading for the whole neighborhood on the south side of milwaukee."", 'time': '04:45 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Marty B': 'fish boil vs fish fry Im up for either! and making me hungry just thinking about it! \nWe need a reedsy fish boil party!', 'time': '05:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Scott Christenson': 'sounds like a plan ! reedsy offsite in door county;)', 'time': '05:42 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Yes, was trying to have sort of a glass onion cast, so needed to make them very different to stand out. The procedural of it all got a bit confusing, how do the undercooked mushrooms show up,etc. Yeah, seems the real door county fish boil is a very simple potatoes and fish combo. Even thoguth i'm from the same state just a few hours away I've never been to one. But my neighbor would catch buckets of smelt from Lake Michigan and deepfry them with breading for the whole neighborhood on the south side of milwaukee."", 'time': '04:45 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'fish boil vs fish fry Im up for either! and making me hungry just thinking about it! \nWe need a reedsy fish boil party!', 'time': '05:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Scott Christenson': 'sounds like a plan ! reedsy offsite in door county;)', 'time': '05:42 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'fish boil vs fish fry Im up for either! and making me hungry just thinking about it! \nWe need a reedsy fish boil party!', 'time': '05:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'sounds like a plan ! reedsy offsite in door county;)', 'time': '05:42 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'sounds like a plan ! reedsy offsite in door county;)', 'time': '05:42 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Ha! Very fun and very cozy indeed - it\'s rare for the murder victim to be so present for their own investigation :) \n\nEveryone came to the inn with their own problems and they were quite high strung, but Ruth kept her wits about her. Maybe crucially, she didn\'t jump to the first conclusion, and so had a better view of where the truth might lie. \n\n""Ruth had not heard of Banana Flambe or Twitch."" :) \n\n""Sophia has not been murdered,” Ruth said. / Sophia watched Ruth with interest."" :) \n\nThanks for sharing!', 'time': '20:43 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks for reading, thought I would search for some cozy wisconsin this week:)', 'time': '04:54 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks for reading, thought I would search for some cozy wisconsin this week:)', 'time': '04:54 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Cool story! Good bit of misdirection for something that was altogether more....cosy!\nGreat work Scott!', 'time': '06:36 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx! was happy to have come up a few ideas for misdirection but felt I needed to make this longer with so many characters . really liked the pacing and surprises in your ""speed fate"" btw, horrors not really my thing but that story just popped off the page. well I\'ve got two very different ideas for next week so will see if i can polish those up and choose one.', 'time': '06:46 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Scott. I was suprised that out of all of the stories I've submitted so far, that one ended up winning just because it is soooo dark and nasty, also quite niche. I can imagine a lot of people who went to read the winning entry of the contest that week got a bit of a shock (Some even commented as much). \nI see you have 2 posted for this weeks prompt, I'll check them out shortly and let you know what I think!"", 'time': '08:00 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""Yes, honestly I'm not into horror/violence myself. But I think the style of the writing was very vivid. and gripping. A lot of emotion, conflict and snappy dialogue. Def try out that writing voice again sometime even if its not a violent story."", 'time': '08:18 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx! was happy to have come up a few ideas for misdirection but felt I needed to make this longer with so many characters . really liked the pacing and surprises in your ""speed fate"" btw, horrors not really my thing but that story just popped off the page. well I\'ve got two very different ideas for next week so will see if i can polish those up and choose one.', 'time': '06:46 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Scott. I was suprised that out of all of the stories I've submitted so far, that one ended up winning just because it is soooo dark and nasty, also quite niche. I can imagine a lot of people who went to read the winning entry of the contest that week got a bit of a shock (Some even commented as much). \nI see you have 2 posted for this weeks prompt, I'll check them out shortly and let you know what I think!"", 'time': '08:00 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""Yes, honestly I'm not into horror/violence myself. But I think the style of the writing was very vivid. and gripping. A lot of emotion, conflict and snappy dialogue. Def try out that writing voice again sometime even if its not a violent story."", 'time': '08:18 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Scott. I was suprised that out of all of the stories I've submitted so far, that one ended up winning just because it is soooo dark and nasty, also quite niche. I can imagine a lot of people who went to read the winning entry of the contest that week got a bit of a shock (Some even commented as much). \nI see you have 2 posted for this weeks prompt, I'll check them out shortly and let you know what I think!"", 'time': '08:00 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""Yes, honestly I'm not into horror/violence myself. But I think the style of the writing was very vivid. and gripping. A lot of emotion, conflict and snappy dialogue. Def try out that writing voice again sometime even if its not a violent story."", 'time': '08:18 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Yes, honestly I'm not into horror/violence myself. But I think the style of the writing was very vivid. and gripping. A lot of emotion, conflict and snappy dialogue. Def try out that writing voice again sometime even if its not a violent story."", 'time': '08:18 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'What a great cast of characters! I kept wondering what was going to happen next. Relieved no one has been murdered, although it looked a distinct possibility.\nI once got shiitake mushrooms from a supermarket (at least I think that’s what they were) and didn’t cook then properly. Not good! I don’t recall a rash, but a painful stomach.\nA kind and understanding grandma and a generous host. The relationship between grandma and grandson Noel made the story for me.', 'time': '15:47 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for reading. The MC was heavily based on my own grandmother, who was just an amazingly proper and polite person in an environment where a lot of other people weren't.\nAnd wow.. and very surprised you actually had a bad experience with shiitake mushrooms. I put them on my frozen pizza and never really sure if they're cooked all the way through or not, I think I'll be extra careful from now on.\n\nIf you have any time this week, let me know if you have any thoughts on my draft for next week? \nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1l3iqu/"", 'time': '16:13 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for reading. The MC was heavily based on my own grandmother, who was just an amazingly proper and polite person in an environment where a lot of other people weren't.\nAnd wow.. and very surprised you actually had a bad experience with shiitake mushrooms. I put them on my frozen pizza and never really sure if they're cooked all the way through or not, I think I'll be extra careful from now on.\n\nIf you have any time this week, let me know if you have any thoughts on my draft for next week? \nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1l3iqu/"", 'time': '16:13 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Very cool tale, Scott. At first, I thought this was going to be a murder mystery, and Ruth the Sleuth would solve it. \n\nI liked the cast of characters. Plenty of suspects, but all were distinct personalities. Excellent piece, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:55 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks, def was a challenge to write a story with a full cast of characters and in past tense instead of my usual present tense. I had stumbled upon the mishroom question while cooking last week, asian mushrooms need to be 100pct well done', 'time': '10:08 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks, def was a challenge to write a story with a full cast of characters and in past tense instead of my usual present tense. I had stumbled upon the mishroom question while cooking last week, asian mushrooms need to be 100pct well done', 'time': '10:08 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Door County travel information - \nhttps://www.doorcounty.com/\nhttps://www.doorcounty.com/newsletter/july-2016/traveling-deaths-door', 'time': '08:46 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,w1vyfw,Heavenly Do-Over Duel,Murray Burns,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/w1vyfw/,/short-story/w1vyfw/,Adults,0,['Funny'],16 likes,"
Heavenly Do-Over Duel Circumstance, coincidence, and fate always play a role. If King George hadn’t been quite so greedy, if the first shot had not been fired at Lexington Green, and if Alexander Hamilton had not married the daughter of Philip Schuyler, there might not have been a story. But these three stepping stones did fall into place to lead to the fateful events of July 11, 1804 in Weehawken, New Jersey, and the additional extraordinary events that followed.Hamilton and Aaron Burr had been political rivals, but the competition turned to serious animosity over correspondence and messaging relating to Schuyler’s run for Governor of New York after the colonies broke free of King George’s grip. It was a time when men were perhaps a bit too zealous over matters of honor, and a Hamilton insult drew a challenge to a duel from the aggrieved Burr. Accounts of the incident vary, but the consensus opinion is that Hamilton “wasted” his shot by firing into the air, while Burr went for the jugular, actually Hamilton’s stomach, and our first Treasury Secretary died from his wound the next day. The earthly events thus concluded, but more, much more, was to follow.----------  Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door.“Who is it?”“I’m Alexander Hamilton…and I’m not quite sure where I am.”The whispy clouds, the harps playing in the distance, and the strange feeling of total relaxation were unfamiliar to Hamilton.“Hamilton…Alexander…yep, got you on my list. You’re in the right place. Come on in. Take your shoes off.”“What list? What’s the right place?”“The ultimate ‘Naughty or Nice’ list. You’ve made it to Heaven. Good job.”“Heaven?! Oh my goodness, does that mean I’m dead?”“Pretty much. We don’t take anyone who’s not dead yet. And of course, you have to have the right resume. Be happy you’re here. The other accommodation is pretty grim.”“And who are you?”“St. Peter, Heaven’s Gatekeeper.”Bliss, happiness, and total comfort. It was all an earthling could hope for.----------- Time passed, immeasurable in Heaven, 32 years on Earth. Every day for Hamilton was better than the day before. He fit in well with all the other Heavenly bodies, from the faithful departed to all ranks of angels. He wanted for nothing, had no worries, and basked in the warmth of total contentment every moment, and then…New Souls Day is a big event in Heaven. It is the only thing that varies in the existence of all the residents, so it always draws a lot of interest. On this day, Hamilton arrived late at the Gates so he had to peer over the shoulders of many others to check out the new arrivals. It was perhaps the first moment of anger seen in Heaven since Lucifer was sent packing.Hamilton couldn’t believe his eyes. It didn’t seem possible. Third in line waiting to be greeted by St. Peter was the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth, the wretched creature who tormented him for years, the man he let live and who then gunned him down- Aaron Burr.Heaven had never seen such behavior. Hamilton exploded in rage.“Aaron Burr?! You have to freaking be kidding me! What the hell is going on here?!”Hamilton pressed his way through the group of stunned observers and made it to St. Peter’s side.“Peter, we’ve got a problem. See the dopey-looking guy with the receding hairline with the stupid look on his face in the brown jacket?”“I think I know who you mean. What about him, Alex?”“That’s Aaron Burr!” ‘So?”“So, that’s the son-of-a-bitch who shot me! You can’t let him in here. This has to be a mistake.”“Hamilton, knock it off with the language! That’s worse than swearing in church!”“The guy is a vile piece of sh…I mean, he’s evil, he’s a horrible person, he’s…”“Hold on, Hamilton, it’ll all be in the book. I have to go by the book.”“Fine, look at your book. You’ll see.”“Yes, it’s here. I guess he did some inappropriate things early in his life.”“Inappropriate?! He freaking murdered me!”“But then he did some good things, he…”“What?! Oh, my God, you’ve got to be kidding me. Let’s have a little accountability here.”“Sorry, Hamilton, we’re all about forgiveness here. He’s in.”Scripture holds that one could not be unhappy in Heaven; Hamilton told us differently. He sulked, stewed, and fumed. He had led a good, solid life. Now, his nemesis, the despicable Burr, was enjoying the same status he had earned, that he deserved. It was all so unfair.----------Heaven’s a big place (not as big as the alternative location), so Hamilton did his best to avoid interaction with the man he so despised. On those chance encounters, Burr didn’t make it any easier.“Hey, Alex, you should have checked the sights on your gun! Ha, ha, ha!”“Hey, Alex, I hear you had a tummy ache after our duel! Ha, ha, ha!”Violence and other hostile acts are not permitted in heaven, so Hamilton just had to grin and bear it. Friction and ill will are quite uncommon in Heaven, so it wasn’t long before Hamilton’s bitterness was noticed. Soon it was the talk of the town.“What’s up with Hamilton?”“The guy’s got a bug up his butt.”“He might be the first one since Beelzebub to have a problem in this place.”“Whiner.”Ever since that very first day, St. Peter had taken a liking to Hamilton, and he understood how he could have a problem with Burr, seeing as how he murdered him and all. He would try to help his friend.“You’ve got to let it go, man. This bitterness is tearing you up.”“I know. I guess it’s just the guy is such a jerk. This morning he said I couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn if I was standing inside of it.”St. Peter couldn’t hang on to a slight giggle.“Not funny, Peter.”“Sorry. Listen, I think you need an intervention. I’ll talk to St.Philip Neri.”“Who?”“Philip Neri. He’s the Patron Saint of Friendship. I think he can help you out.”“Philip Neri? Never heard of him. I’m pretty far gone. Shouldn’t you bring in one of the big guns, like John or Matthew?”“It’s called specialization, Hamilton. It’s what we Saintly types do.”“Ok, but I don’t need to be friends with the guy. I just want to stop hating him so much that I can’t sleep.”“Understood.”----------“Are you comfortable on the sofa?”“Yes, St. Neri. It’s quite nice.”“Would you like another pillow, Hamilton?”“No, I’m good.”“And what troubles you, my son?”“Aaron Burr. It’s all him. He’s my only problem. I hate him”“And why do you hate this Aaron Burr?”“He killed me once.”“I see. And would you like to do to this Aaron Burr?”“I’d like to kill him, you know, an eye for an eye. You should be all in with that.”“You do understand that’s not possible. I mean, everyone here is dead already. Besides, that wouldn’t fit in real well with one of our basic tenets.”“What’s that?”“Love thy neighbor. Do you see the contradiction?”“I guess. Could I just bust him up a little?”“No. I think we need to take this in a whole different direction, a higher road. Love and forgiveness will conquer hate and revenge.”“Huh?”“I understand it may not be as much fun for you, but the healing will be more complete.”“I’m not really looking for healing. I just want to get the SOB.”“Hamilton, you’re in Heaven now. Can’t you let go of the things that happened on earth?”“Maybe I could, but that jerk keeps bringing it up. First, he killed me back on earth, and now he mocks me about it.”“And how does that make you feel, Hamilton?”“Angry, very angry. I’d like to…”“Sorry, time’s up. We’ll have to continue this tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid.”--------- “How’s my boy doing, Phil? Making any progress?”“He’s a tough nut to crack, Pete. The hostility is deep-seated. I’ve never had a case this difficult. Hamilton doesn’t carry a grudge; the grudge carries him. It defines him.”“I guess I can understand it. I’d be upset too if someone took me out with a cheap shot. It doesn’t help that Burr keeps rubbing it in. He’s a tease machine, and there are some things you just don’t joke about.”“Yeah, it keeps the whole thing fresh in his mind.”“Let’s think outside the box. How about you bring Burr in for a little behavior modification?”“I’m on it.”----------“So, Aaron, I think it would be a good idea if you just backed off a little bit, you know, give the poor guy a little space.”“I’ll try, St. Neri, but the guy is such an easy target…no pun intended. I mean he shot his gun in the air in a dual. Who does that? It would be like a gladiator holding the wrong end of his sword or David signing a ‘No Sling and Stone’ pledge before his match with Goliath. It’s pretty hard to resist.”“I understand. I’m just asking you to try. Be a gracious winner, the better man, reach out to him, maybe have him over for a couple of glasses of wine.”“I’ll give it a shot…oops, poor choice of words.”A zebra doesn’t change its stripes. The next day Burr approached Hamilton and apologized for shooting him and for all the teasing. He extended his hand in peace, but Hamilton only got a nasty jolt from Burr’s cleverly concealed gag hand buzzer. Hamilton was humiliated as all who witnessed the event enjoyed a good laugh. Two days later Burr apologized for the fake apology and patted Hamilton on the back, leaving a hastily prepared ‘Kick Me’ sign for all to see. Hamilton’s hatred for the man soared.---------The torment persisted. Burr was relentless in his pursuit of a good laugh at the expense of his former adversary. Soon others hopped on the bandwagon and joined in the ribbing. Hurtful nicknames were hurled at Hamilton as he passed by- ‘Dead-eye’, ‘Botched Shot’, ‘Crack Shot’, and the particularly hurtful ‘Air Gun’.“I about can’t take it anymore, Peter. He’s made me the laughingstock of the whole place. I almost wish I would have gone to that other spot.”“No, you wouldn’t want that, Hamilton.”“Man. I wish I had that shot back. If I had it to do over, I’d put one right between his eyes.”St. Peter was thinking…and thinking…and thinking.“To do over…a do-over. Do the duel again. Give you the chance to take that shot.”“I wish. Too bad that can’t happen.”“Why not? Maybe that’s what you need to put this behind you, a do-over.”“Is that possible?”“I don’t see why not. I think we could put you two back in human form just for the day. It’s been done before you know. This is the land of miracles. I’ll see what I can do.”----------Rumors ran rampant. Word of a possible Hamilton-Burr rematch raced through the utopian skies like wildfire. Finally, the word came down from on high; it was on.Heaven had not known such excitement since the Rebellion. Bets were laid, sides were taken, and insults and boasts were exchanged. Heaven was in a tizzy as all looked forward to the duel re-do, that is, all save one- Aaron Burr.“What?! A re-do?! No way! I won that duel fair and square. Re-do my butt!”But he had no say in the matter. The ‘Powers-That-Be’ reviewed the entire matter and concluded that Hamilton had in fact “wasted” his shot. He had committed a heroic, noble act, and considering how the whole scene played out, Hamilton was now deserving of a chance to take that shot in earnest. Burr had already taken his shot, so only Hamilton’s pistol would be loaded.“What?!”Burr was livid. He was marked to be a participant in a duel with an empty gun.“This can’t be! Whoever heard of such a thing? I’m taking this to the top!”Burr exhausted all appeals and the date for the duel was set. Hamilton was issued a dueling pistol and one bullet while Burr was issued a dueling pistol but no bullet. Betting lines shifted dramatically once it was known that Burr would not have a bullet in his pistol.----------St. Philip Neri tried once more to appeal to Hamiton’s character and conscience.“Alex, do you really think you will feel good about gunning down an unarmed man?”Without hesitation…“Absolutely!”---------- The night before the duel Hamiton sat in his room holding his pistol close to his heart. In a fiendish act of near depravity, he caressed and kissed the bullet that would soon settle the score and set his mind free. He relished the thought of Burr lying on the ground writhing in pain before he expired. He could only hope the end would come slowly. A knock at the door snapped him out of his fanciful state.“Burr! What are you doing here?!” “I just wondered how you’re doing, Hamilton. And…here, I brought you some cookies.”“Cookies! You think you can buy me off with a plateful of cookies?! What kind are they?”“Chocolate chip. If I remember correctly, your favorite.”With their years together in public life, Burr knew Hamilton was a pushover for chocolate chip cookies. That was the icebreaker. The closer would be a heartfelt emptying of his soul.“Alex…that day, that horrible day… oh, how I wished I could have relived that day. So many sleepless nights over what happened. I let you fire the first shot. I knew that because you were such a good person you would fire your pistol into the air, and you did.”Hamilton was studying the man, trying to understand the purpose of the late-night visit.“And then my shot. I meant to fire wide. The sun was in my eyes, and the movement of your second distracted me. As I turned my body I was shocked when the pistol fired. My heart sank when you fell to the ground. It was an accident, Hamilton. It was an accident!”Burr burst into tears.“I just…I just wanted you to know. I lived with such terrible guilt. I am so sorry! I deserve whatever happens tomorrow.”A shaking Burr slowly rose to his feet and spoke in a near whisper.“Goodbye, my friend.”And he was gone.---------Heaven had never seen such a crowd. This was the most anticipated event in eons. The Heavenly architects had constructed a setting that closely replicated the original site up to and including a nearby river. Hamilton arrived with Peter serving as his second. Burr stood alone as everyone knew he had no bullet in his gun, and no one wanted to be on the side of the loser. St. Philip Neri sat off to the side, quietly praying for a miracle that would stop this violent act.Hamilton carefully loaded his gun, ball and gunpowder, while a trembling Burr could only nervously fidget with the worthless piece of iron in his hand. Michael the Archangel lined the two combatants up back to back and called out the customary ten paces.“One…two…three…”Hamilton agonized with every step. Revenge, sweet revenge, was just moments away, but nagging reservations were creeping in. This hardly seemed to be the type of thing one should be doing in Heaven… and Burr was unharmed…. and he thought of the tearful apology from his late-night visitor.The moment of truth. Burr closed his eyes tight as Hamilton raised his pistol. He took aim at the center of Burr’s chest as his finger gently caressed the trigger. And then those better angels… Hamilton slowly, steadily raised his sights above the target as the puzzled crowd looked on. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet shot harmlessly into the air.St. Philip Neri smiled broadly, the crowd let out a collective groan, and Burr did a quick body check to make certain he was unscathed. Hamilton dropped the pistol at his side, and Burr raised his head and looked at the man who had spared him a second time. Their eyes met, and they haltingly walked toward each other. The crowd was at first disappointed, but when they saw the former bitter enemies embrace in a dramatic bro-hug, they cheered wildly. Many wept openly.Unfortunately, the reconciliation was short-lived. Burr’s smile grew…and grew…and grew. Finally, he was laughing- hysterical, knee-slapping laughter, and he delivered a shot more painful than the bullet fired in 1804. He pointed, not his pistol, but a finger at the bewildered Hamiton.“Gottcha’ again, you fool! Ha, ha, ha! How could anyone be so stupid? Twice! Nice shot, Dead-eye! Ha, ha, ha!”The crowd was frozen in confusion, but then a laugh, and then another. Soon the entire place was engulfed in cruel, uproarious laughter. Hamilton stood in complete shock, desperately trying to comprehend the moment. The laughter, the ridicule, and the anger stormed back in a flash. He immediately understood that he had again played the role of the fool, only this time with the misfortune of a greatly expanded audience.Additional derogatory nicknames attached. Hamilton would have to endure the labels ‘Naïve Ninny’ and ‘Gullible Goof’ for an eternity while Burr basked in the glorious satisfaction of having once again inflicted irreparable damage on his lifelong, and then some, enemy.Today Hamilton keeps to himself, shielding himself from the spotlight of scorn, humiliation, and ridicule. He sometimes worries that his misfortunes might someday be chronicled in a book or a movie..perhaps even a play.
","August 15, 2023 02:35","[[{'Julianne Munich': 'I loved this! aww, wish I could give poor Hamilton a hug! \nBurr is a jerk but I love his snark. Thank you for writing this. <3', 'time': '18:12 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': ""Great twist, I thought Hamilton was going to pull out a second bullet and give Burr his comeuppance. I've not seen the musical."", 'time': '19:54 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""'doping-looking guy'.  Maybe dopey? Or however it's spelled?\nFun and funny. But heavenly speaking you would think Burr should have repented and asked forgiveness from Hamilton.\n\nSometimes I think auto-correct over corrects. Can't be us making those goofs.🤔"", 'time': '15:49 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': ""Turns out I'm the dopey guy! Thank you for catching my boo-boo."", 'time': '15:54 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Murray Burns': ""Turns out I'm the dopey guy! Thank you for catching my boo-boo."", 'time': '15:54 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Murray, conflicts, history, heaven, anger this story packs it all in! Not to mention Hamilton was too good for his own good. Was that the intent? LOL.\nIronic and humourous.\nWell done Murray Burns! Rah Rah, Woot Woot! LF6', 'time': '00:13 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Murray, wildly creative story, partly with a historical background. Good momentum which I favor. Keep them coming.', 'time': '15:53 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Funny tale, Murray, and one that speaks to how poorly humanity resolves conflicts. I wish Hamilton had shot Burr, but that\'s the point, isn\'t it? Bullies are weasels and cowards, and we have to deal with them harshly.\n\nA few errors:\nYou have ""dual"" instead of ""duel"" in a few places, including the title.\n""deep seeded"" should be ""deep seated.""\n""Naugty"" should be ""Naughty.""\n\nNice work, my friend. You have a definite talent for humor, Murray.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '10:42 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': 'Yikes! I guess I must be losing it...or it\'s just an age thing. Whichever, I certainly appreciate you catching my boo-boos. \nHumor- I think I told you about Jim Valvano\'s moving speech when he accepted the Courage Award at the ESPY\'s in the 90\'s...""You need to laugh everyday"". I try. Thanks.', 'time': '12:52 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Murray Burns': 'Yikes! I guess I must be losing it...or it\'s just an age thing. Whichever, I certainly appreciate you catching my boo-boos. \nHumor- I think I told you about Jim Valvano\'s moving speech when he accepted the Courage Award at the ESPY\'s in the 90\'s...""You need to laugh everyday"". I try. Thanks.', 'time': '12:52 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,rmxqzx,Insulting Antoine,Chris Campbell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rmxqzx/,/short-story/rmxqzx/,Adults,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Funny']",15 likes,"
	 “On my count, you both will proceed ten steps forward. 	On my command, you will then turn to face each other, aim your pistols and fire. Is that understood?”	The two open-neck shirted men standing back-to-back, nodded in unison at the instructions. 	“As each of your Seconds have failed to get you to reconcile your differences without violence, this duel is categorised as à l'outrance, where there will be no satisfaction until one party is mortally wounded. Is that clear, gentlemen?”	Again, the two men acknowledged the rules with a nod of their heads.	“Furthermore, should neither participant be hit after the first volley, the challenger will be asked for satisfaction. Should Monsieur Chevalier reject satisfaction, then we start again. Seconds?”	The two sullen-looking men on either side of the pistols table, nodded in agreement.	“Monsieur De La Grange?”	The shorter of the two men, nodded again.	“Monsieur Chevalier?”	“The sooner I kill this man, the better.”	The staid declaration caused the man pressing against Chevalier’s back to strain his neck ever-so-slightly, like he had just realised the seriousness of the situation he was about to face.	“Antoine,” he muttered. “Has this not gone far enough, mon ami?”	Antoine lowered his head a fraction, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He did regret circumstances reaching this tipping point, but honour was honour and it was the duty of high society French men of the 1800s to settle disputes born of insult.	“Antoine, this has all been blown out of proportion. What if I take it back?”	“Too late,” Antoine’s clenched-teeth response growled.	“Nous sommes amis, Antoine. We are friends - since childhood.”	Antoine Chevalier and Pierre De La Grange had indeed been lifelong friends. From La rentrée – the first day of primary education in the Bavarian Alps to the Sorbonne - the leading university in Paris, they had been at each other’s side sharing knowledge, wine, and women. However, one small slip of an insult in a brothel by Pierre, shot through Antoine’s heart like a betrayal beyond all comprehension, causing a chasm of hurt that seemed to swallow up the lifelong shared memories of the two friends.	“Gentlemen,” instructed the judge. “May God be with you.”	“He can only be with one,” Antoine commented. “And I am sure zat it is not him.”	“Him, has a name, Antoine,” Pierre interjected. “I am Pierre De La Grange,” he loudly announced. “And I do not want to die over an insult!”	Pierre’s words morbidly highlighted the reality of the situation. But there seemed to be no going back. A proclamation had been made and Antoine showed no hunger for a peaceful satisfaction. 	With the surrounding air electrified by testosterone-filled tension, the judge inhaled a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then shouted,	“ONE!”	Antoine took a confident step forward, but a shiver ran down his spine as he realised something was not quite right.	“Remember Bordeaux, Antoine? How we laughed and sang and frolicked those three days after graduation.”	“What are you doing?” Antoine demanded to know.	“Oui, what are you doing?” The judge incredulously asked.	“I am talking to my friend,” Pierre innocently replied.	It wasn’t the talking that took everyone by surprise. It was the fact that instead of taking a step forward, Pierre had taken a step backward, remaining shoulder blades to shoulder blades directly behind Antoine. 	“Monsieur De La Grange,” the judge’s scolding words echoed in the early misty morning. “Perhaps, I did not make myself clear on the instructions related to your duel. You are required to take each step in a forward direction.”	“But my friend is hard of hearing,” Pierre answered back. “And I need to talk to him to apologise and to tell him that this is all a ridiculous situation.”	“Now, I’m ridiculous?” Antoine replied in a slated tone of voice.”	“No, mon ami. Not you. It’s this entire state of affairs.”	“You insulted me, Pierre. Satisfaction must be had.”	“Gentlemen,” the judge interrupted. “Please return to your starting positions.”	Leaning into Pierre’s back, Antoine managed to nudge him toward their starting spot.	“We ‘ave always been close, Antoine. We vowed that we would never allow anything to come between us. What ‘as changed?”	“You insulted me one too many times.”	“It was only once!” Pierre protested. “Have you not insulted me in the past? Did I cry into my Viennoiserie pastries? No, I took it all like a man?”	“So, you now say that I am less than a man?”	“No, my over-sensitive friend. I am only stating that as friends, we should be able to say anything to each other without feelings being impaired.”	“Gentlemen! On my count,” instructed the judge once again. “ONE!”	Repeating the same manoeuvre, Pierre took a step backwards, bumping into Antoine’s back.”	“What is wrong with you, Pierre? Are you so simple minded that you cannot follow instructions?”	“You see, my old friend,” Pierre pointed out. “That is insulting. But am I upset? No. Do I want to take up arms and pursue a deadly outcome? Non! Life is full of insults. As educated French men, we should realise that words carry less weight than rocks.”	“If that is so,” Antoine replied. “Then your words must be made of boulders.”	“I admit that my tongue can sometimes be as sharp as a knife. I believe it comes with getting to an age where I am beyond participating in physical conflict. A sharp wit is a much heavier hit, my friend.”	“Did you just make that up?”	“What can I say? I ‘ave more time on my hands these days. Oh, how I miss those carefree days of summer love and autumn wine, when we rode women as fast and furious as we rode horses.”	“I ‘ave never done it with a horse,” Antoine denied.	“That is not what I mean, you silly man. Although, you did ‘ave a sweet spot for that little filly in Florence, did you not?”	“That little filly – as you so put it – was a gelding, and I was very fond of his gentle nature.”	“You paid him so much attention in that Italian stable, that I was convinced you would marry him.”	“He was a horse,” Antoine spat out. “But how can I explain that to someone who is not a horse person?”	“Ahem,” interrupted the judge. “Are we going continue the duel or would you two just like to reminisce?”	“Pardon et moi, Monsieur Hubert,” Antoine apologised. “Please continue.”	Sighing loud enough to show his growing frustration, the judge felt it necessary to chastise the two men.	“May I remind you both that if we cannot resolve this dispute, then I will ‘ave no other option than to pass the weapons to your Seconds for them to replace the both of you.”	Unsure of the ramifications of the judge’s statement, both Seconds nervously cleared their throats and protested the mention of inclusion into the violence.	“Non!” Antoine shouted, silencing the vocal dissent. “I will ‘ave satisfaction. I demand satisfaction.”	Motioning commandingly to the two combatants, the judge moved the men back to the starting position.	“Monsieur De La Grange,” he assertively instructed. “I will start my count once more. Should you fail to comply with the serious etiquette that this occasion requires, I will have no choice other than allowing Monsieur Chevalier first strike. Is that clear?”	“Antoine,” Pierre pleaded. “Can you live with my death?”	“Can you live with mine?” Antoine countered.	“No, mon ami. You are my closest friend.”	“Then, let me carry the grief,” Antoine coldly suggested.	“Gentlemen!” The judge fumed. “Say your au revoir and start walking. UN!”	Obeying, both men took one step forward.	Like a conductor in an orchestra, the relieved judge’s waving right hand oscillated in the air as he continued the count.	“DEUX!”	Again, both men took a step forward.	“TROIS!” Was the elated count cry of the judge – now getting into his rhythm. However, only Antoine took a third step forward.	“Monsieur De La Grange?” The judge brusquely demanded an explanation that was absent in its forthcoming. 	Impatient at the lack of a response, the judge repeated himself – a few decibels louder and more deliberately. “Monsieur De La Grange!?”	“I am thinking,” was Pierre’s reply.	The stalling tactic was taking a toll on Antoine’s resolve, causing him to impatiently shuffle his feet on the loose gravelly path beneath them.	“Let me just shoot him and be done with it!” Antoine impudently suggested.”	“Control yourself, Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge admonished. “I will be the one to decide that option.”	 “Then decide, you imbécile.”	“Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge warned. “Isn’t one duel enough for today?”	“Pardonne-moi, Monsieur Hubert. I am at my wit’s end.”	“Then, I ‘ave decided,” the judge determined. “Under the rules of engagement – or as it is in this occurrence, a lack of engagement – I ‘ave no other option than to declare first strike. Gentlemen, please turn and face each other.”	Complying, Antoine gratefully turned to face his friend, but Pierre did not reciprocate. He remained facing the other direction, mumbling to himself.”	“Monsieur De La Grange!” The judge shouted. “You must face Monsieur Chevalier for the contest to play out… Monsieur De La…”	“I’m thinking!” Pierre shouted, cutting off the judge in mid-sentence.	“What is there to think about?” Antoine impatiently asked. “Just turn and let me fire my pistol at you.”	“I am going to slowly turn around, but don’t shoot me. I ‘ave a suggestion.”	Delicately swinging his body around, Pierre turned to face his new adversary. As soon as he was in position, he immediately threw his pistol to the ground.”	“Pierre, what are you playing at?”	“I am unarmed. The rules state that both duellists must be in possession of a weapon in which to be declared a combatant, oui?”	The grey area of the rules seemed to be lost on everyone else, who just stood shrugging their shoulders in some unified act of uncertainty.	“So,” Pierre continued. “I propose that we continue proceedings armed only with our wits.”	“Sacre Bleu!” Antoine’s exasperated profanity cut through the receding mist. “Just let me wing him a little bit and be done with it.”	“Antoine,” Pierre explained. “We ‘ave spent a lifetime together saving quips and insults to memory. Why not put them to good use now and unleash them on each other. Monsieur Hubert and our Seconds can vote on the best insult. If you win, then wouldn’t that be satisfaction enough without any blood being spilled?”	“An insult for an insult,” Antoine vocally pondered. “But what if you win?”	“Then, my incendiary insult was warranted, yes? Look, whatever the outcome, at least we can remain friends, oui?”	“I’m not so sure, Pierre.”	“Then, promise me that we won’t part as enemies. What say you?”	Antoine took a moment to process Pierre’s proposal, before seeking out the judge’s opinion.	“Please, Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge pleaded. “The hour of déjeuner approaches fast and my stomach is growling fiercely at me. The first meal of the day is très important to me. It sets my tone for the day.”	Throwing his pistol to the ground, Antoine acquiesced.	“Now,” stated Pierre. “We are armed solely with our wits. Please Antoine, why don’t you take first strike.”	“What do I say?”	“Say anything,” the judge suggested. “The quicker we get this done, the happier my intestinal tract will be.”	“Just insult me,” Pierre prompted.	“Very well,” Antoine accepted the challenge while over-thinking what to say. “I erm…  no, you, erm. Yes, you, Pierre, are an oxygen thief!”	Looking at the judge and Seconds, Antoine hoped for more than their small gesticulation of approval, but it was early rounds yet. He needed to get in the groove and to warm up a bit.	Pierre looked toward the judge for guidance, but he just waved him on, as if to say, the stage is yours.	“Antoine,” Pierre began. “Your mother is so fat that when God said let there be light, he had to shove her out of the way.”	Several impromptu chuckles from the judge and Seconds, confirmed that Pierre had taken the upper hand.	“What is it with you and my mother?” Scowled Antoine. “This is exactly how this all started.”	“Monsieur Chevalier, it is your turn, si vous plait,” the judge urged.	“Well, you are so intolerable that even your mother loves you only as a friend.”	Turning to the three panellists, their ambivalent demonstration of rotating their wrists told Antoine that he needed to try harder.	“Monsieur De La Grange?” The judge encouraged.	“I see your point, Antoine. But I still think you’re an idiot.”	Falling flat on the three panellists’ assessments, Pierre shrugged it off.	“I thought it was good,” he added.	Searching for something with more bite to it, Antoine’s face lit up like a beacon.	“Pierre, your teeth are so yellow, that when you smile, I can see the Spanish flag.”	Several exhalations of “Ooh” and the gritting of similar-coloured teeth from the gallery, suggested to Antoine that he just hit the bullseye with that one.	Presenting an open palm to Pierre, the judge encouraged a comeback.	“Well,” Pierre hit back. “You ‘ave so many gaps in your teeth that your tongue looks like it is in the Bastille.”	“What was that?” Antoine asked, confused as to the subject.	“That was not an insult, mon ami. That was just me describing you.”	“In the land of the witless, you would be king,” Antoine bit back.	“If I were the king, then you would be the fool!” Pierre snapped.	Slightly vexed at the judge laughing at that one, Antoine’s eyes threw daggers at him. Then, turning to Pierre, he retorted,	“I’d give you a nasty look too, but I see you already ‘ave one.”	Several snorts broke through the stifled giggles of the three onlookers.	“If I wanted to hear from an Ass, I would fart,” Pierre asserted.	“I’d slap you,” Antoine followed up. “But I don’t want to make your face look any better.”	“You ‘ave a face only a mother could love.”	“Again, the mother subject, Pierre. Is your memory bad because you were dropped on your head as a baby?”	“If I was dropped, then you were clearly flung against a wall.”	“What does that even mean, Pierre?”	“To tell you would insult your intelligence. That’s if you ‘ad any.”	“You are a complete idiot!”	“There are wounds of the flesh and wounds of the heart. They can all be healed, but you can’t heal stupid.”	The petty word slinging started to make the three adjudicators laugh at the absurdity.	“You see,” said Pierre. “Even they think that’s funny.”	“You poor ignorant fool, Pierre. They are not laughing with you; they are laughing at you.”	“Nincompoop.”	“Garlic sucker.”	“Brainless.”	“Napolean doppelganger.”	Running out of insults, the two men began pulling rude faces that included making their noses look like pig snouts, flapping their ears, and blowing raspberries at each other. 	Descending into absurd chaos, the judge decided to call a halt to the contest.	“Gentlemen! It is obvious that you have exhausted all viable insults. I declare this duel a no contest, a draw. Monsieur Chevalier, do you have satisfaction?”	Surprisingly smiling, Antoine nodded his head as he caught his breath. The whole exercise for him had been emancipating. It was like he had just finished a session of insult therapy, leaving him calm, relaxed, and free from anger.	“Oui,” he replied. “I have satisfaction.”	“Monsieur De La Grange,” the judge addressed him. “Satisfaction ‘as been achieved. You are no longer obligated to remain and may leave with your Second.”	“Merci, Monsieur Hubert,” Pierre acknowledged.	Attempting to make eye contact with Antoine, Pierre hoped to reconcile their differences; however, Antoine turned away as his Second helped him put on his coat. With a farewell glance, Pierre turned and dejectedly walked away – although, happy in the thought that no-one had died today and hoping that time would one day heal Antoine’s insult.	“Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge asked. “I am intrigued. You mentioned that he insulted your mother. I presume that was the catalyst for this challenge?”	“It was.”	“Forgive my intrusive curiosity, but what was the nature of the insult?”	“We were drinking heavily in a brothel in Montparnasse, swapping jokes and jibes, when he said that my mother was a Hedge Hugger.”	“A Hedge Hugger? Qu'est-ce que c'est?” 	“It is a prostitute that practices her trade in the countryside.”	“Mon Dieu!” The judge exclaimed. “That is so offensive.”	“It was,” Antoine agreed. “I mean, everyone knows Mother would never leave the city… À bientôt, Monsieur Hubert.”	Hurrying away, Antoine missed witnessing the judge bewilderedly scratching his head. 	“Those two deserve each other,” he mumbled. “Complete idiots – the pair of them.”	Pierre had managed to gracefully leave the scene and was about to step into his awaiting carriage when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning to see who it was, he felt an exhilaration energise his tired mind. Standing before him was none other than Antoine - a friendly smile adorning his face.	“Pierre, mon ami,” he said. “Is there room in there for me?”	Excited, Pierre gave his friend the tightest of hugs – his head resting on the taller man’s chest, before ushering him into the horse-drawn carriage.	“Perhaps on the way to Madame Geroux’s parlour, you can teach me some new insults.”	“With pleasure, mon ami,” Pierre beamed. “And I promise to leave your mother out of it.”	“That is inconsequential, Pierre. She deserves all she gets.”	“So, what was all that about, then?”	“I was drunk, you little half-pint.”	“Antoine, you truly are an idiot!”	“I know!”	“Driver, Maison de Madame Geroux, si vous plait!”	“Spoken with such sophistication, Pierre. So, in command, and not one insult attached to that request.”	“Antoine, I thought by now, you would have realised.”	“Realised what, mon ami?”	“…I save all my insults for my friends…”	 
","August 17, 2023 16:13","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris!\nI recently just watched Chevalier on Hulu. I know it’s a dramatized fiction, but of course my mind jumped to it when reading this piece. As a girl who studied French in high school, I loved the little French touch. And I am impressed you managed to fit so much history into the story. This was a great answer to the prompt and had my palms sweating with anxiety until the end. Nice work!', 'time': '00:50 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Amanda,\nI'm a huge avid movie buff, but this is the second film you've told me of that I haven't seen. It's now on my list, thank you.\nTrue friendship to me, is a precious thing to have. As with Antoine and Pierre, sometimes life can throw up a challenge or two and test that friendship, but true friendship will always overcome any differences of opinion. No matter how brutal their honesty can be.\nSo glad to have successfully transported you to another place and time.\nThanks for all your time spent reading my stories."", 'time': '05:27 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Amanda,\nI'm a huge avid movie buff, but this is the second film you've told me of that I haven't seen. It's now on my list, thank you.\nTrue friendship to me, is a precious thing to have. As with Antoine and Pierre, sometimes life can throw up a challenge or two and test that friendship, but true friendship will always overcome any differences of opinion. No matter how brutal their honesty can be.\nSo glad to have successfully transported you to another place and time.\nThanks for all your time spent reading my stories."", 'time': '05:27 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Howard Halsall': ""Hey Chris,\nThat was a witty read and caught the spirit of the dual in an unmistakable fashion. (I don’t know if you’ve seen Ridley Scott’s movie, “The Duallists?” I highly recommend it. Spoiler alert - 2 friends and their lifelong dual.)\nThe friends’ dialogue exchanges worked well and you captured a genuine sense of a long-term relationship. I admit I had to check, “à l'outrance.” However it didn’t disturb the flow and enhanced the experience on discovering the translation.\nWell done all round and I look forward to your next story.\nTake care\nHH"", 'time': '03:30 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Howard.\nYes, I have seen the movie, but it was not in my conscious thought when writing this piece. I now see the similarity.\nThanks for the great feedback.', 'time': '04:32 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'No problems… I await your next submission :)', 'time': '04:58 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'First draft here: ""The Book Of The Dead Letter Office"" - https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wc5ywk/', 'time': '11:29 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Chris,\nI’ve read your first draft of “The Book Of The Dead Letter Office” and have some thoughts. Given that the idea is exciting and has tremendous possibilities, and a great pair of legs, please don’t take anything I suggest as negative….\nIn my opinion, the balance of the two characters needs to be on an equal footing I.e. Richard and Jonty should be a similar rank. For example - I’m thinking of M.A.S.H. and Captains Pierce and McIntyre who are thrown into a situation and make the best of it through humour and collaboration, and thei...', 'time': '05:06 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Hi Howard,\nThanks for taking the time to analyse my story and for your great feedback. I found it very valid and extremely helpful.\nI have slightly altered the story to put both characters on an even keel. I completely agree with you that when one character is the outward Alpha character, it can be off-putting. The two need to feed off each other and not feel there are boundaries social or rank, that divide them.\nGreat insight into rank and responsibilities. Were you in the military?\nAll the best,\nCC', 'time': '05:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Howard.\nYes, I have seen the movie, but it was not in my conscious thought when writing this piece. I now see the similarity.\nThanks for the great feedback.', 'time': '04:32 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'No problems… I await your next submission :)', 'time': '04:58 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'First draft here: ""The Book Of The Dead Letter Office"" - https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wc5ywk/', 'time': '11:29 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Chris,\nI’ve read your first draft of “The Book Of The Dead Letter Office” and have some thoughts. Given that the idea is exciting and has tremendous possibilities, and a great pair of legs, please don’t take anything I suggest as negative….\nIn my opinion, the balance of the two characters needs to be on an equal footing I.e. Richard and Jonty should be a similar rank. For example - I’m thinking of M.A.S.H. and Captains Pierce and McIntyre who are thrown into a situation and make the best of it through humour and collaboration, and thei...', 'time': '05:06 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Hi Howard,\nThanks for taking the time to analyse my story and for your great feedback. I found it very valid and extremely helpful.\nI have slightly altered the story to put both characters on an even keel. I completely agree with you that when one character is the outward Alpha character, it can be off-putting. The two need to feed off each other and not feel there are boundaries social or rank, that divide them.\nGreat insight into rank and responsibilities. Were you in the military?\nAll the best,\nCC', 'time': '05:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'No problems… I await your next submission :)', 'time': '04:58 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'First draft here: ""The Book Of The Dead Letter Office"" - https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wc5ywk/', 'time': '11:29 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Chris,\nI’ve read your first draft of “The Book Of The Dead Letter Office” and have some thoughts. Given that the idea is exciting and has tremendous possibilities, and a great pair of legs, please don’t take anything I suggest as negative….\nIn my opinion, the balance of the two characters needs to be on an equal footing I.e. Richard and Jonty should be a similar rank. For example - I’m thinking of M.A.S.H. and Captains Pierce and McIntyre who are thrown into a situation and make the best of it through humour and collaboration, and thei...', 'time': '05:06 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Hi Howard,\nThanks for taking the time to analyse my story and for your great feedback. I found it very valid and extremely helpful.\nI have slightly altered the story to put both characters on an even keel. I completely agree with you that when one character is the outward Alpha character, it can be off-putting. The two need to feed off each other and not feel there are boundaries social or rank, that divide them.\nGreat insight into rank and responsibilities. Were you in the military?\nAll the best,\nCC', 'time': '05:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'First draft here: ""The Book Of The Dead Letter Office"" - https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wc5ywk/', 'time': '11:29 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Chris,\nI’ve read your first draft of “The Book Of The Dead Letter Office” and have some thoughts. Given that the idea is exciting and has tremendous possibilities, and a great pair of legs, please don’t take anything I suggest as negative….\nIn my opinion, the balance of the two characters needs to be on an equal footing I.e. Richard and Jonty should be a similar rank. For example - I’m thinking of M.A.S.H. and Captains Pierce and McIntyre who are thrown into a situation and make the best of it through humour and collaboration, and thei...', 'time': '05:06 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Hi Howard,\nThanks for taking the time to analyse my story and for your great feedback. I found it very valid and extremely helpful.\nI have slightly altered the story to put both characters on an even keel. I completely agree with you that when one character is the outward Alpha character, it can be off-putting. The two need to feed off each other and not feel there are boundaries social or rank, that divide them.\nGreat insight into rank and responsibilities. Were you in the military?\nAll the best,\nCC', 'time': '05:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Chris,\nI’ve read your first draft of “The Book Of The Dead Letter Office” and have some thoughts. Given that the idea is exciting and has tremendous possibilities, and a great pair of legs, please don’t take anything I suggest as negative….\nIn my opinion, the balance of the two characters needs to be on an equal footing I.e. Richard and Jonty should be a similar rank. For example - I’m thinking of M.A.S.H. and Captains Pierce and McIntyre who are thrown into a situation and make the best of it through humour and collaboration, and thei...', 'time': '05:06 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Hi Howard,\nThanks for taking the time to analyse my story and for your great feedback. I found it very valid and extremely helpful.\nI have slightly altered the story to put both characters on an even keel. I completely agree with you that when one character is the outward Alpha character, it can be off-putting. The two need to feed off each other and not feel there are boundaries social or rank, that divide them.\nGreat insight into rank and responsibilities. Were you in the military?\nAll the best,\nCC', 'time': '05:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Hi Howard,\nThanks for taking the time to analyse my story and for your great feedback. I found it very valid and extremely helpful.\nI have slightly altered the story to put both characters on an even keel. I completely agree with you that when one character is the outward Alpha character, it can be off-putting. The two need to feed off each other and not feel there are boundaries social or rank, that divide them.\nGreat insight into rank and responsibilities. Were you in the military?\nAll the best,\nCC', 'time': '05:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Love all your witty insults. What fantastic friends! Your attention to the detail of the duel speaks of some serious research. It feels so very authentic.', 'time': '14:16 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Michelle,\nYes, I did a little research into French duels. There are so many rules that I'm surprised duellists didn't just give up and go for glass of wine, instead."", 'time': '16:42 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Michelle,\nYes, I did a little research into French duels. There are so many rules that I'm surprised duellists didn't just give up and go for glass of wine, instead."", 'time': '16:42 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Man, there was some serious shade thrown out. Well, at least no bullets flew, right?\n\nChris, this is just another example of your amazing wit, and completely different than your other tale for this week. I don\'t think you have a funny bone so much as you have ""funny"" in your DNA. Highly entertaining, as per, my friend. Wonderful piece - again.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '12:12 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\nI love your coments.', 'time': '16:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\nI love your coments.', 'time': '16:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Chris, the insults were flying in this one. I certainly had some favourites. The simpleton characters of Antoine and Pierre were laughable. I enjoyed this read much. LF6', 'time': '16:36 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Lily.\nI had a few chuckles writing it. That's always a good thing."", 'time': '23:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Lily.\nI had a few chuckles writing it. That's always a good thing."", 'time': '23:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,d2isik,The Reconciliation,Lily Finch,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d2isik/,/short-story/d2isik/,Adults,0,"['American', 'Fiction']",14 likes,"
[Death]Todd was three years my senior. When we were younger, he was in his mid-twenties and I was in my early twenties, we dated for four years. I'm sure he wanted to marry me. But I had other ideas. We separated. We lost touch because I married someone else, and he married someone else. His wife disliked me. The fact that I was on the same baseball team made matters worse.When Todd and I planned our future, we spoke about what our children might be like. We discussed bright children who would be super-athletes. We even chose a name for a son. Spencer was the name. Todd and his wife gave it to their child. I was positive his wife had no idea he and I chose that name. She would not have agreed to the name if she had known Todd and I had chosen that name for our child.We kept a close eye on each other for the next 40 years.Todd and his wife were both alcoholics who met at work. His wife was not attractive, and he was gorgeous, but he lacked confidence when it came to dating. It was not in his character to pursue a lady for a date. He married the first woman who showed him any attention. Every baseball season, she would start drinking after each game. It was a habit she couldn’t break. It wasn't entirely unexpected when the doctor told Todd his wife had cirrhosis of the liver. The damage was permanent. Her liver was like a stone, unable to regenerate. Our teammates had no idea how much she drank until her terminal diagnosis. Cirrhosis was a dreadful disease that killed swiftly. Todd understood the seriousness of her illness. He understood that 24-hour health care was vital. Todd was determined to spend every part of his day with her. He found they didn't really have anything in common other than golf and drinking. Todd stopped drinking.He needed someone to confide in. When he reached out to me, I was there for him. Our friendship was never in dispute. I knew what it was like to lose a spouse. I had lost mine the previous year. I was able to help him since I had recently dealt with the death of my husband. I was willing to go to any length to assist him in his grief. Todd and I started calling every night. It wasn’t long before he started coming over so we could talk in person. Todd and I learned everything about each other we didn't know. We talked about our future goals and whether or not we had a future together. Todd frequently stayed at my house when his wife was dying in the hospital. We were both aware of the dire situation, but who could blame Todd or me? We both had to live. His wife died one month later. Todd, after a while, no longer needed my support. I gave him some space to figure things out. I was available if he needed anything. One day, when I had just finished making coffee, there was a knock on my door. It was Todd. He gave me fresh-cut flowers and an old ring box.As he pushed the box into my hand, his eyes widened, and as he got down on one knee, he smiled.""Will you marry me, Mikeau?"" he asked.""Yes."" My heart raced.""I'm so happy we’re together,"" Todd said. ""This is how things should have gone the first time,"" he explained. We hugged and kissed and ran to City Hall. The Justice of the Peace married us. We both understood we weren't growing any younger, and we didn't want to be apart any longer. “I’m so happy we reconciled.”
","August 16, 2023 00:41","[[{'Marty B': ""'He needed someone to confide in. ' \nThis is the basis for many relationships right?  A listening ear can mean so much when life challenges us. And for Mikeau and Todd, this was a better beginning than alcohol and golf, which are fun but can cause problems.\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '23:28 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Yes, In their case, they were able to rekindle something that probably should have always been. LF6', 'time': '01:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Yes, In their case, they were able to rekindle something that probably should have always been. LF6', 'time': '01:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Short and sweet - and a little bitter :) \n\nIt\'s clear these two were meant for each other. They were good together, they never lost touch, and they pick up very quickly where they left things. But it makes me wonder - considering how close they are - how present were they ever in their other marriages? \n\nTodd even notices, all he shared with his wife was golf and drinking - hardly the foundation for a healthy relationship. \n\nThere\'s also a curious line: ""but he lacked confidence when it came to dating"". It comes across as the narrator critic...', 'time': '20:46 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': ""Michał, yes this one was short and sweet and did have some bitterness. \nLittle did they both know that what they had was the best of what they had. It was just given to them so early in life. Mikeau had commitment issues that led to the point they were found at the story's beginning. \nEverything is better when drinking is involved right? Until that is what makes you sick and you both sober up. Then you realize maybe you. don't have so much in common anymore. \nI agree I probably should have dragged it out a bit more. I wanted to avoid a confl..."", 'time': '22:00 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': ""Michał, yes this one was short and sweet and did have some bitterness. \nLittle did they both know that what they had was the best of what they had. It was just given to them so early in life. Mikeau had commitment issues that led to the point they were found at the story's beginning. \nEverything is better when drinking is involved right? Until that is what makes you sick and you both sober up. Then you realize maybe you. don't have so much in common anymore. \nI agree I probably should have dragged it out a bit more. I wanted to avoid a confl..."", 'time': '22:00 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'What is meant to be will be, even if it takes decades!\nLovely story Lily!', 'time': '22:56 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Thanks Derrick. LF6', 'time': '03:15 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Thanks Derrick. LF6', 'time': '03:15 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Nice story with a happy ending. Todd & Mikau, now in their sixties, left time alone but time took care of them in the end.', 'time': '21:47 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': ""Hi Joe, thanks for reading and commenting on this one. This story is not my cup of tea but it worked for the prompt. Yes, time did work for them. Funny how some things work. You never know what's in store. LF6"", 'time': '22:04 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': ""Hi Joe, thanks for reading and commenting on this one. This story is not my cup of tea but it worked for the prompt. Yes, time did work for them. Funny how some things work. You never know what's in store. LF6"", 'time': '22:04 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aiyana Henderson': 'Lily, this is such a sweet story. I’m glad Mikeau and Todd reunited with each other. If I had to nitpick, I would suggest nothing. This story is perfect. You were able to capture the moments of connection, loss, and redemption all at once', 'time': '15:56 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Aiyana, thank you so much for reading and commenting. I appreciate your kind words and commentary. It made my day. LF6', 'time': '15:59 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Aiyana, thank you so much for reading and commenting. I appreciate your kind words and commentary. It made my day. LF6', 'time': '15:59 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': ""Some languages, while the wife is still alive, don't just jell with my common sense thing to do. It's like both are wishing the lady a fast demise before her time. Overall, fine storyline."", 'time': '15:54 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': ""Hi Philip, it was the simple fact that her dying was not a reason for her husband to stop pursuing something that he wanted long before his wife had come into his life. While he wasn't wishing for her death, her death was inevitable. So being practical he did what he thought was in his best interest while tending to his wife too. \nThanks for reading and making a comment. I appreciate your reading. LF6"", 'time': '15:58 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'I can see that.', 'time': '18:02 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Cool. I am glad you read it and got something from it. LF6', 'time': '18:46 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': ""Hi Philip, it was the simple fact that her dying was not a reason for her husband to stop pursuing something that he wanted long before his wife had come into his life. While he wasn't wishing for her death, her death was inevitable. So being practical he did what he thought was in his best interest while tending to his wife too. \nThanks for reading and making a comment. I appreciate your reading. LF6"", 'time': '15:58 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'I can see that.', 'time': '18:02 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Cool. I am glad you read it and got something from it. LF6', 'time': '18:46 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'I can see that.', 'time': '18:02 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Cool. I am glad you read it and got something from it. LF6', 'time': '18:46 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Cool. I am glad you read it and got something from it. LF6', 'time': '18:46 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Well, I suppose that marriage is the ultimate reconciliation! LOL\n\nA couple of things:\n""he was in his mid-twenties and me in my late teens, just into my twenties."" I don\'t think you can be in your late teens AND just into your twenties.\n\n"" I knew what it was like to lose a spouse since I had lost mine the year prior.""\n""My husband’s death occurred a little over two years ago.""\nThese don\'t match.\n\nI think your tale would be more powerful without the last line. IMO, that doesn\'t need to be stated since they are now married to each other.\n\nBitte...', 'time': '09:58 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Hi Del, thanks for all of the catches here. I fixed them D). \nYes, the woman considered his drinking before getting together. \nHis seeing his first wife die so terribly cured him of ever wanting to drink again. It was a sobering experience to see her die that way. \nEnough to scare anyone away from drinking. LF6\nThanks for reading and of course for your comments Del. Well received as always.', 'time': '13:35 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Hi Del, thanks for all of the catches here. I fixed them D). \nYes, the woman considered his drinking before getting together. \nHis seeing his first wife die so terribly cured him of ever wanting to drink again. It was a sobering experience to see her die that way. \nEnough to scare anyone away from drinking. LF6\nThanks for reading and of course for your comments Del. Well received as always.', 'time': '13:35 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,5zcfqx,Brain Vs Brain,Shawn Leader,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5zcfqx/,/short-story/5zcfqx/,Adults,0,"['Funny', 'American', 'Friendship']",12 likes,"
6:48. Time to turn off the car and head into work. My hand doesn’t move. My hand and body in general always wait for a confirmation from both sides of the brain (the good side and the bad side) before any action is taken. The body wants 3 things to be full, warm and relaxed like we were an hour ago before that idiot alarm ruined our lives again! Bad Brain says we can put it drive, be back in bed in minutes and forget all about work today. Heck, we already had breakfast two more steps and we’re golden, my darlings. We need go in, we need money, Bad Brain and you need exercise, Body. I can feel Bad Brain frowning, but he concurs. Fine, Body responds by turning off the car. You’re in charge (for now), but if we have to unload any trucks this morning, I’m taking us all out.
 
6:51. Clock in and head to the back to pretend to look at important documents on the computer.
 
7:10. Arrive in my department. Good Brain tries its damnedest to pull the corners of my mouth up and look engaging while Bad Brain thinks this is a lame poser move. Lori walks by without comment; obviously she does not have a good brain problem.
“Hello”, he said lamely. Bad brain always adds “he said lamely” every time Good Brain says hello. Bad Brain likes to keep it real, but Good Brain cannot say “what up” without blushing. They often debate about how to greet people. Hello does seem lame, but what if we said it with flair like Mrs. Doubtfire or Squigy? Then people would think you thought you were too funny. We are funny, that is funny stuff. Worked for Robin Williams and that other guy (sort of). Shut up, brain, both brains say in unison.
 
It doesn’t matter because Lori ignores the greeting even though she stared me down as she passed. Weirdo. Who dresses like that? Leave her alone; people can dress however they want. Whatever, she looks like prom night at Monster High. Nice pink dog collar with spikes, nice pig tails on your wannabe Harley Quinn hair that almost matches your platform combat boots. And is that Batman airbrushed on her jeans? They say POW! and BOP! on the front and Batman across the back. That’s some homemade arts and crap! Yeah, but it also has the Gotham Skyline on the legs, very creative, shows talent. Bad Brain rolls nonexistent eyes. B.B. doesn’t like Lorri. On the 2nd day on my new morning shift she was supposed to train me and with much drama demanded to know why she was being punished by our boss. This could have been a joke and I was willing to treat it as such, but she then went to the meat department guy, Dale or Duke or Dick, and said “look who I have to deal with today. What did I do?” He smirks, looking down his nose at me which is impressive because he is a good 2 inches shorter. At least Lorri let me tag along. Old Duke or Dale just walked away when the boss told him to train me on the 1st day. He just walked away without saying a word. Good Brain agrees the guy’s name is totally Dick.
 
7:16. Anyhoo, everybody pretty much ignores me now. Which is fine but that also means I have to come up with my projects. I wander around the back room for a bit. Plug my store provided work phone into my self-provided charger which stopped working a week after I bought it (typical I bought it here). I would return it, but Customer Service does not live up to that name around here. Bad brain has fantasies of spray painting a big DIS between the 2 words.
 
7:27. No carts or printers available. I even checked the usual hiding places; behind the strawberries in the cooler, in an old box of receipts in the bakery, under a colander (I know) by the sink, nothing. If I try to help my “team mates” they look at me like I just asked for a kidney. The folks around here do not like to share anything, even work. They know if they look busy doing whatever something close to nothing they found they will not be forced to actual work. They beat us to it, bad brain thinks. Good brain smiles and nods and gets the hell out of their way.
 
7:33. There is a whole pallet of various soups, dips and potato salad that needs to go out in the deli cooler! Oh, glorious day! So much potato salad! Original, Deviled Egg, Mustard and Amish. Amish potato salad is mixed by candle light with a wooden spoon and does not have a mustache. It is the most pious of potato salads unlike that loud mouth braggart Original or that strutting Mustard and don’t even put it on the same self as the Deviled Egg. While Bad Brain entertains itself, I load the L-Cart I stole from dairy.
 
7:41. That only took 9 minutes! Am I in hell? No, Hell has friendlier customers.
 
7:45. I start to unload my wares onto shelves that aren’t big enough forcing me to get creative when finding room. They have redone the system at least a dozen times in the 5 years I’ve been here. The thing is all these ways of stocking and inventory would probably work if the workers (me included) were trained. But nobody really knows what’s going on. The powers that be try to fix the problem by updating with “idiot proof” new equipment and procedures instead of talking to us. So please, cherished customer don’t hate the employees for not knowing anything. We were never told. We are as lost as you. Bad Brain and Good Brain are on the same page on this one.
 
8:00. Still working the L-Cart when the GM walks by with a personal shopper cart. He does this to show he is a working man’s boss. That might be the case if didn’t just ordered whatever poor schmuck is closest to him to find the products that aren’t directly in front of his weasel face. I saw him at Great Clips once when I was getting my hair cut. They spun my chair around right when The Million Dollar Man strolled in like he owned the place. They ask if he had an appointment and he scoffed. They scoffed and told him to take a seat. He looked stunned; these hair-mongers have no idea who he is. He looked lost for a minute then he saw … me. He raises his eyebrows like I should offer him my seat, cutting short (puns are lame) my hair cut, and God help me Good Brain almost did it. But Bad Brain used it veto and Body smirked like a Bond villain as they turned my chair away from the Joseph Stalin of Grocery Stores.
 
9:00. Janice the supervisor walks in. She’s alright because she knows this place is not alright. But she is still the boss so there is the whole take it somewhat seriously thing going on. Good Brain feels for her because she told me the other day the rest of the “team members” here started an “I Hate Janice Club”. Bad brain thought that was hilarious! The 1st Rule of I Hate Janice Club is…
 
9:30. I’ve moved on the frozen pizzas and sandwiches part of my day. This takes a long time and some effort because I have to steal a printer from some foolish coworker that thought they could hide it under their vest when they went to break (a weak effort). I also need to bust out some labels before the charge dies on my store phone. I know I’m making all this seem very glamorous, but Good Brain does get a kick out of being able to do our job and Bad Brain loves the stealing part.
 
10:30. Printing off labels from a printer that only prints half the label half the time takes 2 times as long as it should. It also wastes lots of printer stickers. I have to walk by Janice to get more stickers and she asks, in a tone of voice that implies she already knows the answer, 
“Have you ever heard of cold chain?” 
Bad brain is raising his hand like a nerd in science class with responses like, 
“What, is that your church group?” or 
“Man, that band sucks.” 
Good brain just says no. She then informs me that things out of the freezer need to put back into the freezer every 20 minutes and I am beyond twenty minutes. I nod and leave. I have a club meeting to attend.
 
1145. Cold chain completed and I’m scanning the rest of the boxes in the freezer. I think I’m doing this right. Who cares we are outta here in 6 minutes. Still it would be nice to show I’m not a completely incompetent jerk of a team member. I think the stickers are wrong but they finally scan (mostly) so I guess that’ll work. I’ve already put the printer back under the vest of that team member that has been on break for a long, long time. Maybe she escaped. Bad Brain is happy for her.
 
1151: Clocked out and headed to my other job (whole other story). Good Brain and Bad Brain realize that they need each other to get through the day. Without Good I would be fired 10 minutes in and without Bad I would be taken advantage of. Body still thinks of taking everybody out. 
","August 14, 2023 18:03","[[{'Leland Mesford': 'I really like the underlying, internal debate that the deuling brains carry out throughout the day.', 'time': '00:27 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'LARRY KELLEY': 'Like it.', 'time': '19:42 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,m1kybr,Confidential Paradise,James Milne,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/m1kybr/,/short-story/m1kybr/,Adults,0,"['Romance', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
The wind danced softly, running its hands gently over the entire space. Lightly tracing the fronds of the smaller trees, dancing with the green ceiling far above her head. Tickling at the fields of pink and purple that were hidden away in this tiny little forest, hidden atop an apartment building in Melbourne's south-east.
 
In the middle of this dark space, was a thirty year old woman, completely lost to the wonder of it all.
 
It was chance that she had discovered this place. Entirely chance. She knew of rooftop gardens, of course, but this one was something altogether more. Calling this place a garden would be an insult - it was a paradise.
 
She had been at another apartment building, standing in front of the camera with her microphone, as she spoke about the hard injustices the tenants were facing. Their landlord had jacked up the prices by more than double, and the government just shrugged.
 
It was from there, after the broadcast, when she'd been leaning on the edge of the building and gazing out across the city in a deep melancholy, that she had spotted this little paradise.
 
She'd instantly tried to find it.
 
There had been no doorman, and nobody inside to direct her. An untidy and cheap-feeling building. A non-working elevator, and graffiti'd stairwell... With an absolute paradise atop.
 
Of course, she hadn't stopped trying to find an owner. She was a reporter. All the same, when she could, she escaped the hustle and bustle.
 
Audrey carefully set out her picnic rug, making sure it touched only grass, and not a single one of the beautiful flowers. Then, she set out her teapot, and poured out hot water from a well-insulated metal water bottle.
 
The colours swirled in front of her, giving a brief puff of jasmine to join the scents of this place. Mingling in kindly, as she felt all the tension running out of her shoulders, down her back, and leaving via a tingling of her toes.
 
***
 
The wind whipped violently at Audrey's hair, as she tried to keep it tucked out of her eyes.
 
Behind her a construction yard was in full swing. Dirt and stone crunched and puffed, as Audrey tried to trust the sound manager and speak above it all.
 
""You can see the people behind me. It would be unfair to call these people protesters, Tom. This was their home. Taken from them by greed, avarice, and nothing but an unforgiving appetite for profits.""
 
There were two rows of people - those who had rented here because it was cheap enough not to twist the knife. Until the tower owner had decided to knock the whole place down.
 
""I'm told the new apartments will be five star, and cater exclusively to the millionaire club. There'll be a series of restaurants, gyms, and even a shopping mall. None of it open to the public. All built where these people just tried to sleep.""
 
The crowd behind her briefly overwhelmed as they burst into chanting. ""No gold for gold diggers! No gold for gold diggers!""
 
Whoever came up with that... Needed to rethink it.
 
It was more than just unsympathetic. The CEO acting as a figurehead in this was both a woman, and Asian. Calling her out in that way was sexist, but it probably also came across as racist - considering how Asians were treated here in the mines, a couple hundred years ago.
 
Probably not the protest's intent, but getting them the public's sympathy might just be beyond Audrey's skills.
 
A rough and angry hand grabbed her microphone, and Audrey found herself standing next to a bearded man in heavily stained light-green overalls. He didn't take the microphone entirely, just pulling it to speak. ""This isn't some investment! They aren't building something new, here. They're taking what little someone had, and grinding it into dust! There's no water for a garden, they're just pouring out concrete to kill the life that had grown here!""
 
Audrey pulled back the microphone a little, ""You're not talking about losing a livelihood, but a life. Tell me more about that.""
 
""There were families here."" He said earnestly, looking at her in disbelief, as if it were not a question that needed to be asked. ""You're not going to hear the dribble of a soccer ball down their golden halls. You're not going to hear a dozen dinners cooking away at the end of a long day. You won't hear the laughter of children echoing the walls. If they do things they want... You won't hear a single thing at all.""
 
""It'll just be a synthetic thing, then?"" She prompted him to try and clench shut the argument that would appeal to so many people.
 
He nodded grimly, ""It'll be a shopping mall. Not a field of dreams.""
 
""You heard him, folks. Millionaires, stealing the dreams of children.""
 
***
 
Audrey flopped backwards onto her picnic rug, her hair failing to floof outwards, so she had to push it out with her hands. She felt exhausted, after a day of pursuing more soundbites for the building story.
 
That had been followed up by running the weather, because the forecaster was on parental leave. She really didn't understand a thing about barometry or precipitation, but she had a nice face and a running leg, and so the producers pushed her to the front.
 
She sighed heavily, closing her eyes and listening to the garden.
 
Somewhere above she could hear two little tweets, going back and forth. Nervous little twits, calling out before going quiet. Scared little voices. She smiled as she imagined it like two teenagers, asking out on a first date.
 
Her first date had certainly not been a confident thing.
 
Audrey had been the one to ask. She'd twirled her hair with one hand as she asked him out to the icecream store that had just opened. Twirled so tightly she'd actually managed to pull a half dozen strands out of her scalp.
 
She'd been such a shy thing, back in those days. In private, she supposed that she still was. She knew how to speak to people, how to project and stand tall. She could get noticed, whenever she wanted. That had all come from her job, learning it day by day.
 
She got tired doing it, though. The way she wanted to spend her days was... Exactly like this. Surrounded by flowers, listening to the peace of a bird's day, whilst there was no one to call her name or yell at her. Nothing to tighten her shoulders, or firm her jaw.
 
The stresses of the people she'd spoken to, their entire upset futures, melted away in this little corner of paradise. Here, she could lie still and enjoy the smallest parts of life.
 
""What the devil do you think you're doing!?""
 
Audrey sat up fast enough that her eyes boggled and she had to blink to see that standing right in front of her, was a gardener. He was covered from knee to gumboot'd toe in a thick and black mud. Gardening gloves crusted with more.
 
His mouth was turned down, and he was looking at her in an incensed rage.
 
She swallowed, and fell back into her training, even as her heart beat franticly in her ears. ""So... I guess this is your place, then.""
 
He nodded, ""So what are you doing here, hack?""
 
Audrey blinked again, taking in his unkempt beard, and stared, ""Oh wow. You're... Him? That apartment block is close, I guess.""
 
""I'm not going to ask you, again.""
 
She stood up quickly, and started rolling up her picnic rug. ""Sorry, sorry. I just... I found this place? I couldn't find anyone who knew whose it was. It's just... Beautiful. It's perfect. You've done something amazing here.""
 
""I... It isn't perfect."" He became uncertain.
 
Audrey looked up at him curiously, ""I... Do know, that you don't own this place. It's being repossessed, but both companies are also being repossessed, so no one really owns it, yet. It's beautiful. I won't come here, again. Not unless you let me. So... Can I... Who is it for? For you?""
 
He gave a heavy sigh, ""Guess I owe you that much. It's for the kids. A place for them to escape. They're growing up in a city that hates them. They don't have a place that's green, and they don't have a place where no one will scream a slur at 'em. They need an escape.""
 
She stared at him for a moment, before bursting into a huge smile, ""That... Is amazing! You're amazing.""
 
""You're leaving."" He reminded her.
 
Audrey winced, ""I... I'm not going to tell anyone. Really. I just... I wish I could help, sort of.""
 
""I don't deal with hacks."" He sneered, and pointed in the direction of the stairwell.
 
***
 
Audrey buried a small and guilty feeling of disappointment when she saw that the gardener wasn't with the protestors, that day. Probably trying to build the kids an escape.
 
She was wearing a nicer dress, today. Mostly because Audrey had a suspicion that her bosses weren't going to be pleased with her report, today. She wouldn't get away with it at all, if this wasn't a live broadcast.
 
Someone needed to speak up for these people.
 
The light on the camera flicked, and the man lowered a fist, signalling that they were live. Audrey dropped her smile, and put on her firmest of firm faces. She couldn't quite do grim, but she could let people know that she felt strongly.
 
""Good morning, Tom."" She began, ""Except I'm afraid that it isn't. There is nothing good about this morning. The work behind me continues, unabated. Children try and find their fun, chasing each other and tossing a ball or two in brandy, but they aren't unaware. They know that today, they've lost their homes.""
 
The cameraman leaned out a little, staring at her in confusion. She was supposed to be reporting that the builders had said they were willing to sit down and discuss some pitiful compensation.
 
Everyone knew that was a farce. They'd offer less than a pittance, and at the first sign of baulking, the builders would jump up and run. Claim that negotiations were breaking down because of the people whose lives they were ruining.
 
""There is little I hate more than the disingenuous P.R. that so many companies depend on, these days."" Audrey said firmly, ""And I'm afraid that Alberts and Sons have done just that, this morning. As they take away these good peoples homes, probably leaving them without a home at all, ruining the futures of these bundles of so excited potential, these beautiful children, as they do this... Alberts and Sons call themselves the reasonable ones.""
 
The cameraman's knuckles went white as he gripped the camera, but he gave her a signal to keep going. He knew what she was doing now, and he was absolutely for it.
 
Audrey braced herself, as a blast of sand and dirt came out from behind, the wind whipping it out from the construction and giving a picture of destruction, even as they were building something new.
 
""You will find these people, just trying to defend their home. Stolen from them, because the world appeals to the very high goal of... Nothing more than profit. And by profit's name, hope has been struck down here, Tom.""
 
***
 
Audrey felt put out.
 
She knew she shouldn't. Her bosses had actually been pretty happy with what she'd said and done. Snippets of her report were making the evening news. That was new, and it should have been exciting. She could depend on it being the first rung to lift her up.
 
All the same, Audrey wasn't feeling anything bright. Instead, she found herself sitting on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, chowing down on double-choc biscuits. Her bottom lip wobbling, as she pretended to watch some drama, giving the excuse for the tears falling down her cheeks.
 
She wasn't absolutely sure why she was crying. She knew she felt like something had ended. Some gift had been snatched away, and it would never be returned to her.
 
That was depression.
 
It always hit you, whether or not there was really a reasonable reason for it. The darkness came from inside you, not necessarily from the world around. All you could do was take the meds, and talk to the docs, and hope things would go your way, this time.
 
She knew why it had hit her, or at least, the excuse it was using this time. She'd lost that beautiful place, that gorgeous garden. It had been so quiet, so still. A fragment of heaven, lost between the ticking of the clock.
 
It had never been hers, to begin with, but she still felt a loss... And depression always took any excuse that it could.
 
When her phone buzzed, and lit up with one of her news colleagues, Audrey sent it straight to voice mail. She absolutely did not want to deal with work, right at this moment. Everyone expected her to be bright, warm, and cosy. She was the rosy-cheeked gal.
 
The third time it buzzed, she answered, but her dairy-coated throat failed to brighten her sound, and her voice cracked. ""You're on with Audrey.""
 
""Aud... Oh. You okay?""
 
She smiled to try and brighten up, feeling her puffy cheeks, ""Absolutely. We did a good thing today, didn't we?""
 
""Right."" He didn't sound like he believed her. ""On that... We've got this guy here. He's being a right pain. Won't give his name, but absolutely demands to talk to you.""
 
Audrey blinked, feeling her chest catch, ""He wouldn't happen to have a filthy beard, would he?""
 
""Ugh. Ugly beard. No way I'd ever kiss a guy like that. His hands are pretty gross, too. I'd guess he was a builder, or something?""
 
She shivered, not wanting to believe it. ""Did he... Say why he wants to talk to me? Because, last time we met, he asked me to make sure I never see him, again.""
 
""Is this a dating thing? Did you date this guy?"" Her coworker sounded incredulous.
 
Audrey's cheeks went from puffy to little hot pockets. ""N-no... He's from the building site. Helped out the residents... I don't know if he actually lived there, though. Something connected.""
 
""Huh. Right."" They replied, ""Well, he wants to talk to you.""
 
She bit her lip, and guiltily asked, ""Tell him... I'll meet him at the garden.""
 
She might as well get something out of it.
 
""The... Garden? You sure this isn't a dating thing?""
 
***
 
Audrey had pulled her hair into a ponytail. Easy and practical. Easier to hide the mood she'd had, before this spark of hope had ignited. A spark that stubbornly refused to be smothered.
 
She opened the door at the top of the gungy stairwell hesitantly, not sure if she'd beaten him there, and walked ever so slowly into the garden.
 
She'd never seen it at night, before.
 
Probably shouldn't be meeting a stranger in the dark, in a poor part of the city, when no one knew where she was. That was a little spark of fear... Which the hope quickly ate.
 
The hope, exploding into absolute fire, as she saw the garden. All around the edges of the path, tiny little LED lights that she hadn't noticed were lit up. Little yellow beads, softly lighting the edges and giving the feel of something faen, without stealing the touch of mother nature.
 
Near the end of one of the paths, by a brand new looking stone waterfall, was a picnic rug. It was a red and black thing, almost like the ones from her childhood. Sitting on that, was a small basket.
 
And a man.
 
Audrey approached hesitantly, quietly. Her dainty feet making no sounds, as she looked around at the beauty of the garden. She coughed as she got close, not wanting to surprise him. ""It's... Beautiful.""
 
He turned his head, and for the first time, she saw a hint of a smile through his scruffy beard. The man stood up slowly, dusting his hands off habitually, before holding one out to her, ""Thankyou.""
 
""You're the gardener. You've proven it."" She shook it in a business-like manner.
 
He seemed concerned for a moment, before waving at the rug. ""Not just for the compliment. For looking out for everyone. I guess I was wrong about you. Maybe not all journalists are hacks.""
 
Audrey eased down on her knees, smiling brightly in the space, ""You inspired me. I took a risk, saying what I did. But... It was worth it.""
 
""To see the garden again?"" He teased.
 
She blushed, ""Well... I did think this would be the last time I get to see it.""
 
""No.""
 
Audrey blinked, ""So... Is that you giving me permission? To escape here, again? Won't I get in your way, ruin your kids paradise?""
 
""I was rather hoping you'd help me make it better."" He grunted, ""But... If you just need to relax, then sure. You've earned your spot here. Made me think...""
 
""... Yes?""
 
""Never met a woman like you."" His words stumbled, and the tall and strong figure looked away from petite her, in embarrassment.
 
""Can't see the garden, without the gardener."" Audrey opened the door between them.
","August 13, 2023 01:36","[[{'Happy_shredder X': ""Great work! I love the connection to the current rental crisis, and the way Audrey's character is built and revealed in a few pages"", 'time': '01:36 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,bsmah7,Since Always,Aivy Lewis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bsmah7/,/short-story/bsmah7/,Adults,0,['Romance'],10 likes,"
""So tell me something I don't already know."" Sky broke the silence. ""That's easy."" Sunshine confidently responded.""Oh yeah?""Yeah but before I say it, you have to promise me that you won't ask any questions after."" Sunshine then moved her seat to face Sky directly in the eye. ""Sure, whatever!"" ""No, promise me!""""Fine, I promise!""""Okay, I love you."" ""What?!"" Sky’s eyes widened.Suddenly for Sky it seemed that the whole world stopped. For Sunshine it felt as if a huge weight has been lifted off of her shoulders. For years she's been wanting to find a way to express those feelings. She had imagined every possible scenario. Except for this one. ""There, I said it! Now we can move on."" She concluded. ""Wait, what? How? When?"" Sky's world was rocked. ""You promised you won't ask any questions after.""""Yeah, but— """"I have to go, I have to pack."" Sunshine is due to leave in the next couple of days. In a few days she's going back to her reality. She feels ready to go home. This has been so hard being so close to Sky. She wishes she didn't feel this way towards him. They come from two different worlds. She walked into her room and laid in bed. 'Phew! That felt good.' She signed. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 'Time to quiet my mind and meditate.' She said to herself.***""Sometimes I get this feeling of suddenly wanting to rebrand myself."" Sunshine said in a low voice, starring at the horizon. ""Oh, I think you've been doing an amazing job with everything you're doing so far. I'm proud of you!"" Sky's voice sounded reassuring.She brought her gaze back towards him. She looked down on his hands just a few inches from hers on the sand. How she wishes she could grab them and hold onto them forever. Ever since they sat down together on the beach, it seems that they have talked about everything except for the ones that really matter. ""Sunshine, you have been doing awesome!"" He continued. ""I guess..."" She looked at him. She opened her mouth again and then she paused. ""What is it?"" He looked at her directly in the eye. ""Nothing."" She got up and run towards the ocean. ""Are you going to swim?"" He called out. ""You know, I can't swim!"" Sky got up and decided to run after her. ""Then why are you in the water?"" He's frowning as soon as he caught up before he slowly pulled up next to her. ""I'm bathing."" She said coyly. ""Please don't drag me into the deepen."" She's laughing and begging at the same time as if she can already read his thoughts. Sky raised his hands in the air. ""I'm not gonna!"" He slowly dipped into the water and disappeared. She smiled and shook her head before taking a step back towards the shore. Sky enjoys being in the water so much he might as well be a merman. Out of nowhere Sky appeared emerging from the water and pulled her back by the hips wrapping her completely with one arm. She let out a loud squeal before her face completely submerged. She immediately held her breath while she tried to make out where he was. She kept her eyes closed until she came up to breathe. When she realized her feet are not touching the bottom of the water, she started to panic. ""Sky!"" She called out as she struggles to wiggle her feet to stay afloat. ""Relax, you're not that far from the shore. It's shallow in here."" Immediately, Sky grabbed her with one hand at the same time he grab her hips with the other hand, as he spanned her around to face him. She growled before she splashed his face. He held her there holding her gaze. Sunshine wonders what goes on inside his head. Sometimes he's hard to read. He pulled her closer. Sunshine let out a slow gasp before she put her arms around his shoulder. She can feel the warmth radiating throughout his body as her body pressed against his. She closed her eyes. 'Gosh, why does he feel so good? Does he know he drives me crazy?' Suddenly she felt his lips touching hers. It's wet and it's warm. She opened her mouth to receive him. Their tongues met and immediately dances to the tune of their body—both hungry, both aggressive. Her entire body was on fire and so is his. She let her body arch as she moaned in complete satisfaction. ""Sky…"" She murmured his name in between breaths. ""Sshhhh…"" ***""Sunshine!"" Suddenly she heard Sky calling out her name. She opened her eyes and realized that she had been dreaming. Her eyes widened. 'Oh my gosh, was he there the entire time?' Sunshine's face turned red. ""Hey, are you ok?""""Yes I'm fine. What are you doing in here?"" ""We need to talk. You can't just drop a bombshell on somebody and walk away."" Sky's voice sounded very serious. ""Fine, but could you give me a minute to gather myself?"" She pleaded. ""Sure, meet me outside?""""Yup!"" Sunshine reluctantly rolled out of her bed. Then she came to a sudden realization. 'Oh my gosh. This is it. Is this really happening? Arrrrrgh, I'm such an idiot. I should have never said it. Why did I do that?!' She's pacing back and forth before she decided to take one last look at herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath. When she's outside she found Sky sitting on the ground under the small tree in front of the guest house. ""Hey!""She said in a low voice. Sky turned around and grabbed her hand. ""Come here, you!"" He pulled her closer and hugged her tightly. ""I can't believe you made me wait for so long. It was killing me.""This time Sunshine was stunned. She thought this would be a confrontation. She didn't see this coming from him. She was in shocked, in awe and in wonder, all at the same time.""What? I love you, too."" He said before he completely covered her lips with hers. It felt just as wet and warm like in her dreams. ""Am I dreaming again? Can you pinch me?"" Is all she could say once he let go. ""No, baby. This is as real as it gets!"" ""What? How? When?"" Sunshine was still in a state of disbelief but with a smile on her face. ""Since always."" Sky responded. Their eyes met and their lips followed—both surrendering to their hearts’ wishes.
","August 14, 2023 17:10","[[{'Indy Walen': 'Nice job for a first submission. The names are really sweet.', 'time': '20:36 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thank you for the compliment!!', 'time': '21:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thank you for the compliment!!', 'time': '21:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Charles Corkery': 'Very good.  Well done', 'time': '05:05 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thanks for the feedback! I appreciate it!', 'time': '17:23 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thanks for the feedback! I appreciate it!', 'time': '17:23 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Such a sweet story ☺️', 'time': '20:43 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thanks for reading it!!', 'time': '21:03 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Happy to!', 'time': '21:08 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thanks for reading it!!', 'time': '21:03 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Happy to!', 'time': '21:08 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Happy to!', 'time': '21:08 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Victor Wachanga': 'captivating... and what a great choice of names ""Sunshine"" and ""sky""... great!', 'time': '18:33 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thanks for taking your time to read my short story. It reflects a twin flame journey!', 'time': '02:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aivy Lewis': 'Thanks for taking your time to read my short story. It reflects a twin flame journey!', 'time': '02:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,fqnjxv,Sailing Out of Orlando,Ben Mulvey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fqnjxv/,/short-story/fqnjxv/,Adults,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad', 'Contemporary']",9 likes,"
As a twenty-one-year-old he knew less about women than he thought he knew. Even less about himself. Every day spent with his girlfriend that was not complete bliss was a disappointment. How hard is it to be happy? Just happy. It seemed simple to him. It’s all he aspired to since being a teenager. It’s what he daydreamed about in high school. He tried living in California. A life of surfing and pot and girls with tans that showed the outline of their bikinis. None of that worked out quite as he envisioned.
 
His mom and dad seemed happy, content, anyway. Get a job, get a girlfriend, get an adult life he heard. Maybe there was something to this. Sharing an apartment with his girlfriend seemed like the right move. They were from the same town. Went to the same high school. When she left Long Island for the job her sister lined up for her in Orlando, he missed her. Looking forward to macaroni and cheese dinners together, he soon followed. They shared being broke. But sharing that made it less bad. Their talks about the future were reassuring.
 
She had her moods, though. And as pleasant as she could sometimes be, he was never sure when a mood would overtake her, and them. She was prone to complaining and sometimes seemed miserable for no obvious reason. She wanted a puppy, she said. We can hardly pay to feed ourselves, he said. And we’re gone a lot of the time. We can’t leave it alone in this apartment all day. Someday. Not now, he said. Then she would be grumpy about it, bring it up again a few days later, and tell him what her friends said about it when she met them for after work drinks. So now strangers are annoyed with him, too, he thought.
 
Lately he daydreamed about feeling the happiness that was so elusive. Living with this woman, an essential ingredient of the happiness recipe, he thought, wasn’t working out. He fantasized about getting out of there, plotted even. Talking all this over with her and expecting them to each say a civil goodbye to one another was out of the question. She could be a bit of a hothead. Sometimes she threw things. The feeling of living on thin ice all the time, confirmed the rightness of his need to escape. But getting out cleanly, too, seemed like a daydream.
 
And then one day there it was. Reading through the ads at the back of a magazine a small photograph of a sailboat caught his eye. Not a little one- or two-person boat. A big sailboat. The kind with a crew. The small print below the photograph said this boat was looking for crew members. No sailing skills necessary. Entry level position. So soon enough he found himself in front of the piece-of-shit typewriter he bought at the pawnshop when he enrolled at the community college. It could only reproduce the top half of capital E’s, making them look some kind of math symbol, and the bottom half of lower-case h’s, turning them into n’s. Avoiding E’s and h’s, he hammered out a letter of interest. He typed the St. Petersburg, Florida address on an envelope, bought a stamp on his way to work that night and dropped everything into the first mailbox he saw. Maybe he was just wasting his time, he thought. Daydreams, again. Pipe dreams. It was a long shot, but what did he have to lose beyond a thirteen-cent investment for the stamp and a few sheets of paper? Maybe being in Orlando already gave him an edge, he thought. The poster for the lottery at the gas station where he worked nights says, “If you don’t play, you can’t win.”
 
A week passed and thoughts of the sailboat became less frequent and less urgent until he pulled a large envelope out of his mailbox in his building’s lobby. The return address on the envelope included a fitting sailing logo and was fat with brochures about the company and the boats — there were more than one. This company provided a sort of high school with sails for “troubled youths,” privileged troubled youths apparently. The tuition was steep. But to new crew members they were offering room and board, a cruise around the Caribbean and more if things worked out, and a small salary. This opportunity was too good to pass up. This was his escape hatch. He probably would have climbed on board for no pay given his state of mind. The accompanying letter indicated he should send a resumé and passport photo if he was still interested. If they liked what they saw, they would then arrange a telephone conversation. Just like that the whole sailboat fantasy was becoming real to him.
 
He sent them everything they asked for and events unfolded quickly after that. He had his telephone conversation, an interview really. It seemed to go well, but what did he know? Then, a few days later, another sailboat envelope fell out of his mailbox. This one contained an offer of a job and a plane ticket to Miami for the following week. It instructed him to bring nothing more than could fit into a duffel bag. In fact, it instructed him to have a specifically green duffel bag with him. This would make it easier for his escort who would meet him in the baggage claim area to spot him. The letter offered no information about who this escort might be. They must know what they are doing, he thought.
 
He didn’t have a plan for this fantasy-now-reality. It was a one-step-at-a-time sort of thing from here on. He was between semesters at school. Dropping in and out of the community college was not an issue. He didn’t like confrontation and making people unhappy. He would put off calling his boss after he was in Miami. He convinced someone to cover his shift, so he had plenty of time for that call, he thought. His girlfriend? His flight was in the morning, but she would already be at work when he needed to leave the apartment. He could just walk away, he thought. No talk. No confrontation. No broken dishes. But he would have to leave a note. A brief note.
 
He sat in front of the piece-of-shit typewriter, but quickly thought the better of it and reached for a pen and paper. A handwritten note would be more personal. He wrote something about loving her but knowing that both of them were unhappy and how there was no contradiction there. He said something about leaving for her sake as much as for his, getting out of the way of her happiness, and so on. He added that he was taking a taxi out of there so that she could sell the van and keep the money. He left the keys and registration by the note on the kitchen counter. He made no mention of where he was going.
 
He was a bit nervous. His hands were shaking while he was writing the note. But by the time the taxi dropped him off at the Orlando airport he was feeling as if he could finally breathe deeply. He was feeling good as he checked his green duffel bag and boarded the plane. But when he found his seat, he almost immediately started having second thoughts. Was this the right move? Was he being a jerk by just leaving a note and clearing out? He thought about all the comforts of living with his girlfriend he is giving up, the familiarity of a home. In the sixty minutes it took to land in Miami, his thoughts went from the exhilaration of a life sailing the open sea to the image of his girlfriend in tears. He just cannot do this to her, he thought. He obsessed over how to get out of this mess he made for himself. But he was determined. He changed his mind. Maybe he made a mistake. So what? There is nothing wrong with that, he thought. He’s just human. He’ll get to Miami and simply get back on the next flight to Orlando and everything will be like nothing ever happened. This is not a big deal, he thought.
 
By the time the plane landed he felt better, but he still had to negotiate his way out of dealing with his escort. He was a bit relieved when the plane unloaded its passengers into a crowd, like cattle in a corral. The crowd would shield him enough for him to avoid meeting anyone he didn’t want to meet, he thought. He didn’t know exactly who would be looking for him, but he quickly noticed a guy with wispy blond hair, approaching him from a few yards away. His deep tan made him look like he belonged on a sailboat or on a brochure about sailboats. Making eye contact with this guy, exactly what he did not want to do, he knew that was the guy. So, he held up his palm like a crossing guard to the blond man’s face, not allowing him to get out a word and mumbled something about having to get somewhere and being late already. He fixed his gaze on a point across the room as if he found someone he was supposed to meet and headed that way, demonstrating that it was more important to be over there.
 
He walked around the airport for a while until he was sure the blond man was no longer lingering about. He made his way to the ticket counter of the same airline that just dropped him off and bought a one-way ticket back to Orlando on the next available flight which, mercifully, was in about an hour. If he encounters no glitches, he could be home before his girlfriend returns home from work. She wouldn't even see his note. He paid cash for the ticket. His entire savings was in the pocket of his jeans. He withdrew the few hundred dollars he had in his bank account the day before. It didn’t amount to much. This was all his savings from pumping gas and wiping windshields. His girlfriend had contributed little to their joint savings. The little money she made from her job filing and typing at her brother-in-law’s insurance office, a non-essential position her sister cajoled her husband into creating, was habitually spent on drinks and unnecessary accessories of questionable taste for the apartment. But best not think about that now, he thought.
 
His flight back to Orlando and taxi ride to the apartment were mercifully uneventful. He arrived a good half an hour before she would get off from work. The note was where he left it, undisturbed. He watched the clock for a while and grew impatient. He wanted her to be there so he could start to feel normal. He microwaved one of the dinners he found in the freezer. Finally, he heard the car door slam shut and the keys rattling in the lock to the front door. He asked her where she had been and said she should have called. She asked when did he turn into her mother and explained that she was having a drink with her friends after work adding, they all agree that we should get a puppy.
","August 16, 2023 13:19","[[{'J. D. Lair': 'Oh man, sounds like he should’ve stuck with the original plan. Welcome to Reedsy Ben! :)', 'time': '01:13 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,tgj54u,strangers,Eden Kay,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tgj54u/,/short-story/tgj54u/,Adults,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Sad']",8 likes,"
	I’m in the passenger seat of my mother’s white Honda Civic, half ready for school and beyond exhausted. I lift my leg up and place my foot on the dashboard to tie my shoe. Criss-cross, pull it under, tighten, bunny ears—I got used to it quickly, when I was a young girl. My brother still can’t tie his shoes, he’s twelve but his mindset is nothing but childish and inexperienced. That’s beside the point, anyway, I finish the first shoe and switch legs to tie the other.
At this point, we’re pulling up to my school and I look up. My heart stops. My mind goes blank. I stop tying my shoe. Talking to my mother. Moving. I stop breathing.
 
	This was it, I saw him. I saw him step out of his car and put on his backpack covered in characters from his favorite anime, One Piece. Why do I still know that? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. My mom is already late for work and I’m going to be late for school if I keep this up. I notice my breathing getting heavier and I instantly attempt to distract myself. I think of what makes me happy, I think of the people I love, I think of my securities, I think of my boyfriend.
Okay, I’m not panicking anymore—at least I think I’m not—and I step out of the car. I only have one earring in and I look like I just rolled out of bed, but it’s fine. I can always fix my appearance later.
The real question is, why did I react like that? Nothing happened other than his presence. I have class with him next, I can’t act like this again. Okay, I’ll be fine. Deep breaths.
 
	It’s 8:26 A.M. and my Biology teacher hasn’t opened her classroom door yet. I slide down the wall and place my bag on the ground next to me. I prop my phone up and put in my other earring. I can still see him, waiting by the door with his AirPods in and mindlessly tuning out the world. I know him so well. My teacher opens her door and everyone gets up off the ground and walks toward her class. My friend yells at me to walk faster, we both laugh subtly and move on with our work.
 
	I forgot he sits next to me. I sit down in my seat and place my bag on the ground, book on the desk. He sits behind me and I start thinking. I can’t be this close to him. I can’t. I dread seeing him everyday. This wouldn’t be the first time I was overwhelmed because of him, and something tells me this won’t be the last.
I feel my breaths get heavier, my hands and legs shakier. I’m aggressively bouncing my right leg and my hands are too shaky to put my head in. It’s bad. Really bad. Then, the unthinkable happens. Never in my life could I have saw this coming.
 
	He notices. I get a notification on my phone, “You good, kid?” and I freeze. Nothing around me is moving, nobody’s talking, everything is silent. Everything is still. It’s like time stopped.
 
	He’s had me blocked for so long but he unblocked me a few days ago, out of nowhere, to talk about the drama and rumors going around. Don’t even get me started about that day, that incident. Let’s just say I was far from fine. I snapped out of it and clicked on his contact—I still had it saved, I couldn’t just delete him like that. I respond with short and concise messages, “no” and “but it’s okay”.
Why would he text me? He wants nothing to do with me anymore and I don’t really blame him. He’s never noticed before, or if he has then he’s never mentioned it to me. Why now? Why act like you’re here for me now? The panic I feel across my entire body only intensifies. He asks me what’s wrong. How am I supposed to tell him that it’s him? His literal existence. I can’t just say that. I type the quickest response I can think of that won’t give away anything, “I don't know, I’m like having a mini panic attack”.
 
	To my surprise, he doesn’t just dismiss it: “You wanna go for a walk real quick or do you need a hug or something?”. I have no words. I don’t know how I’m feeling anymore. I don’t know if I’m relieved and comforted or if I’m just masking the fact that I’m only panicking more.
 
	We haven’t had any form of interaction since January. I walked up to him that day, joking about him constantly ignoring me, and he walked away. I found out later that afternoon that I was blocked on everything. Cut off, no context given. That’s why I don’t know how or what to feel. I’m about to have another interaction with the man I haven’t spoken to in who knows how long. He gets out of his seat and tells our teacher he’s going to the bathroom. I, still frozen, just watch until I get the courage to stand up. “I’ll be right back, don’t worry,” I call out to my teacher as I follow him into the hallway.
 
	By now, I’m tearing up and I’m breathing heavily. We just stand there, in silence, for a moment until our eyes linked. I went in for the hug and he hugged me back. He didn’t let go for a bit, making sure he could comfort me and be there for me. God, the hug must’ve lasted a solid minute. His arms around my body, my head in his shoulder. It was…relieving? I never thought this would happen but I’m not entirely sure if I regret it.
 
	He walks with me, talking me through my attack, to the end of the hall and the doors of the stairwell. “Do you want to sit down for a minute?” he asks me as he opens the right stairwell door for me. I nod my head and we both sit down on the third step. I’m still a mess, shaking and lightly crying, each breath feeling like a weight on my shoulders. He talks with me, trying to figure out the cause. I don’t even care about hiding it anymore. I tell him straight up. “What were you thinking about at the moment?,” he asks. I lightly chuckle before I respond, “You.”
 
	He pauses for a moment, very briefly but I can still tell how my words affected him. “Are you afraid? Happy? Sad?” he continues on. How am I going to answer this? I barely even know myself, I just know that it’s hard to be near him. I respond with “I don’t know,” and put my head down. He looks over and pulls me closer, holding me and caressing his thumb against my arm. “It’s going to be fine. You’re going to be okay,” are the words I hear him repeat over and over.
 
	Does he still care? God, I missed this so much. I missed our friendship so much, but he let his feelings get in the way. I missed having that best friend I could confide in and I knew would always be there for me. Maybe he does still care.
 
	I sit up from his grasp and chuckle, “How are you doing?” I know he’s been doing better, mentally and overall, and I’m so happy for him. Seeing him want to live, want to be stable, happier than before—it’s insane to me. He tells me that he’s been good and he’s been getting the help he needs. He hasn’t felt this way for the longest and it’s so absurd. I’m already crying but hearing that he’s doing so well just makes the tears run more. Knowing as much as I do about him and being able to see that progress means the world to me. I do care about him with everything in me and I promised I’d always be there for him, I meant that.
 
	We talk for a little while longer before he walks me back to class. He gives me another hug, just to make sure I was okay, and I knew in that moment that everything had changed—we were no longer strangers. 
","August 17, 2023 14:49",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,g2gwgk,NEMESIS,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g2gwgk/,/short-story/g2gwgk/,Adults,0,['Fantasy'],8 likes,"
NEMESISBeyond the castle walls, the wind raged violently, the heavy falling snow unable to withstand its great force as it was swept north against its natural flow. The country all around, bleak and desolate, was blanketed in a coat of white that helped disguise its normal barrenness.Would he come? The Earl paced nervously in front of the enormous fireplace that blasted out its heat to counter the freezing air that entered through the windowless balistraria; the vaulted ceilings of this great hall towering high above the lone occupier, the main beneficiary of any warmth. At each strange noise from beyond the castle walls, the nobleman would drop his aristocratic air and rush clumsily and awkwardly to a window, his ancient body no longer able to keep pace with his still flourishing brain.Each time, he would return to the fireside disappointed. So, perhaps, it was not meant to be, he thought. I expected too much.But hark! That sound, vying with the screeching of the wind. Can it be? Back, once more, to the arrow slit. Yes! Unmistakably, the noise of carriage wheels grinding noisily, despite the snow, on the granite road up to the castle. His eyes, stung by the wintry needles of snow, he stared out nevertheless until, finally, the coach reached the summit of the road and entered into the courtyard below. He had come!Anxiously, he resumed his pacing, waiting to hear the great timber doors below creak open and his guest enter the citadel and begin his ascent to this great hall. The old aristocrat felt his damaged heart pound with expectation as his sharply pointed ears listened intently. There it was! The creaking of the oaken doors, the heavy clunk as they closed upon their visitor. The sound of footsteps echoing as the Earl’s invited guest climbed the great staircase, walked along the stone flags of the corridor and entered the great hall, pausing at the threshold, unsure of what to expect.“You came, Professor”.“Did I have a choice?” This reply spoken in a guttural, accented voice.“No, I suppose not. Choice is not something that is readily available to any of us, these days”.Apart from the light thrown out by the fire, the only other luminescence came from the two long candles mounted on six foot tall metal candle holders standing in the foreground. They showed this newcomer to be a man of medium height, strongly built with a broad, deep chest. Aged circa 60 years old, unusually, for these times, he was clean shaven, displaying a hard, square chin. His eyes were of the deepest blue and his long, reddish hair was streaked through with grey.“You look remarkably well under the circumstances, Professor”.Still standing upon the brink of the entranceway, the visitor peered into the murkiness, assessing his host cautiously before answering.“Which is more, I am glad to say, than can be said for you”.The Earl grimaced at this jibe, displaying his brownish yellow decaying teeth.“Touche! You have not lost your wit, I see. But, please, come in. Take a seat, I beg of you”.“Why am I here?” the Professor demanded.The Earl sat in a wooden armchair on the far side of the fireplace and indicated for the newcomer to enter and take an identical chair opposite.“It is a fiercely cold night. Come, warm yourself and I shall explain”.Somewhat reluctantly, but piqued by curiosity, the Professor approached slowly, his eyes searching the shadows for any danger. Finally, he took his place, facing the aristocrat.“Thank you, Professor. You are in no danger though I understand, only too well, your fears. For too long we have been enemies and now...now I present no threat to you and you offer no imperilment to myself. So, I asked myself, why can we two not bury our differences and become friends...”“Friends? Mein Gott! I become a friend of yours? You cannot be serious”.The Professor stood abruptly, outraged at this suggestion. Looking down upon his host, the firelight illuminating the Earl’s face more clearly, he saw that his old enemy was much changed, smaller, almost shrunken, more insignificant. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin a deathly pallor. Only, it seemed, his long, grey moustache remained unaltered. Yet, despite the marks of time, his aristocratic bearing remained intact and he spoke eloquently in perfect English without a trace of an accent.“Calm yourself, my dear Professor, I pray. Hear me out at least”.Reluctantly, the visitor sat once more.“It was fate that decreed we should be enemies and one cannot dispute with fate. Alas, I know that only too well. But you meant me harm, Herr Professor. Was I wrong to defend myself by opposing you? Of course not. Just as you felt that I represented danger to you and your young friends so you had no choice other than to conspire against me. Yet, despite everything, I felt nothing but a deep respect for you. You were a man after my own heart. after all. Erudite, brave, not only a professor but a lawyer, a physician, a philosopher, a scientist. Here, I thought, is an exceptional Dutch man; one I would be glad to call my friend...under different circumstances. Surely, if you are honest, you will admit to feeling some small sense of admiration for me, too?”The visitor sat quietly, considering this objectively. As he thought, his angry countenance slowly began to soften.“I will admit that, for my part, I felt, almost...envy. There, I have owned to it. I envied you your ancestry, your lineage. You had seen things, experienced things...things I could only read about. You were wealthy, handsome, charismatic, you came from the Boyar line; one of heroism, honour and valour. You, yourself, were a soldier, a statesman, an alchemist. You had everything. Of course, I admired you but...”“But what, Herr Professor?”“But, you became corrupted, Count”.“Oh, please. If you must use my royal appendage, I prefer the anglicised version; Earl”“Count, Earl, it does not matter. You betrayed your ancestry, abused your great gifts, used your intelligence for the forces of evil. You became cunning...”“Enough! Do you not understand? You with your vast experiences in medicine? Do you curse the poor soul who, so badly wounded in battle, is in such pain that only morphine can bring him peace, only for the drug itself to take over his life and control his every thought, every act?”“Of course not. I would help such addictions. I...”“Well, can you not see that I was such a man? I, condemned to an eternal addiction, Herr Professor. Where was your compassion for me? You condemned me, hunted me down...”“I...I had never thought of it like that before. You mean that you could not help yourself; that you would have chosen a different path if...”“Yes. If only somebody, anybody, you, Herr Professor, had tried to cure me instead of condemning me. Do you think, for one moment, that I loved my twilight life, living in darkness, seeking, needing blood just to exist? No, Herr Professor, I was in agony; eternal torment!. I yearned for death”.“Mein Gott! I had no idea. Why did I not think to view the problem like that. I am not an unmerciful man, I assure you. After all, I took a Hippocratic oath. Dear Gott! If I have misjudged you so then it is I who is the monster, not you”.“You had lost your beloved son, Professor. Your poor wife lost her mind through grief yet, even though she was committed to an asylum, you never abandoned her. This I know. This I made it my business to find out. You are a good man, Abraham... I apologise. May I call you Abraham?”Professor Van Helsing, consumed with his thoughts, dwelling on his past actions, his mistaken viewpoint, nodded mutely.“Abraham, you did what you felt necessary to protect your friends. As I said, we cannot interfere with fate. Your friends found me. One stabbed me in the heart; the other decapitated me”.As he spoke, the Earl opened up his brilliant white shirt displaying the huge scar to his chest, the stitches circumnavigating his trachea.“They ended my hell. Now, here I am in purgatory”.Van Helsing turned his head sideways towards the fire, exposing the hole left by the bullet that he had ended his life with, unable to continue on after the death of his beloved wife.“And here you are, you see, Abraham. Your mortal suffering, too, is over. Neither of us is a danger to the other anymore. We are intelligent people with so many shared experiences, so much in common and more to learn from each other, hence my summons as soon as I heard of your demise. Is it not feasible that we could put aside our old differences and become friends?”Abraham Van Helsing nodded once again.“Yes. Let us be friends but only if I, too, can address you by your given name, not by any royal appendage”Count Dracula looked across at his old acquaintance and smiled gratefully.“Very well, Abraham. Call me Vlad!”
","August 13, 2023 04:42","[[{'Indy Walen': 'I really love period pieces so I was excited to be assigned your piece. I love the details of the snow falling and the fireplace and the candles. You are very good at setting the scene. The dialogue was fast paced which I like in stories. Nice job!', 'time': '20:33 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'What a great take on the prompt. I was intrigued and wanted to carry on reading to see what would happen. It had a great pace and was thoroughly enjoyable.', 'time': '06:11 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Plausible, totally plausible.⚰️', 'time': '17:10 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,3cwrl4,A Parting Pair,Evan Charles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3cwrl4/,/short-story/3cwrl4/,Adults,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Lesbian']",8 likes,"
	Tabitha Wilson regretted not getting decaf and watched her coffee cool, worrying what numb nerves would do to her mental state with caffeine. Come to her senses, perhaps. But when the barista mentioned today's special Tabs felt that odd social anxiety of wanting to avoid disappointing their server - a stranger. Looking down into her cup, she felt her upper lip sweat from the steam of an untouched double-whipped something or other. At the very least, the blessed aroma of roast coffee beans captivated her; she could almost hear a smooth jazz ensemble complete the coffee shop experience. 
	Her phone buzzed again. Tabs ignored it, pursing her lips for those whose work-life balance favored the former on an overcast Saturday morning. She did, however, enjoy a small smile as she shamelessly peeked at the texts from three different co-workers for her assistance come Monday. It helped reassure the young entrepreneur that her aptitude for software engineering warranted her place in the start-up. And it reminded Tabs that she did make the right decision. 
	Well, the right decision seven months ago.
	After a few texts of stroking her ego, Tabs checked Allison's last couple of messages:
 Received:
 'Hey Tabitha' - Odd for anyone, especially Allison, typing Tabs' full name - 'Sorry I didn't reply sooner. TBH, I didn't know what to say for a few days, so I put saying anything off. I'm sorry. I still don't know what I would say, but yeah, I'd like to have coffee with you. If you're still okay for tomorrow?'
 Sent:
 'Yeah, of course.' - Tabs took five whole minutes deciding whether or not to include the casual 'man' at the end of that sentence. 'I'll be at Weston's at 10. That cool?'
 Received:
	'As cucumbers.' 
	Arriving thirty minutes early seemed less pitiful than an hour, but painful memories intruded her solace within the first five seconds of sitting down. The anger and hurt in their last in-person conversation dulled over the months - though Tabs' therapist believed she unconsciously suppressed the trauma - and the emotional scabs didn't itch as much as she expected they would. 
	""What aren't you telling me?!""
	""I thought you loved me!""
	""Take your shit and your bull and go!""
	The little bell on the door jingled. Tabs looked up to find a completely different person with Allison's face walking in. She stood up to greet her former lover, whose piercing eyes softened when she saw Tabs. 
	""Hey,"" Allison said.
	""Hey,"" Tabs answered. She pointed to the counter, ""Can I get you something?""
	Allison quickly, too quickly, waved her hands, ""No, no, you don't have to get me anything. I think I shouldn't have any coffee before we talk."" The two women shared skittish smiles, Allison pointing to their table to take her seat opposite Tabs, who felt silly for standing up to sit down again. 
	Tabs cleared her throat, ""Thank you for coming."" Allison only nodded, more nervous than Tabs had ever seen her. Clearing her throat again, she continued, ""You changed your hair.""
	Allison perked up, remembering she had hair at all. ""Oh, right! Yeah, it was a pretty recent change."" She fingered at the cropped crow-black hair, ""What do you think?"" Tabs loved it; she thought the sophisticated punk suited her.
	""I love it, Allison; I'm glad you finally pulled that trigger - it works! It makes you look as tough as you are,"" Tabs' smile turned genuine.
	""Ah, thank God someone likes it. Yeah, I know, right? Arnold didn't even recognize me at first - and ever since, he's treated me differently. I mean, how can someone forget to email me about a meeting when they've been automated for months?"" Allison's confidence spoke as much as her body expressed, letting the misogyny roll off her shoulders with a smirk.
	Tabs slipped, forgetting to avoid their familiarity, ""Christ, really? Please tell me you threw HR at him.""
	Allison scoffed, ""I'm doing you one better, hon; I'm vying for his job."" That endearing mischievous smile, never malicious but a righteous and striking dark horse. A finger flicked, remembering to add, ""Oh, but I am making it a point to tell any new female employee.""
	Tabs didn't notice how quickly and quietly familiarity returned, like slipping on a hoodie after a dryer cycle because a downpour caught you outside. They caught up on life, gossiped, and organically - or perhaps unconsciously - avoided discussing their breakup or dating others since then. She leaned in, eagerly listening to Allison's latest stories of how she took the world by storm and found that Allison, in kind, hung on every word as Tabs talked of the start-up's progress. Once or twice Allison didn't seem to notice when she used Tabitha's nickname. Tabs didn't comment. It came as a relief hearing her so comfortable. 
	""God, it's good to see you, Tabs,"" Allison sighed. No remorse, no remembrance of their shared pain. ""I'm really happy for you. I know the ex saying that typically doesn't mean it, but I'm glad you made your wings.""
	From Allison especially, hearing such validation meant everything, ""I can't thank you enough for saying that."" Every word came out breathless, but Tabs teased, ""And for you to call a cliche, well, isn't that something?""
	Rolling her eyes, Allison posed dramatically to assume the lead part in a romcom, ""Oh my stars, why, if not for my misunderstood white himbo of a director writing such comedically artificial circumstances, then how could I ever find love in someone I just met seven days ago?"" She spoke whimsically, the satire heavy in her batting eyelashes and pouting lips. Tabs forgot about everyone else in the coffee shop and laughed when Allison kept up the bit, ""Mr. Woman Expert? Do you mean all I have to do to find love is take off my glasses, frivolously drink, and put out? What's that? My love interest betrayed me in a way that I can never forgive? Oh well! Nobody's perfect - let's just get married!""
	Tabs jabbed, ""Hey! Leave my movies alone; they're not all like that. You loved My Best Friend's Wedding.""
	Allison purred, ""Oh, I did, and Julia Roberts...""
	""Mm hm,"" Tabs agreed. Their reminiscing and fantasizing over Roberts slowed the rhythm of their conversation. It reminded Tabs why she asked Allison here, ""Hey, mind if I be the bitch and bring up something unpleasant?""
	Allison's smile became pained, ""Sure, but can we,"" she stopped to take a shaky breath. ""Can we keep acting like nothing happened? For just a few more minutes?"" Tabs nearly folded. The frailty in Allison's voice scared her. 
	Tabs nodded, unable to voice an affirmative, ""Would you like some coffee now? Or tea? My treat?"" Allison smiled her yes, and the two women made to get in line.
	Allison pulled out her phone to fiddle with while waiting in line, more than likely to chuckle over an inappropriate joke but choked when she noticed the time, ""We've been talking for over an hour?"" She showed Tabs, and sure enough, the clock read 11:26 AM. Funny how the body could forget seven months of regret in so little time, if but for a brief lapse of happiness. 
	Both women purchased a peached Arnold Palmer for the novelty but ordered a blueberry Danish to split in case the drinks tasted awful. Allison guzzled hers down, but Tabs could barely taste the peach. They bickered over who got the larger piece the pastry divided into, each humble and wanting the other to splurge for the few extra calories. They laughed after finding it too sweet for the both of them. 
	Tabs didn't want this to end, no matter how it felt more like a date than a reconciliation, but Allison proved the stronger of the pair. She took a deep breath before admitting, ""I know you're the one that asked me here, but I can't let you say anything without first telling you that I'm so sorry."" Her head swiveled from side to side, ""I'm so sorry, Tabs, for what I said and how awful I was to you then.""
	Tabs found her voice, ""Allison-""
	""Please, I need to..."" Allison's voice quivered, the toughest person Tabs ever knew, and the transparent sincerity sounded so thin and fragile. Glass about to break. ""I was the one who messed up. I couldn't- I didn't understand, and that made me mad. God, I yelled at you. I yelled at you."" The pain gripping that last word made Tab's eyes mist; she thought this was the first time Allison admitted such a thing aloud. ""Sorry doesn't cut it or embody how disgusting I feel, but I'm sorry, Tabitha.""
	Crossing a boundary, Tabs held a hand across the table, which Allison gingerly took, ""There were two of us that yelled at each other. I'm sorry too."" Allison sniffled her frown into a weak smile. ""I regretted everything I said that night and how I acted. Reacted. Handled. I cried through three weeks of therapy just thinking about how I treated you - my therapist could barely get a word in Alli."" Tabs broke, and Allison's tears replied in kind. They say people did this or that for ridiculous lengths of time, and though the two women cried quietly for a generous half minute, Tabs believed it equated to a good bit of seven months. 
	After calming down and proving that Tabs needed to forgo eye makeup today, Allison cracked, ""Look at us, two broken white girls in a coffee shop during autumn. And they don't even serve anything remotely pumpkin."" Tabs gave her hand a reprimanding squeeze.
	""Given that we already had a 'latte' emotions,""
	""Eh, you could do better.""
	""I know, it was there - I wanted to say that while we're coming clean, I come completely clean."" 
	Wiping trace remnants of snot with her free sleeve, Allison nodded, ""All right, I'm listening.""
	Tabs took in how the woman sitting across from her waited. Her brow knitted in concern, her posture hunched as she leaned over the table, and her hand's thumb gently massaged Tabs' wrist. Allison still loved her too. 
	""There are two things I wanted to talk about, one being about your mom."" Allison's hand recoiled from Tabs. ""I know. I'm sorry, but she called me last week, and I wanted to be upfront about it. She's worried about you.""
	Allison crossed her arms, ""Well, first time for everything, right?""
	Tabs admonished, ""Allison."" The Bree's family tree long ago reduced to scattered kindling but during their relationship Allison and her mother somewhat reconnected. ""She didn't do it to step on your toes, and she didn't give me specifics - she just asked if I could talk to you -""
	""And parent/charity her kid where she couldn't?"" Allison spat.
	""And I wouldn't have asked you to coffee if I hadn't already been thinking about reaching out myself,"" Tabs' voice came out more stern than intended, but it poked Allison to drop her priss. ""I wanted to for the past month. I always made excuses or said I'd do it later that night, and well...""
	""It's hard,"" Allison validated.
	""So hard.""
	""It's frustrating too. It feels like-"" Allison rolled her eyes at the ceiling, ""It felt like something was in the way whenever I thought about you - a wall, or maybe another me. I can't explain it.""
	""I thought of it as some weight - or one of those parachutes runners sadistically train with. It didn't just prevent me from moving toward you, but it wouldn't let me go anywhere else. I couldn't reach out or heal. I couldn't move."" Allison took Tabs' hand back. Platonic but firmly supportive. ""So when your mom reached out, it felt like a spur. A win-win, I guess.""
	Allison remained silent for a little while. Tabs recognized this particular computer's loading circle equivalent of an expression - upturned chin resting on the butt of a palm, lower lip swallowing its twin, and her eyes looking so far down Allison nearly closed her eyes. She twiddled at a strand of her hair while contemplating what she felt about her mother at the given moment. 
	Tabs opened her mouth to speak, but coincidentally, Allison did too. After some unintentional mockery of the American Sign Language to see who talked first, Allison asked, ""What did my mom want?""
	Tabs shrugged, ""She saw you were hurting... And that you wouldn't let anyone help you."" Allison grumbled, but Tabs doubled down, ""She'd never seen you like that, Alli. She couldn't think of what else to do.""
	Allison shrugged after a few trying exhales, ""Moot now since we're here. I've got enough on my emotional plate to sift through. Best we keep ripping this sucker off."" She made it a point to hold Tabs' gaze, ""You said you had something else to get off your chest?""
	Taking her turn of trying exhales, Tabs spoke quietly, ""Yeah, I-"" She took another deep breath. Allison gently squeezed her support. ""I didn't do a good job telling you why I needed to leave. And you deserve to know why I put us through so much hurt.""
	Allison looked startled, ""Tabs, you don't owe me anything. It's not your fault that I couldn't understand what you were saying.""
	""That's just it; I barely knew what I was saying. I told you I needed to get away. And it came out so wrong, Alli. But it was true. I just needed some time to fully comprehend what I was feeling.""
	""Okay,"" Allison breathed. It looked like she braced for a slap. Perhaps telling her this may feel more like a sucker punch to the gut. ""I'm all ears."" Tabs didn't know what rehearsed mental notes she would remember to use now, if any. She prayed that she could get it all out. 
	""You are the brightest person in my life; I see you as a fire. Warm but so intense that you can do anything you want. And you were so real, Alli. You listened to everything I had to say."" Tabs read Allison's smile as appreciative but curious about the direction of this monologue. ""I didn't hold any secrets, and while I don't regret that, it did make it easier to see my reflection bounce off of you. And I didn't like what I saw. You are a fiery and righteous soul, and my reflection couldn't handle being confronted by you.""
	Allison, God bless her, couldn't hold it in anymore, ""I-I didn't ever judge you. I was so proud of you for graduating - I don't..."" Tabs gently squeezed her hand, and she returned to smiling silently. 
	""I knew you were proud of me, and I will never forget those semesters of unwavering support. It's just I wasn't proud of myself, and I recognized I needed a change."" Tabs held up a hand, ""And before you ask, breaking up was not the change. I looked for opportunities for myself, and you know how I struggled. But then... I started to change how I presented myself in hopes of getting noticed, and only when I left a perfect interview did I look at myself in an elevator reflection and see you. Not me."" Tabs let that simmer before wiping away a fresh slew of tears, ""And you didn't do anything wrong, but I knew that it was unhealthy for me-"" Tabs couldn't go on without speaking in choked sobs. ""Unhealthy for me to become my partner. And so I got scared, and then the start-up, and then we..."" 
	Allison sank into her seat, taking it all in, but she didn't let go of Tabs' hand. ""Jesus,"" she exhaled. ""I mean, just, damn, Tabs.""
	Unable to find her voice between shaky breaths, Tabs' head felt heavier and bowed to the floor. The little voice inside her head didn't bother with words; it settled for bombarding her with sharp, intrusive toxicity that made her cringe and flinch. 
	""Hon,"" Allison soothed. ""Bring it back - that voice doesn't control you. And it certainly doesn't speak for me."" Tabs looked up and found Allison lacking the anticipated spite and pain. ""You're safe. We're okay, and that voice is always wrong, remember?"" Reluctantly, Tabs nodded. She couldn't express her gratitude; it felt like a bolt of lightning trapped in a bottle.
	""Thank you,"" Tabs said. ""I just needed to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you, that you were hurting for the past seven months. I hope that this helped.""
	Allison nodded, ""I think it does. At the very least, I understand. I'm sorry that I couldn't before.""
	Shaking her head, ""We could volley apologies all day.""
	""I supposed we could,"" Allison chuckled. ""I gotta ask, what did you want after this? With... Us?""
	Tabs fell into the eyes of the women she still loved, but she couldn't bring herself to smile, perhaps not yet. ""I don't think closure is the right word. Moving on sounds...""
	""Sounds final?"" Allison guessed.
	""It sounds too linear. I don't know where I, or we, go."" Tabs paused but then let spoke organically and would guess her feelings afterward. ""I want there to be a platonic us, at least. And I want us to move; I don't know, forward even if the direction isn't forward. Does that make sense?""
	""I'd like that. I want to heal. For us to heal,"" Allison's smile warmed the room. Tabs didn't know where the smile would lead or if it meant they would merge their paths again. For now, Tabs' relief felt like the surf washing over her feet in the sand, cool and refreshing. She felt her world sway without her moving at all. It felt discombobulating, but she felt invigorated when the wind blew through her hair, with Allison holding her hand beside her on the beach.
 
","August 18, 2023 14:30",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,zvtbjl,The Exit Interview,David B Fraser,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zvtbjl/,/short-story/zvtbjl/,Adults,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
   Andrew could see Cheryl already sitting at a table when he came in. He checked his cell. Six-fifty-two. Cheryl appeared to have two glasses of wine on her table, and one was already empty. She was wearing a black and white long sleeved striped shirt and a beret. Andrew got his coat check stub and the Maître d’ escorted him to the table.
   “I really appreciate you coming Cheryl. I appreciate this opportunity.” Andrew said, seating himself.
   “Don’t.” Cheryl waved him quiet. “I just want to get this over with before you turn into a stalker.”
   “No. No, that won’t happen. I understand everything you wrote to me in the letter you left on my night table. There were things you wrote that I cannot argue with, and things that were unfair. No, that’s unfair to say unfair. You feel what it is that you feel.”
   The waiter came and gave each a menu. Cheryl shoved hers back to the waiter. “Surf and Turf.” She said.
   “The Filet Mignon and the Lobster Bisque for the lady.” Andrew explained. “I’ll just have the Apple Pecan Arugula Salad.”
   The waiter smiled. “Very clever. The lady is shining tonight.” He left.
   Cheryl rolled her eyes and watched him go. “He likes my pirate outfit.”
   “When I said that, I was not saying I do not like the way you dress.”
   “Do I look like I fit in here? Do you think I fit anywhere in your life? I mean, except as a trophy. A little dented street trophy?”
   “I like that you’re different. I need something different.”
   “You’re like one of those tight balls of elastics. All twisted up and pressed in, waiting for some kitten to come along and play with you until you burst apart. I think you have hidden anger issues and you’re going to blow up one day.”
   A drinks waiter came by and Andrew waved away any drink and pointed to have his water glass filled.
   “I am not going to blow up. And balls of elastic do not burst, they fall part and spill over a desk. It’s not very dramatic.”
   “You know, when I agree to meet you, I said a public place, because I’ve had some bad break ups with in private places. I was thinking we could do this in a mall or a park, not in a rich little place like this with bad lighting. Are you sure you want to do this here?”
   “Oh, yes, I’ve had a lot of meetings here. They’re excellent and discreet.”
   “I thought you rarely dated?” 
   “Business meetings.” Andrew smiled, explaining the distinction.
   Cheryl rose up pushing herself away from the table. Andrew rose to reach to stop her but shied from actually touching her. “Please, Cheryl, please, hear me out. Please.”
   Cheryl sat again and took an angry gulp of wine. “What’s your pitch?”
   Andrew looked around, for the first time realizing that they may be drawing attention to themselves in this, his favourite restaurant. He leaned forward to lower his voice, confidentially. “In my company… in my business… when an employee… no, not an employee. That’s not what I’m saying. When a person. An individual… when someone quits. When they quit. When they submit a letter of resignation…” 
   “Oh, is that what I did? Did I resign from you Andrew?”
   Andrew was silenced by the waiter escorting an elderly woman past them to a nearby table. The elderly woman wore too many pearl necklaces for Cheryl’s taste. The pearl woman smiled and waved to Andrew who nodded and smiled in return.
   “Business?” Cheryl asked about the woman looking at Andrew.
   “Anita Thompson. Thompson Estates. She’s been here forever, she’s a very nice lady. Nothing to do with business. I like her.”
   “So, I submitted my resignation…” Cheryl pushed Andrew back on track.
   “No, no. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. Alright, when a person leaves my company…”
   “Your personal company, or your business company?”
   “Cheryl, please. In business when a person leaves, we do what we call an Exit Interview. It’s to help us…”
   “It’s to get rid of the person in a nice way and say there’s no hard feelings, and please don’t sue us.” Cheryl interrupted.
   “Yes, alright, fine. That is part of it. Very well. Happy?” Andrew crossed his arms and looked about the restaurant, pouting.
   “Alright, what’s the other part of it?”
  Andrew looked at her, then looked at the table cloth still pouting. Cheryl reached over and tapped the table in front of Andrew. He turned sideways in his chair away from her.
   “Oh, for panties’ sake. I’m not your mother, Andrew.”
   “I know that. My mother loves me.” 
   “What is the other part? Tell me? Tell me so I can get out of here.”
   The waiter interrupted, putting down the Filet Mignon and the Lobster Bisque. “For the lady.” He placed an overflowing salad in front of Andrew, who shifted himself right in his seat again. “Bon Appetit.” The waiter left them.
   Andrew picked up a fork and stabbed far too much arugula lettuce onto it. He regarding the portion he was holding and put it back down on the bowl. He tried to explain himself again. “The other part of the Exit Interview. The other purpose, is to see where improvements can be made on the side of management. To review for deficiencies. Or improvements the individual might make within the management structure should they… review and consider. The person who might be the reason the other person left.” Andrew stopped and thought about what he was saying. His eyes went watery. “I’m sorry, I have to excuse myself.”
   Andrew rushed to the restroom. Cheryl sat alone watching the waiter approach the pearled elderly woman. The waiter outstretched his arms, “Misses Thompson, you are shining tonight. We have a wonderful selection of breads, and chef has made a very special pate for you this evening. Let me get it for you, and your tea, of course.” The waiter went off.
  Cheryl called over to Misses Thompson. “He’s full of beans, isn’t he? The waiter? He said I was shining.”
   Misses Thompson smiled. “Yes, he says it to all of us. But I appreciate he makes the effort. Most men don’t even try.”
   Cheryl looked down at her plate. She sipped her wine waiting for Andrew’s return. She looked around the restaurant. She didn’t fit in, but she decided none of the other customers fit in, either.
   Andrew returned to his seat. His eyes were red and he had nothing to say. He stared at the tablecloth. After a moment Cheryl lifted her lobster bisque bowl and slurped from it directly. Andrew looked up. Cheryl dipped her fingers in a small bowl of melted butter. There were various heavily grained breads in a basket on the table now. Cheryl smeared her fingers on them and plucked up one and bit into it. She reached across the table with her unwiped buttery fingers and put them on the back of Andrew’s hand.
  Andrew looked up, and then held her hand. He smiled. He picked up his fork with all the multicolored lettuce on it, and tried to fit his mouth around the mess. He giggled at his own attempts. He gave up and nibbled on it edges.
   Cheryl leaned towards Andrew. “This interview thing. When I finish eating, I’m going to tell you all your deficiencies. And if you listen, and I mean just listen, I may also tell you one or two efficiencies about you, that I like.”        
","August 15, 2023 00:02","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Then there is hope.', 'time': '19:09 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,59c8oj,In the End,Ty Warmbrodt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/59c8oj/,/short-story/59c8oj/,Adults,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Science Fiction']",7 likes,"
	Eyes bloodshot red, pupils dilated, sunken into deep, dark purplish sockets. Teeth clenched, saliva dripping. He breathes heavily. Hair messed and standing on end. Cheeks flushed red with heat. Oxford shirt stained with blood and vomit. Hands dirty and bloody. Shoulders hunched. He lurches forward, emitting a gargling growl from deep within his throat. Pipe clenched in hand, he breaks into a sprint, unleashing a deep throated rumbling of a roar. Kyra points the shotgun, holding, waiting for him to get closer. The man is covering ground like an Olympic runner. Kyra pulls the trigger and hits him dead center.	When the glaciers melted, and the waters rose, many diseases that humans were unprepared for were unleashed on humanity. One such disease they simply call Rabies II. Scientists at the CDC believe it started with polar bears, spread its way to domestic pets, then started affecting humans. Symptoms include high fever, vomiting, hallucinations, and homicidal rage. Life expectancy is only one to two weeks, but that’s enough time to spread the disease ten times over. Due to the animalistic behaviors of the infected they have been labeled with the monicker werewolves, or wolves.	Kyra pumps her shotgun again and relieves the woman running at her of her suffering, and her head. The third one is too close. She swings her shotgun like a ball bat, knocking him to the ground. She pulls her knife and stabs the fourth one in the eye before it can hurt her, pumps the shot gun, and puts a hole in the chest of the third one.	“Not bad, kiddo, you’ve come a long way,” Allen Kent, once the proprietor of the local hardware store, tells her as she pulls her knife from the woman’s eye socket and wipes it clean on her pants.#	Kyra flashes back to the day her world crumbled. She was a pampered fifteen-year-old, the cute little girl next door with the blonde hair and blue eyes, light freckles covering her slender nose. She’s of average height, curvy but tone. She wasn’t even dressed for the day, wearing a grey pair of pajama bottoms and a Billi Eilish T-shirt. She was eating breakfast with her lawyer father and architect mother and just got up to rinse off her plate. When she looked out the kitchen window, she saw her pure-bred German Sheperd with Champion bloodlines standing in the yard looking all greasy and dirty, panting heavily with its paw up.	“Daddy, something is wrong with Gunther,” she said, concerned.	“What do you mean sweetie?”	“He’s hurt and all filthy. I think he was in a fight. Can you check on him, please,” she asked with a daddy’s girl emphasis on the please.	James Unger got to his feet rolling up his sleeves. “That’s just what I need, to smell like wet dog when I walk into court today,” he said as he made his way out the back door.	Kyra watched on from the window, leaning over the sink as her father knelt down in front of the dog and called him to come closer. The dog limped a couple steps towards her dad when Kyra noticed the hair on the dog’s back go up. It leapt at her father, grabbing hold of him by the neck, thrashing. Blood was squirting everywhere, painting the grass red.	“No! Dad!”	Sandra Unger knocked over her chair and nearly knocked over her daughter making her way to the window. “Jim!”	Sandra grabbed the broom and went after the dog, hitting him as hard as she could. Kyra had followed her mom outside to tend to her dad. She no more than knelt down and the dog had ripped the broom from Sandra’s hands. Sandra tried to run but the dog was too fast. He pulled her down and bit her face, pulling away skin and muscle. Kyra stood and started to back up towards the house, unable to process the violence before her. It wasn’t until her mom gurgled a bloody “run” that she turned for the house and ran. The sudden motion caught the dog’s attention, and he gave chase. Kyra tried to close the back door, but the dog slammed into it and skidded across the linoleum of the washroom floor, banging into the drier.	Kyra scrambled for the stairs where she slipped and the dog got ahold of her pant leg, pulling her down the stairs. Kyra untied her drawstring and slid out of them, leaving the dog to thrash angrily at the pants. She hurried into her room and closed the door just as the dog slammed its head into it. Kyra let out a fear induced yelp and started to cry as the dog kept pushing; she could not get the door to latch. Digging into the hardwood floors with her sock covered feet proved futile and her shoulders were burning, wearing out from the exertion when she heard a bang and the door slammed shut and latched.	Kyra relaxed and wailed followed by heavy sobs as she rolled into the fetal position there on the floor right in front of the door. A knock came at the door that made her jump out of her skin.	“Kyra? It’s me, Mark. Are you okay? Gunther’s dead. Open up.” She had never been so glad to hear her brother’s voice.#	“I guess my survival instincts kicked in. I wish David’s would have,” Kyra responded.	“Mark made a choice. It was the kind of guy he was. Remember him as a hero and let go of this hatred for David,” Allen tells her as he finishes backing the screws out of the plywood covering the convenience store door.	“Let’s just get what we need and get back to our camp. I’ve had enough wolves for one day,” Kyra says, not listening to the older man.	As they drive back to the abandoned campground, Kyra reflects on the last time she saw her brother. Allen looks over at her and can tell what she is thinking about.	“There was nothing we could have done to stop him Ky. You tried. You clung to him, and he shook you off. He was out of my reach,” Allen said.	“But David… all he had to do was run. He just dropped and covered his head like it was a damn tornado drill. What was Mark supposed to do? David was his best friend,” she told him, gazing out the window, looking at nothing in particular.#	The pandemic had spread like butter over hot toast. By the time Mark and Kyra met up with David outside their homes, the subdivision was in complete chaos. Pets were attacking their owners. People were attacking each other. Cars were crashing. Things were breaking. Guns were firing. They were lucky to make it into town. They made one wrong turn and came across a dozen wolves fighting amongst themselves. The three teens stopped dead in their tracks and tried to quietly back up, but David, being a rather large and clumsy boy, backed into a steel trashcan that rattled and clanked before hitting the pavement with an echoing bang that caught the attention of the otherwise distracted wolves.	“Run,” Mark commanded, pushing his little sister ahead of him, then grabbing his friend by the arm.	Wolves aren’t like Zombies. Wolves run, and they run fast. They even jump and tackle. They don’t take nice slow bites. They pound on you, pull on you, bite and thrash, claw, slam you around. Their objective isn’t to feed, it’s to maim or kill. So, the teens were hoofing it as fast as they could. They rounded the corner and halfway down the street they saw a man holding open the door to the hardware store, waving them in that direction. They all pick up speed, seeing safety within their grasp. Kyra reached the threshold first with Mark right behind her. David was almost there. He was winded, red in the face. His eyes rolling back in his head, he stops and drops to his knees, covering his head.	“Dave! Run! What are you doing,” Kyra yelled.	Mark grabbed the machete from Kyra’s hand and started out the door. She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. Mark ran up to David, pumping his shotgun, “David, run,” he yelled out as he took his first shot.	David got up and ran as fast as he could for the hardware store where Allen was still holding the door and Kyra was screaming for Mark, crying.	Mark got another shot off before running out of shells. He dropped the gun and started slashing with the machete, kicking them back, running them through, but they were too many. Kyra dropped to her knees as a wolf punched Mark square on the jaw as he ran by. Another tackled him and pounded him on the ground. Seven wolves piled up on Mark, punching, kicking, clawing, biting, beating him to death.	Allen pulled Kyra in and let the door close. He turned to lock it and Kyra turned and jumped on David, pounding, screaming wildly, her head thrashing. Allen lifted her up off him. David looked on with surprise and fear in his eyes as she kicked at him, face flushed red against her golden blonde hair.#	Allen drops the pick-up’s tailgate and starts sliding crates to the rear. “Here, let me help you guys,” David offers.	Kyra stacks two crate and shoves them into Davids arms, hard. David nearly loses his balance. He looks on in disbelief as Kyra walks off with her own stack.	“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me,” he asks Allen.	“I don’t know. I tried to explain things to her. Eventually the hurt will pass – then, maybe.”	With the unloading done, Allen starts on a pot of stew while Kyra sharpens her blades. David sees this as an opportunity to talk to her.	“Kyra, I didn’t know Mark would come after me. I expected to die that day.”	“Really, David! You really thought that Mark, Mark of all people, was going to stand by and watch you die?”	“I wasn’t thinking at that moment, Ky. I was preparing to be beaten to death. Look, you’re like a sister to me, and…”	Kyra pointed her knife at his eye. “Don’t you say that! You are no brother to me! You killed my brother – you!”	Kyra gets up and storms off into the woods. David shakes his head and unrolls his sleeping bag. He looks at Allen who just shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “When do you think we’ll get to the army base,” David asks as he stretches out.	“Days, maybe even a week. With the roads all congested with wrecked and abandoned cars, it’s hard to say,” Allen says, breaking into a coughing fit that sprays blood.	 David sits up and scurries back, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose. He shouts for Kyra who emerges from the woods and does the same. The blood that Allen is spewing up is frothy at first. Blood vessels start bursting in his eyes. He drops to his knees, then his hands as blood gushes out his mouth, drips from his nose. He gargles and strains for air as he rolls onto his back. Kyra and David can do nothing but watch on in horror at how fast the disease is taking their friend. Allen sprays a fountain of blood into the air and stops struggling. His head rolls to the side.	Pulmosanguis is another one of those new diseases. It’s rarer than Rabies II, but it’s a fast-acting killer if you come into contact with it, which Allen must have at the convenience store. It attacks the lungs, causing massive internal bleeding, filling your lungs with blood, and you essentially drown.	“Grab your knapsack, Kyra, and nothing else. We are leaving,” David says, struggling to roll up his sleeping bag with one hand.	“I’ll load up the food,” Kyra tells him with mild hatred in her voice.	“Leave it. We don’t know what he touched. We’ll have to go on foot too. The steering wheel is infected.”	Kyra shakes her head and angrily helps David with his sleeping bag. They throw their bags on their backs and exit the campground heading east towards the interstate. They walk quietly, Kyra staying several yards ahead of David.	The sun sinks behind the trees and Kyra and David venture into the cover of the woods for the night. They gather leaves, sticks, and branches to light a fire. Kyra takes the first watch.#	Kyra can see through the branches above that the moon has risen high in the sky. Her eyes are getting heavy, her vision blurry, and she is thinking of waking David when she hears a rustling in the brush across from her. She squints her eyes, trying to adjust them against the light of the fire. She gets up from against the tree where she had nestled in and rounds the fire to get a better look, hoping for something to eat. She stalks towards the brush, searching the ground for her prey, when a large emaciated, mangy bear charges her, knocking her back with one stroke of its mighty arm. The bear snorts as it approaches her, roaring as it rears up. Kyra tries to pump her shot gun. It jams. She furiously works at it, panicking as the bear inches closer.	David jumps between them with a knife, stabbing the bear in the chest. The bear wraps its arms around him as he continues to stab. It opens its mouth and brings it down, clamping onto David’s head. The bear thrashes a few times and tosses David to the side. It turns its attention to David, intending to finish the job, slowly stalking, snorting, drooling. Click, click, boom. Kyra puts a hole in the side of the bear after getting the gun to work and knocks it on its side. She closes the gap, as the bear struggles to its feet. Click, click, boom. Right to the side of the bear’s head and it drops, motionless.	Kyra drops the gun and rushes to David’s side. He is sitting up against a tree, bleeding profusely, one eye punctured. “Oh my God, David; David are you alright? That was so brave. Stupid, but brave.”	“I meant what I said. You really are like family to me. You and Mark, you were the brother and sister I never had. I love you guys.”	“Now you’re talking like you’re dying. You’re going to be okay. I’ll get the bandages.”	Kyra starts to rush off, but David grabs her wrist. She looks at him, confused. “That bear was rabid. I don’t know how long I have.”	“No,” Kyra says as tears well up and her throat swells. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. You’re all the family I have left. Don’t leave me.”	“I don't think I have a choice,"" he says with strained laughter. ""Don’t let me suffer, Kyra. Don’t let me go mad,” tears mix with blood as he looks her in the eyes for the first time.	Kyra wipes her eyes and nods her head. She walks over and picks up the shotgun, reaches into her pants pocket, pulls out a shell, and loads the gun. She slowly walks back to David, tears streaming down her face. She put the barrel to his temple and says, “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you. It wasn’t your fault. I love you.”	“I love you too.”#	Kyra made it to the interstate alone. She met up with a small caravan heading to the same army base. There, they waited out the Rabies II pandemic. It took a couple years before the CDC was comfortable enough to let reconstruction begin, but once they did, it didn’t take long for things to return to normal. Kyra went on to college to become a lawyer like her dad. She fell in love and got married after law school. They had twin boys, Mark, and David.
","August 17, 2023 05:21","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'Love this horror tale Ty. The action is well described and fast paced.. characters also well written and believable. Good dialogue. \nEnjoyed this a lot', 'time': '16:34 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thanks Derrick. It doesn't fit the whole cozy theme, but it was fun to write. Thanks for the comment. Glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '17:31 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Yea mine veers a bit off as well but tried to get it back at the end', 'time': '18:10 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thanks Derrick. It doesn't fit the whole cozy theme, but it was fun to write. Thanks for the comment. Glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '17:31 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Yea mine veers a bit off as well but tried to get it back at the end', 'time': '18:10 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Yea mine veers a bit off as well but tried to get it back at the end', 'time': '18:10 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,3s6c86,Painted Black,Steffen Lettau,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3s6c86/,/short-story/3s6c86/,Adults,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Suspense']",7 likes,"
Construction took some urging but, given the curiosity spreading to the people, they pitched in however they could.  Husbands and fathers gathered wood from the trees, creating the walls and the roof of the shack.  Wives and mothers, including Lindia, gathered what they could for pitch as to keep the inside relatively warm.  Children brought both sides food and water.  Two days, and the shack itself was completed, with one door facing the woods and another facing the wall (a rope ladder was hung over the side nearby, just in case).  Tholan, on the third day, remembered that there would be a meeting and gathered a table and four chairs for the inside, plus four cups and a container of fresh water.  He waited, the sun facing another cloudless day and continuing unimpeded across the sky.
 
Lindia came around, standing at Tholan's side.  She worked hard, despite her recent illness, and now she embraced Tholan's arm as she anticipated her father's return.  ""What is happening, love?"" she asked.  ""What has my father so worked up?""
 
Tholan looked upon Lindia, stroking her hair.  ""A friend from his past has, apparently, appeared at our front door.  I think-""
 
He stopped as a figure emerged from the trees.  It was Garrold!  He looked worn, but otherwise appeared fine.  He carried something in his left hand, and waved to the two with his right, coming closer.  Finally, he arrived as breathless as a ghost, though he luckily appeared not as such.  ""Is...is it...done?"" he gasped.  When both Tholan and Lindia nodded, he tried to wave away Lindia.  ""You should be home, dear.  You will need your strength for later.""
 
""I find strength with the two men that I love, here and now"", argued Lindia.  She gripped Tholan's arm even tighter, emphasizing her point.  She was not going to let her father disappear from her sight again when he just got back, especially with this Viczent character.  
 
Garrold looked to the sky.  Time was running out.  ""Hold this!""  He gave Tholan a cannister while running again, this time to the gates.  Another ten minutes, and he returned with lanterns, a sheathed dagger, and a mirror on a chain and a large spike.  He opened up the shack, inviting the others inside, where he walked around the table and chairs, and stood in front of the shack wall.  With the spike, he stabbed it into the wall, and hanged the mirror from it.  He then peaked back outside and closed the wall-facing door.  He passed some sort of band from under his coat to Lindia, where a bunch of bulbs were strung together.  Seeing her wrinkled face, Garrold explained, ""It's garlic.  Wrap it around your hand and hide it under the table.  Tholan!""  He rushed over and handed the young man the sheathed dagger.  Tholan took it and peaked at the blade.  Silver.  ""Just in case"", assured the concerned Garrold.  He then indicated the seats, where Tholan sat Lindia first before taking a chair.  Now, they waited.
 
An hour was almost over-
 
WHAM!
 
The unexpected gust of wind smashed against the shack, shaking the whole construct.  Tholan and Lindia jumped, but Garrold held out his hand to calm them.
 
THUD.  THUD.  THUD.
 
The door facing the forest rattled with each strike.  Garrold moved carefully to the door.  Opening it, the first to greet them was the darkness of the night.  As if a picture was coming into focus, the stranger was soon outlined in the black air, the snow reflecting what little light the stars above and the torches behind could give them.  The red eyes, dark though they were, gleamed as if in competition with the lanterns inside the shack.  Here was the Nightkin, in all his pale and powerful glory, yet not moving past the threshhold.
 
""Good evening, Viczent,"" Garrold greeted the guest, ""you may enter.""
 
Viczent flowed past the door, looking first to Garrold, then to Tholan, and finally to Lindia.  He smiled his sharp incisors not in threat, but in an almost giddy cheerfulness as if he wanted to meet them for a long time.  That smile soon faded as, looking up and around the construct, his dark-red eyes fell upon the mirror.  He walked over to it, gazing longingly into the reflective surface.
 
""You still know how to wound me, old friend"", he cooed, though a hint of anger and sadness seemed to seep out.  Caressing the glass, he commented, ""A tool of vanity, yet one that also reveals the ugly truth necessary for humility.""  All of a sudden, he punched the wall, shaking the construct and rattling the mirror, but Garrold raised his hands yet again to reign in both Tholan and Lindia.  After a moment, Viczent turned to the two, and tears appeared in his eyes.  ""Forgive me; I must control myself better than this.  Garrold, I know why you did this, just as I know why you have the young lady hold onto the garlic and the young man the silver dagger.  Your message is clear.""
 
Tholan was so focused on Viczent that he almost did not notice the lack of the reflection from the stranger.  He turned to Lindia, who affirmed that she also saw it.  He looked back to Viczent as the guest sat down opposite the two, with Garrold taking a seat at his side.  He set the cannister in front of Viczent; ""A house-warming gift for our guest of honor!""
 
Viczent scoffed and removed the top of the cannister.  ""It is fresh, old friend.  Who did you kill to get this?""
 
Garrold frowned.  ""The Hunter is still alive.  I only took what was needed.""
 
""Of course"", remarked Viczent, and he gulped down the contents.  A red trickle came down his chin, with a strong hint of iron almost overwhelming the aroma of garlic.  After nearly emptying the cannister, Viczent licked his mouth clean, flicking away the red bead upon his chin with a finger.  ""To Garrold the Merciful!"" he toasted, and set his drink down.  ""The last time you did this for me was not long ago, during the last great war.""
 
""Yes,"" Garrold interrupted, ""the fourth war of the world.""
 
Viczent smiled.  ""By then, my people were wide awake and waning in power.  Yours, meanwhile, were trying to hide amongst the public, fighting on all sides as if you were bands of brothers.""
 
Garrold scowled.  ""We were.""
 
""As soldiers, yes.  But you could never share your secret with the rest, could you?  Neither could I nor my kind, or their weapons would have turned against the both of us.  Ironic, as after the dust settled and the war was almost ended, they turned their weapons upon us regardless.""
 
""Only because I ended up doing what I though was right, in saving your life!"" Garrold shifted in his chair, his eyes staring past all three occupants as if holding the opposing wall accountable for some wrongdoing.  Viczent looked upon the elder leader, and then turned his attention to the couple.  ""You two...are you married?""
 
Tholan looked at Lindia, wondering if that question should be answered.  Lindia looked down at her garlic-bulb wrapped-up hand, and kept it in her lap.  ""Yes"", she answered.  ""We married near the end of summer.""
 
Viczent nodded.  ""You, young man, you are a protector of this fort?""
 
Tholan straightened up.  ""It's not a fort, but yes, I protect it.  We are only adding a wall and gate because of the outside world.""
 
""You afraid of Hunters, young man?"" inquired Viczent.
 
""No.  I anticipate them.""
 
""Is it just the Hunters you anticipate?""
 
""There are...other threats.""
 
""Such as?""
 
Tholan wondered why he felt compelled to answer these questions, as he looked into the red eyes of Viczent.  ""Abominations, ultrantulas, Black Wolves-""
 
""Black Wolves?!""  Viczent shifted his eyes, and Tholan suddenly snapped out of his trance.  ""Did...did you also see the dark obelisks?""
 
Tholan was now no longer compelled to answer, but he did so anyways albeit with his eyes pointed more to the table rather than into the stranger's eyes.  ""Yes, I saw the black obelisks.""  
 
""They're not black, young man,"" corrected Viczent, ""they're dark-green.  Apparently, our enemies don't know how to stay dead, Garrold.""
 
The elder continued staring away, but retorted, ""The same can be said for a lot of things.""
 
BAM!
 
Viczent slammed the cannister in front of Garrold, his mouth now curled into a snarl.  ""If you are insinuating something, say so!  Do not hide insults from me, I know you better than that!""
 
Finally, Garrold looked into Viczent's eyes, but fell under no trance except that which anger notoriously brought with it; ""If you knew me better, you would not have come to this place at all, and endangered my people!""  
 
At this, Viczent stood up and screamed out a freezing bomb:  ""YOUR ACTIONS ENDANGERED EVERYONE!""
 
Garrold was on his feet, his form starting to alter as he bared now-growing fangs in an enlarging mouth.  Viczent dug his nails into the table, as the lights of the lanterns started flickering and the shack trembled.  Tholan and Lindia were both on their feet, both also ready to transform immediately.  Lindia held onto the garlic bulb necklace, as Tholan unsheathed the silver dagger.
 
Forever and a day.  That was how time seemed to work inside the construct while the night air glided peacefully in its scheduled second-by-second routine.  Then, Viczent closed his eyes and his nails retracted from the table, his form now collapsing like a corpse finally allowing gravity to do its job.  Garrold, in turn, reassessed himself to his elder form, holding his hand out one last time; Tholan and Lindia sat in response.
 
""Why did you save me?""
 
This whisper caused Garrold to balk, gasping slightly at Viczent's question.  This time, there was no retort and no need to make an argument; the person sprawled in the chair before him didn't address him as an elder or a protector, a father or a soldier, but as a friend.  Even like a brother.  Garrold slowly sat down next to this pale creature and breathed his answer:
 
""I...I thought I was doing...the right thing.""
 
Viczent closed his eyes again.  ""You and I, serving together in the fourth war of the world, keeping our secret from everyone except each other; one Nightkin, one Moon-Keeper, and brothers-in-arms despite how our people viewed each other.  But despite our powers, we weren't invincible.  You saw what that shrapnel did to me.  You knew that I was a goner.""
 
Garrold shook his head as if trying to dry his eyes before they could get wet.  ""Is this why you are here, to open old wounds?""
 
Viczent raised his head, an eye upon the elder.  ""My people demanded the nobles to find threats to their home, no different than what you are doing.""
 
""You were chosen because you were the best?""
 
""I volunteered because I was the best.  And,"" Viczent then leaned closer to Garrold, ""because I hoped to find you again.  For decades, I looked at everything in this world, what it all meant, where it all went to hell.  And, in looking for threats, I hoped to find you one day because, old friend, I need closure.  We all do.  Please tell me why?""
 
The elder wiped a tear from his eye.  ""Because you were my friend, Viczent!  Because no one could have done for you what I could, given your conditions.  I saw you near death.  I found an enemy combatant.  I took him back to you, and then I had you take what you needed from him.  But you took too much, and you took too long, and then...""
 
Viczent nodded.  ""Then both sides found out.  Our side tried to detain us, and you transformed and pushed past them.  The other side tried to kill us, and you carved a path through them.  Both sides ended up shooting at us.""  He then laughed, but it was a sad laugh, not intentionally mocking anyone.  ""That day, we ended a war, only to create another one.  You and I...made the Hunters.""
 
Garrold inhaled deeply, trying to calm his emotions.  ""After that, your nobles excommunicated me and my people, and I never contacted you again.  I was so angry, so scared, and I took the survivors to a place that seemed secluded and safe.  How wrong I was!""  He held his palms up to his temples, trying to fight the tears that fought back almost as hard.
 
Tholan looked from Garrold to Viczent.  This was a far cry from what he had read about the Nightkin.  Perhaps this one was an exception to the rule?  Or maybe...the books were wrong?  Were his people too hasty in labeling the Nightkin?  Viczent caught him staring, and Tholan looked away.
 
""I take it that Garrold never mentioned his past to either of you?""  Viczent asked.  Before they answered, Viczent raised his own hand.  ""Please, understand, it was a horrible time.  That war, like all the other wars of the world, took everything from all who participated; our time and effort, our empathy and humanity, our...blood and...tears...""
 
At this, Viczent wiped away at his own face and reached out to Garrold, gently gripping his arm.  ""I am grateful that you saved my life, that you were my friend.  The cost was high, and I am sorry for my part in all of this.  I should take the blame.""
 
""No,"" interjected Garrold, ""the blame is mine.  I exposed us, and our people.  Now, we are hounded and marked.""
 
""It was thirty years ago, old friend.  My nobles are in talks to lift the excommunication.  It...it would mean the world to me if...if you could come back and convince them to be allies once more.""  When Garrold didn't respond immediately, Viczent tried with more vigor; ""Come on, Garrold!  We can't undo our mistake, but we can make amends.  At least do it for your people, your daughter and her husband!  Do it...for your grandchild.""
 
""Wait...grandchild?""
 
Garrold turned to look at Tholan and Lindia.  The couple were just as stunned, Tholan even more so.  He had been hoping, praying to his patron deity for a child.  ""Lindia is...pregnant?""
 
Viczent nodded.  ""I can sense heartbeats even past the flesh, young man.  Though, young lady, that garlic you are currently holding almost makes such difficult beyond measure.""
 
Still in shock from everything that suddenly happened in this tiny room in the cradle of nowhere, Garrold stood up.  Viczent, in turn, stood up and reached to steady his old friend.  The elder allowed him and then hugged the stranger.  ""Viczent!  Brother!  I'm going to be a grandfather!""
 
Viczent carefully pried the elder's arms off of him.  ""You almost crushed me, man!  But it's the truth!  And I am happy that you are happy.  I just...I thought...well, now I don't know what to say.""
 
Garrold gripped his shoulders.  ""Say 'yes' to your nobles!  But give us time; I want to see my grandchild before I leave.  Tell them that I will have talks, providing that they will have listeners.""  When Viczent nodded, Garrold hugged him again.  Then, he made his way around the table and hugged Tholan.  ""My boy, my grandchild's father!""  He then, tearfully, went to his daughter and basically hoisted her out of the chair.  ""My beautiful daughter!  If only your mother were here to see this day!  My lovely daughter, a mother herself!""
 
Viczent nodded.  ""I'll take my leave; first light will come soon.  Young man, young lady, old friend, congratulations!  And Garrold,"" he paused, ""thank you.  For everything.""  At this, he held out his hand.  Garrold came back around and took it, almost pulling the stranger into another hug.  ""I'll inform my people of your people's well-being and acceptance to talks.""
 
As the Nightkin turned to leave, Tholan called out, ""Wait!""  When Viczent turned to him, Tholan said, ""I...I'm sorry, sir.  I thought poorly of the Nightkin, believing that you and yours were bloodthirsty beings intent on dominating all other beings.""
 
Viczent smiled, his incisors gleaming again.  ""Some of us are, but my sect is a lot wiser than that.  I am grateful that you are, too.""  He gave a nod to Lindia, then turned back to the darkness.  Despite the glow of first light's impending arrival, the Nightkin was a mere outline leaving the shack, and then became part of the darkness once more.
","August 12, 2023 02:05","[[{'Tom Skye': 'Good stuff. I enjoy the glue between your stories', 'time': '23:10 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Thank you for reading the story, and thanks for the feedback!', 'time': '02:28 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Thank you for reading the story, and thanks for the feedback!', 'time': '02:28 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""A serious story and the close relationship Viczent and Garrold should have had comes together at the end. Something to make them all happy has healed old wounds and suspicions. I liked the unique names and descriptions. Fits in well with the prompt. I also thought it may have been part of more. I did that with a couple of my stories as well. The prompt inspired it, of course. Curious because you followed me. I haven't written for a few weeks due to family pressures and the prompts have to grab me."", 'time': '01:47 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'I appreciate your feedback, and my heart goes out to you and yours.  Thank you again for reading my stories; if they inspire you, I am grateful.  If not, I remain grateful regardless.', 'time': '04:02 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'I appreciate your feedback, and my heart goes out to you and yours.  Thank you again for reading my stories; if they inspire you, I am grateful.  If not, I remain grateful regardless.', 'time': '04:02 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Lots of depth. Part of another saga.\n\nThanks for the follow. Will return favor but can't read more of yours  immediately."", 'time': '21:56 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'I thank you greatly for your feedback, and I thank you for reading my story!  Take your time; my stories are available for all to read.', 'time': '22:24 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'I thank you greatly for your feedback, and I thank you for reading my story!  Take your time; my stories are available for all to read.', 'time': '22:24 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,opf5dt,The Silver Tin Box,Heather Rose,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/opf5dt/,/short-story/opf5dt/,Adults,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
THE SILVER TIN BOX
Near Bucharest, Romania 1940
 
 
The murky surface of the water suddenly broke into small shimmering ripples of light. The boy’s eyes shot to the movement and he watched, mesmerized, as two tiny black eyes lifted up out of the cloudy depths and gazed unwaveringly at him. He was lying on his stomach at the edge of the pond, arms crossed under his chin and his chest supporting his weight. Unmindful of the wet mud that was slowly soaking it’s cold tentacles into the front of his faded jacket he knew that his mom would scold him when he got home and tell him to go back outside their humble cottage and brush the dried mud off because there was no way she was going to wash it anytime soon with all the other work she had around here.
 
Lying there in the dappled sunlight, the tranquility of the undergrowth quietly resonated around him. Birds twittered in confident safety in the lofty beech trees and the water gurgled contentedly as it streamed away in a thin ribbon from the pond. There was no sense of danger, nothing  shattered the peace in this hidden place that the boy had found long ago, hidden from the noisy and chaotic life at home.
 
It was a small frog and it seemed to be watching him intently, not sure whether he presented danger. The two gazed at one another steadily; the boy with fascination, the amphibian with unblinking and guarded surprise. Slowly, without a ripple, the little frog sank quietly below the surface. The boy gave a sigh and stared at the spot fixedly trying to see which way the frog had swam but the water was too leaden and he could not track its movement. 
 
He continued his surveillance of the pond, his eyes moving slowly back and forth between the banks feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his back. Suddenly a flash of movement caught his attention and he swiveled his head freezing in surprise at what he saw. 
 
The two gazed at each other, both reflecting astonishment. The boy didn’t move, only his eyes opened wide in startled astonishment as he stared at the young girl about his age who was standing with her hands folded demurely against the front of her white dress. How long had she been standing there? He felt a little shy and the embarrassment of being caught in such a vulnerable position caused a slight smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. The girl responded with a quick grin of her own and she said in a soft, bell-like voice “What are you doing?”
 
Scrambling up onto his feet, unmindful of his grubby palms and jacket, he didn’t answer immediately but shuffled awkwardly and gazed anywhere but at this vision of purity which was now picking her way towards him, dainty feet clad in soft shoes made for carpeted rooms, not the harsh ground she now tiptoed on.
 
He had never seen anything so lovely. Accustomed to the untidy and raucous conditions he and his five brothers lived in, his first thought was to run, hard and fast. Seeing this, the girl stopped and held up a hand.
 
“Oh, please don’t go. I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’ve seen you here before…from a distance,” she quickly added, seeing the alarm instantly crossing his face. She spoke English in the lilting accent of an American citizen.
 
The boy blinked rapidly. This unsolicited visit invading the tranquility of his place of safety had assaulted the inner, quiet joy that filled him whenever he was here. For years this refuge been his escape from the poverty and stress that filled his days under the roof of hardworking parents, who themselves were exhausted from the daily struggle to survive.
 
He felt angry and confused now. Trapped between his cherished solitude and the present real horror of this assault he sought to escape. The pond was behind him and the girl standing in front of him and so he slowly began to slide his bare feet sideways to make a run towards the dense forest of trees towards home.
 
She noticed his uncertainty, his fright. “Please don’t go,” she said again. Her voice lifted in sweet pleading tones. Hearing the sincerity in her words, he hesitated and for the first time looked fully at the trespasser. She was lovely, all his senses acknowledged this. Her curly blond hair, set loose from any headwear, cascaded down over her shoulders. Her face, with a small, freckled nose and full soft lips, belied his first dismay and gradually he began to relax.
 
They stared at one another, each making an assessment of the other. Again the girl was the first to speak.
 
“Sorry for surprising you. I know it was wrong. I’ve been wanting to speak to you. It gets so lonely up there…”
 
She pointed over her shoulder towards the dense hillside which in the far distance lay the formidable white stones of a large mansion which, he knew, was the American ambassador’s residence. His parents had told him to never go anywhere close to it, disapproving of the negative stigma of Western dominance that it represented and he had blindly obeyed.
 
So he stayed. That first hour found them sitting shyly, a distance apart on the grassy bank, exchanging basic information about themselves. As they talked he found himself being drawn to her. This girl, he now saw, was a simple soul, unsullied by the temptations of her world and unwittingly he began to relax.
 
So began an unlikely friendship between a sophisticated albeit innocent young girl and an equally naïve boy who, brought up in the poverty of rural and uneducated countrymen, nevertheless had an intuitive and sensitive insight to human nature with all its pernicious characteristics.
 
Shelly was 6 weeks younger then he was, a detail that 14 year old Ivan found pleasing, a slight pride welling up in his chest. She looked at him with admiration which was a remarkable to him. The people in his village were often scorned and disregarded by others; a pitiful ignorance, he thought, born from the lofty view of the standards which money brought. Shelly’s calm and innocent acceptance of him was refreshing and he began to open up to her in the growing conviction that he could trust her.
 
They began to meet regularly, or as often as her home schooling and his chores would allow. He discovered that as an only child she had travelled to many places in the world with her diplomatic parents, who settled no longer then a couple of years in a country before being sent to another place. She was surprisingly unworldly and this, he realized, was because she was sheltered and protected, an only child brought up by loving but busy parents. That she was allowed to roam unguarded around the countryside was due to a lazy and neglectful tutor who was only too glad to have some free time of his own and simply made her promise not to wander beyond the boundaries of the diplomatic residence. Her parents were in demand and involved in all sorts of embassy duties which sometimes went long into the night and as a result it might be days before she even saw them.
 
Theirs was an unlikely friendship born out of two innocent individuals from very diverse backgrounds yet their minds blended together in a linked bond of interests, convictions and a wonderful humor which united them. They discussed all things, laughed together at silly incidents and found in each other a mutual sharp mind and a passion for knowledge. She began to bring down to the pond her lessons and books which he would take back home to read and then discuss with her the next time they met.
 
One day she brought with her a shiny metal tin box. It had once held biscuits, or cookies as she called them, sent over from the USA by a fond grandparent. They were delicious she informed him and she wished she had kept one or two so that he could have tasted them. Ivan sniffed inside the biscuit box and could smell the aroma of vanilla, chocolate and cinnamon. He said he wished he could have tasted one too. Then she excitedly told him her idea for the box.
 
“We could leave notes in it for when one of us can’t come down here.” She took out a notebook and a pencil from a cloth bag she had slung around her shoulder. Opening the notebook she showed him the pristine pages. “Say I come down here and you aren’t here. It has happened you know!” she importantly declared. “Or if you come and I’m not here and we can’t hang around waiting and waiting. Then we can leave a note in the tin for the other. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
 
Ivan nodded dubiously. His writing skills were elementary at best. Schooling was always haphazard and mostly relied upon the teaching of his mother or grandparent. That he was an eager learner was an advantage which benefited him momentously. Thanks to this enthusiasm he read English newspapers, like Time or Good Housekeeping, that had been taken from city dustbins and brought home to the village by the more educated villagers.
 
There began a new season in the binding of their relationship. Note writing became a delightful game because even when they found a common time when they were both there, they would sit in the warm sunshine on the pond bank and delightedly look inside their trove at the contents left there. Sometimes there was only one note, sometimes more. Then with giggles each would open their own folded message and read the words out aloud.
 
Mr Henry (Shelley’s tutor) smacked my hand with a ruler today because I smudged my page with ink while I was writing. Silly old man. I couldn’t help it if my elbow mussed up the page!
 
or
 
I dropped one of the eggs I was carrying today. Mam was so cross. I told her I would not have an egg for breakfast cos it was my fault. But she still gave me one. Damien (his younger brother) was so cross cos he wanted it.
 
Then came the day, in the enjoyment of their nascent friendship, neither of them had foreseen, never considered, might happen.
 
As Ivan stepped out of the shadows of the forest his first reaction was one of delight that she was there, sitting cross legged and playing with a grass daisy. Her head was down with her long blonde hair hiding her face but he immediately knew that something was wrong. Stepping closer he slid down next to her but she didn’t lift her head.
 
“Shelly?” A tear dropped down into her lap and she lifted her hand to wipe her eyes. A silent wave went between them. Ivan felt frightened. The birds chattered away in the trees and the water gurgled quietly. Ordinary sounds in the life of the forest but suddenly Ivan knew with sudden dread that something momentous was happening. Quietly, he took her hand. She shivered and her golden hair swung as she raised her bowed head to look at him. Her face was tear streaked, her blue eyes misty with hopeless misery.
 
“We’re leaving. The embassy is closing. All of us are going back to America.”
 
She turned her eyes to the water and continued.
 
“There is a war coming. Or maybe has already come, I don’t know. They say it won’t be safe to stay here.” Her voice suddenly rose a pitch.
 
 “Oh, Ivan! I wish you could come too!”
 
Ivan’s voice was tight as he replied just one word, but it contained enough emotion in it that consumed all his hopes and joy for his future.
 
“When?”
 
“I dunno,” she shrugged her hunched shoulders. “Today maybe. Or tomorrow. Mama is busy packing up all our things”.
 
They sat there both frozen in their bewilderment of the unanticipated change. Their young minds could not immediately adjust to the rapid shift of their horizons which up until now had impossibly held naive expectations of limitless and infinite togetherness, of friendship, of shared lives and even of future experiences. But now Ivan realized with a dull thud in his stomach that it was not going to happen and indeed could never have been a likelihood.
 
Numbly they sat side-by-side on the bank, shoulders touching without words. The uninterrupted resonance of nature shimmered and echoed around them but the delight of the day was gone. Unnoticed, the water rippled and softly murmured, the birds repeating their rhythmic chorus high in the rustling treetops but internally their hearts were shattered with the sudden shock of this portent news that now loomed between them.
 
She cried out. “I’ll write to you, Ivan! I will! And you must write to me…you will, won’t you? Here is our box,” holding out the silver tin box that had for months been the one established link between them.
 
“My address, the house in New York to where we are going, is in there. I asked my Papa for it. I told him I had friends here that I wanted to write to. When you write be sure to put your address in your letter so that I can write back!” Her eagerness, coupled with a frantic fervor brought a sharp terror within his being.
 
Numbly he nodded as, at the same time and from a distance, came the urgent call of a voice crying out Shelley’s name. She sprang up, “I have to go!” He rose with her and they stood facing and at the same time reached out their hands to clutch each other. They stood like that, hands clasped for an inestimable moment that finally stretched abysmally into the awful knowledge that this would be the last time they would see one another. Then she was gone, running up the hill away from him, her hair swinging and her dress looping around her legs. She stopped half way up and turned around. He was still standing there gazing up at her and their last glances were filled with a great sorrow of lost friendship and of precious moments that had so cemented them together and bonded them, they had thought, for eternity.
 
That night the bombing began. Ivan and his family sat huddled together in the dark cellar beneath their house. Ivan wondered miserably where Shelley was. Had she and her family already left the vicinity or were they, like him, also closed up somewhere to listen and shiver with fear at the terrifying sounds of roaring planes and the whistle of bombs being dropped, followed by loud blasts that made the ground shake and the walls reverberate around them? He suddenly realized with a dreadful comprehension that in the distress of their moment of parting, he had left the silver tin box that contained her address behind at their pond. He clenched his jaw. He had to go back.
 
It was only some days later after the American planes had left that Ivan was able to return. As he walked closer he was dismayed and frightened at the devastation that had toppled trees and decimated large areas of the forest around him. As he came to the pond he sucked in his breath. There was nothing left of it. Before him lay swathes of putrid mud and mounds of blown debris from the trees and the bushes that had exploded from the impact of the bombs. Of their grassy bank, on which they had spent so many happy hours sitting in the warm sunlight, there was nothing left. Ivan gazed about him in distress, swallowing hard the sick lump of bile that rose in his throat.
 
As he turned away a glinted flash of light caught his eye. Taking a deep breath he realized that he was looking at a corner of metal pushing out of the morass. It was their tin! He had to get it. He waded through the tangle of weeds and mud and reached out with a long stick to bring it closer to him. It was difficult but slowly he prodded and nudged at it until it was within reach. As he lifted it out, careful not to lose his balance, he saw with a gut wrenching dismay that the lid was hanging open on one hinge and the interior of the tin was filled with mud and water. There was no sign of the note with Shelley’s address on it.
 
Frantically he dug inside the tin; then he cast around the mud hole where the pond used to be, around the sides and up the surrounds to the shattered stubs of trees and bushes. Nothing.
 
The following years after the war ended were exhausting as the village scrambled to erase the fear and restore the terrible damage done. Although Ivan joined in the laborious task of rebuilding he never forgot without a gut-wrenching feeling of loss, the memory of the sweet companionship of a beautiful and lovely girl who had disappeared overnight into the realm of the unknown.
 
It was as he was hoeing the newly replanted fields that he heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the dusty road. He stopped what he was doing and shaded his eyes to see a red sports car come to a halt and a girl with long blonde hair springing out of the driver’s seat. For a moment of incredulous wonder they gazed across the field at each other and then the girl started running towards him, her blond hair blowing behind her as she crossed the distance between them with her white dress blowing in the wind. Incredulously Ivan watched her and time suddenly stood still, the sun shining brightly with absolute confidence in the sky above. She was back.
 
","August 17, 2023 11:10",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,yzs3cc,Your Personal Savior,Mary Stanley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yzs3cc/,/short-story/yzs3cc/,Adults,0,['Fiction'],7 likes,"
I figured out where Jesus lived. I was walking home from SuperFresh and made him out through the shaded wilderness of the yard that turned out to be his. He was wearing basketball shorts, his light brown hair falling down his bare back. It was the middle of a muggy Long Island heat wave, and I could feel humid sweat dripping down my own back. It sounded like Jesus was cracking nuts — acorns or something? — into a big plastic garbage bag. The bag was already more than half full. I kept walking, wishing there was someone I could tell about my discovery.
 
I had nothing but time these days. I was 66 and lived alone in the house where I grew up. No job, no family, no one to make plans with. I didn’t even watch TV any more. Cable was too expensive, and I couldn’t figure out the new ways people were watching their shows — Netflix and such. So, I walked the neighborhood — for errands or exercise or whatever. Had to do something.
 
It was during my walks that I became fixated on that corner house, about six blocks from my own. I peered through the dense foliage every time I passed. The stucco of the house was probably beige or even white at some point, but the parts I could make out now were covered in dark green stains wrought by neglect and too much shade. Like it never got a chance to dry out. Tangled vegetation grew out over the sidewalk so you’d have crouch down or walk out into the street to pass by. Our neighborhood was old by Long Island standards, small tidy houses built in the 1920s. Capes, red-tiled Spanish, fairy-tale Tudors. But this house was out of place, spooky.
 
I’d been seeing Jesus walk the streets for years. He didn’t seem to age. For a while he’d had a dog, a black and white shaggy thing you imagined would be called Oreo. When it was warm, Jesus wore no shirt. Just the basketball shorts. When it was cold, it was always the same greasy black parka. 
 
Like the actual Bible Jesus, this one was all slim hips and skinny shoulders, his posture and gait bordering on the feminine. Wavy hair framed his face like the guy on the Jesus-saves brochures the nice ladies handed out in front of Dollar Tree. My Jesus wore glasses, so that was different. Aviators, but not cool. Like they were from the 1980s, with thick lenses. 
 
In my neighborhood, you had three categories of walkers: normal people getting exercise, dog-walkers, and nut jobs. In the first category, you had people like the three retired guys who walked together every morning, all hearty and cheerful. You had the ladies in leggings and sneakers, with their headphones or kibitzing with a friend. Dog-walkers I don’t have to explain. 
 
And then you had the nut jobs, who as a rule walked alone. Like the old anorexic speed walker with the pixie haircut, always wearing white mesh gloves. You had the woman who looked like a former meth addict — ragged and pockmarked — forever lugging her shopping in a blue tote bag. 
 
Then you had Jack Larson stalking by, head jutted forward, yammering into the flip phone glued to his ear. I knew his name because he used to call the local paper, back when I answered the phones there. Always in a lather about blowing the lid off the corruption at OTB. Once, when I went to vote at the neighborhood polling place, there was Jack Larson in the parking lot, haranguing everyone about forensic audits. I could never figure out what the hell he was talking about. 
 
And then you had Jesus.
 
I tried greeting Jesus once, a couple years before I figured out where where he lived. I was about to pass him on my way drop off some bills at the mailbox on Stanton. It felt weird not to acknowledge another human being when no one else was around. So like any sensible person, I said hi. He looked up at me, startled, and then annoyed, like I’d interrupted his meditations. He passed right by me, saying nothing. 
 
“That’s not very Christian of you,” I muttered to myself. I thought that was funny.
 
Soon after that brutal heat wave ended, I had to walk to Walgreens to buy socks and tweezers. It was still August, but the light and the air carried a hint of autumn. These kinds of days made me feel empty and sad. Like anything can happen, but won’t for me. That back-to-school feeling when my mother would buy me notebooks and corduroys, and I’d promise her, and myself, that this year I would work hard and do well. A new leaf! It never happened. 
 
Of course I chose the route that took my by Jesus’ house. A couple blocks away, I heard yelling. As I got closer I saw it was Jesus and Jack Larson, right there in the middle of the street. They were arguing. Well, it was really just Jack yelling and jabbing his finger in Jesus’ face. With every word, he was getting more into a lather, his voice growing in volume and pitch.
 
“According to town code, you are responsible for your sidewalk. This house is a fucking disaster!” By the time he got to that last word, the man was shrieking. 
 
Jesus just stood there taking it, like a kid getting yelled at in front of the whole class. 
 
“Guys,” I said. “Get out of the street. A car is coming.” There wasn’t, but I had to do something to stop the yelling.
 
They both turned to me, surprised. I noticed Jack had a rip in his jeans and his knee was bleeding. A fresh angry scrape dirtied his chin.
 
“Mind your business, lady,” Jack said, but he lurched to the side of the street to pick up the flip-phone he must have dropped. 
 
“You better pray this isn’t broken,” Jack said punching buttons on the device. “I have the right to sue you for everything you are worth.”
 
“This idiot.” Jack was looking at me now, jerking his thumb toward Jesus. (For his part, Jesus was in the safety of his own property, framed by a gloomy arbor of woven branches and vines.)
 
“This idiot has let this property become a house of horrors since his parents died. And trust me, it was no prize before that.” He was making his case to me now. “There are hornets’ nests — literal hornets’ nests — in that, that hellhole. That is a direct threat to public safety. I mean, kids walk to school down this street. And he has tree roots pushing up the sidewalk. Which, I can inform you, is in direct violation of section 7, subsection 12, paragraph 4 of town code.”
 
I did not want to be on his side, so I made sure I didn’t nod or say “wow” or “huh.”
 
“Oh, so you tripped on a root,” I said, working to keeping my face neutral. 
 
“Yeah, Einstein, I tripped on a root,” he said. 
 
“You seem unhappy. Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?” I just blurted it out.
 
I looked at Jesus. And he burst out laughing. 
","August 17, 2023 19:26","[[{'Keeanna Mcintosh': 'Hello,l was wondering is this a christian related story,or is it just about someone named Jesus,because one thing for sure if this is about a dream you had about jesus or something.l know one thing for sure he would never ignore you when you try to talk to him.So..please explain what this story is about.:/', 'time': '15:19 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'LeeAnn Hively-Insalaco': ""He just looks like the Anglican version of Jesus. I think we've all seen multiple people who make us think of Jesus just because of the description she painted for us."", 'time': '22:35 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Stanley': 'Exactly!', 'time': '20:37 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'LeeAnn Hively-Insalaco': ""He just looks like the Anglican version of Jesus. I think we've all seen multiple people who make us think of Jesus just because of the description she painted for us."", 'time': '22:35 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Stanley': 'Exactly!', 'time': '20:37 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Stanley': 'Exactly!', 'time': '20:37 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,k5keev,Ad Aeternum,Zyn Marlin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k5keev/,/short-story/k5keev/,Adults,0,"['LGBTQ+', 'People of Color', 'Fantasy']",7 likes,"
	It is the beginning of everything and he awakens like a drowning person breaching the surface with a toehold on the shore.
 what is a person what is water what is breathing what is shore
	But all of it is already inside his consciousness.
	And then: “Come find me, David,” they say, and the longing is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and he is too small to contain it all, and this is not in his consciousness and he is afraid. 
 what is david what is fear 
 WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT
	And then he is gone.
#
	“Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one light brown hand is on David’s pale, pale arm and the other hand rests on her round belly.
	David must have been wool-gathering again. He shakes his head, rattling the beads in his hair. “Remember what what is?”
	She smiles at him like a secret, teeth white in a dark, heart-shaped face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.”
	“You are right here.” David frowns and covers her hand with his own. “I remained here for you when my crew sailed for home. I will always remember my duty to you.”
	The smile fades away. Her eyes widen, then crinkle into pain, and she falls to the floor, hands clutching her belly, blood pooling from between her legs. 
	“Remember,” she gasps out, eyes desperate on his. “What comes after you are afraid.”
	David’s hands are tingling and he is nauseous with terror. When the healer arrives, she says there is nothing she can do, that his seed has poisoned the woman, that he has planted a demon in her womb. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover and he looks at the tiny rag of lifeless human flesh — not a demon, just a lost soul that took its mother with it — still attached by its cord, and then he walks out into the wilderness and he is gone.
#
	“Do you remember what it is now, David?” he says, and one gloved hand is on David’s blue-sleeved arm and the other holds his bicorne hat against his red-coated chest.
	David must have been strategizing again. He shakes his head, feeling his queue brush the back of his neck. “Remember what what is?”
	He smiles at David like a secret, lips rosy pink in a porcelain pale face. His eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.”
	“You are right here.” David frowns and covers his hand with his own. “You sheltered me here when I was left for dead by my men. I will always remember my debt to you.”
	The smile fades away. Behind them, the hovel door bursts open with a cracking noise and soldiers stream into the small room, muskets pointed at David and at him, ordering them outside. 
	“Remember,” he murmurs, eyes tracing David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid.”
	David’s veins are full of snowmelt and he can’t catch a full breath. When the officer approaches, he says there is nothing he can do, that David’s presence has doomed the man, that he has condemned him as a traitor for harboring the enemy. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover — not a traitor, just a man trying to do good while on a different side of a terrible war — spilling so much red against new-fallen snow, and then he looks up at his executioners and he is gone.
#
	“Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one dark brown hand is on David’s sunburned arm and the other grips the horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck.
	David must have been working through the facts again. He shakes his head, catching his fedora as it slips sideways. “Remember what what is?”
	She smiles at David like a secret, lips painted ruby in a mahogany face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.”
	“You are right here.” David frowns in confusion and covers her hand with his own. “You came to me for help getting the news out to stop these riots and lynchings. I will always remember how frightened I am for you.”
	The smile tips on one side, inviting him into the secret with her. Glass shatters as something comes through the front window of the office and hits her on the side of the head. She falls to the floor and David runs to her, dropping to her side as something else, something flaming, volleys in and lights the curtains up. He cannot hear the mob shouts outside over the sound of the screaming in his own head.
	“Remember,” she demands, eyes intent on David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid. You’re so much closer than you’ve ever been.”
	David’s heart is pounding and the tears rolling down his cheeks begin to evaporate in the blazing heat. When the fire fighters arrive, there is nothing they can do. They look at the burned bodies of the lovers — doing no harm to anyone, just an interracial couple trying to find a way through the world — curled together, and pronounce them gone.
#
	“Do you remember what it is now, David?” he asks, and one hand is on David’s bare upper arm and the other takes a colorful cocktail from the bartender.
	David must have been distracted by all of the people dancing in the club. He shakes his head, feeling his single earring bounce against his jaw. “Remember what what is?”
	He smiles at David like a secret, teeth gleaming in a tanned, glowing face. His glitter-lidded eyes are green and gold as as beautiful as the universe. “Me.”
	“You —” David wraps an arm around his waist and scoops him in, pressing a kiss to the side of his head — “are right here. Why do I need to remember when I have you right now?”
	The smile wavers. The music changes to something with a heavy rattling bass. Someone screams and David smiles for a moment, thinking it is enthusiastic joy for the new song. Then multiple people are screaming, and the bass noise misses a beat and resumes in a rapid burst and David recognizes it as gunfire. “Get down!” he yells to the bartenders, and leaps the counter, dragging his lover after him and shoving him down to the floor. His hands are slick and he goes to wipe them on his tight jeans, thinking he put them down in a spilled drink, but they’re red with blood. He can’t hear the gunfire or screaming anymore over the sound of the ringing in his ears.
	“Remember,” his lover whispers, eyes luminous in the half-dark under the countertop. “What comes after you are afraid. Do you remember?”
	David is shaking but he yanks his tank top off and folds it quickly into a makeshift tourniquet. “Shut up talking like that. You’re going to be fine, okay?” He wraps the shirt bandage around his lover’s arm above the gushing wound, finding a mixing spoon someone had dropped on the floor nearby and using it to tighten the shirt until his lover winces and cries out.
	“Here,” someone else says quietly, and David turns to find one of the bartenders handing him a towel. “It’s clean.”
	David thanks him and presses the cloth against the wound. His lover is still gazing at him, lips going blue and cheeks paling under his makeup even as David watches, but his eyes still vibrant. David stares into them and for a moment he is so scared, so scared, there’s no room for anything else. There are whole past lives inside of those eyes, and he gasps in a desperate breath and he remembers.
	“I love you,” he chokes out. “I’ve found you, and I remember. Oh, God, fear was the only thing I knew for a very long time. But I've always loved you, from the beginning of everything.” 
	His lover smiles, and it is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and even though David is still too small to contain it, he isn’t afraid anymore.
","August 17, 2023 19:26","[[{'Melissa Van Rensburg': 'I really enjoyed your story, Zyn! It has a very interesting structure and your writing style is powerful. Your ability to convey deep emotions in a limited space is truly impressive.', 'time': '00:28 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Zyn Marlin': ""Thank you so much! I'm glad the emotions came through well."", 'time': '14:44 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Zyn Marlin': ""Thank you so much! I'm glad the emotions came through well."", 'time': '14:44 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,uaw3od,The Man,Bruce Carrington,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/uaw3od/,/short-story/uaw3od/,Adults,0,['Drama'],7 likes,"
Then how the hell do you explain this? How, Robert? Fifty dollars on Friday, another forty-five on Saturday. What were you even downloading?”“Games and wallpapers,” Robert mumbled under his nose, eyes on his socks, hands fidgeting.“Hundred dollars for wallpapers, Robert!”“Mom, I’m sorry, I thought the phone was connected to Dad's WiFi.” His hands were clenched now.“For the whole weekend, you didn’t bother to check?”“I’m sorry, Mom.”“Weren't they supposed to send some kind of message that you’re running on data?” She was still rummaging through the invoices. She didn’t even know the half of it.It had been building inside of her for months. She was supposed to be thirty-two, but women at thirty-two don’t have that many grey hairs and such tired eyes. They don’t cry every night when they think their child is asleep. It was because of him.“What’s that?” She finally reached the one he was most terrified about. “Robert, this is a joke, right? Robert?” His eyes were wet and he was trembling, but in the rage and financial ruin she faced, it didn’t matter. “Robert, please tell me that this asshole put you up to this.” She never swore in front of him, which made him want to sink into himself. “Robert, please tell me your dad printed this and told you to give it to me? Honey?” Her face had a million wrinkles. “This is a joke, right? Please, Robert, honey, tell me the truth.” She was crying now and grabbed her son by his arms, invoices still in between her fingers.Women at thirty-two don’t work two shifts and have no social life because every single minute is spent homeschooling her child after classes because of how behind he is. They don’t clean the dishes by night, floors by the morning, and he knew it was his fault.“Mom, I will pay you back, I promise, I am so very sorry, I didn’t know, I am sorry, Mom, please.” She’d let go of him and turned around, shrieking. “Mom, I am very sorry, I will pay you back, I will pay you back, Mom, I didn’t know.” Robert was sobbing now, and there were boogers coming from his nose that he couldn’t wipe because his hands were too focused wrestling each other. He wanted to pee so bad, but he had promised his mom not to do that anymore, because he was the man now and he was the man of this house.Except, he wasn’t. He didn’t keep his promise when he told her that they’d do okay without Dad.“Pass him the phone, you bitch!” She was on a call now, holding the hand with the invoices at her ear, the second on her throat. The first one was trembling, the second was squeezing. “You piece of shit!” She looked at Robert, who was still standing in the same place, tense, not making the slightest of moves, before walking off to the bedroom.Women at thirty-two don’t limp because their ex-husbands threw them down the stairs. Her skin was peeling off because of the chemicals she used to mop the floors in the morning. Her skin was peeling off because the gloves hurt her skin when she was scrubbing down pots and pans.Screams, profanities, and a “thirteen hundred dollars” could be heard from the next room, but Robert still couldn’t move. “You’ll cover it, you understand! Do you hear-” there was a brief silence and she started to laugh. “It’s my monthly! It’s my monthly, you asshole!” Silence again, sounds of something breaking, shriek. “You owe me for five months now, do you understand? Do you understand that? Or did the booze—” the person she was speaking with interrupted her, “I wish you were dead. I regret that I allowed him to visit you. I was so stupid. God, I was so stupid.”Robert didn’t have the concept of what women at thirty-two should or shouldn’t do or look like. But he knew something was wrong, and he thought it was his fault. It was all his fault, because he had asked his mother to leave. And they did, and all that was happening now was his fault. He had promised her that he would be her man and take care of her. But he wasn’t doing his job right, because the thirty-two-year-old woman that he was supposed to take care for was suffering.“You know that I barely manage, right? You piece of shit, you know that you owe me for the past five months, you know that, don’t you? You go around, shooting, snorting, drinking, and here we are! He needs new shoes, you get that? And you’re off drinking with a new whore every day!”It was his fault.She fell silent for a moment, and every atom in the universe, and in their little apartment especially, changed its trajectory and started rotating in the right direction again. She sensed Robert in the next room, and she was ashamed of herself. The rage was gone.“I despise you, do you understand? You’re disgusting. He was right. We’ll do fine without you. We’re doing fine without you. We don’t need you. We never did.”Robert’s hands were now burning red, but he wasn’t giving up. He stood still, eyes on the socks, boogers on his mouth when she got out. She seemed less tense now, but Robert didn’t move an inch nor dare to speak. She looked at him and started to cry.“Oh, Robert. Oh, my boy.” His hands were bleeding now, but she didn’t see that. All she saw was a small puddle at Robert's little feet. “I am so very sorry.”“Mom, I am sorry. I promise I will pay you back,” he said to her shoulder, which was squishing his face now.“Don’t worry about it. It was a mistake. Those things happen.” Robert finally loosened the grip on his hands but still didn’t let go.“Mom?”“Yes, honey?” She was still holding him.“Am I still the man of the house?”She hugged him even tighter and told him that now and forever, and he let his hands go.
","August 17, 2023 22:58","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Very high tension story, I was really pulled in by the emotion in this. A very scared boy making mistakes in a family with problems.  For the critique circle feedback, right at the end when she swtiched from speaking on the phone,“I despise you...” to speaking to robert, maybe a dialogue tag or something could have helped understand there\'s a bit of transition switch  to talking to robert."" she hung up the phone and looked at her son..."" something like that.  Besides that I really like the way you describe her, and the mantra of ""Women at th...', 'time': '04:19 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,39jw53,Elmer and Earl,Dave Bolin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/39jw53/,/short-story/39jw53/,Adults,0,"['American', 'Fiction']",7 likes,"
Every day at three pm throughout the month of June, the sprawling oak cast the perfect shadow over the bench at the far end of Winslow Park. Both men knew this, and it was always a race to see who could first lay claim to it. Arrive too soon, and you had to sit under a judging sun, punishing you for your greed. Arrive too late, and you had to endure the ridicule of your rival.
 
It was a slow race, both men now in their mid-eighties; a walker-aided, creaking conquest of prime bird-feeding space.
And though the contest lacked the athletic prowess brought to the arena by younger men, it never lacked the fire.
 
Elmer rounded the corner at precisely 2:57 pm, and found Earl already there, feeding pigeons with a look of smug satisfaction.
 
“Dang it, Earl! That’s three days in a row!”
 
Earl kept his eyes fixed on the hungry birds, a sly grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “The early bird gets my breadcrumbs, because I always beat you here.”
 
“That’s because you, sir, are a cheater.”
 
“How in the Sam Hill do you cheat at this, Elmer?”
 
“I don’t know. But I know you do. Just like you do at everything.”
 
Earl rolled his eyes and shook his head. “There IS room for two on the bench, you old fool.”
 
“Like I would share a bench with you!”
 
“Suit yourself.”
 
Elmer stood in fuming silence, imagining all the ways he could knock Earl off the bench.
But his legs were tired, his back ached, and he had a whole bag of birdseed in his pocket. He had gotten too old, it seemed, to make a stand on principle. With a sigh of surrender, he sat down on the park bench, as far from Earl as he could manage.
 
The two men sat in silence, alternately  tossing their offerings to the waiting pigeons. The birds ran back and forth, rushing first to the breadcrumbs, and then back to the seed as it fell. 
 
Cutting his eyes over at Earl, Elmer threw his next handful of birdseed off to the side, pulling the birds away from the front of the bench. Earl suddenly had no birds.
 
“Hey! Quit stealing the birds!”
 
“Doesn’t feel so good when someone steals from you, does it?” Elmer mumbled.
 
“Oh, for the love of Pete, Elmer! Are we really going to do this again?”
 
“You bet your sweet bippy we are, you old horse thief!”
 
“It’s been 60 years! Surely we can move on!”
 
“I’m sure you’d be happy to move on! You weren’t robbed!”
 
“Neither were you!”
 
“You know dang well I was, and you know dang well who did the robbing!”
 
Earl shook his head in disbelief. “5 parks in this town,” he said under his breath, “and I gotta share this one with you.”
 
“Well, Lord knows you don’t like sharing. You just take what you want and leave the rest of us with our hands in our pockets.”
 
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do, Elmer.”
 
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
 
“I’d like to throw your walker in the duck pond over there and go find another bench where you couldn’t follow me.”
 
Elmer gasped, red-faced. He took a heaping handful of the birdseed and threw it in the face of Earl. Earl retaliated with a barrage of breadcrumbs all over Elmer.
 
Both were immediately swarmed by the flock of pigeons. Birds sat on their heads and laps, contentedly eating away at the aftermath of the assault. The men sat stoically, staring forward.
 
“It’s been 60 years, Elmer.”
 
Elmer sighed. “And that is supposed to be long enough?”
 
“If it’s not, then how much longer do you need?”
 
“I guess at least one more day.”
 
“She was never yours, Elmer.”
 
“She could have been.”
 
“You were THINKING about asking her to the harvest dance. I DID ask her to the harvest dance.”
 
“You knew I was thinking about asking her to the harvest dance, and you slithered in like the snake you are and stole her away before I could get up my gumption.”
 
“I’m sorry you didn’t have the courage to ask a girl to the dance.”
 
“YOU CALL THAT AN APOLOGY?”
 
“You call that a reason to hold a grudge for 60 years?”
 
“Emma was supposed to be MY date!”
 
“Evidently not. Because she went with me.”
 
“Because you, sir, are a date stealer. You are a girl thief.”
 
“You do realize that she is also my wife, don’t you? For the last 57 years?”
 
“Because you stole her. You absconded with her in the dark of night like a cat burglar.”
 
Earl turned toward his accuser. “Elmer. Who did you take to that dance?”
 
“You know who I took.”
 
“Who did you take?”
 
“Phyllis.”
 
“And how long have you and Phyllis been married?”
 
“55 years this September.”
 
“How many kids do y’all have?”
 
“Three girls, two boys. Nine grandchildren.”
 
“Are y’all still happily married?”
 
“She’s a better woman than I deserve.”
 
“Don’t you think all of that might possibly mean you took the right girl to the dance?”
 
“That’s not the point.”
 
“That’s EXACTLY the point! You ended up taking the love of your miserable life to the harvest dance. For some reason, known only to Phyllis and Jesus, she decided to build a life with you. A life that you continue to enjoy to this day. And yet you continue to torment me on a daily basis because I took MY FUTURE WIFE to a dance 60 years ago, when you should be sending me a thank-you note once a week for dragging you, kicking and screaming, toward your amazing life!” 
 
Elmer sat with his arms crossed, a bird  still feeding atop his hat.
 
“You might be right.”
 
“Might.”
 
They sat in silence as the birds picked the last of the crumbs and seed off of them. No food remaining, one by one, the pigeons flew away.
 
Elmer pulled his walker in front him, gathered his energy, and harrumphed himself up off the bench. He turned to head out of the park.
 
Without looking at Earl, Elmer mumbled, “See you tomorrow?”
 
“See you tomorrow.”
 
“Tell Emma I said hello.”
 
“Give Phyllis my best.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 18, 2023 01:12","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Fun story, I def can see the male ego holding a grudge like this for 60 years. For the critique circle there\'s really nothing I can add, it all flows well and the ending is perfect. You might be able to move some tension up into the first sentence, but this week was ""cozy"" so I think it works well as you wrote it here. The back and forth trying to steal the pigeons, and then throwing the food on each other works really well. Conflict yay! It made me picture so well videos i\'ve seen of people covered in pigeons at parks.', 'time': '07:25 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,9jc5re,Moving Forward Together,Patricia C,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9jc5re/,/short-story/9jc5re/,Adults,0,['Friendship'],7 likes,"
Marley fought back a yawn. She had already been driving for five hours but knew she had another three to go. She glanced over to the passenger seat, where Clara was fast asleep. She and her sister had agreed to take turns driving so they wouldn't have to find a place to stay during the twenty-hour drive they had in front of them.
 
As Marley continued down the long, empty stretch of highway, her thoughts drifted to her sister. Clara had been distant lately, and Marley couldn't figure out why. Was it because of the divorce? Marley knew that the end of Clara's marriage had hit her hard, but she also knew something else was happening.
 
Marley was lost in thought when she felt the car start to drift. She quickly corrected it, but the sudden movement jostled Clara awake. ""What's going on?"" Clara yawned, blinking her eyes open.
 
""Sorry, I just let my mind wander for a second,"" Marley yawned. ""Are you ready to take over driving for a bit?""
 
Clara nodded, and the two sisters pulled over to switch seats. Marley grabbed a few Skittles from the bag they'd been sharing and stared out the window as her sister started to drive. She had flown to Massachusetts so that her sister could bring her own car down to Florida, where the two would share a home until Clara could get settled.
 
Marley watched the scenery blur by as they drove along the empty highway, the sun setting in the distance. She couldn't help but notice how Clara's hands tightly gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. Marley knew that Clara had always been a safe and responsible driver, but there was something different about the way she was driving now. 
 
Marley decided to break the silence. ""Hey, Clara, are you okay?"" she asked, her voice soft.
 
There was a long pause before Clara finally spoke. ""I'm fine,"" she replied curtly, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.
 
Marley didn't believe her for a second. She knew her sister was hurting but didn't know how to help. ""Is there something you want to talk about?"" Marley asked, trying to sound as gentle as possible.
 
Clara let out a long sigh. ""It's just been tough, Marley. I feel like everything good in my life disappeared overnight.""
 
Marley took a deep breath and forced a smile towards her sister. ""I don't think things have been good for a while, but I hope this move will bring you all the great things you deserve.""
 
Clara let out a small, sad smile. ""I hope so, too,"" she said before turning her attention back to the road. 
 
Marley noticed her sister's grip on the steering wheel had relaxed slightly, but she still looked tense. She decided to change the subject. ""Hey, do you remember those road trips we used to take with mom and dad when we were kids?"" she asked.
 
Clara's eyes lit up a little. ""Of course I do. We used to play I-Spy and sing along to the radio all the time,"" she chuckled.
 
Marley smiled. ""Yeah, those were the days,"" she said wistfully. 
 
""Remember when we went to the Grand Canyon, and you were too afraid to stand close to the edge?""
 
Clara rolled her eyes. ""Oh, shut up. You were scared, too,"" she teased.
 
Marley laughed. ""Okay, maybe a little,"" she admitted. 
 
The two sisters continued to reminisce as they continued on their journey. The conversation started flowing naturally for the first time in several years. Before either sister knew it, three more hours had passed.
Clara took an exit off the highway, hoping to find somewhere to get some food and a few cups of late-night coffee.
 
As they drove through the nearest town, Marley noticed a neon sign that read ""The Midnight Café."" ""Hey, what do you think about stopping there?"" Marley pointed to the sign.
 
Clara shrugged. ""Sure, why not?"" 
 
The café was a small, cozy spot with a few tables scattered around the room and a counter at the front. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and baked goods. Marley and Clara took a seat at a booth near the window.
 
A waitress approached them, a friendly smile on her face. ""What can I get for you two tonight?""
 
Marley scanned the menu before deciding on a burger, and Clara ordered a salad. They both requested coffee and a slice of cherry pie. Marley noticed a group of people sitting at a table in the corner. They were laughing and joking, clearly enjoying each other's company. Marley missed the bond she used to have with her sister. They may have been born six years apart but they were always best friends. That was until five years ago when Clara married John, and everything changed between her and her younger sister.
 
When the waitress arrived with their food and drinks, Marley was lost in thought. Clara dug into her salad while Marley took a bite of her burger. As the two sisters ate, Marley's mind wandered back to the group in the corner. They seemed so happy and carefree; she couldn't help but feel envious.
 
Clara noticed her sister's distant expression. ""What's on your mind?"" she asked.
 
Marley hesitated for a moment before finally deciding to speak her mind. ""I just miss how things used to be between us, you know?"" she said softly.
 
Clara's expression softened. ""I know, Marley. I miss it too,"" she admitted.
Marley let out a sigh of relief. ""I'm glad we're finally talking about this,"" she said.
 
Clara nodded in agreement. ""Me too,"" she said, sipping her coffee.
The two sisters fell into a comfortable silence as they finished their meals. Clara paid the bill, and the two sisters returned to the car.
 
""You take a nap, and I'll drive for a while,"" Clara said to her sister.
 
Marley quickly agreed and settled into the seat. Clara slowly made her way back to the highway as her sister drifted off to sleep.
 
As Marley slept, Clara tried to keep her thoughts at bay. She couldn't help but think about the past few years events. The divorce had been a wake-up call for her. She had been so caught up in her own life that she had completely neglected her relationship with Marley. It wasn't until Marley offered to come get her and let her stay with her in Florida that Clara realized just how much she had lost.
 
She glanced over at her sister, who was mumbling in her sleep. Clara knew rebuilding their relationship would take time, but she was determined to do it.
 
As they drove on, the sky began to lighten. The sun was about to rise, and Clara knew they were approaching their destination. She woke Marley up as she pulled into the Florida welcome center.
 
""Welcome back to your home state,"" Clara said with a big yawn, ""I'm going to let you drive the rest of the way.""
 
After a brief break, Marley got in the driver's seat and started to drive home. They were only a short distance away from a fresh start now.
 
As they pulled up to the house, Marley sighed in relief. It was a quaint little place with a small garden out front and a porch swing.
 
""Welcome to our new home,"" Marley said with a smile.
 
Marley and her sister hugged each other tightly, feeling the weight of their past lifted off their shoulders. They would finally be able to move forward together.
","August 13, 2023 01:20","[[{'James Milne': 'That was a sweet little something.', 'time': '22:39 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Patricia C': 'Thanks!', 'time': '00:08 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Patricia C': 'Thanks!', 'time': '00:08 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,7enryl,Home Sweet Home,Linh Nguyen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7enryl/,/short-story/7enryl/,Adults,0,['Contemporary'],7 likes,"
Summer just arrives. I hear the sounds of bird chirping outside the windows and feel the warm lights hugging over the neighborhood. Lying in my bed with weights on my eyelids, I thought to myself, “May be I should go for a walk today to feel the sun. Hear that helps with dopamine and happiness and all that shit they keep talking about.” 
I didn’t sleep well last night. Actually, I haven’t had a well-rested night for the longest time. Outwardly, keeping up with fake smiles and small talks here and there help me maintain an overall somewhat normal impression in the presence of others. It’s easy for the most part and I’m good at it if I want to be. “Fake it till you make it”, they say,… but isn’t that Imposter Syndrome in some shape or form? I often think that’s such a flawed statement because it doesn’t actually solve the root of any issue. It’s the outdated perception of mental health issues, in my case, people tend to promote because it seems to be the easier route - just sweep it under the rug and forget that you have dust to vacuum. Next thing you know, dust bunnies turn into respiratory issues that get you hospitalized. 
Stepping outside of the house, I take the deepest breath with every step, trying to clear my head of the suffocating dust bunnies image I cooked up. The neighborhood has this quiet and peaceful aura in the morning. I see a young girl walking her little Maltese dog here, an old couple going on brisk walks there, the smell of briskets in the air from a nearby Korean fusion barbecue joint I always recommend to people if they pass by the area. Cozy, quiet, and peaceful. I try to take it all in on my walk, embracing the simplest of joy, although oftentimes it is the simplest joy that have me emotionally tip-toeing on eggshells. 
Over the course of the past year, what I was struggling with takes the form of my previous confidant, who I no longer talk to. He was a couple of years younger than me, but has always been a very emotionally mature person. Our connection was special, but complicated, to say the least. When I say I have never met anyone as kind as him, I mean it with my every word, and I have met enough people in this world to know what kindness and generosity look like. Selfless kindness is indeed a very attractive thing. Like how most friendship started, we were acquaintances to one another, that was until one day I broke down crying in front of him just from hearing “How have you been doing?” in the most sincere way, not in the small-talk ingenuine way I often hear people ask. Our conversations to come were philosophical, analytical, and full of depth. Among an ocean of colder, disinterested and restrained interactions I had with others, what we had together was the lighthouse in that ocean - bright and warm. The particular way he perceives the world appeals and complements my train of thoughts. It was rare for us to reach to a stopping point in a discussion, but when we did, we thoroughly enjoyed those long pauses and just being in the moment together. We shared the simplest joy with one another, and somehow, they became a deep ocean of memories I could never forget. Other than the way we were, we also had the same experience growing up. We both understood the struggle and fun of learning another language and to use it on a daily basis instead of our own mother tongue. We both recognized the challenges to face with immigration and with building a life starting from almost the bottom in this strange land. Socially, we often get overlooked because we were not the loudest in the room and we might not always get heard with patience and without judgment, but what we did have to say can speak volume at times. To me, our shared cultural connection not only reminds us of where we came from but also strengthens our bond to the motherland despite the far distance. 
I really mourn our relationship. It was quiet, innocent and beautiful. Ever since I moved away to a new city, we still kept in touch and got on calls daily. Distance did not seem to separate us. We could share even the most mundane things with each other and had a good laugh still. We sent pictures of food we made, movies we watched, and stayed on video calls until one of us fell asleep in bed on the other side of the screen. Life was simple and good in its own way, with just us two. Even when I made new friends in the city, I still tried my best to spend time with him. Even when I started dating someone else exclusively, I still wanted to talk to him without much distance, although there were times where I caught myself thinking if I should be doing this. I was questioning boundaries. The friendship we had was so pure and innocent, that I did not know what the right thing to do was. He was the only tangible connection I had left with my own culture and heritage. He was the only one who could understand jokes I made in our mother tongue. I felt more connected and as Vietnamese as ever watching a trendy rap show with him while eating hotpot together during the quarantine period. He was the first person in a long time with whom I felt soulfully naked, yet safe, with. But no, I did not see him in that light. It was a different kind of love. When I thought of him, I felt a sense of longing, an overwhelming admiration, a cozy safe space, and he did too. “Home sweet home,” he often referred me as. 
Sadly, since life took a different course for us, we realized we were too dependent on one another that the idea of having a life outside of us was scary and unfamiliar. One summer day, after a couple days not talking to each other, he sent me a very long message saying that he no longer wanted to continue talking to me. He wasn’t sure if what we had was friendship or something much bigger, but he said hearing me talk about someone else was painful for him. He mourned what we had before and did not want anything else to come in between that. I took it in, and even though it was hard to hear, I knew in my heart it was perhaps the right thing, the healthier thing for us at least, to be apart. He confided in me that I was his weakness, and I acknowledged the same. Achilles’ heels. I found myself often thought of our relationship as two DNA strands binding together. Now I started to see it break in front of my eyes. I tried to appear calm while texting back to him, hiding away tears that had been rolling down my face since the conversation started. I thought of how I always feel so emotionally vulnerable with him, now more than ever, and how he would undoubtedly see through all. There was only so much we could say through texts. I found it hard to put things into words. I have never felt a love that was so deep and impactful, and how I wish I could have reciprocated. That kind of love deserves the world, and I knew I was unworthy of it. Did I love him? I did, and still do, but it is a different love. Can I save this relationship? I can, but that means I have to lie to my heart a little. I don’t want to do a disservice to my heart and to his. It was clear what the answer should be in my head, but I could not bear to hurt him any further. There were million things I wanted to say, but I wrote none. I sit there in silence on my bed, the one that he helped build for me when I first moved here. I saw the desk he put together for me so I could sit and work. I remember the time that I had food poisoning and he spent the whole day making sure my fever went down and that I could eat good food without throwing up. I thought of all the things he ever did for me. Why did it never occurred to me that that was the most selfless love I possibly could receive in this lifetime? I looked around and see his footprints everywhere I turned my eyes to. “Why did you even love me?” I texted. “I only took. When did I do anything for you?” He replied almost instantly, “You don’t have to do anything for me to love you. You were simply you.” We left the conversation open as we both did not know what to say, or rather, we knew but just didn’t want to verbalize it. To say it all was to close the door on all hopes, and I guess slim hope was that comfort we both wanted at the moment. That was the first moment in a long time we were hesitant with each other. We wished each other goodnights like we normally do, but this time, I went to bed with the heaviest heart. 
Like I said, we were each other’s weakness. We still sent quick messages every now and then. We still gave quick updates on life like we used to. I smiled at his accomplishments and he did at mine. One day, we decided that we would continue to be friends and maintained our connection. It seemed like an easy, comfortable solution. We really just didn’t want to fall out of each other’s life. We never got on calls anymore though… Hearing voices made it seem too real and brought up too many things unsaid. We each knew, in our head, that this was not right. We knew this was us being weak. The procrastination to face the truth simply seemed so comfortable of an idea. It wasn’t quite the same, I knew. I could see barriers and walls started building between us. I saw him further than ever, even though he was one text away. Shallow water versus the deepest ocean. Knowing what it could have been and what it was then was immensely painful. 
In the background, life still went on. Before I knew it, my birthday rolled around. I had always been sensitive on my birthday ever since I moved here. Friends were away for Christmas break. It was hard to celebrate by yourself. I missed my birthdays back home. It was always around the perfect time when I was surrounded by friends in class, had birthday cakes, and showered with gifts. I had since felt more alone than ever around this time of the year. This year in particular too because we actually hadn’t talked for a good bit. I guess we were doing good in that sense. Close to my birthday, I received a package in the mailbox. It says that it was from him, sent from Seattle. “Oh I guess he officially moved there now…” I realized and felt disappointed that he didn’t tell me. I opened up the package, and saw a small little jasmine perfume roll-on. It was the exact roll-on I had been wanting to find for the longest time but had given up. It was by a very niche, local European brand. I was gifted the perfume one time by a German friend in college, and I remember mentioning to him that I could not find this brand in the US exactly once a couple years ago. Even I forgot that I used to like it so much. Inside the package, there was a long letter. It was a goodbye letter. I broke down in tears. Seeing his handwriting was the closest connection I had had with him over the past couple months, which felt like years. Trembling with every breath, I read the letter through and through. He said he wanted to celebrate my birthday, but couldn’t now that we were where we were. He wanted to make sure to let me know that he didn’t and would never forget about me. I would always be his “Home sweet home”, even if he might not be mine. He truly loved me, and would fly to me in a heartbeat, “like a stupid, desperate moth to a flame”, he said, the moment I reach out to him again. There were a million things I wanted to say. I wanted to hear his warm, loving voice one last time before we truly ended our connection, whatever it was. I wanted to hug him one last time. I wanted to love him, and perhaps I did. Perhaps it wasn’t enough. But I loved him enough to let him go, to make things easier for us, and to do the right thing by us. So, I texted him one last time, thanking him for the letter and kindness he had shown me. I wanted to face my final fear of losing him, potentially for good. We texted our goodbyes, wishing each other well, and promised each other to stay true to who we were, always. After all, may be there was a version of us somewhere that we rode off into the sunset happily ever after. In this version, we happened to be apart, but we did love each other. We promised to live our best life in our next chapter, even without the other person in it. We came to accept that this could be the ending, but could also be a start of something bigger in store for us. If life meant for us to be together, perhaps that would be our next chance. We decided to never close the door, as we simple were each other’s “Home Sweet Home.” 
This was just six months ago. I haven’t heard from him since. We got on our separate lives, and look back on our story with fondness and heavy heart. I will say that some days are harder than the rest. Sometimes I dream of us, together and happy, like old times. It has been conflicting between encountering glimpses of happiness and instinctively wanting to share that with him, only to realize I should not. I put all our memories inside a little box and put it away. Sometimes, I miss us, open the box, and cry while reminiscing the good times. A scar that is still bleeding if I rub on it. I am doing a better job on not opening the box every so often, but I don’t want to forget about him just yet, or ever. I am funny like that! Sometimes I still see his shadow where I go - next to my car seat, in my apartment, in our favorite restaurant in the city, in the market aisle looking at our favorite ice cream brand,.... I find myself going to those places less and less overtime. All part of the healing process. May be one day I’ll have the courage to face that again. But I am genuinely happy that we did the right thing by us. I am happy that we both get the closure we deserve. I don’t doubt that our lives are still parallel to one another. I am grateful for what we had together and will forever hold it close to my heart. 
Reaching the end of the nearby trail, I check the phone’s clock and it’s already noon! My phone was buzzing from people making different plans. I take the deepest breath for some fresh air, rush back to my apartment and take a good shower. I look at myself in the mirror, and see that my eyes are a little red and puffy. I put some eye drops in to help ease the discomfort, put some clothes and sunscreen on, and head out to brunch with some friends. It was a good Saturday.
 
","August 18, 2023 18:33",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,j4f35o,Fifteen Miles,Jim M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j4f35o/,/short-story/j4f35o/,Adults,0,['Coming of Age'],7 likes,"
Fifteen Miles
by
Jim McMahon
 
    Every day this summer, since the draft notice arrived in June, I’ve been trying with alcohol and drugs to induce amnesia against this moment. But Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News, live from Viet Nam, won’t let me forget.
    “And that’s the way it is,” I mutter.
    “What?” Dad says, and we climb into his red Mazda Pickup. It’s a short distance to Highway 395, and fifteen miles to the airport. Hopefully, we can cover that distance without getting into an argument. It seems like that’s all we’ve done since I got out of high school.     
    Morning sun coming in through the window lays out Dad’s face in harsh relief: the Depression, World War Two, and fifty-three years etched into his skin. Right now, frown lines predominate; probably a sign that he’s concentrating.
    It’s only a mile to the edge of town. Everything not irrigated is either brown or yellow. Dust devils twist their way across the summer-fallow fields, miniature tornados. Visibility is already blurred by heat waves rising from the ground. I’m wondering what the country will be like at Fort Ord.
     “Feels like August, all right,” I say. Weather’s a safe subject. I’d like to ask him what it was like the day he was drafted, but the moment passes.
    Silence makes me nervous, so I turn the radio on. The KUMA Coffee Hour just started, chit-chat about local events. “Mind if I change stations?” I ask. KTIX plays rock and roll.
    “No, go ahead.” He must be distracted. His look reminds me of the time Khrushchev challenged the U. S. with missiles in Cuba, the only time I ever remember seeing him look afraid. I’m damn sure scared, but at least now the waiting’s over.
    KTIX's morning DJ is his usual over-enthused self. “Good morning, Columbia Basin country, it’s another beautiful day! It’s 9:05 and 96 degrees.” Marvin Gaye takes over with “What’s Going On.” 
    The cab of the pickup’s getting hot, so I open the window. Alkali dust, an almost ever-present coating on everything in this country, swirls around the cab of the pickup, leaving a faintly bitter taste in my mouth. “He’s got to be the only person in Eastern Oregon happy about the weather/” I ask. “Think the wheat’s all in?” Agriculture's another safe topic. Dad’s in insurance, and this time of year everyone watches for thunderheads forming over the Blue Mountains. The violent storms they can unleash are capable of ruining a crop in minutes.
    Taking another draw on his cigarette, he thinks for a second. “No, just to the foothills. Dutch Clarke still has two more weeks.” 
    To the southeast, I can see the curving brown and yellow stripes that mark the contours of Dutch’s strip farm, right at the base of the mountains. I got my first pheasant there. Over the ridge behind his farm is a Golden Eagle’s nest. Someone not raised in this near-desert probably wouldn’t believe how many creatures make their livings and dyings on those barren-looking hillsides. 
    “Get one of those?” I ask, pointing at the pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on the dashboard. Cigarettes are a habit I picked up with the induction notice. With a movement natural to someone who’s done it for years, Dad shakes the pack, and just one cigarette pops out of the opening. He pushes in the lighter.
    “Can’t be too many more days like this before we at least get a dust storm,” I say, and light my cigarette. The heat will eventually brew up a storm, and there usually isn’t enough moisture for rain, so what happens is wind: wind, dirt, and tumbleweeds.
    “It would at least cool things down some. Look!” Dad’s pointing off to the right, where a small section of a recently harvested wheat field abuts the road. Two chiney roosters duck their heads and disappear into the stubble. 
    I look without success for more birds, then say, “Not many birds this year--Oh, did I tell you Jim Roy and I snuck up on a family of beaver? We must’ve watched them for twenty minutes.”  
    “No. Where at?” Dad replies, looking genuinely interested.
    “Butter Creek, about a mile above the Middle Ranch. Got so wrapped up watching them, we forgot to fish.”  
    “When’s he head back to school?” Jim will be a junior at the University of Oregon. We’d graduated together from high school, and had been roommates at college. I’d be going back there too, if I’d ‘applied myself,’ as Dad put it. But partying was more fun than studying, and I’d lost my college deferment after flunking out.
    “Another month or so. Cripes, that’s enough of that noise.” Gilbert O’Sullivan’s song about suicide contemplation, “Alone Again, Naturally”, isn't something I care to hear. I turn the radio off.   
    The warmth of the sun coming in through the open window, Dad and I together, no hassles, reminds me of Sunday rides. Every week we’d jump in the pickup and drive the country roads, competing to see who’d spot the first game animal, enjoying each other’s company. I look over and smile. Cripes, when was the last time I did that? I think. He doesn’t notice.
    There’s a fence-line that reminds me of a funny story, but Dad wouldn’t appreciate it. He probably wouldn’t see what was so funny about blowing pot smoke through a goose call. Got so high I didn’t notice the geese answering my call until they’d already flown over my head, out of shotgun range.
    As we pass the top of the dam and head down McKay Hill Grade, I put out my cigarette in the ashtray. Jerry Pickerd, two of the Thorne girls, and I had a party there last weekend. We sat in his ‘59 Ford, close to the water, drank beer, smoked pot, and laughed away the night at the honking of the geese, and the loud quacking of the ducks, especially the mallard hens. We'd necked some, but not very seriously. 
   “I’m glad you decided to get your hair cut before leaving,” Dad says.
    Yesterday morning I'd gone to the barber shop as soon as it opened and got my first haircut in two years, since going away to college. I don’t tell him the real reason: there's no way any Army barber's going to have the pleasure of cutting off my hair.
    At the airport It takes ten minutes to see my small bag through check-in. “Well, this is it. Only an hour until the flight leaves,” I try to say as casually as describing the weather.
    “You're ready? Got your ticket and orders?” Dad says. He's waited for me in the bar. I wonder if he managed to snag a quick drink. I could sure use one.
    “As I’ll ever be. Look, you don’t have to wait here until the flight leaves. I’ve got a book.” 
    “You sure? I don’t mind the wait.” Dad stubs his cigarette in an airport ashtray. 
    “Yeah, I’m going to be a basket case. I won’t be very good company. Too many nerves.” 
    “I do have some things to do in town before going back to Pilot Rock.” The hug is awkward, not just because I’m four inches taller, but also because it’s been a long time since we tried it. After the embrace Dad says, “Keep your head down, and your powder dry, fella. We love you.” 
    “I love you, Dad.” We shake hands and he walks away. 
    From the large picture window facing the parking lot, I watch him walk to his pickup. He opens the door, reaches under the seat, and pulls out a paper bag with what I know to be a pint of Popov vodka. He takes a couple of quick drinks, puts the bottle back under the seat, and heads back to the terminal. 
    ""Been here all along?” He asks, meaning, did you see me sneak that drink? 
    ""No, I just sat down to get a last look at those hills. It'll be a while before I see them again.”    
    ""That's why I came back in. It'll be a while before I get to see you again.” 
    ""I'm glad you did.” 
    Dad doesn’t say anything after that ,and neither do I. We just sit there, staring at those hills, until it’s time to board my flight. 
End
 
","August 14, 2023 23:04",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,dmkm9l,The Riverbed,Ian T. Smyth,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dmkm9l/,/short-story/dmkm9l/,Adults,0,"['Romance', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
	To end all suffering is the primary directive of life, insofar that suffering can be ended, but I, a stern believer in the hope of mankind, believe it can, and should be.
	To end all suffering is to cease fighting the losing battle with which the Self wages, to dis-identify from identity itself, to let go the ego, to surrender and give in to the all consuming and all powerful force of love, and to know deeply in one’s heart that violence and corruption and verisimilitude are as futile as a cloud hanging forever in the sky.
	It is with these thoughts that I carry myself and stroll down the earthy, cobblestone path by the river, watching the ducks wade through the murky water and dip below the surface every now and then to pluck out some weed or critter and gobble it down. 
	It is with these thoughts that I, a man approaching his thirtieth year, sit down on a bench opposite the river and crack open an old, weathered book gifted to me by my mother, and begin to read from where I left off.
	And, it is with these thoughts that I read distractedly, taking in the words and phrases and sentences and yet not taking them in as well; my eyes floating over the letters as one scans the price tags in the supermarket, reading but not reading, seeing but not seeing, and I, disgruntled by this calamity of the situation of my mind, decide to put the book down, and take in the sights and sounds of the park instead.  
	It is at this moment that two lovers walk by, hands held in matrimony; the man says one thing and the woman laughs heartily and fully, closing her eyes and throwing her head back. And it is here, in this moment, that I feel a pang in my chest and a drowning of my good mood, for it reminds me of my failure with Anna and the falling out with which tore us apart. 
	It has been four years now, but the falling out feels just as raw as it did the days after it occurred; the words I spoke to her, so venomous and evil, haunt me as a ghoul haunts a man. To reconcile would be everything; to stay apart is torture. But it is I who spoke those words and spat that venom and conjured that evil, and it is I who must sit with them, on this bench, on this fine, sunny day by the riverbed. 
	Oh! If I could only rescind that which was spoken, if I could only rewind that which as ticked and tocked; if I could step into a time machine and kill my old self and assume the role of a man who knows not to hurt the one he loves. But it is suffering that brought me there, and it is suffering that keeps me here now, and it is suffering that I inflicted upon her dear soul.
	To be the cause of one’s misfortunate is one thing, but to cause the misfortune of another is something else entirely. And so, I sit here with these thoughts, staring at the ripples in the river and the indifference with which nature imposes on Herself. 
	And that’s when I spot here, shocked and elated, my dearest, my love, strolling by the opposite side of the creek, heading towards the bridge which brings her to my side of the cobblestone. And I know this is providence, divine intervention, and a single chance at lasting peace amid the dark currents and waves of oceanic indifference. 
	I get up from the bench, not daring to take my eyes off her, and I begin walking slowly in her direction, to assume the role of a man who is not knowing where he is going or why, so should our imminent meeting assume the role of accidentalness. 
	I stare down at her feet, shuffling towards me, her eyes on the river, and as we come near to one another, I say: “Anna…”, and she turns her head and her eyes go wide as my gaze meets hers, and I can see that she’s moved, for tears have sprung to life in the wells of her pupils, but that gaze then turns to stony coldness, and I see that my position has been made clear.
	“Oh, it’s you,” she says, dryly. 
	Not knowing what to say, I say everything.
	“It’s me,” I reply, after a moment too long.
	She crosses her arms, but at least she has not left.
	“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said.
	Tears spring to life in my eyes. “I can’t—I’m not…” I stammer.
	“Not what?” She asks.
	“Not what you needed me to be.”
	She laughs, head thrown back just as the woman who walked by the bench did minutes ago. “That’s for sure.”
	“Anna…” I start.
	“What?” She says coldly.
	“I wish I could take it back.”
	“Well, you can’t.”
	I feel desperation rising in me. This is it. This is the moment with which our paths either cross or separate forever. I get down on my knees, and pray.
	“What are you doing?” She whispers in an icy tone. “You’re embarrassing me.”
	And I start to bawl, because I know nothing I say, nothing I do, can erase that which I said, and so I am in service to her, in this moment, totally and completely surrendered, wishing my suffering — and hers — to not go on any longer.
	“You trusted me, and I failed you.” I stammer through my sobs.
	And it is here that she pauses a moment, and her hands swing down, no longer crossed over her chest.
	“Hey…hey!” She says, pulling me back up to my feet. “Stop it!” She says, though she is biting back the tears. “Its over,” she says, but her eyes betray her, as does her lips which quiver, and her ears which have turned quite red. 
	“I know it’s over, but I can’t stop the pain,” I say.
	“You’re just going to have to get on.”
	“What can I say that will change things?”
	“Nothing.”
	“Nothing? Truly?”
	She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
	I regain my composure, and look at the river, flowing gently and softly. A calmness comes over me. The pain is there, but the suffering, which is prolonged pain, has ceased its grasp on my heart. Here is definite proof, an ending, which changes something within me; no longer am I slave to the past, but an heir to the future, a proponent of the present. I close my eyes, and pray again, this time silently.
	“I understand,” I say, finally.
	“Thank you,” she whispers.
	I hold out my hand, and we shake, reconciled, but not together.
	That was the last time I’d see her, even though I’d still come to the riverbed, for the creek is beautiful, just like her. I lost the battle, but in my surrender, the suffering ceased to be, like the river, which flows on endlessly. 
","August 11, 2023 16:36",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,97zbsh,This Empty-Eyed Town,Chloe McCaskill,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/97zbsh/,/short-story/97zbsh/,Adults,0,"['Romance', 'Sad', 'Teens & Young Adult']",7 likes,"
	It was dusk when he began to walk. The moon hovered near the treeline almost hidden by the thick brush that lined the two sides of the street. The street lights were flickering. A nasty orange huge washed the empty road, and still, he walked. Head down, one foot in front of the other. His shoes were so terribly worn down, holes grew in the soles. The laces were fraying. They had once been white, now a dirty brown-grayish color. But it was the only pair he had. He tried not to let the patheticness of the situation seep into him too much. 
	Nighttime was the only time he could meet her. She hadn't given a reason for that. Nico assumed it was due to strict parents, though he had never met her parents, nor any of her family. He tried to shove it out of his mind, how little she let him know her. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. It was an ache, how he knew internally and relentlessly that he didn’t deserve any of what she had, they had. Or at least they did. She hadn't spoken to him for days, he pushed the thought far from his mind. 
	It was a winding half-hour's walk to Finley's house from his own. They lived in a desolate town. Broken street lights between empty parking lots. He thought about her as he walked. There wasn't much else to do. He had memorized these roads. No one drove past him. Not one. He heard no laughing, no music, no talking. The streets stayed as dead silent as potholes and the dirty old benches. It was plain to see that the people in this town were as empty as the  bare space around him. 
	But she was different. She was loud, her laugh untamable. It was as if this place hadn't touched her. She hadn’t minded his messiness, she hadn’t minded that he seemed to be ten steps behind everyone else. She hadn't… until five days ago when he had asked to meet her father, when he had implied the word “love.” Their constant texting and calling had stopped dramatically. She had barely looked him in the eye. 
	He sighed, and put his left foot forward. There was nowhere else to go anyway. He hopelessly wanted to see her, to fix whatever he had done wrong. 
	It wasn't too much later when he finally rounded another corner and saw her house. Deep underneath his ribs, he felt something flutter. But, head down again, he continued walking, trying not to let his shoulders cave in. His bravado fading.
	He could hear muffled talking inside, laughing too. The air around the house seemed to pause despite the growing winds.  The glass windows emitted a warm light. He heard sounds of chairs scooting across what sounded like wooden floors. The wind whistled around the house, brushing his hair gently. 
	His hand reached into his pocket, gently tugging his phone loose. His fingers nervously twitched over the keys. He hit send and loosed a breath.
 I’m here. It read. 
	He heard a chair scrape the floor, and a faint echo of footsteps. The door opened softly, noiselessly, and there she was.
	Finley was beautiful, but it was hardly that simple. Fin was the moon herself, water, and waves, Finley was poetry and all the good things in the world. The wind brushed her soft black hair into her eyes, and with small hands, she tucked it behind her ears. Nico looked down at her and smiled, until she frowned and began to speak.
	“What the hell are you doing here Nico? This is ridiculous, I can't see you here,” she whispered in a quiet voice, but not a soft one. Nico blinked, caught off guard.
	“I missed you. You- I-” he stumbled over his words, “you haven't talked to me in days Fin.”
	“My family cannot see you.“ She stressed the word. Tucking her hands deep into the pockets of a jacket she had stolen from him months ago. 
	“Why not.” He pried, not sure if he wanted to know the reason. 
	“You know why.” Her face grew hard. 
	“No. I don't.” Nico pressed. 
	“I mean-” she threw her arms up in the air, the wind picked up covering their voices and so she raised hers a bit. “Look at you. You’re not exactly the guy they’d want me to date.” Fin looked to him for understanding, for the compassion he always gave. 
	Nico broke eye contact and looked downwards. She went on, now desperate to make him understand.
	“You don’t have good grades or hygiene and you’re not exactly a rule follower, you’re, how do I say this? You’re a lot, Nic.” He stared at his shoes, willing them to be cleaner, willing his shirt to be less wrinkled, he ran a hand through his hair. Trying to tame the curls. 
	“I’m too much. Is that it?” the words were barely audible, swept away in the heavy wind. He waited for her answer.
	“Everyone thinks you’re not good for me.”
	He heaved a breath. Trying to stop himself, but his anger did not yield to any master. His words came out as a yell. “So that's why you haven’t talked to me? Why haven't you even looked at me? I didn’t do anything wrong, you just don’t like me? You don’t get to do that Fin. You don’t get to just hurt someone like that.” He turned away. He could hear her speaking to him, calling. 
	“No, Nic-” but she didn't dare speak louder than the wind, she didn’t dare to let her parents overhear. and on this empty street, so far from home, that was all that mattered. 
	So he left. He headed for the road that led him furthest away. His eyes brimming with tears that he tried to ignore. Swiping at them with the back of his palm. They were warm on his skin.
	He didn't know at what point he began to run, racing the moon or perhaps the beating of his heart. Nico outran every bad thought, his shoes broke open on the potholes, broken glass from alcoholics and cigarette butts lined the streets. For such a small town there were so many unhappy people. There were so many people barely alive. 
	He thought of his shoes and his hair, of his cowardice, and then he tried not to think. His breath came faster. his skin burned despite the chill. There was no outrunning these things. He hated knowing where he was, but in this small town, there was no out. There was no outrunning anything. Not these streets he had known his whole life. 
	Nico ran past he road where he had learned to ride a bike, where he had fallen and needed stitches as a child. He did not know why it made him so sad, or maybe he did. He would never escape this place.
	He slowed to a walk after a couple of miles. The moon watched him sadly, hiding behind low clouds. The sky was so dark it didn't even seem to be there. But it was somewhat fitting, to be in a void. Nico knew he didn’t belong in the world. He wasn't good enough a fact that went far beyond physicality. At some point on the endless road that went nowhere, he stopped and asked himself the only question in his mind. 
	“What is wrong with you?” The words quivered on his lips. He folded himself into a sitting position on the road, the gray asphalt not a welcoming host. Small rocks bit into his hands. Nico's eyes burned with shame. 
	He thought of his mother, his father, and the brother he once had. The reality of being unwanted, unloved. Nico was not easy to love, no matter his efforts. The truth was he was not smart, he was not handsome, he was average, and the holes in his clothes did not help. He cursed himself. He cursed his father, his mother, and all the flaws that wouldn't leave him. 
	The blue light of his phone blinked on. He watched emptily as the phone rang. Once. twice. He didn't move, his lungs stayed still. He ignored the 9 missed calls. 
	Nico didn’t move for a long long time. 
	It was late when he had sat down, it was even later when he surrendered himself to the road. A solid surface beneath him was far too tempting. Lying on the road, the sky was no longer a void, it was filled with galaxies, stars, and planets. It was filled with small lights promising false hope. In his pathetic smallness, he reached a hand up, maybe to scoop them up, maybe to hold on to something good for once. His hand was visible by the blinking light of a far away run-down lamp post. In the yellow light, his eyes picked out small scars at the bases of his fingers, a worthless reminder of the anger he had faced all his life. Punching walls did not make him more worthy. Punching walls did not make him loveable.
	Nico turned his hand, studying it. He looked at the picked skin and the bitten fingernails, all the evidence one should need to disregard him. He looked at the softness of his skin and his callouses. His outstretched hand reached for galaxies, for anything more than this. Anything at all. 
	He lay on the road for far too long. His body began to shiver, to shake. Cold seeped into his very bones, it made a home in his ribs, his stomach, his lungs. It clung to him as no one else had. The wasteland around him was silent. He got up and began to walk again. It registered somewhere deep in his mind it was a long walk home, and even deeper, he did not know where home was, not really. Not the kind with warmth and laughing and love. Not that it mattered, not that it was an option.
	He walked and the moon watched him, for miles.
	After a long time, Nico heard a distant car engine. He watched as headlights crested over the small hill, painting the road with color. Nico blinked rapidly, eyes not ready to adjust. He stepped into the other lane, out of the way of the driver, put his head down, and kept walking. The car passed him and swung back around. The lights skidded over him and then stood fixed on him like some sort of prey. A car door opened and slammed shut again. His feet continued forward, or backward, he didn't know.
	“Nico?” a small voice called. He turned slowly. There she stood. Hanging out of a car door. When their eyes met she exhaled, he watched the way her shoulders dropped. She began to run towards him, but Nico stumbled backward a few steps, and with a sad face, she stopped. 
	“What are you doing,” he called. He wanted to yell, but he didn’t. 
	“I was so worried about you-” she was crying voice breaking “you weren’t at home and you didn't answer and I-”
	“Finley.” He tried to stop her, but it did no such thing
	“No. Nico. I need to say this. I have treated you so horribly and I know it and I hate myself for it. I want to be so much better. I was terrified of my parents, of my family. But I do not care what they think anymore Nic, I do not care-”
	“Finley,”
	“-I get it you’re angry with me, but I want to be with you. Nic, I think I love-”
	“Finley stop it! You don't love me!” He surprised himself with his outburst. But he could not stop. He could not watch this girl give herself up for someone as lowly as him. “You do not love me.” He spoke calmer this time, more assured. She looked like she might cry. “There is nothing in me to love, and you know that. Its why you’ve been avoiding me. I get it, Fin. I understand. You don't have to pretend for me. I will be just fine-” his voice cracked open and he shut his throat, swallowing down something terrifyingly big. 
	“I am never going to be what you want. I am dumb and I am dirty and I am ugly-” his voice broke again and she stepped forward, taking his face in her hands. He flinched.
	Nico had never been so vulnerable, so afraid. He shook beneath her touch.
	“You are not ugly.” She said with more confidence than he had heard in her entire life. “I think you might be the most beautiful person I have ever met. I said those things because- well- you aren't normal. But I don't want 'normal'. I do not want another empty-eyed boy telling me I am hot.” She almost spit out the word, “Sometimes I feel you are the only real person on this entire earth. The only person alive in this damned town.”
	He took in a shaky breath, and she continued, “I want to try this. I was being an idiot. I was afraid, I am afraid that I will mess something up, that I will hurt you. I am afraid that my parents won't like you, that they won’t understand that you might be the most important person to ever live-”
	“-I am not important-” he cut in.
	“You are to me.”
	Nico felt like his ribs might break, for how constricted they were in his chest, he barely breathed. She kept going, “I do not care if you are bad at math. I want to be with you. Please let us try this. Please.” Fin begged before him.
	Nico sniffled against the tears in his eyes. Even in his blurry gaze, she was worth more than all of those galaxies. 
	“Look, I even brought my dad to help me find you, because I am ready! I am so ready to do this! To be us. Please.” She looked at him, persistent, in love, she reached out and took his hands from him. She held them gently between them. Nic's eyes flickered to a man hanging out of the other side of the car. Their gaze met for a moment, and despite his lack of everything, of smarts or looks, Fin’s father nodded at him. 
	Nico looked back at Finley. His hands rested in hers. His cold, dirty hands. She did not mind. She did not pull away.
	“I am not good enough for you,” he said quietly, almost matter-of-factly. She brought his cold hands to her face. The same scar-stained, childish hands, and she kissed them with soft lips. 
	Nico's stomach dropped. His entire body almost gave way. Something burned in his throat, in his chest. It spread throughout him, melting.
	“I do not care, I love you.” She spoke with more conviction than he had ever witnessed, more than any preacher he had ever heard. Her eyes were black in the night. They were wide and open and looking at him, seeing him. Finley saw him and was not afraid. She did not turn away. 
	“I think I love you too,” he breathed. Someone finally loved him. Finley loved him.
	“Let me take you home. Let me fix this. Let me fix us."" She whispered. 
	Something broke inside of him then. His hands no longer felt so cold, his scars did not feel so ugly. In the dark, on a barren street, in an empty-eyed town, in the arms of a girl who loved him, Nico's body caved open.
","August 15, 2023 19:48","[[{'J. D. Lair': 'Aw, so glad for a happy ending. :) I love when the outcast finds worth. Well done!', 'time': '20:02 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,pj8btk,Lay of the Land,Luke Mcmenamin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pj8btk/,/short-story/pj8btk/,Adults,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
MARGARET HIGGINS, In Seventy-three years, only finds one thing about her life in order; her front garden. The horticultural anomaly in her otherwise grey and drab estate. It stands as anedifice to her time in Ireland, which was all her time. She thinks of it as her beautifulIrish garden. Others have to look at her unmatched gardening skill with deference, and wonder at the masterful person responsible for it. On the corner of a pale-grey Tjunction, bending around its oval turn, her garden plateaus out like the midland planes. Hugging the back wall, a teenage pair hang their heads over her door. On the left; an apple blossom, his partner and accomplice, a cherry blossom on the right. Occasionally they grind up against each other before she trims them back every July.The body of her garden takes shape as an island of well-kept grass that meets flower beds at its encircled shores. Seeing the variegated petunias, cushioned by lavender crowns, emerge from the mulch gives Margaret prideful pleasure; they are like advertisements to a business owner. They grow as they are supposed to. They look as they are supposed to. People think of them how they are supposed to. Every year on the approach to winter, Margaret watches with a copious degree of trepidation as the crusty frost threatens her pride. This garden is the most pressing issue in her life.When spring comes about, she’s into field medic mode. Beige satchel flapping at herhip, assessing the damage, tending to the sickly, putting those that won’t make it out of their misery. Circle of life, she thinks while ripping up her lovely lost soldiers, and just because summer spreads a cumbersome arm around the air, doesn’t mean she can’t be on the lookout. Her lack of a wall exposes her garden,neighbourhood kids run around like they don’t know if their next foot will keep themupright. They’re liable to do just about anything out of distilled stupidity or cloudedmalice.ONE LAZY AFTERNOON, as the sun ran its light through her blood-red mosaic pathway, she spots one of the boys who lives a few doors up. He flies off his bike and into her garden, crushing crowns of flowers, sending waves of mulch onto her grass.“You stupid boy” she hisses from the window with the same unforgiving malice she reserves for lazy shop assistants or absent-minded bank clerks. The boy’s winded and thinks the old lady might be coming to check on him but he quickly realises the tune of her shouts, his arms are etched with what lookslike multiple wakes from speedboats, in this instant, he seeds a deep anger for thewoman. “That bitch on the corner”, he’ll swear to his father for the first and last time. His Dad drives more wakes down his back and across his face. No one at school asks about his scars; his teachers avoid his hand, open palm like a daisy in the air; invisible. The boy apologises to Margaret the next day, she’s too concerned about repairs to notice his bruises, or maybe she did and just didn’t care.MARGARET’S ONLY FRIEND is a woman a called Mary. A soft-spoken religious girl whose husband left her with a house, four daughters, two granddaughters and a secret family in Meath. Margaret didn’t know what the other wife was to Mary, she didn’t ask. Mary doesn’t want to breach that topic. It looked as if there were going to be two funerals. Both wives blamed each other for this sacrilegious taboo. But better, calmer heads prevailed. Theyburnt his body with a few of his numerous children present, to confirm he hadn’tlied about dying too. None shed a tear.Despite their constant visits, Margaret didn’t much like Mary; she was self-righteous, full of notions and ravenous for gossip. On the short walk to see Mary, Margaret ritually tallies herself against her friend, looking for something to justify herself, something that dwarfs Mary and pulls Margaret on top. Mary's house is more spacious than Margaret's. It speaks of a time gone by. Mary’s marriage, despite its circumstances, had been better than nothing, but her garden was a shambles. Mary knew it, Margaret knew it, and she guessed the whole neighbourhood knew it. Mary had tried to copy Margaret's petunias. She had failed to put the right amount of fertiliser down and neglected to water them once a week, ultimately, the flowers withered. Margaret was flooded with smug happiness that winter. The two speak at greatlengths about their gardens, the goings-on in the neighbourhood, and Marys favourite topic; The Church.“Oh, it’s very odd now”“That’s right, not in our day”Mary’s Granddaughter had recently ‘come out’. Margaret didn’t know why she had to, regardless, the two tut in bewilderment at the latest news of her activities and revelations. ‘Coming out’ seems to be a new invention, despite the fact that over her long and arduous life, before the house, settlement and garden, Margaret had ‘come out’ many times, even if Margaret refused to connect the two circumstances. She knew more than anyone the behemoth task of wading up the rapids of public shame, trying to stay steadfast while everything around does its best to knock you down and sand your edges, all to make you flow in their direction. But the tide changed for her. She was lucky, even if she failed to fully recognise it. She didn’t talk much about all that with Mary. She didn’t think much about it either. No, she didn’t think of that at all.SABOTAGE. That was the only word for it, brazen, evil sabotage. Pure jealousy, of her beautiful garden. Was it Mary? Some other neighbour or vandal from.....wherever they come from. Her Petunias were decapitated in the night,and just after surviving another winter too.“Have you called the Guards?” Mary asks, exchanging any information for a cup of tea. “God help you, Margaret, God help you”“Oh fuck off with your God, Mary. He’s no better than your two-timing husband”Mary lays the steaming cup on her table. Turn the other cheek, the good book says,so she would, like she always did for this spiteful woman. She picked the cup up and left the insult behind.“What about that young fella? he couldn’t stay upright on his feet, let alone on a bicycle”Margaret doesn’t feel the need to apologise. The outburst is swept under the rug,typical.MARGARET KNOWS WHERE THE BOY WHO CRASHED INTO HER GARDEN MONTHS AGO LIVES. His father, Jerry Murphy, answers the door.He moved in about a decade ago with his wife. The wife quit a few years later. Afterthat, Margaret saw her car arrive and alight with ever-dwindling frequency. She findsout the young boy's name is Jack. What is he, sixteen? He should be leaving home soon and getting a job. Jerry listens to her explain how she suspects his son of purposelycrashing his bike into her Garden, and now she suspects him of striking again.       The robust man nods insularly as if deep in contemplation. When she finishes, Jerry looks at his son. Jack cowers under his dad's commanding presence, eyes glued to the floor. Ever since the old woman screamed at him Jack hasn’t been able to pass by that perfect, stupid, fake garden without battling revenge fantasies. The womanknows it was him; despite having no evidence, his Dad wants it to be him in order toexert his karmic discipline. He figures he’s caught this time. He’ll have to take the victory for the brief time he got away with it and assume solace in the victories to come. He smirks......”I’m really sorry”Margaret can’t believe his cheek. unforgivable. Jerry picks up on this immediately. A man who learnt to take a hit from his own father, he'd spent his entire life trudging from one confrontation to the next, he knew when a sincereapology leaked from a defeated opponent's mouth, or when it was spoken to bespared the cane. This wasn’t even a good attempt at the former. His fist coming down on the table injects a lively static into the kitchen. The vitriol he spews towardshis son resonates in Margaret. Something about this dynamic scares her, authority and subject. This isn’t like her own tirades. She can see the venom in his shouts. She shakes the feeling away. Jack's black hole subsumes the words. Jerry ceremoniously apologises for his outburst. Jack quivers as his oscillating voice pushes out another apology from fear more than regret.HER GARDEN RECOVERS QUICKLY. It forgets the tragedy that befell it afew months ago as it incubates a new colour show. Depending on her mood, she either peers or stares at Jack whenever he passes. Margaret is sometimes convinced he’s up to something again, plotting to ruin her garden anew. Her garden looks beautiful, but it’s become her theory that the land underneath grew sour atsome point after her birth and will grow twisted trees or flower heads mildewed withrot if left unattended.TESTOSTERONE HITS JACK LIKE AN EIGHTEEN-WHEELER. His once slightarms bulk out like sacks stuffed with corn. His chest balloons, and balls drop. Hair,fucking hair, everywhere. He still harbours a great deal of spite for the old woman onthe corner. Jack stops going to school. He notices how the bruises he inflicts now aremore punishing than those he shows. He spends his time smoking and walking around his estate. He throws cigarette butts into the old bitches garden whenever he gets the opportunity. This garden is an affront, outwardly prettyand pristine, hiding a fucking witch behind it. That was the truth of most things, aninsight Jack has acquired all by himself. Behind everything, there’s dirty, decrepit filth, full to just under the overflow line. Her garden is no different. It’s PR, propaganda. Around this time, Jack's old man shuts up too. No more slices down his arms.One afternoon his dad returned home from work in his usual stupor, pissed offabout something or another Jack had forgotten to do, but in reality, was probablynever even asked of him in the first place. Forgetting himself, Jack’s father slides the belt out from his trousers and clasps it over itself, buckle front-facing. This is what Jack has been waiting for. He dreams of this moment, of grabbing the buckle and lacing his father's chest with his own lines. The buckle comes down repeatedly on the old man's body; each strike seems to stream anger out of Jack, as if from themovements themselves, something leaked, something that was vicious and blockedfor so long. He felt relieved afterwards, it was all gone, he could breathe, but it didn’ttake long to build back up again. If there was a question before, there was none now.The two men understand each other. When his father wakes the next day, bruisedand scraped, head sputtering, Jack detects an apology in the acknowledgement of the old lion's demise, and the rise of the new.MARY DIED. Another point to Margaret, she supposes. Finally, they’re even.She might have married and might have HAD a better house, but Margaret still hadthe garden and was now sitting in a pew at Mary’s funeral. Her Daughters andGrandchildren show up along with Mary's entire measly Sunday congregation.Margaret doesn’t know why she thought the estranged other family might appear, she’s disappointed.That was the last bit of gossip Mary and her would share.After the funeral, the Grandchildren invite her back to Marys house. The living room smells of peat and wet grass. The house's contours don’t mirror those of Margaret's youth, but the smell brings her back. She remembered how her curled golden hair fought with the constant wind, the smiles from figures in the distance walking lonely fields. She had so much promise and hope back then. The family tell stories of Mary, no doubt special to them, but only special because someone they knew is the protagonist or at least a supporting character.The one who had come out sings a lovely baritone solo. In the reflective moments between her breaths, Margaret feels a piece stolen from her. Something taken, not Mary, but the feeling that she might have had all this. If something hadn’t failed her. This land. She cries for the first time in years, not for Mary like all those around her think, she cries uncontrollably about the things she didn’t dare talk about. The details she accepted she'd be judged upon, they boil up in the arms of the one who had ‘come out’. The English Prince who wandered into her small Donegal town, the missed periods, her father's stoic rationalism, the laundry that shouted her down, like Jerry to Jack, the birth, the priest, the nuns, the loss; drawn out like spindles of yarn, pregnant with the sins of a nation, now overgrown, the runoff of the life she never lived. Together, she and the one who came out fought the tears.“There, there, she’s in a better place now”Margaret had wanted to stay in contact with the family but didn’t want to intrude.They went back to their lives, and she to hers. They might talk about her from time to time “Sure, do you remember the one who cried back at Granny Mary's house, poor pet ” She would be an afterthought to Mary, that stung her. The acrid pain mixed with her newfound silence prompts questions, like ones she hears in the melodramatics of daytime T.V. More and more things long ago crystallise, melt, and then bubble.She changes her theory on the land underneath her garden the more she allows herself to recall: This land was always evil no matter how she triedto order it. No matter who tries to prune and shape it, it will always be evil.HER GARDEN PRESENTS ITS BEST FACE FORWARD, as she always wanted it to do. But her pride begins to wane; the only thing in her life that’s in order. How could that be? For the first time, she looks at the bushels of flowers, they’re hemming her in. The trees pressed up against one another are blocking her exit. Her pride and joy are a mask. The only thing in her entire life that is in order. Whose order? Certainly not hers, certainly not her ‘taken’ baby.                                She could have sat on the lawn in her garden with a husband and family, who came out, or in, as whatever. She doesn’t notice as she tears the geraniums up; as she spreads the oak-coloured mulch and purple, yellow, and red flower heads all over her perfectly manicured lawn. Neither does she notice Jack, watching from across the street, his hulking mass relaxed behind a plume of cigarette smoke.“Margaret?” This is the first time someone has said her name in months. Shelooks up,“Oh fuck off, Jack”, she screams. Margaret lets the excess energy she feelsdissipate. She nearly keels over with exhaustion. The hulking boy crosses the threshold to her lawn. His eyes are busy as he takes drags, long drags. When he’s finished, he flicks the cigarette onto the lawn, meticulously placing his shoe over it and shimmying the ashes into her grass. Is this a slight to her or her garden?""I said fuck off"", Margaret wheezes. Still nothing from the boy.“You know when I did that, yeah?” Jack nods towards the ripped flower bed,“When I did that, my dad beat me because of you” Jack's anger rests between his eyes. Margaret has seen this look before. Priests and Nuns have a similar look only theirs were never quite this raw; instead, backed by something she supposed they thought was a higher power, but Margaret knew to be just plain old delusion.Margaret wants to rip him up like he undoubtedly wants to do to her but what use would that be? One person, one priest, one dead wronged wife, one coming out girl, one asshole dad, one sad old hermit on the corner, they were all victims of something, something that extended its hand far beyond either of their visions. But she knew it was there, a tradition of concealment, false smiles that govern everyone, this had leaked into Margaret at some stage. She hated all around her for not getting that. How could they? They didn’t know what Margaret and Jack endured. She took that hatred out on them, on whoever assumed she was fine, that her life had been in order like theirs. They didn’t need to shape their gardens. Now Jack would do the same, lash out as she did at the garden she tried so desperately to make ordered and pretty.Jack takes a step closer, his presence broad, like a tank billowing towards her intent on harm.“This garden is a fucking bitch”, she says. Jack lets out a gust of air and a smile. “I’m sorry that your dad is an asshole. I’ve known a fair few myself. I knew your da was one of them, but even at my age, I ..” she finds herself speaking without knowing where the sentence might lead her. She cuts herself off when she realises …” prefer not to see it” Jack is taken aback. He understands the old woman now, perhaps more than she does.Margaret sees something in him, something Jack sees in turn within her. The garden is torn asunder; beneath it are wounded animals limping forward, heads stretching outright, refusing to acknowledge injury. To do so would be to accept the reality of things far greater.“ I’m sorry for messing up yer garden,” the wake-ridden boy shines ephemerally.Her ghostly tendrils of once-golden hair hold their own structure. “It’s not yourfault Jack,” she whispers “It's not your fault”.END
","August 15, 2023 22:52",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,6w9r9f,Sweetest revenge ,Cait Hawes,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6w9r9f/,/short-story/6w9r9f/,Adults,0,"['Mystery', 'Romance', 'Christmas']",6 likes,"
Another chilly day rolled into town, the fairies stayed curled up in their flower homes, smoke rising slowly from the mountaintops where the dragons kept their caverns warm. 
Lillies favorite thing to do each day was spend as long as she could staring out the window watching all the creatures and people on the street get cozy. She looked forward to one particular couple the most, they were sweet and old and incredibly in love. It warmed Lillies heart more than a dragon fire could. 
Each day the two would walk together hand in hand until they reached the bench across the street from Lillie. She got to watch as the coffee shop next door brought them out their pixie dust lattes and how they sat and drank, and laughed, or reminisced, or sometimes stayed in comfortable silence. 
as each day grew colder they drew closer together for warmth. 
The previous day Lillie watched the man sneakily throw a snowball at his wife and they both laughed and laughed until their coffees grew cold. Lillie was excited to see them again today and maybe they’ll start a whole snowball fight. The man arrived, on his own for the first time ever, which confused Lillie because she couldn’t hear what he told the barista on why he’s alone today. She wasn’t worried too much because he seemed happy and in good spirits, and took two coffees to go. 
Lillie searched the park for someone else to watch this morning and no one was nearly as interesting or sweet as the elderly couple, so after a while she decided she would head downstairs for breakfast. 
She couldn’t help but check the kitchen window if anyone else would stop by the park, maybe the Mailmaid would have a delivery on this side of town and she would see her swim up the channel to drop off the letters in the large box by the bridge. 
She chewed her toast thinking about all the things she might do today, her friends were snowboarding and invited her but Lillies mind was still on why that lady wasn’t with her husband today. Lillie had always fancied detective stories, maybe she would stay home and read a bit, and think about what a detective in her story might do, and tomorrow she’ll see them both together again. 
By lunch Time she realised she couldn’t think of what her favorite detectives would do, because they always have more information. Her curiosity ate away at her all day until she couldn’t take it anymore and thought she might do some investigating for herself. 
All she knew at the moment was the direction they came from and that one morning she saw them with a purple letter, colour coded to match their letterbox for easy distribution. There were several streets down the way they came from and she walked down each one seeing which have purple letterboxes. She saw three that were a similar shade, so without the letter for herself to compare, she decided to see the people the lived in the houses. It was about two o’clock now, so many people weren’t home so she couldn’t look through the windows to see them. She also knew it would be wrong to break in, but she had some detective tricks of her own. 
For the first street, it was the rubbish pick up day and she remembered the man taking the coffee home with him. 
She looked into bin of the house with the purple letterbox, and couldn’t see any coffee cups, but could see lots of vampire supplement packets. That ruled out this house. 
The next street already had the rubbish taken, so she had a look at the kind of house that it was. It was a sweet old cottage and had a few magazines stacked up by the door. A quick look wouldn’t hurt… 
she rifled through and found some crochet magazines and tried to think is she had ever seen them doing this at the bench. The rest were quite regular for a magical town, and as she reached the bottom of the stack she heard a car pull around the corner of the street. Afraid that she would be accused of stealing or breaking in, she hid behind the bins at the side of the house. 
she couldn’t believe her poor luck, the car was for the house she was hiding at. 
Lillie began to think of ways to sneak away and check the next street until she saw who emerged from the car. It was the lady! Lillie wondered what she was doing home
so early. She had seen one morning, her company lanyard for the city maintenance crew which had standard hours of 11 am until 4:30 pm. Maybe she had an early shift today. The lady got a phone call and Lillie strained to hear what was said: 
« yes, thank you for covering for me until 4:30. If I don’t get this finished today you might have to tomorrow. 
Yes I know I apologise. 
Of course, this is very important I just can’t talk about it yet. Yep. Goodbye . » 
Lillies heart was beating with excitement, what was this sweet old lady up to? 
The lady headed inside, after undoing all her locks which suggested her husband must not be home. She put down her bag and went straight to the garage, while Lillie snuck around the side to see if she could find a window. 
she found a small one at the perfect height for her to peer through to see what the lady was working on. It seemed to be a very strange mechanical contraption and Lillie couldn’t make out what it possibly would be for. 
The time flew and as the front door knocked, Lillie was startled and noticed the time, it was already 5pm, she really had to get home. 
She snuck around to the front after seeing the lady hurriedly cover up the strange machine and rush to answer the door. 
Her husband had arrived home, and Lillie could overhear his wife telling him how good her regular shift was and left out how she left early today. 
Lillie got home as quick as she could, and thankfully was just in time for dinner. She didn’t talk much as she ate with her family, all she could think about was this mystery she had found. 
She went to bed but couldn’t sleep. She was running through the day and what she found making sure she didn’t miss anything. 
she woke up extra early that morning so that she wouldn’t miss anything. 
Lillie saw the man grab the two coffees again, not quite as happy looking as yesterday. By the looks of it he wasn’t pleased about getting the coffee on his own and missed out spending the time with his wife. 
Lillie had her breakfast, and went straight to the couples house hoping to see the lady before she went to work. 
She arrived and snuck to the window of the garage door to peek in. The project was uncovered now, but the lady wasn’t in there. Lillie thought about knocking on the door and introducing herself but after a few minutes the lady came back in with an armful of metal pipes, and bolts and screws and things. Over the next couple of hours, it seemed to come together more but Lillie still had no idea what it was. She could see it had spikes on the bottom like pointy legs, and a long singular arm with two ice cream scoops on the end. Lillie kept watching her work and noticed she seemed to struggle with screwing in the small bolts. 
The lady finished up and headed to work to start at 11, so Lillie went home for lunch and so her dad wouldn’t be too worried about her being gone so long. 
After lunch and some of her daily chores she headed back to see if the lady was going to come home early again. Maybe she had to wrap the machine as it was a gift for her husband. Lillie took her pushbike this time to be a bit faster. 
She must have arrived just after the lady, her car was in the driver way and when Lillie headed to the garage window she had just stepped in. It looked like she was starting on a whole new project, like a large blanket that looked like it was made from leaves. 
as it approached 5pm the lady was hurriedly finishing up the blanket and took to to her car, and came back to wheel the machine to her car as well. 
She dialled a few numbers into her phone and it didn’t take long for the person to pick up. 
« Are you still free to help me with the last part of this? 
yes just five minutes away. Okay thank you. Bye Jason. » 
Lillie remembered the only Jason she knew was the barista at the coffee shop.  How odd. 
as soon as the lady left, Lillie got ready to speed down to the coffee shop to see why the lady needed Jason’s help. 
But as she got ready to go, the man arrived home and noticed his wife’s car was gone. He looked quite sad and mumbled to himself just loud enough to hear, « I knew she was upset with me for that snowball, » 
Lillie was very confused with this, as they seemed to have a good laugh about it, but then again the lady didn’t seem keen on making it a snowball fight. 
As she rode her bike home, Lillie kept thinking about it all. Before she went inside she had a look over to the coffee shop, and the old couples bench. Everything looked perfectly normal, maybe the lady just needed Jason’s helping planting the new bush by the bench. 
Lillie went to bed that night feeling disappointed that she couldn’t solve the mystery. 
When she woke up, she looked out the window, the snowflakes falling and the squirrels getting ready for spring in a few short weeks. 
After the past two days she felt she knew exactly what would happen. The man would arrive and get his two coffees, and undoubtedly the lady would be at home in the shed working on another strange project. 
What she actually saw a few minutes later was much more interesting. 
The lady turned up today on her own, and much earlier than usual too. She ordered both coffees and sat down, not before checking this new bush which seemed odd to Lillie. The lady sat down for a little bit until her husband arrived. 
He seemed quite down today, and didn’t seem to notice his wife sitting at the bench. He went over to order the two coffees, but Jason pointed him towards where his wife was sitting with the coffees. His smile grew warm and headed over to her. It looked to Lillie like he was apologising. The lady seemed happy and they shared a sweet hug for a few seconds before sitting closer than ever while they drank their coffees. It was silent until the end where the lady started telling him something that made him look confused a little. She went to the bush and revealed that it was no ordinary bush, but her machine converted by her leafy blanket. 
He still seemed a bit confused, until she lent down and pressed an unsteady finger to a button at the bottom and the machine started to move. Lillie saw now that is strange legs kept it in the ground while it’s arm reached down into the snow. When it came back up and dropped a perfect snowball into her hand,  and before he could react she threw it straight at her husband. He was shocked for a moment and then started laughing harder than Lillie has ever seen, as the couple had a real snowball fight. 
 
","August 16, 2023 05:26",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,ipy7i4,I Think You're The Problem,Anna Popnikolova,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ipy7i4/,/short-story/ipy7i4/,Adults,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
	It was your ninth birthday and I forgot to get you a present. You were nine and knew everything. I remember all of this like it happened last week. It’s hard to imagine that you’re so old now, turning 25. That afternoon, I was laying on my stomach on the bed and you were jumping around my room with a blue balloon, trying to keep it from touching the hardwood. 
	You were playing all by yourself and I was watching. The room was quiet and all I could hear was your breath every time you launched yourself into the air or across the room, your weight against the ground, heavy heavy footfalls.
	“I always thought you hated me,” you said, catching the balloon between your palms and looking over. You said that. Out of the blue, you said that.
	I didn’t respond. The balloon came towards me and I stuck out an arm to bump it. We ended up in an epic balloon duel, opposite ends of the room, guarding two doorways. In a volleyball-soccer halfbreed, you and I spent the rest of the afternoon competing.
	I didn’t respond. I wanted to. 
	The first thing I thought to say was, “you’re my sister.” But you were nine, I thought you wouldn’t understand. Maybe I thought you would know, and I was afraid.
	— 
	“Happy birthday, Liesel.” I walked up and hugged you, your chin still only coming up to my shoulder. You didn’t smell like this the last time I saw you, but that made sense. 
	The last time I saw you had been two years ago. You probably changed your shampoo or laundry detergent. Maybe you used a different perfume? I tried to figure it out while we hugged, to pinpoint the exact change that had taken place, like a sommelier of scent. That was a funny thought.
	The flowers I was holding pressed against your back and their plastic crinkled right in your ear. I pulled away because I didn’t want the sound to bother you, but it seemed like you wanted the hug to last longer.
	“You’re always trying to escape from me,” you laughed. 
	I didn’t figure out what the different smell was. I handed you the flowers and smiled. They were the kind Mom was allergic to and orange, your favorite color, ever since you were little. 
	“Thanks,” you said, “I’ll go get a vase.”
	“You’re so mature now. Vases and all.”
	The cabinets in your kitchen were nice, a pretty tan with a clean trim. You had more than one vase and an entire cabinet dedicated to vases. Even though I had been an adult for longer than you, I was impressed. My vase collection was meager in comparison. I wondered if Ted did the cabinets himself and then wondered where Ted was. I didn’t ask.
	“Do you want something to drink?” you said, back turned to me. 
	“I’m okay.” 
	You got me a ginger ale anyway and gave it to me quietly, ice cubes clinking on the glass. I liked that you remembered I liked ginger ale.
	“Thank you,” I said, but really I wanted to put a bunch of words in your mouth and then grab your jaw and pull it open and closed until you said them all. I wanted you to say,
	“Natalie, I hate you, I’ve always hated you. I’ve never liked you, not since the minute I was born. Since the moment I was born, I knew you were a bad person, with bad feelings, and bad thoughts, with no love in your heart. I never expected love from you because you’re a loveless creature.”
	You smiled instead. 
	“Yeah. Come help me with the cake?”
	Your lips were glossed pink and your cheeks were pink, too. Your eyes were done up, bringing out their blue for everyone to see. I was glad you figured out that you were pretty. 
	“How have you been?” You asked.
	I’m sure Ted thinks so, too, that you’re pretty, otherwise he wouldn’t have married you. I remember when we were all little and I used to tell you nobody would ever like you. It wasn’t because you were ugly, even if your hair was so knotted and split. It was because you were mean. 
	“Okay. Things are okay. Work is good and everything. My cat died.” I said. 
	You grew out of the mean, like most kids. You got graceful and kind and saintly; proper Mother Teresa. Some of us got stuck in the mean, I think.
	“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said.
	“That’s okay. He got hit by a truck.”
	“That’s awful.” You would’ve covered your mouth with your hand but there was a cake in your hands, which seemed more important. You gave me a sympathetic smile instead.
	We carried the cake from the car, my hands on one end and yours on the other end. It was a big cake and the box was black and white. It said the name of the bakery on it but it didn’t matter. I wondered again where Ted was but I didn’t ask. We set it down on the counter and you opened the top of the box. 
	I saw the cake said Happy Birthday Liesel in orange letters and it had little flowers.
	“It’s a nice cake,” I said.
	You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed it, working your way from one corner to the other, not saying anything. I knew you were eating your lipstick off but I didn’t comment. We were quiet for a little while.
	“Who ordered it?”
	“Ted did.”
	“Oh,” I said, “that makes sense.” 
	I paused.
	“The letters are in orange. Orange is your favorite color,” I added.
	You nodded. 
	“I still know you,” I said.
	You sat down on the kitchen table and put your blonde head in your hands. Your nails were painted and shiny. They looked like plastic or something sweet. I thought of those candy hearts everyone gave out on Valentine’s Day but nobody actually liked to eat. Sickening, too much love. 
	“Where is he?” I asked. Curiosity was eating my insides and it just came out of my mouth, not even on purpose. 
	“Um,” you looked up and your face was a little bit wet. Your eyes were even more blue and even more beautiful when they were filled with tears, something you learned when you were young. “We got in a fight. He left to go somewhere. I don’t know where he went. I don’t know what’s going on, really.”
	I stepped back, surprised, but not really that much. I never liked Ted. 
	Something about the rectangle shape of his head and his glasses and his fingers and torso. Something about rectangular men made me uneasy and I told you this. You didn’t believe my feelings but I thought every man has to have something round about him. Bluntness is unkind.
	“What did you fight about?”
	“I don’t really want to say.”
	I let it sit for a minute. I knew. 
	“Was it me?” 
	You didn’t respond. I knew it was.
	“He still hasn’t gotten over that? It’s been two years. Seriously?”
	“It really hurt his feelings.”
	“Boo hoo? He can’t get over it? He’s that hurt about it that he decided to ruin your birthday? What a tool. I don’t know why you married him, I really, really don’t. I told you it was a bad idea. Do you believe me yet?”
	You looked at me and I got the feeling that no, you didn’t believe me. You had those cold eyes.
	“Yes, you did tell me it was a bad idea.” You smiled but you weren’t happy. “You did tell me it was a bad idea and you made sure everyone knew just how bad of an idea. He wanted to get your blessing. There wasn’t anyone else. He cared about your opinion. He wanted you to believe in him. And you spat in his fucking face, Natalie. I’m not surprised he’s still mad. I would be, too.”
	The only thing he had to be upset about was being born with a hammer for a head. Maybe he wasn’t born with it, I thought. Maybe the hammer hit him in the head when he was born, and that was the beginning of it all. 
	“I don’t know why this is all coming up now,” I said.
	“Because he didn’t want me to invite you.”
	“That’s pretty fucking pathetic, isn’t it?”
	“He doesn’t like you. It’s been two years, Nat.”
	“It’s mutual, if that’s of any comfort to either of you. I can’t believe he’s ruining your birthday.”
	You were quiet for a second, chewing on your cheeks. I thought they’d start bleeding soon if you kept biting them like that. Your fingernails scratched at the back of your neck, and you were hunched in half with your chin near your elbows. Eating your mouth like that, you looked sort of like a fish. 
	I thought bubbles might start coming out of your lips soon, each one with a little word in it floating around. Like a video game character, I imagined running around the room and popping all of the bubbles, collecting all the words. Each word would be a point. When they were all collected, I would sit down and try to unscramble the sentence and figure out what the hell you were saying. 
	“Whatever, Natalie.” 
	Two points.
	“He’s ruining your birthday,” I said again.
	“He’s not ruining my birthday, you’re ruining my birthday.”
	Nine points. The words were a little scrambled and it took me a minute to put them together. 
	“What?”
	“Ted isn’t the problem, Nat. I think you’re the problem.”
	Now we were talking, we were really talking. 25 years, I’d been waiting for you to say you hate me. I knew it was coming, I just didn’t know when. Now, now that you were in your new apartment and hitched, it was finally bubbling up. You had been stewing for so many years. For so long, it brewed inside of you, I could smell it on your breath every time you saw me, especially this past year. The hate was just rotting in there.
	It was a matter of time, really.
	“Of course you’re choosing his side,” I said.
	“Do you even see what you’re doing? Do you see that you do this every time? Every single time, Natalie, that we try to have a conversation, you do this. You’re just like mom. Every time I see you you look more like her. You’re growing her nose, you’re turning into her fucking mirror image. You’re ugly on the inside, Nat.”
	“You really want to get into this right now? Really?” I felt hot and ready to shout. You knew how I would feel. “Do you really want to?”
	“Can you think of a better time? Because I can’t. Today already sucks. Everything already sucks.” 
	“You did this to yourself.”
	“You did it to me!” You stood up and opened your mouth really wide and closed your eyes tight. Your polished finger was right in my face, shaking, accusing. “You never want me to have anything good. You don’t want me to be happy. You always want to ruin everything because you just don’t like me. Just admit it, just say you hate me and we can all go home, Natalie.”
	“What are you talking about?”
	“You ruined my wedding, you ruined my graduation, you even ruined my stupid Junior prom. Everything good in my life, you try to take it from me, because you hate me.”
	I sat down at the table and nursed my ginger ale, clamping down my teeth hard. You stood in the middle of the kitchen, tiles under your feet, trembling like you were about to explode. I thought about high school chemistry class and excited ions, generating heat. The temperature rose. 
	“You’re wrong.” 
	“No, I’m not.”
	“I didn’t want you to marry Ted because I didn’t want you to be miserable. I didn’t think he was a good person. I didn’t want you to get into a bad situation like I did and I didn’t want to have to be the one to pull you out.” 
	“Of course you didn’t want to have to pull me out. You never think of anyone but yourself. You just don’t want the burden of dealing with me. You never did.”
	“I never asked for the burden of you.” I realized that sounded harsh. I tried to soften it. “I never asked to have a child to take care of. I was eight. I learned to be a mom before I learned to be a kid. And I didn’t want you to have a sad love. We had to pull Mom out of that. When we were so little, too. We’ve done enough pulling for a lifetime.“I got married anyway.”
	“I know. Obviously.” 
	I looked down.
	“I’ve always just wanted you to be happy.” I added.
	The question sat on my tongue like gristle. I had been chewing this one for a long time, wondering what it was, wondering why I couldn’t just swallow it.
	“Are you?” I asked.
	“What?”
	“Are you happy?”
	I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to say yes or no. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know you were happy or if I wanted to know I had been right all along.
	“I think so.” You weren’t shaking anymore. 
	You pointed to the fridge, covered in postcards and Polaroids. The two of you, skiing. The two of you, dancing. The two of you, sharing ice cream. The two of you, last Christmas. “We have a life. We have a place where we love each other.”
	“Do you love him, really?”
	“I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t.”
	“I guess so.”
	“You haven’t been around much. You haven’t really seen it. We have a good love.”
	I felt lighter somehow, and good. I was happy to hear that, I guess. Leaning back in the chair I felt my body release tension I didn’t know about. I tingled and began to cry. I guess I was glad.
	You didn’t say anything but you came up and you stood behind me and put your arms around my shoulders. Your chin went on the top of my head and your hair fell over me.
	I kind of wanted you to say, “I don’t blame you. I know how you feel. I know how you felt your whole life. I don’t blame you for turning out the way you did. I don’t blame you for being so bad. It just happens sometimes.” 
	What you said was, “I think we can make it work.”
	I nodded and tears came down my face, hot and embarrassing, without me asking them to. I wasn’t sobbing, just running like a faucet, dripping down onto my neck and the sleeves of your sweater.  You smelled like citrus, something clean and happy. It was a new smell, but it could be comforting. I thought maybe I could get used to it. 
	I wiped my nose and thought I should probably talk.
	“I always thought you hated me,” I said, mumbling into the crook of your elbow.
	“I always thought you hated me,” you said. I felt the hum of your throat when you talked. I laughed and you did too. It felt good to hug you for real this time. I thought maybe I could get used to that, too. 
	“You’re my sister,” I said.
 
","August 19, 2023 03:04",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,porbow,"Going, Going, Gone.",Bryan Johnson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/porbow/,/short-story/porbow/,Adults,0,"['Drama', 'Romance', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
[Content Warning: This story contains physical violence, drug reference, brief sexual reference, and strong language throughout.]
 
Sometimes, it's terrific to get your ass beat.
 
Especially when it comes warranted from your past actions. Someone once said that every action done has a positive or negative reaction. In this case, the response was quite adverse. All things considered, I lay half-lucidly on the hot pavement, blood seeping from my mouth. Bruises and cuts peppered my face like seasoning on a prime cut of meat. The cheers and jeers of the bar patrons were muffled jibber-jabber as I began to pick myself up. Staggering up to my knees and then to my feet. I regained my poise and faced my opponent. I say opponent more along the opposition of an executioner. If you pitted a 21-year-old college student who was madly in love with someone who was dating a 45-year-old ex-marine who had done three tours in the Middle East in a fistfight, I'm pretty sure anyone who had two brain cells would bet their life savings on the marine. And they would be correct.
 
""Jason! Go low and for the knees! He's top-heavy!""
 
Ah, yes, the sound of my corner coach, Nathaniel. A half-drunk classmate with a red solo cup in one hand and a joint in the other. My Mickey Goldmill to my Rocky Balboa. Except this prime-time fight wasn't in front of a roaring stadium full of drunken patrons, it was in front of a bar in the parking lot full of intoxicated patrons. And I hadn't even lasted nearly twenty-five seconds into the first round.
 
""Yeah, go for my legs, kiddo. See what happens.""
 
Richard, the ex-marine with a mouth full of threats and the muscles to back it up too. He sure was having fun playing with his food. I hadn't landed a single hit. Pathetic. I always imagined myself a fit kid, but not that fit. I could hold my own in a fight with someone on the same level as I, but that wouldn't be funny to film and post on the internet for everyone to see. Life thrives on unfairness. And I was deep in the hole betting my last minutes of consciousness all on black. 
 
""I love her, Richard! She loves me for who I am! I know it!""
 
I shouted with the passion of a Viking warrior leading his clan into one final battle. I dropped to a crouch and charged, heeding the advice of Nathanial. I could feel it in my blood as my heart pumped pure adrenaline through my veins. I was fighting for the woman I loved. The woman I knew that belonged to me. This was a fight that I was determined to win by any means.
 
The sound of what could only be described as a log being split in half rang out in my ears as I stopped dead in my tracks, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming 18-wheeler. I dropped to the ground, twitching and fading in and out of lucidity. Turns out, all you have to do to counter a low grab is raise your freaking knee with the force of a charging rhino. Richard had kneed me in the head like a textbook MMA fighter. A useful tactic, albeit a dirty one, but helpful nonetheless. During my hazy state of mind, I felt my body rise up from the ground and into the air, gripping what seemed like whatever I could hold onto in this perfect storm of a fight. Richard, his bald head burning red hot and sweating from years of combat-induced adrenaline and pure, unadulterated, and unfiltered testosterone that had just been unleashed on this night, was what I was holding onto. He had picked me up.
 
Oh Boy.
 
I thought to myself as I stopped ascending. In the blurred vision of my busted retinas and stinging sweat, I spotted her from atop the peak height. The catalyst that ignited this forest fire of an ass-whooping.
 
""Ruby.""
 
I whispered softly as I sat there, suspended in the air. She was the reason I had found myself in this situation. The reason I was going to die, either metaphorically or, worst case, literally.
 
""Get ready for a ride, dickhead.""
 
My father always told me nothing in life is worth fighting for more than a woman's love. The woman I loved was too busy fixing her makeup on an outside barstool to care less that her current boyfriend was unleashing an insurmountable amount of pain onto a senior in college. She couldn't care less, and neither did I. That's what I felt was special between us. Opposites really do attract.
 
Going.
 
I felt my body become heavy again as I plummeted towards the pavement. I slowly closed my eyes. I had accepted the actions of what I had done and the consequences that accompanied them.
 
Going.
 
Peace at last, from the pain I had endured in the name of love. All of this had reached a beautiful climax that ended in broken bones, spilled blood, and two men duking it out for their lady. Like something out of a damn movie. Beautiful.
 
Gone.
 
Peace was finally mine.
 
""Jason, Jason, wake up, bro! Come on, come back to me. I know you're still awake. Your watch shows a heartbeat. Don't crap out on me, bro!""
 
What? No. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was alive? How? I should have been dead. No way I could have survived a beating like that. This was supposed to be my final deed done right. How could I be so pathetic to not even die with some honor and dignity left in the tank?
 
""I'm awake."" 
 
I said half-slurred. My lip prevented me from speaking clearly as it was the size of a cut slice of a peach. Swollen and leaking blood, numb to the touch, and burning.
 
""Dude, what the hell were you thinking? You couldn't just stop to think for two seconds that fighting a guy whose girl you fucked would end badly?""
 
""I thought I could win it through passion and grit.""
 
""Passion and grit don't accomplish shit if it ain't backed up with muscle, bro! You got your ass handed to you. You nearly died. Someone had to do CPR on you to get to revive you.
 
""Wait, I nearly died?""
 
""Richard did CPR on you and got you back to breathing.""
 
How humiliating. Someone nearly kills you and then revives you in the same breath. Absolutely noble of them to do, but humiliating to the person on the receiving end.
 
""Where's Ruby?""
 
Nathaniel looked at me like I had just admitted to shooting up heroin in secret.
 
""Where is- Dude, who gives a shit? That woman ruined your life! And you still give a fuck about her? What the hell is wrong with you?""
 
""Where is she?"" I repeated.
 
""She's in the bar. I'm not letting you go in there, dude. Also, you can't go back in there. You got banned for fighting.""
 
""God damnit.""
 
I moved my jaw around and felt something come loose. I spat out blood, and onto the ground lay a canine tooth.
 
""Looks like someone ain't chewing steak for a while.""
 
""Phuck you.""
 
""You sound like Daffy Duck with that busted lip. I'm sorry I can't take you seriously."" He said with a soft chuckle. Failing to lighten the mood.
 
""Phuck off.""
 
I was propped up against the brick wall of the bar around the corner, out of sight and out of mind from the bargoers and my assaulter. I wasn't going to bother pressing charges. It would be pointless. After all, I made a mistake, and actions have consequences.
 
In the distance, high heels clicking on the pavement approached hesitantly. Someone who didn't want to but had to speak to me was coming. Around the corner, she appeared. I looked up, blinded by the overhead lights of the roofed sidewalk. I made out the scantly clad sailor who was the love of my life. Ruby.
 
""Jason, we need to talk. Now.""
 
Dazed and confused from the recent beating, I felt the words bundle and clutch in my throat. I couldn't force myself to talk. I let out a pathetic grunt and sigh as what I wanted to say slid out like the toppings out the bottom of a burger and onto my bloodstained pants.
 
""Lady, you got no right talking to my friend after what happened. I ain't letting you cause pain anymore to my best friend here. Now get!""
 
Ruby grabbed his ear like the mother he had never had and threw him off to the side. 
 
""I said BEAT IT!""
 
A reasonable effort on his behalf, but after raising tones, his demeanor slouched to a defeated stray pupped as he whimpered off.
 
""I'll be in my car then, fucking bitch.""
 
""Yeah, run that mouth again, and I'll kick your ass personally, asshole.
 
Nathanial went to spew another venomous insult, but I held up my hand, signaling him that I would be fine. After all, I did have a lot of explaining to do.
 
Ruby sat down next to me. Just like she always did, she offered me a cigarette, even though I told her numerous times I don't smoke. I declined, and she lit one up, blowing out smoke. We went a moment without saying anything. The sound of bar chatter was the only thing that broke the silence. I was the first to speak.
 
 ""Say it, go ahead. I know you want to.""
 
Ruby glanced at me, answering with judgment and silence.
 
""Say it. I deserve the blood spilled, the missing tooth, busted retinas, everything. Say that you'll fuck me up too. That I should have never met you, never spoken to you, just say- ""
 
""You deserve better, Jason.""
 
I was taken by surprise by the cut-off. She looked at me and took another drag.
 
""You deserve better than me, Jason.""
 
""Is this why you haven't returned my calls or texts.""
 
""Jason, I am a sick person. Look at me and then at yourself. I am twenty-nine, hooked on heroin, and fuck people for a living. Why in the world are you in love with me?""
 
""I mean, ever since we spent that night toge-""
 
""Jason, that was a transaction. You gave me money in exchange for a service. A service I honestly regret. The sex was good, don't get me wrong, and you're a stud in the sack, but way too young for me. And, plus, you lied to me. You said you had done this before when you were still a virgin. I didn't want to be your first, okay?""
 
We shared another moment of silence. It was painful and awkward. I wanted to say something, but Ruby beat me to the punch.
 
""You are way better off not hanging around, talking to, or even thinking about me anymore. I look at someone like you and get jealous because they still have a chance. I've made too many mistakes, and I've dug my grave. I'm just riding out my years. You, on the other hand, have a future. You're still a baby.""
 
She was right. I was in love with someone in the wrong place and time. I simply paid for someone to love me. It wasn't genuine, and it would never be natural. At that moment, I didn't know who was more fucked up. 
 
""Jason, listen to me; I will give you something many people don't get.""
 
I looked up at her and wiped away the burning tears in my eyes.
 
""I'm giving you a chance to walk away. Don't make the same mistakes I did.""
 
Ruby put her arm around me and pulled me close for a warm yet awkward embrace.
 
""You've got a bright future ahead of you. You're studying medicine. You're going to be a doctor. I just know it.""
 
She put out her cigarette on the ground. Flicking it into the parking lot.
 
""Who knows. You may end up prescribing my medicine one day. If I live long enough.""
 
My emotions began to get the best of me as I broke down in her arms. Despite her cold demeanor, she still provided just a little comfort, and that's all I needed. She was right in everything. My loneliness had gotten the best of me. I made a stupid decision and paid the price for it.
 
""You're gonna be okay, kiddo...""
 
She said, allowing me to rest my head on her shoulder. She kept me in her embrace for what seemed like ages. Time didn't matter at that moment. It was just me and her.""
 
""I have to go.""
 
""Please don't...""
 
Ruby looked down at me and kissed me on the cheek, leaving behind a smeared lipstick print.
 
""I promise that you will be okay. We'll go about our boring lives, living the best we can. But not with each other.""
 
""You hate me, don't you?""
 
""No, I don't hate you. It's just that I don't want you to be a part of my life anymore. Things like this happen, Jason. It's natural for people to end friendships; this could be classified as a business relationship. But I don't hate you. I promise.""
 
After one final hug, Ruby let go of me and stood up, sticking out her hand to guide me to my feet.
 
""It's going to be okay. Don't worry about me; worry about yourself and no one else. I know being alone sucks ass but trust me, Jason, you're not ready for a relationship.""
 
She was right. If I got attached to a woman after a one-night stand with her, I wasn't ready for the major leagues of dating and relations.
 
""And besides,""
 
She said, leaning in closely. Her voice quivered at her words choking in her throat.
 
""I can't give you what you want or need, baby.""
 
Ruby turned her back to me.
 
""No hard feelings. I promise, we have a clean slate now. Keep it that way.""
 
 She rounded the corner. Heading back towards the bar as it was slowly winding down for the night.
 
Going.
 
Say something. Say something. Go after her!
 
A car pulled off to the sidewalk. Ruby opened the back door and climbed inside.
 
Going.
 
Come on, man! She's a ten out of ten! She's your first! She is the one for you!
 
The door slammed shut, and the car pulled off onto the street, driving further away.
 
And I will never forget her.
 
Gone.
 
The car had vanished, and one by one, the bar attendees had gone to their respective cars and gone home for the night. All expect a blue Lexus. I trudged my way over to the passenger side and climbed in. Nathaniel flicked his cigarette out of the window and started the car.
 
""Took you long enough. So how was your verbal ass-whooping? Asides from your physical one?""
 
I said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.
 
""Fine. Be that way.""
 
I flipped down the passenger visor mirror and examined my wounds that had started to heal. My vision was coming back, my lips were still swollen, and my shirt was stained burgundy. All sorts of blotches and droplets of blood. But one stood out the most.
 
The one shaped like a heart.
","August 17, 2023 00:55",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,41j4u3,Speaking of Iris,Omri R.,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/41j4u3/,/short-story/41j4u3/,Adults,0,"['Romance', 'LGBTQ+']",6 likes,"
Note: some implicit mentions of sexual violence. …	They say it’s the taste of salty lips. That it’s a knife that pierces the skin on your back, that moves slowly within you, your bones, making its way out your stomach. They even say it’s the grief, the anguish that ties you to your bed and wraps you with its icy hands to offer some sort of twisted validation in that you are utterly alone. But then? When the grief, the anguish, the distress fades, when your cuts have healed and you’ve collected yourself once again, swept the glass under your bed, and both incredulously and resentfully found yourself on your feet – what then?	I suppose, then, that it’s more complex than that. Maybe it’s the quiet, unnerving feeling that what was once whole, a real, breathing masterpiece, a pulsing waltz, has become abstract, an eerie lullaby to tuck you away, now ultimately two separate ideas connected by a thin web, so that no matter your efforts, every so often you are overcome by the awful feeling that you are still chained, that part of this complete stranger still lives within your bones, and some of you, in them. But maybe it’s the very hand that leads me back here, that reaches inside my mind to find a new memory tucked away. Or maybe it’s as simple as the way my heart drops into my stomach when I hear the phone disconnect. I suppose, then, in any case, that it doesn’t quite leave you.…	We took the train to Mountain View. It was sunny but not particularly warm, and I was afraid because I’d never been on a train but she said she’d always done it and I trusted her. We bought dried flowers at the farmer’s market for five dollars and they wrapped it in cheap newspaper so that it rustled and folded in my hand as we walked. I bought lavender and holding that lavender in my hand that afternoon and walking in silence with this stranger I felt pretty for the first time. I realize this now, of course. That I felt pretty through her eyes, that is. 	We were looking for a restaurant and standing underneath a faulty light on the blocked, busy street. It was she who started, as if to begin a conversation. I was afraid to speak, under the strange notion that somehow breaking the silence would pierce the fragile air. That she’d up and leave if she even so much as caught the transparency of my eyes. 	Just then a man approached us, seemingly middle-aged. He wanted to know what we were doing, what we were thinking. When we didn’t answer he demanded it. I reached for her but she wasn’t close enough. He left.	Sound was coming in and out and the people who were there but not really were now really gone and I could feel the concrete swaying beneath my feet. When it was over I was suddenly cold, and I realized the sun had really faded from the condemning sky and that I had been standing there for quite some time. I was stiff and confined and uncomfortable and suddenly I understood that she was hugging me. She reached to my face and I felt the hot tears that flushed it. 	“Oh honey, stop crying. I know. But it’s just the way things are.”	I almost knew it wasn’t the man she spoke of. That it wasn’t the man I had feared. 	All at once I let myself succumb to her embrace, to melt into her cold skin. I let her breathe me in and touch me with her mind. And then I knew.	We talked about books		About the precious things.		We laughed about our own mortality		And about beauty.		We watched the sky 		Tuck away its sun.	And that was just the way things were. …	But I thought I was yours. 	“Things change.”	It always amazed me how a few words could turn the air in your lungs to ice. …	The fused smell of hastily lit candles. The stench from the overlapping scents a mere attempt at masking the smell of her depression. The sound of rustling leaves joining the harmony of the night that flew through the open window. Books arranged as shelves, too many to count. My drawings hung up. Empty kombucha bottles and old tea bags in strange mugs. Dried flowers – death forever preserved in old Cola bottles. Perfection.…	When she told me what he had done to her I cried. We fought two nights before about her new girlfriend and I didn’t want to hear her voice. When I finally called her she hesitated.	We spent the night at the hospital. Many details have faded, but some – the smell of the emergency room, the receptionist’s expression, the police’s nonchalance, the feeling of the cheap hospital bed sheets and her shivering as I held her for the first time – some will never leave my unwilling mind. It was that night, when she finally fell asleep on my shoulder, that I wiped away her tears and replaced them with my own. It was that night I begged her to give me her pain, to let me feel it for her. It was that very night, when I hid her in the corner from the cop after she couldn’t look at another man, that I swore it would pass, that the calm would be back. I prayed on the stars I was right. 	But, alas, I was not. Her pain wouldn’t pass to me, but would simply spread. I could not save her; she did not need my saving. All I could offer her was some sort of peace.…	The first time she was cruel we sat on a couch beside the fireplace. My family had gone out and I invited Iris over in hopes of escaping my mother’s disapproval of her for a few hours. The house was warm and our silence a familiar comfort. She drank tea and read her book – some obscure novel, I assumed. I sketched her with oil pencils as she subconsciously maintained her natural posture: her legs crossed, one arm holding her tea, the other draped on the back of the couch and holding the book open, her hair loose and flowing down her back, her core leaning ever so slight against the arm of the chair. Beautiful people love to pose, if you let them. 	I spent what seemed like an hour on her face, letting the smooth tip of the pencil trace the lines of her nose, echo the curve of her lips, sprinkle the page with her freckles. It seemed almost eerie how I had captured her gaze in the end. Or, perhaps, it was the gaze itself.	She gave me a polite smile when I showed her, laced with faint annoyance at my disrupting of her reading. Putting the portrait in her bag, she turned back to her book. Soon I became annoyed with her lack of attention, almost jealous of the book she held so tenderly. 	I groaned and got up from my seat. I began humming and dancing around the room, reorganizing the books on the shelf, playing with the dog. And still I did not shake her focus from the novel. So few people, it seemed to me after meeting Iris, truly enjoy reading.	I saw her smiling at some passage and after exhausting all other distractions I sat down at the piano placed in the corner of the room. I flipped through my music and started playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (the first movement, of course), and I could feel her eyes lifting from the pages. The sky was pretty again, and I continued to play through the piece. 	When I reached the second climax I caught a glimpse of her in the reflection of the piano. I realized she was filming me and, whipping my head around, begged her to stop.	“But your face,” she exclaimed, “you should have seen it!”	I simply continued to stare at her.	“Don’t look so sad, I’m only kidding.”	She kissed me and we laughed. We listened to our favorite songs and talked about Jane Austen.	I never played for anyone again.…	We were on the phone when it finally happened. It had been less than a month after she kissed me on Halloween, two years since we met, and almost two weeks after our first date. She mentioned the blonde girl that, “dear lord,” would not leave her alone again. I had already been suspicious after the third time. Not that she wanted the girl (this I knew), but, rather, that she was being cruel. I pleaded. That she wouldn’t ruin it. That she would tell someone, anyone. That she’d just do it. That she would, please, just tell me. 	But what was there to end?	Oh sweetie, she explained, it takes two people to label something. 	So I told her. About her cruelty, my immaturity. How different things were. I explained how reckless we’d been. And how I couldn’t even bear to hear her voice. 	I told her all she’d taken.	That she couldn’t save me anymore. 	I spoke of what I feared in her eyes. And how I couldn’t love someone who my family couldn’t bear to see me with, who wouldn’t dare meet my friends. 	But most of all I told her that love does not take		That it doesn’t isolate		And that I wish		God, I wish		I’d never met her.	Only a brief moment followed before I heard the phone disconnect.…	I was wandering down some street in Mountain View, looking for the sun, that day. I knew it was strange. The sky was hidden by clouds and yet I knew it would not rain. I felt tense, sick. It had been a good day. I felt comforted by the gloomy weather, admiring the idea that the sky, too, felt tucked away in the death of its sun. I felt a sense of liberation in my upset and yet was wholly at peace. It was nearing the end of September and I was to leave for Los Angeles that week, for college.	I watched my feet carry me down the street, past the bookstores, past the italian ice cream shop, and the restaurants. I wandered past the theater, which seemed to have grown worn down and smaller with the years, or perhaps my age. I found the park behind the building and sat down on the muddy grass broken by the roots of a tree, taking my book out and feeling its weight in my palms. Tracing the cracks in the paperback cover, following them to the soft, faded letters, I felt my face beginning to flush with tears. It wasn’t long before I tasted their salt on my dry lips, and I hurriedly wiped the water off the rusty book.	It wasn’t the drama. It wasn’t the fear, either. It was the overwhelming, solemn feeling, rather, that I finally understood. 	I didn’t dread my future anymore. I took comfort in the practicality I feared, and feared the precious things that for so long comforted me. I was to study physics that fall and I had made my peace with the fact. 	And yet. And yet I was crying. 		For the death of the sun.		For all I had known		And wish I hadn’t.		For the girl who loved candles and mugs.		And the girl who loved the night		And to dance in the street		And eat dinner on the roof.		To write amateur poems		And play music to the moon.	I cried for them both. 	When the sky began to darken and they turned the streetlights on I started up to leave. I wouldn’t come here anymore, I assured myself. Walking down the slight incline of the park, I tripped on the root of a tree and, apologizing to a man walking beside me, I realized I had caught the attention of two small figures across the street. The sun was almost completely set, but even in the nearing darkness I could make out her face. Two years after the fact and her eyes are still faded green. Months of helplessness and her hair is still a glistening red under the faulty streetlights. She was just as pretty, just as vibrant as the day she met me. And yet, I noticed, she was no longer beautiful.	As they moved closer I observed the girl she was with: blonde, smiling, her features kind – everything I wasn’t, I suppose. It came as a relief of some sort, an acceptance. 	Her manner was unchanged by my presence and I didn’t think she recognized me. I almost didn’t recognize her myself. Her hair was cut just above her shoulders. She wore baggy jeans and a cropped shirt. Even her walk had changed, more aggressive than I’d ever seen it. But in my eyes she was still the echo of a girl who suffocated her room with stacks of books and soy candles. Who loved the mountains and preserving dried flowers in old Cola bottles. Who cried at the movies and drank tea at dusk. I stood paralyzed, mesmerized by her indifference, and it was not until she had almost passed me that she met my gaze. I hungrily searched for home again in her eyes, for something, anything that slightly echoed what I had once shared with this soul. But I was only met with my reflection. 	The ground swayed beneath my feet. A slight breeze caressed my face. I had thought, whenever her silhouette would once again twirl across my mind, that come many years, any year, she could walk through my door and I would know her. That I’d miss her. That she might save me. 	But here was a girl. So human. So touched and scarred and beaten. So sad.	And for the first time I saw in her a strange kindness. Her indifference was her kindness. And so despite the anger, despite the resentment and the grief and even my pity for her I felt my face relax into a sad smile, an offering, almost. She hesitated. Finally the corners of her mouth twitched and her thin, flushed lips curled ever so slightly. And there was peace.	I looked at my feet, conscious of the dent they made in the grass. I followed a spider as it made its way through the blades. It was completely dark now, and the leaves, the breeze, the little bursts of life in the night all seemed to embrace me. When I lifted my eyes all that was left of her was a little red spec on the horizon, a little flame dancing with the stars. And eventually she, too, dissolved into the night. 	I stood paralyzed. Eyes closed. One drop. Another. 	And another.	And another.
","August 17, 2023 16:03",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,7l17vr,Fathers and Sons,John-Paul Cote,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7l17vr/,/short-story/7l17vr/,Adults,0,"['Drama', 'Fantasy', 'Inspirational']",6 likes,"
       Reggie’s Diner was bustling as usual at lunchtime. It was the perfect setting for the meeting. It felt like an eternity since they had spoken. Such a crowded place would hopefully discourage an outburst from either of them.            When Luke arrived, his Father was already there. Typical of the Old Man, taking a power position. Letting him and everyone else know who was boss. Luke pushed down the anger, or was it frustration, he felt building by this simple act. Luke forced a neutral look on his face as he neared the table. His Father didn’t stand up to greet him in anyway. He merely sat there, stirring his coffee, and looking over the menu. Again, always with the power moves. Or was it just disinterest in his son? It was thoughts like these that drove Luke to rebel like he had and take things as far as he had.“Hi, Dad.” Luke stood by the table, waiting for at least an acknowledgement. The Old Man looked up from the menu.“Hi, son. It’s been sometime. I’m glad you called me.”With that, Luke slid into the seat before his Father could invite him to sit. They sat, letting the noise of the diner fill the silence between them. What could be said after all of these years? What could be said after such a falling out. The last words spoken between them could never be taken back. Could they be forgotten? Were they carved in stone?“The coffee is excellent. I suggest you give it a try,” his Father finally said.“Sure.”Luke waved down a waitress for a coffee and a menu.“What’s the food like here?”“Compared to what I can make? Pretty good. I’d suggest the Philly cheesesteak. It’s the best outside of the City of Brotherly Love itself.”The waitress came back.“I’ll have the house burger with fries,” Luke said. His Father looked frustrated by his choice. He ordered a clubhouse.Luke smiled at the reaction.The noise of the diner filled the space in between them again.“I know why you called,” his Father finally said.“Of course, you do. You know everything. Why even waste our time here, you already know how it ends.”Luke always had a fiery temper. It was something he felt his Father stoked rather than cool down. He got up to leave but his Father gestured him to stay.“Please, stay.”His Father could see the fire in Luke’s eyes, the heat rising from his body.“Please.”The fire began to cool and Luke sat again.“I know why you called and I feel the same way. It has been too long. Longer than it should have been. Longer than I wanted. We only get one chance in this life. We shouldn’t waste a moment of it.”“It was just too much, Dad. All the expectations you had. Everything you had given me and then to just ignore me for…for…for what?”“I never meant to ignore you. I thought you were ready to be your own person. I thought you wanted to go your own way. I wasn’t ignoring you, I was trying to give you space.”“You know I was your kid, too. You. Your’s. You raised me, you taught me, you gifted me with such…such…such dreams! And then, nothing.”The waitress brought their food.“Thank you.”“There. I’m glad you at least remembered that that I taught you, to be humble and polite.”The rage started to build again.“I raised you to be so much more than you became. All of my hopes and dreams. They went into you. And then…”“And then you chose them over me! OVER ME!”Luke soared into the air. Wings burst through his jean jacket. The Reggie’s Diner erupted into flames. The customers screamed as they burned. Glass melted. Containers exploded. Luke roared with all of the infinite amount of rage he had kept inside for so long. For eons. For eternity.“DAMNED YOU! DAMNED YOU AND YOUR CHILDREN!”“LUCIFER! ENOUGH!”His Father waved his hand and the flames disappeared. Reggie’s Diner reassembled itself and people acted like nothing had even happened. Luke floated back down to his seat.“Would you like your coffee warmed up?” The waitress asked.“No, I’m good,” Luke said. He looked into his Father’s eyes. The flames that burned in him began to cool.“Maybe I never said how much I loved you or often enough. Maybe I should have told you that I wanted you by my side. I wanted someone there to guide them. It took me sometime to understand that. And I’m sorry.”I’m sorry. Luke thought he would never hear it from Him. I’m sorry. All of that hatred, all of that anger he felt faded away. All of the evil he had caused, the rebellion in Heaven, the temptations he had created to corrupt His creation, to capture the souls of those He loved the most.I’m sorry.Luke started to cry.“Dad…”“I know. You’re not the one who needs to be forgiven. You never were. It’s been me.”The two beings stood up and hugged each other for the first time in billions of years. Luke kept crying. When they separated and looked at each other, he wiped his eyes.“No, I’m the one. I’m sorry.”His Father smiled. Glory filled his heart and radiated into every person in the diner. There was light. There was joy. There was a purity of life that ran through everyone. People looked at one another in a different way. They saw the beauty in one another and themselves.Luke finished wiping his face.“So now what do we do?”His Father put his arm around him.“We talk.”Both beings smiled as they walked up to the cash register. His Father asked for the cheque and took his wallet out to pay. Luke stopped, ran back, and left a tip on the table.His Father felt a joy in him that he had not felt since the beginning of it all.“Let’s go change the world.”
","August 17, 2023 20:34",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,uaiarc,Odyssey of the Heart,Amanda McFarland,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/uaiarc/,/short-story/uaiarc/,Adults,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
The crackling of logs in the fireplace cast a warm glow across the cozy living room of a cottage nestled at the edge of the small coastal town of NeverNeverLand. The flames danced in a mesmerizing rhythm, casting flickering shadows on the walls. It was here that a love story, spanning an incredible thirty-six years, began to unfold - a tale of passion and heartache, secrets and revelations.
 
In a quaint cottage lived an elderly gentleman named Barak, a man whose age belied the mysteries that clung to him like the fragrance of old books. His silver hair was long gone, his face bore the marks of time, and his piercing blue eyes held the intensity of a life lived beyond the ordinary. There was an air of intrigue about him, an aura that hinted at depths unknown. His gaze had a way of peeling back the layers of a person's soul, exposing their innermost desires and fears.
 
Not far from Barak's cottage stood the town's charming library, a sanctuary of stories that held the promise of escape and discovery. A young woman named Melina had found solace within its walls. Her heart was a maze of uncertainties, and she sought refuge in the pages of books, hoping to find answers to questions she couldn't even put into words. She had come to NeverNeverLand in search of something elusive, a sense of belonging that had eluded her grasp.
 
One evening, fate wove its threads as Melina, driven by a sense of curiosity, stumbled upon a hidden bookshop at the heart of the town. As the bell above the door tinkled softly, her gaze met Barak's, and at that moment, time seemed to pause. His smile held secrets untold, and her heart skipped a beat. It was as though their souls recognized each other as if they were characters in a story that had been written long before they ever met.
 
Their love story unfolded with the fragility of a rosebud unfurling its petals to the sun. Like the tides that caressed the shore, they came together and drifted apart over decades, their emotions a tumultuous sea of passion and uncertainty. Each separation etched a scar on their hearts, but the pull between them was magnetic, an invisible thread that refused to be severed.
 
Barak's enigmatic presence became both a source of attraction and unease for Melina. He seemed to possess an uncanny understanding of her, delving into the depths of her mind with a skill that bordered on dark psychology. He would weave intricate tales, plucking at the strings of her thoughts and emotions. Some nights, she would wake from dreams spun by his words, questioning the reality of her own feelings.
 
As the years passed, their love story took on the hues of a complex masterpiece. Life's currents pulled them in different directions, leading to breakups and painful farewells. Melina often sought refuge in the library, finding solace in stories that mirrored her own journey. Yet, no matter how many times they walked away from each other, their hearts remained intrinsically connected, two souls bound by an unbreakable bond.
 
NeverNeverLand was a magical sanctuary by the ocean, and in its center was a mystical pond.   This pond was home to Marco, an energetic frog, and Maya, a wise turtle, and they forged an unlikely friendship. Marco's leaps from lily pad to lily pad brought laughter to Maya, while Maya's calm and gentle nature captivated Marco's attention. Their friendship was a testament to the beauty of connection, transcending the boundaries of species and time.
 
As the years flowed by, Barak and Melina embarked on journeys of self-discovery. Melina's roots deepened in the town, and she became not just a librarian but also a storyteller. Her eyes sparkled as she shared tales with the children, passing on the magic of words and imagination. She visited the pond often and became enthralled with the dynamic between Marco and Maya, even writing stories about them.  Barak, too, began to reveal fragments of his past, his stories painting a canvas of a life well-lived.
 
Their final breakup was a culmination of years of love and pain, triggered by a journal Melina discovered that unraveled Barak's past. She accused him of manipulating her emotions with his mysterious ways, and he withdrew, burdened by his regrets. The chasm between them seemed insurmountable, and their hearts ached in unison.
 
Yet, life has a way of weaving its own surprises. Thirty-six years after their first meeting, on a sunlit evening as a cruise ship glided through cerulean waters, their paths converged once more. Time had etched lines on Barak's face, which made him all the more alluring. With a vulnerability he had never shown before, he bared his soul to Melina. He confessed his fears, his regrets, and the enduring love that had weathered decades of distance.  Melina expressed her eternal devotion that had weathered the storm of a difficult and painful life journey. 
 
Tears glistened as they embraced, shedding the weight of their past grievances. The cruise ship, a vessel of reconciliation, carried them toward a horizon of forgiveness and hope. As they watched the sun dip beneath the horizon, the sea whispered secrets of second chances, and their hearts beat in harmony with the rhythm of the waves.
 
Back in the town's pond, Marco the frog and Maya the turtle continued their timeless friendship, a symbol of enduring companionship amidst the changing tides of life.
 
Ultimately, the love story between Barak and Melina transcended time itself. It was a tale of wounds healed, of a lost soul finding its home, and of a mysterious man whose depths were more profound than met the eye. 
As they sailed into the horizon together, their story became woven into the fabric of the town's history, whispered through generations as a reminder of the power of love, forgiveness, and the enduring journey of the heart.  
 
To honor their story, NeverNeverLand’s pond and home to Marco and Maya, was named Infini as a reminder that all endings lead the way to new beginnings, as is the continual cycle of life and love.   
 
 
 
","August 12, 2023 17:16",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,0oe59t,TETELESTAI,Robert W,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0oe59t/,/short-story/0oe59t/,Adults,0,"['Inspirational', 'Happy']",6 likes,"
“This is Michael Thompson,” I said.  “He tried to teach me German.”  
Viv did her utmost to look interested. We were visiting my old school, Repton, and it had been a three hour car journey on a hot summer’s day. There had been a formal reception for the alumni of fifty years ago. There had been speeches and toasts. We had been able to reintroduce ourselves to each other after half a century. There had been plenty of “Can you remember….?” We had recollected the personalities of our day – the Australian maths master with his sarcastic school reports (“this boy will go far. I will help him to pack.”) – and the English teacher who had embraced Buddhism and had met the Dalai Lama. We had confirmed our awareness of those of our contemporaries who had gone on to better things – one was a High Court Judge – and those who had passed on to another place, whether up or down it was impossible to tell. Private thoughts about the stinkers we could remember from the mists of antiquity were put aside. We all knew that was long ago, and there was an implicit assumption that we had all changed for the better, whether or not that was true.
There was then an awkward pause during which we realised that, apart from having shared the same school, we had absolutely nothing in common with each other. It was sobering, and rather saddening. Characteristically, Viv tried to fill the vacuum with some remarks about the magnificent architecture of the main school hall in which the reception had taken place.  Eventually, we all fell silent. In Viv’s case, I knew she had built up the school in her mind as a centre of intelligence rivalled only by the Supreme Court of England and Wales. She had been surprised and slightly appalled to find that this wasn’t the case. 
The school has changed now, dramatically, since I was a pupil all those years ago. But at that time Repton was an “only boys allowed” boarding school. To many of us who were deposited there by our parents at the start of each term, it seemed that for twelve weeks we were being shut away from all known forms of civilisation. The Slough of Despond would have been a more attractive prospect. That impression was enhanced by the fact that Repton was set in the middle of the Derbyshire countryside, apparently miles from anywhere, and was staffed mainly, if not exclusively, by unmarried ex-pupils. Some umbilical cord appeared to have attached them irrevocably to their alma mater. They had not learnt to live in any other environment. It was as if the oxygen of the school was the only thing capable of keeping them alive. So they literally went straight from Repton to university - and then back again from university to Repton to teach for the remainder of their natural lives, like some extraordinary self-imposed life sentence. 
To make matters worse, the Board of Governors was almost entirely composed of Old Reptonians, who were delighted to see alumni back on the staff because that would enable them to perpetuate the standards that they themselves had espoused so many years before.  The result, unsurprisingly, was that there was little attempt to move with the times. In fact, they would clearly have found that a terrifying prospect.  
Michael Thompson was just such a teacher. In the fullness of time, he did retire, but clung to his Repton roots for years, becoming secretary of the Old Reptonian Society. He had only been persuaded with difficulty to relinquish that role and slip into full retirement. His only ‘family’ had been the school, and he patently missed the place badly. He turned up at every reunion, long past the time when the looks exchanged by the other attendees should have told him that he was about as welcome as a dose of clap in the early days of a six month voyage by Marco Polo to the far east. 
Perhaps you have already guessed it from the way I remember him: Michael and I had loathed each other on sight. There was no explanation for this.  I found his hectoring ways a total anathema. He must have found my reluctance to work for and with him wholly unacceptable. At any opportunity, he would cut me down. When the school wrote round to the alumni, asking them to mark his retirement with a gift, I replied in somewhat vituperative terms, refusing to contribute. I had seen him from a distance during the reception, but had studiously ignored him, and the favour had been returned. But as we filed out, I found him right next to me, and there was simply no help for it. 
I could almost read Viv’s thoughts: “Please God, not another boring old fart!”  She tried to look interested, but I could see that meltdown wasn’t too far off.   
What the hell was I going to say to him? I recollected that, during the time I was in his class, we had studied the novel Das Brandopfer (“The Burnt Offering”), by Albrecht Goes. Albrecht was one of the German authors who, in the era following World War II, had tried to show their fellow countrymen as ordinary people, caught up in something they had found it impossible to control. He and his contemporaries had attempted to explain, to a baffled world which was no doubt reluctant to hear it, how it was that the cultured homeland of Beethoven and Schumann, Goethe and Schiller, should have given life to the Holocaust and to a war which was promulgated with unprecedented ferocity and cruelty.
In the book, Frau Walker reveals the story of her war-time relationship with a young Jewish mother, who, realising that death is near for her and her family, brings her baby’s pram to Frau Walker for her to use rather than let it be destroyed by the German SS along with all her other possessions. That this is the key to the whole story is clearly demonstrated by the opening words of the book:  “Wenn das mit dem Kinderwagen nicht gewesen wäre….”  (“If the affair with the pram had not happened….”).  55 years on, that phrase still stuck in my mind, for reasons I am unable to explain. Now, abruptly and without thinking, I gave voice to it. 
Michael looked at me in surprise. His eyes misted over. In a quavering voice, he said: “Now I feel that all my years as a schoolmaster have not been wasted.”  Almost visibly, he glowed.   I was wholly taken aback. Luckily, Viv came to the rescue. “Photo op!” she cried, and nothing would do but that we should pose in front of the school hall, Viv first of all grasping a rather surprised passing pupil by the arm and persuading him to photograph the three of us together, then me and Michael and then Viv and Michael, whose glow was now approaching that of the evening sunset with a sunny day in prospect. When Viv enthusiastically planted a kiss on his left cheek, I truly thought he would go into melt-down.
Michael and I parted with a firm handshake and a look into each other’s eyes that betokened a recognition that we had both been the victims of circumstance, surroundings and upbringing. 
Michael died only a few weeks later. I hope my words were still in his ears. It had never occurred to me for one second that he was the sort of person who needed comfort, nor that I should be the one to administer it; but, looking back, he must have had intimations of mortality, and had wanted reassurance that his life had not been in vain, that he was leaving behind something of lasting effect. I had unwittingly provided that reassurance, with a brief fragment of a sentence. 
I looked up at Viv from the school newsletter in which Michael’s death had been announced. 
“Do you know what Tetelestai means?” I asked her. 
“No, it’s all Greek to me,” she responded. I looked at her askance.
“It is Greek,” I said, with some asperity. She giggled. I never knew when she was teasing me.
“It’s the last word Jesus uttered when He died on the cross,” I continued. “It means ‘it is accomplished’.  It’s a word meaning that His life’s work had been concluded. He had set out what He intended to do. I think that’s what we had that day with Michael.” Viv nodded. Sentimental to a fault, there were tears in her eyes.  “I believe I enabled him to say “Tetelestai”, to feel that his life had been worthwhile, that it had ‘paid off’ in some way”.
There was a lengthy silence.
“Well,” said Viv, “I can think of one or two tasks at which I would love you to be able to say ‘Tetelestai.’ She stumbled over the word a few times. “Starting with the leaves in the front garden,” she added, pointing to the offending mess.
As I plied the rake which she thrust into my unwilling hands, I pondered the lesson I had learned. Every one of us has the power to make or mar an occasion with just a few words. I know that, all too frequently, I say things that were best left unsaid, but I do try to carry with me, wherever I go, probably the most valuable lesson I ever learnt at my old school, when I gave comfort, at a time when he needed it most, to someone I had always thought of as an arch-enemy. Life is too short for resentment to fester, I decided. 
I shovelled the dead leaves into the garden waste-bag, ready for the incinerator, along with all my bitter memories. 
 
","August 18, 2023 16:31","[[{'J. D. Lair': 'May we all, at the end of our lives, be able to utter the phrase with confidence. :)', 'time': '23:26 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,w0903c,Doc & Oscar Find Family,Deb Popson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/w0903c/,/short-story/w0903c/,Adults,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Happy']",6 likes,"
Doc Weaver was not a doctor; he was a self-proclaimed librarian. He was 82 years old, relieved to have just passed the line drawn by his other family members at 81. He lived in his bookstore: above, behind…in his bookstore. And today, he was searching for something he knew was there, but could not find!Blowing out a gust of frustration, Doc stood with his back to the front doors and stared the length of his domain. Up front here, it was more organized to attract unknowing pedestrians from the heat or from the rain. The windows were dusted and a colorful display of the newest books, or most interesting in his own opinion, were laid out as bait - “Come in, come in from the harsh world outside.”Doc stood at the beginning of a section that grew dimmer as it distanced from the glass front, and the congestion of wall shelves and racks of books began to feel claustrophobic to some visitors. It was here the books that actually sell most often were neatly displayed. School reading materials, cookbooks, how-to books, travel books, fiction, non-fiction, self-help. Some customers went no further back than the Religion/Spiritual section on the left, the Infant/Toddler collection on the right.Just past that row was a seating area, one aged by the countless “seats” that had creased the upholstery during book tours, poetry readings, read to children Saturdays, book club meetings and so many folks looking for a moment’s peace and quiet. Doc loved those seats himself, having picked them out years ago, and has made himself comfortable in all of them at one time or another over the years as he cleaned, stocked… enjoyed his ‘home.’Almost no one went past the seating area because it didn’t look open for browsing. It looked like the Smithsonian of books, where all books come to lay around until someone remembers they are there, takes an interest, dusts it off and opens it to reveal its pages, its secrets. Some books in this 10 x 10 area hadn’t been touched in years yet each one, in Doc’s opinion, could spark someone’s imagination - he loved them all. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped the sweat from his brow and blew another snort of frustration. ‘But, did there have to be so many of them?’ he complained, ‘Damn!’This morning Doc’s best friend, Oscar, had been MIA. Oscar is a mouse, usually an enemy to places like Doc’s, but Oscar wasn’t any mouse. He didn’t nibble the book covers. He didn’t crap all over the shelves or make nests of the paper universe around him. Oscar was respectful and Doc had rewarded that respect with friendship. They hung out together sometimes, Oscar liked getting scratched and when reading in his easy chair Doc had restless hands - a match made in Heaven! Doc couldn’t always finish his meal, so Oscar’s belly was full and he’d learned to trust this particular human. Doc knew Oscar wouldn’t be hiding, it wasn’t his nature. Doc also knew Oscar lived outside the backdoor. He didn’t use the door to come and go, of course, unless by coincidence Doc happened to be there at the perfect moment. Oscar used the miniscule gap in the door’s frame, a result of wood rot or termites; Doc had never looked into it. How many people wanted to break into a dusty old bookstore, really? Doc imagined Oscar hurt and suffering from a fall somewhere in this monstrosity of paper, squished in the alleyway or consumed by one of the stray cats who daily visited the restaurant a few doors down. Oscar never missed breakfast!Realizing he wasn’t accomplishing anything standing here staring, Doc took a few steps toward the rear of the space, toward what he called his office. He laughed at that idea…Office, sure. Before he got more than a few feet, the door chime sounded as someone entered. Doc turned, a big welcoming smile on his face, putting his concern aside for the moment.“Good morning!” he greeted the woman, as he approached, “Welcome. If I can help in any way, let me know. Thank you for coming in.” Doc didn’t like to push but he loved people and enjoyed a chat now and then. No rain, Doc laughed to himself, and not too hot, I wonder what brought her in today.“Hi,” she answered with a warm smile of her own. “I’ve been wanting to come in here for the longest time. I see your place every time I come and go but something always seems to come up.” She laughed. “Not today!” She held out her hand. “I’m Susan Neal. Very nice to finally meet you.”“Likewise,” Doc smiled, shaking her warm hand. Good grip, he thought, for such a little thing. “I’m glad you worked up the courage,” he laughed. “It takes some folks years to come in here, and some I can’t get rid of, so it’s nice to welcome a new face. Gives me a chance to see which one you are.” Doc’s laughter was hearty and contagious.Susan’s eyes sparkled with humor. “If courage is required, I may rethink this,” she giggled. “I’ll take my chances.” She took a quick glance around. “I don’t mean to hold you up from anything you need to do. If it’s OK, I’ll just wander.” She met Doc's eyes with a questioning smile.“Of course, please do,” Doc waved a hand at the racks and shelves. “I’ll go back to my search for the thing that’s here but can’t be found,” he grinned. “Holler if you need anything, my name is Doc,” he offered as he headed toward the rear of the space.Entering the office area, Doc immediately saw Oscar sitting “pretty as you please” on the plate where Doc had his toast earlier. Oscar looked up munching, whiskers twitching as Doc knew meant he was excited and happy. “Oh, there you are,” Doc said, reaching out to pat the small brown head. “You missed the jelly, the best part; where were you?” Like he’s going to answer me, Doc thought. Oscar eagerly cleared the plate of every crumb and scampered up Doc’s sleeve as he picked the plate up to wash up. Oscar liked Doc’s shoulder in warmer weather, and his front pocket in the winter time. Doc glanced into the shop, happy to see Susan still browsing. Sometimes people snuck out when he left the room. That behavior puzzled Doc: did they feel guilty for not buying, for leaving without saying goodbye, to escape interaction with the old man who lived here. Who knew?“Find anything interesting?” he asked, approaching slowly with an armful of books to place. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” He stocked the shelves quickly, easily and ensured the lines were straight and the titles upright. There was always straightening to do when people came and went; few people put things back the way they found them, Doc recognized. Not from any sense of rudeness but because they don’t pay attention to which way the books face or whether they are right side up as they walk away uninterested. It just was a fact of life in the bookstore.Susan smiled. “I love your store. I love the selections you chose to stock, I love the way they are displayed and organized. I think I’ve found my new favorite place.” She laughed.Doc smiled. “Finally!” he loudly professed, fist to the air, “Someone noticed my style, my organizational gift, my superior discernment. Thank you, Susan. You honor me,” Doc bowed, laughing. “You may return whenever you wish!”Susan giggled, “Wow, you’re easy to please.” She put the book she held back in place - rightside up AND facing the right direction, Doc noted. “Actually, I came here to meet you, not to find a book.” She looked into Doc’s eyes now with an intensity he didn’t expect.“Really?” he asked, doubtfully. “There’s nothing about me worth seeking out. I’m a creature of habit, rarely leaving this place,” he waved his arms to include the area around them. “But I’m happy to help however I can,” he concluded.Susan looked at her feet, noticing her shoes weren’t dusty despite the atmosphere. She looked at her hands, wringing a bit nervously near her waist. Susan let off an electric current Doc could sense and he waited patiently. Her eyes rose to the shelves around her and finally came to meet Doc’s eyes once more…intense, searching, hopeful. Doc waited, but reached out to touch her elbow gently, in encouragement.“Earlier you were speaking of finding something you knew was here, but couldn’t be found,” Susan began softly. “My life has been a good deal of that.” She paused, glancing away, gathering herself, then continued as she brought her focused gaze back to Doc, “I was adopted. You are my grandfather.” She exhaled, and stood there waiting, watching Doc’s face.Doc squeezed the elbow he still touched. “Well!” Doc puffed in surprise. “I don’t know that I have a granddaughter, Susan,” he replied softly. “My son was killed many years ago in an accident and, at the time, he lived across the country. I don’t know much about his life then.”Susan took Doc’s hand and led him a few rows to the seating area. Motioning Doc into a seat, Susan sat next to him, still holding his hand. She looked at him in earnest. “I know this is a shock, Doc,” she began. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure. I’ve done a lot of homework on this and I’m certain. Your son, Paul, was my father. My mother was LeAnn Arthur, his girlfriend at Berkeley. I was a surprise they weren’t prepared to deal with, and I was raised by wonderful adoptive parents.”  Doc felt emotions he couldn’t recognize - other than shock. Initially, he felt anger pass through him with the thoughts: “How dare you speak of my dead son?” and “How could my son do this to me?” That balloon of emotion deflated instantly because Paul easily could have fathered a daughter without Doc’s knowledge. Then he felt guilty for not knowing whether his son had a daughter. What kind of father was he? Then he felt joy, he had family! His son had gifted him with a granddaughter, stolen her from him for all those missing years - yet here she is, my granddaughter.Doc’s thoughts and emotions were a rolling sea. Susan held his hand warmly, softly, steadily and she watched the play of emotions run across his aged face. “He didn’t tell anyone,” Susan offered quietly. “He and my mother went away until I was born, gave me up then came back like they had been on a sabbatical. No one knew.”“You seem so adjusted to this,” Doc marveled. “While I feel like the earth is shaking.” He took back his hand and pulled the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow, habit more than necessity.“I understand,” Susan comforted. “As I said, I’ve had a long journey to get here so I’ve made peace with it all, except you.” She smiled and patted Doc’s knee. “Paul and LeAnn did the best they could for me, bringing me into the world healthy and giving me to parents who could love and raise me. I’m grateful,” she said, a tear falling down her cheek.Doc sat in silence. He was 82 years old, for Pete’s sake. How much time did he have left? And he was living in a bookstore with a mouse as his best friend? Way to go, Susan! You scored in the family department - Doc felt embarrassed, guilty, ashamed and guarded. “What do you want from me?” Doc asked, unsure.Susan was silent, staring at the hands folded in her lap. “I want to love you, Doc,” she said simply. “I don’t have my biological mother or father, but I have you for a while. I want to know you. I want to visit with you, learn about my dad and my birth family. Is that OK?” She looked up through blonde bangs, hesitant to ask, or to hope. Doc saw hints of his son’s young face looking back at him.Doc smiled. “You know, I’ve been without family for a lot of years now.” He paused, feeling his own tears welling. “This place, and this mouse…”he said as Oscar, who rarely left the office area, picked this moment to climb his pant leg and ran to sit on his shoulder, “are all I’ve had to worry about, care about, love. Maybe it’s time something human got my attention.” Doc laughed, and immediately felt a sense of relief flood him. Love! Giving up the difficult emotions was easy, really, what did they serve? Under them all was love…for a son he didn’t know well enough, long enough…for a granddaughter whose life evolved to this point without him, but no longer!Susan rose to hug Doc, as he sat in his chair. She wrapped her arms around him and as her lips touched his cheek, she felt the tickle of Oscar’s whiskers. Man and mouse, she laughed to herself, she’d scored two today. “I hope there’s much more of that in my future,” Doc joked. “It took you long enough. What are you, thirty-five?” Susan gasped and sputtered, Doc just laughed, and Oscar, bored now, scampered back toward the food.
","August 14, 2023 18:56","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'A very cute and deep tale, Deb. You have some real talent for writing, I think. Nicely done, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '11:46 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,kkv7wj,The Endless Gallery,Bryan Brady,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kkv7wj/,/short-story/kkv7wj/,Adults,0,"['Friendship', 'Funny', 'Urban Fantasy']",6 likes,"
	I hadn’t felt this moved by a painting in decades. Each tilt of my head brought a different perspective of swirling color. Waves of red swept into eddies of ochre oranges and sulfuric yellows. The longer I looked at it, the less any of the colors wanted to stand still. It might have shown a sunset, or the thin skin of a star. I ached to possess the skill the artist so clearly had possessed. The command of colors, of emotions, all placed on canvas by merely human hands.
	Forget decades, I hadn’t felt this moved in centuries. This was a work worthy of Art themself.
	“Shit, how did I miss this guy?” I asked aloud.
	A snort from the corner of the room. “Probably because he lived in Anatolia during the 16th century,” the security guard said. Her mouth tugged up in a poorly suppressed smirk. “Little before your time, kid.”
	I peered at the card mounted to the wall next to the painting. 1588, sure enough. Where had I been in the 16th century? I'd a vague feeling that I’d been futzing about in the Iberian Peninsula for…reasons. Quetzalcoatl and that whole gang still hadn’t forgiven me for all that.
	“Do you want it?” I asked.
	Silence from the guard’s corner. Then, uncertain, “What?”
	My attention found a new center, and I ignored the few retirees and a gaggle of high schoolers in the room with us.
	“The painting. Do you want it?”
	She gave a laugh that would fool most people. “I’d be pretty poor security if I did.” Tension crept into her shoulders as I walked closer, arms outstretched to indicate the wider gallery around us. “A thousand paintings, some worthy of Art’s personal attention, and you don’t want a single one?”
	“Nope.” She was even more convincing this time. A hint of a raised eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest, but I could feel the lie underneath as sure as I could feel the body I currently wore. As sure as I could feel the raw need burning in her heart. I stopped a few paces from where she stood. We were of a height.
	“But you want something from them. Your working here is nothing but an excuse to orbit condensed works of emotion that can’t be found anywhere else. You worship the scrape of a palette knife against canvas, the caress of a brush swirling in ink, and you wish every night when you leave that you might one day find that same passion yourself before you die.”
	I could see sweat on the guard’s skin.
	“Yes,” she said, the word slipping past her lips. Her brow furrowed. “No!” She cleared her throat, refusing to make eye contact. “Cute act, kid, but keep moving.”
	“Look at me,” I said.
	Confusion tinged with a hint of fear played across her face as her eyes were drawn to mine.
	“You work here in the hope that when you paint those works that no one else is allowed to see in that room whose door you always keep closed, that some hint of the brilliance you stare at every day will one night be staring back at you from your own easel.”
	Silence in the gallery. The guard let out a deep breath. “How,” she whispered, her voice raw.
	I took a last step forward, close enough I could have placed a hand on her shoulder, and focused my presence on the flame at her core. A flame that in seconds grew to a blaze.
	“You’ve had it wrong,” I said, speaking so quietly she had to lean forward to hear. “The brilliance never appears in front of you. It pours out until you’re staring at your own reflection.”
	A long moment stretched itself into existence.
	“What are you?” she asked.
	I backed up, unable to resist a grin. “A reflection.”
	Everyone’s eyes bored into my back as I left. I basked in the sensation of my flame kindling quietly in each of their chests.
	“Bro, what the fuck?” one of the high schoolers said, but then I was gone. I made my way through the rest of the gallery, past the over-priced gift shop. A quick stop to swipe a sandwich from the cafeteria to sate the hunger that had been growing over the last day or so—I was still getting used to how much food a male teenager needs, and then I was out into the museum’s grounds. Museums, I was fully convinced, were modern man’s single best idea other than social media. So many different ways to compare yourself to others; so many different ways to come up wanting.
	I turned onto an alley, munching my sandwich and mentally mapping out the best way to reach the next gallery on my to-do list. It supposedly had a Chelsea from her monochromatic period, but I suspected it was a forgery. Which was even better, honestly, so long as it was done well. Good forgeries—the genuinely good ones, at least—were only ever done by people who looked at a painting, and really, truly needed it.
	The alley turned before I expected it to, dead-ending in a collection of rusted dumpsters and a single deflated car tire. Worn posters reminding people to travel in groups and report any cult-related activity plastered the brick walls. I shoved the last bits of lunch into my mouth and put my hands on my hips. This wasn’t right. It had been a couple hundred years since my last visit, but how much could it have changed, really? I was still trying to figure out which way was north, and why on earth cults would be a problem in an otherwise average city, when a funny-smelling black hood slammed over my head and cinched tight.
	I turned around, even though I couldn’t see a thing. Cloves and other, harsher scents burned my nose. Vertigo was already sweeping through my head. I tugged at the hood, feeling waterproofed fabric before my hands were knocked away by what felt like a baseball bat. I clasped my shoulders to prevent my fingers from breaking when I fell, and smiled in appreciation. This was a pretty decent kidnapping. I hoped I got to meet whoever was responsible. I could no longer tell whether I was still standing. Dreams of others filled my head.
 
**********************
 
	Consciousness was slow to return, but eventually found me naked and strapped face up on a cold table. I flexed bare arms and legs, leather ties on my wrists and ankles restricting me from all but the most basic of movements. A wide belt across my stomach was so tight it was impossible to take a full breath. My head, at least, was unrestrained. It all served to confirm my opinion that whoever had put this together was a professional. The day was looking up.
	“Awake at last, I see.”
	I glanced at a figure wearing white robes off to my side. Their face was obscured by an odd rectangular piece of framed white cloth or paper held in front of their nose by an elastic band around their head. It was the most impractical mask I’d ever seen.
	“How do you even see with that on?”
	The man—I’m assuming man because of his build and voice—seemed put off his stride by my question.
	“Uh, eye holes covered by…that’s, that’s not important.”
	“Were you the one to knock me out and tie me here?”
	“No. But I—”
	“Didn’t think so. You don’t seem very good at this.” I proceeded to ignore him. Maybe I’d get lucky and my actual captor would show up. I tuned the man’s babbling out as my eyes took in the dim, candle-lit room. Age-darkened stonework repeatedly stained by water and growths of lichen suggested either an old cellar, or maybe even the city sewers. An arched doorway loomed up past my feet, the keystone at the top depicting…something. What was that?
	“You are surprisingly calm for one of your age in a place so strange,” the man said loudly. I think he was trying to re-establish some level of control. I suppose I could at least respect the attempt, even if the execution was lacking.
	“I’m older than I look,” I said, still absorbed in the symbol that had been carved into the keystone. Where had I seen that before? A perfect circle marred by a splintering web of cracks through the middle. Something was nagging at the back of my mind.
	It was still nagging there when a procession of people wearing white robes strode in through the archway. Each wore a similar mask to the man standing at my side, though instead of a white rectangle, these all depicted famous works of art.
	No, wait.
	They were works of Art. Chelseas, Kholis, a Hyungin, even a photo of Geratoni’s last sculpture. Art themself had a hand in the creation of these pieces. They were the pinnacle of humanity’s creative endeavors over the last five hundred years. The figures took positions surrounding the table.
	I looked again at the symbol carved into the archway, and groaned as it finally hit me. It was a plate. It was a fucking broken plate.
	“Son of a bitch, you are kidding me.”
	“Do you now come to understand your role here?” the man with the blank canvas asked.
	“The Order of the Broken Plate?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. “You guys are still around?”
	Everyone froze for a moment. Then, “What?” It was hard to tell who spoke, but I think it was the Hyungin off to my left.
	“Yah, you know, the Order of the Broken Plate. Cult dedicated to the God of Art. Your symbol of the broken plate is supposed to represent how any mundane object can through deliberate human action represent something else entirely and become art. Become Art, if your desire is strong enough.”
	The figures around me recoiled as if struck. “What have you been telling him?” another voice demanded. This one was feminine, and I had no trouble figuring out it was the Geratoni. Her arms were held in a ‘what the hell?’ posture.
	“I haven’t told him anything, I swear!” the blank canvas said. “He woke up a few minutes ago, and then started ignoring me.”
	“Then how does he know Forbidden Knowledge of the fourth level?”
	“I have no idea!”
	Oh, this was the worst. I would never live this down. This was bad. “Art,” I called up at the ceiling. “Art! Get yourself down here and sort this out. Your stupid cult has gotten out of hand.”
	“Be silent,” The Hyungin said, slashing her hand in a knife-like gesture aided by the long steel knife she now held.
	“No. Art! Haha, funny joke. I swear I will pee on every painting in this city if you don’t get your sorry ass down here.”
	Cold hands pressed my head back down onto the table. “If you know our closest secrets, then you know your purpose. Be still, be silent, and revel in your donation to the power of Art.” The knife raised high.
	“I’m not donating shit.”
	The knife paused. “Then tell us how you know of our Forbidden Knowledge.”
	“I know because I founded you guys as a fucking prank ages ago to punk Art. Have you all actually been sacrificing people to them this whole time? You know they hate that, right? Sacrificing people was never their thing. Sacrificing time, money, effort and all for sure, but people? Not so…much.”
	It clicked for me that this had been going on for a while. And that it would be entirely reasonable for Art to blame me. And that after being bolstered by several centuries of human sacrifice, their opinion would hold considerably more…weight, than it once did. Shit. I hadn’t thought Art had it in them to be this patient…or this mean. Several interactions I’d had with them over the last hundred years or so were making a lot more sense all of a sudden.
	“Very well,” the Hyungin said. “Keep your secrets.”
	“Oh, Art must be so pissed.”
	The knife descended like the hand of a vengeful—maybe somewhat justified—god. It made a dull punching noise as the blade slid into my chest like it was nothing more than an overripe cantaloupe. Pain flooded my mind, my breath rushing out in a coughing gasp. Several more stabs reduced my heart to a shredded lump of meat.
	“His life to you, Art!” the cultists intoned. “May you prosper, and remember your humble servants!”
	The ostentatious phrases made me want to wince more than the actual stabbing. I vaguely remembered coming up with them in the back of a pub. As far as ritual dialogue went, it wasn’t bad, but it also wasn’t anything worthy of the stage. I’d never been all that good at actually making things, after all. Not my deal. The body I’d had at that time had also been considerably drunk, if I was remembering correctly, so that hadn’t helped much either.
	Hands began working at the ties binding my limbs. The men and women had taken off their masks, and looked more agitated than you’d expect out of a group of folks who thought they’d committed ritualistic murder.
	The lady who’d worn the Hyungin mask yanked the wide belt off my middle. “Now that’s done,” she said, “we need to figure out exactly how he knew of our mysteries. We either have a mole, or a tome has been stolen from the sanctum.”
	A middle-aged man who looked like he could have been a banker waggled the knife at her. My blood coated the blade. “Well, you just killed the best way of figuring that one out.”
	She snatched the knife back and started to clean it. “Don’t get smart with me. If the kid could fire back like he was doing, he was going to keep spinning shit. We weren’t getting anything from him and you know it.”
	I sat up.
	This caused some excitement. I poked at my chest. “Ugh, come onnnnn, I liked this body.” Blood leaked slowly out of the ruin that had been my chest. Two thuds sounded in the room as a couple cultists straight up fainted. I looked around. A few folks had run out of the room. The remainder were plastered against the walls, staring at me with wide eyes. The lady with the knife held it out in front of her like that would do anything.
	An androgynous figure stepped out of the wall to my right as smoothly as someone stepping though a doorway. Their body was made from the same rough stone as our surroundings, and gave a different impression every time you looked at them. First they appeared feminine, then masculine, then somehow both. Features that were Asian, then African, then Polynesian shifted into position, each in the space of a breath, but none appearing to actually change the figure itself. They were constantly in flux.
	Three more cultists dropped unconscious.
	“Ooo, you got three of them. Nice job, Art.”
	“Vy, it’s good to see you again. Been a while.” Their voice was smooth, with an accent I knew was pointless to try and track down. I’d tried. Either it had never existed, or it simply hadn’t existed yet. The remaining humans in the room fell to their knees in supplication before their god.
	“Not true!” I said, holding up a blood-stained finger. “We both went to that bodybuilding competition last year.”
	“Three years ago.”
	“And there was that state fair the year before with that grandma and those pies.”
	“Five years ago.”
	I slid over so my legs dangled off the altar. “What I’m saying is that a friendship like ours can’t be determined by quantity. It’s the quality of interactions that counts. Which, I feel like I should point out, is currently extremely lacking!”
	The priestess on the floor was still holding the knife she’d used to kill my current body. She subtly tried to hide the blade without ever raising from her prostrated position.
	“You’ll be fine,” Art said.
	“It was basically brand new! I’d had it less than a year.”
	“You’ll find a new one. You always do.”
	I made a disgusted noise.
	Art picked up one of the discarded masks in their stone fingers and examined it before tossing it back to the floor. “Now, fair’s fair. You created a cult of human sacrifice in my name, and I watched as you got sacrificed by that same cult. I’d say we’re even.”
	“I literally can’t express how much I wish I had your ability to appreciate schadenfreude in this moment.”
	Art laughed.
	I kicked my feet back and forth. “So, is there really a Chelsea in the gallery across town?”
	“No, it’s a forgery.”
	I punched an increasingly floppy hand towards the ceiling. “Yes! I was hoping it was a forgery. Wanna go?”
	“You’re lacking a functional body at the moment, Envy.”
	I was definitely swaying a little, and I couldn’t feel my feet. Human bodies can only be pushed so far. I let it fall back to the flat stone as my presence expanded to fill the chamber. The remaining cultists collectively gasped, their eyes drawn like lodestones to the works of Art displayed around the room on their discarded masks. Raw emotion burned in their eyes as they stared at the pinnacles of human achievement, and felt me in their veins.
	<None of these ones here really feel me on their own, yah know?>
	“I’m sure you’ll be able to pick someone up on the way. There are enough people in the city that a host will present itself if we take a more scenic route.”
	I mused on that for a second. Art was probably right. And there was a Chelsea to see. <Well, then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!>
","August 15, 2023 03:24",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,zlitif,Anastasia,Temitope Ajao,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zlitif/,/short-story/zlitif/,Adults,0,"['Fiction', 'Coming of Age', 'Contemporary']",6 likes,"
My birth was an oddity, at least that’s how they told it.Tireless and prodigious, I was born a month earlier than what my parents had expected. “It’s all part of the Lord’s plans sister Maria. Yunno He works in mysterious ways” the pastor’s words, part religious, part anesthetic, reduced Mother’s tendency for paranoia. But science had no need for verbal tongue twisters, the doctor warned that I might not make it; too “weak”, too “feeble”, too “frail.” Mother paid her no mind, and with a tight grip in screams of blood, she brought me to the light. Pangs of pain coursing through her, she christened me Rosemary- a memento to her mother.She held me tight after then, with an umbilical cord of discipline. Rules within rules within rules. Nothing was ever enough for her “Your hair is too long, cut it!” “Change that skirt you look like a whore!” Mother was a constant reminder of my ineptitude, my fatal flaw. An original sin that followed me to the world. My childhood and preteen years filled with fear of her prying eyes, with words so austere they lodged into the deepest corners of my mind. My rebellion started slow like the embers of a small flame. Tiny pockets of arguments that rose sky high by the time I turned 16. She and I, like predator and prey, battled relentlessly. Eager to prove maturity, I rejected mother and all that she stood for. It made me keen to do it. I didn't have interest in connection or love. I knew it would hurt her so I told him we could. He had been pestering me all summer and I knew he really liked me. He wasn’t bad-looking and had a gentle demeanour, so I convinced him not to get them. Assured him in a way only a woman could that he would pull it off, pull back before he lost himself. Mother said she knew it the moment she saw me, throwing up in the bathroom. “Who’s the father?” her calm exterior betrayed by the shakiness in her breath. “It’s the pastor’s son, Charlie. And I’m keeping the baby.”The night marked the nadir of our relationship; two bishops on different diagonals, we crisscrossed out each other’s lives. Her attention doubled down on my brother, Isaiah, whom she had always wanted. Mine went to Anastasia my newborn daughter. The baton of responsibility passed to me through youthful exuberance. Breastfeeding, multitasking and a dangerous diet of sleep deprivation, my body became her source of livelihood. A lifeline that I could not bear to decline. But Anastasia became an all-consuming need; a pipeline of annoyance and anguish. Her cries and tantrums, and the reflection of my mistake. It scared me down to my bones. I called a couple of friends and asked them if my thoughts were normal. What good mother hates her own child? Fantasizes about absconding to the ends of the earth. A cruel mother that’s what is. A girl in woman’s clothing. So I decided to do it, in the summer of ’92. I had heard about it on the radio and thought it to be false. A phony excuse to traffic kids away. But the phone call made it all clear. There were people without children, desperate and needy. Pinning for the free gift I was given. The call to the agency made it more real. “There are a couple of parents on the waiting list, should I give them your number?” The lady with the smooth tone got my approval. We were scheduled to meet Monday, back at my place. As if prompted by mother nature herself the days before I would give Anastasia up came slowly. Creeping forward untowardly. I prepared like nothing was wrong. “It’s the best decision for her” “She’ll have a better home with better parents” “They’ll give her all that she needs.” My monologue of guilt held down by primal connection. “Where would she sleep?” “Would they know about her allergies?” “Can I trust a family called Goldstein?” Sunday was the worst of it. Little Anne in her Sunday best staring at me with her wide big eyes. She had started making sounds, and I heard her make a tiny “Mama” hands stretched as I walked into the room with her breakfast. The woman with the smooth voice called again. Wanted to know if everything was all right. “Everything’s fine” I fibbed “Just getting Anastasia ready.” Monday, like all days, came as planned. They were at my place early. Early enough to not get tangled in rush hour. The Goldstein’s, a sexagenarian pair, came bearing gifts. Business mogul and former Investment banker, Mr. Goldstein had made a fortune back in the day. Time had forced him to retirement, but the old tiger carried the same air of intensity that I had always associated with men in suits. Mrs. Goldstein unlike her husband had a timeless look on her. Her face, undeterred by age and senescence, radiated through the entire room. We began the formalities of the whole thing. Signatories and legalese. Little Anne stumbled into the room, inviting a cacophony of 'Awww' from Mrs. Goldstein. My little Anne, the real star of the show. Mrs. Goldstein took her up, and with one hand underneath she twirled gently across the room. Anastasia laughing all through and made a tiny “Mama.” The twin towers had fallen. My baby girl, taken before me. I knew it was the right thing to do. The smart thing, the wise thing. An education, a warm bed, and a duo of parents. She would call me years later to thank me. And who knows maybe we could reconnect. Go for tea while we caught up on our lives. She would tell me about boys, and I would listen intently. That was how it was supposed to go. But I couldn’t go through with it. No good mother can. The bond between a mother and daughter is a volcano of emotions, and mine had erupted. I gave my rejoinder to them politely. Anastasia was going to stay. Mr. Goldstein shook his head, his wife cried plaintively.I took little Anne in. Crib still intact. She was holding on to my blouse, her little fingers just below my heart. I felt her within me, inside of me. Two peas in a pod. I rocked her straight to bed, made sure she was asleep. TipTiptoeing through the room, I went up to the phone, I knew it had belated voicemails. And I knew where they were from. Her voicemails were my only connection to a bygone past. She told me all the things I needed to know and all the things I didn’t. She told me that she loved me. Begging to see my little Anne. Isaiah had gotten into Engineering school with a full scholarship, Dad had an argument with a colleague at work and was placed on a forced leave. The mayor of our town was building a library, the only one we would have.  I never knew what to say, the whole seemed too abstract. The present and the past, and my awareness of it all. I heard little Anne cry from her crib. “Probably a nightmare.” The sun was setting and Tuesday was being born. Anastasia was with me, my compadre through the thicket. I picked up the phone and dialed the same ten digits I had already memorized. A voice picked up, sounding tired and frail.""Hello.""“Hello Mom, it’s Rose.”
","August 18, 2023 21:51","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Touching! Very touching.💕', 'time': '00:59 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,wr7x24,Blind,Shruthi Sri,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wr7x24/,/short-story/wr7x24/,Adults,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
	Nadia was irritated. Her temper was always close to its boiling point these days; any minor hitch was enough to set her off. Today was no exception. She grumbled to herself as she blindly groped along the surface of her dresser, hoping to make contact with her glasses. Where had they gone?
	She racked her brain, trying to remember. She had removed her glasses just a minute ago, placing them carelessly on the dresser, turning, and leaning back against the wood in exhaustion. Nadia recalled rubbing her eyes and taking several deep breaths before reaching for the spectacles, which, of course, hadn’t been where she had left them.
 They’ve probably just fallen to the floor, she told herself sternly. Muttering under her breath, she sank slowly to her hands and knees, all the while casting her arm out wildly in front of her. Her hand hit the open suitcase on the ground with a dull thud, and she drew her arm back immediately, cursing in pain. This was ridiculous. There was nothing else for it; she would have to ask Harry to help her find them, no matter how unappealing the idea of asking for his help was.
	“Harry!” she shouted loudly, to no response. Nadia felt a familiar anger start to blossom in her chest. She always had to call his name multiple times before he even acknowledged her. She bellowed his name again and attempted to calm her quickly growing annoyance as she heard the slow pounding of his footsteps down the hall. He was in no rush to get to her, she noted resentfully.
	“What?” Harry demanded, sounding irritated himself, as Nadia had known he would. “What do you want?”
	“You don’t have to take that tone,” she started, and sensed rather than saw him open his mouth to snap back. “Anyway, I’ve misplaced my glasses,” she hurried on.
	“Your glasses?” Harry repeated. Nadia could see his blurred image moving around the room, searching. She imagined how she must look right now, seated hopelessly in the corner of their bedroom next to her packed belongings. She had been planning to leave for her sister’s house tonight; what would she do if she couldn’t find her glasses by then? A sharp panic overtook her at the thought, and she coaxed it away -- what an unreasonable fear. The glasses certainly weren’t lost forever; Harry was probably going to locate them any second now.
	She squinted up at his fuzzy form just in time to see him resignedly collapse onto the bed. “Can’t find them. Don’t you have a spare pair?”
	“This was my spare pair,” Nadia said, frustration creeping into her voice. “My regular pair broke last month, and I never got around to replacing it, what with all this mess about the divorce.”
	She couldn’t see him, but she knew he had cringed. He always winced every time she spoke about the divorce aloud, as if the word itself were poisonous. Nadia didn’t understand what the issue was; they were ending their marriage, weren’t they? What was the point of beating around the bush about it? Harry had seemed strangely unwilling to proceed with the divorce paperwork despite being the one who had asked for the divorce.
	She sighed. “Look, Harry, don’t you have a spare pair of glasses? I know our prescriptions aren’t exactly the same, but at least I’ll be able to see something. Can I borrow them?” He grunted in assent, and Nadia heard him rummage through the drawer of his bedside table.
	Harry was almost as visually impaired as she was. Years ago, they had joked that they would produce children with the worst eyesight ever when they decided to have kids. Yes, Nadia thought to herself bitterly, it had always been “when we have children,” never “if we have children.” But that ship had sailed, she reminded herself. She was roused from her recollections by an apologetic grunt from Harry.
	“Nadia?” he began uncertainly. “I… can’t find my spare pair. But also…”
	“What?” she demanded, a slight trace of panic invading her voice. Harry rarely sounded so unsure.
	“Don’t be angry, Nadia…”
	“Don’t be angry about what?” she growled. This situation was quickly spiraling out of control. She should have been fully packed by now.
	“I also… can’t find my first pair.”
	“Your first pair?” Nadia asked blankly. “You don’t mean… you don’t mean the pair that was on your face when you came into the room, do you?”
	“Yes.”
	“Yes? Is this a joke? What, did they vanish into thin air?”
	“It… certainly seems like it.”
	Nadia let out a low moan of distress. “Harry, this isn’t funny,” she said. “I don’t have time for this right now; I need to --”
	“Look, Nadia,” Harry began. His voice was worried and shaky, and this calmed Nadia’s anger more than anything else. Could this actually be happening? “I don’t know what happened, or how it happened. I know I’m forgetful and messy, but this is absurd, even for me. All I know is that I have lost my glasses, too, and you know that I can’t see very much more than you can right now.”
	Nadia sat in stunned silence. This was not at all how she had imagined her Friday evening; she had expected to throw some clothes in her suitcase and be off. Instead, here she was, seated blindly on the floor, accompanied by her soon-to-be ex-husband, who was just as sightless as she was. The situation was ludicrous, she thought to herself with an involuntary giggle.
	A small noise startled her from her musings, and Nadia realized with a jolt of unrecognizable emotion that Harry was chuckling along with her. She couldn’t help herself, and within seconds they were both convulsed with laughter. Her anger had evaporated; the situation just seemed funny now, just overly bizarre.
	“You know,” Harry murmured, once their giggles had subsided, “We would have found this hilarious, back in the day, I mean.”
	“We’re laughing at it now, too,” Nadia pointed out.
	“I know, but we would have made something of the situation. We would have enjoyed it while it lasted.”
	“Enjoyed… our blindness?” Nadia said incredulously, but she had an inkling of what he meant. A year or two earlier, before the hospitals and emergency surgeries and constant disappointments had turned their relationship sour, they’d have relished the opportunity to be together, ludicrous as the situation might be.
	She carefully pulled herself upright and joined him on the navy blue blur that was their bed. The emotion she hadn’t been able to name shot through her again, seemingly landing at the base of her throat and lodging itself there. Steeling her resolve, Nadia inhaled deeply. “Let’s enjoy this, then. What would we have done?”
	Harry’s voice wavered as he began to speak, and Nadia knew he was deciding whether to play along. For a fleeting moment, she wished he would snap at her and tell her this was ridiculous, that they had better call for help and rectify this situation. A fight, at least, would be familiar territory, comforting in a horrible sort of way.
	He didn’t try to start an argument, however, and Nadia couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. “We would have probably tried to do something enjoyable anyway… you know, we would have thought it was just more fun to watch each other struggle without our glasses.”
	“Something enjoyable…” Nadia repeated. “Are you hungry? Do you want to cook something? We used to cook together all the time, remember?”
	“Yes, that was before you started screaming at me for every drop of food spilled on the counter while cooking,” Harry remarked bitterly. “But,” he continued hastily, as if expecting her to retort with her own cutting remark -- which, Nadia admitted to herself, was not improbable in the least -- “I’m game. Let’s do it.”
	Nadia felt his hand close around her upper arm and almost jerked away before she grasped that he was trying to help her up. They stood and stumbled toward the hallway, holding tight to one another as they tripped over furniture and almost slammed into a wall.
	“Maybe it’s for the best that all our attempts to reproduce were foiled,” Nadia joked as they groped for the kitchen door’s handle and were met with solid wall instead. “It would have probably been against the wishes of natural selection.”
	An uncomfortable, stony silence met her words, and she immediately regretted what she had said. “Sorry --” she stammered. “I was just kidding, you know, because we’re both so blind, and you know, survival of the fittest and all that….”
	She trailed off, feeling guilty, but the shame was almost immediately overpowered by annoyance. How dare he make her feel bad for trying to lighten the mood? Why was he the one offended by the joke? Hadn’t it been Nadia who had spent heartbreaking nights in hospital gowns? Hadn’t it been her body that had suffered, her body that had betrayed her? She opened her mouth to tell him so, but that something that had settled at the bottom of her throat caught the words before they could come out. For some reason, she didn’t want to spoil what was happening now. She swallowed the words, and, locating the door’s handle, swung it open and pulled Harry into their kitchen.
	Looking back, Nadia doesn’t remember whose idea it was to bake a cake, but she does remember laughing harder than she had in months as they struggled to recall the recipe for hummingbird cake. Harry still knew most of the instructions, Nadia realized with a pang -- it had been their favorite cake, and they had baked it together for almost every anniversary and birthday. They both had gaps in their memory, however, and they spent the evening happily inventing steps to fill in the blanks.
	“Can you feel this? Does it feel more like a teaspoon measure or a tablespoon measure to you -- wait! What are you doing?”
	“What do you mean, what am I doing? Clearly, I’m mashing a banana.” Laughter.
	“I don’t know what you’re doing to that banana, but mashing is definitely not the word I’d use. And I don’t think that’s the mixing bowl! I think that’s the microwave! I think the mixing bowl is on your left!” More giggling.
	“And stop eating all the pineapple! We only have one can!”
	“I’m eating the mashed banana, actually.”
	“Then why is it in a can?” A thud.
	“Oops.”
	“I need a drink. I’ve never appreciated corrective lenses so much in my life.”
	Harry fumbled for a cabinet with his flour-covered hands. Had her vision been restored, Nadia would have berated him immediately for the streaks of white powder left in the wake of his touch; however, neither of them could see the current wreckage of the kitchen. Nadia could imagine it, of course, but for some reason, she could summon no anger, only mirth. The kitchen would eventually be cleaned up, she assured herself.
	“Ouch!” Harry yelled, too close to her ear. “I stepped on whatever you dropped earlier!”
	He stumbled backwards, straight into Nadia, and the breath left her lungs as his elbow met her diaphragm. She toppled, and they collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor, covered in flour and sugar and something sticky.
	“I… I think we broke an egg,” Nadia said breathlessly as she attempted to untangle her limbs from Harry’s and stand up. They rose a few feet before tripping over one another and falling back down on top of each other. They dissolved into laughter once more; Nadia clutched her stomach as she distinctly heard Harry snort.
	Nadia wasn’t sure who initiated it, but in the next moment, she was wrapped in a tangled embrace and pulled into a sticky kiss. She felt flour on Harry’s lips and eggshells in his hair -- how had that happened? -- and something lurched in the pit of her stomach. Just as the kiss began to evolve into something deeper and more passionate, Nadia’s arm, on which she had been propping herself up, slipped on the mess on the floor and gave out beneath her. Her head shifted, and Harry’s teeth slammed into hers awkwardly and painfully. They pulled themselves apart, panting in confusion.
	After a few moments, Harry broke the silence first. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
	Nadia paused. He wasn’t apologizing for the spoiled kiss, she knew. And neither was	she -- “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly. She rose shakily to her feet and extended a hand to pull him up.
	They stood in silence for a moment, and Harry’s voice once again cut through the quiet, this time to Nadia’s slight annoyance. “Nadia.”
	“Shh,” she muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
	“No,” Harry replied, more insistently, disbelief in his voice. “Nadia.” He grabbed her hand and guided it along the kitchen counter to where his other hand was grasping something. For a minute, Nadia didn’t realize what she felt under her fingertips; suddenly, though, it became abundantly clear.
	There were two pairs of glasses sitting neatly on the kitchen countertop.
	Harry and Nadia grabbed them up and shoved them on their noses clumsily, hands still covered in ingredients that would never become hummingbird cake. Looking back, Nadia remembers avoiding Harry’s eyes as she busied herself cleaning the mess they had made. Harry had followed suit. Nadia recalls the uncomfortable, vibrating air between them as she announced, as casually as she could, that perhaps she shouldn’t be driving to her sister’s that night, and maybe she would just go the next morning. They went to bed without further conversation, each awkwardly huddling on one side of the bed.
	The next morning, as Nadia rolled her suitcase out into the hall, she found the divorce papers signed and ready on the coffee table. Something swelled in her chest -- was it heartbreak or relief? -- but as she walked out of the house that had been hers and Harry’s, she felt more free than she had in a long, long time.
","August 15, 2023 18:48",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,af5chy,Bloody Daughterhood,Allison Cho,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/af5chy/,/short-story/af5chy/,Adults,0,"['Crime', 'Fantasy', 'Horror']",5 likes,"
 The heartbeat in the womb is very loud - as loud as a church bell that wakes up the whole town. It thudded at such speed with blood pouring into me with warmth. The dull and soft sound is imprinted in my brain. The pinkish-orange light coming through the belly was my whole world before the contraction started. It squeezed and pushed me. The first pain I feel - it was as ecstatic as the dance of the burning flame. The light was overwhelming my sight, the cold rushed into my skin, enveloping me with the shiver.
 It is an unfortunate coincidence that I never had a glimpse of my mother's face. When a nurse offered her to hold me, she refused. Then, I was carried in a basket with a blanket covering my face. If I had a glimpse of any part of her face - her eyes, lips, or jawline - I would have remembered it till I die and must have found my mother with it. But on the other hand, I would have wasted my whole life finding. The only heritage she left to me was the memory of her fingertips. 
 The orphanage was surely a bad place but it was not as horrible as you imagine, especially when it is the only place you've ever been to. The only problem is that it erases the sense out of you. Endlessly numbing till the ground snap and drop you into endless nothingness.
 It took me five years to figure out that I had an exceptional ability. I could remember everything I chose to remember. I call it a burning process. When I see something I want to remember, I gaze like drawing lines over it. The curves, the rim, the colors. I become a painter, recreating the whole scenery from another point of view. I started to collect beautiful sights while letting the ugly memory dim into forgetting. The poignant color of roses, the glass-like fragile blue of the sky, deepening green of the grass. But the most beautiful thing in the world was humans.
 It was rare to have beautiful people in the orphanage, but every time it did, I made friends with that person. My first pick was Ms. Frost, the teacher who visited from time to time and taught me how to write. Ms. Frost was in her 20s by the time. Her skin was white and soft like a fluffy cushion she used to tap on her face. Her lips with perfectly round and plump, looking like blooming buds. She taught me how to spell my name, Valerie. V with her white teeth brushing the inside of her lip, al putting her tongue backward, and Lerie pulling up the edge of her lips almost to light smile.
 Beau was the most beautiful kid I have ever seen. Though he was in the orphanage only shortly. He was adopted quickly and we had to become friends in a short amount of time. In the daytime, I would be his sister, taking care of him, and making him laugh. In the nighttime, I would paint every curve of his round cheeks, long and thin lashes that are smeared into the darkness with a sense of duty. His eyes were the color of hazel with green mixing like the leaf among the branches. You cannot imagine the loss I felt when the chubby fingers left me without giving a kiss to my palms.
 When I was seven years old, I grew into height to reach the mirror. That was the first time I saw vivid reflection of myself. When our eyes met at the surface of the silver mirror, I thought our gaze into each other would break the mirror into a million shiny pieces. I was not particularly beautiful like Beau's angelic face or Ms. Frost's womanly face. But I had strong features even as a kid. I had a steep sloping jaw and a straight nose bridge. My eyelids were gently covering my eyes like moss covering a pebble. My eyes were the color of unfathomable green. As I looked deeper into the mirror, deeper into my eyes, I felt like I was pulled into it. They were the only pair of eyes that looked at me with meticulous observation, tender affection, and curiosity. I was the first person who showed true interest in me.
 That night, I lay on my bed, fiddling with the memory of my face. It was like falling at first sight. She, the girl in the mirror, who is firmly closing her lips with determination was my family, my companion. With her so strong will in her eyes, I would be safe. I was sure that I would be able to achieve anything I want. The time in the orphanage slowed down. Every day was filled with practice. I studied myself over and over. I was building a sculpture of myself in my mind.
 From time to time, I got permission from the director to go for a walk outside. In the forest, I collected the way the sun collides with green leaves and makes them illuminate with orange transparency. The patterns of the bark, the line of the ants, and the sharp end of the leaf. The forest on the outskirt of the city was always deadly quiet. But as I walked deeper inside, it filled with sound. The chirpings, exotic melody of a small windpipe of a blackbird. It has shades of blue and red in its glistening rich feather. Take another step, and walk, the forest was full of minted air that is almost tangible while it's forming into dew. A haze in the dawn that hits the white sunshine like a floating galaxy. A silver spider web knitting death to catch the wings of the fly. Their silence told me that the human tongue cannot vocalize.
 Whenever the numbness ate my heart, I visited the forest to wash everything off. The memories, my obsession, my unfulfilled mind trembling uneasily, and gray that surrounded me - gray building, gray wall, and gray clothes. They were all washed away by the illuminating vision of the forest. Until my seventeenth birthday, the forest was the motherly world that guarded my childhood.
 It was easy to earn money for me. With a few tests and a certificate scored top by accurate memory, I became a judge for selecting models, an authenticator of paintings, and a helper to accountants who are running out of time. Meanwhile, I rewarded myself for everything I missed. I bought a house, clothes, and vacations. Some might say that I am superficial, but money indeed makes you feel potent. I felt invincible. Then, something came up, just to remind me of the rudimentary vulnerability I have as a human.
 Yesterday, I was returning home late at night. Streets were glistening under the lamplight like stardust. The sky was completely black like the underground. The breeze was washing over swiftly but it felt like I was buried alive under the darkness smothering me. The apartments lighted with orange and yellow put up shadows of residents on the curtain like shadow play. It still made me grin.
 I heard a squeak, a scream that was covered instantly. I turned in that direction, holding out my house key as a weapon. Something told me not to run or speak or even breathe. Upon the slippery road made of bricks, I stealthily went around the corner not making a sound. I stood by the corner and planted my legs strong to launch at any time. There was a man with a knife, blazing with the cold jet-like reflection from the shimmer of the moon emerging from the cloud. His bluish dark coat was glinting with the dark liquid oozing from the victim's neck. A girl was in his arms, dropping her head backward. Her white neck under the moonlight became a white sheet to emphasize the blood dripping from the wound.
 I covered my mouth and turned around. I wasn't thinking at the time. My feet delivered me to the police station, not needing my ration to command it. When the police arrived, the man was gone. Only the girl was lying on the street, dead, cold, and white that looked like a scream to me. Her eyes were closed but her lips were slightly opened as if trying to let out a moan. She was wearing a purple coat and a black dress. Looking like midnight came to life, her black hair was as dark as night. It could not be differentiated from the clinging shadow.
 After a few hours, a detective came. Narrowing his eyebrows, and wrinkling his forehead, he looked into the scene of the incident and came to me. He had such empathetic eyes, I wondered how could he be working as a detective.
 “Did you see who did it?” I nodded.
 “Blue coat, about six feet tall, black hair. He was holding a knife in his right hand, holding the woman in his left hand.”
 “Do you work in this field?” He asked me, surprised.
 “No, I have acute memory. It's a disorder.”
 “Maybe a blessing. We might need you for the investigation. Will leave your contact?” I left my phone number and left. I noticed the chill sliding down my spine.
 Over the night, I rewatched the scene over and over again. The man was wearing gloves, but there was a part revealing his white skin. His coat - I remembered that I'd seen it in the market before.
 The woman. She was bleeding, the cut on her throat was gaping to gush out dark blood. My head spun each time I saw her in my memory. Her bright red lips, her round and broad eyelid colored with ash. Her fingertips hung like chandelier ornaments, lifeless.
 Though it made me nervous and nauseating, it had such ecstasy. It was hard to deny that the sight of her death was beautiful. I had this weird feeling of an overwhelming urge to stare into the blood.
 The beautiful things existed in seconds. It always faded away and that's one of the reasons it was so beautiful. The sparkling sunshine on the surface of water breaks into different angles, the sunbeam that cannot be directly looked at. But blood was still, yet it was beautiful in that motionless coldness.
 Blood struck me like lightning. Its color was a toxic hallucinogen to me. I started to fall into a daydream.
 In my dream, red roses bloom. Under the deep blue sky gaping its round roof of the mouth, the red roses shake and its brushing sound is just like a whisper of singsong. I look up and there is no sun or moon. I am trapped in a timeless dawn. I start to walk.
 The world looks so different from the reality. Though I know that I am in a dream, I cannot wake from it. I walk like I am flying in the air. To a house it takes me. I open the door, and there is this emptiness with silence awaiting me. The ticking sound of the clock continues.
 The wallpaper is drawing gray brackens, and it reminds me of decay. The thick rug, the china plates with silver rims. There is a heavy red curtain hiding something behind. It is standing in the aisle. I draw it with one hand, slowly. Black hollow full of blood. Strangely, it doesn't shock me. I feel the wind coming from the other side and walk inside it. The smell of rose perfume gets stronger as I get deeper.
 I hear a sound before I see anything. It is a lullaby sung by a woman's voice. Then, I see her, sitting in a chair made out of gaunt branches that barely supports her. She looks up, removing her eyes from the baby to me. She is beautiful. Not pretty, but beautiful. Her forehead looks grave like the stutue's. Her hair is dark and silky like the skin of a snake. Her bare feet sticking out from her skirt is whiter than the pale winter sunlight.
 Suddenly, I move in a way I do in dreams where my conscience becomes a spectator and my body moves itself. My body leans to her and holds the woman's hands. I watch her white fingertips stained with green and pink vessels. I brush it off with my palm and I gasp. She was my mother. The woman with the hands that pulled the blanket over my head deserted me and suffered for me.
 I held her in my arms. Once again, I feel her heartbeat and warmth transferring to me. I notice the mirror standing in front of us. We look like twins in it. I walk closer and closer. It is not a mirror but an aisle, leading to another space.
 A woman is lying on a table in labor. She is screaming and sweating. Blood is pouring down, turning the white fabric lying on the floor into red. The blood gathers more and more, and it makes a big puddle. I see myself in it. The reflection of myself, rippling as the blood drops in the puddle to make a wave.
 The memories that I have collected open like a box full of butterflies. In the middle of it, me and my mother lie there. I want to deny that I am tied to her other than by coincidence. But feeling her blood in my vein, her reflection in mine, I let the anxiety grow. The anxiety that I was not abandoned but I killed my mother. She is still screaming, opening her mouth to let out a shriek. She is almost losing her conscience. She is too tired, lost a lot of blood, and water. She is so fragile, her breath is getting faster and lighter.
 
 “Ring, ring.” It was the phone call that woke me from the dream. I was sitting on a chair, staring at the plain white wall with eyes full of tears.
 “Yes?” The voice of the detective came from the phone.
 “I need you to take a look at our suspects.”
 “I'll be there by five.” I hang up and get outside. The sun is turning pinkish-orange which warms my skin with its shiny kisses. I walk in the streets that were once shadowed by death in the night.
 Men with blue coats and black hair pass me by but I don't shiver. Now I know that I am one of them, a murderer.
 I met the detective. He was in a brown jacket, greeting me with a formal grin. There were four men in the jail. One had blue eyes, two had brown eyes, and one had green eyes. The one with green eyes, he looked only fifteen. He was tall but his face was like a baby's that is still forming up in round hills. His eyes met mine nervously. Like a dove fluttering its wings in the presence of a predator.
 “The fourth one is the killer,” I said with a determined voice.
 “The one with the green eyes.” The detective nodded, the prisoner yelled, and others walked away with indifferent faces.
 The fury and anger I aimed at the stranger who gave birth to me turned to me. After all, I was the sinner.
 I went over to the deserted graveyard behind a hospital. Though I didn't know what grave was my mother, nor was the dream a true happening, nor was the green-eyed man the killer. I dropped my blood drops over the graves.
 When I look into the mirror, I see this girl. A girl who is cruel and brutally beautiful. In her blood, her mother lives. In her blood, her guilt boils. When I see my reflection, I see the power that can destroy anything, even myself. But her beauty makes me hesitate. I am not sure if it is her beauty or just affection for myself. But till the blood runs in my vein, I will live as two. As my mother and her daughter, the rage and guilt, the victim and the predator. The world hunts and is hunted.
","August 19, 2023 02:09",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,o7dbqs,And the rain will wash our problems away ,Brenda Torres,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o7dbqs/,/short-story/o7dbqs/,Adults,0,"['Friendship', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
	“Rain’s really coming down hard huh?” And it has. It has been raining for a little over two weeks now. But the thunderstorms are nice white noise to fall asleep to. While everyone else in Itzel's family has been having trouble sleeping, Itzel has had no trouble falling asleep. The thunder or lightning are not what wake her up. Her dreams had been filled with memories of Peter.  
	“Yeah, it doesn’t look like the gathering won't happen then” she tries her best to sound disappointed, but her sister can easily see through her.  
	“Really?” Itzel does not have to turn around to know her sister is her judgmental pose, eyebrow raised, arms crossed and all.  
	“What? I am just making an observation; I doubt anyone would want to spend the day getting soaked” Which is true but-  
	“That is not the excuse you’re using to get out of this” God Damit, Itzel turns in time to see her sister walks away from the living room. She scrambles up from the couch and follows her sister into the kitchen.  
	“Oh, come in Julie, I more than likely won’t be the only one-”  
	“Ditching?”  
	“I wouldn’t call it ditching.” Itzel rolls her eyes, pulling up a chair while Natalie rummages through the kitchen cabinet.  
	“Considering our family is the one hosting the event I would say it counts as ditching. Come on, you know we’re supposed to show up and mingle in these kind of events” Natalie reminds her younger sister as if it’s something that hasn’t been ingrained in both their heads. Inheriting the family business and keeping a good relationship with their parents business partners, on top of their kids.  
	“Okay but-“ 
	“But nothing, I warned you and you didn’t want to listen. Look, I get that you were just doing as dad suggested, but forming a relationship-” 
	“How many times do I have to tell you guys were just friends?” Honestly having the same conversation with her family gets old real quick.  
	“A friendship is a relationship stupid. If you form a personal relationship with these people it’ll only get messier. They’re going to be involved in your life for ever or until one of you guys quit and give up your position.” Natalie has her back faced towards Itzel as she washes the rice. Taking in a deep breath, she lets her shoulder drop. Already Itzel knows where this conversation is headed.  
	“Do you, regret it? Was it worth having your baby sister to deal with the consequences because you couldn’t keep it professional?” As soon as the words leave her mouth the tension in the room thickens and Natalie drops the rice in the sink but refuses to turn around, she can feel the tears building up. Tears of anger but tears regardless  
	“You do not even know what you’re talking about. You know what? Fine don’t show up. God you’re such a brat” Natalie waves her hands in the air as she walks away from her sister, abandoning the rice. Itzel glares as her sister storms out of their shared apartment.  
	Itzel does not usually mind going to events, she is a very sociable person and gets along well with her parents' business partners and their kids. And that is the problem she is having. Natalie was not the only one who had warned her about getting attached to her peers. Involving personal feelings, platonic or not, with business never ends well for anyone. Especially one party, the unlucky bastard that ends up being collateral. In this scenario, Itzel is the collateral.  
	Her parents run a manufacturing company for action figures, one of their biggest clients, the reason they have the reputation they do, is all thanks to the Johnsons. The Johnsons provide product to nig name companies to sell the figures her parents company produces. The only reason they have products to make is because they are supplied with materials thanks to the Johnsons connections. Her family is the odd one out. Itzel's parents did not get to go to an Ivy League, did not grow up as wealthy as their business partners.  
	But life is a funny thing, her dad was always making friends with the people who would walk into his parents' shop. It just so happens he knew exactly what to say to Mr. Johnson and gained his trust unknowingly to invest in her father's dreams. Mr. Johnson had kept his wealth, conections and company a secret for a long time until he deemed Itzel's father worthy of having a shot in the cutthroat business of action figures. Production is important but not as important as having big-name vendors buying from you or having a good reliable source to provide you with the best materials at the best price. You can really find anyone to step up to the plate and help produce little plastic toys for men who claim they would never play with dolls. That is how Itzel’s father was able to make a name for himself, he was the lucky somebody who stumbled onto the plate.  
	The Johnsons have a son, Peter, the same age as Itzel. Both being curious children and relentless, the two quickly became friends at one of their parents’ social gatherings. The other kids were a bit more stuck up or shy, always refusing to join in whatever adventure Itzel and Peter would find themselves in.  
	As they both grew older their relationship grew stronger, but it was also delicate. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had noticed how close their kid became to Itzel and had thought they should do their best to preserve it. To make it a little more permanent, to secure and lock each other in to one another. That was the back-up plan at least. Natalie had been a few years older when she started dating the older Johnsons kid, Mike. Natalie and Mike had once been engaged, in love and ready to merge their lives and their parents' businesses. The wedding was a couple of months before the cheating scandals started rising. Tension grew, the fights became more frequent and, on a few occasions, violent. No one bats an eye when the guy slaps his fiancé, but let the fiancé scratch the man, and you have the messiest breakup. It was explosive, and the Johnsons were quick to jump behind their eldest and defend Mike against any accusations because as far as they were concerned there was no evidence to prove Mike had ever laid a hand on Natalie.  
	The breakup along with the domestic abuse charges were enough to cut ties with both companies. The Johnson’s wanting nothing to do with the family of a domestic abuser (according to them) and Itzel's family felt the same way. Itzel and Peter had never paid any close attention to their siblings' relationship or messy breakup, being too engrossed with their newfound freedom in college. It was then that an arranged marriage between Itzel and Peter could be the perfect cover story for the Johnson’s discovery about Natalies origins. Their parents would relinquish half of their company over, and with the marriage be permanently bound to produce more product for a cheaper price.  
	Natalie had always suspected there was something wrong with her, she did not feel like she belonged. According to the Johnsons she did not. Natalie was the “product” of her mother's previous mistake. There was already too much invested in Natalie to kick her to the curb but because of her father's agreement to pass down the company to his blood like everyone else, they were in a tight spot.  
	Using their other children as a backup plan seemed logical, just because Natalie and Mike fell out of love did not mean Itzel and Peter could not fall in love. Except they could not.  
	Peter, being nosey as ever, easily found out about their parents' plans as well as Natalie not being blood-related to Itzel. Of course, Peter had felt it was up to him to find a solution where everyone wins and without having to break Itzel’s heart.  
	But he did anyway.  
	Itzel had been dating a girl she met in college for a few years, but she had yet to come out to her parents. And of course, the day she decides to come out and introduce her girlfriend, Peter makes a scene confessing his love for Itzel. Leaving Itzel flustered, embarrassed, angry and single. Not to mention now everyone had decided she was in love with Peter as well. A promise ring being forced on her finger. 
	Itzel is left feeling confused and angry because she cannot imagine a reason for what happened. Not to mention getting shoved deeper in the closet.  
	The next day the storm does not stop but the engagement party is still happening in Brooklyn Bridge Park. Not that she is planning to show up or confront Peter anytime soon.  
	So why is it when she walked into her living room there he was, like he had any right to be in her apartment.  
	“Look I need you to-” 
	“To what Peter? You knew what was going to happen, how much I loved Anna, all this and decided to ruin all that. Not to mention now our friendship is ruined because”  
	“It doesn’t have to be” Peter is quick to interject.  
	“Yes, yes, it is because you’re in love with-” 
	“But I’m not” and really what is the right way to explain all this? 
	“So, you, you did all this, you lied for what? For what Peter, I don’t get it. What did I ever do to you to make you hate me this much?” The tears were already flowing down her face and Peter was quick to pull Itzel into a hug and soothe her.  
	It took twenty minutes for Itzel to calm down and another forty minutes to explain everything. Peter is just grateful Itzel was so willing to listen and to his surprise, understand.  
	“I just don’t get it” he spoke too soon. “Why not tell me? Why not? Do you know we could have found a way around this? Write up a contact, an NDA to find a way to legally bind us without causing this big of a mess?” And yeah, Itzel did have a point. Looking up, Peter finds the perfect distraction.  
	“Hey, looked it stopped raining” 
","August 19, 2023 03:55",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,p9a2ul,Two Rows Past Tolstoy,Kathleen Thomas,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p9a2ul/,/short-story/p9a2ul/,Adults,0,"['Contemporary', 'Romance', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
 Buy box of Earl Grey, Marissa scrawled on a Post-It, pressing the pastel pink square to the bottom edge of her desktop.She was down to her last two tea bags, and to run out of tea in the library was surely a cardinal sin. Not for the first time, she wished that they were allowed candles at their desks, even very little ones. She did not have Miss Irene's debilitating blend of anxiety and reverence that prohibited fire, open beverages, or so much as a granola bar within three hundred feet of the stacks. The supervisor often eyed even Marissa's lidded cups with concern, but she had taken the afternoon off today, citing a sudden ulcer condition in her parakeet. Marissa blew the steam off her Earl Grey, took a sip, and smiled. Perhaps the notes of lavender had waited to bloom until Miss Irene's worriedly clacking pumps had left the building. Overhead, above the third and fourth floors and the fogged glass dome that capped the city library, thunder chuckled a greeting. ""Hello, there,"" Marissa murmured, belatedly checking her surroundings for eavesdroppers. But it was a Thursday evening, and even the potbellied man who camped out in the periodical section on her floor every weekday, reading the entirety of each daily newspaper, had gone home to beat the rain. 
	No sooner had she leaned back in her chair, clasping both hands around her gently steaming cup, than the sound of raindrops wafted across the circulation lobby, and she looked up to see the front door close behind a young man. He blinked at her, trying for a small smile. ""Hi, Rissa.""
	The wheels of the chair clattered as she thrust it backwards, landing on her feet behind the desk as if searching for balance on a ship's pitching deck. ""Simon?""
	""Lara said that you work here."" He touseled the water from his hair - this damp, she couldn't tell if it was still blond - and stepped toward the circulation desk. ""That you've worked here for two years now, that right?""
	""Mm. After school. I got my MA in library sciences and came here.""
	""Why here?""
	""It's pretty. The streetlights glow yellow at night."" And far away. ""What brought you here?""
	""Oh, I..."" He fished a piece of paper out of the pocket of his duster. ""I'm doing some research, and I can't find this title anywhere."" He slid it across the desk top. She picked it up, focusing on its pale shape between her burgundy nails. The letters were Cyrillic, marching across the paper with posture as straight as icicles. Қара Сөздер. Abai. Below it, he'd scribbled as an afterthought, Engl: The Book of Words. 
	""Fiction?"" she asked.
	""Poetry. And philosophy.""
	""Russian?""
	""Kazakh.""
	""Oh."" This was as much polite inquiry as she could stand, and she ducked her head as if to study the keyboard. ""Do you want the book in Kazakh?""
	""Yes. That's why it's so hard to find. Not even Interlibrary Loan has been able to help me."" He leaned against the desk as she typed The Book of Words Abai into the catalogue search engine, one key at a time. ""How have you been?""
	""Wonderful,"" she answered without looking up. ""It's a good job.""
	""Dream job, for a bookworm."" There was a smile in his voice. ""You've even got the cardigan and everything.""
	Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled the cardigan tighter around her with one hand. Burgundy cashmere, like the softest armor. It didn't even smell like cigarettes anymore, not after the careful washings and sachets of herbs she'd lavished on it since its rescue from the local thrift store.
	""No glasses, though."" he added. 
	""No,"" she said.
	""It matches your nails,"" he said, as if it were the most pleasant surprise he'd ever encountered. ""The cardigan.""
	""Yes."" She clutched the cardigan tighter. 
	""Do you live alone?""
	She glanced up at him, her eyes going a little wide. ""No! Why?""
	Pushing off the desk so that he stood a little further back, he stared at her as his smile slipped. ""I just wondered. It's hard to move into a new city, especially so far away. I hope you have friends here.""
	""Oh, I do. Have friends, I mean, not live alone. I live with five girls in a house. They're nice,"" she added, because he seemed to want to know more. 
	""Boyfriend?"" he asked. 
	Her face reddened. The tea in her stomach seemed ready to boil from the heat of frustration that Simon had no problem meeting her eyes, even gazing at her quite steadily with his hands in his pockets.
	""No. No boyfriend.""
	""Ah. Husband, then?""
	That startled a laugh from her, and she thrust a hand in front of her mouth. How embarrassing for a librarian to shush herself. ""No.""
	""Interesting.""
	She dared to quirk an eyebrow at him - I won't be asking what that means, thank you very much - and pushed back the keyboard with a sigh. ""We only have an English translation, I'm afraid.""
	""Damn."" 
	""I could show it to you, if you'd like,"" The paper felt clammy between her fingers as she handed it back to him. ""In case you might still be interested.""
	He studied her, and her stomach wrung itself so anxiously that she took a sip of tea for comfort. 
	""I'd appreciate that,"" he said, ""I might be.""
	""Well, then."" She set down her tea and slipped out from behind the desk. ""Follow me.""
	Walking through the library felt like taking a trip in seven-league boots, each step spanning a century, a continent, a dimension. As she led the way to the stairwell, rain still spattering the windows, she travelled across years with the boy close on her heels. Now she was a university student with her stockinged feet in the air, elbows on her pillow while she stared in turns at a page of Dickens and at a motionless text thread. Now she was striding down a cobblestone street, avoiding puddles and fingering the silk scarf knotted around her leather tote. It didn't make the bag any lighter, but she felt that it wished her luck nonetheless. Now she was sitting in the corner of Mr. Namotsky's classroom, half-hidden behind a gratuitous table jutting out beside the radiator and holding a giant globe. She let the boy beside her borrow a gel pen, watching him take the magenta one she offered without complaint.
	""When did you speak to Lara?"" she asked, her flats scuffing on the stairs. 
	""Last week. She married Ross, you know. He and I still meet up sometimes for a pint.""
	""I know, the pictures were beautiful."" She held a finger to her lips as they emerged from the stairwell into the stacks. ""It's shelved past the Russian literature. This way.""
	It was habit to let her fingers trail along the spines. Leather, cloth, paper. They whispered against her hands as she greeted each in passing. 
 Better to live your own destiny imperfectly- 
 This fleeting world is not the world where we - 
 Ever times would change and tides alter -
 … are destined to abide eternally - 
	The boy walked along behind her silently, his coat casting a few forlorn drops onto the carpet. Once, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw his hand brush against the spines of a set of Persian epics. She shivered and turned the corner into the next row.
	She had been twelve years old when she read Pride and Prejudice for the first time and decided that was true romance. She had been fourteen when she read about Beren and Luthien, and decided that, instead, was true romance. She had been sixteen when she had shared her Shakespeare text with the boy who sat next to her in Mr. Namotsky's hot classroom and decided that true romance lay somewhere between Sonnet 98 and Sonnet 116. She was eighteen when she realized that many romances were not about love at all, and that true love was something else, unknown, altogether.
	""Did you finish school?"" she whispered over her shoulder. ""In Scotland?""
	""I did.""
	""Where did you go after? Did you come straight back?"" Did you go back to the town with the swimming hole and the one-room bookstore and the ice cream parlor? They had sat in that parlor and shared a brownie sundae once. He had offered to pay, and she had replied that he had better, in return for all of her pens that he'd lost. Did you go to that ice cream parlor with Lara Henderson, before she became Lara Murphy?
	""I spent a year abroad, on a grant. Almaty, then Bejing.""
	""You speak Chinese?""
	""No."" His words curved again, sliding deftly around his smile. ""I took enough Russian to get by in Almaty.""
	""Did you like it there?"" Were there ice cream parlors and libraries?
	""It was beautiful."" He followed her past the row dominated by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, past the library’s modest collection of Egyptian poetry, past a series of Arabic and Hebrew titles she couldn’t decipher. ""But I still missed things.""
	""Oh?"" Her stomach hitched, and a trail of butterflies flowed behind her. She began looking on the bases of the spines for their call numbers. 
	""I'm sorry I stopped.""
	""You were busy."" She dropped the malformed, burdensome word into her wake as well.
	""Not really. I mean, I was, but -""
	""Here it is,"" Her fingers scrabbled against a blue hardcover, pulling it from its tight cranny between two ragged volumes with illegible titles. It hadn't been retrieved in some time, and its binding clung to its neighbors, as if the dust had become a glue.
	His hand came to the shelf beside her eye, the slate-colored sleeve sliding down his wrist an inch or so. Her cardigan didn't feel much like armor now, not when it had allowed him so near without her realizing it. She wished she had left her hair down this morning, that it might protect her face from his gaze as she slowly drew The Book of Words towards herself. 
	""Rissa.""
	Her own name felt so warm against the back of her neck, and she closed her eyes. Her head filled with the perfume of the finely aged books before her and the cinnamon-smell of the boy behind her. The bracing taste of tea was long gone from her dry mouth.
	""I'm sorry,"" he said again. 
	It took very little movement to turn on the spot, the book clutched against her abdomen. As before, Simon met her gaze. This time, she held her breath for a few moments to examine them. They were still as blue as her favorite earrings, but now they rested steadily without that slithering unsurety of a boy who knows he can't be trusted to carry a heart overseas. The light from the chandelier suspended from the dome bent its way towards the pair of them and cast his face in even graver lines. One hand still anchored on the shelf beside her head, he left the other hanging by his side. She could slip away, if she wanted. But he stared down at her as if the secrets of the world were inscribed on her face in a language he only just had learned to read, an incantation that had bound him inextricably to her side.
	""Did you go to Paris?"" he asked. His voice was perfectly proper for a library, but she almost wished he wouldn't whisper.
	""I did.""
	""Did you see everything you wanted to?""
	She considered, leaning against the shelf behind her. ""No, I don't think so.""
	""Would you go back?"" 
	""Would Paris be different for two?"" she countered. She must be drunk on the smell of books and cinnamon, she thought, fighting the urge to take the challenge back. His grin was as wide as that of a knight who has been thrown his favorite gauntlet.
	""I think it must be.""
	""Will you stay?"" she whispered.
	""I could stand here forever.""
	She pressed her lips together. A flush rose to her face once more, but she blamed the butterflies. ""I mean in this city.""
	""Are you staying?""
	""Mm. I think so.""
	His smile was so very close now. ""Then I think so too.""
	She reached up, her fingers wavering, then dropped them to rest on The Book of Words. ""Did you really think you'd find that book here?""
	His blue eyes crinkled, and her seven-league-boots leapt fifty years ahead. He gazed at her, resplendent with a white beard and a network of lines etched from laughter and smiles. His eyes still glittered like gemstones, and his grey duster hung on his broad frame with all the dignity of a well-travelled coat. His face shone at her with the glow of a thousand shared memories, and she reached up again. As her fingers touched his smooth cheek, he whispered, ""The Kazakh original isn't in any library on this continent.""
	Her hand stilled. ""It isn't?""
	Patiently, he pulled The Book of Words away from her and set it on the shelf beside their heads. ""I'm afraid your search was for nothing.""
	When she kissed him, his smile tasted of cinnamon and vanilla ice cream and Earl Grey tea.
 
","August 12, 2023 18:26","[[{'James Milne': ""A little bit of broken formatting, and a few paragraphs that felt like they could use some breaking up. But that's technical blather.\n\nIt was a slow and sweet something."", 'time': '22:41 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'You have a real gift for writing, Kathleen. I enjoyed your imagery; it was masterful.\n\n""They were still as blue as her favorite earrings, but now they rested steadily without that slithering unsurety of a boy who knows he can\'t be trusted to carry a heart overseas.""\n\nAnyone who can write sentences like this is a real writer. Nicely done.\n\nMy only critique is that the ending was too abrupt for me. I\'d like to have seen the kiss delayed. Still, this is wonderful writing, and we need more of this excellence in literature.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '10:51 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,ejgacx,A mother's Distrust,Felicia Owadara,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ejgacx/,/short-story/ejgacx/,Adults,0,"['Black', 'Fiction', 'Contemporary']",5 likes,"
Choose your friend, and choose wisely, was an old saying among Aries’ circle. How would she have known that the concept should include neighbors? Not everyone who smiles at you, is a friend. One of her follies was that she was too trusting, until it nearly ruined her family, and destroyed her peaceful co-existence.Aries, a widow with three children had nothing to worry about when she first moved to town. She relocated to a new neighborhood in Fodio, a relatively small town, whose economy relied solely on farming. On her first arrival, she lived at Agja, the upper end of the city, but the room there was too small and there was not enough space for the children to play. It prompted her to searching for a better accommodation. Four months after moving to town, she was introduced to a new house at the heart of the city. The occupant was an old couple, who died within the spate of two months to each other. The couple’s only child lived elsewhere, and put up the house for sales, immediately, after burial.The property was a three-bedroom house and had a standalone a garden. To Aries and her children’s delight, it was a perfect home to start over. The family took over in June, new neighborhood, new friends, new beginning, and new life, what more could she want in life. Aries, a new landlady in the neighborhood tried to familiarize with her new home, and the people in her struggles to fit in. The locals introduced her to different events, most importantly trades and the lifestyles in the community. Mapel was her first child, a girl turning sixteen in October, John was thirteen years, and Lara, the last born, was merely an eight-year-old girl. The family weren’t buoyant after the purchase of the property and had to rely on what they could do to get by. Mapel registered in the local high schools in the community, while John repeated a class because he was never a bright child to begin with. Nonetheless, what he lacked in education, he compensated in social relations, he was a very keen observer, and good at studying people. Anyway, he would be going to high school, in the following term. Presently, he attended the same primary school as Lara.In the neighborhood, a family who rented a nearby apartment was the first to knock at the new owner’s door. It wasn’t too long enough when they apparently became friends; helping each other to survive in the community. Mr. and Mrs. Aro had four children and Mrs. Aro two sisters stayed with the couple, which made their family, a little larger than theirs. The family had been living relatively in peace until the Easter season of the following year when a middle-aged man came by Aries’ abode requesting to see her daughter.At first, she thought her daughter might have offended the individual and called her out to apologize, only to find out that Mapel hadn’t returned home from school. She then questioned the man involved.“Mr., I am sorry, I don’t know in what way my daughter might have offended you. Kindly forgive her please. She is young, and still amenable, I promise to discipline her when she gets back home.”“Her response infuriated the latter. Are you playing tricks or what? Your daughter collected my money and asked me to come down here to pick her up to hang out with me for a night. I am here to pick her up. And here you are, coming out here to talk about decency; on what moral ground are you appealing to me? Please, don’t play that game with me. You don’t know how rough I can get. If your daughter is no longer interested, she should return my money. Is this how you train your daughter? At so young an age, she is not only a slut but a scammer.”Aries was furious and felt deeply humiliated. She couldn’t get passed the man’s words and wondered where she got it all wrong. All she could do was to beg the man because she simply didn’t know her daughter anymore. The strange man at the door gave her a slap and she collapsed and passed out. When the man realized that things might get out of hand, he left there out of frustration, and cursed the family all through his way out of the neighborhood. He hopped inside his taxi in a jiffy and sped off.Mapel returned from school, only to feel the disdained of the people around her, if only look could kill, she would have dropped dead. She wasn’t sure what was going on, until she reached home and her mother who had just recovered from her dizziness, simply lost it upon seeing her. “You have become something else; I hardly know you again. What sort of life do you live out there, tell me is this how I trained you? At your age, you have not only become a scammer, swindling money from men, you have also started sleeping around. I am ashamed of you and myself. Your father would be turning inside his grave if he looks back to watch what you have become.”Maple had no clue of what her mother was talking about and felt distraught of her mother’s comments. “Mother what did I do? I don’t know what you are talking about.”“Don’t you mother me! Everyone in the neighborhood knows what you have become, I am the only blind one, if that old man hadn’t stopped by the house demanding to see you today, I wouldn’t have known that you have become a damaged goods.”“Mother stop it, stop it.” Mapel became frantic as she listened to her mother’s hurtful comments. Nonetheless, her mother wouldn’t stopped she kept hauling insults on her daughter because she was truly disappointed in her. She started questioning her parenting skills. The worse parts were that the neighbors too started questioning Mapel about her private life. Soon, it became a norm, hardly could a week go by that Aries would not receive at least two older men asking for her daughter. She resorted into selling off some of little treasures she had managed to gather over the years, to pay off the supposed debts that her daughter incurred.Mrs. Aro and her younger sister, Leah would come by the house to offer her emotional support. Sometimes, sat Mapel down to talk sense into her to stop her wayward life and live uprights to delight her mother. The girl felt suffocated, her mother never believed her again, and couldn’t stand her presence. John, who wasn’t considered bookish, but keen in social relations started paying close attention to event to gain clarity.Another incident soon transpired; Aries had gone to the local market to trade vegetables from her garden and could considered that she made a good sale. She was on her way back when a bike rode passed her by. She was cursing the guy because apparently, if she hadn’t been quick enough, the rider would have knocked her down. Upon her arrival, she soon sighted the same rider, patiently waiting at her door post. The yet to dissipate anger, soon rose in her and she lashed out involuntarily at the man. “What, did you come here to finish the job? Since you couldn’t knock me over, so you rode down to my house to kill me. Is that it?”“Woman, do I know you? Please, enough, I am looking for Mapel. Wait the girl did resemble you a bit. Are you two into the same business? So, you are the one instigating her to take people’s money.”“What are you talking about?”“Enough! I am not buying what she is selling again! The money she swindled off me, I want it back, in full. I have had enough of her lies. Tell her to take her business elsewhere, if she ever comes near me, I will treat her fuck up.”“How could you give an underage girl, money, and still have the audacity to come down to her house claiming a victim? I have had enough; please leave my house, otherwise I will call a police officer.”“You think I am afraid of you, I have more than enough about both mother and child scamming business. You will instigate your daughter to go out and swindle people hard earned money. When the victim comes to your door, you will start crying wolf. Call your police, I want to see the police.”Mrs. Aro who was nearby, walked down to the house. “What has Mapel done this time around? Hey, poor woman. What kind of a child is this, who wouldn’t give mother a piece of mind? I am truly sorry. How much did she owe this time around?”“Mrs., do I know you? Are you interested in paying back?”“I am just a concerned neighbor. I don’t have the means to pay back. Please, look at the condition of the poor woman and have mercy. If she has the money, I know she will pay you. The girl had reduced her to nothing. In fact, she has turned her mother to a practical joke.”“How is it my business? If you fail to train your child, this is what you get! I will get my money back one way or the other. Tell your daughter not to cross path with me. If she ever dares to cross three-sisters-bridge, then she is asking for it. Do me a favor, tell her, that the money she tricked off me and the service she refused to give, she will pay thrice the amount, and double the service. Tell her, the message is from Jobi.” The man mounted his bike and rode off. Shame washed over Aries, she couldn’t stare the neighbor in the face, she just walked straight into her house.That day, Aries lost it. As Mapel stepped into the house, it was the silent rage of her mother that welcomed her. The next thing she felt was a whirl of slaps darted across her face. A mother raised her hand against her daughter amid fury, disappointment, and doubt. She not only beat the girl, but also rained curses and abuse on her; threatened to sever relationship with her if such event ever transpired again.None had dinner that night, it was an extremely bitter night. Aries grounded her daughter; she didn’t allow her to go out or attend school for a week. In the midst of the on going internal and external strive, John called her mother aside.“Mother, I may be very young to have opinion about what is going on, but don’t you think your approach to this situation is wrong?”“What do you mean? John, do you suppose I should condone your sister on the path of destruction she embarks on?”“No. I have a question for you, if you can go back and think about it, maybe you will think of a better way to address this unpalatable situation in our family.”“I am all ears.”“This incident of Mapel’s moral issue when did it begin? Or have we been experiencing it before moving down here?”“No. I think it starts here. Is it because we are experiencing a bit hardship, is that why she cannot endure?“Have you ever asked this individual to describe who they are actually looking for whenever they barged into our house? Because it appears to me that Mapel is a household name that anyone could bear. If the person is able to describe the individual, then have you once present Mapel to identify whether she is actually the person they are looking for? If you have not done any of these things in the past, and you are accusing your daughter of most despicable sin of all, I will say you need to re-examine your parenting approach, mother.”Aries looked at her fourteen years old boy ad for the first time seeing the traces of her late husband in him. It was like Mike was standing before her berating her for what she had become, she felt extremely fretful and remorseful. She thanked her son and went back to reflect on what her son had just told her.It was on Saturday afternoon; the family had just finished gardening and Aries sent the children back to shower when she had a knock at the door. She was surprised to see a complete stranger, a man who half of his face was covered in pimples, which gave his appearance a hideous look.“May I know who you are looking for?” Aries asked.“ I am looking for Mapel.” The man replied.“Is there anything you want from her?”“Please don’t waste my time. Ask her to come out, I want to know why she failed to keep our appointments.”Aries would have become livid like before but that day she remembered John’s advice which made her to patiently questioned the stranger. “Sir, are you sure you’re in the right address?""“Yes. She gave me this address herself, on Tuesday evening. Am I getting the sense that Mapel doesn’t live in this house?’“Of course, Mapel lives in this house, it is just that I don’t know which Mapel you are actually referring to. The Mapel, who lives here is an eight years old girl, and she didn’t live my sight throughout this week, as a matter of fact she had been sick. That’s why I ask if you aren’t making a mistake, could you please describe to me the feature of this Mapel, I may be able to direct you better if it is a mistake in name or address.”“How can I not know who I am looking for or mistake the address, she gave me this location. She works as receptionist at the Edet local clinic along Pierre rd. She is dark skin, with a big eye and a small mole below her chin and had an open gap front tooth.“Is she tall as me?” Aries questioned.The stranger studied Aries’s features for a few seconds before opening his mouth. “Slightly taller than you. She likes to ware bangles on her two arms.”“I think I have a better clarity on whom you are looking for. She doesn’t live here; she is our neighbor. See the next building to us; go there and asked for Leah, I think she is just playing hard to get. I hope she didn’t take much from you this time around.”“Not much, 100 bucks.”“That’s still a lot. Best of luck.”Aries closed her door, when she turned back, her three children were staring at her. When her eyes settled on Mapel, the girl burst out crying. Her friend in a new neighborhood had played her for a fool. They wanted to destroy and painted her daughter black as a loose girl, in the community. “Does Aro’s family think they can have it easy? Do they think because I am a widow, they can toy with my family? They are quite mistaken!” Aries’ anger was palpable, as she tried to salvage what was left of her relationship with her girl.Leah was having fun with her sisters and her family, while mocking Aries when they heard a knock at the door; upon siting the man, she was taken aback. The man didn’t hesitate to slap her in the face. You think you can fool me? Is this how a lady behaves? So, you intend to swindle me, give me my money back otherwise, I will be calling the police. Leah and her sisters started pleading with the man. None of them wanted the rest of the co-tenants and other neighbors to hear about the shady deal. However, the guy wasn’t going easy on them. Leah had spent the money and didn’t have anything to refund. Her plea went into deaf ears. The man notified his brother, who was a local gang member in the area. Within the shortest period of time, the whole neighborhood had become chaotic. Amidst the chaos. The police arrived at Aries house; the woman was shocked when John told her that he was the person who contacted the police about the stolen identity. Leah and her sister were arrested. Leah was sentence to three years and three months imprisonment for the stolen identity and two years for traumatic experiences she caused Mapel. Mrs. Aro was sentenced to five months imprisonment for conspiracy and abetting criminal.Aries thanked John for his maturity, despite his age. She took time to beg for her daughter’s forgiveness. As they reconciled, they learned to trust each other, more, and the family lived happily in harmony.
","August 18, 2023 13:13",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,77d3nh,The Travel Bug ,Indy Walen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/77d3nh/,/short-story/77d3nh/,Adults,0,"['American', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
Friday, May 21st 3:30pm pick up car. 
 
I read and reread the note in my leather bound planner more times than my own acceptance letter to Northwestern. I tried to hide my smile by biting my lip but it was no use. I was ecstatic. I finally closed my book and rested my head on the hard plastic seat under me. The L felt more rickety today. We must have hit a nasty bump since the woman in front of me gripping her pole in a cherry red peacoat lost her balance and landed backwards onto my lap. 
 
“Sorry,” She muttered trying to rise up quickly and regain her stance by the pole. 
“It’s okay,” I said too softly knowing she probably didn’t hear. She smelled like maple. 
 
The screeching holt had never sounded so good as the L came to a complete stop. I swiftly made myself the first one out of the train. It was beginning to rain now. Perfect timing. Edison was already waiting for me at the opened garage. His co-worker blasted Nickelback while busy underneath the hood of a Sedan. 
 
“She ready for me?” I asked a bit anxious there would be an issue. 
 
“She’s all yours.” Said Edison as he threw off an oil stained sheet to reveal my new beaut. “73 Volkswagen Beetle. She’s drivable now. The paint job’s going to cost a bit extra and you could really use some new tires.” But I wasn’t even listening. I was just imagining myself RayBans on, the windows down, and driving southbound anywhere that wasn’t Illinois for the summer. 
 
It was dark by the time I made it out of the city. But before then, I couldn’t resist the urge to bring my new baby back to my midtown apartment where Sam was already there with his Cannon waiting with his Gucci bomber jacket he’d let me borrow. My photo shoot near Jackson Park was interrupted by a small child asking if I were famous. 
 
Now I was out of the city craze and looking up at a big black sky. It looked so massive without the array of buildings corroding it. The radio didn’t work but I didn’t care. The open roads helped me to think, helped me to write. I would be joining my sister and parents in the sunshine state as soon as I made it down there. 
 
I was reaching for my bottle of water when the sound of hard gravel erupted my eardrums and wore out my heart. My baby was on the side of the road and my sour attitude was just hearing how AAA wouldn’t get there for 4 hours. The only thing to keep me company was the sound of 50s music in the distance. I thought it was in my head until I cleared my eyesight to see a small diner with a row of semis in the back parking lot. 
 
I was welcomed into the place with a large refrigerator by the register with rotating pies inside. The booths were pretty full and the tables looked low and uncomfortable. I took a place up at the bar. I wasn’t used to this routine unless I was with friends ordering drinks. I took a laminated menu by the napkin dispenser. I don’t know why but all I really wanted were pancakes soaked in syrup, maple syrup. It was that moment when I smelled the familiar scent of maple. 
 
A woman was on the salmon colored coiled phone. She was the one from the L. Her apron looked very used and she had lines under her eyes. But something about her hair in her high cheerleader like ponytail made me smile at her. 
 
“What can I get you tonight?” She asked after seeing me smile. She slid her pad and pen from her apron pocket. 
 
“Just pancakes will do.” I spent the rest of my dinner in silence. She was too busy to check on me again but I made sure to tip well and wait by the car in case they showed up early. I really liked those pancakes. Maybe I’d have to return to try one of those pies I thought. 
 
That summer I rode the bug down through the Smoky Mountains, ate authentic southern BBQ, and pressed my luck at the casinos in Alabama. She rode well and listened while I wrote out loud my story ideas on my scratch pad. Next semester, I wasn’t just going to shoot for good grades but aim higher for my life goal. 
 
Happy parents welcomed me with store bought desserts and homemade chili in my mom’s well used Dutch oven. They looked relaxed with retirement which sparked a spontaneous idea from my mom. It was to take a trip to a place we’d never visited. Disney World. 
 
It was truly magical being welcomed inside the park by the scent of cotton candy and bubbles floating in the air hitting against the mouse shaped balloons. To my left was a trolly show and to my right a meet and greet from the big mouse himself. We all stared at Cinderella Castle like it was the 8th wonder of the world. It accompanied my third corndog and my third ten dollar bill. What really impressed me happened next on the carousel. 
 
There I was photo bombing my sisters selfies while riding a sapphire colored horse when I saw her again. The woman from the L, the diner, and now Disney World. Was this the most magical place on earth or the smallest? She was near the spinning teacups with family members wearing red matching shirts. Each shirt had a pronoun assigned to them. I read Grandpa, Grandma, son, and then hers. It said ""mother"". It was easy to assume she was a mom walking around her group in sequence pink mouse ears helping Grandpa. He was in a wheelchair and shed joyful tears when she placed the black ears on his head. They embraced and looked as if they were joining more people in red shirts near the arriving train. That’s when they made their way through the park where she disappeared into a sea of park guests. 
 
Later that night after some earth pounding fireworks and a long commute back to our Holiday Inn my sister and I had one too many ciders at the hotel bar. Instead of heading back to our room and blaring Ed Sheran and annoying our parents on the other side of the wall, we decided to take a walk outdoors. Down the cracked sidewalk was the ugly side of Orlando. If you weren’t distracted by the overabundance of car horns near the busy streets you could see the rows of convenience stores selling knock off Disney t-shirts and little huts that passed us by reading “Cheap tickets”. What was mysterious was the fuchsia colored hut that loomed in the distance. 
 
A neon sign in the white gravel parking lot read “Palm Reader - Open”. My drunk sister was already holding up the door for me giggling into her sweatshirt sleeve. I presumed she was covering her nose because once I walked into the hut the scent of heavy incense hit my senses and made me feel a bit flush. There was a red velvet curtain covering a back room and the waiting area had two mental folding chairs from a high school graduation. The sound of sitar music came from the glass coffee table littered with plastic crystals. After several minutes of my sister’s laughter at knock off Picasso portraits and me trying to dry my sweating palms, a large woman in a gray turban emerged from the velvet curtain and motioned for us to come forth with her black cat like nails. The sounds of her necklaces walked us to a doorway with hanging purple beads into a room with a small round table. The lights were dim and the glow of the black light made her teeth look extra white as she grinned at me. The same red velvet curtain wrapped the room for a wall. 
 
“Sit.” She said, motioning to a nearby stool. Her bangles raddled as she reached for my hand and slowly unfolded it. My sister stood nearby and watched curiously. “Your lines are good, very good.” Said the woman grazing over my skin just lightly. It felt kind of good. “You work hard and have a good brain, child. You will be very successful one day.” I could hear my sister snicker at the cliche fortune. And then came the big one. “You will meet the girl of your dreams for the first time a few years from now and when you do, you will know she is the one.” 
 
It was really humid in New York City that day. I kept loosening my tie to get some air flow in the backseat of my Uber Deluxe. Sadly, the air conditioning needed fixing. I checked my Rolex, 3:32. Damn it, I was late. The traffic looked like a Hot Wheels collection displayed on a table top instead of the usual place of things. 
 
“It’s a Saturday we’ll get there soon enough” My driver said after hearing me sigh for the third time. There was no use in staring at my watch to get the time to move so I gazed through my opened window. And just like, as I’d seen her years before, there she was again. The woman from the L, diner, Disney World, and now New York City in broad daylight in her cheerleader ponytail. I wasn’t going to let her get away again without some sort of introduction.
 
I busted out of the Range Rover into the stand still traffic. My driver yelled at me asking if I’d lost it. I made it onto the sidewalk with only half a dozen car honks to wake me up. But I was awake and I wanted to finally meet her. She was about a block and a half from me now. She looked as if she were in a rush. Who wasn’t in New York City? The streets were littered with people busy on phones, carrying big brown bags, and having no awareness of the fact that I needed to get to her. 
 
“Watch it” A man in a Nick’s Jersey said as I tried bustling past. Others scoffed as I pushed my way through a group of Wall Street brokers. I could barely keep my sights on her. I felt like I was looking through a kaleidoscope tainted with crystal gems only in reality, people of the city smoking joints and others asking for spare change. And then I lost her. I didn’ even know which way she took but it didn’t matter now. I was standing outside of my original destination. 
 
I had to take the ally into Barnes and Noble where my publicist was waiting for me smoking a lipstick stained cigarette. “You’re late.” She hissed. 
 
“Didn’t you expect me to do a bit of traveling today?” She wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Instead, she walked me through the storage room to a large oak desk where I sat next to an easel with a poster of the cover of my best selling book: The Travel Bug. My beetle was the artwork and the inspiration for my loosely based fiction novel. The line of customers was happy to see me eagerly waiting for me to sign their own copies. Some of them had doggie eared pages and posted notes on certain chapters. It was an absolute pleasure getting to meet others who constantly called me a success and a kid with a good brain. Sam even showed up with his mom who couldn’t believe she knew a celebrity. 
 
Soon after signing my book for a vintage car collector, I looked up to see her standing in front of me, holding her copy of my book from that same smile years ago at the diner. My heart felt full. She slid the book to me and pointed at my beetle on the cover. 
 
“This book was phenomenal but this car is even more extraordinary.” I blushed a bit flustered on how to respond, but she spoke before me. “Do you want to know who has this exact same car, style and year? And even takes it across the country on her own excursions?” 
 
“Who?” I asked playing along. 
 
“My daughter. She’s your age, and a graduate from Northwestern as well. She’s a bit of an introvert but I’m going to force her to say hi. Melody!” And there you were. Wearing a pink beret, carrying my book like it was a newborn child. You had the same smile as your mom. 
 
And so my beautiful bride. The rest was truly history. I cannot wait to see you today in your effortless white dress walking with your dad down the aisle coming towards me. About now you’re probably sipping on mimosas with your girlfriends, getting your make up done, even though I prefer you without it. I’ve already got the beetle set up for after the reception. Empty cans tied to her bumper with a hand painted sign that says “Just Married.” 
 
","August 13, 2023 23:12","[[{'Charles Corkery': 'Well done.  Enjoyed this', 'time': '05:05 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,29041p,5 ESSENTIAL TIPS To Improve Your Supermarket,Riya Patel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/29041p/,/short-story/29041p/,Adults,0,"['Contemporary', 'Romance', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
1. Incorporate store greeters to boost customer satisfaction
 Warren almost crashed into the glass doors of the supermarket. His attention was solely focused on the list of groceries written on a crumpled notepad he had found in the back of one of his drawers. He never had to go to the supermarket alone. Just before Warren could crash his shopping cart, a worker quickly grabbed the door handle.
 	“Let me get the door for you, sir!”
	 Warren jolted up to look at the older man who had saved him from public humiliation and traded it for this private embarrassment. His face reddened.
	“Oh,” was the only thing he could squeak out in his paralyzed state.
	The old man flashed a warm smile and bobbed his head in return.
	“Thanks.” Warren cleared his throat and rushed into the supermarket.
 
2. Place fresh flower bouquets at the entrance (extra points if they’re discounted)
	Warren momentarily returned his attention to the scribbled list in his hands: fresh tomatoes, garlic cloves, mushrooms, almond milk, and extra virgin olive oil.
 He had the rest of the ingredients at home: butter, chicken broth, parmesan cheese, and angel-hair pasta. It was the first dish Warren and Lucy ate together six years ago when he insisted she needed a champion’s meal at the most expensive restaurant in the city after acing her Public Econ final. He had spent his month’s salary working at the local ice cream shop to pay for it. They never defined when their “first date” was, but Warren considered that dinner the beginning to the rest of his life.
	He smelled them before he saw them. Warren glanced back up to find buckets filled with plastic-wrapped roses. Water droplets decorated their petals and thorns adorned their stems. He checked his watch before deciding to check the bouquet’s price. He searched for a price tag on each bouquet, then around the buckets to no avail. He poked his head out the supermarket door to find the worker he spoke to just a minute before. The head of white hair was easy to spot.
	“Excuse me, do you happen to know the price of the flower bouquets inside?”
	The worker flashed another generous smile. “There’s a special deal for them. They’re twenty-two dollars.”
	 “Perfect, thank you…” Warren trailed, looking for the worker’s name tag.
	“James”
	“Thank you, James.” Warren paused. “Wait, what’s the discount for? Don’t tell me they moved Valentine’s Day to August.”
	James laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s twenty-two to tell someone you love them.”
	Warren didn’t quite understand what James meant, but to avoid sounding rude, he smiled. Then he went back inside and gently laid a bouquet in his cart.
 
3. Build customer loyalty by investing in their needs
 Warren crossed off the last item on his list, pride swelling in his heart. That pride drained when he quickly realized he didn’t know where the cash registers were. He didn’t see them on his way in, though now he wasn’t quite sure which direction the entrance even was. Warren was helplessly lost.
	So he wandered. Warren rolled his cart down each aisle, looking at every shelf as if he was window shopping in the city.
	Just a year ago, Lucy told Warren she’d be going into the city to shop with her mother. When the two of them returned, they were giggling like schoolgirls with comically large shopping bags in their hands. Warren fussed over them carrying such heavy things and insisted he be a gentleman and freed up their hands. The pair thanked them and continued to laugh together on the couch watching old movies into the night. Warren had never seen Lucy so happy.
	A week later the hospital visits started. At first, it was only once a month, then it became once every two weeks, which turned into three times a week and came to an abrupt end in late April.
	Warren found himself surrounded by wine bottles. He grazed the bottles with his fingertips until plucking one off the shelf that read 1973 on the label. Another man at the end of the aisle turned to him.
	“If my wife were here, she’d recommend you buy that.”
	Unable to form words, Warren nodded. He couldn’t remember the last time he had tasted wine.
	Lucy swore off drinking after her mother died. She refused to even look at a beer can, because she knew if she took a single sip, she’d drink herself to death. When friends started pointing out how strange it was she always refused a round of shots or never stayed for a glass of wine, Warren took the same oath to give up drinking. 
	He never wanted Lucy to feel alone. So he surrendered things like going on fishing trips with friends and declined invitations to baseball games and passed on promotions that required more hours to give Lucy company no matter how many times she insisted she’d rather be alone anyway.
	It wasn’t until a few weeks after the funeral Lucy said she needed space, that she was going to live with a friend and she didn’t know when she’d be back. Or if she’d be back. Warren wasn’t sure if she’d even respond to his message to meet him for dinner tonight.
	As Warren left, James waved to him.
	“Find everything alright?”
	Warren nodded. James peaked into his cart surveying the ingredients for Warren’s dinner.
	“Looks like it’ll be a delicious evening.” The edges of James’ eyes and mouth wrinkled when he smiled. Then he eyed the bouquet. “Sharing it with anyone special?”
	“Yes,” Warren said. Then added, “With a woman I love very much.”
	James’ eyes gleamed with joy.
 
4. Remember to keep your supermarket authentic to YOU
 James waited a few minutes after one to officially go on his lunch hour. In the break room, one of the newer, younger employees had already started eating a salad out of a glass container, earbuds in, twirling a fork in one hand, and scrolling through his phone in the other. James had worked in this supermarket for thirty years and despite the changes, knew he could count on two things: the doors being manual and the employees being prompt with lunchtime.
	The younger worker looked up when he noticed James take a water bottle out from the fridge.
	“Mr. Lo—”
	“How many times do I need to tell you to just call me James, Patrick?”
	Patrick’s cheeks reddened. “Sorry, Mr—, I mean, James. How’s your morning?”
	“Lovely, thank you for asking.”
	Patrick nodded and popped his earbuds back in, returning his attention to the colorful videos flashing on his phone.
	Next to the fridge, a framed picture of a woman in her fifties hung, circled with flowers. Her open smile stretched up to the faint wrinkles around her eyes, so vibrant her laughter was practically audible through the photograph. Under her, a small plaque was engraved: Remembered Always.
	James met the woman’s eyes and placed a rose petal in the growing garland around her.
	“I love you.”
 
5. Instill rewards programs to retain customers
	Lucy’s hand felt warm in Warren’s. A soft September breeze followed them from the parking lot to the supermarket entrance and through Lucy’s tied-up hair. Warren tucked a loose strand behind her ear. Blush crept into Lucy’s cheeks and Warren’s mouth curled into a knowing smile. They were beginning to settle back into their routine. Only this time, Lucy openly accepted his helping hand.
	“Was this the lovely lady your dinner was for?” James opened the door for them.
	Warren nodded.
	“Keep each other close.” 
	Lucy squeezed Warren’s hand. “We will.”
	As they walked in, Lucy spotted the buckets of roses and ran towards them to grab a bouquet.
	“It’s my turn to buy you roses!”
	“For what?” Warren asked.
	“To say I love you.”
 
","August 19, 2023 02:13",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,65r43c,Her helpful Friend,Kaitlyn Wadsworth,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/65r43c/,/short-story/65r43c/,Adults,0,"['Friendship', 'Drama']",4 likes,"
Warning; mention of domestic violence.""Katie! No one wants to hear all that. No one cares about the past. Get a grip. It's up to you to make a decision. You alone. Who cares what others say. You can't let yourself go to pieces over what they think. And there is little point in telling me. I can't advise you what to do.""Katie has a wonderful friend, Lynley, who has guided her through many crises. Her advice has always been sound, though sometimes given in such a manner that some others may conclude she won't tolerate fools. This included the majority. Katie had undoubtedly been spoken to as a silly person. She knows Lynley cares, but her friend has such a degree of emotional intelligence that it is easy for her to keep her emotions in check, especially in the face of decisions that need to be made and situations that require strength. Katie finds that reason and logic become detached from her emotional state. She has to spill her mixed-up feelings before she can see some clarity over a situation. Those who are hard on others are generally hard on themselves as well. So, after listening to her woes, Lynley advised her to shape up. Katie knows she is correct, but it doesn't stop her from getting into a state and turning to her friend for advice when she is out of shape.Lynley is a trained Social Worker with her share of trauma in her life. Her firstborn suffered massive heart problems as a newborn. He underwent numerous surgeries at the beginning of his life. All the while, she had been told he may die. Before each operation, she had massive battles convincing the doctors and surgeons that no blood be administered during each. It meant even more care needed to be taken to prevent blood loss in the first place. First, he miraculously survived. He eventually grew up and is now a married man. One would never know he had such a difficult start in life. All this is possible because of his marvelous mother. She is aware that he could still die with a scarred heart and body,Katie met Lynley when her son was a babe in her arms. They clicked as if they had always known each other. As an infant, Lynley's little boy had to be prevented from crying as his heart couldn't take it. Until he started on his operation path, he had to be pandered to and frequently picked up to prevent distress. He also needed to be kept safe from viruses and bacteria because illness could kill him. This is an exhausting situation for a new Mum. She had contracted German Measles during her pregnancy and had been warned about how this could render her child. Then it was detected his heart had been affected. He came into the world via cesarean section. She cared for him as best she could. Others were amazed at how calm she could be as she tirelessly catered to his needs. He had to be kept tranquil and happy. All this practice at being calm helped her face life's battles confidently.For a time, they lived in different cities. Still, when Katie's marriage broke up, and her husband was incarcerated in a top security penitentiary, she moved to the same city as her friend. Her little boy was two years younger than Lynley's little man.Katie had developed a matter-of-fact, consistent, and structured way of bringing up her son. His diagnosis at age 5yrs was ADHD. Instinctively, she had provided him with the settled environment he needed to be the best he could be. Because of frequent tantrums, she often tried to make others the meanies. Lynley used to laugh a lot over the situations she had to deal with when her wayward son got ideas into his head and impulsively acted on them.One day he decided to move in next door. He packed his little case and moved in. The family often had him over to play with their boy and vice versa. When he didn't come home, Katie reasoned that they were so gob-smacked at what he had done they believed she'd fetch him home. She didn't. The following morning she took his schoolbag, lunch, school clothes, and toothbrush over. They sent the two boys off to school after breakfast. When the boys had left, she went over to explain. ""I'm really sorry about this but I've decided that it's too hard to reason and argue with my son over what he should and shouldn't do. So, because of his decision yesterday to move in with you, I came over now to tell you that this is what it is all about.""""Did you have a fight with him?""""No. I avoided the fight completely. He gets these hair brained ideas and won't listen to reason. So, I let him go hoping you'd send him home. It's ok. I don't mind that he had a sleep-over.""""So, will he go back to yours after school?""""Knowing him, not. I'm afraid that you will have to tell him he can't stay.""""What if he won't leave?""""Then I will have no other choice but to go and find work and pay you to look after him.""""So, you want us to send him home?""""Yes, please. It will go down a lot better coming from you. I refuse to drag him home, kicking and screaming.""After school, the two boys went next door, and within half an hour, her son returned with his school bag and little case.""Oh, you are home. What happened?""""I decided to come home.""""Well, that's nice.""She made a similar decision about taking him to school. He could be dressed in his pajamas if he wasn't motivated to change out of them in time. When it looked like this would happen, he dressed himself so quickly and accused her of being mean. Especially when lateness meant he missed out on breakfast. She never had to remind him to get dressed in time again.Her friend Lynley roared with laughter. Shifting the responsibility to the child certainly taught him better lessons than Katie in despair when he never listened. Lynley knew her son had issues, though vastly different from her son's.When Katie did good, they both enjoyed each other's company. Lynley happily took him off her friend's hands at times and gave sound childrearing advice.When Katie and her husband had been apart for five years, she went to a lawyer and started divorce proceedings. His release date loomed, and she wanted to be protected by the law. The pros and cons had been weighed, and a decision was already made.It is more complicated when a spouse is a prisoner and says ""No,"" to a divorce. It then becomes a costly court battle where he isn't in attendance. He decided to write letters to a few of her friends to plead his case; as you can imagine, they felt they had to share their opinions. It wasn't the opinions that bothered her. She had managed to stay alive all these years and now started to have the same nightmares of being chased and killed all over again. She went to pieces emotionally on the inside, even though she managed a semblance of control in her everyday life. Part of the paranoia came because her soon-to-be ex (this had been decided) had always been a con man and convinced everyone of her guilt and stupidity. (while treating her with cruelty and violence in secret) She knew it wasn't the truth, but it crippled her with fear to the point that she wavered in her determination and became angry with friends who questioned her valid reasons for seeking a divorce. No amount of protection, set up through the courts on paper, had ever been of any assistance to save her from past dangers.One evening after she had put her son to bed after his usual bedtime routine, she rang her friend Lynley for some moral support. The conversation turned to criticism of those who had dared suggest she should give her husband another chance, especially when he had been locked up in the top security penitentiary because he had threatened her life. Not once, but several times. She disbelieved his promises that he had reformed. He had earned his second literal strike after a firm warning, and that was it. He knew it.***Her secret address had been coaxed from a friend, and he broke in . . .Her only way to survive had been to greet him amiably, pretend to be glad to see him, wait until his son, a toddler, had been safely put into his cot upstairs for a nap, urge him to smoke outside the front door, note that he didn't lock the door, wait until he eventually went into the kitchen, and then make a bolt for it. She wisely didn't run next door as her profoundly deaf neighbor always locked her door. She tore down the long drive next to hers into a large rented house where a group of girls flatted together.""Can I please use your phone. It's an emergency.""Someone duly gave her the phone and, once she knew the police were on their way, she ran into a bedroom and hid in the wardrobe. ""I'm not here!""Her ex had knocked at the neighbor's door, stormed in when the door eventually opened and looked for her while demanding that she come out. The poor woman was an emotional wreck. ""Get out of here. Who do you think you are.""He took to his heels.When the police arrived, they were sympathetic, checked he wasn't around, and took her statement. They saw her protection order that proved he had no right to enter, primarily through a window like a thief. Nothing was done about it. With large nails, she nailed both downstairs windows shut to prevent it from happening again.Now, he knew where she lived. Because it had involved the police, he showed his true colors. The next time, she received a warning by phone that he was on his way over, so she hurriedly prepared to leave. Not in time. He came around to the back and, when he couldn't get in the door, he looked in the window. He could clearly see his little son standing in front, looking at him. He became concerned when he saw the phone in her hand. In truth, she had dialed the emergency number for the police. He smashed the window and leaped in, upsetting a tall dresser that fell over and just missed crushing his son. Glass shards flew all over the kitchen floor. Thankfully their child only had a few minor cuts. The phone was snatched from her, and he clobbered her over the head with it. The fight was on. He forced her up the stairs. She had a horrible notion he wanted her in the bed. After struggling to get free, he finally released her at the top. Whether by accident or his design, she tumbled backward down the stairs and landed on her son sitting at the bottom. They both survived. By that stage, she had no idea how to escape the situation.There was a knock at the door, and she managed to get to the door before her ex could get down to stop her. The door flung open, and she grabbed her elderly neighbor inside.""Hello, Mrs. Brown. Do come in. My ex is just leaving.""The suggestion at that stage suited him, so he left. After alerting the police, Katie rang where he had been staying and told them what had happened. Her neighbor remained and supported her. The police took her to a Women's Refuge facility after taking her statement. Katie told her landlord about the smashed window at the back of the two-up-and-two-down unit. While she was away, he had a secure doorway built into the entrance of her backyard and had the glass replaced in the window.That was the last time she saw her ex again because he stupidly rang the police threatening to kill himself. They called on her to talk him out of it, which she tried to do, but he couldn't convince her to have him back. She told the police that nothing would induce her to do so. They agreed that measures needed to be taken, so they tracked him down, caught him, and flew him far away. The top security penitentiary held him securely for five years. During this time, she moved to another city.Her in-laws always supported her. When she moved, they still came to visit, and they were happy to take their beloved grandson for a week or so and then deliver him back. This happened several times a year. It involved a lot of travel for them. Her father-in-law told her he had also been approached by his son to reveal her address. He had been beaten up when he wouldn't tell. It seemed a paradox that he suffered at the hands of his son, and the information had come to him because her ex got a female friend to pose as her girlfriend and ring another girlfriend for it. The address had been freely, but stupidly, given because of this deception. The friend felt awful when she learned the outcome.*** All the trauma was dismissed once Katie and her son settled in a new home and city. But when things are not dealt with, they can, and did, surface with a vengeance.""Katie, I know it's all too much for you. It's your decision to free yourself of your ex. This other side is all about how you feel. Trust me. 'Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.' No one wants to hear about what happened between you both. So what, if others believe he has changed. He probably hasn't, but who cares? Divorce him because of past irreconcilable differences. As for all this dilemma you are in, you need expert help. You really are in a mess and I can't help you. There's nothing more to say. Goodbye.""A pep talk, again. Always recriminations. Of course, Lynley was right.Lynley married and moved away for several years. Katie had attended the wedding, but they weren't close again. Katie did deal with her demons as Lynley had given the correct, though harsh, advice.When Lynley returned to the city, Katie had also remarried. They had both given birth. Lynley to another son and Katie to a daughter. Lynley threw a party for all her friends in the city to let them all know what had happened in her life while she had been away. Naturally, Katie and her husband were thrilled to be invited. It was a great, informal catchup. Neither of them lived close by, and though it could have been an opportune time to reconcile and become close again, neither suggested it.Something else happened. Katie dropped in to see Lynley one day. She had many problems, but that was not her reason to pop in. It had simply been too long for the friends to not see each other. It turned out that Lynley's oldest son had finally become engaged. She invited Katie and her husband to the wedding. The wedding saw a grownup young man marry his Japanese sweetheart. They had been communicating with each other for years.Katie developed all the photos she had taken at the wedding and dropped in to give the copies to Lynley. Katie wanted to do something special for her friend. Lynley was over the moon. The informal and formal ones could be combined into a great collection of reminders of this memorable ceremony and their lovely time together.In conversation, they both found out something profound about each other. They were both going through court over grandchildren. Lynley's son's wife had been neglecting her children. There had been depression and other issues. Lynley's youngest son had stopped working to help his wife and children. The situation had deteriorated, and he wanted his mother and father to look after the children, two little girls. It looked set for the girls to move in permanently. Katie had a grownup stepdaughter from her husband's previous marriage, who had grown up and had her life deteriorate. She insisted on staying with a violent partner involved in the drug scene.Consequently, a previous partner snatched his two children away for safety. The baby went to the daughter's parents, Katie, and her husband. It became permanent.Katie had been invited to bring her young granddaughter to play with her friend Lynley's little granddaughters. While there, the phone rang . . .""Oh hello . . .look I have a friend here at the moment and I can't talk for long. Its an old and very dear friend. Our sons used to play together years ago. Now we are back together, and we have our granddaughters happily playing together. We have so much in common.""Katie smiled at her friend. Despite everything they had been through, she knew their friendship would last this time.
","August 18, 2023 09:47","[[{'Joe Malgeri': 'Wow, great intense story, Kaitlyn, so many life experiences in it, which so many people can relate to. Utterly amazing how we all have our cross to bare, and the amount of trauma we have little choice but to endure and to hopefully evolve from. Well written and extremely interesting, and oh so very true to life.', 'time': '16:22 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thanks Joe. Means so much coming from you.', 'time': '04:04 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""You're very welcome, Kaitlyn, you've absolutely earned my compliment 100%. Keep up the great work. My PC was down for six days, anyway, I finally got it running."", 'time': '18:40 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thanks Joe. Means so much coming from you.', 'time': '04:04 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""You're very welcome, Kaitlyn, you've absolutely earned my compliment 100%. Keep up the great work. My PC was down for six days, anyway, I finally got it running."", 'time': '18:40 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""You're very welcome, Kaitlyn, you've absolutely earned my compliment 100%. Keep up the great work. My PC was down for six days, anyway, I finally got it running."", 'time': '18:40 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,cct1tn,Destined Sparks,Ishan Gupta,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cct1tn/,/short-story/cct1tn/,Adults,0,"['Romance', 'Friendship', 'Desi']",4 likes,"
Location: Hotel Radisson Parking Lot, ChennaiTwo buddies, Mudit and Sanleen, are hanging out in the parking lot of Hotel Radisson. They're here for their college alumni meet, and while reminiscing is nice and all, they're starting to wonder where their pal Yash disappeared to. The clock's tickin', and Mudit's got a bit of a time crunch.Mudit: (tapping his foot) Hey, Sanleen, any clue where Yash went? Weren't you supposed to bring him along?Sanleen: (shrugging) No idea, man. He was supposed to be here, then went MIA. I've been calling his phone for like 45 minutes, but it's playing hide-and-seek.Mudit: (getting antsy) Ugh, seriously? I've got a Bangalore trip on the clock. Big client meeting. Can't just stroll in looking like a sleep-deprived zombie.Sanleen: (grinning) Ah, the glamorous life of the corporate world savior. I, too, have a date with my desk.Mudit: (raising an eyebrow) Oh yeah, the legendary evening shift that begins at the crack of 7 PM. You must be beyond exhausted from all that daytime napping.Just as the friend duo contemplates their Yash-shaped mystery, Krishna, another college pal, makes his entrance.Krishna: (chuckling) Hey, Sanleen, didn't you leave like an hour ago? Still loitering around?Sanleen: (rolling his eyes) Thanks to our vanishing Yash. We're stuck here, twiddling our thumbs. His phone's decided it's off-duty.Krishna: (with a mischievous grin) Oh, hold on to your hats. Guess who I saw? Yash, gallivanting with none other than Harleen.Mudit and Sanleen: (synchronized surprise) Hold up, what?Two Years EarlierLocation: Bay Treasure Resort, ChennaiLaughter fills the air as the freshers' party hits full swing, with Karaoke champions emerging left and right. Amidst the vivacious crowd, Yash stands in solitude by the pool, nursing his beer like it's his only ally. Enter Harleen, ready to shake things up.Harleen: (sardonically) Excuse me, party animal. Mind saving the swimming pool from your gourmet offering?Yash: (raising an eyebrow) Oh, sorry. I thought you were the Pool Police, ready to issue a citation.Harleen: (smirking) No badges here, just a fellow party-goer. Harleen, reporting for karaoke duty.Yash: (unamused) A girl on a mission. Fascinating.Harleen: (ignoring the sarcasm) Well, since you've marked your spot, I'm here to crash your pity party. I'm Harleen, the uninvited guest.Yash: (dryly) Charmed, I'm sure. But really, save your party crashing for someone who cares.Harleen: (raising an eyebrow) Oh, someone's got quite the attitude. Got a problem?Yash: (smirking) Congratulations, you've unlocked the secret level of ""Mind Your Own Business.""Harleen: (undeterred) Oh, don't worry. I'm a certified advice-giver, although I don't take any myself. But you know what they say, strangers have all the answers. Sometimes even better than our own.Yash: (rolling his eyes) Lovely. A self-proclaimed guru. Just what I needed.Harleen: (leaning in) So, what's the scoop, Mr. Mysterious? Spill the beans, the secrets, and the drama.Yash: (sarcastic) Right, because sharing my life story with a random party-goer is top priority.Harleen: (sharply) So, you do have a life story. Interesting. Let me guess, a broken heart, shattered dreams, and a lifetime subscription to misery?Yash: (frowning) Hold on, who made you the narrator of my life?Harleen: (assertive) You did, the moment you showed up looking like you just ordered a lifetime supply of gloom.Yash: (frustrated) Listen, Miss Wahi, you're not the Supreme Court judging my life choices. I don't need your insights.Harleen: (undaunted) Let's make a deal. Listen to me for a moment, and I'll go back to being an insignificant party-goer.Yash: (defiant) Fine, shoot.Harleen: (earnestly) You had a breakup, I get it. But drowning your sorrows in a pool of beer won't make them any less soggy. Your life, your dreams—they're not on pause because of this. You're not an extra in your own story.Yash: (snarky) And you're the lead character, right? Offering life-changing revelations by the pool?Harleen: (playful) Close enough. Now, I'm just going to go back to being an insignificant party-goer who cares too much.And with that, a splash of defiance, Yash pushes Harleen into the pool, their encounter ending as abruptly as it began.Location: College CanteenA new day dawns, and Yash makes his way to the college mess, where fate has yet another encounter in store. Harleen stands in the lunch queue, and Yash, summoning his courage, approaches her.Yash: (with an attempt at nonchalance) Hey there!Harleen: (a mixture of surprise and skepticism) You?Yash: (feigning innocence) Oh, you must be expecting someone else. My bad, who could I possibly be? I mean, who else but me, right? Anyway, nice surprise, you're here. Were you thinking about me by any chance?Harleen: (a genuine smile) Yep, guilty as charged. Your mysterious poolside brooding had me intrigued.Yash: (playing it cool) Oh, that was just the alcohol talking, by the way.(Harleen starts to walk away)Yash: (hurriedly) Wait, wait, before you go into stealth mode, just hear me out.Harleen: (half-turning, eyebrow raised) Don’t you dare follow me.Yash: (grinning) You have my solemn promise, I won't pull a covert mission to tail you. But how about we exchange some words over a cup of coffee?Harleen: (sarcastically) Oh, the coffee challenge, is it? I must warn you, my coffee preference is a little unpredictable.Yash: (raising an eyebrow) That sounds like an adventure waiting to happen. So, shall we? I hear the food here is straight out of a gourmet disaster, and I won't subject you to that.Harleen: (smirking) Well, in that case, let's escape this culinary catastrophe. Just so you know, I have a strict ""no autos"" policy.Yash: (mock salute) Yes, ma'am, duly noted. Off to the nearest coffee shop we go!With the promise of caffeine and better food, Yash arranges for a bike, and the duo sets off for a little coffee escapade. The destination: Sunrise Coffee Shop.Yash: (perusing the menu) So, what's the scoop on the menu?Waiter: (deadpan) The ambience is pretty popular.Yash: (chuckling) Noted. But let's focus on the sustenance aspect. What's good here?Waiter: (warming up) Everything, honestly.Yash: (turning to Harleen) And what's your pick, ma'am?Harleen: (with a grin) Chocolate brownie, please.Yash: (to the waiter) One chocolate brownie for the lady, and a cappuccino for me, please. Thanks!As the order is placed and the conversation takes a more relaxed turn, Yash and Harleen discover each other's quirks and interests.Yash: (sharing) So, when I'm not causing a scene at poolside soirées, I'm knee-deep in economics. Yep, I'm that nerdy.Harleen: (teasing) Oh, economics! So, when you're not saving damsels in distress from watery disasters, you're solving the mysteries of supply and demand?Yash: (grinning) You got it. And what about you, any undercover hobbies?Harleen: (playful) Well, I moonlight as a secret agent, but don't tell anyone. Jokes aside, I love a good game of football.(Waiter arrives with their order)Yash: (thoughtful) You know, they say an empty mind is a devil's workshop. But in reality, I think we spend more time in the workshop than we realize.Harleen: (laughs) True. I guess thinking about nothing is quite an art form. And just so you know, if you're wondering whether I was thinking about you, don't flatter yourself too much.Yash: (grinning) Ah, a tactical denial. But the record shows, you said nothing, and I interpreted that as a yes.Harleen: (rolling her eyes) You're incorrigible. And by the way, I hope your reflection time in the pool has paid off. You do look presentable today.Yash: (playfully) Ah, the swift transformation from ""I'm-not-impressed"" to ""looking good."" Impressive turnaround time.Location: Back to HostelWith the coffee shop adventure concluded, Yash returns to his hostel room where his buddies await. But a mysterious call interrupts the reunion.Harleen: (interrupting) Hold up, why didn't you call me?Yash: (confused) Call you? I didn't have your number.Harleen: (pointing to his phone) Um, your phone's screen, genius. It's right there.Yash (Looks at the display): (surprised) You're right, it's right here.Harleen: (playfully) So, how about giving me a ring?(Yash chuckles and makes the call)Harleen: (answering) Hello, it’s Harleen.Yash: (jokingly) Harleen, it's me.Harleen: (pretending ignorance) Me who?Yash (Laughs): (teasingly) You're playing hard to get now?Harleen: (laughing) Well, it's always good to keep you on your toes. What were you up to?Yash: (smirking) I was in the middle of preparing for tomorrow's apocalypse... I mean, test.(Sound of music playing in the background)Harleen: (smirking) Studying, huh? Well, aside from that, I just wanted to tell you that last evening was enjoyable. The food was surprisingly decent, and your company wasn't half bad either.Yash: (playful) Oh, so you're giving me a review now? I should start charging for my company.Harleen: (chuckling) In that case, you owe me a coffee for that ""company fee.""(Yash rejoins his buddies)Mudit: (curious) Dude, who was that?Sanleen: (sarcastic) Come on, people, don't you see? He just placed a secret agent call to the coffee girl.And so, their connection deepened through daily meetings, conversations, and shared moments. Yash found himself genuinely enjoying Harleen's company, and their rapport was unlike any other. Until one fateful evening in the beautiful town of Pondicherry...Yash, Sanleen, Mudit, and Harleen embarked on a journey to Pondicherry after the first term exams, a trip that would bring unforeseen emotions to the surface.Harleen: (nervous but resolute) I didn't want to drop this bombshell in front of your posse, so here we are.Yash: (puzzled) Drop what bombshell?Harleen: (hesitating) Look, ever since I met you, I've felt a connection. It took me a while to realize it, but I can't hold back anymore. You're important to me, Yash, more than you might realize. You're the one I want by my side for the long haul, through all the ups and downs. I hope I'm making sense.Yash: (genuinely surprised) You're making perfect sense, Harleen. But you're saying all this to the wrong person. I like you too, but as a friend. I mean, I've just been through a breakup and I'm not ready for another relationship.My ex, Meera, and I were in love for five years. We were inseparable, sharing dreams and moments. However, things changed when my career path led me to a postgrad offer at this prestigious college. Meera's dreams anchored her to our current location, and she wasn't supportive of my career growth. She wanted me to stay within our comfort zone, and that discord ended our relationship. It's painful to admit, but Meera's unwillingness to support my aspirations felt like a betrayal of the love we shared. It was a harsh realization that love alone sometimes isn't enough to overcome differences in goals and priorities.So, Harleen, when you talk about that once-in-a-lifetime connection, I understand it all too well. But the scars of that past relationship, where my dreams were seen as a threat, are still fresh. I'm still mending my heart and finding my footing. It's not that I don't see the spark between us, but I need time to rebuild my trust and confidence.Harleen: (disappointed but composed) I understand. I know you've been through a lot. I just had to get this off my chest. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't feel the same way. Tell me I'm alone in this.Yash: (with sincerity) I'm so sorry, Harleen. But I can't pretend to feel something I don't. I genuinely care about you, but I'm not in love with you. I hope you can understand that.Harleen: (fighting back tears) I get it. I'm not upset that you don't feel the same way, but I can't be with someone who can only say they care. Sorry for dropping this on you. I'll just go now.Yash: (softly) Let me walk you back to the room.Harleen: (half-smiling) No need. I shouldn't have done this. I'm sorry if I've made things awkward.As Harleen walks away, the weight of unspoken emotions lingers in the air. Yash watches her leave, a mixture of regret and confusion in his eyes. The scars of his past heartbreak ran deeper than he let on. The pain he had suffered in his previous relationship had left him emotionally wounded, plagued by self-doubt, and harboring an underlying fear of abandonment. This fear paralyzed him, preventing him from fully embracing the possibility of love with Harleen. Every moment of closeness with Harleen triggered conflicting emotions within Yash. The warmth of her presence was a balm to his wounded heart, yet the fear of reliving the agony he had once endured gnawed at him relentlessly. Present DayLocation: Hotel Radisson, Chennai – Alumni MeetAmidst the bustling atmosphere of the alumni meet, Yash musters the courage to approach Harleen, who's standing alone, lost in thought while having her meal.Yash: (softly) Harleen?Harleen: (looking up, surprised) Hey.Yash: (nervously) Hey. How have you been?Harleen: (guarded) I'm doing fine.Yash: (awkwardly) How's life treating you?Harleen: (a hint of warmth) Life's been good. I actually have an assignment in Dubai next month.Yash: (genuinely interested) Dubai? That's amazing. I'm glad to hear that.Harleen: (curious) And you? What's keeping you occupied?Yash: (hesitating) Oh, you know, just... working hard, staying busy. Things have been... decent lately.Harleen: (softening) That's good to know.Yash: (nervously) Yeah, I hope things keep going in the right direction.Harleen: (awkwardly) It's... it's nice to see you again, Yash. Take care.Yash: (urgently) Wait! There's something I need to say to you.Harleen: (surprised) Oh, okay. What is it?Yash: (with determination) I remember the very first time I saw you.Harleen: (smirking) Oh, you mean when you pushed me into the pool at that disastrous party?Yash: (smiling) No, even before that. It was during registration, you were wearing a blue dress. The wind was blowing, and your face... it just stopped me in my tracks. And then at the party, when you approached me, I realized that your concern was as beautiful as your face.Harleen: (taken aback) Yash...Yash: (with sincerity) Harleen, you've always held a special place in my heart. I want to apologize for every moment I hurt you, for every time I let our connection fade. Forgive me for not saying how much you mean to me.Harleen gazes into Yash's eyes, moved by his words. He leans in and kisses her passionately, pouring his emotions into the moment.Yash: (whispering) I love you... so much. Tell me you're not in love with me.Harleen: (softly) I'm not in love with you.Yash: (smirking) You're lying.Harleen responds with a radiant smile, and then, in an embrace filled with warmth and longing, she murmurs into his ear.Harleen: (whispering) I love you, Yash.Back at the Parking LotMudit: (teasingly) Look who finally graces us with his presence.Sanleen: (mockingly) Oh, the mighty restroom explorer has returned. We were starting to think you went on a world tour in there.Yash: (grinning) Guys, it's not what you think. I just bumped into her.Mudit: (eager) Cut the suspense and spill the beans! What happened?Yash: (looking at his watch) Don't we have a flight to catch, Mudit? We'll catch up and I'll share all the details on the way. Let's move, time's running.
","August 18, 2023 16:51",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,il9gmu,Putting Your Foot In It,Kate Kilbee,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/il9gmu/,/short-story/il9gmu/,Adults,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
There's a new kid on the block and I think he's dangerous. The way he wears his hair, long and greasy and falling over his face, unnerves me. It's like a long black curtain concealing his expression and his intent. It's completely at odds with the way he walks, bouncing along, his hips swinging as if dancing to an imaginary boombox. His clothes are head to foot black but he's not a Goth. He doesn't seem to hang with a gang either so that's not why I find him disturbing.Even with the hair and sometimes a hoodie over it, occasionally there's a glimpse of piercing blue eyes. He never blinks when I pass him on the street. I try to cross over before he sees me if I can but there will always be times when we will be close to each other. It's a small town. He has this way of appearing unexpectedly round corners. It makes my heart pound like a steam hammer and I'm in fight or flight mode until he's passed me. I doubt I'd do either.It really is the spookiest thing. He appeared from nowhere about a month ago, yet it's as if I see him everywhere I turn. Always with the same swagger. One day he even said hello which was weird. I didn't know what to say, or even if I was expected to say anything but no matter. He'd gone before I could decide.I'm not normally so paranoid. I'm a teacher at the local high school so I'm used to teenage boys. My teacher friends, Jo and Sam, can't understand my feelings about him.""What's the problem?"" asked Jo. ""I've seen him around and he doesn't freak me out.""""Yeah Karen. It does sound a bit like you're pre-empting him being a bad boy. You know most of our students dress the same as him, wear their hair the same as him outside school and he's never actually done anything wrong so far as you know,"" said Sam.""So far as I know,"" I replied, saying each word very slowly. ""That's part of it. Call it sixth sense. You two haven't interacted with him in the same way I have.""We agreed on most things but not on this. He gave me a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even his name was creepy. Dhruv. Couldn't he be called Dan or Charlie?There's a database of students Head teachers and Deputy Heads have access to for information on new enrolments. It lists all the new student's previous schools, his marks and attendance. I'm not authorised to use it but Jo is Deputy Head and I'd seen her log in. I didn't know if it would get flagged up in some way, causing trouble for Jo, but although I hated to potentially get her into trouble, my need to know as much about him as I could was overriding everything else.With a name like Dhruv he wasn't hard to find, though the location of his last school was a surprise. Plymouth, over 250 miles away. I called and luckily it was Jenny, his sixth form teacher, who answered my call. She was very forthcoming and gave me chapter and verse. Lots of personal information that wouldn't be in his school records.His mother, Amira, had come to the school with him for his enrolment in 2016, when he was twelve. She was of Indian descent and told Jenny Dhruv was a family name, going back generations. They were new to England having been recently accepted as asylum seekers, yet both mother and son spoke excellent English. It helped that Dhruv's father was a British citizen but even so it had taken five years to get out of Iraq.Dhruv's father had been stationed with the British army there. He couldn't marry Amira as he had a wife back home in England. His marriage had not produced any children so he was delighted to have a son and kept in touch with Amira and young Dhruv as much as he could, until his unit was sent back home in 2011. Dhruv was seven. His father left money in a bank account for the two of them to get to England whenever they could. Iraq was a dangerous place. He rang them often, both in Iraq and after they'd arrived in England.Dhruv was a very promising student, well turned out, very polite, intelligent and expected to get high marks in his A levels but everything changed in 2022. Early into his final year Amira succumbed to cancer and died suddenly. Dhruv was placed with several foster families but kept absconding and his attendance record was poor. At seventeen he disappeared from the area.""Dhruv was very solitary throughout his time with us. I think he found it hard to mix, knowing he was very different to the other students, although there were never any incidents of bullying. Has he made some friends now?"" asked Jenny.""I don't think so. I never see him with anyone else.""""Well I hope I've helped but why did you want to know about him when he's already left school?""I felt flustered and was glad Jenny couldn't see how red my face was. I hadn't prepared for this question but I wasn't head of the drama department for nothing. Thinking on my feet I pretended I was talking to another teacher although there was nobody there.""I'm on the phone Peter. Can't someone else deal with it?"" I left a gap for the non-existent Peter to reply. ""Okay I'm coming now,"" I said.Returning to Jenny I ignored her last question. ""So sorry for the interruption. Bit of an emergency. A student has cut themselves in the chemistry lab. I'm one of the first aiders so I must go. Thanks for all your help though. Bye.""My teaching day was over so I grabbed my things and left. I was shaking and I struggled to make the car key go into the ignition. Lying didn't come naturally to me and there was so much new information to mull over. I burst into tears wondering what all this meant for my future.I'd wanted to know as much as I could about Dhruv, now he was living with us. I found him so easily on the student database because his surname was Jackson, the same as mine. My husband, Nathan, was his father but he had never told me Dhruv existed nor the extent of his involvement in his life. His affair with Dhruv's mother wasn't a one night stand, it was full blown adultery. Their relationship had lasted eight years whilst I was blissfully unaware in another country. I also knew nothing about the phone calls. Now here I was, with my husband's nineteen year old son living in our house and I knew very little about him. Was it any wonder that I was on edge?The front door was unlocked and as I opened it I heard a loud bang. I raced up the stairs to find Dhruv, standing over Nathan, holding a smoking gun. Only guns recently fired produce smoke. It was Nathan's grandfather's service pistol from the Second World War. I hated having it in the house but I could see it meant a lot to Nathan. My brain was wandering off at tangents because it didn't want to know what had happened but then Dhruv looked at me with real concern, distress and shock in his eyes.Realising what he was holding he dropped the gun. ""I don't know why I picked it up Mrs Jackson. I didn't fire it. I don't even know how.""It was his longest sentence to me since he arrived. He was soft spoken, not at all what I'd been expecting. Meanwhile my own vocal cords refused to work.""Dad was showing me how to clean it. Said one day it would be my job. When he was gone.""My awful thought about Dhruv killing Nathan was receding. After seeing how upset he was about the gun and his father, I realised my mind had been working overtime since he'd moved in with us. His concern was genuine. No doubt about that. I reached out and hugged him and he smiled. We were going to be good friends. Then Nathan groaned. Stupid man. I guess it really hurts if you shoot yourself in the foot.
","August 18, 2023 21:41",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,y8yfro,To Protect,A Inge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y8yfro/,/short-story/y8yfro/,Adults,0,"['Adventure', 'Crime', 'Drama']",3 likes,"
	The dark orange flames arced and curved to a beat without sound. Like flickering fireflies, they shone with passion then settled down into their ember homes. A pattern-less dance, yet a soothing repetition to Chong’s weary eyes. He rubbed them. Pulo will be here soon. And I’m to get the map “at all cost” according to the director, that fat bastard. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But I have to.
	The heavy library door rubbed the polished floors as it opened, re-etching a half-moon scratch onto the floor. Chong released a held breath. “Hello brother.”
	“Chong.” A glint of sorrow flashed in the newcomer’s cool, gray eyes then disappeared just as quickly. The light emitted by the giant hearth made orange shadows on his umber skin. Pulo straightened. “You know why I’m here.”
	Chong nodded and gestured for him to take a seat.
	Pulo stiffened, his massive shoulders drawing up defensively.
 He never was one for orders. Admiration dampened his desire to fulfil his duty. “At all costs,"" he remembered. Leaning forward, Chong steepled his hands. The chair creaked. A waft of oiled leather soaked his thin nostrils. Even after everything, it smelled like home. “Pulo, please. We can discuss this like adults. No weapons. No ambush. I wouldn’t do such a thing to you… brother.” The slight pause made the title sound as unnatural as it felt, yet Pulo’s tight glare softened, and he sat in the opposite chair, the only other in the small study. He’s so quick to trust. All it takes is a word. A false word.
	Pulo copied Chong, leaning forward and clasping his gorilla hands. A thousand worries rode the crinkled brow, streaks of gray crowning it despite his young years. “I need my money. To leave the city. I need it tonight.”
	Chong sat back in his chair, his fingers curling over the armrest. “So, you’ve really decided to leave? After I saved you and your sons’ lives?”
	His eyes widened. “My sons are not to be discussed here.”
	“For someone so given to sentimentality, you are anxious to hide your boys from your family.”
	Pulo stood. “My boys aren’t for sale. We didn’t have a choice, but they will! I’d rather them dead than they have this life thrust on them.”
	Chong’s anger propelled him to his feet. “They gave us mission and duty. One you long ago forgot. Come here, asking for money, hah! Who lied to the directors for you? Who swore, breaking their oath, that you were childless? That they’d died? And now, you come asking for money. Can’t even clean up your own mess.”
	“It’s not my mess!” Pulo’s voice reached dangerous volume, and he stood.
	They glared at each other, cold hatred spiking the other like icicles. The muscles around Pulo’s mouth screwed tighter and tighter. Chong realized he was clutching the knife handle protruding from his belt.
	Chong took a deep breath. It didn’t matter that Pulo could snap him with his bare fingers. That he’d once seen him kill a man with a single blow to the head. Even now, Pulo would control himself. He’d always loved too much, even the “family” that used him. Still, he had to keep reminding himself of that as Pulo’s speech turned to growls. He tightened his grip on his own knife, deep in his coat.
	“I never wanted to kill. I never wanted to be a spy.”
	“But you are.”
	“Yes, because I was raised into it."" Pulo looked away."" I didn’t know what soccer was, but I knew how to split a guy’s skull eight different ways. That won’t be my boys.”
	“What? Men?” Chong sneered, all the tension building up in him. It didn’t matter that Pulo had the treasure. It didn’t matter that his mission was to retrieve it. He was sick of his “brother’s” self-righteous act. “You killed thousands more than me. There’s no washing that blood! I went through the same training, the same process, but you left. You thought there was better than protecting our home.”
	“Mass murder is only acceptable in war. The look in those women’s eyes when we slaughtered their men like sheep… they knew as well as us. We’d taken their love, their life, and their only protection.” The flames in the fireplace seemed to grow in brilliance with each word. Face twisted in grief, Pulo moaned and pulled at his hair. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
	Stiff, Chong curled his lips in disgust. “You did all the same things as the rest of us. What makes you think you can get off free?”
	“I am not free. They’re coming for me. That’s why I must leave. I know what you want. I have the map. The treasure is all yours. I don’t have the time to recover it. I need money now.”
	Chong relaxed. They were back to the topic of business. Back to equations, rationalizations, and logic. Yet his fury had peaked. It burned inside him. He needed to know. He needed an answer. “Why do you think you’re better than us?”
	Pulo looked to the painting hanging over the fireplace. A beautiful woman, petite but curvy, and a strong man clutched each other with broad smiles. The hard lines in the man’s face could have etched a roman emperor. His angled eyes disappeared in crinkles of laughter and the wavy black hair curved back in a perfect slick. The woman had opposite features, with shining green eyes and full pink lips. Her rose-colored hair fell to her shoulders glimmering like tinted glass. “Certainly, you see it.”
	“See what?” Chong barked. “It’s the same painting it’s always been. Twenty years it’s hung here. Twenty years the Leader refuses to enter this room yet won’t to take it down. That’s where sentimentality gets you. That’s where love takes you. She’s dead. Gone. And no one can accept it except me. And now here you are. Wifeless with two boys. With a record just like him. With levels of darkness no one understands. Just. Like. Him. You can’t walk away. This your home.”
	“This is your home.” Pulo’s sharp tone cut him off. “You blind fool. Do you not see the likeness? You’re their son. You're the director's heir.”
	Chong reeled as though struck. “I cannot…”
	“Shut up and grow up. I saw it the first time I looked at that damn painting. And I fought everyday to be better than you. All it brought me was heartache and death. I’m done. Have your birthright. I was never part of this family. Not like you were. And I never want to see any piece of it again.”
	Chong’s stare bore into the dancing orange of the flames. They leaped up and down, constantly in motion. Licking the air as though looking for something to eat away at. He stilled his shaking hands. “You don’t know—”
	“I confronted the director. He confirmed it. You were six when she died, and she hadn’t even bothered naming you beyond a number. You must see this place is death. It was never about the “family” organization, it was about our brotherhood. You are the only friend I’ve ever had other than my wife. Now she’s gone, and I cannot stay. I have those to protect. And you? You have all your life ahead. There’s still hope for something more. Come with us.”
	Years of training masking his emotions kept a neutral expression on Chong’s face. He lifted his chin and took a deep breath. “It would be a new beginning. It would be leaving everything.” He felt his hands shake again. His abs contracted tighter and tighter. He remained motionless. Expressionless. A picture of outward calm, he recited to himself. Don’t ever let them see you drop your hands.
	His knobby knees knocked. He was shaking. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Not since he was beaten for it. I could leave. They don’t love me. I’m not tied here.
 No! What am I thinking? It’s Pulo’s trickery. It’s more of his sentimental lies. I have a part in this business. This organization isn’t tied by loyalty. I need them to get the job done.
 But is it a job I want to do? He took a few steps. Any longer standing, and he might collapse.
	Pulo’s implored him with a look. “Chong, please. See reason. Soon as you become useless to them, they’ll put you down like the dog they see you as.”
	Defiance boiled up out of the whirlwind of new emotions in Chong’s chest. “I’ve invested too much to leave. I want to be great. I cannot live to be nothing. I cannot live to see my manhood sunken.”
	“What is a man if not a protector? Here, you do not protect. You kill. There is more out there. More jobs. More life.”
	“Life like yours? Where you can’t even protect those closest to you? If you had stayed with the organization… if you’d just done as told, your wife would still be alive.”
	Anger flashed in Pulo’s eyes, but he mastered himself quickly.
 He would have hit me before. A log collapsed in the fire. The sudden heat scorched Chong’s cheek. Sweat poured down his back. What kept Pulo so calm?
	“I can not change the past, but I can learn from it. It was my own folly that led to her death. I got sloppy with my enemies. I was so used to having the organization cover my back for me, I forgot how to do it on my own. It was my dependence, not independence that killed me. But I can change that now. This new life will prepare my boys to stand up for themselves and for those too weak to do so on their own. They’ll save the world, not burn it or rely on the ones that do.”
	Chong collapsed in his chair, suddenly too weak to stand. The world spun around him as he gripped his hair and tried to sort out the puzzle. A family that wasn’t a family. A boy who was once like a brother. Loyalty. Trust. Respect. All things that should be earned, not given. Earned. Pulo’s the one who saved me from sharks at seven. Took my first kill so I didn’t have to, but still told the director I did it. He pushed me through training. And what did the director – my father- do? He sent me to kill him. Chong froze, understanding gripping him and shooting cold fear to the marrow of his bones. “They sent me to kill you.” He looked up and met his friend’s eye. “They told me it was about a treasure map, but it’s not. They want you dead. They want you and these ideas dead. You’re dangerous to them.” Suddenly, the answer was clear. He stood, squaring back his shoulders. “If you’re dangerous enough to want dead, then something you’re saying is true. Somewhere in there is the answer we’ve all been looking for. I will go with you, but promise we’ll come back. Promise we’ll fight to show the others here that there’s more to life than murder and pillage.”
	A familiar excitement shone in Pulo’s eyes as he held out his hand. His smile swallowed his beefy face. “I promise.”
","August 18, 2023 13:13",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,mnyvcd,A Royal Problem,Eugene Tan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mnyvcd/,/short-story/mnyvcd/,Adults,0,"['Drama', 'Mystery']",3 likes,"
The scene in the royal courtyard was almost symphonic. The clopping of hooves. The chains going taut against loose earth. The neighs of steeds whipped into motion. And the cries of pain in tempo with the sickening tearing of flesh.
 
The gaunt man in satin robes observed this disinterestedly- he had no taste for such showy executions,. Regardless, it was decorum a man of his station presides over the end of a noble family. Silat would much rather be at his desk sending letters of importance and refining policies in privacy.
 
Perhaps I can still get some work done. He conversed awkwardly with the other nobles around him, discussing the upcoming Sun Festival with the Royal Treasurer and irrigation changes with the Agriculture Minister.
 
For the Royal Advisor of the Eastern Empire, the macabre scene might have been the culmination of a year of planning and orchestration but held little value to him. Despite masterminding this affair, the royal advisor did not flaunt it, preferring to be known as a mere brush-pusher, a man of class.
 
This could not be said of the massive man at the end of the courtyard. In the ornate ivory chair dressed in multi-coloured robes of silk and satin, chins adorned with solid gold necklaces studded with emeralds, sapphires and moonstones, The Supreme Emperor laughed jovially at the sight. As Pavan Gupshas’ legs and torso came loose, exposing his red-stained ribs, he clapped with his fat fingers.
Still, Silat noticed something was off. The Emperor did not appear quite himself- his face occasionally lapsing into a sullen demeanour, his posture shifting back and forth in his cushioned seat.
 
Below, Pavan writhed his last in a pool of his guts and shit. Well, at least the screaming’s over. With any luck, I might be on my way soon. 
 
The royal executioner struck the stone bell, signaling the end of this sordid affair. The congregation fell to one knee in reverence of His Royal Highness until the ringing ceased. Silat sighed, rising to his feet. As he did, a royal attendant approached, passing him a red slip of paper. A grimace passed over Silat’s face.
 
It seems the Emperor would like to discuss something. Well then…
 
====================
 
Silat was joined in the nearby private room by two more of the Emperor’s confidantes. Senior Minister Ishaavan was a younger, strongly-built man, and Chief Magistrate Hassan, a stout, slow fellow. The gentlemen settled onto mahogany chairs at the long table. Silat and Hassan exchanged knowing glances- the Magistrate had also picked up on His Highness’ disquiet.
 
At the head of the table sat the Emperor- the wooden chair barely holding his weight. A curry feast had been prepared- yet, as the room was beside the courtyard still stinking of blood, Silat had little appetite.
 
Emperor Darshun put down a partially-devoured mutton leg and clapped his large palms together.
 
“What a show that was!” The Emperor’s rich voice boomed across the room. For his buffoonery, the man commanded a presence…provided he was given a script.
 
“Doesn’t it feel good that these months of hassle with these insolents are finally over? Though I wish Dhavi was here to see this with us.” His Highness’ eyes travelled to the windows, jolly demeanour deflated. “You must understand, my dear friends. He’s never been like this. He barely even speaks to me.”
 
“I…understand.” Silat took a sip of cordial, disliking where this conversation was headed. Taking the Emperor’s initial lead, he diverted. “As you were saying, on the Gupshas, your Highness…?”
 
The Emperor callously waved between messy swigs of wine, brown liquid slithering down his shaggy beard.
 
“Excellent work. Have Shivesh ensure their households and associates are killed. Maybe by elephants- now that I haven’t seen in awhile.” The fat man rubbed his hands gleefully. “But, onto the real problem. My dear son….”
 
Despite his considerable harem, Emperor Darshun only bore three children- not for lack of trying. One emerged prematurely and perished quickly, another emerged deranged. Then there was Crown Prince Dhavi, a strong, charismatic young man approaching his sixteenth year.
 
“What of the Crown Prince, Your Royal Highness? What pains you so?” Hassan wheezed in feigned curiosity.
 
“Dhavi's been so cold lately, the way he looks at me…. Ever since he returned a few weeks ago.” Prince Dhavi, with his betrothed Zunaira, had spent the past few months on a relaxation-cum-diplomacy mission in the Southern Archipelago. “It’s awful! My trusted servants, do all you can to solve this crisis.”
 
Lord Silat knew when to watch his tongue. A man did not remain Royal Advisor to Supreme Emperor Darshun for fifteen years without balancing frank advice with a healthy dose of patronization. Still, it was difficult not to dismiss His Great Highness’ concerns as a routine and common family matter. And sure enough…
 
“Your Highness…respectfully, this sounds like a personal matter, not a political one. You need not expend resources on the Crown Prince’s insolence!” Ishavaan laughed- stopping when he saw his Highness was unamused.
 
Darshun gave the minister a withering look. Ishaavan grew pale. “Of course, I do not fully understand-""
 
“You dare make light of this?” The Emperor roared. “You imply I enjoy wasting my time and resources?”
 
Yes, indeed. Silat felt slightly sorry for Ishaavan, watching the young man stumbled from his seat to genuflect.
 
“Remove the Royal Cobra immediately, you cur- and get out of my sight!” Spittle flew across the table onto Silat and Hassan’s faces. The Royal Cobra bracelet was worn by high-ranking politicians and generals- basically, Ishavaan’s career was over. Frankly, Silat felt he got off lightly.
 
As the fat man’s chest heaved, Silat placed a calming hand onto his liege’s palm.
 
“Worry not, Your Highness. We will surely rekindle your holy bond with the prince. Be it a clan or the South, we shall unearth the cause of this…crisis.” Silat projected confidently, despite his doubts. Hassan nodded in support.
 
Tears welling up in his eyes, the Emperor sobbed between sloppy mouthfuls of mutton. “Thank you, my friends. I have the fullest confidence you will resolve this.” He was a sight, the obese man barely holding himself together while gorging himself on sweetbreads and pilaf, amidst the stench of death and blood.
 
====================
 
Back in his chambers, Silat demanded several pitchers of palm wine from the servants. Strong, but not too strong.
 
This conundrum was unlike any he had experienced in his thirty-five-year career. Dealing with rebels and political rivals- real, imagined or fabricated, as the Gupshas had been- was one thing. When it came to state matters, the Royal Council was mostly able to manoeuvre the oafish Darshun to their will despite his unpredictability.
 
This was entirely different, as Ishaavan had found out – simple yet boundlessly complicated. The former Senior Minister was right- this should not be their problem. But unfortunately, it was now his to solve.
 
If he failed, Silat’s gut told him he probably would not face execution. Probably. The old administrator had no intention of finding out beneath an elephant’s foot.
 
He could hardly imagine his Highness wanting this escaping beyond his inner circle. Lovely Navya was not the chatty sort, but when she inquired on his stress over flatbreads and yogurt-marinated chicken, he nonetheless brushed the matter aside. The fewer ears privy to this, the better.
 
Silat had a falling out with his own child once- Arjun was temperamental and rebellious like the best of teenagers. That had given him no shortage of stress, going as far as to- God help me- slow the pace of his paperwork.
 
He and Navya handled this by simply sitting down and had a lengthy heart-to-heart with the boy about his doubts and fears (for naught as poor Arjun ended up on the wrong end of a pike in the war).
 
A talk, eh? Unquestionably, Emperor Darshun would be hopelessly incapable of reaching an understanding with the rebellious Dhavi. He could arrange an intervention, but that would certainly require he mediate the unsightly affair. There were any number of ways that could go to Naraka.
 
Regardless, the first order of business was clear- find out what plagued the young Prince so.
 
====================
 
The following day, he sat down with Dhavi in the Scarlet Gardens pavilion over bhaji. The young prince was a more interesting fellow than his father, certainly better for intelligent conversation. However, this didn’t mean he trusted the boy. Silat would approach the matter cautiously- lest the young man infer the Emperor had sent him to deal with his little family problem.
 
Prince Dhavi was dressed in casual attire- sand-coloured silks modestly studded with ivory and onyx, and a seashell necklace from his recent travels. The royal advisor made small talk, probing for sources of stress. They spoke about their recent travels and endeavours.
 
“…And he dithered about why we needed all that land. You should have seen his face when I told him cotton grows on trees.” Silat lightly chuckled.
 
“The Bavaqi do live in a desert, I doubt they have seen many trees.” The prince observed. Silat smiled, pleased. The boy’s father would have guffawed like a buffoon- this boy might have the makings of an Emperor. “Well observed, my prince.” Silat took a small bite from an onion bhaji.
 
Still, today, his cleverness was secondary. “Bold as it may be for me to pry, how goes it with Lady Zunaira?” Young men often had the passions of love return as sources of friction with the family. Darshun had few issues with Zunaira- the Yadavis were respected and wealthy- but what of the reverse?
 
“She was brilliant. That deal in the Jala Kingdom was thanks to her smooth tongue and creativity.” Prince Dhavi spoke proudly and affectionately. “It certainly feels different when such a deal is made, where everyone can feel they have gained all they could without pointless jousting. Granted, the Laviat affair- that was a mess.” The prince laughed.
 
Then he paused. “…Although, upon our return, Zuni confided that her family appears…in disarray.” Krishna Yadavi, Zunaira’s father, was Royal Treasurer, which he bolstered significantly through the Yadavis’ numerous businesses. “’Course, she says they’ll tide this over. The Yadavis always have.”
 
Silat’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. The prince’s tone was entirely matter-of-fact- almost too much. Years of political ‘jousting’- as the Prince had put it- compelled Silat to give extraordinary scrutiny to slightest details in words and gestures. Was he reading too much into this?
 
====================
 
To describe this mission in credible fashion to his most trusted vassals was…awkward.
 
Silat had phrased it as politics- to “investigate the impact of the Emperor’s recent decisions on the prince’s wellbeing and social circle”, and pry into the boy’s trip to the Southern Archipelago.
 
Sadvik was a veteran spy with decades of experience. To his embarrassment, Silat had placed a man of such calibre in charge of prying for Prince Dhavi’s daddy issues. If Sadvik felt the matter trivial or absurd, it did not show on his face.
 
“My lord, I have acquired several leads regarding the prince’s demeanour.” His closest vassal explained in characteristic professionalism, handing him a scroll containing the team’s total findings.
 
“During his travels, the prince requested certain favours from the Royal Court to expedite Laviat Province discussions. With our preoccupation with the Gupshas, this went unheeded, encumbering the process. A royal envoy was sent to explain the delay…but perhaps the prince remains bitter.”
 
“That’s…unlikely.” The advisor answered. Silat himself suspected this after going over the books, but meeting the Crown Prince disavowed him of this notion. Dhavi demonstrated great pride and independence; his amusement over that going to Naraka seemed genuine.
 
“Agreed. More promising was Gohar’s investigation into the Yadavis. Lavish spending on parties and the Gupshas affair has landed on their laps with the Emperor offering…” The spy paused, as though wary of ears in the walls. “…perhaps insufficient support to their struggles. Lord Krishna’s cousins have given him much grief.”
 
Silat snapped his fingers. This fit the bill- he recalled Krishna had seemed rather frustrated with the burden of the Sun Festival during the execution. And had the prince not hinted as much? Some things did not quite add up, but Silat was confident he had his proposal.
 
====================
 
“Lord Father.” Crown Prince Dhavi sat at one end of the coffee table, his posture firm and cold.
 
“My son, please.” At the other, Supreme Emperor Darshun somehow appeared small.
 
Standing between them, Silat reflected on his unfortunate but predictable position.
 
The Emperor was greatly pleased, to the advisor’s relief. Next, he had demanded that Silat preside over their meeting- after Ishaavan’s fate, he agreed without protest.
 
“I understand your anger, son. You see, I- you know…well, I’ve settled it.“ It took all of Silat’s fortitude to not roll his eyes as the Emperor looked to him for assistance.
 
“His Royal Highness understands the Court has done your loved ones an injustice.” He interjected carefully. The prince raised an eyebrow, giving Silat pause and a vague sense of disquiet. Regardless, he continued.
 
“We understand that the monetary challenges faced by the Yadavi Clan may have…driven a wedge between you and Lady Zunaira.” The Emperor nodded in unison. “These are demanding times, but perhaps the administration has overlooked the Yadavi’s disproportionate burden.”
 
The prince crossed his arms, face difficult to read, as Silat continued. “We will arrange the Noble Clans lend their support to tide the Yadavis in this period, and compensate for any undue-”
 
“Thoroughly compensated, yes! This is a royal promise!” The King interrupted unnecessarily. Still, despite himself, Silat felt relief someone else was speaking…then discomfort again as a dread quiet followed.
 
The three men exchanged glances for a few excruciating moments. Then, exasperatedly, the prince broke the silence.
 
“What the hell are you talking about?”
 
What? Silat could not conceal his surprise. He felt a genuine, long-forgotten chill in the air- the fear of being so unprepared and exposed. Overwhelming dread rose from the pits of his stomach.
 
“My son, is that not enough? What more can I-“ The Emperor blustered incoherently before Dhavi cut him off.
 
“The Yadavi can handle themselves. They told me as much. Your extravagance,” Dhavi waved dismissively, “has frustrated them, but they shall settle it their way without begging for alms.”
 
“Do you want to know what’s been bothering me?” The Prince slammed the table indignantly. “The Gupshas! I return home after several months, to find their clan being exterminated down to the last man!”
 
The Prince certainly had no connections with that accursed clan- what could this tantrum possibly be about?
 
Silat replied hastily. “My prince, the Gupshas were a growing threat to the Palace’s stability with their demands for power and influence. The Court and His Highness do not make such decisions li-""
 
“The Gupshas have served us loyally for generations! I tire of the incessant death and terror that dominates this court. Have we no other way of doing things?”
 
Dhavi continued unperturbed. “Father, I tried to talk to you about this, but you merely patronized me!” Even while panicked, Silat was still amused by Dhavi’s notion his father was patronizing him instead of simply being a moron.
 
Indeed, the Emperor appeared to barely comprehend the situation. “My Son, I- I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know why-""
 
“Father…what was done to the Gupshas, the Mahajars…my travels tell me we can be better than this. Let us not have our dynasty go down as one of bloodshed.” The Prince furthered with his ridiculous platitudes. The royal advisor was flabbergasted as his control over the situation swiftly disintegrated.
 
The young tiger’s skin-crawling naivete and idealism was appalling- a few slightly successful months in those Southern rocks, and he deigned to question intricate political matters? However, it was not his purview to argue with royal blood. That was up to the Emperor- who was glaring at Silat, enraged. Darshun pointed a fat finger accusingly at him.
 
“He -Silat- told me they needed to be executed! I only did what I was advised!” Darshun wailed.
 
“All these years, I merely followed their lead…what this court has been for decades!”
 
The crown prince closed his eyes, palms clasped in quiet reflection. After several moments, he looked up, his eyes containing renewed clarity. “Father, let’s work together to clean out the court, to rebuild it from the ground up. Give me the authority to transform it and to cleanse it of its evil influences.”
 
Silat was furious at the royal idiots’ audacity. Certainly, the Emperor was…heavily influenced, steered even, by his council; how else was the court to operate through his idiocy? But ultimately, the Emperor gleefully ordered every execution and savoured them like Sanskrit theatre. Was the Prince blind?
 
Or was Dhavi now aware of his father’s imbecilic nature, but willingly overlooked it to gain political power?
 
He shuddered. That would make an idealist terrifying beyond imagination. For the kingdom’s sake, Silat could no longer hold his tongue.”
 
“Your Royal Highness, let’s not be hasty about this. This would destabilize the royal court completely!”
 
“Your opinion is no longer valued.” In one swift motion, Darshun snatched the royal cobra from his wrist and crushed it in his meaty palm. “Leave the room, viper.”
 
Silat withdrew his arm as though scalded; his arms dropped to his side, defeated. The room was a blur; Silat now only vaguely registered the two royal’s conversation, his mind a frenzy considering the unprecedented disaster awaiting the royal court at the hands of an impertinent whelp.
 
Still, he got the impression this was no longer his business. Ironically, despite the brat’s tantrum having cost his political position, this same tantrum would save him execution- for now. Once this phase of charity had passed and he remained outside his Highness’ favour, the former advisor suspected he was not long for the mortal coil.
 
As he stumbled down the hallway in a daze, his machinations crushed by audacious naivete, Silat could only laugh.
 
","August 18, 2023 19:16",[]
prompt_0021,End your story with two characters reconciling.,o99m2z,Breaking the cycle,Tahnee Gangi Reddy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o99m2z/,/short-story/o99m2z/,Adults,0,"['Asian American', 'Desi', 'Drama']",3 likes,"
There are always two sides to an argument. Sometimes three. sometimes four. If you ask me, they are messy little things. They are often too complex to understand since people lie about their actions and close their minds to the perspectives of others. Lies cause hatred. Hatred causes arguments. Arguments result in lies. That endless cycle has rolled through the generations above me leaving me caught in the middle. Did I have to choose a side? I didn’t want to choose a side. Rarely do I meet extended family, because they are all in India, and we are in America. Summer visits were our connection. All the problems started in year 3. Returning to my paternal grandfather's bungalow after a festival, I recall the setting—a spacious entrance shielded by a black, diamond-patterned gate, a dusty yard with an Indian swing, its wooden seat etched in my memory. The bungalow housed an old computer and a living room with black sofas facing a TV, flanked by a Russian doll-adorned cabinet. Bedrooms adorned with beds and cupboards, our room was large enough for three, equipped with cabinets, mirrors, and an en-suite bathroom. A messy laundry room lay behind the living room, and a dining table and kitchen completed the space. That is the bungalow I spent my India holidays in, for most of the time. That day, we entered the living room, having run inside seeking refuge from the monsoon's downpour. As I say, I’m not sure when the argument started, or what the trigger was. My eldest aunt (mum’s side), and my maternal grandma and my mum seemed to be on one side, and my paternal grandmother and grandfather on the other. They were both shouting at each other like hell had broken loose. They were shouting some nonsense and I didn’t really understand Telugu, so I didn’t understand them. All I remember thinking was ‘why are they fighting’. Now, if the same thing happened, I would have phrased it more colourfully. But back then I was innocent, pampered by everyone. It was, if you like the first bad thing that had happened to me. My mum’s side and my dad’s side in an argument with each other. With me clueless. Looking at my family fight, I could see my grandfather seemed to be about to slap my aunt, but my dad stopped him. I could see all there was was simply hate. Usually masked by politeness and formality. I started silently crying, and I went into the bedroom we normally sleep in. Why should I see my mum’s side and dad’s side fight? It was unfair. Or that was what 7- year-old me thought anyways. Everything went quiet again after a while. My mum’s side had left. I asked my dad what had happened. He didn’t tell me the whole truth, and I knew it. He said something like “Your grandma doesn’t like your aunt.” I didn’t question him.  In Year 5, my parents received news of a death, prompting a 6-month trip to India. Settling in my village, Kashipuram, contrasted my urban English life. Initially isolated, I attended a local school with just three classes. Being ahead academically, I shifted to the older class (for 11 – 15 year olds) and befriended Akshara, Dikshita, and Hemasree (Dikshita’s younger sister). I formed deep connections with their families, spending every day together without boredom, engaging in village escapades and farm activities. This rustic lifestyle unexpectedly fulfilled me, making leaving for America difficult despite our strong bonds and weekly calls back in America. This visit taught me three things about the argument: number 1 – every villager knows about it in the older generation. Number 2 – they expect at first for me to know about it, but I don’t. Also, that it started here, in Kashipuram a long time ago. Everyone in the family is involved, whether they liked it or not. They were trapped, ensnared in hatred at each other. And here I was, in the middle. I don’t know whether things got worse as I got older, or whether I simply payed more attention after my longer visit to India, being more culturally aware. In year 6, our mum took us to our uncle's house. We normally stayed there for a week in one holiday to India. This time, since my dad wasn’t coming as he was busy with work, we stayed there for 3 weeks. Our grandfather insisted on having me visit him every day when we stayed there. Since my uncle has a son, and I enjoyed talking to him, I frankly preferred it there. Visiting him maybe twice a week would be fine. But every day. It wasn’t far away, but that was a bit much. If he really wanted to see me, he could have come there and saw me. So one day, I was talking to him and I was talking about some dresses my uncle and aunty had bought me and he suddenly lashed out and told me to never talk about my uncle and aunt in front of him again. I knew well enough by then that questioning would result in an argument. So, I simply agreed, in a muted fashion. Another time, he saw my home screen. It was a photo of me and all my cousins from my mum’s side. I had chosen the photo, not because I favoured my cousins from my mum’s side over my cousins from dad’s side, but simply because I liked the photo. It also reminded me of the year 5 days when we took the photo, of Kashipuram, and the fun I had there. “Are you a Bashireddy or a Vutukuri.” he asked me, sternly. (Bashireddy is my dad’s family name, Vutukuri is my mum’s family name) Both, I had wanted to reply. I’m both, and you can’t change that. But I knew arguing wouldn’t change anything. Arguments result in lies. Lies cause hatred. Hatred causes arguments. The cycle can start from anywhere, and it applies to me as well. “Bashireddy.” I had replied. “But this photo is nice.” “I have one of you, Aryan and Abhinav (my brother and cousin from his side) like that. Change it.” I didn’t like that photo, it wasn’t as nice, I didn’t remember it being taken and I had no emotional connection to it. But I kept it to please him. He mentioned the hatred that lay in both the sides in subtle ways, as if seducing me to stay on his side. My mum’s side had never done that. Their gifts to me have always been meaningful, if not grand or expensive. They had never encouraged me to rally against my dad’s side. My grandfather and grandma, on the other hand, tried to gift me expensive jewellery, fabulous dresses, always trying to outgift my mum’s side. He has tried yet failed to instil a dislike for my mum’s side in me. I hated that. But I didn’t hate him. I wanted to do something then but didn’t know if I should. I shared my problems with my best friends, Akshara and Dikshita. We were outside, baking in the hot sun, on one of my visits to Kashipuram in the street that had come to be named Maharshi Vidhi (-Saints Street,translated, long story). As we walked, I said: “Do you know why my parent’s sides both hate each other?” I asked them. Akshara and Dikshita exchange glances. I saw a silent conversation between them, but I don’t know what is said. “We aren’t allowed to tell you. ""said Akshara, with a look of pity. “The village elders made us promise. They said it had to be your parents' choice; we couldn’t interfere.” “We’d tell you; we know how important it is to you but you’re just going to have to accept you won’t find out or stop it. Some wounds run too deep for the healing.” added Dikshita. “I love them both. They can’t force me to spend my time switching between them, divided. I can’t spend my life, not able to be with both at the same time, with all this tension which amounts to nothing.” I complain. Akshara stops walking. We are under the shade of the banyan tree, a nostalgic spot for all of us, full of many memories of dancing, shouting and playing. “I know it’s hard. But so many families have arguments. Yours might be worse than most, and your situation more complex than most, but your parents will either tell you, or they won’t. Dikshita’s right, some wounds run too deep for the healing. You can’t change that. Many people, older and wiser than you have tried. It’ll only cause more arguments.” said Akshara, in response to my outburst. “More arguments. More lies. More hatred. Why do I have to be stuck in the middle. I’m sick of it. I want to tell them to get over it. Get over your past and work on making the future better. Blame can never be pinned on one side. I don’t care how it started. I want it to end. End it.” I replied, furiously wiping away a tear. Akshara pulled me into an embrace. “I know. I know. But there’s very little choice.” she answered. This wasn’t like Romeo and Juliet. It could seem like that, at first glance, without the double suicide. Two people from families that hate each other, married, because of their love for each other. The problem with that theory is that my parents had an arranged marriage. They didn’t love each other before they married. Why marry two people with backgrounds that clearly despise each other? I didn’t know. I didn’t need to know. I just needed to live with it. With the subtle hints, the occasional bursts of shouting that I didn’t understand, like those in year 9 when I went that year. At the end of year 10, so many people died. Some I barely knew, like one of my grandad’s brothers. My great grandma. Others pulled pieces out of my heart, like my maternal uncle, and Hemasree. Hemasree. She was 8. That is too young to die, before even experiencing life. It made me think. We are all living on borrowed time. Why waste time on arguments that have no purpose anymore? Why waste time hating people when you could be spreading love? Why waste time shouting when you could be making conversation? Dikshita and Akshara had a point. I hadn’t officially even been told that a dispute between the two sides existed. It could have been argued that it should be my parents' choice to tell me. After hours of crying- alone in my room just before we went to India- mourning over Hemasree's death, I decided if I didn’t have a choice, I would force my opinion in anyways. If they argued, I would tell them to shut up, that all of us would be better off as friends. Sometimes, you say things, or make promises to yourself in the moment of anger and frustration. If you try to keep that promise, it’s too difficult, or impossible. Sometimes, if you try to voice your opinion, you get tongue-tied at that moment. If you make a resolution, you forget it. But on the 8 – hour flight to India, I prayed to God that the promise I made to myself was not empty, that it would be followed through and executed. I didn’t spend that entire visit worrying and hoping an argument wouldn’t happen. Since it was my last holiday before my GCSEs, I was determined to enjoy the time I spent there. My aunty had moved back into Kashipuram, and I managed to convince my grandparents and mum to let me stay there for three weeks so I could spend time with Akshara and Dikshita. We spent some time grieving over Hemasree, but most of our time was spent doing what we normally did together with even more fervour, knowing that soon we would be too old for that sort of thing, that this was probably our last year all together: me, Akshara and Dikshita running around on the streets of Kashipuram. When I came back, everyone on my mum’s side wanted to see me, all at once. Even my second aunties and uncles came to visit. They came to the bungalow, all at once, all the adults, from both sides. I don’t think it was planned for them to come all at once. That was, quite literally a minefield. The subject of the dispute, I had come to perceive as a loaded gun at the middle of the table. Easy to reach, hard to ignore, explosive in the wrong hands. With so many hands ready to reach the gun, it would inevitably fire. Everyone was there to see me, so I couldn’t have excused myself to prepare for the inevitable fight. The emotional part of my mind was saying to just shout out my feelings on the subject if it happened, that nothing bad could come out of it anyway. The thinking part of my mind told me that doing it could cause trouble, that it was better to not speak. I wasn’t paying attention to the conversation when it started. My ears detected the change in the tone and volume in their voices, my eyes cowered from the passion in the glowering looks exchanged between both sides, and my brain processed the progression of the conversation from understandable to incomprehensible. Should I do it? I thought. Shout for them to stop and listen to themselves. Make friends, reconcile. Forget the past because what matters is the future. Get past it because I’m tired of being stuck in the middle. Get past it to end the cycle of lies, arguments and hatred. Make my voice heard. I opened my mouth to try get out the words. I was tongue-tied, scared by the ferocity of the dispute, the passion in the voices. Perhaps Dikshita was right. This wound runs too deep for the healing. I refuse to believe that some wounds run to deep for the healing. When there is a wound, you do your best to tend to it. You don’t give up. My family had a wound. I had to try my best to heal it. I didn't even need to push the part of my brain telling me not to speak out of the way. I was so sick and tired of the arguing, that it came out of frustration. “Stop! Stop! Everybody stop!” I shouted. Everybody stopped and stared at me. My ribcage clenched at the feeling of all the eyes staring at me, but I exhaled and let it go. “Stop and listen. Look at yourselves!” I cried. “You are all shouting and arguing about something that happened years ago. Abba, you once asked me whether I am Bashireddy or Vutukuri. I’m both. The blood of both families runs through my veins. You were once friends. You married my mum to my dad and then started hating each other. Or something. I don’t pretend to know what you are arguing about. But I do know that its unnecessary. There are no arguments that can’t be resolved if both parties are willing. And why aren’t you willing? Your ego? You want revenge? Revenge is something the human mind wishes for. It’s not a path to a better life. You want to defend your ego? Forget it. Apologising and forgiving doesn’t reduce your ego, it strengthens it. It shows you have the strength of character to forget past mistakes and focus on the future. Your future.” I paused for breath, felt a tear run down my cheek but didn’t wipe it away. “You are living on borrowed time. So many of you here are old, and aging. You will soon die. That happened to my uncle. My uncle and Hemasree. She was only 8. The point is life is too short for arguments. Would you rather die, knowing that all your life you missed out on so many conversations that could have been exchanged in peace. That you missed out on spending time with me and my brother because you couldn’t spend it together. Or would you rather die, knowing you upheld a good relationship with everyone, that you were able to maintain a friendship and mend and acknowledge your mistakes. You were friends. You can be friends again. There is nothing to lose, but everything to gain. Please. For me. For yourselves. Stop this hatred.” I did it. I did it. The consequences didn’t matter to me. I voiced my opinion, and I was heard. My Telugu was broken, and I had probably made more than a few mistakes with the grammar. But they understood it. One of my grandfather’s brothers speaks up. “She’s right. A child has seen what we don’t. We are all trapped in our own hatred. Hating isn’t something you do freely. It takes effort, and we are better off without it. I can’t imagine what it’s like to stand in the middle of such an intense argument. Vengala Bashireddy. Saraswati Vutukuri. (My paternal grandfather and maternal grandma) You began this argument. Neither of you are to blame. Apologise and forget. She has spoken wisely.” My grandfather knelt at my grandma’s feet. “I’m sorry. I put you through so much trouble, and remained distant when you were in need. For both our sakes, please forgive me.” My grandma gently held my grandad's hand and brought him to his feet. “Your apology is all I ever wanted. I went the wrong way about it, I sought revenge. I’m sorry for my mistakes. I had too much ego to say this. Our friendship will make us stronger. Let’s finish.” And so, the cycle ended. No more hatred. No more arguments. And I could spend time with both sides of my family, at the same time. What more could I wish for. 
","August 18, 2023 20:34",[]