prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,vj7lju,The Nexus of Nowhere,Kevin Logue,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vj7lju/,/short-story/vj7lju/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Fantasy', 'Fiction']",37 likes,"
Ardle Henbrook tugged the sleeves of his faded blue ceremonial robe, hoping to entice the aged fabric to cover his wrists. Decades had passed since he last donned the damned thing and too many pies, ale, and ale pies were making it impossible to tie. Grunting, he slumped into the jostling carriage's padded seats and wrapped his arms about himself. Little good it did against the chill, but if there was one thing Ardle hated more than carriage rides to Nowhere, it was the cold. “You ok sir? You haven't sat still since we left Somewhere, anything I can do? A cleansing tonic perhaps? I just picked up some fresh sheepwort an…” Ardle was really starting to despise the chipper tone of his latest assistant, Jestinia. Too helpful by half and pretty too. Prettiness was always a trait he deemed suspicious in a Mage, even a mere apprentice. Especially when he couldn't tell if she was truly beautiful or just enchanted that way. Embarrassment tightened his throat, there had been a time when he could have spotted an enchantment like that from fifty paces. “No,” he snapped.“Perhaps another ballad?"" Jestinia’s hand moved to the lute sat next to her.“One note girl and I'll cast that thing into the Never Realm, and you’ll be walking home to boot. Just sit in bloody silence will you. You think I haven't gotten enough on my plate.”“Nervous sir?”“Excuse me, but am I suddenly speaking in the tongue of the Elsewherians? Because I really can't understand how the word silence could be misconstrued when your blasted ears are but three feet away!”“Ah, so you are.”Ardle’s jaw ached as he fingered the dull runic gemstone hanging about his neck, as he did habitually when worried. But he wasn't about to admit that to this whelp. Not so subtly ignoring her too big, too bright, pleading green eyes he withdrew the summons from his inner pocket once more. Already tatty from unscrolling and rewrapping, few could have guessed a raven had only delivered it the previous day.Dear Magus Henbrook, Ninth of Nine, A time of great sadness and opportunity is upon us. Magus Maximus, First of All, is finally succumbing to time’s wicked game. We fear he will leave this plane without revealing the secrets of the Order to his anointed successor. We must all gather at once. Please make haste to Castle Nexus.  Yours Wizardly, Magus Arkas, Second of Nine.“More like Magus Arse-Kiss!” Ardle growled and stuffed the missive away.“What was that sir? Has the letter changed on the eighty seventh read sir?”“Changed? Tell me truly, are you a simpleton?”“I was second least simpleton-iest in the academy sir, but even at—”“Oh shut up and play your bloody lute then!”**** The thing Ardle hated most about Nowhere was its lack of anything that could be described as something. One solitary mountain in a vast desert, as if the creator was trying out crease free countryside. Atop the rough slopes, hewn by magic and the sweat of others, and immeasurable piles of gold, stood the magnificent Castle Nexus. Fourteen arduous verses of ‘The Wolf and the Raven’ later and the carriage juddered to a stop. Ardle gazed up at the huge doors, smirking as Jestinia whistled in wonderment.“Is that a battle between the Gods carved into–”“You don't recognise the depictions?” Ardle tutted, “We don't have time for your dilly-dallying down memory lane girl, now move it.”With a flick of his wrist the gem about his neck tingled, glowed, then vibrated, and the doors swung open, crashing against the inner walls with an ungodly rumble.Ardle despaired in recognition of the figures within.“What are you playing at Henbrook?”“Of course it's you Disast-Ardle!”“Trying to bring down the mountain are you?”Seven familiar faces surrounded him, once brothers and sisters, friends even. So long had passed he didn't know what they were anymore.“I…Ah, sorry about that.” He offered, lacing his fingers contritely.Arkas stepped forward, black beard, black hair, blacker eyes. “Good to see some things never change. Did you simply forget why it's called Castle Nexus, hmmmm?” Ardle stared at his feet as Arkas draped an arm around his shoulders to muffled giggles. “Ok, Ok, let's move along. Everyone is here now, time to get to it.”“So how are we doing this?” Ardle asked, looking up through his bushy brows like he was a shy teenager all over again.“Well a good huddle around the death bed should do it.”***Jestinia knew things. Seven years at the academy, yet she was careful not to garner notice for aptitude or merit. Those kinds of attributes only drew attention, or worse: responsibility. Feigned ignorance bestowed her the freedom to fade into the background, metaphorically of course. So when ushered into a large nine sided wooden paneled room by the castle's butler, and she found herself offering the apprentices goblets of wine from a tray, she simply let them assume whom and what she was.""More wine?"" She asked Faustus leaning back in an oversized leather chair. By way of answer, his goblet shot outwards and he continued rambling.""...it is true. Arkas defeated the six headed beast of Caltarra, but he didn't use the Traxis spell, Felicity."" He smirked, drank, wiped his mouth then looked at Jestinia, one eyebrow raised.""More wine, sir?""""Wait, are you the serving girl or the entertainment, I could've sworn you had a lute.""""Yes, indeed. A bard I am. But also a deliverer of fermented grape juices when required. And I'll tell you this, it was actually Fuego strengthened by Traxis.""Jestinia knew that to be balderdash, but apprentices couldn’t resist correcting each other. The secretive nature of older Mages was wrought only by years spent reviling sentences starting with “Actually…”. Apprentices however, braggarts the bunch of them.""Phah, Fuego strengthened by… Are you stupid?""Jestinia had been called worse. ""Right you are good sir, how did it go … Second raised his fist and swore, to the stars that all shall see, in fire and ice he cast, a blast so large, the beast breathed its last….""""Fire and ice?"" balked Faustus.""That's what the bard who witnessed it sang.""""There was no bard!""""You were there sir?""""Of course.""""And yet you don't know, do you sir?""""It was Villisus enhanced by Doro,"" he spat, brow furrowed, blanching as the words passed his lips.Jestinia bowed, hiding her smirk, ""Very well sir."" Turning heel, she strode to a tall blonde woman propped against a crackling fireplace.""Evening milady, wine?""She leaned close, daintily lifted a brass goblet by the stem and whispered in an almost seductive tone, ""What has Faustus so worked up?""""I don't really understand it, milady, something about Traxis and Doro being used against the beast of Caltarra. Means little to me.""Returning to her solitary posing, the woman's eyes creased locking that nugget of lies away for later use.Jestinia moved onwards, her step light with giddiness, this was going to be easier and more fun than she had thought.***In a grand mahogany bed lay the stick-like man that had been Ardle’s master and aloof father-figure for decades. Lost in an ocean of blankets, more beard than body, more eyebrows than face, his voice little more than a whisper.""My Order of Nine, it’s great to see you together again,"" a wracking cough bent him double and Arkas leapt to catch the phlegmy discharge as though it were gold spewing from the mountain itself.The First sunk slowly back into the mattress, ""I sense I have very little time remaining. One of you shall take my place, but first…""Everyone leaned in a little closer.""... a test.""Ardle’s eyes rolled so hard he almost lost his balance. A test meant only one thing, Arkas would win, as he always did. Enchanting, Conjuring, Healing, Divination, that arrogant twit excelled at every discipline. Scanning the candlelit chamber it seemed the thought resonated with everyone, even Arkas grinned victorious.""But first,"" Magus Maximus continued, "" your amulets."" Waving his trembling skeletal hand, nine arcanic lights flickered into existence around the room's edge, above nine stone busts, highlighting the nine gathered quizzical faces.""A test without amulets? But–"" Arkas didn't get to finish.""I already know your magical strength, Second. The role of First requires more than power, someone who will be the Emperor's advisor, head of the academy, and more. Today I test your character, your mind, not your brawn.""A wave of raised eyebrows washed over all.""How master?""""Through those who know your flaws better than anyone….your apprentices.""***""You're sure?""""Well that one over there,"" Jestinia nodded towards three apprentices squeezed around a circular table. ""Valeras is it? She said Thistle flower is best for eradicating crotch itch."" ""Did she say anything else?""Jestinia opened her mouth to deliver more misinformation when the doors opened blowing in an urgent gust of silence.A funeral procession of dejected Mages ambled forward, Jestinia squinted, something seemed different about them. Then she realised.""Sir,"" she whispered as Ardle drew close, ""where is your amulet?""Fingers twitching, he searched his chest for the phantom jewelry. ""The First has taken them back. There is going to be a reshuffle.""""A reshuffle?""""Yes, whoever becomes First will reassign positions, you know what that means don't you girl?""""A possible promotion, sir?""""Demotion more like. Two of these younglings will be elevated to fill the gaps.""""Never sir, why would they get rid of you?""""The better question is, why keep me?""A bell rang. Everyone turned to the butler looming in the doorway. ""Magus Maximus shall see each apprentice in his chamber, beginning with you Faustus.""Jestinia's smile widened, ""He wants to speak with me?""Ardle nodded, face a pale shade of sad-berry.***Slowly the chamber emptied until only Ardle and Jestinia remained. He paced the tile floor whilst she rocked on her heels, arms behind her back, admiring the leering faces of lost mages cast in canvas and oil.""Jestinia,"" Ardle began softer than she had ever heard him speak. ""You know I'd never actually cast your lute, or anything for that matter, into the Never Realm.""""I know, sir. No need to worry.""""But, I just–""""No need to worry, sir. Best we just wait in silence.""Fifteen minutes later, the doors squeaked open and the lanky butler beckoned them to follow. Up the spiral stairs, past countless rooms filled with books and sheet covered furniture until the Magus Maximus' chamber loomed before them.The butler waved Ardle to a seat and Jestinia entered as though it was any normal day or task.""Hello First, do I bow?""""If you'd like.""""I don't.""The wizened face almost cracked a smile under all that facial hair.""What can I do for you, your wizardiness?""""Ardle, it’s been decades since I spent time with him, I wish to know what you make of him?""""A grump sir, with a temper, but he never acts on it. He has restraint.""""Hmmm, and as a teacher?""""Oh he's quite good sir, knows very well what he doesn't know.""""Ha, he always did. But he tries?""""Very muchly sir, he’s always sending me to the archives or the king's library with some knowledge seeking task."" She pointed to the gems on their pedestals, ""May I sir.""""As you wish.""Leaning over each, she hummed and hawed, like a gentleman hunting down the perfect gift for a scorned lover. ""You ever imagine yourself wearing one Jestinia?""""Don't like jewelry sir, my neck's too narrow, I'd look like a giraffe pulling a plough.""""But what of the responsibilities, the power?""""Don't make my toes curl. Power's too easily lost to be worthwhile running after.""""Haha, the first real wisdom I've heard all evening. You know what, I like the cut of your jib, Jestinia.""""Strangely sir, so do I.""***""They've been hours, something must be wrong, can't you go see?"" Ardle asked the stoney-faced butler, partly to check if he had ossified completely.""Master is not to be disturbed.""Ardle huffed, balled his fist and continued to wear a track in the floral rugs.Moments later, laughter stopped him in his path. Turning, brows racing towards his decreasing hairline he gasped as Jestinia came forth helping the First on wobbling legs.“Master, you should not be out of bed you’ll be–”“Dead soon, ha. That is the point of all this is it not?” Maximus leaned into Jestinia, whispered, nodded and she hastened down the stairs.“Everything ok sir?” Ardle asked, moving to support the arm Jestinia had vacated.“Just splendid, the girl is away to tell them the news.”“You've made a decision sir? May I ask who?”“Isn't it obvious?” He shrugged off Ardle’s support and dug trembling fingers beneath his night shirt. “Here, this is yours now.”Ardle gawked at the fist sized iridescent gem dominating the old mages hand.“Mine, but why?”“Well hurry up and take it, bloody heavy, can't you see I'm old and dying.”Tentatively, Ardle took the gem and draped it about his neck. The surge of power made him giddy, as well as wanting to pee. The latter he couldn't explain.“Sir, what about Arkas?”“A strong second should you wish it. But there is something you need to decide first, this position's burden.”“Sir, I don't deserve this.”“Do you not? Every apprentice I spoke with blew smoke about how great their master was, spouted nonsense about knowing secrets of other disciplines, all damnable lies. So eager to please and elevate themselves they all but lost their senses. “But Jestinia, she says you're a bad tempered grump. You’ll need that when dealing with the Emperor, trust me he needs to be roared at every once in a while. But you have restraint, so you will control yourself. I can't give power to someone who will just go off on a whim. “And when faced with something you don't know, you research. You don't force a square peg into a dodecahedron-shaped hole. The others think themselves well-versed in everything. Most of all, though, Jestinia. Not the brightest, nor powerful, but you gave her a chance. You’re a good man Ardle and you don't want power. Those that don't want it, usually do the most with it. ”The old mage turned and shuffled back into his room, “Come Ardle, we have little time to reveal our secrets or the creator will never get this published on time.”Standing before the nine plinths Ardle disbelievingly caressed the hefty gem about his neck.“Do I decide who gets what position now?”“Not right now, but yes. That is, if you wish to give any at all.”Ardles raised an inquisitive brow.“Ever wondered why the land around here is unnaturally smooth?”Ardle shrugged, knowing he would only add stupidity to an otherwise climatic moment.“This mountain is no mountain. Castle Nexus, where all energy flows to, but also flows out of. Its ebb and flow is like a carpenter planing wood, our magic is gradually wearing away at the world around us. Killing it. The vast plains of Nowhere are spreading, consuming nature so we can do unnatural acts. In time, everywhere will be Nowhere.”Ardle gulped.“Exactly boy, sorry First, ha.”“If it's not a mountain then what is it?”“I'm not really sure, truth be told. It's a game of whispers, each First tells the next, all we know for sure is it crashed from the heavens and when the first men found it they waged war over it. Some called them star-travelers, others gods, some even said they were from Stoke-on-trent.""But what really mattered lay in its core, a gem shattered into nine pieces that could enhance magical abilities. And so the Nine were born.""""They are receivers of some kind?"" Ardle asked.""Indeed. The decision is yours now, continue as we have.. slowly destroying the world, or…"" Maximus shrugged.""I don't, I don't know…"" Ardle pinched the bridge of his nose squeezing his eyes shut.When he opened them again he was alone, Maximus’ robes lay in a pile next him as if he had just vanished.""So old and full of magic he has returned to the Aether."" Ardle looked skyward, words mournful.""No, I'm over here, ha."" Ardle spun to the naked prune-like figure giggling in the corner. ""Couldn't help myself hehe. But I am off now."" He began phasing out of existence, his voice growing distant. ""Don't forget to feed Daryl.""""Who the heck is Daryl?""""The dragon that lives inside the mountain of course. He prefers custard creams but gets an extra-crispy peasant every second Tuesday as a little treat.""Ardle stared into the rafters, beyond baffled. Was he really the new First?***Ardle Henbrook, First of the Magus folded the sleeves of his gleaming blue ceremonial robe with gold and silver embroidery and smiled. Jestinia gently brushed the shoulders of lint and unseeable hairs.""It's a good fit sir.""He turned, posing in the full length mirror, ""It really is.""""Yes sir, are you nervous for today?""""Terribly, if the Emperor is as all say I'll need all my wits.""""I have some sheepwort tonic if you wish.""""That would be great."" Swallowing the tonic he winced at the bitterness. ""You sure you won't consider being Ninth?""""Definitely not sir, content and of more use here""""Perhaps, someday you will tell me what exactly you and Maximus spoke of.""""Probably not sir...""Ardle laughed, far too helpful by half and pretty to boot. But damn he trusted no one more.""Shall we sir,"" she held open the door to the Emperors court and a fanfare of music erupted. She swung the lute from her back, ""May I sir?""""Nothing would make me happier dear.""
","August 02, 2023 14:08","[[{'Lily Finch': 'Thank goodness the creator did his part and got it published on time, Kevin. You certainly packed this story with fun! I enjoyed this a great deal. Thanks for sharing. LF6', 'time': '02:13 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, yes the creator did his part indeed! Thanks for checking it out Lily, I had a lot of fun with it, glad others are enjoying it too ☺️', 'time': '05:45 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, yes the creator did his part indeed! Thanks for checking it out Lily, I had a lot of fun with it, glad others are enjoying it too ☺️', 'time': '05:45 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Corrie McCue': 'Delightful! Love the tone!', 'time': '02:19 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks Corrie 😀', 'time': '10:57 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks Corrie 😀', 'time': '10:57 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jessie Laverton': 'Such a sweet ending, and really fun story', 'time': '13:06 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks very much Jessie. I'm actually playing about with the same characters for something else 😁 glad you enjoyed."", 'time': '13:16 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jessie Laverton': ""well the characters are definitely very rich here. I can see you've spent some time getting to know them."", 'time': '13:23 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks very much Jessie. I'm actually playing about with the same characters for something else 😁 glad you enjoyed."", 'time': '13:16 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jessie Laverton': ""well the characters are definitely very rich here. I can see you've spent some time getting to know them."", 'time': '13:23 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jessie Laverton': ""well the characters are definitely very rich here. I can see you've spent some time getting to know them."", 'time': '13:23 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Heather Eldridge': 'Awesome story- great world building, and your writing style, conversations between characters, and little instances of humor drew me in right from the start. I would love to know more- feels like this could be turned into an entire novel!', 'time': '07:03 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""I've been reading that a lot this week, to the point were I've been mulling over where I could take it. I'm thinking it may be time for a novella haha\n\nSo glad you liked it Heather, and thank you for gracious comments."", 'time': '07:38 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""I've been reading that a lot this week, to the point were I've been mulling over where I could take it. I'm thinking it may be time for a novella haha\n\nSo glad you liked it Heather, and thank you for gracious comments."", 'time': '07:38 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Angela Govender': 'I loved absolutely every bit of this submission! Your writing shows sophistication and the kind of grammar and composition techniques you used is indispensable. Kudos on the great work!', 'time': '13:31 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Oh wow, what a wonderful thing to say Angela, you're making me blush.\n\nIt's always delight to hear such things, thanks for reading and commenting, it means a lot."", 'time': '13:50 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Oh wow, what a wonderful thing to say Angela, you're making me blush.\n\nIt's always delight to hear such things, thanks for reading and commenting, it means a lot."", 'time': '13:50 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'It felt like an entire novel wrapped up in one story. Great job. i too like Jestinia. And what IS the Nexus?', 'time': '01:23 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers for the feedback Kristin! I too felt that way, it was originally close to 4000 words and I was considering lengthening as opposed to shortening but here we are. Although I like the characters and tone so much I've spent the last week considering expanding to answer such questions as to what the nexus is, or what would happen if the world discovered the nines powers could be had by anyone if I only they had a gem \U0001fae3😉\n\nThanks for reading and commenting, it is much appreciated"", 'time': '05:51 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kristin Johnson': 'I hope you do this! You have my vote.', 'time': '18:18 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers for the feedback Kristin! I too felt that way, it was originally close to 4000 words and I was considering lengthening as opposed to shortening but here we are. Although I like the characters and tone so much I've spent the last week considering expanding to answer such questions as to what the nexus is, or what would happen if the world discovered the nines powers could be had by anyone if I only they had a gem \U0001fae3😉\n\nThanks for reading and commenting, it is much appreciated"", 'time': '05:51 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': 'I hope you do this! You have my vote.', 'time': '18:18 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'I hope you do this! You have my vote.', 'time': '18:18 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Cool, I felt as if I were back in the dark ages. A bit Shakespearean there, Kevin, great style. When I first read the name Faustus (AKA: Faust) in your story, I guess you know where my thoughts went. Excellent story & excellent writing, as expected.', 'time': '01:11 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Well I never thought my words would be considered Shakespearean, your honourifics  beseech my soul to the paramount of vexation lol.\n\nGood old soul selling Faust in hope of gaining knowledge beyond human capabilities, a great medieval character. If I ever continue this world that trope may return 😉\n\nThanks for the feedback Joe.', 'time': '05:58 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Well I never thought my words would be considered Shakespearean, your honourifics  beseech my soul to the paramount of vexation lol.\n\nGood old soul selling Faust in hope of gaining knowledge beyond human capabilities, a great medieval character. If I ever continue this world that trope may return 😉\n\nThanks for the feedback Joe.', 'time': '05:58 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Dee Logue': 'Brilliant. I was hooked from the start as to where it was going.  I could almost hear the characters talkinv. Id nade their accents in my head lol . Really enjoyed this. Well done.', 'time': '21:44 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Glad you like it. Out of curiosity, what kind of accents did they have?', 'time': '05:59 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Glad you like it. Out of curiosity, what kind of accents did they have?', 'time': '05:59 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty Logue': 'Another excellent tale. Loved it.', 'time': '15:31 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Arthur McNamee': ""I really liked this tale. The imagery is superb and the story is very engaging to say the least. You sir, have a very good command of the English language. I can't wait to read your next story. Thanks."", 'time': '22:04 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thank you very much for such kind words Arthur.', 'time': '06:49 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thank you very much for such kind words Arthur.', 'time': '06:49 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'I’m out of my comfort genre here, but I couldn’t help but think of Rincewind while reading Ardle’s antics 😂 I just love these characters you’ve created, and Jestinia is great with her misinformations!! Great story, Kevin! I enjoyed this!', 'time': '20:34 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""I didn't intend it, but Nina you have hit the nail on the head, when I do a draft me and my partner do a read through and an edit, and my first question to her was... Is it too Rincewindy? Haha.\n\nThank you for reading and commenting, it is much appreciated 👍"", 'time': '20:44 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""I didn't intend it, but Nina you have hit the nail on the head, when I do a draft me and my partner do a read through and an edit, and my first question to her was... Is it too Rincewindy? Haha.\n\nThank you for reading and commenting, it is much appreciated 👍"", 'time': '20:44 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'John Werner': ""Jestinia is a great character. Wouldn't mind reading more with her. Not at all!\n\nFun read, Kevin!"", 'time': '16:35 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks John! She was a lot of fun to write. \n\nAfter posting here and getting some great feedback, I am actually considering continuing this. Ken Cartisano has even offered to add commas to the next in the series for me, how can I turn down such an offer haha 😆\n\nCheers for reading and commenting John, It's alway appreciated"", 'time': '16:41 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks John! She was a lot of fun to write. \n\nAfter posting here and getting some great feedback, I am actually considering continuing this. Ken Cartisano has even offered to add commas to the next in the series for me, how can I turn down such an offer haha 😆\n\nCheers for reading and commenting John, It's alway appreciated"", 'time': '16:41 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Love it Kevin. Huge amount of world building and history in a small amount of space , impressive. Loved the gags throughout particularly ""no lm over here"" ,😂 got a bit of a Capaldi Dr Who vibe off Ardle. And love Jestinia to bits. (Jestinia... because she jests?)\nThanks!', 'time': '10:03 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers Derrick. I had a lot of fun with this piece, needed a breather week to just let the silly out and it seems to have worked! \n\nCapaldi's Doctor, that's an interesting one, I tend not to overly describe any of my characters so the reader can decide who they are. I guess the grumpy man with a chirpy companion resonated Capaldi for you. I was always a Tennant fan.\n\nJestinia came about subconsciously, just put down a name then looked it up after. It's the female Welsh for Justin. Was only after the fact I realised the Jest reference myself...."", 'time': '10:16 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ela Mikh': 'I had the same vibe! This is very impressive, fun, and complex at the same time! really nicely done \nThank you', 'time': '17:33 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Ela, glad you enjoyed it 😁', 'time': '18:03 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers Derrick. I had a lot of fun with this piece, needed a breather week to just let the silly out and it seems to have worked! \n\nCapaldi's Doctor, that's an interesting one, I tend not to overly describe any of my characters so the reader can decide who they are. I guess the grumpy man with a chirpy companion resonated Capaldi for you. I was always a Tennant fan.\n\nJestinia came about subconsciously, just put down a name then looked it up after. It's the female Welsh for Justin. Was only after the fact I realised the Jest reference myself...."", 'time': '10:16 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ela Mikh': 'I had the same vibe! This is very impressive, fun, and complex at the same time! really nicely done \nThank you', 'time': '17:33 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Ela, glad you enjoyed it 😁', 'time': '18:03 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Ela, glad you enjoyed it 😁', 'time': '18:03 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Ha! A funny piece, which nevertheless has a dark history under the hood. Taking advantage of useful power at the expense of the world is familiar. \n\nJustinia\'s manipulations of the others were amusing, and the fact they mistook her for a servant paralleled the First\'s decision. It was about the difference of being a wizard - of acting like one - vs trying to appear to be one. Truth vs perception, perhaps. \n\n""We fear he will leave this plain"" - this works fine, if it\'s ""plain"" like a prairie, but I was wondering if it was meant to be ""plane"" ...', 'time': '20:36 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Ah good catches Michal, I always mix up plane and plain I should have double checked that.\n\nGlad you enjoyed!', 'time': '20:59 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Ah good catches Michal, I always mix up plane and plain I should have double checked that.\n\nGlad you enjoyed!', 'time': '20:59 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': 'This is a hilarious, zesty, rambunctious prologue, for the first of our many collaborations. (We Volatilarians are presumptuous as hell.) You will write the entire book, and I will provide the commas. (That’s my first offer. Feel free to negotiate.)\n\nNow that I’ve gotten a few jokes out of the way, I can be serious. (He wasn’t kidding.) It takes a lot to get me to laugh out loud, a lot. (Like, firecrackers in the glove compartment.) but this story did it, several times. And where it wasn’t funny, it was outrageous, or intriguing. Lot’s of ac...', 'time': '07:13 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""This makes me smile a lot, I had a lot of fun writing this just to let loose and get silly. Hadn't considered it being a starting point but yourself and Chris Miller have pointed out something's that are making me rethink this.\n\nI could probably do with a comma partner, so I'll have the agreement drawn up by my daughter, it may be in crayon and consist of scribbles but I'm sure it will be legally binding."", 'time': '08:23 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""This makes me smile a lot, I had a lot of fun writing this just to let loose and get silly. Hadn't considered it being a starting point but yourself and Chris Miller have pointed out something's that are making me rethink this.\n\nI could probably do with a comma partner, so I'll have the agreement drawn up by my daughter, it may be in crayon and consist of scribbles but I'm sure it will be legally binding."", 'time': '08:23 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'I liked ""...as if the creator was trying out crease-free countryside."" Nice meta idea and description in one, but it gets more interesting when you talk about it being flattened out by the energy flowing to and from the Nexus, like the waves of energy are eroding it. A really nice fantasy geography idea.\n\nThanks for sharing, Kevin.', 'time': '23:00 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers Chris, was aiming for something more quirky, dare I say Prachett like, this week. Just for a bit of fun. All the serious, twisty stuff can get a little mentally exhausting. \n\nI like that geographical feature too, perhaps I've accidentally started some world building for a novella 😊"", 'time': '05:25 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers Chris, was aiming for something more quirky, dare I say Prachett like, this week. Just for a bit of fun. All the serious, twisty stuff can get a little mentally exhausting. \n\nI like that geographical feature too, perhaps I've accidentally started some world building for a novella 😊"", 'time': '05:25 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad to see the creator got this published in time. It is a gem, or nine.💎📿📿📿📿📿📿📿📿📿', 'time': '16:02 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, thanks Mary, I decided to try a little more light hearted and quirky than my usual affair.', 'time': '16:10 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, thanks Mary, I decided to try a little more light hearted and quirky than my usual affair.', 'time': '16:10 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,3zkh6j,Golden Dust,Charlea Jefts,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3zkh6j/,/short-story/3zkh6j/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Adventure']",26 likes,"
	The heart monitor beeped rhythmically. Trish did not hear it. She did not know her parents stood crying, holding her hand. She did not sense the needles and tubes in her. She did not know the car accident had left her in a coma. She was simply a plain-looking, seventeen-year-old girl who lay dreaming in a hospital bed whilst the Waking World turned around her.
	….
	Prom night was supposed to have been fun. It was supposed to have been a time of discovery. For Trish, though, it had been the nightmare. Its glittering lights and beautiful gowns only highlighted everything she was not. 
	‘Such a loser.’
	‘Who let you out of the house?’ 
	‘Did you get lost? The snacks are over there, fatty.’
	They laughed and taunted. They always did, and she took it with a smile. It wasn’t their fault for pointing out the obvious. That’s what Trish had learned to believe. There was no reason to fight back. There was no reason to tell them a different story. Trish fingered her keys in the green silk bag. The stupid bag her mother chose to match her beautiful eyes. Beautiful was an adjective Trish had never seen as a descriptor of any part of herself. Leaving and driving around for a few hours was a better option than this torment.
	A splash of cold liquid ran down the front of Trish’s velvet dress. 
	‘Oh, so sorry. You didn’t have your wide load sign on.’ The jock grinned as he squeezed the plastic cup in his hand before letting out a roar of laughter. His buddies joined in. 
            Trish smiled, but her eyes told the truth. Feeling the cold drink soak through her gown, she grappled for her keys and bolted to the parking lot. I don’t wanna do this anymore. The country road was long and straight save for one hill. One quick downward slope. The speed limit sign stated 55. Trish looked at her speedometer. 57. She then looked at her face in the rearview mirror. The lights of town reflected in her eyes. Mascara and eyeliner ran down her face. 70. The hill drew nearer.  She grabbed at her chest as she let out a scream. A scream so loud it shook worlds beyond her knowledge. 90.  Someone or Something save me from ME! The hill was just feet away. 110. Her car’s wheels lifted off the ground as she came to the peak of the hill. Flying into the air, she recalled her nightmares of driving off the road uncontrollably. But unlike the dream, the crash was real. The tires came down but not how they left the pavement. From one side to the other, the car rolled. The last thing Trish thought before dust, glass and smoke enveloped her was It’s just a dream.
	….
	A golden dust swirled endlessly, collected from the dreams which spilled into the double-layered glass bobbles. They were the source of energy in the Dreaming world. Bobble after bobble was mounted on oxidized copper bars. Rows upon rows rose toward an obsidian ceiling that was too high for the eye to see. Stars in the black floated down, and in the Dust Storm Room, you could occasionally hold one in your hand.  The golden dust stormed in the bobbles, creating a constant stream of life-giving imagination, the heart of Dreaming World. It was a circular process which fed both worlds; one could not survive without the other. A human could not survive without hopes and dreams, and the Dreaming World could not survive without their imagination.
	Neemu, King of the Dreaming World, on this day visited the Dust Storm. He peered into the banal bobbles, seeking to spy fragments of the dreams swirling in the dust. The more   imaginative the dream, the more golden dust they created.  He found himself uninspired with the production of very little. Others swirled opaquely; these were difficult to catch a glimpse of what was inside. They belonged to humans who no longer wished to dream. Like them, Neemu, more and more, found his role as King tedious and wished it wasn’t his to command. He had given up truly seeing the depth of mankind’s curiosities; he no longer appreciated that they were more than mundane.
	It began with a slight sound of a tink, then another--then a longer hiss erupted. It was at this Neemu straightened himself and spun nimbly around, his starlight grey hair swishing around his youthful face. His striking lilac eyes pierced the source of the interruption. He hastened his step toward the bobble that was disturbing his visit. It had become engorged with dust. The storm within it could not be contained. Directly, Neemu covered his eyes as the bobble burst open; its contents spilled forth like a tornado into the Dust Storm. This was not unheard of; it had happened before. But what was new was the consciousness of a seventeen-year-old Trish that came out too.
	Neemu stared silently at her as she wobbled to her feet. Scrupulously observing her, he found her to be perfectly curved, with long blonde hair, strong features and the most striking green eyes. Her dress would have been a beautiful green silk had it not been in shambles and covered in dust.
	‘Where am I?’ she coughed, clearing out the dust from her imagined lungs and brushing it off her gown. 
	‘You are in the Dust Storm of the Dream World.’ Neemu silently registered the trembling of the other bobbles in the room. They seemed to be reacting to her presence.
	Trish blinked and rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she gazed around the room. The stars drifted up and down gently, giving off a bluish glow. She reached up, allowing one to lazily float down to her like a feather.
	“And you are? Oooo…ouch!” Her hand burned where the star had touched her porcelain fingertips. 
	‘What did you expect? They are stars. You know fire.’ 
	Neemu swatted the star away. It bounced back at him with vengeance, singeing a bit of his hair before returning toward the ceiling and out of reach. ‘I am King Neemu of the Dreaming World, and I fear we must hurry you out of here. It will only bring more trouble if you stay…’ the rattling of the bobbles grew louder, ‘…in such a delicate place.’
	He ushered Trish to the door with a gesture. She followed, still bewildered by the enchantment of her surroundings. Neemu paused briefly, noticing that Trish had stopped again along the corridor. This time her jaw had fallen open with glee as she stared at the granite blocks of the ceiling hanging loosely in position, bobbing in place like ice floating on water. Streams of light poured down between the shifting gaps, and the purist of blue dazzled the eye as spaces opened and closed between the stones.. 
	‘What are you staring at now?’ He bemused.  
	‘I was imagining fish swimming between the stones in the ceiling.’ Trish dreamed out loud with her eyes wide open, joy reflected in them.
	  ‘There are no fish in the sky above the stones.’ Yet as Neemu chastised Trish for her ludicrous imagination, great koi with long silk-like fins began to weave themselves in and out of the open spaces in the sky. Dancing flashes of oranges, yellows and whites swam like bird tussling through waves of clouds.
	 ‘There are too, see?’ She reached out to Neemu, gently directing his gaze toward the ceiling. ‘Just as I imagined.’ Her green eyes crinkled with joy at the corners. 
	‘Yes, indeed,’ Neemu considered in a serious tone before clearing his throat and removing himself from her touch. He did not know which surprised him more, the power of her imagination to change his world or the change he felt in himself at her touch. Either way, he was no longer without curiosity.
	 Eventually, they came to a huge garden with an expansive Loch beginning at the far end of it. Trish walked side-by-side with Neemu. They had been in step for as long as a dream can hold time. He began to follow the path around, but Trish protested. ‘I need to sit and enjoy this view.’  
	 He opened his mouth to protest, but Trish put a finger to his lips, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. A rose bush nearby began to grow and twist. Knotting itself into braids and loops, it finally formed a smooth bench for two and a pergola of dense peach and yellow roses. Neemu’s gaze didn’t know where to fix. His lilac stare kept darting back and forth between Trish and the magic her mind had created. 
	‘Have a seat, my King.’ She professed with a happiness that had not her filled in years. She could not remember the last time she had truly found within herself inspiration to see the beauty and potential the world around her could offer. Her bench was a mirror of the beautiful and exotic landscape around. From the larger landscape to the petal of one flower, her magic was not out of place and equal in quality. Possibilities and hopes were overflowing from Trish as she quietly peered out-with and within. 
	‘Why are you here? Why have you come to our world?’ Neemu inquired gently as he sat beside her. 
	 ‘I don’t know. The last thing I remember is no longer wanting to be part of my world. I was in so much pain. I don’t want to go back. My life is so horrible and ugly. Not like this beautiful dream.’
	‘You cannot stay here.’ Neemu looked at her with despair. He knew too well that when one dreamed too long, too deep, and too powerfully, nightmares followed, and Trish was dreaming as if all her dreams had been compounded into this one very moment. 
	‘You’re King. Surely you can allow it?’ She pleaded as the petals of the roses above began to fall.
	‘I cannot allow more than I have control…’ Thunder crashed in the distance as a black cloud of malintent sought the pair. ‘We must continue on.’ Neemu said, catching a peach petal in his hands and watching it fade as a villainous storm erupted in the distance.  He beckoned her toward the path. 
	‘Why don’t we just cross over the lake?’ Trish said, pointing toward the opposite direction without a care of notice of the danger approaching.
	‘Because we do not have a boat,’ Neemu grimaced rationally.
	‘For the King of the Dreaming World, you sure don’t have much of an imagination, do you?’ Trish looked at the lake like she had looked at the ceiling and roses before wishing for life, manifesting joy. Playfully, she summoned her words, ‘I’m imagining rubber ducks with saddles, large enough to ride across the lake. Isn’t that fun?’ 
	“Seems rather silly and undignified to me,” Neemu scoffed as he examined the clouds becoming even more fierce and close. 
	‘Fair enough. Yours will match your royal occupation. It will wear a dignified coronet and a velvet robe.’ Trish concentrated, and as if they had always been there, two larger than life rubber ducks floated near a dock, one with a crown and purple cloak.  
	  Neemu looked at her with bewilderment and wonder. He was struck by her in that moment. With intent, he took her hand and aided her kindly onto the saddled rubber duck. She was beautiful, and her mind was fascinating. Was this what he had searched for behind the thick golden dust all these years? Was this girl the depth in mankind he had not been able to find? The storm raged closer.
	The journey over the Loch began smooth and playful. Trish kicked up the warm water with her feet. Splashing and taunting the King, a challenge to let go and release his own inhibitions. The winds of the storm made the pleasant boat trip too short. 
	As they dismounted, he waved his hands across the rubber ducks, and they became the most elegant lilac peacocks. He handed her a feather which they had donated in the transformation. 
	‘This is how we get you back.’ Neemu reached out to Trish.
	‘I think I’d rather stay in the Dream World with you. Couldn’t we have a few more adventures?’ She smiled with the same mournful eyes she’d had at the prom.
	Neemu brushed the hair from her cheek and kissed it with a comforting tenderness. ‘I wish you could. But dreams held too long turn into nightmares, and the storm is chasing us.’ 
	‘And what do nightmares turn into? Because that’s what I’ll be going back to.’
	‘Humans wake from nightmares to find in the world’s morning a new adventure ahead.’
	The lightning crashed mere feet from where they stood on the shore of the loch opposite bank. Neemu knew the nightmare here would devour the most beautiful of dreamers he’d ever known, and she would dream no more. 
	Yet, instead of frightening her with this knowledge, he simply took her hand and smiled, ‘You will be with me and I with you every time you dream.’ It was in the mere blink of an eye that he guided her back through the golden dust storm, floating together on the feather they’d created.
	….
	 Trish could hear the beeping of the heart monitor. She heard her parents crying over her body. She sensed the pain of the needles and tubes. She saw the once plain-looking girl lying on the bed with her eyes closed. She observed her tousled and dirty blond hair. She could see all that she had been, her curves, her strong features. She saw everything she had been told to hate by her peers and society. But standing next to Neemu, her dreams, she no longer wished to believe the ideas she’d accepted for so long.
	‘I will never forget the beautiful creations you brought to life in the Dreaming World. Beauty there can only come from beauty, and you are the brightest and most pleasing of all the stars.’ Neemu kissed her forehead and pulled her close, ‘Always remember that dreams are a mirror of ourselves.’
	‘Thank you, Neemu. I think, I will try to see myself as you see me.’ She stared at the girl on the bed for a while and watched her mother crying over her. She also sees the good in me; I won’t be alone. Squeezing her mother’s shoulder, Trish gathered all her grit to will her return to the Waking World; she woke from the nightmare of her past, telling herself with kindness, you are all that you dream.
	She opened her emerald green eyes and for the first time, Trish knew that she had only ever been plain because she had kept them closed.   
 
","August 04, 2023 17:27","[[{'Serena Pacheco': 'Charlea, \n\nI enjoyed reading this story and the message. I can imagine the world you created and want to learn more about the characters.', 'time': '23:07 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you Serena! It’s nice to see these comments here! \n\nCheers', 'time': '00:50 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you Serena! It’s nice to see these comments here! \n\nCheers', 'time': '00:50 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kimberly Schramm': 'Charlea,\n\nI really enjoyed your story. You do a great job in using language to create a world.\n\nAn interesting ""near-death experience"" tale!', 'time': '16:30 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you for your comment! Very much looking forward to creating more new worlds to take readers on a journey in!\n\nCheers', 'time': '22:46 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you for your comment! Very much looking forward to creating more new worlds to take readers on a journey in!\n\nCheers', 'time': '22:46 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Welcome to Reedsy. Plain to see you are a very adept writer. Wonderful story and Great message. Others have already expressed the same.\nThanks for liking my 'Are we There Yet'"", 'time': '22:38 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you Mary for you kind words and welcome! I’m looking forward to future challenges. \n\nAnd you very welcome for the like! 😊', 'time': '13:40 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you Mary for you kind words and welcome! I’m looking forward to future challenges. \n\nAnd you very welcome for the like! 😊', 'time': '13:40 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'My prom sucked, too (my date - a girl who asked me to take her - dumped me there), but I love the beauty you found here. Amazing work!', 'time': '00:55 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'I’m so glad you enjoyed! Prom is absolutely one of those events in life that was a hit or miss! Very few found it neutral. I still cringe at the awkward photos from mine. 😂', 'time': '07:08 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'I’m so glad you enjoyed! Prom is absolutely one of those events in life that was a hit or miss! Very few found it neutral. I still cringe at the awkward photos from mine. 😂', 'time': '07:08 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Chelsey B': 'I loved this story, and I think it’s relatable for a lot of people.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you Chelsey. Its fun to create worlds and characters that reflect a larger population of readers. We all have insecurities and finding the good within us sometimes does seem to need a bit of a magical push so to speak', 'time': '22:53 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you Chelsey. Its fun to create worlds and characters that reflect a larger population of readers. We all have insecurities and finding the good within us sometimes does seem to need a bit of a magical push so to speak', 'time': '22:53 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Seah Kim': 'This is such a beautiful story! I love how the ""journey"" wasn\'t a journey taken literally - but a journey where Trish discovers herself in a special and unique way. Such an awesome first submission!', 'time': '20:09 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you. I have always love Robert Frost poem “the road not taken” I always find the best paths are the ones we are least likely to explore because they are a bit worn or narrow. I really wanted Trish to shift from the easy roads to a new and unexpected one that she needed but also wasn’t likely to have been able to travel on her own. The road within.', 'time': '22:51 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Seah Kim': 'Robert Frost is a great poet. I too love ""the road not taken"" and I loved how you incorporated that idea and how Trish discovered herself through ""the road within"". :D', 'time': '00:23 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Charlea Jefts': 'Many thanks again!', 'time': '18:13 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Leland Mesford': 'Absolutely magical. Is it flash fiction? I read this post about Robert Frost, is this ""dream world"" his? I love it.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you. I have always love Robert Frost poem “the road not taken” I always find the best paths are the ones we are least likely to explore because they are a bit worn or narrow. I really wanted Trish to shift from the easy roads to a new and unexpected one that she needed but also wasn’t likely to have been able to travel on her own. The road within.', 'time': '22:51 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Seah Kim': 'Robert Frost is a great poet. I too love ""the road not taken"" and I loved how you incorporated that idea and how Trish discovered herself through ""the road within"". :D', 'time': '00:23 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Charlea Jefts': 'Many thanks again!', 'time': '18:13 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Leland Mesford': 'Absolutely magical. Is it flash fiction? I read this post about Robert Frost, is this ""dream world"" his? I love it.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Seah Kim': 'Robert Frost is a great poet. I too love ""the road not taken"" and I loved how you incorporated that idea and how Trish discovered herself through ""the road within"". :D', 'time': '00:23 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Many thanks again!', 'time': '18:13 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Leland Mesford': 'Absolutely magical. Is it flash fiction? I read this post about Robert Frost, is this ""dream world"" his? I love it.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Many thanks again!', 'time': '18:13 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Leland Mesford': 'Absolutely magical. Is it flash fiction? I read this post about Robert Frost, is this ""dream world"" his? I love it.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Myranda Marie': ""Well Done! I can relate. I began writing at a very young age, creating worlds that were far better than my reality as the fat girl. I'm older now, and still prefer my stories to the world at large; no pun intended. Thank you for sharing."", 'time': '19:00 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you for your comment. I really wanted the story to resonate that there is so much more to a person regardless of the faults they find in their physical form but also the importance of having other around us who can see the beauty within even when we can’t.', 'time': '22:48 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you for your comment. I really wanted the story to resonate that there is so much more to a person regardless of the faults they find in their physical form but also the importance of having other around us who can see the beauty within even when we can’t.', 'time': '22:48 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""This is beautiful! It leaves me absolutely speechless. I'm going to show it to my parents, my brother, all my friends. Other people need to see this. :) Can't wait for your next story! Please keep going!\n\n(Thanks for liking my stories. I'm happy to return the favour!)"", 'time': '11:35 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you very much Khadija! 😊', 'time': '18:29 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Thank you very much Khadija! 😊', 'time': '18:29 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'S. P. K.': ""I love this story! It's very creative and I love the atmosphere you build, I can clearly imagine everything that is going on. I think this could make an interesting longer story too, you have such interesting characters that make me want to learn more about them. \n\nGood job!"", 'time': '08:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Charlea Jefts': 'Hey All. Thanks for reading! I’d really appreciate any feedback you have to offer!', 'time': '20:37 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,0tjaxk,Into The White,Khadija S. Mohammad,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0tjaxk/,/short-story/0tjaxk/,Adventure,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fantasy', 'Speculative']",22 likes,"
⚠️ Reference to domestic abuse (as well as suicide/self-harm) ⚠️ “Alexandra Tamara Whitehall. You stand charged upon this indictment with unnecessary suicide upon the 18th of August last. Are you guilty or not guilty?” Sandra Whitehall raised her head in bewilderment. Where was she? The last thing she remembered – a cliff – high, so high up – looking down at the clear, still water – thinking how ironic it was -then a single step – close your eyes, don't look down – bubbles swarming like angry bees, a sudden stinging – and then – And then? She opened her eyes. White. White with no sense of size. An empty room or an empty world? No, not empty. There were faces. Thirteen faces. Or was it only twelve? The question was repeated in level tones, emotionless but somehow painfully human. Sandra shivered and fingered her white hair. It had a cool, slimy feel, bunched together in thick strands. Water dripped onto the White beneath her feet.Her head was in a whirlpool. How did she get here? Why was she here? Where was 'here'? And what were they charging her with? She looked at the faces, all thirteen – twelve? - waiting for her answer. She opened her mouth to say the only thing she could.“Not guilty.”Twelve faces turned away, their expressions unreadable. The thirteenth – if there was a thirteenth – remained the same, looking at her, looking away from her, and seeing it all.Faces in front of her, drifting towards her, then away, one by one. Faces she knew. Her husband Robert, Joe, her parents, her sister Charlotte - her son. Billy. Sandra reached out a hand towards him, but he wasn't there. She choked down a sob; she wasn't going to cry in front of these people.“The first test is complete,” came a crisp voice from nowhere. Test? She had been tested? Did she pass?“What kind of court is this?” Sandra mumbled.“It has many names. The Divine, The Last, The Ultimate Court, whichever you prefer.” An answer, from nowhere to nowhere. “Please relate, in your own words, your life. Take your time. What drove you to suicide?”She looked at the ground defiantly, daring not to talk, for some reason that she didn't know. The voice repeated the question, and she found that she couldn't not answer. She wanted to speak.“I met my husband when I was only 19. We married 2 years later. I thought I loved him. He seemed everything I wanted in a husband. The first few months were heaven. He was kind, patient, intelligent, and he loved me...” As she carried on, visions filled her head.Robert, the first time she had seen him. Friends had joked that they were the perfect match, both albinos. Both white-haired, blue-eyed. Like twins from different mothers, they said. She had answered that albinos were more common than they thought, which they hadn't seemed to understand.Robert returned from work, hanging his dripping raincoat on the wall, changing his wet clothes and joining her on the sofa. She sat close to him, and asked him how his day went. He answered: Just the same boring work. He put his arm around her, saying it was a comfort to know that she would be there when he got back. They talked for a while, watched things together, settled down to read together. They each had a copy of War and Peace; They were racing each other to finish it. He was ahead of her by at least 50 pages, but she only pretended to care.She made the dinner, talking as she did so. They planned a trip to France, the only country they had ever been to, other than England. They laughed together when she burned the food, too absorbed in their conversation to notice the frantic beeping and smoke from the oven. He said he didn't mind, and they went out to a restaurant instead.The next morning, she woke up and he was already out of bed. Downstairs, he was making breakfast. She scolded him playfully for not letting her do it, and they laughed their way through the morning. He always told the worst jokes, but she always laughed anyway.“And then something happened. It happened,” she said. She remembered that too...2 weeks later. He was gone in the morning, and he didn't come back. That night she lay awake in bed, but she wasn't particularly worried. Everything would be all right in the end.He showed up in the morning, lying on the sofa. He looked exhausted. She went to her neighbour for breakfast that morning because she didn't want to wake him. At least, that was her excuse.When she got back a few hours later, he was up. He sat on the sofa like a marble statue, staring at nothing. She crept around him, hoping not to attract his attention. He must've been drunk; She had never seen him like this before. That was the beginning of it. Sometimes he was out, and that was the best of times. He usually went to the pub, but occasionally it was a friend's house. If he couldn't go to either, there was always some party around to get drunk at instead.But sometimes he was in, and that was the worst of times. He shouted at her, slammed doors, broke things – And worse. Sometimes he just sat in the living room and ignored her, and she had learned to be thankful for those days.“It carried on like that for so long that I almost forgot was he had been like before.” She was absorbed in her narrative, no longer caring what it was for. She was reliving it, and as hard as it had been to stand at the time, it was almost pleasurable to remember.“Then, after all that had happened, despite everything, I had – a child. We named him Billy, and he was like light to me in the dark that my life had become.” She wrestled back a tear.The moment he had come into her life she knew he was different. There was nothing of her husband in him. How could there have been?He came into the world quietly. He knew he shouldn't cry. He only cried when they took him away from her, and quieted the moment he was back with her. She cried then, holding him to her. Life would be different now.Growing up, he had the same experience as a child with only one parent would. His father avoided or ignored him, and he quickly learnt how to deal with it. He didn't even know that it wasn't what every boy's father did.His mother tried to give him enough love for both of them. Whatever he needed, he was given.And then he grew up. He grew up fast. He moved away, because the house wouldn't hold him anymore. Sandra hadn't known how to feel about it.He struggled with making enough money to support himself, so it was a big surprise when he got married. Sandra was hurt that he hadn't told her before; He only did when she met them together on the street and asked for an introduction.She spent more time out of the house than she had before. Since Billy moved out, her husband had become worse.Sandra choked on tears that she hadn't realised were flowing. “Then Billy died. It was the same as hundreds of other deaths in the city – But it wasn't really, because it was Billy. He didn't see the car coming.” The faces of the jury were unemotionally sympathetic; She got the feeling that it was as close to real emotion as they could get. It helped.The unknown voice boomed – or whispered, it was all the same in the white emptiness, “The second test is complete.""There was silence. She looked at the White where she stood, water still dripping from her, but the White wasn't wet. The water seemed to evaporate as it touched the 'ground'. She watched the drip, hypnotized.The voice spoke again. “You have lied.” It jolted her out of her trance. The voice didn't seem surprised at her lies. It had known as she was saying them, she thought. That had been the test, to see if she would lie and when. Who was it who had said that lies could be just as revealing as the truth?“Now tell us again. From the beginning, the truth. As they say in your courts, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” The voice seemed faintly amused – if it could be amused.She began again, careful to say the truth this time, not daring to miss anything out.“The night it all changed. We argued. I remember every word we said.” Once again, visions swamped her, but this time the gaps were all accounted for...“Robert, can't we have children?” That was the beginning of it. A single casual comment.“I thought we'd talked about this before. We couldn't afford it. You know we couldn't,” his voice drifted to her from where he sat on the sofa. He wasn't paying attention, forging through War and Peace.“Surely you could earn more.” She wanted children.He put down the book as she walked in and sat next to him. “How?”“How should I know?""“You suggested it,” he said. “It doesn't matter anyway. I don't want children.”“Robert!”“To begin with, they would tire me out, we don't have enough room, I wouldn't be there for them most of the day.”“I could look after them.” She was indignant.“You?” he laughed, taking her hand. She drew it away. “You would spoil the child.”“I still want one.”“We're not having children.”“We are.”It carried on. And on, and on. They argued for hours. She was adamant; She was going to have the child, whether he liked it or not. She almost threatened him with it. But he was equally adamant. They couldn't support a child, they couldn't look after it properly, so many other issues.She didn't give in, and eventually they went to bed, both exhausted.The next day, she wouldn't let it rest. She needed a child. She nagged him all day, trying to draw him into another argument. He tried to ignore her, but she got on his nerves.Over days she wore him down. Every morning he woke up, exhausted from the previous day's attacks. Every day she carried on in the same way. She didn't leave him alone for a moment, intent beyond all reason to get her own way.Still he wouldn't give in. He stayed out of her way for the next week, leaving the house early to visit friends, but finding that even that held no respite. He took to drink.Now she avoided him in his worst moments, scared of what he had become. He would've been a quiet drunk if she hadn't decided that her battle still needed fighting. She chose his quieter times to attack him. With the right care, he could've been cured before it became serious, but she wouldn't let that happen. She paved his way down the spiral, the only road that would now take him.""And then I found that I was pregnant...""She had won the battle, and if it was not won directly (or legitimately, she had to admit), then at least it was won in some way. She would have a child, and he couldn't stop it now. There was no thought of abortion; He was too worn out to argue anymore.She stopped attacking him, but he was too far gone to realise it. The damage was irreversible, but she didn't care. Now that she was going to have a child, she didn't need a husband.""Then Billy came..."" Sandra said. She didn't want to go over it, the real story, but she had no choice.She had wanted a child so badly.When he came, she could see he was different. He wasn't like her husband.She stopped, struggling to continue. ""I... I didn't love him. Somehow I just... Couldn't."" She tried to explain.He was a beautiful baby. She had tried to love him for it.His skin was tanned, his hair blond. His eyes were beautifully dark, mysterious. He'd grown up like that, never showing what he felt. It made mothering hard.She would always give him what he wanted, scared that neglect would make him realise that he wasn't really loved. There was no such thing as overdoing love, she thought. Until he was 13.Then, she reasoned, a little neglect never hurt anyone, only knowing unconsciously her real reason for neglecting him.""I expect you don't want the whole story... Is that enough?"" Sandra asked. The voice - it must've belonged to the thirteenth head (although she sill wasn't sure if it existed) - said ""Yes."" She noticed that they didn't ask for her feelings this time.It continued. ""This is your last test. Answer truthfully, we know when you lie. What made you commit suicide?""Sandra thought about it. She thought about it for a long time, if time existed in that court. Finally she answered. ""I don't know."" There had been a vague sense of 'They'll be sorry', although there wasn't a 'They' to direct it at... There had been self-pity... Spite... But nothing definite.The voice paused, reading her thoughts. She could feel its presence inside of her. It was warm, unintrusive, almost friendly. It confused her. Wasn't this her judge? ""Your lies and your truth have been told,"" it said. ""The jury will now give their verdict."" Sandra jumped. They must've decided in seconds. How could she trust -The voice interrupted. ""The jury is perfectly trustworthy. They are not biased like human juries are. In fact, they are often inclined to unfounded mercy."" Almost against her will, she felt reassured.She looked at the jury. They looked back at her, twelve faces identical in their almost unemotional sympathy. They blurred and became one face. She blinked. Twelve - No, thirteen - Twelve faces still. She waited for the verdict, shivering, fingering her hair. She knew what was coming, but she waited anyway.
","August 01, 2023 15:19","[[{'Syed Mohammad Zahid': 'Excellent', 'time': '20:46 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Hansi Saputhanthri': 'I love your story, its quite an extraordinary plot', 'time': '13:13 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'You are very talented. Great job on this piece!', 'time': '04:15 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Drew M': 'I just want to say how impressive your writing is for a 13 year old. Shoot, it’s impressive for any age. You are truly precocious - keep at it.', 'time': '20:22 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'This was interesting \n I liked the two versions of the truth here. What I want you to believe and what actually happened. I am left wanting more from the ending, lots of things to ponder and think about.\nThanks for sharing', 'time': '12:20 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Tell me what kind of 'more' you want, I might make a sequel! (After all, what happens after the trial?? I want to know!)"", 'time': '12:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Why was it an unnecessary suicide? (What actually makes a ‘necessary’ suicide?) how was she judged? What was the tipping point in her life that pushed her to her action? Who was the thirteenth face? What was the significance of her son being thirteen when she neglected him? Is there a link to the thirteenth face? Just some of the questions I pondered on reading and it’s not a bad thing to leave the reader thinking. Not every question needs an answer.', 'time': '12:41 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""I'll answer 2 of those, might make a sequel to answer the others!\n\nThe thirteenth face was supposed to be God. Just a vague reference, but it couldn't really be anyone else (I think).\n\nThere was no significance about him being thirteen. I just picked a random age, not too young, not too old.\n\n🙂"", 'time': '12:49 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Tell me what kind of 'more' you want, I might make a sequel! (After all, what happens after the trial?? I want to know!)"", 'time': '12:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Why was it an unnecessary suicide? (What actually makes a ‘necessary’ suicide?) how was she judged? What was the tipping point in her life that pushed her to her action? Who was the thirteenth face? What was the significance of her son being thirteen when she neglected him? Is there a link to the thirteenth face? Just some of the questions I pondered on reading and it’s not a bad thing to leave the reader thinking. Not every question needs an answer.', 'time': '12:41 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""I'll answer 2 of those, might make a sequel to answer the others!\n\nThe thirteenth face was supposed to be God. Just a vague reference, but it couldn't really be anyone else (I think).\n\nThere was no significance about him being thirteen. I just picked a random age, not too young, not too old.\n\n🙂"", 'time': '12:49 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Why was it an unnecessary suicide? (What actually makes a ‘necessary’ suicide?) how was she judged? What was the tipping point in her life that pushed her to her action? Who was the thirteenth face? What was the significance of her son being thirteen when she neglected him? Is there a link to the thirteenth face? Just some of the questions I pondered on reading and it’s not a bad thing to leave the reader thinking. Not every question needs an answer.', 'time': '12:41 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""I'll answer 2 of those, might make a sequel to answer the others!\n\nThe thirteenth face was supposed to be God. Just a vague reference, but it couldn't really be anyone else (I think).\n\nThere was no significance about him being thirteen. I just picked a random age, not too young, not too old.\n\n🙂"", 'time': '12:49 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""I'll answer 2 of those, might make a sequel to answer the others!\n\nThe thirteenth face was supposed to be God. Just a vague reference, but it couldn't really be anyone else (I think).\n\nThere was no significance about him being thirteen. I just picked a random age, not too young, not too old.\n\n🙂"", 'time': '12:49 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Nicki Nance': 'This is a brilliant story line.', 'time': '02:05 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'Thank you!', 'time': '08:15 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'Thank you!', 'time': '08:15 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'I like your story very much ❤️😊This was deep and emotional in a good way. \nI enjoyed the narrative and the journey. \n\nThe way her judgment unfolds and she ultimately judges herself as they compell her to share her truth was elegant. 💫\n\nMy favourite bits:\n\n1. She opened her eyes. White. White with no sense of size. An empty room or an empty world? No, not empty. There were faces. Thirteen faces. Or was it only twelve?\n- this attempt at dissonance was a great bit of writing. 💪\n\n2 “Then, after all that had happened, despite everything, I had – ...', 'time': '21:06 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thought I had already commented on this fine story but maybe as a draft. Anyway,good job,difficult subject\nThanks for liking my road trip.', 'time': '14:08 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hi Khadija—I like how you organized this story: The strange afterlife setting, the immediacy of beginning it in the middle of a trial, and the series of flashbacks and stories within the story. Your main character has depth, and her initial falsehoods make the truth of her life all the more interesting. Well done.', 'time': '10:54 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Amany Sayed': 'I think Into The White fits better. Great story! The descriptions of the ""white"" or afterword or whatever are really interesting.', 'time': '16:44 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'Thanks! \n\nHope you noticed that I used the names Tamara and Charlotte (just briefly though) :)', 'time': '08:13 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Amany Sayed': 'I did! Made me smile.', 'time': '14:18 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'Thanks! \n\nHope you noticed that I used the names Tamara and Charlotte (just briefly though) :)', 'time': '08:13 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Amany Sayed': 'I did! Made me smile.', 'time': '14:18 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Amany Sayed': 'I did! Made me smile.', 'time': '14:18 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""All righty then! \nInteresting. Not sure I liked the ending, but the ride was fun. I know a good story when I'm thinking about how I would have handled the same idea. Actually, if I were to do a story on suicide, I'm almost certain Reedsy wouldn't accept it for publication.\nThanks!"", 'time': '23:03 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Related to the prompt how?\n\nLife-changing journey = Suicide, because it ended (in other words 'changed') her life.\n\nJust thought I'd put it out there 😊"", 'time': '15:21 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '0'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Of course your story on suicide will be published. It's just that one that I would write wouldn't be."", 'time': '01:01 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Of course your story on suicide will be published. It's just that one that I would write wouldn't be."", 'time': '01:01 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,pvwle5,The Valentine,Heather Eldridge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pvwle5/,/short-story/pvwle5/,Adventure,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",21 likes,"
	“Do we really get to take a taxi?” Lenny asked, his excitement nearly palpable. He’d never been in a taxi before. He wondered vaguely why today was so special to ride in a taxi instead of taking the school bus home, but he didn’t want to ask any questions and risk his mother changing her mind.
	“Yes, Len, we’re taking a taxi. How was school today?”
	“It was fine,” he responded, his voice losing some of its cheer.
	His mother opened the side door and ushered him into the backseat of the yellow cab. As she slid in beside him, the cabbie turned back and asked, “The Motel 6 in Chester next?” She took a deep breath, sighed, and nodded her head.
	“You know it won’t be a small fare?” She nodded again and as Lenny looked at her curiously, his attention was drawn to a dark mark on her neck, peeking out above an abnormally high turtleneck. Lenny thought the shirt looked odd on her, and what was that on her neck? Was it food? Dirt? It wasn’t like his mother to be dirty though. She glanced over at him, then reached to tug the collar of the shirt up, hiding most of the mark from view.
	“Why are we going to a motel? Why aren’t we going home?”
	“We’re doing something different today, Len. We’re going on an adventure. On a little vacation- just the two of us.” She didn’t look happy though, like she normally did when she talked about vacation.
	“Not Daddy?”
	“Nope, just us. A little mother-son vacation time.” She blinked hard and her fingers jumped from the neck of her shirt to her lips. They lingered for a moment while she appeared to collect her thoughts and then, with another deep breath, she reached out to touch Lenny’s wrist lightly. “Tell me about your day at school today.”
	“Mrs. Tanner is making me give valentines to everyone in the class tomorrow. It’s not fair!” Lenny pouted.
	“Why is that not fair? You already made all of the valentines over the weekend, remember? I brought them all with us. I packed them into your suitcase.”
	Lenny looked confused for a moment, trying to puzzle together why he would need a suitcase on a school night, but he quickly turned back to the more pressing issue. “I don’t want to give a valentine to Peter, but Mrs. Tanner is making me. If I have to give a valentine to Peter, then I don’t want to give them to anyone at all.”
	“I’m sure Peter would like your valentine, honey,” Lenny’s mom said distractedly. The taxi indicated a left turn before pulling out onto the main road.
	“I’m not giving him one!” Lenny said indignantly. “Don’t you care that he was mean to me?”
	“What?” his mother asked, now gazing out the window at the gray clouds up ahead. “Sweetie, that was weeks ago. Can’t you just give him the candy like everyone else?”
	“But Mom,” Lenny whined, his voice rising. “He held Madison’s hand, and she was my girlfriend!”
	“Honey, you’re six! She wasn’t really your girlfriend,” she snapped.
	There was a shocked silence. Lenny sat frozen, unable to believe his mother’s lack of sympathy.
	With a jolt, his mother’s attention snapped back to focus on Lenny. “Len, no, that’s not what I meant. Of course she was your girlfriend. I know you liked her a lot. You still do, right?”
	But the damage had already been done. Lenny sat seething at his mother’s indifference. It was like she didn’t even care how much he liked Madison. He glared out of the window, wishing there was a way to make his mother feel the hurt and anger boiling up inside of him. She just didn’t get it.
	Even the excitement of being in a taxi for the first time was wearing off for Lenny already. He slouched in the seat with his nose to the window, watching the scenery change from his familiar home town to that of the less familiar surrounding towns, until he had completely lost track of where he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on such a long drive. He wondered again why they needed to go somewhere so far away and turned to ask his mother, but her eyes looked glazed over and something told him it would be better to keep quiet.
	As rain drops started scattering across the windshield, thoughts of the class valentines consumed Lenny again. How could he get away with skipping over Peter when he handed out the valentines tomorrow in class? He considered giving him a fake- writing a mean message on his card and giving him the worst kind of candy- a banana Laffy Taffy, but then Peter would probably just tattle to Mrs. Tanner. It wasn’t fair that he had to give a valentine to his worst enemy ever. He would never hate anyone as much as he hated Peter, he just knew it.
	After what felt like ages, the taxi pulled into the Motel 6 lot and Lenny’s mom, who was apparently still absorbed in her own thoughts, kept sitting still, staring unseeing out of the window. “Ma’am?” She jolted back to her surroundings. “The fare is ninety-six dollars.”
	She fumbled through her purse for her wallet and pulled out a credit card. She held it gingerly and ran her finger across the raised letters at the bottom. The driver reached for it but she snatched it back. “Maybe cash is better, actually.” She slipped the card into the wallet again and pulled out a small wad of cash, spreading the bills in her hand and counting them slowly, before pulling one off the top and tucking it back into the wallet. Her hands were shaking as she set the bills into the driver’s waiting hand. Putting the wallet back into her purse, she took a deep breath and turned to her son. “Come on Lenny, help me get the bags out of the trunk.”
	Lenny, still sulking and immersed in thoughts of the valentine’s debacle, clambered out of the cab and slammed the door behind him. “It’s not fair! Peter’s a big meanie and he doesn’t deserve any candy at all.”
	The cab driver stood behind the car now, pulling bags out of the trunk. Lenny’s mom pulled a heavy suitcase out and as she did so, her sleeve slid back to reveal a blotchy bruise encircling her wrist. The imprint of fingers was clearly etched into her fair skin. The driver’s eyes lingered for a moment before she caught him looking and jerked the sleeve back down. “Len, get your suitcase and carry it into the lobby before it gets soaking wet.”
	“Fine,” he huffed. Something in her voice put him on edge in a way that made him think he should go ahead and do as she asked. He still wasn’t happy about it though. Lenny grabbed the suitcase and pulled it angrily across the parking lot, splattering mud all across the front of it as he went. He knew he should be happy to be staying in a fancy motel room and on a school night nonetheless, but for some reason, it just didn’t feel fun or exciting.
	Lenny was standing in the middle of the parking lot with rain pouring down around when the cabbie came up behind him. “Entrance is over there,” he called, gesturing ahead with a blue duffel bag. Lenny followed, still dragging his suitcase unceremoniously behind him. One of the wheels stuck in a pothole, bringing the whole bag crashing down into the mud. The clasp on the front pocket sprang open and a plastic bag came tumbling out. The valentines!
	Feeling panicked, Lenny dropped to his knees in the mud and scrambled to grab the cards and candy before they got ruined. He gathered them up as quickly as he could, shoving them back into the bag. They looked a bit soggy, but most of them had come out not looking too much worse for the wear. Lenny shoved the bag of valentines back into his suitcase and had already begun to walk away when he saw the corner of one last valentine sticking out of the mud. He dove for it and pealed it squelchily up. Lenny had to squint to make out the words now drenched in mud, “To Peter: Happy V-day!” A broad smile crossed his face. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Peter’s face when he handed him this disgustingly slimy valentine. And the best part of it was, no one could tell him off for sabotaging the card because it had really and truly been an accident.
	By the time Lenny arrived under cover of the entranceway next to a sizeable pile of luggage, his mother and the cab driver were talking quietly. “You’re sure that you’re safe?” he asked. Lenny’s mom nodded. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Anything at all?” the cabbie asked, with a hint of concern in his voice.
	Lenny glanced up at his mom and was surprised to see her wiping her eyes, almost as if she were crying. But it must just be the rain in her eyes. His mom didn’t cry.
	“No, thank you,” she replied, her voice rather shaky. “We’ll be alright. Everything’s going to be okay, now.”
	Lenny smiled. “She’s right,” he thought, looking at the muddy valentine clutched in his hand. Everything was going to be alright.
","August 02, 2023 04:37","[[{'Angela Govender': ""Simple yet beautiful writing, you perfectly ran both the stories parallel to each other and you were still able to make excellent concluding remarks. Your story shows exactly how perception affects life. Tying everything up neatly in a story is always the hardest, but you've done it effortlessly."", 'time': '13:26 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Heather Eldridge': 'Thank you!', 'time': '06:05 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Heather Eldridge': 'Thank you!', 'time': '06:05 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': ""Nice story. I love how you had two stories happening at once. Also how it all came together at the end. A child's mind and an adult mind seeing things from their own perspective. And a very compassionate cab driver. Great job!"", 'time': '18:31 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Heather Eldridge': 'Thank you!', 'time': '06:06 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Heather Eldridge': 'Thank you!', 'time': '06:06 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,houft6,Too Late for Whale Watching,Jane Andrews,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/houft6/,/short-story/houft6/,Adventure,0,['Contemporary'],21 likes,"
They had always planned to go whale watching in Iceland.
The 4X4 rumbles through the snowy scenery, the sound of the guide’s voice washing over her. Gunnar is well versed in his country’s natural history – so far, they have seen fissures, extinct volcanoes and a waterfall; but he loves the land’s mythology too. Before he started lecturing them, Deirdre hadn’t realised that Catholicism and superstition were so intertwined in Icelandic folklore, or that the Huldufólk (‘hidden people’) played such an important role. 
	“You would call them Elves,” Gunnar says in his lilting accent, “and Icelanders believe that they are descended from Adam and Eve. God told Adam He was coming for tea, so Adam asked Eve to wash the children – they had many children. But Eve was lazy and she only washed half of them, and then Adam was embarrassed and hid his unwashed children so that God would not see them, and these hidden children became the Elves.”
	Since it happened, Deirdre had hidden herself away too. Others’ sympathy was too intrusive while her grief was still raw; and then she had got used to being alone and had let her heart freeze over.
Gunnar tells the driver to stop and makes them get out of the jeep. They are standing on a cliff top, looking out to sea. “For many months,” Gunnar says, “tourists can see whales in the water, but we are two weeks – maybe three – too late for whales.” 
	The travel agent had said as much when she had gone in to book the holiday. “Whale watching finishes in October. You might be lucky with the Northern Lights.”
	She had booked it anyway. It had been on their bucket list. She wonders now if they should have been more spontaneous instead of making lists of things to do when they both retired.
 
Deirdre lets her mind drift back to the present. Gunnar is telling another story. This time, it is the legend of Red Cap. There was a fisherman, he says, who was stranded on an island inhabited by Elves and took one of them as his wife. She bore him a child but he longed to return to his own people. She allowed him to leave but said he must promise to arrange a Christian baptism for their baby in the village church. When the fisherman arrived home, he forgot all about his Elf-Bride and his Elfchild; and eventually, he asked a local girl to marry him. But on their way to the church, the Elf-Woman appeared in front of them with the baby in her arms, reminding him of his promise and begging him to acknowledge his paternity. This is the spot, Gunnar says, where their confrontation happened.
           The fisherman refused the Elf-Woman’s request, pushing her and the child out of his way, and then the Elf-Woman became angry and cursed the fisherman, transforming him into a whale. He was wearing a red cap at the time, so the whale had a red head and became known as rauð hetta or Red Cap. In some versions of the story, the fisherman’s bride-to-be flings herself into the sea after the whale, and in others, she wastes away from grief.
          Those are a young girl's reactions, Deirdre thinks sadly. At 54, she is too old for such dramatic gestures; her own sorrow has been tightly controlled.
 
They get back into the 4X4 and continue their journey. Yesterday, Gunnar took them to see an extinct volcano. Snow had fluttered around their faces as they walked to the man-made entrance cut into the side of the rock. Once inside, Deirdre had found herself in a large, airy cave with nothing to suggest this feature had once spewed molten lava. Copying the others, she had stretched out her fingers and felt the uneven surface of the walls.
	“How do we know it’s extinct and not dormant?” The woman who asked the question fiddled nervously with her smartphone.
	Gunnar gave what was obviously a rehearsed answer but Deirdre didn’t hear any of it, her mind returning to the last weeks with Martin. His cancer had lain dormant for years, waking up in time to give him an aching back for a week, and then he was gone. Disease was as destructive as a volcano; it just killed on a smaller scale.
 
Their destination today is a waterfall. Öxarárfoss is part of a National Park, Þingvellir – about 48 kilometres away from Reykjavik. Deirdre stands with the rest of the tourists and observes the rushing water which, Gunnar says, freezes over entirely in the depths of winter. Þingvellir lies between the tectonic plates and Gunnar shows them where to stand on the atmospheric path along one of the fault lines. Originally, he says, Iceland did not exist, but when North America and Europe ripped apart, a new island was formed in between them, bridging the two continents. Even now, they are tearing away from each other at a rate of 1mm to 18mm every year.
	She feels a stab of something more painful than the biting cold of late October weather when he says this, aware that she and Martin have been ripped apart too and that every year, he will seem a little further away from her. His death has made her as empty as the extinct volcano and as frozen as a winter waterfall.
	She knows she should be taking photos, but her fingers are too numb to operate her phone properly and, despite the layers of thermal clothing, she feels chilled to the bone. 
	Returning to the jeep, she catches sight of her face in the wing mirror and grimaces: frost glistens on the tiny, invisible hairs on her face, transforming her into a grotesque version of the Snow Queen from Anderson’s fairy tale. Didn’t she have a shard of ice in her heart too?
 
Driving back to Reykjavik, the others wonder out loud if there will be time to stop off at one of the hot springs. The Blue Lagoon is the most popular, Gunnar says, but it must be pre-booked. What about arranging a trip for the last day? The spa is only a twenty minutes’ drive from Keflavik airport.
           “I’d like a boat trip,” Deirdre says suddenly.
           The others turn round, surprised. They’re not used to the single woman in their party voicing her opinions.
           Gunnar explains again that it is too late for whale watching, but Deirdre shakes her head. “I don’t care if I don’t see whales. I’d just like to go out in a boat.”
	After a while, Gunnar strokes his beard and says he thinks it can be arranged. It might be expensive since none of the others want to go with her, but she doesn’t care. She made a promise to Martin and she intends to see it through.
 
That evening, she eats by herself in the Mimir restaurant. Her excursion companions are staying at the Radisson too, but they’ve turned up their noses at the plokkfiskur and rúgbrauð, preferring to wander further afield to find something more compatible with their English palates. Perhaps they would have tried the ‘prix fixe’ menu, but she thinks they were put off by the typo which promised a dessert made from a “delicious subtle blend of mouse, ice cream and cream”. Through the large floor to ceiling windows, the sky is as black as widow’s weeds, and then a sudden burst of colour illuminates the night as green and purple and blue and white light begins to dance and twirl. The travel agent had mentioned the aurora borealis, but Deirdre had thought she was just trying to make a sale.
           Pushing back her chair from the table, she stands up, trying to get a closer look, then waits impatiently for the waiter to bring her bill. Quickly, she scribbles her name and room number on the pad in front of her before departing the hotel, wanting to stand outside for this incredible light show.
           When she finally crawls into bed, hours later, she realises she has not thought of Martin since leaving the restaurant.
 
Gunnar collects the others early the next morning for a four-hour drive to Vatnajökull. They’d offered days ago to take her with them to see the famous ice caves, but she’d said no. Now she huddles inside her jumper, thinking she’s made the right decision. The caves can’t be any colder than her own heart has been since Martin left her. Although… The previous evening’s colours swirl in her mind; perhaps she is starting to thaw a little.
 
Her two hours’ boat ride is not until the afternoon and the Old Harbour is within easy walking distance, so she busies herself packing her suitcase for the flight home tomorrow. The 15”x5” cardboard tube is still carefully wrapped in her spare clothing. She lifts it out gently, her fingers tracing the bluebell wood design. 100% biodegradable. It was what he wanted.
           When she steps aboard the RIB speedboat later on, the scatter tube is tucked in her capacious handbag. They’d wanted her to leave the bag in the ticket office, but she’d refused, promising to take full responsibility for its contents. It’s technically too late for whale watching, the guide says, but they should see dolphins. Deirdre feels the outline of the tube through the canvas of her bag and thinks of Martin and the whales and the dolphins, and a fissure seems to open inside her heart.
 
Far out to sea, the other passengers are pointing phones and clicking cameras. Deirdre thinks of the plans they made and how she needs to do what she promised. She’s carried her dead husband around for six months now and it’s time to set them both free.
           Reaching into her bag, she removes the cardboard tube that contains her husband's ashes then slowly and deliberately drops it over the side of the boat. The dormant volcano of her grief erupts, tears of hot lava spilling down her cheeks, and she weeps for all the things on their bucket list that they will never do and for all the missed opportunities they wasted when they thought time was no object.
           Gradually, the hot tears become a cooler waterfall. Anyone who looks at her will think her face is wet from the spray of the sea.
 
Dusk is already falling as the boat begins its homeward journey. For now, the sky is grey; but later, colours will dance again in the darkness and she will dance with them.
 
","July 28, 2023 22:14","[[{'Renee Maxdon': 'Such a beautiful, sad story with the right amount of hope!', 'time': '01:48 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'The sadness it palpable, the tone is so perfect, and the setting is a lovely reflection of Deirdre.\n\nI think I\'d enjoy an evening with Gunnar, love the sprinkling of myth, it adds a break from the melancholy. Very well constructed.\n\nThis line in particular stood out to me: \n""Disease was as destructive as a volcano; it just killed on a smaller scale.""\n\nGreat work here Jane.', 'time': '16:18 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Arthur McNamee': 'It is a very touching story and so true to life. I enjoyed reading this . I am glad that she could let the hurt go and move on.', 'time': '15:22 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Very poignant.  Beautifully written.', 'time': '13:24 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Yeisha Lee': ""I love this story. Ugh the ending hurt because it's so true. We spend our time making bucket lists of things we want to do, I can't imagine doing them alone or my husband having to do them alone. Really opens your eyes!\n\nI would have liked the ending to be that they saw a whale as she poured the ashes!"", 'time': '20:29 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Just a beautiful story and tribute.', 'time': '15:48 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,goskr5,Burning Down the House,Joe Smallwood,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/goskr5/,/short-story/goskr5/,Adventure,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Sad', 'Teens & Young Adult']",18 likes,"
Discussions of family breakdown and abuse.As the upper floor of the old farmhouse yielded its secrets, I was near to overflowing with excitement. I turned to my brother, who, lacking experience in adventuring, was wont to throw caution to the wind in his explorations, although I observed that he arranged matters to the best of his ability, given his tender years. Of such was our journey to the ends of mortal longing. Alas! It was not to be!“Will both of you get down here?” yelled a familiar voice. “You know you’re not allowed up there! What will happen if one of those rotten floorboards gives way suddenly?""“Coming, Mom!” I yelled back.Mom was back at the picnic table when we reached the bottom of the stairs. She was washing our lunch dishes in propane-heated well water.As I hurried to the picnic table to help her, I saw Dad standing nearby on a narrow road between two hay fields. The beautiful birch trees that lined that road were choked with tent caterpillars. He used a rag soaked with kerosene on a very long stick to burn those nests, the caterpillars falling everywhere. Those poor trees! They were suffering so much!""That's not the way to do it! They'll just crawl right back up there!"" Mom barked.""No, they won't. Half of them are dead,"" replied my Dad.""You should have gotten rid of the caterpillar eggs. Then you wouldn't have this problem!"" yelled my Mom again.Then she turned her attention to me. “Dry those dishes! After that, get more well water. Your father wants to try some stupid pills to make the water safe.”The way she talked about my father made me feel sad. It reminded me of when a farmer wanted to rent our farmland for his hay crop. Because my Dad didn't know any better, that farmer got an amazing deal on the rent. Then he called my Dad a name, ""Hobby farmer,"" I think it was. He was rude and wasn't friendly after he got what he wanted.“Race you to the well!” yelled Jeffrey after drying the dishes.Jeffrey could never win a race against me after I went into puberty. Uncle Daniel said pubescent eleven-year-old girls always beat boys their age, Jeffrey being my fraternal twin. I hated words like pubescent. Only nineteenth-century words from Anna's diary made it onto my word lists!I tried to tag Jeffrey at the well, just so he would know that I had beaten him in the race, but he dodged me and dove for the bucket hanging from the crossbeam, clanging it on the well wall to annoy me.“I got to the bucket first!” Jeffrey sneered.“Ta ta,"" I replied, wagging my finger and speaking with my uppity adult voice. ""You should well know the race is won at the well, not the bucket, dear chap!”He made a face. Then, over the well wall, he went, so far down that he could have tumbled in.I was jolted back to reality. “Jeffrey! Do you plan on living for a while?”“JESSICA!” Wooh! Wooah! It's like a cave in here, Jessica. The water is soo far down, all black!”Then, hardly noticing his scraped knees, he popped his head back up and jumped to the ground.“So cold. Do you think it's air-conditioned in there?”""What will Mom say when she sees your scraped knees?"" I demanded. ""You didn’t bring anything to put the water in!”“Dummy!"" he replied, holding the bucket high. ""We’ve got what we need right here!""“You’re the dummy! Untie that bucket from the rope, and we'll never be able to get any water ever!”I made a face. Tongue out, with a stupid “duh” look, so that he knew what I thought of him. Then, two fists were all I could see. Jeffrey was going to pound me out. Lucky for me, I heard a car pulling up. A “shush” got Jeffrey’s attention. Someone was talking to Mom. Then, after a minute or so, Uncle Daniel ambled up to us, an aqua-tank in his hands. “Here you go, you two pirates! Your mom wanted you to have this.”I was so happy to see him! He smelled like fresh air and sunshine as I hugged him.“Impetuous!” he shouted.“Not thinking before acting!” I answered.“Mortal!”“A living thing that is condemned to die!”“Demeanor!”“How someone acts around others!”“Oh, that’s my smart girl! Here, let me help you, Jeffrey.”He steadied the rusty pulley while Jeffrey lowered the metal bucket. It swung on the rope and banged against the rocks all the way down, hitting the water, making a faraway sound like a distant rowboat oar splashing in a pond.“It's at least a fifty-foot drop. Are you strong enough to lift it?” Uncle Daniel asked.Jeffrey nodded as the pulley began bending away from the crossbeam, so much so that I thought it might snap off.“That’s my tiger! That worn-out pulley needs lubrication. I guess no one takes care of this well anymore."" he said. Then he smirked. ""At least now you two can cross off using a well from your bucket list.""I laughed. Jeffrey didn't get the joke. ""Uncle Daniel. we’re here the whole weekend! You go to university! Maybe you could fix the pulley!” I shouted as I held his hand and skipped all the way back to the picnic table.#After supper, our campfire lasted well into the night, way past our bedtimes. There was a lot of old firewood around. Some of it rotted, some not, but all was ready to be burned. Under a starlit sky, Dad went on and on about his dreams for the farm. He described how he would build a theme park featuring Glooscap, the indigenous warrior of the Wabanaki peoples from Atlantic Canada and the Northeastern United States. While the campfire crackled and cast fiery embers and shadows about us, he told stories of heroism and betrayal, of how Glooscap overcame his enemies with his cleverness and magic.Our evening was magical, and I was so happy. I got to sit next to my favorite uncle. Jeffrey was sitting next to Mom. And for once, Dad and Mom weren't fighting.As we toasted marshmallows on branches we had pulled off poplar trees, Dad kept asking if we wanted well water to drink. Nobody went for it even though he had used his special pills. Uncle Daniel joked that we would know soon enough if the water was safe to drink since there were no flush toilets on the farm, with only an outhouse that hadn’t been used in years.After listening to Dad's stories for a long time, I stood up and excused myself to go to the outhouse.“You’ll need a flashlight; outhouses are spooky at night!"" joked Uncle Daniel. ""You never know what might be in that potty hole!” Then he made a sound like a wild animal. Everyone laughed when I dropped down to the ground right away.It was then that I noticed that Uncle Daniel was peeling his marshmallows. He would pop the brown melted crust into his mouth and then cook what remained again in the fire.“Why do you do that?” I asked.“Oh, it’s the cooked brown part that you want to eat, not the goo,"" he replied.I tried peeling my own cooked marshmallow but forgot to blow on it like Uncle Daniel did, so I nearly burned my fingers. As for the outhouse, I refused to use it at night and was bursting by morning.#Mom made a ""best of luck"" breakfast for us: scrambled eggs, delicious smelling back bacon, and instant coffee, which I wasn't allowed to drink. She had forgotten to pack the decaf. There was cereal, but we had to eat it dry or with orange juice because Dad forgot to buy milk. Anyway, the new cooler wasn't doing a great job of cooling; supposedly, it would run off an outlet in the car. Dad was afraid to plug it in. Something about the car battery being run down. Such was my luck on our first full day of camping.""It's 2007!"" Dad protested when we all complained. ""No one uses ice in their coolers anymore!""By that point in the morning, I could have used a whole portable bathroom if he could have bought me one. Not being able to take a shower bummed me out. I felt icky all over. Jeffrey didn’t mind. He had to be dragged into the bathroom at home. But Mom didn’t want to hear any bellyaching from either of us. She said to take a sponge bath, which I tried to do in our tent. That was a colossal failure.While I was upset about doing without things, Jeffrey was off with Dad, torching caterpillars. Later, Jeffrey and Dad would plant hundreds of red pine seedlings that the Nova Scotia Forestry Department gave out for free. Boys. Their only problems were boredom and girls calling them stupid.After working so hard at breakfast, Mom collapsed into a hammock that she strung up between two of the birches nearest our campsite. I thought she would pick a huge fight with Dad. But she didn't. Then, Uncle Daniel showed up with the milk that Dad forgot.“Where did you eat breakfast?” I demanded as I took his hand.""McDonald's,"" he replied with a sheepish look.""You didn't take me to McDonalds?"" I moaned, pretending to be upset. ""Where did you sleep?""He pointed to an orange tent a little way off, a “pup tent,” he called it, which I thought was hilarious because I imagined little puppies spilling out if we were to go in it.“Are you still reading Anna’s diary and making word lists?"" he asked after we put the milk in the cooler and entered the farmhouse.“Sure, it's right here.” I went to a small table near a window where I had left it. “I’m about halfway through, August 19th, 1889, to be exact.“Anything that you don’t understand?” he asked.“There’s one part of this diary I don’t get,” I said. “Anna's cursive writing is hard to read in August.""“Maybe she was upset,” he suggested.“She never said she was upset.”“People back then didn't always write about their feelings.”“Here it is,” I said. I showed a sentence to him by a window so that he could read it with me:I was feeling so poorly. My husband had been compelled to pull down our cabin because a surveyor of lands had declared that it stood on crown land.Then I turned to another page from the following week and read it with him:I prayed to God for relief that my husband might put up the stick. But as I can attest, I am a miserable sinner, deserving of that which should still come my way, grief poured out upon grief, as I pray the rosary, “Holy Mary! To thee do we cry poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, weeping and mourning in this valley of tears.”“What does put up the stick mean?” I asked quite innocently. Uncle Daniel turned away from me and didn’t say anything for awhile, looking out the window.“Maybe you should stop reading that diary. Why don’t we go for a drive? Or better still, I’ll take you out for an ice cream cone. Would you like that?” he said.I loved ice cream, and anything Uncle Daniel wanted to do was always fine by me. But I wasn’t getting what I wanted. So, I had Anna say something.“I must remark, young Mr. Daniel,” I said in a mocking sing-song voice. “That you exceed someone else’s expectations for your demeanor. For what I expect is not what you contrive to proceed with!”He laughed, and that made me happy. But soon, tears won a battle with the laugh lines about his eyes. He turned away from me again.“Jessica, I'm here to try and help. This is hard to say, but I know all about what’s going on with your mother and father. Families must find a way to cope when things go badly.”I had no clue what the word ""cope"" meant. It wasn't on my word lists. I wanted to see his face. I needed to do something.""What did Anna do?” I finally asked because I didn't know what else to say.He turned to look at me and wiped his eyes.“Oh, I think Anna stayed with her husband, prayed a lot, and dreamed of a better life than this one.”I frowned. “That’s just stupid!”My words hung there momentarily; then Uncle Daniel put this foolish grin on his face.“So says a wet behind the ears ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD!"" he shouted, getting louder and louder until he thundered at me.I shrieked, my feet going as fast as they could out of the farmhouse and into the field. When he finally did grab me, I screamed again, falling into the hay that was still so wet, the sun not having burned the dew away. I rolled around in sheer delight in that cushiony tall grass, only to discover why people yelled uncle, which I had to say over and over, or he would have tickled me half to death.#By Saturday evening, there was so much rain that we gave up on camping. Without a working cooler, we couldn’t cook meals. Mom threw out all the food we had brought when we got home.“The last stupid thing your father did was to buy that farm!” my mother said a month later after Dad left us for good. “I never wanted it! Jeffrey nearly drowned in that well, and that old farmhouse was such a hazard!”I fought with my Mom about how she treated Dad, but it was useless. Everything I did was useless after Dad left. Our house was being sold. Mom got a new job, and Jeffrey and I were in a new school because we moved into a condo. Now, we were selling the farm. I wished so much that Dad had stayed with Mom as Anna did with her husband, even if they fought constantly.Then, wouldn't you know it, we weren't the only people that were suffering? Dad got a call from a poor family that wanted to live in the farmhouse. He explained to them that it was condemned and that the roof leaked. But then he got to thinking. What if squatters decided to move into the farmhouse? No one would want the farm then, and selling it might be impossible. So, he called the Kentville Fire Department to ask them to burn the farmhouse down.It was a chilly September day when we gathered at the farm. I had just finished reading all of the diary. Anna's life was much better by winter as her father and husband had half-finished a house on a section of her grandfather's farm. In her words:We hardly believed our good fortune, for an answer to prayer was so far from being believed I could scarcely comprehend it.Uncle Daniel couldn't be with us. I wanted to show him this good news about Anna getting the farmhouse, but he was in British Columbia to get his master's degree. He did send me an email, though. He had a strange request that he thought would be for my own good. It was so strange that I wondered if I could bring myself to do what he suggested. Would Anna's good news have changed Uncle Daniel's mind about what he wanted me to do? It was too late to be emailing him now.Some firefighters doubted whether the house could be set up for a controlled burn. There was some concern that the fire might spread to the hay fields. But since the hay crop had already been harvested, they decided to proceed. All was well when the flames finally exploded the windows, and the walls went up in smoke. Clutching Anna's diary, I thought I might cry thinking of all those sacrifices that Anna and her husband made for that house and how much it must have meant to them, but when I saw Dad crying, my tears wouldn’t come. Mom was happy, and at least Jeffrey had a great time getting as close to the fire as possible and then yelling that he wasn't cooked yet.The heat was unbearable once the roof caved in, and I imagined the whole world could be on fire. It seemed to me that there wasn't enough water in all the world, let alone the well, to put it out. There was no fire hydrant, so it was well water or nothing. The fire chief said, “We'll give it a good drenching at the end.” After that decision, everyone, even the firefighters, watched it burn.When the firefighters left, I was alone in front of the smoldering ruin of what was once Anna's dream. Dad and Mom started calling me from down near the highway, waiting for me, their cars with their doors open, lit up like little flames near the traffic.It was then that I started to cry. I will live as well as I can, Anna! I said to myself. Then I laid Anna's diary on the hot ash, sobbing uncontrollably as short, sharp flames consumed it.
","August 01, 2023 02:25","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'You write so beautifully, Joe. You paint such a clear picture with your words. I really enjoyed your story.', 'time': '19:23 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading it, Nina.', 'time': '23:59 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading it, Nina.', 'time': '23:59 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Wonderful, warm story, Joe. Great momentum and rich language. A excellent story overall and worthy of an award.\n\nI learned a new phrase from you: put up the stick. This caused me to wonder about your nationality. There was only one Britishism that I caught: going to university. ""Americans"" would always say ""to the university.\' I was wondering if you are Canadian?', 'time': '17:57 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Hi Bruce,\nYes, I am Canadian. I\'m glad you liked ""Burning Down the House.""\nLike your story that I critiqued, I could have put the creative nonfiction tag, if the main character was a boy. But I wanted to try writing from the perspective of a girl, just to try something different.\nSo most of the story is true to life. Writing it came easily.\nSpeaking of which you really did pay 400 dollars for a civil war diary? Or something close to that? Wow, so interesting. Anyway, got to go. I\'ll follow your work. Should be interesting!', 'time': '22:51 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Hi Bruce,\nYes, I am Canadian. I\'m glad you liked ""Burning Down the House.""\nLike your story that I critiqued, I could have put the creative nonfiction tag, if the main character was a boy. But I wanted to try writing from the perspective of a girl, just to try something different.\nSo most of the story is true to life. Writing it came easily.\nSpeaking of which you really did pay 400 dollars for a civil war diary? Or something close to that? Wow, so interesting. Anyway, got to go. I\'ll follow your work. Should be interesting!', 'time': '22:51 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Lots of family dynamics. Lots of changes happening. Lots more to sort out. Lots for an eleven-year-old.', 'time': '02:54 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading, Mary.', 'time': '11:48 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading, Mary.', 'time': '11:48 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,vk8wfv,The Drive In Time,Hansi Saputhanthri,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vk8wfv/,/short-story/vk8wfv/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Fantasy']",18 likes,"
This morning I woke up, the same as every day, stretching my legs off my bed and onto the floor, my arms raised up grazing the ceiling. As any other day, I got out of bed and waltzed into the kitchen to make myself some freshly brewed fragrant coffee. I grabbed my leather bag and black coat from the hanger, while chewing hastily on a toast of fresh, brown bread I walked out my old-fashioned house and got into my tiny old green car.The endless stream of daily work calls kept coming in as I gently drove towards the empty highway road. “Hey Richard, this is impossible to finish. Papers keep piling and piling. This never seems to be ending!” That was William, my co-worker at the office. These days, cases keep on piling about the controversy in human rights. Women want more rights; racism is going out of hand, and it is only getting worse. While I gently accelerated, I could hear the rusty engine groan in exhaustion as it pushed itself under the radiating sun. Oh man, how I wish I could make this car fly to work. “Just imagine Richard, if there were to be a car looking like a bird that can fly. I would never need to be late to work!” William daydreams on the call as I make a turn.The azure sky was overlapped with white fluffy clouds, bouncing along the sky as the blazing sun mocked me. It was all quite serene and pleasant, until I realized that something was drastically not right. From a distance, I began to notice a change in the atmosphere. The mist thickened as the wind howled violently from all directions. It began with a slight drizzle, and gradually the clear sky was engulfed with dark gloomy clouds, with droplets of rain pouring down hitting the car with its sharp glass-like droplets, and streaky lightning emblazoning the sky. “I think I am going to be later than usual today. The weather isn’t that nice today” I said worriedly. “You will be fine, just keep your eyes at the road. Richard, you know- Hello? Richard?” Suddenly, a strong bright flash of light blinded the windshield, and in the spur of a moment, I was thrown off the edge of the highway cliff into the deep dark ocean. The sea swelled and throbbed with woe, as the mutinous waves grew wild under the raging storm like a ferocious tiger being possessed by an evil spirit. Struggling to escape from the sinking car, I managed to break open the door with the last strength I had left. Despite my efforts to stay afloat, I was instantly devoured by the waves that pushed me deeper into the blue emptiness. Cold salty water stung my eyes and compressed my ribs, and eventually it entered my lungs giving a strong unbearable burning sensation in my muscles. Slowly, as I began to lose consciousness, the blurred vision of an unconscious young man appeared in front of me. While I made efforts to keep alive, I painfully stretched my hand to reach the young man, but my vision disappeared, and everything turned dark.As if a miracle had happened, I somehow regained consciousness and while gasping for every bit of air, I weakly pushed myself out of the water and swam towards the shore. While rapidly gasping for air, I noticed how everything around seemed quite different. Far out to sea, streams of pulsing light saturated the surface with a golden haze. As I feebly stepped into the bedraggled dry, golden sand, dragging myself away from the creeping sea, I noticed how the secluded scrublands swayed and rustled silently as the wind whispered among its delicate strands of grass. The light airy clouds overlapped the pastel blue sky while the wild black birds soared high above towards the evening setting sun.Suddenly, the sound of loud shots deafened my ears, as a group of soldiers ran towards me. They were dressed in long black pants and wore long sleeved shirts with heavy copper batches on them. Carrying long rifles, they grabbed me and started questioning me seriously in a deep stern voice. “Who are you and who do you stand for? Speak up young man or else our army will shoot you dead with our rifles.” The old soldier asked with threat as he pulled the trigger in his long, unusual weapon. “Uh, I am Richard. I am not sure what you meant, but may I know where exactly I am?” I asked feeling confused and lost in the situation. The soldiers looked at each other with a stern, yet confused look. “We are at war zone with the Germans. Our British Army is fighting against the Nazis to save our nation.” He replied. “Wait what? We are at war?? When did this even start? Liverpool is such a calm place for anything of this sort to happen.” I asked back with great panic. “Liverpool? Calm? Youngman you must have gone mad. This war has been chaotic and huge since 1939! It has been going on for over 5 years now.” He replied in a strange and concerned manner. “Wait wait- you mean I am right now in 1944?? How on earth is this possible? You are lying!” I shouted back in great fear and panic. The soldier demanded the others to bring me to their camp and prison me until I agree to become part of their army, and soon, I found myself in a base camp surrounded by hundreds of soldiers running around with their ‘rifles’ onto the battlefield.My heart throbbed faster and faster, as wild thoughts and questions ran through my mind. Where am I? Did I travel back in time? But this is not possible because a war against the Germans never even existed in our history books. And what these strange weapons? Did I really die? Is this my afterlife, or is this all a dream? And who was that young man I saw in the water? I pinched myself several times and even thought I was going crazy as I witnessed the situation.While I dug myself deeper into this whirlpool of questions, a young soldier whispered loudly through the iron bars. “Hey, I know you are confused, but we really don’t have any choice because we have to fight.” he said as he started explaining the entire situation about the start of the war. “It’s called the World War 2. It all began when a Serbian Nationalist terrorist group sent troops to attack Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary, which was what began the World War 1. Ever since the assassination, more than fifty countries have involved in the war. We, British, are allies with France, the United States, the Soviet Union, and the army of China. Our enemies are the Germans, led by Adolf Hitler, who has allies with the army of Italy and France, but the list really does not end.” he continued to whisper in a worried manner. “So, you mean we are fighting against the Nazis? Soviet Union? Is that a country? How did I even end up here, I am supposed to be at work!” I started asking feeling all petrified and perplexed. The young soldier looked back at me with a strange, concerned expression. “The Soviet Union is a group of countries together, which young man, did you hit your head somewhere when you were on the beach? From what you’re wearing and saying, you sure don’t look like someone from here though.” He said with one eyebrow higher than his forehead. “So, are you in or out?” he asked as he walked away from the iron bars. Millions of thoughts crammed my head as I thought about everything that had happened. It was so intense that it felt like I was having a stroke. I didn’t want to die! And I never wanted to be here in the first place!“Wait! I will do it; I shall become a soldier and fight as well. Please don’t kill me!” I shouted without a choice as the only words that came out of my mouth were filled with fright and anxiety.Countless hours, days, weeks passed slowly. The soldiers trained me to fight with strange and perilous weapons, called rifles and pistols, something I have never ever seen in my life. Every now and then, the scary sounds of high-pitched screams and terror of people awakened my mind, in which I wanted to run far away from everything but was dragged down to the bottom of reality.“Was it the water that made this happen? Was it some weird supernatural power from the lightning that made this happen? Will I ever be able to return to where I was?” The thoughts were endless. One night, I escaped from the camp and ran towards the beach, where it first all began. Leaving all my equipment and suits aside, I dove into the blue waters and stayed underwater in the blue darkness multiple times with my eyes shut tight, hoping that I would return. However, the efforts were in vain as nothing changed.The incessant screams and cries of the panicking army of soldiers echoed in my ears, sending cold tingles down my spine, as fear arose. As the guns shot fire, chests of bodies jerked and began bursting out blood, as the bodies collapsed on to the floor, gradually losing movement. Clutching tightly on to my loaded-rifle, I ducked behind the wheels of a colossal, metal barricade. Another solider dressed in a tropical jungle uniform covered with a bandolier, crouched, and fortified behind the blockade nearby for cover. His arms were pierced as if he had been flagellated, with the blood oozing out rapidly from his arm.“Hey Brian, you seem to be in pain my friend, are you alright?” I asked him worriedly, trying to create a friendly atmosphere. With sweat dripping from his forehead and feeling exhausted, he turned to me cautiously, as he nodded his head gently, before he went back to full alert mode. He was the soldier who explained everything to me the day I was prisoned. The gunshots endlessly attacked our barricade, as we dodged the bullets while making a target.Suddenly, at a distant, an enormous, weird bird soared above making its way towards us. As it approached closer, a group of other unusual birds followed it with incredible speed. But as I blinked and cleared my blurry vision, I noticed what it was. Before I could even react, a group of jets swarmed and zoomed across the sky like an army of mad buzzing bees. As the angry, heavy clouds attacked the jets with streaky lightning emblazoning the sky, the jets showered the endless fields with raging bullets.A darkly tinted capsule was rocketing towards us! From a paralyzed state of being shocked, I glared at the soldier. “RUNNNN!!!” I screamed as a massive force blew us away. Everything was indistinct and my vision faded out constantly. I didn't feel any discomfort. Instead, it felt like intense heat, which quickly developed into a searing tingling numbness. With a hazy vision, I could see the strange soldier fall to the ground, unconscious. It was slow; it seemed to suck out all the sound around us. I opened my mouth to scream the pain, but all I could hear was a deafeningly silent screech, travelling the dense air.As my vision cleared once again, I could see Brian being dragged away by our rivals. Using all the strength I had left; I fired my rifle twice at the soldiers dragging him away. The soldiers immediately fell to the ground with blood oozing out from their chests, almost in slow motion as they cried in pain and eventually lost consciousness. While limping hastily, I dragged him away from the zone as fast as I could but was instantly cornered at the edge of a cliff by the German army. I turned back to view the bright-yellow sun spilling dazzling amber paint into the horizon of the giant expanse of the blue ocean. The cold wind howled mercilessly while tides clashed on to imperfect rocks. With no other choice, while holding Brian, I dropped myself down to the deep blue sea, before the rivals could pull trigger, and as we slowly descended, my thoughts slowed down. Everything felt like it was in slow motion as we crashed into the waters and sunk deeper into the abyssal depths of the lonely ocean.It felt like a nightmare when the briny ocean water gushed into my lungs, which sent flames down my throat and chest. The blood gushed out and diffused slowly and the muscles in my body tightened, as I wished for everything to end faster. With salt crystals piercing my eyes, I noticed Brian at a distance, slowly fading as he floated away. It was then when I recognized the man that I saw previously when I was drowning. I screamed and tried to move, but no matter how much energy I used, my arms and legs wouldn’t budge. I was shouting for help, but my voice wouldn’t pass sound. Eventually, everything become dark.Beep! Beep! Beep!The muffled noises of speech ran in my ears; there were indistinct figures walking patiently around me. Laying down on the clean-white medical bed, I could hear strange machines beeping rapidly around me. The turquoise-blue curtains beside me were motionless like a rock, and the fragrance of bitter, antiseptic detergent diffused in my nose. As I blinked with my vision slowly became clearer, a tall man dressed in a formal uniform approached in a hurry. “Richard! You’re awake! Its me, William Stuart, your Co-Worker remember?” he asked in a concerned manner, leaving me dumbfounded. “I- I don’t know…” I replied palely. “Where’s Brian?” I asked, which was the only thought that came to my mind. William raised his eyebrow with a concerned look “William i-i went back in time! Or something like that. I was in this war called World War 2 against the Nazis, and i-I had to save Brian, so I jumped off a cliff and-” I spoke nonstop as if I was traumatized and mentally ill. “Richard, slow down. What are you even saying? You have been in a coma for 10 years!” he spoke with great confusion. “Wait what year is this?” I asked feeling utterly shocked. “Its 2016 Richard! After you met with that accident and ran off a cliff, we immediately saved you, but your vitals weren’t that good.”While feeling shocked, a couple of doctors rushed in to examine my condition, and they asked some weird questions that I couldn’t comprehend. “We have run some tests and strangely enough, it seems like he remembers himself being in World War two, which is impossible because that happened like 70 years ago, but he relapses memories of it. We predict that it is mostly due to shock."" The doctor said with a concern look on his face.William left the room with the doctors for a discussion, and soon William returned. With a promising smile, William said, “Hey buddy, okay so you will have to hang in there a bit longer, and don’t worry we will get back your memory soon.” “No, you don’t understand William! I was really there, there were all these bombs, rifles, strange weapons that we have never seen. I was even shot!” I rambled only making this worse. “Richard, I know what bombs and rifles are. And the World War happened ages ago, its literally in our history textbooks! I think you should calm down and rest for a while.” He replied. “But how is this possible? William, please believe me, I was really there! There was a soldier named Brian who became friends with me! At least tell me what the damn history book says.” I begged him to believe me.“Richard. Well- I am not sure about any soldier named Brian, but the Nazis lost and surrendered to the British. I think there are still a few soldier survivors, and there are myths about two soldiers drowning in the Great Ocean with one surviving, and the other magically time-travelling, but I don’t think they are true.” “What happened to the survived soldier?” I interrupted. “Well, history says he was prisoned by the Nazis and was tortured harshly for many years. But after 15 years of facing the cruel lifestyle of being a prisoner, he was finally freed sent back to Britain, where he settled himself in a small house in Liverpool and began his career as a writer. His name is Michael Gosling, and he is pretty famous himself for his book series ‘War of Survival’, but people do say he has quite a lot of hidden secrets. I can bring it to you if you want…” William said as I calmly nodded.A few days passed by, and I was adapting to the nature of the hospital. High-tech cool machines were pushed by every now and then. People seemed to be happier, and the nurses were awfully kind to everyone. Eventually, I was discharged from the hospital and William came to take me home. “You will be elated to know that our company has become quite successful with the latest investments.”Apparently, I had a huge company that William took over after I fell into a coma.As William drove the car, I quickly stopped him. “William, I need to meet someone before I go home. Can you take me there?” I asked willingly. “Yes, of course! Where to?” he asked patiently as he resumed driving. As I slowly took out the book, my fingers revealed the author’s name. “Let’s go visit my old pal Brian Gosling” I replied smilingly.~THE END~
","August 04, 2023 07:17","[[{'Leland Mesford': '""My old pal Brian Gosling."" I love that ending. It was so good that I had to search the internet. It was a little heartbreaking not to find the author your story referenced. \nYou had a great story Idea. It has so much potential, particularly due to the subject. It is something that could go well beyond short story length. It\'s just all about what you put into it. Maybe a novel? You never know.', 'time': '22:10 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Hansi Saputhanthri': ""Thank you soo much for your feedback. I am sorry i didn't directly reference the author i mentioned in my story, but i am happy that you still liked it. 😄"", 'time': '03:09 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hansi Saputhanthri': ""Thank you soo much for your feedback. I am sorry i didn't directly reference the author i mentioned in my story, but i am happy that you still liked it. 😄"", 'time': '03:09 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hansi Saputhanthri': 'This is a story about a man named Richard getting into an accident and travelling through time in a parallel dimension, facing new events and obstacles and in the end  the changing history as he returns back to the present.', 'time': '07:50 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ranumi Dharmadasa': 'This is so great, Hansi !!! Looking forward to future releases💗💗', 'time': '17:37 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Yemiru Alwis': ""One of the best writings I've read. Looking forward to future masterpieces."", 'time': '17:18 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Musa Mansoor': 'This is a very intriguing book. I really enjoy it. :]', 'time': '08:19 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hansi Saputhanthri': 'Thank you', 'time': '03:14 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hansi Saputhanthri': 'Thank you', 'time': '03:14 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ay8w6x,Never Follow the Lights,Caroline Tuohy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ay8w6x/,/short-story/ay8w6x/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Holiday', 'Indigenous']",17 likes,"
Deidre from accounting is going on a year long tour of Europe. The boss made everyone squeeze into the break room to toast pale, flabby Deidre goodbye on her last day. Everyone raised their plastic cup of warm fizzy wine while Deidre clutched a supermarket bouquet of carnations and smiled.Back at your desk you snap your laptop shut, slide it into your satchel and grant yourself an Irish goodbye. You don’t particularly like anyone at this company that you’ve been working at for 8 years now. You walk to the underground station, descend the stairs and ride a crowded train home. So much for thank god it’s Friday.On Sunday, you visit your mum’s place, for tea.“Do you want another cuppa love?” Your mum asks.You stare out the kitchen window and watch as the wind whips drying tea towels that hang from the hills hoist. You used to swing around on that hills hoist when you were a kid and the mum who is now offering you tea, used to yell at you.“What’s up love?” Your mum asks, “what’s on your mind?”She lights one of the burners on her stove and places down a pan.“Is sausages okay?” You nod, and sigh, and think about chubby happy Deidre having more of a life than you do.At the table, over sausages and mash, your mum starts talking about some train that takes you right across Australia, across the Nullabour Plain. “Apparently it’s incredible out there, it’s not JUST a desert like you think it is. I think it would be fun. What do you think love?”“What do you mean it’s not just a desert?”“Oh, according to the article I read, the center of Australia has all kinds of things going on”“Like what?”“I don’t know love, that’s why you should go, to see”“Me?” You ask, “I thought you wanted to go”“Love, you need to get out of your rut a bit. Your father, god bless him, would say so as well. You’re too young to be spending all your time with your old mum. Go on, I’ll get the article”Your mum sends you home with a plate of leftovers and last weeks Sunday Supplement. There, you thumb through to the page about the Nullabour, and read a story about a travel writer’s envious adventures Out Back. You’re so jealous, your toes curl. You’re always the bloody bridesmaid and never the bloody bride. You remember Deidre’s pathetic smile and it makes you angrier. Goddamit! You think to yourself, I’m doing it.The rest of the office raises their plastic cups of warm fizzy wine while you hold a teddy bear with the words “miss you already” embroidered onto its stomach. You smile while the boss says a few trite words about your contribution to the culture of the terrible organization you work….check that…USED to work for. Back at your desk you snap your laptop closed, bin the polyester Teddy and practically glide down the stairs with joy. You’re going to cross the Nullabour.Instead of the train your mum suggested, you’re going to drive. Just you, your Jeep and the out back road. A one man Bourke and Wills. It’s a bright and windy Saturday morning, and you feel high and free; turning onto the on-ramp, pressing the accelerator down a little further. You imagine the empty road, the endless space, the Stary nights. It’s calling you.All at once it seems, the wide expanse around you opens to the reddest earth you’ve ever imagined. The highway becomes two, dead straight lanes- one lane forward, one lane back. The road shimmers under the brutal Australian sun.Up ahead you see a building, like a shed. A hand painted sign by the highway declares “the last pub before Ullaru” and you swerve off the road to park your Jeep out front. Real outback Aussies you think, despite being an Aussie yourself. The long drive has made you romanticize a harsh and stunning landscape.Inside the pub is almost black until your eye’s adjust. You see the humped backs of bushmen sitting at the bar, you hear a staticy radio playing a song you don’t recognize, you smell sticky, piss stained carpet, you feel the light breeze of the ceiling fan.“Gday love” screetches out the bar mistress. “Get you a beer?”A couple of the humped backs twist slightly, glancing at you from under the brims of Acubras.“Ahh, yes. Yes thanks” you say.“Come on love, come sit up here by me”. She taps the bar with her beefy hands and you walk up to lean on the sticky wooden ledge.She puts a glass of beer in front of you, frosty, straight from the keg. Condensation immediately beads all over it. You take a sip and she smiles at you and says “now, what’s a city slicker like you doing out here?”You take another sip. “I’m crossing the Nullabour in my Jeep” you reply.The humpbacks laugh.“Is that so?”“Yeah. I’ve come all the way from Sydney”“All the way from Sydney ay? You hear this boys?” She says. “This one’s come all the way from Sydney”The humpbacks laugh at you again.“What do you know about the Nullabour plain?” You ask her. And what’s so funny you think.The bar mistress leans in close, so close you can see the widened pores across her nose.“Never follow the lights”.“Never follow the lights?” you ask, “what do you mean?”But she has turned away and is pouring another beer.The humpback beside you croaks out “she mean’s don’t follow them lights. You’d be best minding her you hear”“Yes, of course. Never follow the lights. Right. Well, thanks for the beer” you leave your money on the bar and leave. What a weird place you think. Freaks. You steer yourself back onto the highway lane going forward.As the sun starts to set you pull off the road and set up camp for the night. You light a small fire and pump your air mattress to life. You lie on it and stare into the sky. There exists nothing between you and the Milky Way.Never follow the lightsBut you didAnd nowYour body is pulled downwardsYour lungs burnThe lightThat damned light twinkles across the surface of the pool.Such a non descriptive word for its fetid murderous truthYou have never seen light on water from the underside before Into the darkness, down, drowning tugs your anklesYou hair tangles in the water, as it floats from your scalp like weeds Never follow the lightsIt made no sense how bleary sun stroked menWho had scars like earthquake fissures Carved into themTheir trophies from the daily fight with fearlessness Warned you A low voice at the outback pub repeatingNever follow the lightsBut you didAt first it seemed as though a single head light from a motorbike Which was ridden with no sound A ghost rideComing towards you and your fire and your Jeep Then that headlight rose up above you from the ground It was in the skyAnd suddenly multiplied You have no idea how many lights had been called to find you but They changed and danced with you.While you threw your hands up to greet them, or moved whenever the lights seemed to touch the land.Nothing had ever filled the lust in you- just you, the lights, and silence Never follow the lightsThe ancient mistress serving beers had told you She had braless tits which lay like flapsHer upper arms gelatinous You preferred to take your chances With dancing lightsThat made the stars behind themLook like cheap glitter Spilt carelessly behind diamonds Your face turned up towards the lights A premonition of you nowYou stood and took the worst step of your remaining minutes alive, you were only going to see what the big deal was about Never follow the lightsAs your body decends deeper Into the pool of water which is killing youYour brain still fires thoughts You had hoped would have more meaningInstead your final moments kickingThe last thing you are thinkingIs of the lightsAnd how they led you to the waterTo watch you drown While twinkling above youWhy on earth can’t I follow them now?Them lights’ll kill you said the beery pub wenchBefore they doYou see the last glimpses Of the lightsThat you followed Like they are magnetic You refuse to die like this.As you break through the surface of the water you gasp, loudly, splashing your way back to life. Your blood has been replaced with terror, pulsing through your kicking legs and flailing arms, swimming towards the bank. You pull yourself out into the cold night air and lay, chest heaving as it draws oxygen back into your body.The lights are gone.Only a billion stars shine above you, watching you pass out, uselessly, from far far away.The world turns slowly, revealing the sun, which brings the light and warmth that wakes you, on the bank beside a small, shallow pond. On hands and knees you look into it, wondering how something so shallow could be so deep. You feel the bright desert sun start to burn the back of your neck so you stand and begin to search for your abandoned campsite and Jeep.It doesn’t take long to find them, not as long as the dance to follow the lights felt. You drink from your canteen and kick desert dust onto the last embers of your forgotten fire. Once seated in your Jeep you turn the wheel towards the one lane going back. At the last pub before ulluru, you stop and walk inside again. It feels like de ja vous- the same grimy floor, the same scarred bushmen, the same fat mistress. “Gday love” she cries out. “You look like you followed some lights”.
","July 29, 2023 17:31","[[{'Russell Mickler': 'Hi Caroline!\n\nCool 2nd person POV, present tense; unusual. Good description, especially on the intro describing Deidre from Accounting. \n\nHuh another Nullabour Plain reference - Chris just wrote a story about that, how weird.\n\n""She taps the bar with her beefy hands-"" nice imagery.\n\nHuh, poetry? Cool! I think that really adds to the idea of being by a fire.\n\nI liked the ending - reminds us that there\'s something holy and magical and dangerous about the night sky. \n\nReally cool, good tone, interesting narrator ...\n\nR', 'time': '00:46 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Caroline Tuohy': 'Thank you Russell. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. \n\nI’ve just started to use the second person point of view storytelling technique and I’ve found my writing flows much better. Every story I’ve read which uses the technique I’ve enjoyed as well.\n\nThe poetry is the basis of the story. I wrote the poem about 6 months ago and the prompt made me think about incorporating it into a short story somehow. The min min lights have always fascinated me.\n\nI really appreciate you taking the time to write a review and I’m thrilled that you enjoyed my story. ...', 'time': '01:32 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Russell Mickler': ""Hey, your work was great - unusual and distinctive - 2nd person is often considered a risk in writing contests so it's not something you see all the time :)\n\nMyself, I think you played it well in this piece. \n\nHope to see more of your stuff around here in the weeks ahead!\n\nR"", 'time': '01:37 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Caroline Tuohy': 'Thank you Russell. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. \n\nI’ve just started to use the second person point of view storytelling technique and I’ve found my writing flows much better. Every story I’ve read which uses the technique I’ve enjoyed as well.\n\nThe poetry is the basis of the story. I wrote the poem about 6 months ago and the prompt made me think about incorporating it into a short story somehow. The min min lights have always fascinated me.\n\nI really appreciate you taking the time to write a review and I’m thrilled that you enjoyed my story. ...', 'time': '01:32 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Russell Mickler': ""Hey, your work was great - unusual and distinctive - 2nd person is often considered a risk in writing contests so it's not something you see all the time :)\n\nMyself, I think you played it well in this piece. \n\nHope to see more of your stuff around here in the weeks ahead!\n\nR"", 'time': '01:37 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Russell Mickler': ""Hey, your work was great - unusual and distinctive - 2nd person is often considered a risk in writing contests so it's not something you see all the time :)\n\nMyself, I think you played it well in this piece. \n\nHope to see more of your stuff around here in the weeks ahead!\n\nR"", 'time': '01:37 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Your use of second person enhanced your captivating prose. I was fully engaged. The mood was set so well and broke free from when she began her journey.\n\nI did find the section with lights a little confusing as to what had/was happening but I see you've posted a link to the actual phenomena I will check out. From a narrative point though you could stayed in the pub a little longer and have the locals explain it, and have the MC decide their brains were warped from the sun or such. Kind of the city slicker knows best only to drown in her own ..."", 'time': '14:34 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Caroline Tuohy': 'Thank you so much for your review. I can definitely see from a reader perspective I may have wasted the pub scene as a narrative tool. You’ve made a really good observation here.\n\nOtherwise, I’m really grateful you took the time to let me know what you think of my writing. And I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Thank you.', 'time': '01:28 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Caroline Tuohy': 'Thank you so much for your review. I can definitely see from a reader perspective I may have wasted the pub scene as a narrative tool. You’ve made a really good observation here.\n\nOtherwise, I’m really grateful you took the time to let me know what you think of my writing. And I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Thank you.', 'time': '01:28 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Caroline Tuohy': 'This story is based around the Min Min lights. Find out more about them here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Min_Min_light', 'time': '02:04 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Russell Mickler': 'Even cooler!', 'time': '00:47 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Russell Mickler': 'Even cooler!', 'time': '00:47 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,rq0rei,Inheritance,Hannah Polis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rq0rei/,/short-story/rq0rei/,Adventure,0,['Drama'],15 likes,"
Ben didn’t sleep well the night before accepting the inheritance. The morning was grey, rainy, and windy, and the raindrops ran down the car’s windshield, mingling and untangling in endless patterns. He sat behind the wheel, unremittingly fidgeting with the key in his hand as he stared out into the gloominess of the city. The trees hung with the weight of the rain, and the few people who were out on the streets were hidden behind brightly patterned umbrellas that covered their faces. It was still early, the clock on the dashboard showed 7:40 am, and Ben sighed and ran his hands over his eyes in an attempt to shake the tiredness from his mind, the weariness he felt at the prospect of taking the drive. The reflection of his face in the rear-view mirror startled him as he lowered his hands, the dark circles underneath his eyes, the tangled hair that slowly began to fade along his forehead. The death of his mother made him stare into his own accelerating maturity, and he averted his eyes. He turned the key and the engine started, with the radio turning on automatically. “So, it looks like we have another rainy day ahead of us today, the sun won’t be coming out until the weekend, it seems,” the voice of the newscaster announced, and Ben stifled an exasperated yawn. He slowly backed out of the parking spot in front of his apartment building while intermittingly looking down on his phone where he opened the chat with Michelle, copied the address she had sent him the day before, and pasted it into the navigation app. The cool electronic woman’s voice informed him that the drive would take approximately fifteen minutes, and he propped up the phone between the dashboard and the cupholder with his right hand while turning the wheel with his left. Ben felt like he should know the way to his sister’s apartment, but the building in front of which he eventually stopped seemed unfamiliar, the radiant white paint and the large windows reminding him of the new, well-paying job in human resources Michelle had told him about the last time they had spoken on the phone. It must have been a few weeks ago, they hadn’t spoken since the call from the lawyer, only communicated via email because she had been away on a business trip in Canada. Michelle had gone to university, graduated summa cum laude with her management degree, and had found her first job only weeks later, leaving her older brother feeling like he’d failed to remember when she had grown up so suddenly. But he still recognized the woman who closed the door to the building behind her, Michelle’s slim and tall figure, her dark coat, and the large brown bag that she carried over her shoulder. She held up her hand over her eyes to shield her view from the rain, took quick steps towards the car and hastily opened the door to the passenger’s side. “Hey,” she said, sat down, and swiftly closed the door before the rain could leave traces on the seat. Ben extended his arm over her shoulder, and they hugged awkwardly, her right hand still holding onto the bag, his left hand gripping the steering wheel. When Ben moved away after a second, he studied his sister’s face and found new lines in it, but the startling brightness of her blue eyes and the prominence of her cheeks were charmingly framed by a short haircut. “You cut your hair,” he remarked, and Michelle smiled with her lips closed. “Yeah, I did that a while ago though. Too much work to take care of the mob I used to have,” she said, her tone business-like as she leaned back into her seat. Ben nodded, unsure of what to respond, and picked up his phone. “Do you have the address?” he asked, and Michelle pulled out a black binder from her bag, a collection of neatly sorted documents. She read out an address to Ben, who typed it into the app and then pressed Start route. “Approximately one hour and ten minutes,” the female voice announced, and Ben put the car in first gear, led them down the main road, and then followed the signs towards the highway. The radio was still on, now playing a pop song in which the singer insisted on turbulent vocal ornamentations, and they listened in silence, Michelle’s eyes averted towards the road. Ben cleared his throat. “So,” he asked, “How are you?” Michelle glanced at him. “Good, I’ve been good,” she said vaguely, “I’ve been talking with the lawyer again, he said he’d meet us at the house at around ten, so we still have plenty of time to get there.” Ben nodded, his eyes skimming over the road sign ahead, then he turned onto the highway that would lead them southwards. “Thank you for taking care of everything,” he said while merging the car into the lane to their left, “You’re much better at organizing this whole thing than I would have been.” They sat in silence for a few minutes before Michelle said: “Well, I do think I have more to gain from this than you have, so it was only reasonable.” Her tone was factual, removed, and Ben pressed his lips together before responding. “Sure, I guess you two were a bit closer in the end.” The silence expanded between them again, and Ben kept his eyes fixated on the road ahead. He hadn’t spoken to their mother in a few years now, not since their last meeting on Christmas, when he had left her house with his then-girlfriend Tracy on Christmas Day in a furious haze. He had been cursing all the way back to their apartment which Tracy had left a few days later, leaving Ben to spend New Year’s alone with their dog Nacho. 
He exhaled audibly and glanced over at his sister. “Do you think she’ll leave you the house, then?” he asked, copying her distant tone. Michelle shrugged, but Ben knew he had hit a nerve. She had never been skilled at hiding her emotions. “Well,” he went on, talking faster without meaning to, “It’s a nice house, I’m sure you could sell it to some desperate family for a good price.” Michelle looked over at him now, her eyes dismissive. “That’s such an insensitive thing to say, Ben,” she said coldly, “But I’m honestly not surprised, with the way you treated her.” He grimaced and tightened his hands around the steering wheel. He knew exactly why he had been unhappy at the prospect of driving up to the house together when it was so obvious his sister would bring up the mistakes he had made in her eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice down. “Look, she wanted money from me that I didn’t have, and I refused. I don’t understand why you’re still so caught up on that.” Michelle rolled her eyes in exasperation and irritably tapped her fingers against her leg. “She’s your mother!” she said, her voice insistent, “She’s our mother, and I can’t believe you still think this way after everything that’s happened.” Ben let out an aggravated sigh. “Well, you win. You had money to give to her, and now you get to keep the house and her cats and whatever else she passed onto you,” he said, his voice raised. “And you can sell the house and make more money from it while I’m still living in that damn one-room apartment, coming home after formulating consumer-friendly insurance policies all day. Great, that sounds just great!” Michelle didn’t respond for a while, and they sat in silence as they passed by a few road signs advertising the next exit, the air tense between them. When Michelle spoke again, her voice was softer than before. “I don’t want to sell the house, Ben.” She hesitated before she went on, “I want to live in it.” He stared at her, perplexed, and then let out a short laugh that was almost genuine. “In that house, all by yourself?” Michelle faltered. “No, not all by myself. I… I’m seeing someone. And we want to move in together,” she said, and her eyes were nervous when she watched her brother, who looked back at her in disbelief. “You’re in a relationship? I thought you didn’t care about that stuff. You’ve never even mentioned a guy in high school or during university, and you always seem so busy with your career and making more than any of those men in suits.” He smiled bitterly, but the tone of his voice was approving. Michelle didn’t respond, and seemed to be deep in thought before she jerkily ran her hands over her thighs. “What’s his name, then?” Ben pressed and his sister let out a restrained, indecisive sound. “Mhm,” she began, and searched her brother’s gaze when he looked over to her. “Holly,” she said with quiet desperation, “Her name is Holly, and we’ve been together since last summer.” The silence in the vehicle was amplified to its extreme, and Ben stared at her for a few long seconds, trying to find the credibility of what she had just said in her face before he turned his eyes back on the road, moving his hands so hastily that he accidentally hit the indicator. The car behind them honked when he corrected his mistake, and the abrupt sound seemed to bring him back. “You’re gay?” he asked incredulously, his eyes quickly moving back and forth between the road and his sister. She nodded hesitantly at first, then more confidently, still running her hands over her legs as if to calm herself with the continuity of the movement. “Mm,” Ben uttered inconclusively, and Michelle looked at him irritably before speaking, her voice accelerating. “I’m not telling you this for you to make more mean comments about your family, Ben. Frankly, I don’t care what you think as long as you let me have whatever mom has given me,” she said hoarsely and ran her hands over her forehead, closing her eyes for a minute. Deep down, Michelle knew how slim the chances were that her mother had left anything to her brother after their confrontation that Christmas, and since meeting Holly, she had tried to convince her to leave the house to the more responsible, more sensible, more mature child. She had done everything right, had pursued the career her mother had approved of, had called her every Sunday, and had even tried to fall in love with men she met at the bar downtown just to make her happy. But there was no way of telling if her efforts had been enough, if the drive down to the old house with its worn-down furniture and the pebbly driveway would be worth the argument with her brother over whom she had fallen in love with. Ben still didn’t say anything and looked out to the road ahead. “I’m sure she’s nice,” he finally said without conviction and vaguely smiled at Michelle before turning his attention back to the phone’s navigation. She briefly reciprocated his smile but felt the discrepancy between them like a physical barrier. “Another half hour,” he remarked, his voice as detached as the female computer. They both looked ahead, following the passing trees, distant houses, and the grey clouds with their eyes. It had stopped raining, but a few raindrops were still running down the windshield, chasing each other, briefly intertwining, and liberating themselves from the other. Neither of them knew what was waiting for them down by their mother’s house, and the hopes they had entangled with the worries that what they had done had been too much or too little. 
 
","July 30, 2023 15:18","[[{'Kay Reed': 'Hannah- well done on this story! You built drama well throughout- I really wanted to know more about what caused these family rifts— I actually think this could be a longer piece, as I am wanting more of this story! It didn’t feel this way, but impressed you told this entire story from the car also (even though you didn’t use that prompt). I also really loved the repetition in the first and last paragraphs- it added a nice cyclical feel to it all. Overall really well done; I enjoyed the read.', 'time': '21:22 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Polis': ""Thank you so much for your comment and the detailed feedback! I'm glad the small things don't go unnoticed and that you enjoyed the read"", 'time': '17:07 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Polis': ""Thank you so much for your comment and the detailed feedback! I'm glad the small things don't go unnoticed and that you enjoyed the read"", 'time': '17:07 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cilian McAffee': 'I enjoyed this! Ben was an enjoyable character to read', 'time': '09:07 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Polis': 'Thank you, and thanks for reading!', 'time': '15:06 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Polis': 'Thank you, and thanks for reading!', 'time': '15:06 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,r72k88,Walk in the Woods,Taylor Petska,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/r72k88/,/short-story/r72k88/,Adventure,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],15 likes,"
A Walk in the Woods
        	I took a walk in the woods to clear my mind. And I came out on the other side better than I was before.
 
        	This wasn’t just any walk. This walk would grab hold of my grief and bury it underneath the solid ground. And though people are never truly the same after they grieve, I feel they are something new. Something with life experiences, new outlooks, new perspectives. The air was cold, the wind sharp. My nose was runny, my face frozen. But I walked anyway, hoping to find a way to untangle the troubled mess inside my heart. And it’s funny how as I ventured into the biting cold, I felt as though I could finally breathe again, for the first time in a long time.
 
        	I listened to every detail of the woods around me. I wanted to soak it all in. I wanted to marvel at the way nature takes her time through life. She is in no rush. And here, in the winter wonderland, the woods seemed to be sleeping soundly. I breathed out and saw the cloud of my breath—a reminder that my heart was still beating. A reminder that I was wide awake. I stopped and listened to the sound of the story nature was trying to tell. Silence, a few birds chirping here and there, steady snowfall. Which stories would I tell?
 
        	I could tell you a lot about my walk in the woods that day. I could tell you about the frozen pond I discovered—the one I decided to rest by for a while. I could tell you about the different shapes and sizes of the trees—how they seemed to be sound asleep beside me. I could tell you about the colors in the sky. Yes, I think I’ll start with that. Let’s start with the sky.
 
        	Do you know how the sky looks as the sun has nearly set? How the orange glow from its powerful beginnings has faded? How we are left with deep blue, kissed with streaks of pale pink, white, and light orange? That sky has a way of always meeting me exactly where I am, as I am. That sky always has a way of comforting me. But as I walked through the woods that day, I was met with something different: gray as far as the eye could see. Not a splash of color, not a pop of sunlight. Grayness, dimness, darkness. It was gloomy. It’s funny how the sky and I were one that day.
 
        	I could tell you a lot about the life I have lived for twenty two years. I could tell you about the moments I’m most proud of or my happiest days. And while those are good and lovely and necessary to share because they provide hope for others around you, I feel my heart beating with the grayness of the sky—I feel it beating with a different kind of story locked inside. But how do I share it?
 
        	As I walked, I encountered a red cardinal. I slowed my pace and admired his beauty. The red of his feathers popped against the pure white snow. Red cardinals are special to me. They remind me of my grandpa. I have been told that the presence of a red cardinal is the presence of your loved ones visiting you from heaven. Every time I see one, I stop and stare. I try to have a conversation—I try to see if it is really him. Usually, the beautiful bird flutters his wings and flies away before I can find the words to say. And I am left with the thoughts in my head that have no place to escape.
 
        	I remember being in my dorm room my freshman year of college when I got the call. I was sitting on my bed when a name popped up on my phone: Dad. I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary as I picked up the phone and answered, but what happened next was something I will never forget.
        	“Grandpa Ronnie died this morning.”
        	My breath caught in my chest, and soon after, the tears began to flow. I was shocked.
        	My parents traveled to Columbia a few weeks later to pick me up. They came up to my dorm room to help bring my bags down to the car. I said goodbye to the boy I loved and headed down the stairs to the car waiting out front. I loaded my bags in the back and hugged my two brothers who were there to greet me. We set out on a day’s drive to Wisconsin. Even though this was only a few years ago, I find it interesting how I cannot remember a single thing we talked about on the way there. Maybe we didn’t talk at all.
 
        	Silence, much like the woods I traveled while my heart was breaking. Funny how silence is sometimes all we can offer when our hearts hurt too much to say anything.
 
	They say silence in the hours of grief is not a therapeutic tool, but rather, it is the limit of empathy. Silence is found when we reach the end of our words—when we have nothing left to say to those around us whose hearts are grieving. I find it so intriguing that we, as humans, are given so many words but still run into moments when there are simply no words left to say. Sometimes silence speaks louder. Sometimes it says, “I don’t know what you need to hear to feel whole again, but I do know that I am able to sit here for a while as a friend while you grieve.” And that, to me, is more powerful than all the words in the world.
 
        	The funeral was at a golf course—my grandpa’s favorite place to be. There was no coffin. He wanted to be cremated. We celebrated his life that day, but the celebration was not absent of tears. A flurry of emotions.
        	I remember walking out onto the perfectly mowed grass of the golf course greens. I remember exactly how I felt in that moment: peace. There’s something about escaping the chaos and sitting in the stillness of nature for a little while. It does wonders for the soul. And as I sat there on that beautiful grass, I took note of the sky. The sun had just barely set, and I was left looking out at the deep blue with splashes of pale pink. In that moment, I knew my grandpa and I were looking at the same sky. And I knew, in some strange and mysterious way, that he was sitting right there on that green with me. The silence we shared as we admired the sky in its fleeting beauty is a moment that will always be special to me.
 
        	And I am pulled back into the woods, where the sky is gray, and my shoulders are heavy with the grief that still lingers around me. How do I let that weight go?
 
        	Maybe I would bury my grief in the ground. I would give it to someone else for a little while. Maybe I would let the soil take it and the story that comes with it. I would let it decompose with the rest of the dead things. Maybe I would allow it to wash away with the rain and become so drenched that the story wouldn’t even be recognizable. And I would allow all this, because the fences that guard my heart would rather those stories die in the very places where they were born. But the dreamer in me hesitates to give them back to nature so easily.
 
        	I listened as the snow crunched beneath my feet. Every blade of grass was frozen solid, and a piece of me felt guilty for crushing them so easily. The sound of the crunch beneath my feet was deafening. I did not wish to wake the beauty of nature that was sleeping. But part of me wished I could sleep too. I wished, in that moment, that I could hibernate with the rest of the forest creatures. I wished I could sleep and escape the bitterness of reality. Maybe I would come out better in the spring when the woods were alive again with sounds and colors and sunlight. Yes, I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep and forget about the weight of the words inside of me.
 
        	But I did not have that luxury.
 
	My dad always tells me stories about my grandpa to keep him alive in our hearts. One morning as I was making my coffee, my dad watched me intently before he said, “you know, your grandpa always loved his coffee with half and half, just like you.” In that moment, I remember wishing I could be with him now as I have grown older and have discovered the joys of coffee. The dark, nutty aroma in the morning, the low rumble of the coffee pot brewing. I would love to share a morning with him, sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee and asking him all the questions I have about my life and where it’s going. I miss his wisdom, wit, and humor. But I think he would be happy to know that he lives on in his son and his wife. My dad and my Grandma Barbie have been there waiting to catch me when I fall, just as he would have been. And when I join him in heaven, I can’t wait to grab a cup of coffee and catch up.
 
        	The sky that met me in the woods as I walked that day was new to me. I walked alone, feeling heavy with grief and weary with the journey. But what I once viewed as a gray sky—both dreary and gloomy—I now viewed as a new beginning. A clean slate. The blanket of gray that seemed to wrap the entire world in its embrace was covering me in a fresh start. One color, no clouds, no sunshine: a chance to start over. A chance to welcome the sun as someone new. A chance to welcome new skies as new companions.
 
        	All things are given back to nature eventually. The fun, easy stories, and the dreadfully hard ones, too. And one day, when my grandma gets the courage, she will let go of my grandpa’s ashes. She will spread them out across the land he loved so much. And nature will meet him there, bringing him back to the dust from which he came. As much as some stories hurt, I know they must be written. But maybe the real freedom comes from writing them and eventually giving them back to nature. Maybe it comes from letting them decompose under the soil. And when the trees and the squirrels and the many forest creatures awake, I hope I will walk that same path again a little less weary than I was before. When the sun shines again, I will be met with that old, familiar sky. But this time, I will not be the same as I once was. I will be stronger. I will be better.
 
        	I will be new.
 
        	I walked home a little lighter that day. I hope the stories in my head find their home among the wild things. I will not try to dig up what nature has rightfully buried. I will not try to take back what nature has claimed as her own.
","July 28, 2023 21:01","[[{'Herman W Clarke': 'This is great! Like the other comment, I thought the descriptions and emotions here were really, really well done. Good job!', 'time': '09:27 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you so much for your kind words!', 'time': '21:07 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you so much for your kind words!', 'time': '21:07 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Rama': 'Amazing. The descriptions were beautiful and vivid, the emotions raw and real. I felt as if I was the narrator telling the story, and it made me cry. The sentence in the beginning about burying grief in the ground really got me. This is an excellent representation of the after effects of a loss and the process of grief. Phenomenal job, Taylor!', 'time': '16:23 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment. I greatly appreciate it!', 'time': '21:07 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment. I greatly appreciate it!', 'time': '21:07 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,oqpb6q,Goat-Man's Bridge,Kristin Johnson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/oqpb6q/,/short-story/oqpb6q/,Adventure,0,"['High School', 'Horror']",15 likes,"
 
A/N: Trigger warning. This story contains character deaths.
 
When you leave this campfire tonight, don’t take Goat-Man’s Bridge on your way home.
 
Four teenagers found this out the hard way. They were out, bored with all their usual activities, and one of them dared the others to drive to Goat-Man’s Bridge so that the two couples could make out and lure the Goat-Man out of hiding. Legend has it that Goat-Man attacks couples that kiss on his bridge and shine a flashlight.
 
Even people who haven’t seen Goat-Man have heard his scream on the bridge at night, a scream that can turn your blood to water. He doesn’t “baaa, baaa,” he screams. Everyone who lives near Goat Man Bridge knows to lock their doors when that scream echoes in the night. No one dares flash a flashlight three times on the bridge, because the Goat-Man will appear. I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it.
 
Supposedly dark cults used the bridge for their secret ceremonies and somehow called up the Goat-Man. He’s been around a long time. Goat-Man has been sighted throughout the United States. Everyplace has a version of the story.
 
It doesn't matter where our story takes place. Details aren't important. The story is universal. The journey from ""On a dark and spooky night"" to ""The end"" is as life-changing for the hearer as the people in the story.
 
The four teenagers in our story, in Anytown, USA, scoffed at the legend they'd heard all their lives, and decided to go to the bridge after dark.
 
The drive felt like a party in itself. They were going to do something countless people had done, but no one had done and lived to tell about it.
 
They turned off the car just before they got to the bridge. They figured that at ten o'clock at night no one would be driving over it.
 
They walked from their car through the dark onto the bridge, their shoes making loud noises on the wooden beams.
 
It was a still, windless night on the bridge, with no motor noises from passing cars, not even a dog barking or an owl hooting. The two couples kissed and held each other to ward off the fear, but nothing unusual happened on the bridge.
 
Nothing happened for many minutes.
 
There was lots of kissing, and giggling, and talking. At one point one of the teenagers, Holly, turned on her music on her phone, but her boyfriend George had her turn it off. ""This only works in complete silence,"" he said.
 
""Then we shouldn't talk,"" Mike. the second boy, said.
 
Scratch. Scratch. Thump.
 
""Mike, stop,"" Alison, the instigator, hissed.
 
""My shoes are killing me,"" he groaned. Thump. ""Ahhhh.""
 
""Anyone else need to go barefoot?"" George quipped.
 
Holly shook her head. ""I already am.""
 
They sat in complete silence.
 
Thump. Thump.
 
""MIKE,"" everyone yelled.
 
""Wasn't me,"" Mike snapped, his voice quivering.
 
Frightened, Alison said, “Let’s leave now.”
 
""Oh, great plan, everyone will know we chickened out,"" Holly said.
 
""None of you are posting this or livestreaming it, right?"" George asked."" 'Cause we all made a pact.""
 
""Uh-uh,"" everyone said.
 
""Technically we haven't started yet, we could leave,"" Mike said.
 
Holly raised her chin and took a sip of water. ""I'm not backing out.""
 
""I got my flashlight all ready and fired up,"" George said.
 
Mike raised a hand. ""I'm game.""
 
Alison seemed to draw strength from the peer pressure. ""Okay. George, light it up.""
 
They walked a little further before George found the perfect spot and switched on his flashlight once.
 
Silence.
 
He turned it off, then on again.
 
Still nothing.
 
A third time the light flashed off, then on.
 
They walked past the center of the bridge, going toward the other side. Mike's attempt to hum the theme from ""The Twilight Zone"" got stopped in a hurry.
 
A thick fog appeared on the bridge. The flashlight went out. 
 
Clomp, clomp. The clatter of two hooves on the bridge, pitched squeals and grunting laughter made the teenagers freeze on the spot. Out of the fog and the dark loomed something…horns, vicious teeth in a smile. A goat’s head. A man’s naked hairy chest. Burning red eyes.
 
Then, he screamed. An inhuman scream. A scream that could kill plants.
 
Three of the teenagers knocked into each other and tripped over each other as they sprinted across the bridge. Alison, who suggested the eerie ordeal, stood hypnotized as the creature came closer.
 
Gallantly, George with the flashlight charged back, his feet creaking the bridge boards.
 
The fog jutted out and vanished the girl and boy in front of their friends’ eyes. A scraping sound made the two that were left retreat. 
 
Concerned for their friends, they turned back to see the fog had disappeared, and so had the couple on the bridge. Only the flashlight remained, its light revealing the young couple hanging from the side of the bridge – or rather, what was left of the pair.
 
The bodies scratched and scraped the metal sides of the bridge as they swung from one of the struts. The teenagers who were still alive screamed. 
 
Their screams attracted a passing police car, because someone had called in the unusual activity on the bridge. An anonymous citizen, a Good Samaritan. Someone who hung up without identifying themselves.
 
The local police found Mike and Holly in hysterics. To this day, Mike and Holly have never spoken about that night. They moved from the town shortly after that fateful night, and some say that they mysteriously died as well, because the Goat-Man followed them.
 
Adding to the fear after that night, the police never caught the attacker, since they believed the teenagers died accidentally by slipping off the old bridge. After that night, the teenagers never spoke of their friends. Some passers-by in the weeks and months afterward changed their routes because of scraping noises outside and the ghostly outline of bodies hanging from the bridge. Then there was the clomp of those hooves…
 
Wait. I think I hear them now.
","July 29, 2023 20:02","[[{'Debbie Dupey': 'Well paced and suspenseful. A creative retelling of a classic horror setup.', 'time': '17:28 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Thank you! I have to credit a friend who loves creepypastas and horror legends for prompting this...', 'time': '18:19 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Thank you! I have to credit a friend who loves creepypastas and horror legends for prompting this...', 'time': '18:19 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""The voice of this story was so strong, a brilliantly told, creepy horror. I wasn't reading it, I was being read to. So good. Well done Kristin!"", 'time': '18:24 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Thank you! That was definitely the idea...to make you feel like you were sitting around a campfire listening to a spooky story. Is there anything better?', 'time': '01:19 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Thank you! That was definitely the idea...to make you feel like you were sitting around a campfire listening to a spooky story. Is there anything better?', 'time': '01:19 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Herman W Clarke': 'I loved this! Very creepy.', 'time': '09:15 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Thank you!', 'time': '18:49 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Thank you!', 'time': '18:49 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is fun! Love an old-school horror tale!\nthanks for sharing', 'time': '10:40 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': ""I love those too! I wrote it years ago. It's a real legend--the Goat-Man has been covered on paranormal TV shows."", 'time': '18:26 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Oh Interesting. I haven't heard of him! Thought I knew them all 😂"", 'time': '18:28 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kristin Johnson': ""There's a ton out there (do a search online for the Goatman and you'll find a lot). It seems to be related to the satyrs of Ancient Greece. Thanks for your comment and congrats on your recent win!"", 'time': '18:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Kristin! I'll check it out!"", 'time': '18:38 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': ""I love those too! I wrote it years ago. It's a real legend--the Goat-Man has been covered on paranormal TV shows."", 'time': '18:26 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Oh Interesting. I haven't heard of him! Thought I knew them all 😂"", 'time': '18:28 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kristin Johnson': ""There's a ton out there (do a search online for the Goatman and you'll find a lot). It seems to be related to the satyrs of Ancient Greece. Thanks for your comment and congrats on your recent win!"", 'time': '18:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Kristin! I'll check it out!"", 'time': '18:38 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Oh Interesting. I haven't heard of him! Thought I knew them all 😂"", 'time': '18:28 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': ""There's a ton out there (do a search online for the Goatman and you'll find a lot). It seems to be related to the satyrs of Ancient Greece. Thanks for your comment and congrats on your recent win!"", 'time': '18:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Kristin! I'll check it out!"", 'time': '18:38 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': ""There's a ton out there (do a search online for the Goatman and you'll find a lot). It seems to be related to the satyrs of Ancient Greece. Thanks for your comment and congrats on your recent win!"", 'time': '18:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Kristin! I'll check it out!"", 'time': '18:38 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Kristin! I'll check it out!"", 'time': '18:38 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,nurbld,The Road Less Traveled,Drew M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nurbld/,/short-story/nurbld/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Sad']",13 likes,"
The old man took a deep breath and grimaced at the thought of what was to come. He turned sideways in his car seat, placing his feet on the ground while readying one hand on the inside of the driver’s side door and the other atop his cane. He rocked gently in a feeble attempt to create momentum before pushing himself upward into a standing position. His knees made the sound like crumbling tissue paper and his back sent up a flare of sharp pain. I should’ve taken a double dose of my pain meds, he thought. No point in saving them for later.He looked around and wasn’t surprised to find that he was alone. It was early in the morning and he’d driven deep into the woods to the start of a nature trail. The late-Autumn air was cold and had the aroma of nothingness. All around was the quiet roar of leaves blowing in the wind and rustling on the ground, but there were no sounds of life, no birdsongs or scurrying squirrels. It was as if the world had resigned itself to the death of winter. The old man could relate.The Fall colors were magnificent: amber, canary, goldenrod, and lemon. All this yellow - if I’d come a few weeks ago I could’ve seen some reds and greens. The morning sun shone brightly yet his body still shuddered from the cold. He halfheartedly tried to fasten his coat but he knew that the buttons would claim another victory against his arthritis-contorted fingers. After a few moments of frustration, he began his journey into the yellow wood. The pain would lessen as his stiff and atrophied limbs gave in to his resolve. As he walked he began to reminisce. It was something he was prone to do and he decided to allow himself the indulgence. It seemed fitting under the circumstances. ____________________________________Some would say he had a good life, probably most. He supposed his crowning achievement had been his career. As a young man, he’d gone off to a prestigious law school and done well, getting good marks and being named Editor of the Law Review. I never much liked the law; probably would’ve left the field if I hadn’t been doing so well.He could’ve joined any number of big-city corporate law firms upon graduation. Oh at the wonders I would’ve experienced if I’d gone to New York or Chicago. But he chose to come home to his small town and hang up his own shingle, telling people that he wanted to stay close to his parents. That had been a lie. His practice was immediately successful and would eventually grow to 22 attorneys, the largest across three counties. He became one of the richest and most highly regarded men he knew. In his 40s he was encouraged to run for Mayor - his friends at the country club said he had the personality for it. He was elected for five consecutive terms, long enough that more people called him “Mayor” than by his given name. I never wanted any of that. He married in his mid-20s, choosing the perfect bride. I was too young. At first, he was drawn to the obvious things: she was a local beauty queen and the perfect accompaniment for a man of ambition. A delightful host and a renowned schmoozer who was seemingly born to glide through a crowd with a martini glass in her hand. Over time he grew to love her. She possessed a rare cleverness and intellect that matched his own, right up until he lost her a decade ago. I didn’t mourn her enough. They’d had two children. His son was happy but not successful. His daughter was successful but not happy. He favored the daughter. I should’ve been around more when she needed me … taught her to learn from my mistakes. He shook his head in disappointment. At least he wouldn’t let himself become a burden on them.____________________________________After half an hour the traveler came to a fork in the trail where it diverged into two roads. He stood for a long time, trying to decide which to follow. He looked down the first road some distance to where it bent in the undergrowth. He knew that the road continued back to town, although the distance was so great that its endpoint was more symbolic to him. The second road led to “Lookout Point,” a clifftop that towered above the valley below. It had enjoyed many years as a popular spot for young couples but its reputation had changed dramatically when several people had “fallen” to their death, eventually prompting the closure of the road. He wondered if they’d pretend he fell and was surprised to find that he didn’t care.   The road was barred with two fence posts connected by a chain holding a sign that read “Do Not Enter - Road Closed.” He looked down the road, noticing its soft grass and lack of wear. Perhaps it was the nicer of the two. Then he glanced back at the first road and realized that it was worn really about the same. He wished that he could travel both - walk down one for a bit before circling back and sampling the other. But he knew his was a one-way trip. Eventually, he unhooked the chain and started toward Lookout Point. As he walked he let his mind drift to where it wanted to go, like a reformed alcoholic drawn into a bar, he ignored the shame and allowed himself to embrace the urge. ____________________________________He first met Harold when they were seated next to each other in Mrs. Carlson’s 2nd grade class. He remembered the terror he felt as the new kid in school and the solace he found when Harold asked if they could be friends. It hadn’t been that generous of an offer: Harold was dripping in awkwardness, with a gangly physique, unkempt red hair, and a smile that was missing his two front teeth. But at the time it had felt like a lifeboat in a storm.They became inseparable. Their days were spent fishing, riding bikes, playing soldiers in the woods … whatever they could dream up. But the best moments would come after a day of hustling: washing cars, selling newspapers, and cleaning store windows. They’d earn a few nickels, enough for a Coca-Cola and some caramels from Herman’s General Store. Then they’d ride their bikes to Lookout Point and enjoy their hard-earned bounty while watching the sunset and giggling at the teenage lovers nearby. Those were the happiest moments of his life. Why didn’t we do that more often?The old man smiled as he remembered the time in the 5th grade when Bobby Detmer punched him in the face. He’d yelled out “Bobby Blubber” on the playground and quickly realized that taunting the class bully was a poor decision. Harold had flown in like a madman, screaming with tear-filled eyes and arms going in every direction like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees. Bobby had seemed amused at the spectacle but he still put a severe beating on Harold, leaving him with a chipped tooth, a black eye, and a bloody nose. When Bobby finally let up all Harold wanted to know was whether his friend was okay. I should’ve fought for Harold like he fought for me. ____________________________________When the old man was almost to the cliff his burning legs and aching back forced a break. He considered sitting down in the middle of the road but he feared he would never get up. Luckily he found a fallen tree trunk lying just off the trail in the shade. The mighty oak must’ve been a grand sight before it fell, with a diameter of three feet and a height he estimated at 90 feet. It was a nice spot for a rest. He leaned against the trunk and found the bark soft beneath his weight. The tree had darkened from decay and had eroded to sawdust in places, like a sand castle that had been partially knocked over. His eyes followed along the dead wood and marveled at the abundant life. Fungus and mushrooms covered most of the tree while armies of ants, beetles, and millipedes marched like pedestrians in a busy town square. He sat motionless for some time with red eyes welling up. “You all have a nice place here,” he said, smiling at the absurdity of his words. He rose to continue along the way. Just a little bit more.____________________________________The summer that he turned sixteen he had a growth spurt that transformed him from a skinny boy to a 6’2”, barrel-chested man. Girls immediately noticed. So did the high school football coach - that year he was an All-Conference linebacker. His new physical form also opened doors socially. He went from being a “square” to a “hip kid.” That made him very different from Harold, who was still as awkward as the day they’d met. He came to a crossroads of his own making: Harold and the life he knew or the popular crowd … a road he’d never expected to travel.The old man felt a sense of melancholy as he recalled what happened next: he stopped talking to Harold. He closed his eyes and could see Harold’s face as he was standing at their usual meeting spot to walk home from school together. Harold was dumbfounded as he watched his best friend drive by in Boddy Detmer’s Ford Thunderbird. There’d been no explanation, no goodbye, just a complete severing of the relationship. He’d become so insecure about what others thought of him that he feared any misstep could bar entry into their exclusive club. Harold was an obvious misstep. If only I could go back and do it all over again.____________________________________Lookout Point was breathtaking in the mid-morning sun. It was a shame that they had to close this place - people have a way of ruining things. He felt a sense of regret at not having visited when he was more able. And he wondered what Harold must’ve felt as he stood in the same place so many years ago. Harold was the first person to fall from Lookout Point. It happened about a year after their friendship had ended. There was no note left behind and Harold’s mother insisted that he must’ve slipped. But he never doubted what had really happened - he’d watched his old friend from the corner of his eye, declining into social isolation and despair. How could I have failed to see where it would lead? As the old traveler reached the edge of the cliff he peeked at the rocks far below. A thought he found odd entered his mind: how would he recount his life in the ages that were to come? He imagined himself looking down upon Earth, or perhaps up … he wasn’t sure which he deserved. He thought one last time of the first road and sighed. Then he said, “I chose wrong,” and stepped forward into the void.  
","August 01, 2023 01:32","[[{'Juley Harvey': ""Wow, very powerful, and choices we've all made at one time or the other. Resonates with reader-identifiability."", 'time': '22:53 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Dafna Flieg': 'I feel so easily connect to the main character thank you for sharing this story.', 'time': '12:52 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Drew M': 'Thank you for the feedback!', 'time': '11:43 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Drew M': 'Thank you for the feedback!', 'time': '11:43 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Heather Van Rensburg': 'This is a well-written story. The old man going over his life and all the mistakes that he had made - always the wrong road. Your descriptions are excellent. Well done.', 'time': '07:44 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Drew M': 'Thanks Heather! I really appreciate the kind words.\nYou\'re absolutely right - the focus is on the choices he regrets. I was inspired by Frost\'s The Road Not Taken ... a poem I initially took to be about making bold choices due to that great final line (""I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference"") but upon subsequent readings realized that the protagonist is actually second-guessing himself. I tried to blow that out here, to step into the head of a regret-filled old man as he comes upon ""two roads diverged in a yel...', 'time': '10:06 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Drew M': 'Thanks Heather! I really appreciate the kind words.\nYou\'re absolutely right - the focus is on the choices he regrets. I was inspired by Frost\'s The Road Not Taken ... a poem I initially took to be about making bold choices due to that great final line (""I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference"") but upon subsequent readings realized that the protagonist is actually second-guessing himself. I tried to blow that out here, to step into the head of a regret-filled old man as he comes upon ""two roads diverged in a yel...', 'time': '10:06 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lyle Closs': 'Excellent. Great balance, really built up a lump in my throat. Very nicely written.', 'time': '08:22 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,d44vlj,A Ruby Cactus in Sunset,Mrs. Nostalgic RPG 89,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d44vlj/,/short-story/d44vlj/,Adventure,0,['Fiction'],13 likes,"
Driving, driving along, listening to the somber tunes of the tires meeting the road. The fever of the sun beat onto the car in a cruel lashing, forcing the air to pelt out to keep us cool, adding fuel to an already burning situation. I tried to turn on the radio, to get some form of a break from torture, but he turned it off, cursing us into a prolonged silence. I knew that something was bothering him. In fact, I knew what was bothering him, but as a person who is in this relationship, I did not know how to face him, and how to respond. Listening to the dribble of the road as we cruised over the occasional pebble, I began to hum to break the awkward silence, trying to stifle the uncomfortable mood in the car. He used to love my humming, a hope grew in me of soothing the treacherous waves of sloshing sand that tore at the bits of my flesh. It got me a response. He quickly shot me a look, glaring daggers and cutting me into bits and pieces, seeing the shame within me, a decision that I had made that had changed the course of our relationship, and a decision that he wanted me to make to piece things back together.We were on our way to a Mojave vacation, which is what we told everyone. It was our 10th anniversary. I can still smell the wedding cake, raspberry lemon to be precise. We had discovered it at a local bakery and fell in love with the softness of it, the richness of sugar and magic, and the inconceivable way that raspberries and lemon meld into a tart, confectionary dream. I had gotten that same baker to bake us a cake for our small wedding, just a few family members, nothing more. All we needed was our day together, the feeling of soft lace, holding hands and promising life to one another, eternal happiness in our union, which, was now a stagnant memory like folding out an old wallet and smelling dust, and old leather. Even now, tears well in my eyes as I try to push it back down, little streaks burning my cheeks as they escape. I suggested that we play a game, trying to lighten the mood, anything to not face what lies ahead, what our path ultimately leads to. I began to look around, trying to spy anything in sight for him to examine, but proving to be tedious as we were surrounded by dirt and cacti. Still, I had to try. I exclaimed that I noticed something green, the only speck of color that caught my attention, adding a small smile as I tried to distract him and myself. He sighed, letting out a small puff of air, exasperated, the salt of his anger coating the side window. He responded, I spy a green little weed, one that took our promise and snagged it with needles, that caused me to bleed, and to feel pain. It poisoned me with false promises and ripped my heart from my still-beating chest. This odious weed has taken the rain from our relationship, that has grown the lands of our commitment, and left it barren, a sea of sand, emptiness, and darkness. This green weed has a flower on its head as if they are trying to hide with something pretty and enticing, but I see the unsightly little shrub hiding beneath. He faced me, staring at me directly, his steel blue eyes as somber as the rain that he described, stormy in his depths as his tears reflected mine, a mirror of that inner turmoil, a reflection of what I saw, how he looked at me. I wanted to patch where my needles had lanced him, show him the beauty of what was still there, and place his heart back with care.I focused on the road, and the vast unfaltering of it, reflecting on our relationship. Where had it all gone wrong? When did we become this desert, this dry area with no hopes of growth besides the cacti that inhabit it? We were happy once, the prospect of 10 years, the hopefulness of it, and how we were mad, lost in a frenzy for one another. It never seemed to be an issue, at least, that is what I thought for a while until I began to lose that ache, going through the stages of life, worrying about what we were going to do, how we would grow together, how we would both go to work, eat, sleep, and start again. It seemed that we were working, working constantly down that road, and not seeing the scenery around us, all the beautiful moments that are interwoven in the paths that we miss as we tire and break down. A passionate kiss turned into a peck on the cheek, embraces turned into turning over, fighting over the blankets, Smiles were few and far between. When had we lost it? Why didn’t we recover it? The apprehension in my chest grew, screaming louder and louder. He had wanted more with me he exclaimed, he had wanted memories with me, a home and a family, but losing that had caused me great anxiety. How can I plant roots when I know that there is a lack of passion and forlorn expressions that were lost in translation?I wandered like a wild animal, primal and free, chasing the high of lost love. I began to look for other green patches, a rainforest of growth and happiness, chasing that feeling of ache again. I had wanted the vibrancy and freshness of the flowers, to see exotic things, and to feel that flutter that I had once felt in the depths of me. I wanted to be allured into a feeling. I had lost myself in the depths of the sandy terrace, parched for thirst, wanting to have the rain, the sun, and all the promises of a racing heart, earth beating into my veins, reinvigorating me anew. I had ventured into this rainforest once, feeling the leaves, seeing the vines entangle around me, wrapping in my skin as I trod carefully, afraid of the danger in the greenery. A pool of rainbow greeted me, enticing me to dip my toe in, eventually, an ankle, a calf, and then, my whole being. It felt like lapping the freshest water, a cool stream seeping into my skin, feeling that ache again, that fluttering feeling as if a trail of butterflies were flying around me, one that was forbidden like a fruit from a tree. It was a fleeting moment that bloomed before me before becoming lost again.I had told him I was sorry, but he didn’t speak, just focused as silent tears rolled down his cheeks, turning slightly to look down at my now swollen mound of earth, growing an extension of my being from my delight in transgression. A flower sprouting from me, one that I could not cut off, or smash with my fingers. A field of growth and wonder, reawakening the heart that I didn't know I could have, willing me to keep it safe, keep it protected, and watch it grow. Where we were going, there was no sunlight kissing the soil, or the smell of rain permeating the air. We were going somewhere where the vines would be ripped from the ground, the soft Earth would be removed, leaving little to no comfort, leaving once again in its path, an infertile wasteland, as if nothing happened, as if that adventure to that bright, vibrant, rainforest hadn't occurred. I had a choice to make. Do I stay in the desert, a lone cactus, stifling under the extreme conditions and the lackluster passion trying to grow flowers on my own, or do I cherish the now-growing flower in my valley? Do I take it and venture to that forest? The choice was simple, but complex, as I felt love for what used to be, what we were, and what we could have been, but try as I might, I could not destroy the precious flower that began to grow on me. He watched me in silence as I pulled to the side of the road, unbuckling my seatbelt to break the crushing silence. I peeled my thighs from the leather seats, not reacting to the pain of my flesh sticking, lasting perspiration as I left, a last attempt at latching me to the broken pieces of path and destruction. He remained in his seat, watching me leave into the desert around us, moving towards a flowering cactus. I walked up, cradling the flower in my hands, admiring the beauty of it, and the life it showed where everything was greyscale, ruby greeting the edges of my fingers as I brushed along the needles to remind me of a mistake, but wonder grew as I looked at the bright yellow flower mixing with the ruby sacrifice, vibrant pinks, and yellows in its wake, beginning my land anew as the sunset of colors signaled the end of the drought.
","July 28, 2023 21:33","[[{'Herman W Clarke': 'This was great! I loved the main characters perspective, and the desert imagery against the themes was fantastic.', 'time': '09:14 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mrs. Nostalgic RPG 89': 'Omg thank you so much 💗  This was my first submission on this website, and I was super nervous!', 'time': '21:26 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mrs. Nostalgic RPG 89': 'Omg thank you so much 💗  This was my first submission on this website, and I was super nervous!', 'time': '21:26 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,jacsqw,Borders,Lyle Closs,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jacsqw/,/short-story/jacsqw/,Adventure,0,"['Crime', 'Fiction']",12 likes,"
We all leave Fargo in different directions. I stow the parcel under the bench seat in my old Plymouth Reliant. The kind of car no-one wants to be seen in. 
The lads prefer souped-up muscle. The kind the cops can’t resist pulling over to show who’s boss. It works every time. Hot-rods are cop catnip. I’ve seen it happen. They glare at the ‘rods and flick the lights and sirens switch. Search the cars with nothing in them. 
They are blind to my sad little granny’s car. Too slow, too anodyne. It might have something to do the grey wig and granny hat I keep in the glove compartment. Maybe not.
I head south, then west, then south and west again, cruising the ND rectangles. Just in case. Heavy grey clouds in every direction. One in particular looks powerful. High, wide, livid with intent, ready to jump and jive. I crawl through Bismark, hit the 94 westbound, then it unloads its ocean of rain, its violence of lightning. Noise and light litter the landscape, as much as I can see. 
I turn off onto the 25 north, less traffic, just another farm-boy heading north. Then there’s a figure with its thumb held out. I slow as I pass. I’m not picking up a man, no matter how bad the weather. It’s a woman though. In heavy rain like this! I pull up. 
She opens the back door, throws in her small rucksack, jumps in, slams the door. 
“Oh god I am so wet.” 
The voice is husky, European. Maybe Dutch. Her hair is wet string, eyes Van Gogh blue. 
“What are you doing?” I say. “You should’ve been under cover. A bridge. Anything.” 
“Yeah, well.” 
“Where are headed?” I mean, no-one is going anywhere on this road. 
She shrugs. Not a talker then. Hey ho. I’m doing my good deed for the day. 
“I’m very tired. Do you mind if I sleep?” she says.
“Help yourself. I’m Zac anyway.” 
I think she says her name or maybe she is coughing up phlegm. Harry? Lies down and doesn’t move. She could hold a knife to my throat easy from there. I shrug. Whatever. 
Maybe an hour later on those long, flat, ugly North Dakota roads that never head in the direction you want to go, I pull into a gas station in Center. ND is cruel in any season. The thunderstorm passed and now it’s only sleeting and blowing – wet, cold, miserable. I hunker into my jacket and gas up. Fingers freezing down to the bones. 
Go in to pay. 
“It’s bad out there,” the heavy woman at the counter says. Rings it up. I nod, I pay. 
“That someone in your car?” she says. I look in the same direction. The girl has sat up. 
“Oh yeah. Hitchhiker. She was sleeping.”
“She’s not Dutch?” 
“Huh? Why d’ya say that?”
“News report. Police want to speak to a Dutch woman about a murder in Bismark. Son of a big businessman – some construction company bigwig. Knife in the back.” 
“Knife in the back? I better watch out, eh?” I smile. She doesn’t. 
As I leave, she says again: “Is she Dutch?” I ignore her. Slip into the driver’s seat. Dutch girl is looking around, checking. 
“Still lousy weather, but this is North Dakota,” I say as I ease the old Plymouth out into the rain. “Dakota is Sioux for ‘lousy weather’.” 
She doesn’t get it. Dutch aren’t renowned for their sense of humor. She leans forward, rests her chin on her folded arms on the top of the bench seat. It’s not a new car. 
She sighs. “Did she say anything?” 
“The woman in there?”
“Yeah.”
I nod. “The police looking for you then?” 
“Probably.”
“She’s bound to call them, tell them my plates.” 
She sighs. “He bought my friend a drink at a bar while I was in the toilet. Must have slipped her some rohypnol or quaaludes. I came out and she was gone. He couldn’t even wait. On his back seat out in the car park. Like a butcher at a carcass. I was so angry.”
“Well you sure crossed a line….”
“Well, so did he, and he deserved it…”
“I never said he didn’t.”
That compound sound of rain hitting a metal roof and tyres riding wet blacktop. The smell of wet hair and clothes. 
“How’s your friend?” I say.
“Messed up.” 
“I’ll bet.”
“Like real messed up. You can’t imagine.” 
“I’ll try not to.”
“Why would you bet?”
“It’s an idiom.” 
“English idioms are my downfall.”
“No, knives used in anger are your downfall.”
She sighs. 
“What are you going to do?” she says. Anxious.
I don’t answer. This is a new situation for me, and I’ve dealt with a few. The wipers slap away the icy wet rain. 
She sighs again. “Do what you like. I can’t take much more.” 
I pull over to the side of the road. Think a bit. Pull a map out of the glove compartment. Wish I still smoked.
She sits back, slumped. I start the motor and turn the Reliant around and head back through Center. We get lucky – there’s a rig parked at the gas station sucking diesel so the snitch can’t see us driving in the opposite direction. 
A few miles down the road I turn left off the 25, north, up 36th Avenue SW and luck again works for us. We are maybe three hundred yards from the turnoff when I see in the rear vision two police cars hurtling along the 25 towards Center, lights ablaze. 
We take back roads up to Hensler, cross old Missou and stop outside Washburn. I call my buddy Ralph in Roche Percee, Saskatchewan.
“The time has come Ralph baby.” 
In a tree-lined parking bay I switch the plates and use a stick to push the stolen ones down deep into a small swamp. She watches me, a little stunned. I WhatsApp the boys in Medicine Hole to say I won’t be joining them in Sidney and I’ll ship them the parcel from Washburn. I wasn’t looking forward to crossing the state line with that load anyway. The abusive replies start hammering back in. I turn off the phone. 
Ralph meets us on the dirt road. Short explanation. No details. He leads her into the scrub. She looks back at me anxiously, turns and follows him. 
I get through the Portal border crossing no problems. Drive down the Canadian back roads to another dirt road meeting place. She has a great smile. When I get out of the car she runs up and gives me a huge hug. I could get used to that. 
…
Gerrie is a good mother. I’m still working on my Dutch. Those growly Gs, the way the Dutch pronounce them, they get me every time. 
We often discuss what we’ll say to the kids when they ask how we met. 
","July 31, 2023 20:13","[[{'Drew M': 'Nicely done.  The reader is held in uncertainty ... the story could really go so many different directions.  I didn\'t see the ""how we met"" ending coming!', 'time': '00:22 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lyle Closs': 'Thanks Drew - comments always welcome, especially positive ones :-)', 'time': '07:18 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lyle Closs': 'Thanks Drew - comments always welcome, especially positive ones :-)', 'time': '07:18 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Juley Harvey': 'Really engaging; good use of dialogue and setting. Felt like I was along for the ride.  Fun ending!', 'time': '22:41 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lyle Closs': 'Thanks Juley - so glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '07:18 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lyle Closs': 'Thanks Juley - so glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '07:18 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Herman W Clarke': 'Great story Lyle! Gripping all the way through.', 'time': '09:21 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lyle Closs': 'Thanks Herman - glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '06:37 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lyle Closs': 'Thanks Herman - glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '06:37 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,7k29ss,Leo's Journey to Self-Discovery,Anisa Laci,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7k29ss/,/short-story/7k29ss/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Inspirational']",12 likes,"
Long ago in a digital age far, far away, in a small town nestled amidst rolling hills, lived a young man named Leo. He had always felt a deep longing for something more, a yearning to explore the world beyond the confines of his familiar surroundings. One day, he made a decision that would change his life forever - he would embark on a journey of self-discovery.
 
Leo's journey began with a single step, as he bid farewell to his family and friends, setting off into the unknown. With a backpack slung over his shoulder and a heart filled with anticipation, he ventured into the vast wilderness, seeking answers to questions he had yet to articulate.
 
As he traversed through dense forests and climbed towering mountains, Leo encountered various challenges that tested his resolve. He faced treacherous terrains, unpredictable weather, and moments of self-doubt. However, with each obstacle he overcame, he grew stronger, both physically and mentally. Along the way, Leo encountered a diverse array of people, each with their own stories and wisdom to share.
 
As Leo reached the peak of a majestic mountain, he paused to catch his breath and take in the breathtaking view. The wind whispered through the trees, and he felt a sense of peace wash over him. It was in this moment of solitude that he heard a soft voice behind him.
 
""Beautiful, isn't it?"" a gentle voice said.
 
Leo turned to find a wise shaman with a mesmerizing smile and kind eyes standing beside him. ""Yes, it truly is,"" Leo replied, a smile forming on his face.
 
The wise shaman nodded; his eyes filled with wisdom. ""You know, young man, the mountains have a way of teaching us about life. They teach us that every step we take, every obstacle we overcome, brings us closer to our true selves.""
 
Leo was intrigued by the old man's words. ""But what if I don't know who my true self is?"" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
 
The wise shaman chuckled softly. ""Ah, that is the beauty of the journey, my friend. It is through the challenges and the moments of self-doubt that we discover who we truly are. Embrace the unknown, for it is in the unknown that we find our greatest strengths.""
 
Leo pondered the old man's words, realizing that he had been searching for answers outside of himself when they had been within him all along. ""Thank you,"" he said, gratitude filling his voice. ""I have learned so much on this journey, but I still have much to discover.""
 
The wise shaman placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder, his touch filled with warmth. ""Remember, young man, life is not about the destination, but about the journey itself. Embrace each step, each encounter, and each moment of self-discovery. That is where true fulfillment lies.""
 
With those parting words, the wise shaman bid Leo farewell, disappearing into the misty mountains. Leo stood there, feeling a renewed sense of purpose and determination. He knew that his journey had only just begun, and he was ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.
 
 
As Leo delved deeper in his journey, he found himself in a bustling marketplace, filled with vibrant colors and the aroma of exotic spices. It was here that he met a seasoned traveler who had explored the world and gained wisdom through those experiences.
 
Intrigued by her presence, Leo approached her and asked, ""Excuse me, ma'am, may I have a moment of your time?""
 
The traveler smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling with kindness. ""Of course, young traveler. What brings you to me today?""
 
Leo hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to articulate his thoughts. ""I have been on a journey of self-discovery, and along the way, I have met people who have taught me valuable lessons. I was wondering if you could share some wisdom with me as well.""
 
The kind traveler nodded; her gaze filled with understanding. ""Ah, the journey of self-discovery. It is a path that leads us to the depths of our souls. My dear, let me tell you about the importance of patience and the beauty of simplicity.""
 
Leo listened intently as the traveler began to speak. ""In this fast-paced world, we often forget the value of patience. We rush through life, always seeking the next big thing, never taking the time to appreciate the present moment. But true growth and understanding come from embracing the art of patience. It is in the waiting, the stillness, that we find clarity and inner peace.""
 
Leo nodded, his mind absorbing her words. ""And what about simplicity?"" he asked, curiosity lacing his voice.
 
The traveler smiled; her eyes filled with nostalgia. ""Simplicity, my dear, is the key to finding joy in the little things. We often complicate our lives with unnecessary complexities, chasing after material possessions and societal expectations. But true happiness lies in the simplicity of life - in the laughter of loved ones, in the beauty of nature, and in the moments of quiet solitude. Embrace simplicity, and you will find a profound sense of contentment.""
 
Leo thanked the traveler for her wisdom, feeling a sense of gratitude for the encounter. As he continued his journey, he carried her words with him, reflecting on the importance of patience and simplicity in his own life.
 
Days turned into weeks, and Leo found himself in the midst of a vast desert, surrounded by sand dunes that seemed to stretch endlessly. It was here that he stumbled upon a nomadic tribe, their tents dotting the landscape like small oases in the desert.
 
As Leo approached the nomadic tribe, he was greeted with warm smiles and open arms. The tribe welcomed him into their midst, inviting him to sit with them around a crackling fire. The elder of the tribe, a wise man with a gentle demeanor, spoke to Leo with a voice that carried the weight of generations.
 
""Welcome, young traveler,"" the elder said, his eyes filled with wisdom. ""In our nomadic way of life, we have learned the value of community and the interconnectedness of all living beings. We understand that we are not separate entities, but rather threads woven together in the tapestry of existence.""
 
Leo listened intently, captivated by the elder's words. ""But how do we truly understand this interconnectedness?"" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity.
 
The elder smiled, his eyes sparkling with a deep understanding. ""We understand it through our actions, through the way we treat one another and the way we care for the world around us,"" the elder replied. ""You see, young traveler, every action we take has a ripple effect. When we extend kindness and compassion to others, it spreads like wildfire, touching the lives of those we may never meet. And when we harm or neglect others, that too reverberates through the interconnected web of life.""
 
Leo nodded, his mind racing with newfound understanding. ""So, our actions have the power to shape the world around us?""
 
The elder nodded, his voice filled with conviction. ""Indeed, they do. Every choice we make, every word we speak, has the potential to create a profound impact. It is our responsibility to ensure that our impact is one of love, unity, and respect for all living beings.""
 
Leo pondered the elder's words, realizing the weight of his own actions. ""But what can I, as an individual, do to contribute to this interconnectedness?""
 
The elder's eyes softened, and he placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder. ""My young friend, never underestimate the power of your own actions. Start by cultivating kindness and compassion within yourself. Treat every person you encounter with respect and empathy, for they too are part of this interconnected tapestry. Care for the Earth and all its creatures, for they are our companions on this journey. And remember, even the smallest acts of love and understanding can create a ripple that reaches far beyond what you can imagine.""
 
Leo felt a surge of inspiration and gratitude for the wisdom shared by the nomadic tribe. He realized that he had the power to make a difference, no matter how small his actions may seem. With renewed determination, he vowed to carry their teachings with him and spread their message of interconnectedness and community to others.
 
As he bid farewell to the nomadic tribe, Leo felt a deep sense of purpose. He understood that his journey was not just about self-discovery but also about becoming a catalyst for positive change in the world. He would strive to create a ripple effect of love, compassion, and unity, knowing that every step he took would contribute to the interconnectedness of all living beings.
 
As Leo delved deeper into his journey, he found himself confronting his deepest fears and insecurities. In the solitude of the wilderness, he was forced to confront the demons that had haunted him for years.
 
Through introspection and self-reflection, Leo began to understand that the answers he sought were not found in the distant horizons, but within the depths of his own being. He learned that true happiness and fulfillment were not dependent on external circumstances, but on his own perception and attitude towards life.
 
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Leo’s journey transformed him in ways he could never have imagined. He shed the layers of his old self, embracing a newfound sense of purpose and authenticity. He discovered his passions, his strengths, and his true potential.
 
 
Upon reaching the end of his physical journey, Leo returned to his hometown, forever changed. He shared his experiences and the lessons he had learned with his loved ones, inspiring them to embark on their own journeys of self-discovery. He realized that the greatest gift he could give to the world was the message of self-acceptance and the power of embracing one's true self.
 
Leo’s journey taught him that life is not about reaching a destination, but about the experiences and growth that occur along the way. He learned that true fulfillment comes from within, and that the external world is merely a reflection of one's internal state of being. His message to the world was simple yet profound - embrace the journey within, for it is there that you will find your true self and the key to a life of purpose and fulfillment.
 
And so, Leo’s story became a testament to the transformative power of embarking on a journey of self-discovery. His words resonated with countless individuals, inspiring them to embark on their own quests for meaning and authenticity. Through his journey, Leo had not only changed his own life but had become a catalyst for change in the lives of others, forever leaving an indelible mark on the world.
 
 
Through his actions and words, Leo aimed to create a world where the value of community and the interconnectedness of all living beings were cherished and celebrated. He knew that by embracing these principles, humanity could transcend boundaries and divisions, and together, create a future filled with harmony, understanding, and love.
 
 
With each encounter, Leo’s perspective expanded, challenging his preconceived notions and opening his heart to the beauty of humanity. He learned that true growth and understanding came from listening to others, from embracing different cultures and perspectives.
 
 
 
 
","August 02, 2023 00:00","[[{'Russell Mickler': 'Hi Anisa -\n\nI liked the play on Star Wars with the intro. A coming of age story. We’re going on a journey.\n\nMyself, I like the _telling_ up to the dialogue, then _showing_ from there. \n\nI liked the broad perspective, the Zen-like approach to interconnected thinking, and the character’s transformation. Nicely done!\n\nR', 'time': '19:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David Sweet': 'Thanks for this journey of discovery.  \n\nOne thought: you started this story in ""the digital age."" Have you considered this to be a story of an AI character, or maybe it is, and I missed it? If not, think about this journey as an AI character and how does it changes the story. It could be a positive story for AI, in a world where there are so many negative stories about it. Or, it could be a cautionary tale. \n\nJust a thought. I enjoyed the story.', 'time': '12:22 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anisa Laci': 'Hey David, thank you so much for your feedback. Your comment really got my interest, so I decided to do some googling and read up on Al Characters. It\'s such a fascinating concept, and I think I\'ll give it a shot. Why not, right? It could be really interesting.  To be honest, the reason I used ""The Digital Age"" as the opening statement in my story was to steer away from the so overused phrase ""Once Upon a Time"" and bring this story closer to our modern era. I was inspired from Robin Sharma\'s books, like ""The Alchemist,"" as well as other book...', 'time': '15:47 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'David Sweet': 'You\'re welcome. I recognized elements of ""The Alchemist"" within the story. I think whatever you decide to do will be great.', 'time': '11:42 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anisa Laci': 'Hey David, thank you so much for your feedback. Your comment really got my interest, so I decided to do some googling and read up on Al Characters. It\'s such a fascinating concept, and I think I\'ll give it a shot. Why not, right? It could be really interesting.  To be honest, the reason I used ""The Digital Age"" as the opening statement in my story was to steer away from the so overused phrase ""Once Upon a Time"" and bring this story closer to our modern era. I was inspired from Robin Sharma\'s books, like ""The Alchemist,"" as well as other book...', 'time': '15:47 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'David Sweet': 'You\'re welcome. I recognized elements of ""The Alchemist"" within the story. I think whatever you decide to do will be great.', 'time': '11:42 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Sweet': 'You\'re welcome. I recognized elements of ""The Alchemist"" within the story. I think whatever you decide to do will be great.', 'time': '11:42 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,msrltw,The Trip of a Lifetime,Joan Wright,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/msrltw/,/short-story/msrltw/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Coming of Age', 'Historical Fiction']",12 likes,"
"" So what you're saying is, that you sold me to a farmer, in Kansas?""Screeched Anna.
""Well not exactly sold you. The farmer needs help and we have the opportunity to help him."" replied her frustrated father.
""WE Do you mean your'e going too?""
 ""Well, not exactly""
""Well, what is it exactly?'
""Well you know we've been having financial problems and I'm going to have to sell the house, and this will be better for you.""
""What you mean is you spent all my mother's money, so now I'm on my own!"" Anna's face was turning from red to purple.
""You went to finishing school, and we thought you would have found a husband by now. You are twenty five years old. I can't afford to support you anymore."" Offered father.
And you've made a deal with some farmer so far away you'll never have to see me again!""
""Now calm down. The farmer is paying for your passage, and you'll have a nice place to live, a chance to make new friends, be married and have a whole new life.""
""When is this supposed to happen.? 
""The ship leaves the day after tomorrow."" Anna left the room without another word, she couldn't let her father see her cry. She climbed the stairs to her room. She wondered what the going rate for daughter's was. Father married her mother for the money, but she didn't know her mother would die and leave her alone with him. It was true most people thought she would never get married.  Perhaps she could start over, but marry a stranger and leave in America? What would she pack. Her dresses and shoes weren't designed for milking cows and plowing fields. 
  She packed her belongings resentfully. She took a few things that reminded her of her mother, and she sneaked into HIS room and took some jewelry her mother had hidden for her. If she decided to run away from the farmer she would have enough money to start over.
Early Thursday morning, her father took her to the docks. She hadn't spoken to him ever since his edict. As the ship came into view Anna's nervousness turned to curiosity and then to excitement.She joined the line of passengers handing over their luggage She climbed aboard the huge ship. Her cabin was tiny but beautiful. She hung up her clothes for the six day journey, then laid down on the bed to mull over the past three days. She was awakened by a steward knocking on the door to tell her dinner in one hour.
She entered the magical dining room. Each table had flowers and candles like her mother used to do for Christmas! She was enthralled. They had sat her at table twelve. The was another single woman named Marcia, An older married couple, the Beesleys, and a young married couple the Parkers and their baby. They were all very hospitable and they all chatted and laughed together. The knot in Anna's stomach loosened. The waiters flirted with the two single women and life on the ship became a routine. She and Marcia met everyday; walked on the deck, sunned on the deck chairs, ate meals together. One night it was quite stormy. everyone seemed to be sick and scared, but Anna and Marcia went to dinner and giggled when the table slid and they had to hold onto their food. They night before they disembarked, they cried together as Marcia was heading to New York and Anna to Kansas.
 As she filed off the ship she saw a stranger holding up a sign with her name on it. She followed him to a carriage drawn by horses, and made herself comfortable and he got her luggage. He dropped her off at a nice looking hotel, and told her to be ready at five in the morning.Dinner was ready for her upon arrival. She went upstairs exhausted and took a nice hot bath then fell asleep reading her book. 
  Still yawning she arrived at the stagecoach station. There were three stages ready to go. One to California, one to Kansas, and one to Ohio. She had this last chance to run away. She had the jewelry to start over, but maybe the farmer was nice, handsome, and had servants. She could live like a princess. Well, she should at least find out.
The stagecoach was another new adventure. It rocked back and forth like the ship but but also bumped on the dirt roads. And the dust was unbelievable, and the flies! Lunch was a picnic by the side 
of the road then back on the road. When it was almost dark, they pulled into a station. Something smelled delicious! Anna hurt everywhere, was covered in dust, and could barely get out of the coach she was so stiff. She limped into the station where something smelled delicious. She was shown to her room; the smallest one so far. Then she heard the dinner bell. Dinner was basic but delicious.
Anna talked with other travelers, about their destinations. The driver told her they were leaving at dawn so get up early enough to have breakfast. The bathroom was down the hall, so she just did the basic clean up and went to bed.
She climbed aboard the stage with most of the dust still clinging to her body. Today there was a young man riding with her. He was very handsome and she wondered if maybe she should try to find her own husband instead of one who had purchased her. 
Day after day the dust got thicker, the scenery more boring, and the heat was oppressive. 
Tonight they would arrive in Abilene. She would be picked up by her farmer and she would begin her new life as a farmer's wife. 
WHOA was her clue that they had arrived. She peeked out the window and was amazed. Main Street was dirt, there were no women she could see, and the biggest building was a pub. Everyone rode horses; but she didn't know how to ride. 
Out of the background came an old man. He looked about sixty. She shouldn't have come. This was a nightmare. 
""Are you Anna?', croaked the old man. She would not choose to marry this man, not in a million years. All she had to do was say No and she would be free of any obligation. She could hear her mother's voice say, ""Don't rely on first impressions.""
""Yes, I'm Anna."" 
""You're a pretty one. I'll help you climb up onto the buckboard, then I'll get your luggage. The cook sent you a box lunch, she knew you would be hungry."" The cook? She had a cook? She ate her dinner quickly. Her first glimpse of the farm was twinkly lights in the distance. Her stomach started to knot up again. The tiny farm was 
way off in the distance. Thousands of cows were in the fields on both sides of the road. They didn't smell very good, but their mooing was quite musical and calming. 
""How big is this farm?"" Anna ventured.
""About three hundred acres, and we call it a ranch not a farm.""
Her farmer was rich. The closer they got the bigger the ranch house became. As they pulled up to the house, a very handsome young man came out to greet them. ""Hello, Anna, I'm sorry I couldn't come into town to meet you, but the baby has been sick, and I didn't want to leave her."" Did he say baby? ""My name is Bill. I""ll introduce you to the rest of the staff tomorrow, you must be exhausted. I'm sure you want to get to bed. We'll be getting married a week from Sunday after church. We've fixed up a guest room for you until then. I hope you'll like it here. 
The guest room was beautiful. She even had her own bathroom. She took a nice warm bath, washed her hair, and climbed into bed. 
He's rich, has a household staff, a baby, lives in the middle of nowhere surrounded by cows, he's handsome, polite, kind, getting married in a week. This truly is the beginning of a new life. Thank you father, for shoving me out of the nest.
 
 
","August 02, 2023 22:53","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'A classic dilemma. ""I know what\'s best for you"" is generally a terrible attitude, and Anna\'s initial reaction is completely understandable - but sometimes, it does prove true. \n\n(Although I wonder if it wasn\'t just coincidence in this case, as the father did seem to squander all the money, and it did seem like he was just liquidating a liability.) \n\nWhat I like is that her change in attitude was gradual, and it was the little excitements that started changing her mind. Things like the ship, like meeting Marcia. I think focusing on these serv...', 'time': '20:43 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joan Wright': 'Thank you so much for your input. I appreciate your suggestions.', 'time': '22:23 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joan Wright': 'Thank you so much for your input. I appreciate your suggestions.', 'time': '22:23 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,xg8191,If I hadn't Been Speeding,Harriett Ford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xg8191/,/short-story/xg8191/,Adventure,0,"['Romance', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Contemporary']",12 likes,"
 
	I slammed the truck on my old Chevy, climbed in with a sigh, and headed toward Tulsa.
	Drat it all! I didn’t want to leave Branson, but I didn’t trust my resistance to the devastating charm of James Bentley the Third. He had sweet-talked me back before. 
	The Chevy coughed a bit as usual but traveled smoothly enough along Interstate 44 under a huge yellow orb, a sunny-side-up egg on a giant blue platter overhead. A few puffy clouds were biscuits and maybe a serving of grits on the side. 
	A beautiful day, I thought. A harbinger of new beginnings. A mix of relief and regret assaulted my mind. Was I doing the right thing? 
	What did I have to lose? Just two hundred pounds of male animal without a faithful bone in his gorgeous body. James wasn’t the man I had thought him to be, but still the disappointment was sharp. 
	I had thought the guy was the real deal, the epitome of dreamy romance. 
	Instead, he convinced me that romance doesn’t exist anymore. It’s only a game people play called I-like-your-looks-so-let’s-get-together.
	After that, it becomes sizzle-on-the-sofa or it’s-our last date—a game I refused to play in college. And as sure as Bigfoot won’t make it on Dancing With the Stars, I wasn’t about to put up with James Bentley’s side trips to more willing partners. 
	James could go to Heck as far as I was concerned at the moment. Heck. That’s a place for people who say words like darn and shoot and for guys who cheat on their girlfriends. It’s not quite as hot there as the fiery place, but still uncomfortable enough. 
	Heck would suit James just fine.
	“I know it looks bad, Linda, but I can explain.” James had insisted, with that I-know-I’m-irresistible look in his eyes.
	“I’m sure that you and Miss Chesty-luscious kissing in the car is perfectly explainable, but this time our romance is really off, James. I’m leaving Branson.” 
	I kept my voice light and pleasant, even though disappointment tugged sharply at my emotions.
	I’d once believed in the Cinderella story. Little girls were supposed to grow up, meet a handsome prince, and he would do whatever it took to find them again. Once the prince found me, we would take leisurely walks at sunset, moonlight picnics by the lake, and there would definitely be a wedding before any sizzle on the sofa.
	“Like that’s ever going to happen,” my friend Lissa had scoffed while cutting my hair. “You think a guy’s going to stand on his head for you these days? No guy is interested in sunset walks and moonlight picnics when he can cut to the chase. And he won’t bring up the marriage idea until after he’s been leaving his toothbrush on your bathroom cabinet for a while.” 
	Lissa thought I was crazy to think of dumping James. 
	Handsome and witty, James certainly had the looks of a Prince Charming, and he did respect my morals—apparently. That was a huge prerequisite. He was also successful in the real estate business and had helped me buy my first home in the hills of the Ozarks. Then he took me to Branson theaters after romantic dinners at Chateau on the Lake or the Candlestick Inn. 
	At first, I’d been flattered, but it didn’t take long to figure out that although he showered me with attention, James also had an eye for blondes. And brunettes. And redheads. Charming James was a chick magnet. There would always be pretty women sweeping their fake lashes up at him. I sensed he would never have the integrity to resist a come-on, and I’d become one of many in a long line of “Bond girls” so to speak. 
	“Linda, nobody’s perfect. Give me another chance,” he’d pleaded. He looked so sincere, promising his undying love and begging me not to leave. As badly as I wanted to believe him, I suspected he could be making equally sincere promises to three other women at the same time. 
	I assured him pleasantly, “You’ll live happily ever after without me.” 
	“You’re not serious. I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Calm down, Sweetheart. Have a mental doughnut.”
	“I’m not the one who needs calming,” I pointed out. “And yes, this time you can believe what you’re hearing. I’ve already listed my house for sale.”
	He responded with laughter. Patronizing laughter, as if I was a small child announcing my intention to walk away from home with my teddy bear. 
	“This is not the ending I have in mind for our romance. I won’t settle for it.”
	Then he winked and kissed me on the forehead.
	“You’ll be back,” he said with irritating certainty. And I’ll be waiting for you.” 
	I wanted to kick him in the shins. Or other places.
 That’s what happens. You hang an image on a guy and fall for him without realizing that he isn’t that person at all. I’d been so besotted I couldn’t see past the charm to the deceit and conceit. Too bad there wasn’t a way to decon-ceit him. Without thinking, I shoved my foot down on the accelerator. 
	Decon rat poisoning. Now there’s a possibility! I mused with a wry chuckle. Nah. Murder is always out. A girl should never do anything she can’t talk about at the beauty shop. 
	Of course, nobody’s perfect, as he was always reminding me. 
	Those words do hold a ring of truth. 
	Was he really that bad? After all the marriage word didn’t frighten him. What if he was the last man who would ever propose to me? What if there weren’t any men left who didn’t have wandering eyes?
	I’d met every single guy in the Ozarks. Most had issues like too many ex-wives, or no ambition other than becoming the next Elvis, and failing at that, becoming the next Dog the bounty hunter. 
	James’ handsome face smiled at me from my longing imagination. 
	I had not yet actually resigned from my teaching position at Branson Elementary. I could always turn around and—what? 
	What was I thinking! Why settle for a man I couldn’t trust? I accelerated slightly again. 
	Arguing with myself, I didn’t notice the rider on the motorcycle in front of me until I tried to pull around him. He made a motion with his hand, indicating I should drop back. 
	My first thought was, who is he to tell me how to drive? Then I saw the black and white patrol car ahead of him and realized I was speeding. 
	That’s when the rider flashed a dazzling megawatt grin at me, a glimpse of something delightful.
	I slowed my car and pulled back into the lane behind him, noticing his broad shoulders, before he disappeared over the next hill.
	What a nice gesture. He had probably spared me a huge traffic fine.
	My thoughts drifted back to James. He’s probably seeking solace with Miss Luscious.
	The gas gauge registered low, so I pulled into a station beside a restaurant built on an arch over the interstate just outside Vinita, Oklahoma. I had already started filling my car when I saw the motorcycle at the tank beside me.
	The rider swung blue-denim legs off the seat with lazy grace and removed his helmet, running his hand through tousled sandy hair. 
	“Good thing you slowed down back there, Miss,” he said flashing that same charming grin. “That trooper would have pulled you over for sure.”
	“Thanks for the warning. I didn’t realize how fast I was traveling.” I couldn’t help smiling back. 
	 “Where you headed?” I asked him.
	“Oh, just out for a ride and some fresh air. Nowhere in particular. You?”
	“Tulsa.”
	He merely nodded. 
	We topped off our tanks and headed for the stairs leading up to the restaurant. 
	“Seeing we’re both headed for the same place, can I buy you a coke?” the rider asked as we entered the business.
	“No thanks.”
	“Then would you mind if we share a table?” 
	He didn’t look like a Hell’s Angel or any scary biker type. No nose rings, grubby beard or tattoos. He looked like a guy ought to look—tanned, sporty, and relaxed. True, he didn’t have the devastating good looks of James Bentley, but there was an honest look in his eyes.
	I hesitated a moment before agreeing. 
	Soon enough we had exchanged names and were chatting like we were not perfect strangers, but old friends. 
	“I’m Josh Henderson, the musician who has given up playing the theaters in Branson for a career in counseling,” he explained. “I’m getting smart since I’ve left the entertainment world. I even turned my tax forms over to a fifth grader last January, so I’d be certain they’re done right,” he joked.
	I liked his easy conversation. Nothing flirtatious or insistent about it. He didn’t look at me with that eye-roving appraisal that some guys are so practiced at. 
	“Don’t you miss the shows?” I asked, remembering the last musician I had dated. Music had been his passion. His idea of a date was to play his latest compositions for me and wait for my enthusiastic applause. Unfortunately, he had really needed a brutally honest Judge Simon Cowell to direct him to a non-musical career. 
	Josh answered, “Sure, the stage shows are fun, but they don’t leave you any time for a personal life, and I’m ready to settle down.” 
	No wonder that grin was so charming. His teeth were as perfectly even as the look in his eyes. He didn’t even glance at the well-endowed blonde who passed our table wearing short shorts and a midriff-baring top. 
	I couldn’t help thinking how James would have gawked. “I’m only human,” he would have said. That was his standard excuse for ogling women as if being human made it perfectly acceptable. 
	“So, you live in Branson?” I asked. 
	“In a little house I’m fixing up. My carpentry skills fall into two categories. One, I’ll get to it this week. Two, I’ll get a phone book and call a pro. I have lots of work ahead of me, but I like it there. I had a condo at Branson Landing for a while. It’s a fantastic place, but I really like the quiet of the country.”
	So did I. If I moved to Tulsa, I would be missing those quiet country evenings. 
	His enthusiastic brown eyes never left my face. “I like walking by the lake too. Have you ever been on a sunset picnic at Lake Taney Como?”
	“Never.” 
 I’d sure like to give it a try with someone like you. I hoped my eyes didn’t betray what I was thinking. 
	Suddenly and boldly I asked, “How do you feel about people who can’t be loyal?”
	His eyebrows went up at that. 
	“You’ve been in a bad relationship, huh? Going through a divorce?”
	“No, but it probably would have become a divorce if I hadn’t made the break. Where trust is an issue, there’s no point in going on.”
	He nodded. “Good for you. No trust, no relationship as far as I’m concerned. I had a girlfriend once, and I was true blue. We were going to get married, but she said I neglected her for my music. She was right. I’ve learned my lesson.”
	A momentary flash of regret shadowed his dark eyes. Then they brightened, looking into mine. 
	“She and I probably wouldn’t have made it anyway. She liked caviar and the Twelve Irish Tenors theater. Unfortunately, I could only afford canned tuna and two Irish tenors.”
	I smiled. I liked his sense of humor and found his humility refreshing. 
	“That’s all in the past. Let’s talk about something really serious.”
	I arched a brow, suddenly on guard. Where is this going?
	 “Do you think dyslexic people have trouble dancing to the song, YMCA?” He asked, dipping a fry in the ketchup.
	The laughable image of dancing dyslexics trying to form their letters backward totally disarmed me.
	“That’s entirely too serious a subject for me,” I laughed, twirling my straw in the cup.
	“You live in Tulsa or just visiting?” 
	“I’m thinking of moving there,” I answered without adding that I’d already filled out several applications for a teaching position.
	Lunch was over all too soon. We stopped at the counter to pay our bills and walked down the stairs together. 
	He was whistling cheerfully. 
	I was thinking I’d almost go to Heck for a chance to get to know him better. 
	But that was impossible. We were two strangers headed in different directions. 
	When we walked out on the pavement, Josh caught me entirely off guard. He leaned down, put his hands on the tarmac, and began walking on them, feet high over his head. 
	“W-what are you doing?” I stammered, “Trying to impress someone with your gymnastic ability?”
	“See this? I’m standing on my head.”
	“I can see that. You didn’t tell me you were a gymnast.”
	An amused passerby had stopped to watch.
	Looking up at me with mischievous eyes, he announced, “I’m not clowning. You’ve turned my world upside down, and I plan to stand here on my head until you promise that you’ll go out on a date with me.”
	I broke into a sidesplitting laugh. It had been a long while since I’d laughed so hard, and it felt marvelous. 
	 “Get up on your feet before you crack your head,” I insisted. 
	“Better a cracked head than a broken heart.” His face was reddening. 
	A plump, middle-aged woman standing near me sighed, “How romantic.”
	Still, on his head, Josh insisted, “Promise me a sunset walk by the lake. I’ll bring the caviar.”
	“I can’t do that. I don’t even know you. Besides, I don’t eat caviar.”
	“Did you hear that? She doesn’t eat caviar.” He leaped to his feet and spoke to the watching woman. “Ma’am, will you help me out here? I need an introduction to this lovely lady. Tell her my name is Josh Henderson, and I’m going to marry her.”
	Ignoring the incredulous look on my face, the nameless woman played along. 
	“My dear, this gentleman is Mr. Josh Henderson. He says he’s going to marry you.”
	“Thank you, Ma’am” he murmured, bowing over her hand in a courtly manner. 
	The woman turned to me. “I’ve raised five daughters. I’ve seen a lot of fellows come a courtin’ in my day. I can size ‘em up with a glance. Some guys are always going to be rovers. Some are way too eager. This one here is worth your time, darlin’.” 
	I stood there uncertain.
	“Now, Miss Linda, we’ve been introduced, and you even have a recommendation on my character,” Josh grinned, his eyes on mine, eager and hopeful.
	“Well, it seems I have no choice but to accept your invitation.”
	“Yes!” He exclaimed.
	 “However,” I added with a serious tone, “the marriage offer is out of the question.”
	 “Hey, anyone who hates caviar is on my proposal list. But I promise not to bring it up again for a week or so. I wouldn’t want to rush things.”
	“You really are cracked in the head,” I exclaimed. “Do you go around proposing to every woman you meet for the first time?”
	“Only the ones who are as beautiful as you are and hate caviar.”
	I gave him my address just outside Branson city limits, and he grinned at the information. When I added that I had decided to postpone my trip to Tulsa, his grin broadened even more.
	As I turned my car around and headed back to the Ozarks, I wore a mile-wide Julia-Roberts smile of my own. He stood on his head. He wants to take me for a sunset picnic on the lake. He’s not afraid of the marriage word. I can’t wait to tell Lissa.
	I was thinking that romance is not a lost art after all.
	Mister Nobody’s-Perfect James had predicted correctly.  
	I was returning to Branson sooner than expected. 
	But not for him. 
    If I hadn't been speeding I might have missed the perfect stranger. 
 
 
 
","July 29, 2023 20:18","[[{'Allen Learst': ""Hello Harriet: Great start on this story. The beginning seems to take a while to get to the crux of things. When I read stories, I often look for places where I think the story really begins (Just a suggestion, of course). This is the passage that works for me. It sets up the story and gives us a sense of the narrator's voice: \n\nI’d once believed in the Cinderella story. Little girls were supposed to grow up, meet a handsome prince, and he would do whatever it took to find them again. Once the prince found me, we would take leisurely walks a..."", 'time': '17:21 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Debbie Dupey': ""Charming love story, a bit simplistic, but I think true to the Romance Genre form.  I have to admit, I don't have a lot of experience with that genre."", 'time': '17:35 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kristin Johnson': ""The story delivers what it needs to--the promise of the premise. I love the scene with the proposal and the handstand. I think that some hint of the central conflict, that she no longer believes in the happy ever after, would make the details about James stronger. I like the idea of putting Lisa's dialogue in the beginning because it is on point."", 'time': '15:59 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,v38yyf,The Peacemaker,Kay Reed,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v38yyf/,/short-story/v38yyf/,Adventure,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Coming of Age', 'Christian']",11 likes,"
Somewhere in the middle of 2007 I swallowed Rage whole. I can’t recall the hour or the day, only the place – among white brick barracks sitting on the easternmost edge of Ukraine, the ones we turned into a makeshift summer camp for orphans.This was well before I knew my enneagram number: Nine, Peacemaker. The easygoing, self-effacing type. Complacent. Receptive and reassuringly agreeable. A fellow Nine from church asked how I dealt with my anger. I turned on him quick. “I’m not an angry person.”I didn’t know then, my anger a leashed thing, a lion stalking among sunflowers, pacing with a growl low in its throat.I was twenty back in 2007. I signed up to spend my summer volunteering at a Ukrainian orphanage so I could be teamed up with hot, philanthropic guys who’d obviously be instantly attracted to my selfless heart (and hot bod), and we’d have a lightning love affair beneath the heat of a foreign sun. If twenty years taught me anything in life, it was that a whole slew of hot, philanthropic guys were begging to spend their summers volunteering at quiet, nameless Ukrainian orphanages.This was how I found myself on a small all-female team, preparing for a summer with limited food and water and maybe no showers and no phones and no means for communication back home and was I up-to-date on all my vaccinations and my mom asking are you sure but before I could answer the whole of an ocean beneath me.When the plane touched down in Kyiv, I emerged swallowing spices in the borscht air, took a few gulps before boarding the six-hour bus. We drove past endless grids of fields, a patchwork quilt for giants, the land a sleepy thing, until we made it to the makeshift orphanage slumped against the side of Russia.At the barracks the bus doors creaked open to four sagging caregivers and a hundred wide-eyed children. “Previet!” The children shouted it as they took me by the wrist, pulling friendship to their skin with starving hands. They took hold of my watch, pressing the plastic to watch it glow neon and gaudy in the quivering fields of sunflowers.They asked to keep it.“No.” I pulled my hand away. Because I kept time corded around my heartbeat, feared losing myself without it.Ruslan, grabbing hold of the watch again as he pulled me to a game of soccer out past the sunflowers, asked between breaths when he had me alone, “Home, with you?” He practiced enough English for just these words, stitching them together with fingers that point to him, to me, to the cerulean sky.“I’m only twenty,” shaking my head, the words oversalted in the borscht air. He didn’t respond, only pressed the buttons on my watch until an alarm sounded.“I’m only twenty,” pleading this time, between the beeps.Tolic, who laid his head on the sharp edges of my stomach beneath the patchwork shade of the apple tree, turning my watch over and over, whispered on a slight wind, “Mama.” Relieved at least I was so utterly empty by then – no other stasis of being could have held such a moment without undoing.And Vanya, aware of the inhale before adolescence, the slight holding of the breath, before the tilt, the pull, the dragging away in the teeth of that rabid dog that came out at night. He feared dying like his parents- one addicted to opioids, the other to vodka. He never touched my watch, only watched it over the shoulder of others, eyes slit, the slight tremor of his hands hidden behind his back.My heart, a clean split – the first of its kind, perfect jagged lines like the “Best” necklace half I got from my friend when I was ten – the kind that needs only its other “Friends” half to make it whole again.There is a question I ask over and over- just one I ask a million different ways: What is my love, if it falls on you as a spike? I held the handle of the broom, swept the brittle pieces of little hearts into a neat pile, flew away as the wind picked up, watch pressed to glass.I was home three days before he first showed up, Rage, the barbs staked into my throat. I began suffocating as he stretched his bulbous body to fit the shape of me.My mom was the first to notice – the change of breath, the slowing, the wheeze of keeping pace as I trailed her on the stairs. She took me to a doctor who found a growth on my trachea, likely a rampant disease in Eastern Europe called Rhinoscleroma, blocking sixty percent of my airway. Growing.I was rushed into surgery where the doctor put me to sleep like a princess, removed Ukraine from my throat, and woke me with a clap of his hands. Applause as he bowed over me, girl in a box, sawed in half. Miraculously whole again.The curtain fell.Rage, you devious beast. You made me believe I could be rid of you- disguised yourself as something that could be removed with privilege, money, magic. You knew I was close then, too close, to knowing your name. You broke my heart in clean lines, made me believe that’s what hearts do, knowing full well that one break would be the start, on its way to ashes. To dust.Because now my orphan boys, the ones who asked to come home with me all those years ago, are in their twenties.I remember them with their sticks, lobbing the heads of sunflowers. They held their fears out to me like secrets in trembling hands, told me the snakes here aren’t poisonous…well…only poisonous if they bite you.And there again, a sandpaper itching at my throat as I watch Russia slither awake and slip into the quiet edges of Kharkiv, setting up a makeshift war camp in the white brick barracks, a goliath heaving its weight at an underdog, a drunk parent slapping their child away, twisting the wrist with the watch until love is on its knees.The sunflowers bend weary heads.I am the Peacemaker.I reach for the stake at my throat.I unleash Rage.
","July 30, 2023 18:07","[[{'Mike Rush': 'Kay,\n\nOh, Kay, this is remarkable. The images here are indelible. And breathtaking. The way the MC\'s heart is described in the paragraph where the boy says, ""mama."" And too, the way the surgeon is compared to the arrogant magician. \n\nI especially liked how this began, with the statement about swallowing rage, and then the story about why. (On a personal note, it reminded me of a piece my daughter wrote in college, which began, ""When I was in the fifth grade, I tore the heads off all my Barbies."")\n\nThe whole thing is a sensual feast, but thes...', 'time': '14:07 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kay Reed': 'Wow- Mike- thank you for these kind words! Truly appreciate you taking the time to read and comment- I feel so honored! And your feedback on not connecting with the line about the ocean is so helpful— it was supposed to imply flying in a plane above the Atlantic Ocean— but now realize the reader has no context to know where the journey begins- so I’m sure the ocean line was jolting! So glad to know the areas the reader is bumped, as I’m too close to realize that context was missing- will definitely plan to fix that.\nYour daughter’s story sou...', 'time': '21:50 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mike Rush': 'Kay, thanks, so, for this reply. That daughter was a writing major, but finished with a digital film degree. My oldest daughter is working on her Phd in nursing administration or something like that, and has to write all the time. She\'s about to begin her dissertation. I have a Master\'s in Professional and Technical writing, but my part here at Reedsy is about the only way I use it. But my wife! She\'s written three novels. I call them her ""thrillogy."" She\'s the best writer of us all. But she says she\'s done. So sad. I love her characters to ...', 'time': '12:17 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kay Reed': 'Sounds like you have some amazing and talented women in your life! You have a gift of such insightful and constructive  feedback- I am sure they owe much of their success to you and your encouragement. Thank you for what you do in this community for aspiring writers as well!', 'time': '04:36 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mike Rush': ""It's my absolute pleasure!"", 'time': '01:40 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kay Reed': 'Wow- Mike- thank you for these kind words! Truly appreciate you taking the time to read and comment- I feel so honored! And your feedback on not connecting with the line about the ocean is so helpful— it was supposed to imply flying in a plane above the Atlantic Ocean— but now realize the reader has no context to know where the journey begins- so I’m sure the ocean line was jolting! So glad to know the areas the reader is bumped, as I’m too close to realize that context was missing- will definitely plan to fix that.\nYour daughter’s story sou...', 'time': '21:50 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mike Rush': 'Kay, thanks, so, for this reply. That daughter was a writing major, but finished with a digital film degree. My oldest daughter is working on her Phd in nursing administration or something like that, and has to write all the time. She\'s about to begin her dissertation. I have a Master\'s in Professional and Technical writing, but my part here at Reedsy is about the only way I use it. But my wife! She\'s written three novels. I call them her ""thrillogy."" She\'s the best writer of us all. But she says she\'s done. So sad. I love her characters to ...', 'time': '12:17 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kay Reed': 'Sounds like you have some amazing and talented women in your life! You have a gift of such insightful and constructive  feedback- I am sure they owe much of their success to you and your encouragement. Thank you for what you do in this community for aspiring writers as well!', 'time': '04:36 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mike Rush': ""It's my absolute pleasure!"", 'time': '01:40 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Rush': 'Kay, thanks, so, for this reply. That daughter was a writing major, but finished with a digital film degree. My oldest daughter is working on her Phd in nursing administration or something like that, and has to write all the time. She\'s about to begin her dissertation. I have a Master\'s in Professional and Technical writing, but my part here at Reedsy is about the only way I use it. But my wife! She\'s written three novels. I call them her ""thrillogy."" She\'s the best writer of us all. But she says she\'s done. So sad. I love her characters to ...', 'time': '12:17 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kay Reed': 'Sounds like you have some amazing and talented women in your life! You have a gift of such insightful and constructive  feedback- I am sure they owe much of their success to you and your encouragement. Thank you for what you do in this community for aspiring writers as well!', 'time': '04:36 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mike Rush': ""It's my absolute pleasure!"", 'time': '01:40 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kay Reed': 'Sounds like you have some amazing and talented women in your life! You have a gift of such insightful and constructive  feedback- I am sure they owe much of their success to you and your encouragement. Thank you for what you do in this community for aspiring writers as well!', 'time': '04:36 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mike Rush': ""It's my absolute pleasure!"", 'time': '01:40 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mike Rush': ""It's my absolute pleasure!"", 'time': '01:40 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Lots of effective symbolism in here Kay, very thought provoking. And powerful topical ending . Well done on this.', 'time': '17:28 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kay Reed': 'Thanks for the read and comment!', 'time': '22:43 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kay Reed': 'Thanks for the read and comment!', 'time': '22:43 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Lots to be raging about.', 'time': '22:55 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ga9qte,My Fraught Meeting with Der Fuhrer,Bruce Friedman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ga9qte/,/short-story/ga9qte/,Adventure,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Historical Fiction']",11 likes,"
Allow me to introduce myself—my name is Andrei Vyshinsky. I started my career as a minor official in the Russian foreign affairs ministry. However, I was soon assigned as the aide-de-camp to Vyacheslav Molotov who served as the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs of the Soviet Union from 1939 to 1949. Over most of his career, I was by his side, assisting him with his political and governmental duties. His friendship gave me a distinct edge within the diplomatic corps of the Soviet Union. I eventually was assigned to the post of Soviet Foreign Minister from 1949 to 1953. I was also well known for my role as a state prosecutor during Joseph Stalin’s Moscow trials which served me well and also met the needs of “Uncle Joe.” As I write this story, I intend for it to be a chapter in my memoirs that I am now putting down on paper. It’s 1954 and I spend most of my time in my dacha on the outskirts of Moscow. Generally, I lead a very quiet life these days but am also looking back on a career filled with decisive action and intrigue. In my book, I will pay particular attention to the German–Soviet non-aggression agreement, also known as the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. It was signed in Moscow on August 23, 1939, by von Ribbentrop and Molotov, with me at his side. On November 12, 1940, Molotov, accompanied by me and some other members of the Soviet diplomatic corps, paid an official visit to Berlin for two days to negotiate directly with Herr Hitler concerning the Soviet Union’s possible entry as an Axis ally. I accompanied him on this trip and participated in all discussions. The meeting provided us with the important opportunity to see Hitler up close and understand his strategic thinking . In retrospect, this trip turned out to be a life-changing journey for me—critical history being played out before my eyes.Our Soviet foreign policy calculations at that time led us to believe that WWII would be a long-term struggle and that the German claims that Britain would be defeated with dispatch were viewed with great skepticism. This perspective resulted in Molotov being instructed to hold a very firm line in negotiations with Hitler did not understand or appreciate. But read on for more details about what happened during our Berlin visit.As most people came to understand, the 1939 pact between Germany and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had achieved its major goal of renouncing war between the two parties and also pledging neutrality if either party were attacked by a third party. This gave Germany a free hand to invade Poland without fear of Soviet intervention which, as you know, occurred with dispatch. Poland was defeated by the German blitzkrieg in about a month and his Gestapo then began the slaughter most of the Jewish population of millions across Europe. That was no great loss, of course, from our perspective. The ethnic Poles, on the other hand, were considered by us to be ""small"" Slav brothers who merited some protection except, of course, for the intelligentsia who we were determined to annihilate.I will now turn to the topic of the Nazi and British bombing strategies prior to, and during, our November visit to Berlin in 1940. The British had an initial policy of using aerial bombing only against military targets and infrastructure such as ports and railways of military importance. The British initially renounced the deliberate bombing of civilian property outside combat zones as their overarching strategy. This policy was abandoned in May 1940, two days after the German air attack on Rotterdam, when the Royal Air Force was given permission to attack targets in the Ruhr including oil plants that aided the German war effort.The Luftwaffe, in turn, conducted air raids against British airfields and fighting aircraft during the Battle of Britain in the summer of 1940. The ultimate goal of these German bombing raids was to lay the groundwork for a German land invasion of Britain, but this never took place. However, and by the late Fall of 1940, these German raids had taken a severe toll on the British in terms of the fighting capacity of the Air Force. Many airfields had been destroyed. The Brits were almost at the end of their rope. Hanging on by a thread. Here is where Herr Hitler made a critical and bad decision and Vyacheslav and I were there to watch it happen, literally sitting across from him at the table.***We were in our second day of negotiations with Hitler on November 13 in an elegant chamber in the Reich Chancellery. Hitler’s office was nearby in the Fuhrerbunker just north of the Chancellery. The large elegant room in which we held our negotiations had a vaulted ceiling dating back centuries and ornamented with grand, elaborate murals. All befitting the critical significance of our discussions.We were seated at a long, mahogany table that dwarfed the six of us. Hitler was sitting in the middle across from us with von Ribbentrop and Goebbels to this right and Goring to his left. He rarely consulted with them except for an occasional whispered conversation with Goring. It was only Molotov and myself sitting across the table from Herr Hitler for these top-secret discussions. The table was ""unbalanced"" by the weight of some of the participants but certainly not in terms of strategic intentions and goals. Goring’s morphine addition had destroyed his body's metabolism—I estimated his weight at over 135 kilograms. He waddled rather than walked. I had some concern that the entire room might suddenly and physically tip toward the Germans so I kept my feet firmly pressed to the floor to stabilize it.“Gentlemen, our discussion yesterday was highly productive,” Hitler announced by way of launching the second day’s discussions. “We most certainly have our mutual enemy, Great Britain, on the ropes, to use the boxing metaphor. My major goal for today will be to explore further ways that we can show to the world, and particularly the English and Americans, that the relationship between our two empires continues to be solid and we will resist any efforts on their part to hinder our continuing cooperation.“Together we form a global colossus and no country will dare to deny our destiny. Also, I have the sense that the land invasion of England by our noble German troops may soon be launched.” Molotov and I chuckled, both appreciating the fact that we understood that Hitler was also looking eastward as part of his overarching military strategy.Hitler then looked around the table slowly to assess to what extent his opening remarks had impressed us. He beamed in a contented way and was about to continue in what we assumed was a similar vein. Just then and before he could utter another syllable, we all felt and heard a tremendous explosion accompanied by a fireball rather near the windows of our conference room. A large column of smoke erupted in a strip of older buildings looking north from where we sat. We could also immediately hear the wailing of sirens in the same direction. This, of course, was highly irregular and totally unexpected. Both Molotov and I immediately glanced at Hitler to assess his reaction.For a split second, he seemed totally distracted and then began to sweat profusely. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow of the beads of sweat that had appeared and then turned to address the two of us across the table.“Nothing much for you to be concerned about here, my dear colleagues. There has been a band of saboteurs setting off small explosive charges in Berlin lately in an attempt to cause panic. However, all good Germans know that we have the situation totally under control and will bring these criminals to justice quickly. Nothing to worry about for your personal safety.”Molotov beckoned to me and leaned over to whisper in my ear: “Saboteurs? Nonsense! That was a British block-buster bomb, also called a “cookie” by them. I am sure that there will be more on the way but we are probably safe enough sitting here across from Herr Hitler. He will surely be protected. But I am sure that this will not be an isolated event. Hold tight!”Before he had completed his sentence, two more explosions erupted, again from the north but this time our chamber began to shake lightly and columns of smoke outside rose even higher than before. Everyone in the room immediately understood that this was part of a well-planned British bombing raid on Berlin.Molotov turned to Hitler and said: “Herr Fuhrer, I am very impressed by the weapons capabilities of your home-grown saboteurs here in Berlin. I hope that our dissidents in Russia are not reading from the same textbooks and exposing Comrade Stalin to similar attacks.” He was trying very hard to wipe a grin off his face.Hitler turned a bright shade of purple, stood up, and walked briskly toward the exit of the conference room without a word. Goring followed, waddling close behind Hitler’s heels and without saying anything. It became obvious that Molotov and myself were supposed to remain seated until the Nazis returned, which did not occur for the best part of an hour. Servants entered the room with glasses of champagne and crystal bowls filled with both German and Russian cigarettes. A high degree of anxiety permeated the room.***Hitler retuned to the chamber, still breathing heavily and sat at the table in his previous position across from us. He quickly drank a glass of mineral water to clear his throat. He then addressed Molotov and myself directly, fighting to contain his furor. “Gentlemen, I want to apologize for the behavior of the savage British pilots who have interrupted our cordial discussions concerning how our two modern empires will respectfully co-exist. I want to reassure you that these brutes will pay dearly for their audacity of attacking Berlin when I am negotiating with important guests such as yourselves.”He continued: “I have just ordered Reichsmarschall Goring to immediately change our offensive bombing strategy for Britain. We have now literally wiped out of existence the British air force, their bases, and their landing fields. We will stop these military attacks and now turn to bombing London and other major British urban centers, killing as many civilians as possible in their homes during our night raids. The people will come to understand what a buffoon Winston Churchill is and force him to sue for peace. Having said that, Hitler, von Ribbentrop, Goebbels, and Goring abruptly and quickly exited the room. Molotov and I lingered in our seats for a few minutes. He beckoned for me to place my ear close to his mouth, both of us aware that the room was certainly bugged. Here is what he whispered to me:“You have just observed one of the greatest strategic blunders in modern warfare and you must learn from it. Hitler should have continued to bomb the British Air Force and their landing strips into total oblivion. Instead, he had now made the obvious blunder of turning to the bombing of civilians and trying to destroy their cities. “He will kill a large number of civilians but I believe that the British population has the capacity to absorb many such raids and continue to live in their cities. Meanwhile, the British Air Force will now have the time and resources to rebuild and regain their offensive ability.  Hitler has not kept a clear head because he was embarrassed by the fact that we Russians witnessed this British bombing raid of Berlin.”“One more thing, Comrade,” Molotov continued to whisper in my ear. “Herr Hitler seems to me to be a very impatient person who gets easily bored. He will soon grow weary about his lack of success in his air attack on British cities. His plans for a seaborne land invasion of Britain will also never come to fruition because it will require intensive air support that he lacks. He also shows a deep enmity for Slavic people. We need to impress on Stalin when we return home that Hitler will be looking eastward in the very near future. We need to get ready for Hitler’s massive attack on Mother Russia as quickly we can.”***In closing, I will leave you with the following observation. Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of Russia by Nazi Germany, turned out to be a huge blunder by Hitler just as Molotov and I had clearly understood and predicted in 1940. It opened up a second front and doubled the demand on Germany for war materials.  Hitler also did not understand the mind of Stalin as we did. He did not understand that Stalin would willingly sacrifice the lives of more than 200 million people in our motherland to retain his grip on power. Much of this causal chain of events leading to the destruction of Germany dated back to our visit to Berlin in the Fall of 1940. And I watched it happen.”
","July 29, 2023 14:57","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Bruce,\nIt’s another superb historical fiction from you for this prompt. As always, I commend the way you handle delicate topics while getting into the mind of your characters. You also pack a ton of history into each piece. I learn something each week. I loved the way these characters interacted with one another-the tension is palpable. Nice work!!', 'time': '04:00 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Eric D.': ""What a riveting time piece that's inspiring me to tackle the historical fiction genre again. You captured the extravagance of the setting really well and the dialogue for Hitler. It's apparent a lot of research went into this and I enjoyed it throughout especially the last few paragraphs when you see Hitler get nervous from the British attacks. Great story."", 'time': '16:42 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Eric, thanks for your remarks. I have come to historical fiction only after a year of writing pure fiction but find it much more interesting to write. One of the advantages is that after picking an event, there are some parameters that help guide your plot. There is also some anxiety that you have gotten some of the facts wrong. However, the opportunity to try to get into Hitler's head is beguiling."", 'time': '17:41 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Eric, thanks for your remarks. I have come to historical fiction only after a year of writing pure fiction but find it much more interesting to write. One of the advantages is that after picking an event, there are some parameters that help guide your plot. There is also some anxiety that you have gotten some of the facts wrong. However, the opportunity to try to get into Hitler's head is beguiling."", 'time': '17:41 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Another great historical narrative. I've always followed the thinking that Britain never surrendered, and would never even consider the idea, because of the bombing of civilian targets. It tempered the resolve of the people and clad locked Churchill in his mindset. Now Churchills own actions in terms of Dresden are a topic all of itself.\n\nIt's strange, yet believable, to see a depiction of Hitler flustered so early in the war. We all tend to think that came later.\n\nThe saddest part of this tale is it's parallels to modern conflicts and how t..."", 'time': '11:22 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks, again, Kevin for your well considered comments. Creative non-fiction does not seem to be that popular on Reedsy but I personally am very pleased to have created narratives such as this.', 'time': '15:39 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'And so you should be! 👍', 'time': '15:42 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks, again, Kevin for your well considered comments. Creative non-fiction does not seem to be that popular on Reedsy but I personally am very pleased to have created narratives such as this.', 'time': '15:39 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'And so you should be! 👍', 'time': '15:42 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'And so you should be! 👍', 'time': '15:42 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ia7bou,Goin' Places,Patricia Williford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ia7bou/,/short-story/ia7bou/,Adventure,0,"['Drama', 'Friendship', 'Fiction']",11 likes,"
											Goin' Places
 
 
  The first time I ever saw Mr. Emmett Crawford, he was hunched over a bed of red and yellow pansies, smothering them up to their necks with damp sawdust while autumn leaves covered the rest of the ground. 
  “Morning, sir!” I hollered, “You just move in?”
  “Yep, just this past weekend. Pretty nice place. We moved up here to be close to my son. You lived here long?”
  “All my life, actually,” I sighed. “I can't imagine what it'd be like to move to a new place.”
  “It’s kind of fun being in someplace new,” he replied, briefly cupping his hands around each flower like he was wishing it good luck. “Everybody needs a change of scenery now and then. A body gets tired of staring at the same painted walls and plots of earth year after year.”
  “I don't reckon I'll ever get to move. My mama and daddy are just about cemented to this town.” 
How come you planted those flowers already with winter coming and all?”
  “You plant pansies in the fall, you'll have blooms all spring. He stood up and tried to pat down bits of his white hair that were sticking out like the bristles of a used toothbrush. “And being outside helped me to meet my very first friend in this town. I'm Emmett Crawford. Nice to meet you.” He reached out his hand to me.
  I laughed. “I've never shaken hands with anybody before.”  I grasped his hand in mine as hard as I could so he could see how strong I was. “I'm Caroline.  But I gotta run for supper. Bye for now.”
 
  I saw him again about a week later. This time he was sitting on his front porch with a bowl of green apples resting beside him, a knife in his hand, and a metal garbage pail wedged between his knees. 
  “Hello, Miss Caroline. Got time for a visit?”
  “I think maybe a short one. Mamma's gonna call for lunch real soon. You gonna have apple pie for dinner?” I asked.
  “Thinking about it. Mona likes apple pie a whole lot. Have you met Mona yet?” He took his knife and sliced me and him a thick chunk.
  “I guess I haven't. Who's Mona?” I sank my teeth into the sweet apple. 
  “Mona is my lovely wife, love of my life, traveling partner, and pretty much my best friend. She's been feeling a bit under the weather lately, though. I think maybe some pie might make her feel better.”
  “Did she go to the doctor and get some medicine for whatever she's got?” I asked as sticky apple juice slid down my chin and dripped on my knees.
  “Oh yeah. She's got plenty of different kinds of pills that are gonna make her better. Soon as she gets back on her feet again, we're going take a trip somewhere, someplace warm where the sun shines a whole lot. Mona and I just love goin' places these days.”
  “What kinds of places have you been to?” I licked the last bit of juice off my fingers and watched as a coiled snake-like sliver of green peeling slithered into the pail.
  Mr. Crawford sucked in a deep breath and looked out over at the line of mountains that rose up like a camel, hump-backed and bald, on the edge of town. “Well, Mona and I took our trip of a lifetime just last year. We set out in June and drove from one edge of the U.S. of A. to the other. On the road for two whole months. We stared up at the great Rocky Mountains that would make this ridge here look like molehills. We went swimming with dolphins once in the Atlantic Ocean down in Florida, and even woke up one morning in northern Montana with buffalo all around our camper. Yeah, Mona and I discovered how much we love traveling on that trip.”
  “We studied all about the Rocky Mountains in school,” I said, “but I've never met anyone who's actually see them. Tell me where else you went.”
  “I'll do better than that. Tomorrow, Mona will probably be feeling better, so why don't you come on over and I'll show you some of the pictures of places we went to. Got four or five albums full. Mona and I were just looking at them last night. They were the first thing we unpacked.” Mr. Crawford stood and picked up his bowl of peeled apples. “I'll save you a piece of pie, too.”
  I ran back to my house real fast. I couldn't wait to tell Mama about our new neighbor being such a traveler.
 
  I can still see the inside of Mr. Crawford's house as clear as if it were yesterday--neat as a pin and about as shiny. Rows and rows of books stood rod straight on shelves, with big ones ahead of little ones, like children lined up according to age. Pretty flowered curtains outlined every window. Four polished picture frames decorated the mantel and a blue vase of fresh cut flowers stood on the waxed kitchen table.  A new brown suitcase stood waiting by the front door.
  “I'm glad you could come, Miss Caroline,” he said as he led me into the living room. “First thing we need to do is make proper introductions.” He gestured over toward the end of the room I hadn't had a chance to check out yet. “Miss Caroline, I'd like you to meet my lovely wife, Mona.”
  My gaze followed his outstretched hand. If he heard me gasp, he didn't let on. In the back corner of the room was a bed—the same type I had seen in the hospital when I was visiting Uncle Taylor after he'd had his stroke. Its shiny metal frame looked as if it'd just been polished like everything else in the room. Ironed sheets were tucked in neatly at the corners. Everything gleamed so that the sight of the rumpled old woman lying in the center of the bed caught me by surprise. Sharp outlines of bones were visible beneath the pink nightgown that lay about her shriveled body like an empty potato sack. Saggy rows of skin seemed to drip from her eyes and cheeks. I could see the blue veins in her hands under flimsy, yellow parchment.
  “Mona, Caroline here is interested in hearing about our trip.” Mr. Crawford motioned for me to sit down on a stool beside the bed.
  “Lovely trip,” the old woman whispered in short, shallow breaths.
  I edged cautiously down on the seat Mr. Crawford was still pointing toward. Clearing my throat a couple of times, I croaked out, “I think it'd be real fun to travel.” I looked back at the other half of the room where those pretty flowers sat safely on the shiny table.
  “Well, I think our trip across the country was one of the grandest things life has to offer, don't you agree, Mona? There were so many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.” Mr. Crawford brushed several stray hairs from his wife's face. “Traveling is the best feeling in the world, isn't it, Mona?” He bent over and lifted his wife's limp hand, holding it between both of his.
  I thought I saw a brief smile, like a shadow, flicker across her face. “Wonderful feeling,” Mrs. Crawford murmured as she stared into her husband's eyes.
  I brushed the hair away from my own face and bit my lip before blurting out, “We might go to Lone Mountain State Park this summer on vacation.”
  Mr. Crawford looked at me and laughed. “See, you must have traveling in your blood, too, Caroline.” He turned back toward his wife. “Mona, what was your favorite place on our trip? Grand Canyon, maybe? Or what about the coast of Oregon? All those jagged rocks rising up out of the water. Oh, I know. You liked that little town on that island in Michigan. What was it called? Oh, yeah, Mackinaw. That was one of your favorites, wasn't it Mona?”
 
   Right then, Mrs. Crawford started coughing---deep, heaving coughs that seemed to shake her whole body. I watched as Mr. Crawford held onto her hand and rubbed her back, still talking about the places they'd been. 
  “Let's see. I liked the White Mountains in New Hampshire a whole lot. Remember how peaceful it was there, Mona? 'Course, I bet you'd like to be back in Florida, right now, warming yourself on that white sand. Mona doesn't like to be cold, Caroline. I think that's where we'll go, first thing, soon as she's back on her feet again.” Mr. Crawford got up and walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out a stack of albums. “Let's show our visitor the pictures, Mona.”
  Mr. Crawford laid one of the albums on top of the stiff white sheet draped over his wife's frail body. He opened it and placed her right hand below a photograph of a smiling couple. “Tell her where we were when this was taken, Mona. I know it was one of your favorites.”
  Mrs. Crawford's bony fingers slid off the page as another coughing spasm spread through her. I sat mute on my stool, wound my feet around the bottom rung, and wondered why the air in the Crawford's new house had begun to feel heavy and suffocating. I wished Mr. Crawford would open a window.
  My new neighbor continued his descriptions of places I could barely imagine while his ill traveling partner seemed to sink down lower beneath the sheets with each gasp of breath. Tears began to fill my eyes as I watched Mr. Crawford firmly place his wife's hand back on the album each time it slid off, as it was repeatedly shaken from its place by her heaving body. 
  “Personally, Caroline, I liked the coast of Maine the best. The smell of salt in the air is so strong it can bring tears to your eyes. You can even taste it on your lips as you talk. Remember when we took the mail boat over to that little island, Mona? What was the name of that place?” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand and looked at her, waiting for her to answer. When no response came, he continued. “It was right off of Stoneybrook, wasn't it, Mona? Had kind of French sounding name. Oh, I know, Isle Au Haute. That was it. What a beautiful place it was—but not as beautiful as you, Mona. Remember when we walked up the path to the top of the hill where you could see all of the water surrounding the island?” Mr. Crawford's voice seemed to crack. “I know you remember what you said to me then, Mona. Say it, Sweetheart. Tell me what you told me at the top of that island.”
  Mrs. Crawford's eyes were closed and her breath loud and uneven. Her husband squeezed her hand and her eyes fluttered open briefly. “Say it, Mona. Say it for me again. Tell me what you told me on Isle Au Haute. How you and I would never stop goin' places. How you would never leave your favorite traveling partner.” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand up close to his face, then lightly kissed the thin skin stretched loosely over fragile bones. The three of us sat silent for what seemed like an eternity, with only the sounds of Mrs. Crawford's raspy breathing and the ticking of the clock. I let myself out the front door, pulling it softly closed so as not to disturb the misty-eyed man hunched over the polished bed.
 
  Three days later, I watched as the hearse from Stoney Ridge Funeral Home parked next door. While the two men in black suits were inside the Crawford's house, another car arrived with a younger man whom I assumed was their son. I sat down on the grass and knew it was Mrs. Crawford's body, wrapped in a black bag, that was carried out to the waiting gray hearse. I ripped bits of grass out of the damp earth while I gazed at the younger man standing with his arms around the shaking body of the old man. 
 
  I didn't see Mr. Crawford for a long while after his wife died. Mama said he was probably staying with his son. Every time I went outside, I glanced over to see if he might be out tending to his pansies or peeling apples on his porch. One day, after the spring thaw, I looked out the kitchen window and saw him hunched over the spreading red and yellow blooms in his garden. I raced outside, excited that I would finally get to talk to my friend again. 
  “Mr. Crawford, I've been looking for you every day. Are you doing all right?” 
He looked at me for a long time before speaking. “Well, yes, yes, of course I'm fine. Thank you for asking. I'm afraid, however, that I've forgotten your name.”
  “I'm Caroline, Mr. Crawford. You know me. I live next door. You told me all about your trip, remember?”
  I can still see the strange look in his eyes. Like it wasn't him answering my questions. Like he had gone somewhere else and left only an empty shell to move and go about his day. 
  “Trip. Oh, yes, I remember all about my trip. We're going on another one, did I tell you? Up to Canada this time. Mona and I have never been to Canada. So, I'm finally going to take her. Had to wait 'til the weather warmed up a bit, don't you know. Mona doesn't like to be cold.”
  “Mr. Crawford, Mona—I mean, your wife is.....I mean, she can't go on a trip,” I stuttered out the words, not really knowing what to say.
  He looked straight at me with hollow eyes and said, “What do you mean, Mona can't go on a trip? She and I are traveling partners. We're leaving in a couple weeks, soon as the weather is warmer. Right now, I've got to tend to these flowers, though. We'll be gone for a while. Don't want them to die before we get back.”
  Mr. Crawford turned away from me, stooped down, and began pinching dead blooms off the pansies. I stood where I was for a while, then backed away, and ran toward my house. 
 
  After that day, I avoided Mr. Crawford. He had scared me so that I didn't know what to say to him. I wondered where he had gone, behind those empty eyes. I just couldn't figure out where he had traveled to. I remember Mama telling me that sometimes when people can't handle something, they lose their mind. I didn't think that Mr. Crawford had lost his mind, though. He'd lost his best friend. 
 
  About a month later, a moving van arrived next door. Two men, dressed in blue jeans and white cotton shirts loaded up all of the Crawford's furniture and drove away. Mama said she thought Mr. Crawford might be moving in with his son. I knew I would never see him again, but I remember being thankful that he had somebody to watch over him.
 
  I didn't think about Mr. Emmett Crawford for many years. The day-to-day events of growing up took precedence over occasional fond memories of childhood acquaintances. Best friends, parties, and new romances lead to high school graduation, college, and finally my own marriage. I never left my hometown, though. I have not traveled, like Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, on a special trip across the country. I have not filled photo albums with pictures of sights I have visited. But he must have left a legacy of some sort. Every weekday morning, I drive from my house to Stoney Ridge Middle School to teach unsettled seventh graders world geography. I keep hoping they can channel some of their energy into a thirst to see the world. I want to awaken in them an awareness of the many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.
 
  Several months ago, on my way to school, I passed by the Ridgeway Nursing Home. As I rounded the bend in the road, I was startled to see a man stumbling along the graveled shoulder. He carried a worn, brown suitcase in one hand as he trudged on the wrong side of the highway. A faded green coat hung loosely on his hunched shoulders. Bits of wild, white hair stuck out beneath his cap. I slowed my car as I passed by, then pulled over to the side, just a short walk ahead of him. I started to get out of my car, then paused, and watched from my rear-view mirror as two nurses came up to each side of the man, gently turned him around, and guided him back toward the nursing home. One of the nurses tried to take the suitcase from his hand, but the man held it tight, as if it were priceless. 
 
  I see him frequently now. He totters along the side of the road with that tattered suitcase in his hand. The nurses must realize when he's left, and they usually come to guide him back before he gets too far. I always pull over and wait, just to make sure. Though his face is more wrinkled and worn than I remember, I know without a doubt that it's Mr. Crawford. He has continued to travel far since I knew him as a child.  And I'm sure his Mona is with him while he travels.  
","July 29, 2023 18:35","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'Thanks, Julie.  I appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '17:13 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Julie Grenness': 'Well written. This story is a touching tribute to true devotion. A love that never faded. The writer here has selected an apt and effective choice of language and imagery, to build a very evocative word picture, drawing the reader to the conclusion. Keep on writing.', 'time': '21:14 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,1crq2t,Old Man,Lindsay Flo,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1crq2t/,/short-story/1crq2t/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Inspirational']",11 likes,"
“I’m taking the summer off,” Lia told me. “I need to start over. I need to leave the past, and if I can’t do that in here”—she touched her fingers to her heart—“then I have to do it geographically.”
 
We were licking our wounds at a bar. Slouched over lacquered pine, this sounded like a good idea at eleven on a gloomy winter night. I told her I would come with her.
 
“Really, Nick?” Lia gushed, her voice as sweet as whatever it was she was drinking. Like strawberries and candy. “I would love that.”
 
We dreamt up all kinds of starry-eyed plans that night…first, we’d head south for warmth, because winter and grief had turned us bitter. Then, we’d head west for deserts and dry air and peyote, because why not? Lia wanted this not to be a trip, but a journey. Finally, we’d end up in California, on the opposite coast from where we’d begun, and bum it on the beach for a bit before taking the long way home through the northern part of the country. Just thinking about what salty air would taste like or how expansive red rocks would be in person made us forget about everything, just for one night.
 
Lia wasn’t my girlfriend, and she wasn’t my sister, but something in between. We’d grown up together and when tragedy hit our small town, we were both in the center of it. Danny was my best friend, the toddler next to me in photos taped to my parents’ refrigerator. In other ones, framed in dark mahogany, we wore caps and gowns. Tacked to my bulletin board, in Little League uniforms and at birthday parties—the history of our life together was everywhere in my house. My parents grieved him like they’d lost a son, which seemed accurate since I felt like I was mourning a brother. 
 
Lia had been Danny’s girlfriend. All through high school and college, the proverbial small-town romance. The most beautiful girl, wanted by everyone, and Danny, who was as affable as a guy could be. They both had lights in them that lit up the whole world, or at least our town. By default, as the third wheel, that light was cast on me as well.
 
Then, Danny wrecked his car, and everything went dark. And no, it wasn’t a drunk driving thing—it was just an accident. But he died, and Lia and I both went down in the grave with him. Our friendship changed; there was a gaping hole where what once connected us was gone. We needed each other more, but it was hard to grasp each other without the wash of sorrow knocking us over. A trauma bond. 
 
Months after the bitter November night where I sucked down shots of Fireball and Lia’s thirst for fruity cocktails seemed unquenchable, the plan that had begun as a mirage was taking place. Lia, a grad student, had five weeks off between sessions and lots of money saved up. I was still waiting tables, having never gone back to school after Danny. It was easy to quit. My parents were apathetic about my being a college drop-out, and now a jobless one, but they were happy to bankroll my road trip with Lia. I think my mom had some rose-colored dream that Lia and I were going to end up together and that would seal off the gap where Danny used to be.
 
We pretty much had a basic plan, which was to say we had no plan at all. It was based on our drunken dream, heading south first. Lia had all kinds of maps saved in the GPS and a notebook full of places she wanted to check out. She had an Instagram feed full of overlanders—people traveling with the journey as the purpose, not the destination. 
 
“We’re gonna grasp the hell out of life this summer,” she told me, forcing glee from behind the wheel of the brand-new Bronco her parents had lent her for the trip. Anything that would put a little bit of shine back in her eyes was worth it to them.
 
But we didn’t follow the plan-that-wasn’t-a-plan. We went south, but that was all. We hit beaches, but Lia was fonder of the hotel stays than our idea of camping as much as possible. It wasn’t as easy to find legal camping with the kind of aesthetics we wanted: directly on the beach, preferably under a full moon, in a temperate climate. The southern part of the country was humid and buggy. Hotels had clean showers and comfortable beds. 
 
One night, on a remote beach in Hatteras, Lia kissed me before we walked back to the Air BnB we were staying at. 
 
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she told me. But she was happy. That morning, she said, she’d seen a man running on the shore. And she felt…moved by him. 
 
“He was old, Nick. Like really old. All weathered and bent and practically naked and running, like he was a track star. And then, he stopped and dove into the ocean and just like…battled the waves. And then he got out and he freaking saluted the sun and did a whole bunch of yoga poses or tai chi or whatever you call it. And he was smiling the whole time. 
 
“And that, Nick, is what I want out of this trip. I want to feel alive again. That’s what Danny would want.” It wasn’t quite a full moon, but there was a light on her face anyhow. She was the most unburdened I’d seen her in a year, there on a tiny speck of land with the Atlantic all around us—all because of an old man.
 
For a while after that we broke from the coast, heading to Nashville, where Lia bought cowboy boots that were turquoise and hellishly expensive. Where we both donned hats and dripped sweat while country music pulsed around us. It wasn’t feeding Lia the same way, so we tried Gatlinburg, Tennessee next, but the mountains—which made it easier to breathe for me—were not what Lia wanted. 
 
So by the beginning of July, we were back to coastal towns. We drove to Key West, then to Punta Gorda. We went to South Padre Island and Galveston in Texas. We discarded the idea of the southwest and returned to Florida, to St. Pete’s and then up to South Carolina. There was literally no rhyme or reason—our path looked like a dropped ball of string. Lia would say, after a few days in one spot, where to next, Nick? And I would reply with the first thing that popped into my head. Lia liked to drive, and she held my hand a lot. She kept telling me it was just chaste affection—and it was, in her end, anyhow.
 
I was probably falling in love with her, but if that wasn’t what she wanted I was okay with keeping that to myself. Anything to see her smile. I found myself almost stupefied by this in-love thing, by the realization of how Danny must have felt every day. It was powerful and all-encompassing. I would have done anything for her.
 
The interesting thing that was happening was that Lia was convinced that she was seeing God. I know the story is jumping around here, but that’s kind of how the trip felt. But after we left the mountains, at every beach we visited, Lia saw the same man. I saw him too, a few times, so I’m not so sure that it was God. In Key West, on that first morning after we returned to the coast, I dragged myself out of the divine cloud of a hotel bed to join Lia for her early morning walk. 
 
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, moments after we touched sand, my eyes still bleary behind my sunglasses. “There he is!” 
 
And there he was: the man, or God, running right past us like he was about to leap imaginary hurdles, only to turn and dive into the ocean. In Hatteras, it had been choppy and angry but here, the water was clear and cerulean. After he swam, he did just as Lia predicted. She excitedly grasped my arm as if we were witnessing a miracle. 
 
“Yoga! Look at him…oh my God, same thing! This can’t be the same guy, we’re hundreds of miles away from Hatteras!”
 
I didn’t point out the unlikely prospect that it was indeed the same guy, and it was just one of those crazy glitch-in-the matrix-moments. Lia was lit up like a torch and that day was one of the first best days of our trip. We spent it lying on white sand, frying under the southern sun, and talking about Danny. In a good way. Not crying or lamenting about the unfairness of a life cut short too soon. We told each other stories that we both knew, listening in the way children listen to a well-loved bedtime book over and over. You know the outcome, but you want to hear it anyhow.
 
Lia was a fan of getting dressed up and going out to eat, documenting everything on her social media. Between that and the generous funds my parents were funneling me and the brand-new cactus gray Bronco we were cruising around in, it felt more like we were influencers than nomads, but whatever. That night we lazily stretched out our meal, sipping white wine so slowly that we never got drunk, and Lia kissed me, again. 
 
“I’m sorry Nick,” she giggled. “I know I should stop doing that. Its just…I feel happy, again. You know? I’ve been terrified I’d never feel happy again, you know? And instead of feeling guilty about that, I feel okay with it. Like Danny would be happy we’re together exploring the world.” 
 
“You mean exploring one quarter of the United States,” I joked, both to avoid the moment and to keep her laughing. 
 
Then she saw the old guy running in Punta Gorda, and again in Texas. She started to think I had some sort of magical power to just know where to go. She became staunch in her conviction that the man was God, the way old ladies who go to church every single Sunday believe in salvation. If not God, he was definitely some type of guardian angel. While we drove, we would speculate on the possibilities of what the man really was.
 
Those conversations were wonderful. It was a thing Danny had loved about Lia—how open she was to mystical matters, to the power of the universe, to love. How smart and intellectual she was behind these speculations. How spiritual she was, way deep down. I had never had such intimate conversations with Lia, before this summer, but I was beginning to understand why Danny had loved her. It wasn’t just a feeling, or an attraction. It went beyond that, deep into my core.
 
“Maybe the guy is Danny,” Lia said one afternoon, a rare moment when I was driving the Bronco and she had her feet up on the dashboard. She was wearing a ballcap that belonged to me and mirrored Aviators, and her hair spun all around her in wispy knots from the windows being down. For someone who loved hotels and central air and fine dining, Lia was totally okay with the wind and the dirt of the open road blowing on us for hours. 
 
“Maybe,” I agreed. 
 
Lia leaned back, smiling. “Like maybe he’s with us, you know? He wants us to heal and move on and live our lives, right Nick? You seem better too.” 
 
And she was right, kind of. I was still hurting, but it was a different kind of hurt. It was a needle prick compared to grief, but it was the needle prick of unrequited love, over and over, in the same spot until it felt sort of numb. If Lia had given me one crumb of hope that she felt more, wanted more, dreamt of more, I might have told her how I felt. But she maintained her it doesn’t mean anything status. Her kisses felt virtuous and faithful, as if she were infusing me with her spirit. But wasn’t that what love was supposed to feel like too?
 
But I was feeling lighter, there was no doubt about that. Salt and sun had cleansed me, and seeing Lia come back to life where the land met the sea was cathartic. Seeing her belief in God—literally, believing he was running on the beach in the body of an old man everywhere she went—filled me up a bit. Knowing I was her partner on this journey of self-healing, that I was doing right by Danny, I guess, filled me up more. 
 
Eventually, we ended up back in North Carolina. We liked the remoteness of Hatteras, the dogs that everyone had everywhere, the day trips back and forth the long stretch of Outer Banks. We’d suffer through the millions of stop lights and peak season tourists to get to the southern shores. Lia loved the wild horses, driving the Bronco on the beach, and the outdoor sand bars we found. It was August, and it was blisteringly hot, and we were heading home soon. Lia continued to see the old man, to come alive, and as our days wore down and our skin was brown and Lia’s hair was nearly white it was so bleached, we found ourselves reminiscing about the trip before it was even over. 
 
“Nick, this is a pinnacle in our life, you know. This summer. Danny’s death was the worst thing we’ve been through, but this? This is one of the best.” We were at Pea Island, a beach of stones and rough sand, sitting on a sandbar, our shorts wet, and muddy sand caked into our feet. The next day, we would begin the journey back north, taking it slow, but this time with a destination in mind instead of just wandering. This time, with an end point. 
 
The next morning, with the Bronco packed and the sun barely over the horizon, I suggested one last beach walk. We pulled over into an empty restaurant parking lot in Nags Head and walked hand in hand to the ocean. Holding hands was commonplace now, and it was something I was going to miss tremendously when Lia went back to grad school, and I tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. It felt like an anchor.
 
Just as I had known he would be, the man was running on the beach. God, Danny…or just a man. It didn’t matter. The morning sun grew blinding in a matter of minutes as we watched him run and swim and emerge from the water. Lia put her hands in her back pockets and raised her face to the sun when the old man did, closing her eyes and smiling along with him. Tears ran down her cheeks.
 
“Thank you, Danny,” Lia whispered, barely audible over the crash of the surf. She turned to me, squinting at the light. “And thank you Nick. What a perfect end to this summer—you and your magical ability to always know where to go. I’d follow you anywhere, you know that, right?”
 
I’d like to tell you that we went home, and Lia realized that she really was in love with me, and we spent every summer of our lives traveling like we did that year. What happened was more predictable. We went our own ways, staying close via text and Facebook, meeting up for a drink and a trip down memory lane over the holidays. 
 
I never told Lia about the guy who was traveling the country the same summer as us. She hated the doom and gloom of the news and never watched it, let alone read a newspaper, but I did. The first morning, when she saw “God”, I had already read about him. He was a dude, an old man, traveling the country with the intent of doing his run/swim/yoga routine on every beach he could. He had a whole blog and everything, but he was old school. He didn’t have Instagram and he didn’t take any photos, just wrote a journal about where he’d been and where he was going. He only had about a hundred followers. Lia never came across him. 
 
But I followed him religiously, and when Lia asked me to pick the next place, I’d go where the old man was going. I mean, I couldn’t predict the exact day and time he would be doing his thing, but she always seemed to see him. Maybe Lia was right and maybe there was something mystical at work. 
 
All I know is that my role that summer was to stay by Lia’s side, to read the old man’s blog and tell her where we should travel to next. Maybe it really was Danny, somehow putting it all together to breathe life back into us. And it did bring us back to life—all of it. Not just the old man, but the wildness of the open air, the lack of a plan, the rejuvenating powers of salt and sea air. 
 
Lia learned what it meant to be alive again. Her belief in God and the power of the universe healed her. And me?
 
I learned about love. 
 
","August 04, 2023 12:18","[[{'Dafna Flieg': 'This story touched my heart in so many ways and almost brought me to tears. The writing style and authenticity of showcasing this day and age really brought the story to life! I also found it personally relatable as I just went on a road trip to the Carolina’s! Loved every paragraph so much thank you for sharing!', 'time': '12:05 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Glorious writing and a lovely uplifting story.\nNick is a real gem. Sad his love wasn't returned the way he wanted at the time but ultimately the friendship will last forever and that's worth everything."", 'time': '06:44 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lindsay Flo': 'Thank you!', 'time': '00:44 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lindsay Flo': 'Thank you!', 'time': '00:44 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Really precious story, Lindsay.', 'time': '15:17 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lindsay Flo': 'Thank you!', 'time': '00:19 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lindsay Flo': 'Thank you!', 'time': '00:19 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,v4fs3g,Off Route: A Mike Dodge Mystery,Martin Ross,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v4fs3g/,/short-story/v4fs3g/,Adventure,0,"['Contemporary', 'Mystery']",10 likes,"
The second thing I noticed about the man on the bench was his copy of National Geographics Journeys of a Lifetime. It had fallen into the dirt beside the wrought-iron/soy composite seat – the one I’d probably seen him occupying a half dozen times. I assumed he’d obtained it only recently, probably a gift or an Amazon whim – the second half of the volume was flat, clean, unsullied as yet. The first half had been turned and worried and crimped, and I saw the edge of a bookmark peeking from the pages.The first thing I noted about the man was that his throat had been torn pretty much to shit. The book had escaped the blood spatter in the fall, no doubt as he flailed against death. Sometimes, it actually is more about the destination than the journey.**My first bike of note was a 1969 Schwinn Hollywood. The green: Steel frame, two-toned saddle, silver/chrome fenders, none of that ten-speed shit -- two gears and a chain you could walk back on without a frigging toolkit or junior engineering badge. Despite its French derivation, Terre Haute had a famous federal penitentiary and industrial aromas to spare but nothing with the hubris to call itself a mountain.Neither E.T. nor Breaking Away were a glimmer in Spielberg or Yates’ eyes back then – I had mainly The Beav as a role model (Wiki it up, punks), and besides, it was a free ride, spanking bright and, unlike nearly anything the Dodges of Center Street possessed, untouched beyond the dudes at the Schwinn plant, a couple of Smith’s Department Store flunkies and the manager who conferred it to me with minimal fanfare, and a Terre Haute Star photog likely pressed into odious ad department duty on a Saturday morning. I probably wasn’t that hyped myself about rise-and-shining after a week in the elementary school mineshafts and missing Scooby Doo, but a good chunk of my pre-pubescent life had been spent in some Dr. Seuss/Roald Dahl nightmare in the Smith’s shoe stacks, and I was damned if the bastards didn’t owe me something.For me, the Hollywood came to represent a certain autonomy worth tortuous shoe shopping: At 12 I pressed the Schwinn into service delivering the morning Star, shivering and flinging in the wee smelly hours before the Terre Haute dawn, proudly (and moronically) disavowing my meager weekly allowance, and, ultimately, underwriting my state university tuition.The new bikes were Sarah’s notion. A half-century of respective divorced motherhood and sedentary meat and cheese had caught up to us, and one impetuous day after concluding the burial vault was a poor hidey-hole for whatever we didn’t squander in senility and system failure, we popped for a pair of electric-assist cycles. At 50 percent clearance, maybe more a whimper than a pop, with me doing the lion’s share of whimpering.Senior autonomy is a different groove, but no less invigorating. With an electronic boost to help our sorry asses over hill and dale and redneck-congested intersection, we expanded our exploration range and lunch and shopping options, and discovered The Trails. Millington was crisscrossed with miles of canopied, vegetative, graded, pothole-free corridors I’d previously believed reserved for Fitbit-addicted millennial runners, retired professors who raised heirloom zucchini and read books and shit, sketchy folk who liked to mug or sell pot to millennial runners and literate oldsters, and horny students seeking a coital glade with an element of risk.What I found – beyond about 50 percent of the above – was a virtual system of wormholes between Chateau Dodge and Hardee’s, Dodge Ranch and Monical’s Pizza, Mike’s Suburban Fringe Hideaway and the Panda Express, well, you get the jist of zero-sum fitness. Today, tragically, Sarah had opened the wormhole exclusively between Villa Dodge, Krogers, and the Walgreens.After a winter journey to the Keys that had broken my two-year COVID-free streak (DeSantisland and back on peak discount flights -- who’d have figured?) and a dozen unanticipated expenses on our return to the Garden Spot of the West Nile (Virus), we decided to remain staycationers at least until the first rime of frost. Too bad, really, because if there was a great last time to see Earth, it was probably 2023. July went down as the hottest in the recorded history of the planet, and somewhere not too far from where I’d cavorted with dolphins before catching the Cov, a 3,000-year-old coral reef just up and died because some asshole or assholes had turned the Atlantic into a saltwater hot tub.And Central Illinois into Florida, with the prime benefit of not having to be in Florida. Entering the trail off Campustown was like diving into the pre-Global Boiling Atlantic – the tree-lined conduit was a good 20 degrees cooler, and the sweat began to dissipate as I doled out inane salutations and companionable body language. Louis Armstrong must have taken the wrong psych courses – love was pointedly not what the folks were telepathically communicating, at least not on the Logsplitter Trail. With a few octogenarian and multicultural exceptions, it seemed closer to love’s more carnal cousin, in a second-person colloquial sense. Buff old dude in a wheelchair nearly steamrollered me.COVID had dinged the foundering social contract between Gen-plussers facing Trump Act 2 and the climactic extinction event and the Supreme Court road show of Handmaid’s Tale, the Boomers they blamed for the whole shooting match, and settled Millennials whose frosty and multidirectional guardedness I’d never quite suss-ed out. I spotted the man on the bench probably about 40 yards up as I traded a nod at a hippo pit and her thirtysomething with stroller for a “Don’t even” death glare. The gray man was in his usual tan khakis, non-descript polo shirt, and those velcro’ed sneakers that would only get you into a Hammer concert these days. He had his usual read open on his lap; I’d never caught a glimpse of the cover.Sarah pulled over to the scrubby berm to the right of the blacktop to adjust her helmet and grab a sip of her blackberry Hint. I was still getting used to my own helmet – I looked like a mushroom Super Mario might have zapped out of mercy.“Drink up,” my bride insisted. I sipped obediently and reconnoitered the trail ahead. We mounted up and dodged a fully-costumed would-be Lance Armstrong except with more balls as I heard a commotion of birds ahead. A pair of retouched Bridgerton recappers turned briefly back as we whizzed past, and I swerved to avoid a perpendicular chipmunk. Then, suddenly, I could read the logo on Lance Jr.’s streamlined helmet, and my hand-brake squealed as Sarah informed me I was about to hit the guy I almost hit and I skidded nearly into a burly young guy murmuring into his iPhone in that idiotic Euro cigarette case way I usually associate with folks who’ve binged too much Succession.        “Fuck, dude!” the near-victim yelped. “No dude, not you fuck. This dude fuck.” He looked at me in my big fungal polycarbon helmet. “I don’t mean fuck you, dude. But, fuck, dude.”“I think I understand,” I nodded. Then I turned to Lance. “But, dude, kinda what he said.”The cyclist turned to me, eyes huge, skin gray, and jerked his encased skull toward the off-trail alcove with its Millington Parks Department bench and the NatGeo tour guide and the Velcro AARP kicks and the torn-up throat.**With Curtis’ OK, I sent Sarah off with the provolone. It was about noon now, and even under the canopy of poplar and maple, we were dangerously close to melting or at least coagulation stage.“The birds,” I suggested.“One of Hitchcock’s best.”“Something flushed them out of the trees right before me and Grand Prix there came up on him. Like maybe a dude with a machete.”“More like a hacksaw,” Det. Mead grunted, side-saddle on the Millington Parks golf-cart he’d had to take up here. His Parks Department escort was chatting with the Bridgerton. Burly Dude and Grand Prix were on their phones, explaining they’d be late to whatever. “Serrated edge, lotta force. No signs of trampled vegetation on the hill behind the bench. I don’t see how the killer could come up from the side or for a frontal assault and nobody see anything.”“I can’t see how it could have happened so quickly. We stopped back there for a water break, and he was reading peacefully. The only people we saw were the Real Housewives of Millington and Grand Prix and the big guy there – Ari.”“The Real Housewives – Donna and Bev to be procedurally accurate – actually know the victim, who before you devise a witty nickname for him is William Collins, who lives about six blocks down, just off the trail. Wife says he comes here to get away and read about ‘the places he’ll never go.’”“Burgess Meredith.”“You know,” Curtis responded, “They’re doing marvelous things with Pop Culture Tourette’s these days.”“Burgess Meredith on the Twilight Zone. The bank teller who just wants to read his books. The book we found next to the bench describes the top destinations on Earth to see, and it looks like he rations it out each day on the bench. He’s not even halfway through. You still got the book, right? Can I show you something?”“It sounds like you already know the thing cover to cover.” There was judgment.“Can I show you something?”Curtis gloved up, I think more out smugness, and pulled the guide from a plastic evidence sleeve. He handed me a second pair of gloves, I chalked it off my taxes, and flipped to the bookmark. It was at the end of the fourth of nine chapters, ‘On Foot,’ detailing the treasures to be found in South Africa’s highest mountain range, The Drakensberg, including barking rock baboons, always a treat. The fifth chapter, “In Search of Culture” had been perused through the ‘Top 10 Vanishing Places,’ including the Glades, the Amazon, and the Great Barrier Reef, which had gotten a bleach job courtesy of climate change. Maybe about halfway through, I assumed, Collins had read his last. The only sign of handling past the Doom Tour was a crimped corner at the end of the chapter.“He folded back the corner of each chapter, probably to gauge the time he had left in his little trailside sojourn,” I suggested. “With a bookmark to keep his place ‘til his next getaway.”“Wife actually coaxed him into getting out, even just on the trail,” Curtis noted. “Nearly died a few years back – West Nile, back in 2015. He worked for the county -- lawyer managed to get Collins a small shut-up settlement, argued he was exposed to an unnecessary mosquito risk, county negligence, yada yada. But the wife – ought to be here by now – says he was a wreck even before COVID, only started leaving the house a few months back. This is what you wanted to show me?”I held up a finger. “Let’s go back. I spotted this right after the murder. Right about the middle of Chapter Three, ‘By Rail.’” In the upper left edge of the right page, was a single reddish-brown streak terminating in a partial print. “Guess is, it’s Collins’.”“The deceased succumbed to carotid complications from a paper cut.”“One bloody fingerprint. Just one. How often you see that? Wouldn’t you expect to see more stains?,” I countered, turning the book over and tilting it until the light glancing through the canopy reflected off the matte cover. “You can see where the back cover’s been cleaned – where the lamination’s duller. Collins probably missed the internal stain– it’s on the right page, blotted onto the left, and when he resumed reading, he began on the next page. So the book got bloody – not too bloody, and whatever happened apparently made Collins run home. Maybe a mugging attempt, some pissed-off meth head. Or maybe William Collins committed his own act of violence.” I glanced across the path. “Hey, Ari?”The bulky young man was now scribbling in a small notebook with an Audubon sketch on the cover. Ari looked up and hustled over.“Ari here is a birder,” I told Curtis. “Ornithologist?”“Birder’s cool,” the big guy murmured in a deceptively high timbre.“Detective Mead, Ari. Ari’s from Champaign. Why do you grace us today, Ari?”Ari turned to Curtis, who regarded him as some odd species crapping on his car roof. “How much you know about migratory patterns?”“Illuminate me.”“Well, you know we’re going through some pretty radical climactic shifts, right?”“Heard tell.”“Well, it’s really effed up a lot of avian migratory patterns. The black-chinned hummingbird for one — the usual range is west of the Mississippi, up from the Gulf through Texas into the Northwest, Canada. Breeding range, of course… Oh, sorry. Thing is, there’ve been a few sightings in Illinois, one a couple weeks back right around here. I’d give my right nut to get one on my life list.” Curtis perked. “Shit, man, it’s birder jargon — these hardcore guys, they’ll quit their jobs to finish their year, run all over the place. Me, I got my mom to take care of, so something like this comes along…”“What is this?” Curtis asked me, bluntly.“Who reported the local hummingbird sighting?” I inquired, hastily.Ari shrugged. “Goes by RatiteKing. Which is kinda weird, since the only North Americans ratites — big flightless birds -- have been extinct for, well, I’m no paleontologist—”“What we need from you, Detective,” I blurted. “Is to search the thicket right behind and around the bench. We’re looking for a body, possibly bodies.”Curtis had learned over time to trust my deductive genius, or simply hoped to avert a stroke. He yelled to the Parks guy, who jumped and reluctantly left the Bridgerton Appreciation Society.It didn’t take long for the ‘ranger’ (?) to locate the mangled, partially skeletonized, probably nibbled-on remains. Three small corpses, enough plumage still remaining for me to look to Ari.“Well, obviously, those ain’t hummingbirds,” the birder said with a mingled tinge of regret and relief. “But, dudes…” He reached for his bird log, then glanced up guiltily. “Sorry…”**He was on his deck next morning, almost as if waiting for us. Dan Arden, though I’d only known him as the angry old wheelchair guy on the trail.Sarah and her ex had actually used Arden Rodent Control before the founder had retired to travel the globe, scoring birdies on the course and the bush. RatiteKing — a bitter double pun for the flightless former exterminator — was legend in Ari’s community for his country and species lists, until a Jeep drove his rented motor scooter off a Hawaiian trail.The rest of the story came into focus as I surveyed his deep backyard. Raw soil mingled with wood pulp was compacted where a presumably huge tree had been, and a smaller, surviving maple had been amputated to a nearly vertical totem, exposed cambium ragged and twisted like WIlliam Collins’ throat. Up a steep incline, I could spot the bench where the agoraphobic Mitty had died.“Our guys almost immediately IDed the blood in the victim’s book as avian, not human,” Curtis began. “Mr. Dodge here has some campus connections, and we expect to confirm species within a day or two.”Arden fixed us both with a sorrowful but icy stare. “I can ID species now, show you my photos and log entry on the real — live — thing. Fucker just massacred them, senselessly. Viciously. I saw him just batter at them with that book he always brought with him, but I couldn’t do anything. I screamed at him to stop, but he just kept going…”“Collins probably had PTSD — he’d nearly died from West Nile,” I explained, like that would help. “His wife finally cajoled him out of the house, and the only place he felt safe was on that trail bench. But he was still basically surrounded by bugs, possibly even the mosquitoes that had ruined his life. And birds. Mosquitoes are the carriers, of course, but the dead birds signal the virus is live. Like now — few dead crows around here have tested positive.“So while he vicariously traveled the world, Collins was probably also on tenterhooks, watching for any sign of ‘dangerous’ wildlife. Then a virtual flock of colorful, strange swallows on their new migratory route lights right in front of him, on the bench, dangerously close. Collins starts to bat them away with the only weapon he had, kills one or two, then the panic and suppressed anger takes over.”“I recovered two of them,” Arden interrupted harshly, sloshing his ice tea as he gestured toward the maimed maple. “Buried them out there. After, you know, they were my life. I have a whole book just on the habitat I built back here, but after that, just couldn’t be a party to luring those poor creatures into a human environment any more.“When I got out on the trail the other day and saw that…man…sitting on the same bench where he’d savaged those beautiful creatures, I knew I had one more job. Took me a few to get home, but it was still out, and he was still there. I got a pretty good swing — one of the few things I still got.”Curtis spotted the telescoping pole saw by the fenceline. Arden had wiped the saw blade, but only half-heartedly. It was 94 at 10 a.m., but I felt something cold and utterly black squirm in my gut.“Why there was no disturbance in the thicket,” Curtis said with clinical necessity. “You must have some powerful upper body strength. Why didn’t you at least hide it or get rid of it? Jesus, dude, you ripped the man’s throat wide open!”“I guess,” the former ornithologist, former killer smiled vibrantly, “I’m only human.”
","August 04, 2023 20:20","[[{'Mary Bendickson': ""Collector of murder methods. And always at the wrong spot at the right time or other way around. How would Curtis solve anything without Dodge's digging?🦽🚲\nAlways love your sleuthing."", 'time': '18:53 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'I want to do one where Curtis shows Mike a few things — he’s a smart guy who simply has to be convinced by a lunatic sometimes🤣. I recycled this method from a really bad detective/sci fi story I wrote that EQMM rejected.🤣🤣', 'time': '18:56 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'I want to do one where Curtis shows Mike a few things — he’s a smart guy who simply has to be convinced by a lunatic sometimes🤣. I recycled this method from a really bad detective/sci fi story I wrote that EQMM rejected.🤣🤣', 'time': '18:56 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Really loved this from start to finish! Kept me hooked, though admittedly, I didn’t know where I was going for a bit in there! I laughed at “pop culture Tourette’s” as you tossed it all around the story! Fun read, Martin! 🐦', 'time': '00:31 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Nina! I think my wife thinks I suffer from that syndrome. I’d been hanging onto that murder method for a while, and it just fit here.', 'time': '01:34 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Nina! I think my wife thinks I suffer from that syndrome. I’d been hanging onto that murder method for a while, and it just fit here.', 'time': '01:34 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kimberly Schramm': 'So many twists and turns - excellent modern Noir story!', 'time': '17:05 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Kimberly!', 'time': '20:21 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Kimberly!', 'time': '20:21 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Cassie Finch': 'nice one!', 'time': '03:17 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks!', 'time': '03:59 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Cassie Finch': ""You're welcome Martin."", 'time': '09:39 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks!', 'time': '03:59 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Cassie Finch': ""You're welcome Martin."", 'time': '09:39 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Cassie Finch': ""You're welcome Martin."", 'time': '09:39 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'very cool.', 'time': '01:40 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thank you!', 'time': '23:23 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'welcome.', 'time': '00:58 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thank you!', 'time': '23:23 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'welcome.', 'time': '00:58 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'welcome.', 'time': '00:58 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,2m64ax,Top tier ‘green flag’ energy,Angela Govender,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2m64ax/,/short-story/2m64ax/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Romance']",10 likes,"
I first met her at an intercollege competition. The moon's pure white light turned my world ablaze when I saw her. She had a petite figure, a curved waist, and a fair complexion with a beautiful yellow undertone. The thin gold necklace she wore around her neck enhanced her facial features. The hint of gold made her look warm and elegant. Her lush s-shaped eyebrows raised mildly as she took notice of me. We kept interchanging looking at each other. Her eyelashes fluttered while she was staring down at her notebook pensively – mild mascara was applied to her naturally beautiful and curly eyelashes. 
 
As I planned to approach her and walked closer to her, I felt cold waves down my body watching how well-designed her nose piercing was for her cute button nose. She murmured to me “Excuse me” with a rather gentle and soothing voice. I could not muster up the courage to speak to her and nothing, but air came out of my mouth. 
 
She silently had been observing me and to my surprise, she befriended me. I felt 10 years younger than my age and she made me feel as if I was in high school. She is the sweetest person I have met in my life, but everything felt complicated at that moment. I know I have left her with memories, but I am aware I appeared to be a selfish jackass to her. She was out of my league and I certainly felt a strong attraction towards her, but I was not willing to give up my independence. 
 
To my surprise, she is just as ambitious as I am. Goal-oriented should I say in the least. At that point it was complex we came from two different cultures, I barely knew her and assumed her sweetness was all just a mask. It seemed to me that she was in search of love and she was really committed to whatever she wanted. I had a bunch of douchebag friends, they were of the same culture as her, and envied the fact that she was the prettiest girl and gave all her attention to me. She is naturally an introvert and struggled to tell me how she felt – I did not know what to make of it – and for a guy like me who lives in the moment, I did not really know how to try to make an effort. 
 
My friends have always said I have quite the charm and my charisma can attract anyone – which was the truth, I attracted everyone, so making an effort towards any relationship was new to me. Months later thoughts of her lingered in my mind. I strategically planned to stalk her on social media, no not the obsessive psychotic kind of stalking, but the gentle research kind of stalking. Yes, she is still single! That somehow made my heart happy, and she glowed even more. There is something mysterious about her, she is gentle yet a true leader. Yes, she is the complete package and maybe the one meant for me. 
 
***pensive thinking***
 
Every time I hugged her, I could sense myself responding to my most biological instincts because I saw her as worth protecting. Yet, I withdrew myself from her and just ran off. We haven’t been in contact for a year, but the warmth she made me feel reminded me that I had to deal with my parental wounds. She is a born nurturer and her divine feminine and masculine traits coexist in perfect harmony. 
 
Whereas, I am always fixated on a goal and try to be ahead of the game. Does that make me tough? Probably does, I set my focus on my work and forget every emotion and person while doing so, but she is not that easy to forget. For the first time, I feel like slowing down in life and inviting someone else into my life. Sharing my life with someone else did not sound like a bad idea at all. A thousand thoughts ran through my mind, I wondered if Ouma would like her. I wonder if she and I would clash – she is conservative and orthodox, but the largest at heart. 
 
Why do I suddenly feel the need to protect her from the people who take her kindness for granted and bully her around? The strange enough thing is she is well aware of this, but you know what is even stranger, she is even able to stay calm under all the chaos. She is refreshingly honest, she is on the go, cheerful, a happy mind, and a subtly arrogant, but classy woman. Our minimal interactions keep playing over and over again in my mind like a tape recorder that is stuck on repeat. It scares me a little more that if I invite her into my life, would I get completely immersed in her way of life?
 
I once said to her “Jy is `n slim meisie, jy moet weet” during our conversation in the hopes that she would understand I was also attracted to her. She definitely understood what I meant, she is a smart cookie and sagacious, but I can still remember her reaction to my statement that day. She charmingly looked at me appreciative of what I said to her, but in awe that I would recognize how smart she is. That there is humility personified – around her I become someone softer, I felt more alive, yet uncomfortable. 
 
I can feel her presence in my dreams, and I can sense that our journey isn’t over. That intercollege competition was just a social event that I wanted to attend to unwind after exams, it was not meant to be life-changing, but here I am..!
 
***somber music playing***
 
I began scrolling through my feeds aimlessly changing between content, while my brain did its thing releasing dopamine kicking up a rumpus. 
 
***mindless scrolling***
 
My brain started buzzing with thoughts and all those thoughts just craved leads on her. I searched through a hundred of webpages and suddenly landed on pages that redirected me to her work. All her work somehow led me to discovering she is genuine, filled with love and she has been protecting her heart. She suddenly worked her magic like water to the inferno within me. 
 
Have you ever met an old soul who rejoices in their wisdom? I have! That is her – she has lived through the deepest nights and the sprightliest days. 
 
It triggered me that her beauty goes unnoticed. Almost like white light passing through a prism unaware that it is a permutation of all colors in the color spectrum. In the same way, her presence, appearance, purity, and perspective in life altered mine. 
 
In the pursuit of figuring her out, I have become a better person. 
 
Did she personify the sixth beatitude found in Matthew 5:8? Blessed is her pure heart, for she makes me feel closer to God. 
 
***unfolding of life***
 
Hubba, Hubba!
","August 02, 2023 12:31","[[{'Aeris Walker': 'I could see this working really well formatted as journal entries. It already had such a raw transparency, that I can easily imagine the scenes of a man pouring his heart out into his notebook. You have some lovely descriptions throughout. Nicely done :)', 'time': '01:12 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Angela Govender': 'Thank you for taking the time to read Aeris. Much appreciated, glad you enjoyed it. Yes, the character is portrayed with a lot of depth.', 'time': '13:54 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Govender': 'Thank you for taking the time to read Aeris. Much appreciated, glad you enjoyed it. Yes, the character is portrayed with a lot of depth.', 'time': '13:54 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nicole Pillay': 'Beautiful, creative and soulful writing!', 'time': '16:36 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Angela Govender': 'Thank you dear Nicole!', 'time': '13:52 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Govender': 'Thank you dear Nicole!', 'time': '13:52 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,92we7z,Spread Your Wings and Break Your Neck,Benja Catton,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/92we7z/,/short-story/92we7z/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Coming of Age', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
TW: Suicidal themes.We crossed the state border right at sunrise. It was nearly the summer solstice. A rare crack of dawn thunderstorm was blowing across the bare mountains and high plains. We pulled over on the side of the interstate and got out to recharge our batteries in the static air. Huge dendrites of electricity spread from the sky to the ground lighting up the open landscape. We offered up high fives, hollers, and laughs to the lightning gods, then slammed the car doors, cranked the stereo, and zoomed on. Our 1 AM departure was born from our desperation for this adventure. Work day fatigue and unpreparedness be damned. We couldn't wait another minute. We couldn't sleep. It was our first chance as 'adults.'We made it a bit past Salt Lake City before our energy levels were dangerously low. One minute we were careening down another mountain pass shout-singing Tom Petty’s “Free Falling,” and the next we were shuffling away from our parked car at a rest area off into the red clay and sage with our sleeping pads tucked under our arms to stretch out on some open ground. The sun was coming straight down on the baked ground. We rolled around on the uncomfortable dirt, swatting flies and ants, our shirts wrapped around our faces. We tried it for an hour, wanting sleep to come, and feeling tormented by the heat and insects. “I’m not getting any rest,” I told Theo.“Yep. None.” He sat upright in agreement, fed up. “Let’s keep driving.” We put some Visine in our tired eyes and pushed on. Closer to night, we rolled our sleeping bags out on a sliver of lawn on the outskirts of a small town.We awoke at first light to the familiar, summer sound of hissing and gurgling water. We tried to ignore it, but the sounds evolved into the chic-chic-chicking sprinklers. Shots of water swept over us. We stumbled to the car and loaded up.Finally, we arrived at Arches National Park!We stopped at every pullout to compose photographs. The red landscape swallowed us. We wandered out into it.Visiting National Parks with my family was always the closest thing I had to church, though there was never an explicit spiritual worldview that went along with it. Perhaps it was more like the closest thing our family had to going to a family cemetery, since our clans had moved around generation after generation and were buried in different lands unknown. As a family, we went to experience wonder at nature’s beauty, but I was also taught to mourn it, to mourn the landscape I was immersed in. Ecology lessons always boiled down to humanity’s devastating impacts over the past few centuries. There was always a sense of looming extinction. In that gloom, we were taught no optimism for rebirth or regeneration, just sadness for humanity's colossal hubris.Now I was interpreting it on my own terms.We marveled at the geology before us. The immensity of time on display was overwhelming. And this was simply Earth time. Rock wearing away particle by particle with wave after wave of light, air, and water. Time etching phenomenal scenes in perpetual flux, yet giving a distinct impression of finality. An arch carved seems a goal met, and we had to remind ourselves that “art is not eternal.” These monuments are only here temporarily, and then make way. We are lucky to glimpse what is, let us imagine what has and will be. Music is movement is motion is time.We stumbled upon petroglyphs left by ancient humans, and a wall carved by wind into hundreds of holes that modern humans had filled with little stacks of pebbles. We kept the general direction of the road under tabs and found our way back to the trailhead with time. We camped by a big, brown river, and bullfrogs bellowed around us. The bullfrogs were a wild surprise. Everything was ripe. “Onward to California!” We chanted. Keep the momentum. We are all clocks racing towards: your choice.We drove from Arches on through Capitol Reef National Park, stopping at as many pull-outs to sight see, to swim in high desert creeks, and to scamper as we could. We were going to continue on, excited about the ocean and surfing, but we noticed the car was running hot. We pulled over. The radiator cracked and we were losing coolant.“Well balls,” I croaked, “this will be a headache.”We kicked about the car and pulled out the road atlas to see what our options were.We refilled the radiator with water for a quick limp down the road.We made it to a tiny town called Bicknell and found the only mechanic. He gave the car a look-see and decided the radiator could not be mended and would need to be replaced. We’d have a couple days to spend in Bicknell. We weren’t sure how bummed to be. It wasn’t a planned stop, but the area was beautiful. I was a little worried about the money, but I didn’t like to think about things like that in a reality embracing manner - better as a background feeling. We opted for a forty dollar motel room, since we had nowhere to lock our stuff up with the car at the shop. “Let’s get drunk tonight,” I suggested. At home I had friends I called to get booze. That clearly wasn’t possible now. I hung around the liquor store parking lot and approached the few ""rule-breaking"" looking people I saw going in. The first two attempts went poorly. The third attempt worked. The guy eyed me up, then shrugged and took my money. We threw the beer in a backpack and wandered out of town on a dirt road then up a desert bluff to drink in the dry countryside. Red-cliffed plateaus surrounded the town. Sparse sage and short pines dotted the land. After tromping for a spell, we spotted a tree fort nailed into a scrubby pine tree about ten feet off the ground. It was obvious, even from afar, in the scant cover. A perfect find! We lugged our beer up the tree. It was fun to drink beer up high, to have big views of our surroundings, and to pee out of the fort when the time came. Theo had only imbibed a dozen times maybe. I’d been present for most of them. He showed his alcohol quickly. I liked that about drinking though. I didn’t see a point in trying to act sober when you were drinking. I wanted to get weird, get goofy, get wound up, get emotional.Theo was upset with his family. His parents were strange. His father was cold. He was conservative in his manner and his philosophy. He had high expectations and gave little praise. He was a pathologist, and matter-of-factly told me he “cut up dead people” for a living. His mother was mild and quiet. She deferred to his father under all circumstances. She was a stay-at-home mom. The house ran on obedience.“I just can’t see how the hell they ended up as they are. How they see things. They’re already so antiquated. And rigid too. They're cold. Cruel even.” He felt it was a big task to reconcile himself, them, and the rest of the world. It was too big a task. Our perch was unbeatable. We had lucked into a good evening. The air was hot, the view shimmered, and we had beer. The red cliffs changed colors like embers flickering in a bed of coals as the sun lowered in the sky. We were drinking fast. A light hot wind stirred our tree. “I don’t want to be like them.” Theo shook his head. “It’s so hard to bite my tongue on every opinion. I get dragged through dinner table conversation after dinner table conversation, expected to listen to and affirm and adopt their opinions. Why would they want me to be them when they’re not happy? I want to yell: ‘Look at how you are! How you feel! Try something else!’ But they seem to think they’re doing it all right and everyone else is fucking it up for them.”“My parents would never admit they have no idea what they’re doing in this world.” I agreed.Theo sighed. “I’d like to scare them somehow, if I could,"" he said. ""Wake them up. Shift their perspective. Or I’d like to just not have to deal with them. Not have to perform for them. I can’t wait to move away for college, it’s going to save my life.”“Spread your wings,” I joked, gesturing to the open landscape splayed beneath our perch. “And break my neck,” he said dourly, then laughed. “You don’t have to keep them, you know.” I stared at Theo like I knew everything.“Whaddaya mean?” He leaned in for another beer. “Family is just an idea – a construct. There is nothing actually tying you together, binding you. You don’t have to see them ever again, you don’t even have to like them.”“Well I’m supposed to love them,” he said with disgust.“Well, yeah, you love them,” I shrugged.“I don’t know,” he winced, “I think I hate them.” “Yeah, if they were anyone else, you’d hate them.” I said.“Good god I’d hate them.” Theo squished another empty can. We continued on for hours. We howled. We sang. We cried. We shouted. We peed out of the fort laughing and swaying. We hung out in our tree fort ‘til all of the stars were out, then tumbled out of it in the crisp dark.Another day died on the vine while we waited for the car.I was restless. Hunger pangs ran through me - I wanted something from this trip - so did Theo. I wanted something from my life; I demanded it without knowing what it was. I wanted to fill the vacuum in my chest.We checked on the car in the afternoon. It was all stitched up with a new radiator. I paid up reluctantly.We boogied out of town, back on the road to California. We skateboarded around at a school that evening when we could drive no more. After it got dark, we climbed on to the building and slept on the roof. With the kids out for the summer, we could roll bags out under the night sky.We charged on first thing in the morning. We were back in high gear. Time enough to smell the flowers, once per flower, then back in the car and let’s go! We made a stop in Las Vegas in the late evening. Being that we were both barely eighteen, and both broke, we couldn’t really do much in the way of typical Las Vegas attractions. But our curiosity about the place got the best of us. Neither of us had ever been there. We found a parking garage for the car and left it to wander the lit up strip on foot.Our plan was to smoke a cigarette in front of the Bellagio’s huge fountains, imitating the final scene from a heist movie we’d enjoyed. That’d be our fun. We found the Bellagio Hotel and stood at the fence, leaning on the rail. Twenty minutes went by. Nothing happened. It was about 10:30 at night.“Maybe they go off on the hour?” Theo speculated.“Let me get one of those cigarettes now anyway.” I asked him. We were sharing packs, neither of us being full-time smokers. I lit it up and we waited some more. They were always less satisfying than I anticipated.“Sure is bright.” We were eyeing the cityscape and watching the people walk by.“Yeah, I feel like a Christmas tree ornament. What a weird place. What a weird world.” I was halfway disgusted, halfway amazed. It shouldn’t exist. It can’t exist indefinitely.“It’s hard to believe people actually live here - like all the time. Can you imagine waking up to this every day?” Theo was overwhelmed too.11:00 pm rolled by. The fountain was completely still.“What the fuck?” I complained.We stood around for another ten minutes because we had no other plan for our stop. A trio of high-heeled, mini-skirted, tube-topped, made-up women went by. They may have been working. They eyed us skeptically. One called out, “Look! Choir boys!” and they all cracked up.“What the fuck?” I asked again of Theo. I was appalled. I felt like a freshmen in high school again.A fellow walked by us for a second time, passing in the opposite direction. “The fountains stop at 10:00 pm,"" he said as he walked by.“Well,” Theo nodded, “that makes sense.”“Ugh. Let’s get the hell out of Las Vegas.”“Done. I give up on trying to understand the 'adult' world.""We went back to the parking garage to find the car.We started battling our way towards the interstate. Traffic and pedestrians streamed around us everywhere. Theo studied the map and gave me directions. We made slow progress through a few intersections, then hit a stand still. We were engrossed in sharing our impressions of the city, and didn’t realize for a few minutes that traffic was completely shut down.“Now what?” I asked, craning my head around to try to see what the holdup was. The light about a block up was green, but no one was moving. I noticed cop lights in the middle of the intersection.People were starting to honk. I rolled the window down to re-awaken my senses. A helicopter's thwacking rose from the city's din. I put my head out to see it. It was a police helicopter. We were right under the Stratosphere, a giant, futuristic-Eiffel-Tower-esque building. Near the top of the tower was a roller coaster thrill ride, which was itself another smaller tower protruding out at a slight angle from a high up saucer like deck. The helicopter was shining a spotlight on the ride tower. A person was climbing it.“Whoa, Theo, there is a person way up there on the outside of the Stratosphere. Look! Look!” I urged him. “In the spotlight! What’s he doing?!”“Yikes.” Theo uttered in a low voice. He was squished up against the dash, his nose close to the windshield.The person reached the top of the ride tower. Somehow they were able to stand balanced at the top. The spotlight engulfed the person, baptizing them in light. They brought their arms straight out and tilted their head back and slowly turned a circle, balanced on who knows what. They looked suspended in air, or even to be rising into the spotlight, pulled up by invisible strings tied to their chin and chest. It reminded me of a stained glass scene in a cathedral, way up.The person jumped. Or they sort of fell, back first, through the air, flipping over. I could hear Theo inhale through his teeth. My stomach clenched and I felt sick. I wanted to look away. They were coming down really close to us. We were going to see them hit the ground right near us. Theo groaned.The person fell and we held our breath. He was plummeting. Then a big white thing climbed up his back and neck and leapt upward. It puffed up and found its shape and rigidity as a paraglider. His freefall snapped and he pendulumed back and forth as the wing caught and he started to steer it down.“Jesus!” Theo whisper shouted, moving at the dash to keep the jumper in view.“Jesus Christ! I thought he was killing himself,” I said. My face was all scrunched up in an anxious feeling, bordering on crying.“Here he comes!” Theo shouted, and we both moved inside the car to keep the person in sight. He crossed over the four lane street to Theo’s side and came down in a parking lot. He hit the asphalt in full sprint, throwing off the chest harness that connected him to the paraglider as soon as he touched down. A half-dozen or so police were sprinting at the person like special teams on a kick return. The jumper was fast, they all disappeared down an alleyway behind a building.“Wow! That was not what I expected. That was crazy.” I was stunned. “I am so glad.” I stumbled for words. “I am so glad that that was awesome.” I was still looking for the group of runners, twisted around in my seat.“Yeah, that was a ride watching that! Like he escaped a suicide!” Theo sat back finally.Traffic started to move again. The helicopter hovered over the direction the person had run in. The spotlight was sweeping back and forth.“He must still be evading them!” we mused.We crawled forward. Finally, we made the interstate. The helicopter was still sweeping.We cheered.“Go, dude, go!"" ""Pull one over on them!"" ""Escape!"" ""Get away!"" ""Jump and keep running!”
","August 03, 2023 05:02","[[{'Joan Wright': 'Loved your story. You have a way with words. You moved from poetry to cold hard facts. Back and forth like a choreographed dance. Well done! Loved how the jumper broke into the mood of the boys and uplifted them. I could picture them and their journey.', 'time': '22:08 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Benja Catton': 'Thank you, Joan! Thanks for taking the time to read this and for your generous comments. :)', 'time': '14:41 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Benja Catton': 'Thank you, Joan! Thanks for taking the time to read this and for your generous comments. :)', 'time': '14:41 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,nfrcpn,Stone Cold Cowboy,Olivia Murphy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nfrcpn/,/short-story/nfrcpn/,Adventure,0,['Coming of Age'],10 likes,"
I’ll turn my screams into dreams. 
Trying to find inspiration as it seeps from my brain like tar, hot and thick to the touch. 
I am anxious, I am an anxious person trying to understand how to get out of their head. 
I get stuck in it like a little duckling wishing on a star, wandering aimlessly into oil. 
I find myself staring intently into the sky. 
The moon thumps angrily and my heart hurts. I scratch at my chest, my ribs stabbing into me cutting off my breath. Flowers breathe clumped together heavily inside the cavity, pushing my lungs out, in. 
In, then out again. 
I want to scream for help. I’m trapped inside of a room, lit up by the daylight sun in the night. 
It’s glass, the rays reflect and I can see all the people walking past. 
They look in at me, my mouth gaping, my eyes wide. I’m searching for air. 
People staring, smiling, gawking. I must be in a museum. I must be loved, do they love me like this? 
I look down, my chest open wide, ribs spread deep and red, the flowers in my eyes yellow and white. 
All my shaky eyes can see is black.
Help me see the light, help me breathe.
I’m screaming, I’m thrashing at the walls, my insides exposed to the world. 
Can they see my trauma? Is it written all over my face? 
My lungs engulf the flowers in my chest, suffocating them. 
My heart is restricting, cutting off the flow of blood. The dripping stops, everything turns the color purple, my face turning to stone. I can’t let them see it hurts. 
I feel like I’m flying like an eagle in the wind. I feel heavy, I feel like a steamroller. 
Anyone I come into contact with is immediately within my grasp. 
I am a sucker fish in an aquarium which I do not belong to. 
I shove at the glass, I want it to shatter. I beat it with my fists, I scream, I sing. I yell, I thrash, I drive myself crazy. 
I scratch at my skin, I pinch, I pull. I want to get out. 
Please, let me out. I can’t see in here it’s so dark. 
The moon roars at me, the sun is burning. Searing through my skin I screech, he looks in my direction. Please, let me out of here. 
I want to see, I want to breathe. Peel the flowers from my eyes, the flowers from my lungs suckling at the bone like leeches. It hurts here, I’m hurt so bad. 
The walls are closing in, the harder I struggle the faster they move. 
Stone walls pushing through deep heavy waters, they lock in place. I give up, he’s still watching. Can he see me? Is it me he’s looking for? 
I doubt it as I slump into the corner, the sprinklers are automatic, I cannot turn them off. 
The garden drowns, dirt pools in little voids where my eyes should be. Flowers muddle through the trenches, sticks in their leaves as they try to beat the quicksand. 
My feelings try to understand my fears. I take deep breaths and realize I’m going to die here, and they’re going to drown. 
I want to go to the mountains, I want to get out of this box. This glass box I made many years ago, soundproof, bulletproof. These walls are so strong I don’t think I can beat them, I try my best. These walls are so fast I don’t think I can catch up. I run as fast as I can. A voice in my head says, You made them, You can turn them off. 
I made them, I can pull them down. I can climb up on top of them and leap off the edge. This little glass box I’m in, I once called home. Is he still here, looking in at me? 
I feel exposed, I need shelter. 
Tell me how to get out of here. Tell me how to believe, tell me how to climb these trees. Get me out of this room, break down these walls and save me, please. 
I close my eyes, I wish hard on the Earth. I clench my jaw, fists full of dirt, I rip the weeds out of the ground. 
Help me, help me please! I beg, I beg, I beg.
I reek of desperation, I sway back and forth and I groan. 
I breathe my heavy breath, I roar. The watchers, they’re roaring back. They’re swaying with me. They’re breathing too. Rib cages open and welcome me in. I look down, I too have skin. They can see me! 
They’re holding torches and axes now. They burn and whack my box like big, strong women, the glass snapping all around the room in hefty chunks like stones. 
Clattering gently onto the floor like sticks slapping skin. I see the sun, I grieve and I quim. 
The lights turn dim, the sun turns out. My pupils dilate, I feel like I’m a universe away. This room is cold now, I feel like an empty carcass, lost inside. 
I don’t belong to this old home anymore. Where did they go, where did he go? I want to breathe with them, I want to see! I desperately want to know, who is he? This ghostly shadow of a man, always lurking, a particular wavering flame. 
He must know me. 
A soft tune begins to play, I look around, I stow my flowers into place. I stand tall, I fall. I’m sinking fast, my organs flip out of place and back again. 
A rollercoaster of emotions, I’m locked in tight. 
A light turns on, ever so slightly. I squint and I can see, a horse turns and the tune plays out of beat. A teacup turns and a child yearns, in the distance. I long to join them, I stay standing still. The child looks up, turns toward me and turns to stone. 
He doesn’t want me to see him. I understand, yet I call out to him to wait. I run towards him faster and faster as the teacup is spinning, I slow down, it slows down. 
The little stone boy stands still. He’s gazing out at the center of the Earth and I’m watching, I shiver. 
It’s cold when the sun sets. 
The boy shatters and falls to the ground. He chokes out a sob, it’s all my fault. 
Little boy, little boy, please don’t cry. 
I beg quietly, I beg silently. I call out to him, Little boy. Little boy. He looks in my direction, again. His face all twisted, and sad. He contorts his jaw, locks eyes with mine, and screams. 
Please, just let me go. I want to go home. 
He’s trapped inside, I look down, his chest cavity roses breathe achingly against the lungs, the vines thorn his heart pumping blood. He says it again, quietly this time, Please, let me go. I want to be known. 
I cannot leave a small boy alone, trapped exquisitely within the realms of an abandoned Coney Island. 
He stares, sadly. I’m all I can be, it’s getting hard to see, and it’s beginning to feel like I don’t know where we are. 
This new feeling unfamiliar as I crouch down, I hold him close. 
He skips a little beat, a hiccup erupting from the garden of mine. I hold him tighter, as the teacup we’re now sat in, spins ferociously. The tune plays as the horse bobs around, two horses appear, now there are three. 
Smoothly now, a lullaby tells a lonely bird to fly softly away, away. The little boy screeches, clenching his fists, his body stiffens. I hold him tight, he fights. I shush him, I shush the lullaby, I shush the bird that caws, and the sun, and the moon. 
The teacup halts, and booms. The carousel disappears into the darkness and I hold the little boy, shushing, shushing. The sky sucks us upward, into the abyss. 
My bleeding hearts open wide, the little boy quivering. I lean up against something, someone. I can’t breathe anymore. I think I’m trapped inside. 
The daylight moon shines down. I see the glass, it’s reflecting on me. My box smiles down at me, the only place I feel safe. The sunshine darkness bleeds through the blinds of my room. 
White noise drowns out whimpering sighs and I open my eyes. My eyes, my big brown eyes. My small eyes, my four eyes. I am fading out. Is he still here? Can he still see me? 
Is this all real? 
I hear a train go by, off to somewhere. The streetlights shine, I peek out the window. Across the street I see the light flickering in a window up high. 
It’s him, he’s begging for my help. He’s in a house, in a room, on a bed I recognize. 
He needs me now. I sneak out onto the roof, I climb into his room. 
This room is mine. 
The bulb in the lamp shatters and like a chemical wave, the aura of the room sways. I spark a lighter to see, flowers breathing on the floor. 
I see him, he cannot see me. 
I hold him close, his chest is bleeding. His ribs are broken. There’s dirt on the floor, and mud in his eyes. I spot a mirror reflecting a soft light from the sun. 
I can see it now, he is me. I am him, we are one. 
He is 11 years old, and his bones are worn out. I am a stone cold cowboy, stuck within handmade stalwart roots. 
We are born from a fire, impervious to the ticking time. 
I whisper to him, Can you hear me now? 
His roses dream, he opens wide. 
I can hear you, can you see me? 
I can see him. 
With my big four eyes, I place the glass in his eyes. First, he looks up at the stars. 
Clenching his jaw, heavy, he wishes hard and small. 
I’m holding a steady glass of wine, sitting tall. I can see it now, I’m ready to dive. I’m still learning to love, I’m ready to try. 
I am ready to live, I am ready to love. 
I open the door, the little boy swallows the moon from the sky. 
I close my eyes, say goodbye to why, I want to set him free as I try to get to sleep. 
He holds my hand and we fly to the weeping willow tree. I climb higher, high. 
I’ll try to get home in a dream, and he gets gone. I’m lost and confused without him inside. 
Without pain, the breeze blows the foxgloves into a gentle bruise. 
I’m at the top, the walls tumble down, I fall. With scraped knees I smile, suddenly, unexpectedly. 
I am free. 
Like a reflex, I hold my hand out to the girl at the bottom, I run to her. 
I’m getting closer and she's standing still. 
She isn’t running from me, I’m not turning back. 
Tears fill the deadly wells I have for my eyes. She fetches a pail to help me see, she breathes with me. 
I am no longer lonely. 
The bulletproof glass I built up around myself so long ago, laid down in slivering puddles on the ground. 
Dead flowers swell and ho, heave and woe, on the cement in the center of the sun and they sizzle. 
Wallowing no more, I, a little star, shine bright next to the little boy fishing on the moon. Balloons fly up and up, I tie wishes onto them. The wishes that I’d once mistook for asphyxiated whispers, with deep desire to yawp barbarically. 
The woman smiles up at me, she says that I am found. She’s holding my hand and says that I have built the place in which I have longed to be, within me. It was just on the other side of the wall. 
My screams turned to dreams, finally. 
Bridges burning bright, and I am turned loose from the chains of my mind that held me back. 
The cage sits still, flesh rotting inside.
I’m on my way to a new place that I will be from. 
Filled with hope and with love, where the doves will cry, no longer will I.
","July 29, 2023 15:18","[[{'Derrick M Domican': ""Wow what a vivid and traumatic walk through someone's mind as they struggle with anxiety and all those associated difficulties. The mind maze can be a treacherous place once you get lost in it. I'm glad she seems to have gotten out :)"", 'time': '20:43 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,o0p2ge,Weightier Concerns. ,Lara Deppe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o0p2ge/,/short-story/o0p2ge/,Adventure,0,"['Funny', 'Contemporary']",10 likes,"
Weightier Concerns. 
There was a swooshing that she could feel more than hear. She had just escaped her new-off-the-lot Ford focus when she returned home from work. She looked left, right, and finally down to her feet where her black satin half-slip underneath her favorite skirt had slid to her ankles. One more step and it probably would’ve wrapped around her ankles, caught on her high heels, and laid her flat on her face. She immediately looked around to see if there were any spectators on the premises to see it. She sighed in relief - there was no-one in sight. Luckily at the apartment complex, Tuesday was the quietest day as far as foot traffic. She took one step out of the fallen slip, brought it up to her hand with the remaining ankle and stuffed it unceremoniously into her work bag. She blushed regardless of an obvious audience and made a break for her apartment on the second floor of Building E. 
She entered her apartment with a sigh of relief that she was no longer winded at the top of the stairs and that the shedding of her undergarments had not happened in front of the entire office. She dropped the satin slip into the ever-growing box labeled Salvation Army. 
She would like to bury the embarrassment in a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, but she grabbed a honey crisp apple instead and headed into the bedroom to get out of her dress clothes. Her closet was now separated into three sections: too big but wonderfully comfortable, the three clearance outfits that fit haphazardly around her ill-fitting bra and underwear and the south side of the closet was all the dream clothing that was still too snug around the bumpy places. One day. One day she would fit entirely into the final category. 
She jotted the apple in her journal, picked up her favorite book off of the end table and took it out into the glorious sunshine where she hoped to finish a chapter before dropping the book off the edge of her deck chair when she fell into a stunning pre-work out nap. 
She heard her text chime go off in her earbuds because it hiccupped the song she was listening to. She wasn’t even going to look until she finished her fifth mile on the dreadmill (her name for the dreaded treadmill). She had eleven minutes to go. She took a drag on her water bottle and imagined the end. It was then that She walked up… Work Out Barbie got on the dreadmill just in front of her. WOB’s ombre ponytail curled effortlessly down the small of her muscled back to the top of her Elisabetta Rogiani High Waist Jogger Shorts with Pockets. Her Silvia One Strap sports bra barely held in her enhanced cleavage as she started up the treadmill to Mach speed – it was creating a breeze. All the men who were feet from her had ceased lifting, squeezing, and posing and were now watching open mouthed as she popped onto the speeding belt with precision. She ran for 4.5 minutes and popped onto the side boards with barely a bead of sweat on her face as the running deck still pulsed beneath her. She was not even winded by the effort. By the time WOB completed three rounds of breaking the sound barrier, it felt like the entire gym was watching as she grabbed her mixer water bottle, dumped in two scoops of protein powder, and danced off shaking the bottle like a maraca. 
The short drama in front of her at least got her through the last eleven minutes of her sixty-one-minute workout covering nearly the same mileage WOB had done in a quarter of the time. Sigh. She wiped the massive amounts of sweat off her forehead, finished her last drag on her water bottle and headed to the dressing room for her bag. The men in the workout room were back to their regularly scheduled activities now the WOB had stopped to talk to a man who could only be described as the better-looking Hemsworth. 
She checked her phone as she got back in her Focus for home. It was Needy Friend. Although that is not what her tag read in her phone. The devastatingly stunning one who ate carbs for breakfast. 
8:05p: Where are you? I HAVE to tell you what has happened! I heard from What’s His Name today. Not the really good looking one but his friend. He totally wants to go out on Friday. Not dinner, just drinks. What do you think? Should I go? Did you think he was easy to talk to? You talked to him more than I did that night. Do you think his friend gave him my number? Does that mean the good looking one won’t call me? 
8:07p: Are you at the gym again? I saw your IG post that you’re down another size. You look amazing. Bitch. What if I need ice cream – are you abandoning me? 
8:08p: What do you think? Where are you? How long should I wait to respond to him? Tell me something funny to say…you’re so much better at that than I am. 😉
8:13p: I couldn’t wait. I totally told him I would meet him at Joes. Did I do the right thing? Where are you?!
She looked at her dash clock. 8:27p. She tossed her phone to the passenger seat and started the engine. She left the parking structure for home. She couldn’t do it. She pulled over to the side of the road, turned on her hazard lights and started typing:
Yes. At the gym. Boo. I can’t believe you heard from his friend! Clearly Good Lookin doesn’t know what he is missing. Go out with his friend and make him jealous. He was easy to talk to. He’s into comic books so be sure to ask him about Marvel vs DC. Tell him you’re into Dark Horse. I promise you he will take the convo from there. 
I won’t abandon you for ice cream, I swear. 
When is this date? Can’t wait to hear all about it! 
She pulled back out into traffic and headed for home. She wanted to jump in the shower. She didn’t like to do it at the gym. She wasn’t going to stop on her way home but somehow she ended up there. She was going against her own cardinal rule about being one of those girls who goes everywhere in workout clothes. There wouldn’t be many people where she was going. 
She pulled up to the headstone. The sun was nearly set and the chill of the night was coming on. She knelt by the stone and brushed the cut grass off the lip of the marble edge. She reached out her arm and rested her hand on the stone face. The two numbers listed below her name were only forty-seven years apart. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for either of them. So, she would fight. She would try her best not to go the same way. She didn’t know that her Mom wouldn’t even make it to the hospital or she would’ve talked about something real. Said the best last words. The doctor said this probably wasn’t her first heart attack. The damage was already done. Of course, Mom didn’t tell anyone. That wasn’t her style. She was glad that Mom went fast. On to the next damn thing on her obnoxiously long to-do list. Myocardial infarction – check. Afterlife – check. Haunt my daughter – check. 
I hate that you are here Mom. I wish I could talk to you about things. 
I’m keeping my promise. Every day. For you. 
Save a place for me k? 
She starts to laugh out loud. 
Did I tell you that my slip came off right in the middle of the sidewalk?! Oh, haha that’s right, you probably saw that didn’t you? 
","August 04, 2023 03:40","[[{'Hansi Saputhanthri': 'I love the idea of this story. I really like how this story was dialogue style cause it really kept me hooked to reading the rest of the it. Awesome work! 👏 😁', 'time': '16:14 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': ""Thanks Hansi for taking the time to read it. I'm so happy you liked it! Thank you for taking the time to reply too. You've made my day.  :)"", 'time': '05:01 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': ""Thanks Hansi for taking the time to read it. I'm so happy you liked it! Thank you for taking the time to reply too. You've made my day.  :)"", 'time': '05:01 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Leland Mesford': 'Really great ""punch"" at the end. I thought alter ego, thought it fit.  ""Barbie,"" what a hook.Then, pow! ""Mom."" What a great story. Couldn\'t you just imagine?\nI loved the apple over ice cream too, BTW. I\'m not a dieter, but it\'s just cool. I love apples.\nGreat grap at attention in the beginning too, BTW. A+ for effort on that.', 'time': '21:43 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thanks Leland for reading my story! I feel like I say this every week but I would like to work on this one and make a longer and fuller piece. Thanks for sharing what you liked about it - it means a lot to me!', 'time': '05:00 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thanks Leland for reading my story! I feel like I say this every week but I would like to work on this one and make a longer and fuller piece. Thanks for sharing what you liked about it - it means a lot to me!', 'time': '05:00 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thank you for reading my stories and always sharing something positive 😁 it means a great deal to me!', 'time': '01:27 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Z. E. Manley': 'I love the concept and the phrase: “So, she would fight.” Well done! always great to read your stories.', 'time': '05:03 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,35tui7,Home in One Piece!,Julie Grenness,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/35tui7/,/short-story/35tui7/,Adventure,0,"['Christian', 'Contemporary', 'Funny']",10 likes,"
Hilary, aka Hilaria, shrieked with joy. Queenie, her cat, startled, then glared. Old Ben, her television addict husband, still snored, did not even notice. Hilaria did her happy jig, all cellulite wobbling. She so did not care about this apathetic response. She and her friend, Josephine, had won!
What had Hilaria won in her lucky undies? Why, a free flight to Sin City, and a free hire car to drive to Sin City Craft Emporium, the biggest wool shop in the whole land. Bliss bombs time!
Josephine was Hilaria's particular friend in their older ladies' church craft group. By the time this little expedition was over, the two fat ladies planned to be queens of stitching and bitching, very Christian. Josephine came over to her house, and the pair of wool junkies pored over the catalogs, marking in all the specials for Sin City's giant craft one-stop shop. Ben was awake by now. Boy, was he whinging, sitting there in his back brace. He could visualize their whole suburb of Hometown buried under tonnes of yarn, as Hilaria's personal craft den was full  to the brim already.
Undeterred by criticism, on the due date, Hilaria drove Josephine to the Big City airport at the ungodly hour of 5 am. Hilaria was not a seasoned traveler. The two graying chums navigated their way round the air terminal.
The actual flight to Sin City was smooth, the sky was blue, the sun shone, it was a perfect day, brand new. Josephine found  the hire car depot, so they exchanged their gift voucher, for quite a flash car to drive to the Craft Emporium. Sin City was also the nation's gambling capital. So these intrepid explorers hoped to have lunch at one of the casinos.
Josephine did not drive much any more, so Hilaria womaned up to the trip. ""This is a real holiday,"" Josephine remarked, ""The beaches looked great. Shame we don't plan to go swimming as well.""
""Might not be enough time,"" Hilaria commented, ""But we could paddle for a while after lunch. Look, a whole store of wool, waiting just for us!""
""And my husband's credit card,"" said Josephine.""Bright and early, get all the bargains."" Ever born to shop in craft stores, the two intrepid wool store explorers set off to buy a whole assortment of additions to their individual wool stash. Wool, yarn, cotton threads, beads, silk ribbons, tapestry kits. You name it, they bought the lot. This was heaven on Earth, right there in Sin City.
Hilaria was also mainlining both the spousal credit cards, but what the heck. This was definitely a chick thing, to spend a happy morning in an addictive shopping experience. After Hilaria and Josephine finally cleared the cash register, they trundled two trolleys to their car for the day.
Giggling, it was time to splurge on lunch. Hilaria had left behind some snacks for Ben, Queenie was getting too fat, so would be fed that evening. It was only a one day tour after all. Josephine had a bit of a flutter in the gaming room, but Hilaria was not a gambling gal.
The two explorers had some time after lunch, so Hilaria drove them both to the beach, nearly drowning in a car laden to overflowing with their craft stash. At the sunny, golden beach, they sat on the sand, paddled their aching feet, and ate ice creams. It was like a return to their childhood. A day of simple pleasures and treats.
Feeling blessed, Hilaria gazed around her. There were some lively young babes, sun baking, enjoying  a day of bikinis, eyeing off any handsome stud type wandering past. She hoped they would enjoy being young, time passed too quickly.
Just then, an annoying drone buzzed the beach. ""What's that?"" Josephine wondered, as the drone flew low over the nubile, pretty younger beach goers. Hilaria glanced behind, to where there was a few camper vans, more tourists. A creepy older males was spying on young girls. ""Look, its him!"" she told Josephine. ""Dirty old man!""
Hilaria rummaged in her older lady's large black shoulder bag, and produced her hand weapon. She was always prepared for whatever this modern world would annoy her with at any tick of the clock. Being a champion shot, she fired a couple of times, and shot down the drone. It crashed landed in the sparkling blue waters of Sin City Bay. The sun baking bikini clad young babes all clapped and cheered. ""Nice shooting,"" Josephine said. Hilaria thanked her lucky stars she did not have to go camping with a male with a drone, must be riveting. Old Ben was not like that. So far, so good.
The dirty old man on Sin City's foreshore was very cross, so Hilaria and Josephine left this charming scene behind them. Hilaria did not wish to get into any dumb arguments, so the two lady explorers drove off to Sin City airport. She did take a wrong turn, but Josephine spotted the airport bus driving past. ""Follow them!"" she told Hilaria, intrepid driver.
The two wool addicts somehow hauled their embellishments, wool, fabric, and notions onto the plane home. They were very glad  to sit down. In due course, the plane took off. Hilaria agreed to have a glass of wine. But. Mayday! Their plane was only half an hour from Big City. The starboard engine was belching smoke. Josephine clutched her hand, as the emergency signs started an alert.
""Oh my God, I am very sorry that I ever left Hometown this morning. Please, Father in Heaven, let us all get home in one piece!"" Hilaria knew how to pray. ""Amen!"" chorused Josephine and the passengers immediately around them. Suddenly, there were no atheists on board this plane. Thanks to a brilliant pilot who overrode the robotic autopilot, the plane touched down.
All on the plane realized you can land an aircraft with one engine on fire. Emergency vehicles roared across the aerodrome. Hastily disembarking, Hilaria and Josephine made no comment to the waiting media. They piled their newly acquired craft stash into Hilaria's wheels, just as the sun was setting.
Josephine nodded off in the car, until Hilaria drove her to her door. Then it was time to return to their leafy, quiet street, after a day of adventure. Old Ben was still gazing at the non-football season. Hauling her supplies into her craft den, Hilaria switched into catering mode. She plated up some kale crisps all round. 
Old Ben whinged about this vegetable delight, but found that kale crisps were quite crunchy. Queenie decided that kale was disgusting food group, so vomited all over the living room carpet. Cats were carnivores, and Queenie once again needed to realign her owner's thought processes.
Old Ben went to bed early, waiting for the craft den to explode with balls of yarn. Hilaria wiped up the cat spew, then fed Queenie some light protein, courtesy of her supermarket. Eventually, she sank into her bed, visualizing all the stitching and bitching she could plan now. She and Josephine would be queens of craft, it was so cool to be creative. 
No,  there is nothing wrong with your own comfy bed. Hilaria now had fifteen thousand years of craft supplies, what would she make first? Interesting dilemma. She shuddered, recalling the pervert and and the plane trip. Hilaria was never leaving home again, after that journey. She said a quiet thank you prayer, she made it home in one piece. No atheists on planes, no indeed! 
 
 
 
","July 29, 2023 19:35","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'I like your style of writing....funny, tongue in cheek, light hearted and a little mischievous. It very easily pulls the reader in.   Great job!', 'time': '00:29 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hilaria is hilarious 🤣', 'time': '21:51 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,38nf6l,"Mustang Barbie — Baby, I Can Drive Your Car!",Juley Harvey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/38nf6l/,/short-story/38nf6l/,Adventure,0,"['Bedtime', 'Fantasy', 'Happy']",9 likes,"
2,995 words
 
 
 
 
Mustang Barbie — Baby, I Can Drive Your Car!
(a grown-up fantasy)
 
 
 
Editor’s Note: They say some of the best things happen in cars. Whoever “they” are, they don’t know this story. It began 3 years ago, when Barbie’s driver’s license was just a twinkle in some director’s eye and there was no Oscar talk. See? Everything does come round again. Especially driving a cool car.
 
It happened one night, as these most magical things often do. The moon, oh dudes and dudettes, has a silver alchemy that turns everything special, with a wave of a wand of the wind. It waved over Beatrice Angelica (Bea Angel) and EmmyLouBleue (Bleue) Bear, happily owned, as much as anything can really ever be owned by anyone, especially teddy bears, by one daughter of the house, True Rose, and her faithful canine companion, Farfeldog. 
 
Farfeldog was of the herding variety, convinced the world was made of sheep, and all hers to schlep and keep. So when the bears and True Rose decided to venture out on their own, Farfeldog was quite perplexed and vexed. And, while not approving much (since it hadn't been her own idea), she did not want to be a poopmeister, which True Rose's family insisted on calling her. She would not stoop to call them back by names they did deserve, included in the “dogtionary.” Farfeldog had to tag along, with her bestie True Rose, to keep everyone in line. Because you just know how teddy bears are, even if they’re dressed in Victorian velvet. How naughty they can be, if left to their own ted-ddy-vices.
 
Until that night in December, they had all lived a regular, normal life together. Un-roadtripped. Made out of mostly sweet days in Oregon, in the household of True Rose’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Garden. Life was like a big buckwheat pancake, covered in wild blueberries and honey, served up by True Rose’s parents. But only Bea Angel, Bleue, True Rose, and sometimes Farfeldog are the ones who know what happened.
 
 On a full moon in Onwego, Oregon, Beatrice Angelica said to Emmyloubleue from her shelf in the bedroom near True Rose's fluff-pink-and-white canopied bed: “I have an idea. Follow me.”
They shimmied down the shelves and waddled off to Barbie doll’s big carnation-colored dream house in the corner of the bedroom. In the two-car garage of Barbie’s dreamy home were parked a faithful cherry-pink Jeep and a big blue Mustang convertible. While the bears (and their now-awakened friends faithful Farfeldog and True Rose) wanted to take both cars, they talked about the travel-worthiness of each ­­­— and of course, the coolness factor. Who wants to be seen about town in a dorky vehicle? It kills any chance of upward mobility. Everybody agreed they wanted to be waving to the crowds from the big blue Mustang. And wearing humongous sunglasses and perhaps throwing candy kisses and fanning themselves. But for right now, it was enough to just get out of town. In a dreamy muscle car. Without waking Barbie up. 
 
“Road trip!” Farfeldog the sparkledog yipped.
 
“Route 66!” Bea Angel rejoiced.
 
“National Lampoon's Vacation!” True Rose laughed.
 
“Wherever we go, there we are, and you know we can’t be without food,” Bleue pointed out.
 
“And a map,” added True Rose. 
 
They had a fine GPS-voice system in the Mustang, to help them find their way anywhere, if they knew where they were in the first place. 
 
“And we must leave a note for True Rose’s parents,” Bea Angel pointed out. “We don’t want them to worry.”
 
True Rose patted her furbaby. “What shall we say?” she asked.
 
“That we’ve gone to see America and we’ll be back the day after soon,” Farfeldog suggested.
 
“But where do we start from?”
 
“How about the Joy to the World Carousel? They’ve got lots of animals. And joy.”
 
The carousel was a tourist attraction right in their town of Onwego, Oregon, population yes. True Rose had been to the carousel once with her parents and always wanted to go back. 
 
“You can never have enough joy,” the Farfeldog barked, musically. “It’s like that song about having too much fun.”
 
“OK, who knows how to hot-wire a car?” asked True Rose. 
 
“I do! I do!” Farfeldog beamed and bounced. “What is it? Does it involve chasing and biting?”
 
“Um, not usually.”
 
The others looked around and shrugged. They mostly wanted to know if hot-wiring involved chewing and swallowing.
 
“OK, how about consulting the instruction manual? Daddy always says when all else fails...”
 
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it! What is it?”
 
“Oh, Farfel! Your spirit of volunteerism is wonderful, but do be quiet please! There it is, on the front seat, next to Barbie's faux leather purse with a place for her peek-a-boo puppy.""
 
True Rose retrieved the manual and began reading aloud to an attentive and increasingly mystified audience.
 
“Put Tab A into Slot B. Hmm,” she considered. “Have something to eat. Thank Barbie for all the good stuff. Blah, blah, blah. Then there’s a bunch of silly-symbol-looking thingies. Must be mechanic-talk.""
 
Bea Angel, Bleue, and even Farfeldog high-fived. True Rose said they would have to cut out such displays of silly emotion, if they were going to be on the road as successful innocent non-enthusiastic tourista impersonators.
 
“All we need is pizza and a bath towel to be blasé impersonators. And maybe one of those swell sweaty white Elvis suits,” Farfel said.
 
“Hey, ladies,” True Rose interrupted. “Perhaps we don’t need to hot-wire this Mustang after all. I see Barbie left the keys in the ignition.”
 
“Aw, I wanted to hot-wire something! Can I do it to you?” Farfel asked Bleue.
 
“Ewww, no! And I’m glad Barbie’s such a klutz bimbo and we don't have to burgle too much. It ruins my disposition. She musta been in a hurry to get inside to change clothes. Is it cheerleader day or prom night?” 
 
“OK, eyes on the prize, fashionistas and fellow felonistas! We’ve got the car, the keys, credit cards and ID in the faux leather purse. Now all we need is our picnic-basket of snacks. Who can I trust to raid the refrigerator?”
 
All hands/paws went up. Farfel danced.
 
“Maybe that’s a task for the leader.” True Rose tapped her chin.
 
“We’ll look,” Bea Angel said, indicating herself and Bleue. “We’re gourmands and connoisseurs of the first resort. Or resnort.”
 
“I’ll guard the car.” Farfel had already scouted out her place to sit –– the driver’s seat –– and was working up a list of special road tunes. She liked them, liked them, yes she did. OWW, she growled in her best Wilson Pickett voice, Mustang Farfel! 
 
Farfel began sorting CD’s –– ­­gotta have the Beach Boys, “Blue Bayou –­– Bleu’s fave, “Ramblin’ Rose” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas” for True Rose, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” –– for guess who?, “I Am Woman” for their whole howling ensemble, “Calling All Angels” and “In the Arms of the Angels” for the two bears, “The Circle Game,” about the carousel of time, and of course, “Joy to the World,” about the noisy, joyful Jeremiah, who was a bullfrog, or was that a bulldog? A road trip revelanza with snacks. The following sing-along and totally listenable road tunes were as rockin’ to go as they were:
 
Springsteen’s “Born to Run”; Dylan’s “Like A Rollin’ Stone”; Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again”; Wilson Pickett’s “Mustang Sally,” obviously; Aretha’s jaunt on the uptown freeway of loooove in a “Pink Cadillac”; Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car”; Tom Petty’s “Runnin' Down a Dream”; Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road Jack”; the Beatles’ “Drive My Car”; Rascal Flatt’s cover of “Life is a Highway”; Roger Miller’s “King of the Road”; Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive”; Beach Boys’ “Fun, Fun, Fun” and anything surfin-soundin; Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody”, just because; Sheryl Crow’s “Every Day is a Winding Road”; Don McLean’s “American Pie”; Chuck Berry’s “Route 66”; Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”; Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild”; Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere”; Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” and Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World”, with all the fishes and boys and girls and joy, unleashed. There was just soooo much happy. 
 
Humans had so much fun stuff and they probably didn’t even know it. The trunk and the hood popped open at the same time and Farfel felt like a Mustang sandwich. 
 
And who was that disembodied Siri person, anyway, who kept calling from the trunk and asking if she could help with something? Well doggone right, she could! Didn’t she ever listen? A large pizza, some vats of fries, a chunky chicken and waffles cake and some mashed potatoes ought to do it. But you just can't get good human help these days, Farfel sighed. 
 
Meanwhile, in another part of the house, in Barbie’s house, no less, Bea Angel and Bleue had discovered Barbie’s secret stash of peanut M & M’s and dark chocolate Milky Ways. They promptly plopped them into a recycle bag with Barbie’s photo on it and the motto: “I’m an original. But these old bags aren’t.” 
 
True Rose made her way back to the Mustang with her goody bag. She’d found the following magic items in her parents’ well-stocked kitchen: leftover pot roast, honey, melons, peanut butter, yoghurt, some KFC, and several loaves of bread and cinnamon rolls. How could they not rejoice? Life was a cafeteria. Wasn’t there a musical about that? There should be.
 
And just as True Rose would reach out for the door handle, imagine this! Farfel would punch the lock. When True Rose withdrew her hand, Farfel, laughing wildly, unlocked it. 
 
True Rose finally warned: ""Farfeldog, open this door immediately, or we’ll eat all these truly awesome snacks!”
 
“Bow wow,” Farfel said, both huffily and apologetically, unlocking the doors and bowing to her mistress.
 
True Rose yanked the driver’s-side door open and pushed Farfel into the riding-shotgun slot. She insisted on everybody choosing a hat from the special hat bag she’d purloined.
 
Farfeldog was all in favor of hats. How many could she pile on at once? Could she fit both the Dolly Parton and the Marilyn Monroe wig and the Groucho glasses and mustache on together? Watch out, Kardashians! Here come the Car-ditzians!
 
Farfeldog chose a restrained yet ever-popular Indiana Jones slouch hat, joyfully pulling it from the bag with her teeth, and then putting it on at a rakish angle, using the rearview mirror to guide her. 
Bea Angel modeled a backwards Broncos baseball cap; Bleue sleuthed in a Humphrey Bogart fedora. And True Rose, always the free bird, sported an aviator cap and sunglasses.
 
True Rose had thoroughly researched the Teddy Bear Encyclopedia and found a teddy bear company that produced Amelia Bearhart, who came complete with aviator suit, silk scarf, and cap. This is the look True Rose was going for, even as the captain driver of a motor vehicle.
 
Perhaps, True Rose thought, finding Amelia Earhart or her plane could be their next big adventure. Everybody seemed to be looking for her now. 
 
Perhaps a famous company would honor True Rose’s Road Trip Gals in some way, and they could then dispense happiness and goodies everywhere. There was no excuse not to believe in bears in cars. Wow, what you could do, from behind the wheel of Barbie’s blue Mustang! Everything possible, start your engines!
 
True Rose settled herself behind the wheel that would take them spinning through the adventure of the rest of their lives. She turned the key in the ignition, gunned the motor, reached reverse after a few tries, and narrowly missed clobbering Barbie’s mailbox.
 
“But first, we’ll do a test drive around the house,” True Rose insisted. “And then, it’s hat’s off and to the races!”
 
“I thought we had to wear our hats,” Bleue said. “A Carmen Miranda fruit hat would be nice right about now. I could even calypso dance with a nice banana or mango.”
 
Soon, the four friends found themselves out on the city streets in a zooming Mustang. They were mean, those streets. But fortunately, uncrowded. Little traffic flowed under the bulbous full moon.
 
‘Hey, are we there yet?”
 
“I’m cold.”
 
“I’m tired.”
 
“I’m hungry.”
 
“Haven’t we been circling for hours? I think I've seen that same fire hydrant 15 times!”
 
“You just want to stop and water it!”
 
“It looks like on the map it’s 10 bazillion miles to the caroling carousel. I think we’ve gone 9 bazillion. And counting. Take that next intersection.”
 
The next intersection was, unfortunately, a roundabout, which kept them going in circles quite awhile. 
 
Finally, ahead they saw carousellight, which is kind of like a daylight in itself. The sun rose in their eyes, as they gazed upon the magic of Joy to the World and its animal compatriots. They had arrived! Immigrants at All Us Island. With their bags of snacks and fancy hats.
 
""You know, there's something about a carousel,"" True Rose sighed. She tried not to ram into it as she parked the big blue Mustang. She was busy staring at a most beguiling carved dolphin. “Even humans are mesmerized and not immune.”
 
“Who cares about them? People — they’re the worst! Poo and pass the chips,” Farfel ordered.
 
“You know, we did this. All ourselves, together,” True Rose said. ""Which is kind of magical, too.”
 
“There are magical elements to many things, if we listen,” Bea Angel said.
 
“Yes, I’ve noticed there’s scientific proof that animals improve your mental health,” True Rose agreed.
 
“Maybe we’ll know, after the viruses are all gone and we can go back to normal life, how much we need each other and what we can do to help?” Bea Angel asked, concerning the recent state of human health worldwide. And just humans in general.
 
Farfel growled and pawed an enthusiastic, “Yes! Yes! I can do that! What is it?”
 
They sat for a moment, considering the carousel. Then, they sprang from the car in a jumble, and ran to choose their favorite carved carousel animal to ride, from anemones to zebras. True Rose found the lights, music, and action to generate the circling, swirling creatures and turned the whole experience into enlightenment.
 
She chose a swan; for Bea Angel, it was an angel; Farfel rode a grinning dolphin; and Bleue tackled an especially elegant elephant.
They went round and round, changing places and animals — lions, giraffes, horses, zebras, tigers, whales, clamshells, mermaids. Each more exotic and magical than the last. Sometimes, they’d get off and wave to the others and then hop back on. They took photos. And shared snacks. They tried feeding the animals. And decided they were sad creatures, because of their enforced labor. Had anybody asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up? Did they have a choice, or voice, about anything? Where was their joy to the world, their freedom? It was all good and well to provide happiness to others, but what about your own, True Rose wondered.
 
The four friends eyed the wondrous carousel creatures and asked them, ""Would you like to be set free?""
 
An incredible cacophony ensued. You could not deny those voices. The horses whinnied; the elephants harrumphed with their trunks; the dolphins and whales blew through their blowholes and sang their ocean songs; the lions and tigers roared approval; the mermaids whispered silkily; the giraffes and zebras gamboled and pranced.
 
So the trick was going to be how to spring these lovely creatures from their joyful prismed prison. Could they stuff any of them into Barbie’s Mustang?
 
“How do we get from here to there?” True Rose posed the question. “We have to unlock them, herd them to a safe place, and then replace them — with carved humans to ride. We all have to pitch in and help each other. Animals usually do, anyway, once they understand the situation, and to keep the species going. Even if they don’t like each other very much. They know what it takes to get along in the world.”
 
“Barbie’s Mustang! And a big snack!” Farfel whuffled.
 
The four friends started working to free the first creature — an elephant, who was so wildly overjoyed at the prospect that he couldn’t stop patting them with his trunk. They unscrewed sockets and climbed and unpulled plugs and took the pole and saddle from him. When he was free, they let him try out his land legs. They led him to the next animal, a dolphin, who smiled at them as if they were the magical creatures. On around the circle they went, with each freed creature joining in to help the next tethered on the carousel, until all were assembled loosely on the platform. They joined together in song: “Jeremiah was a bulldog!” Then, they headed to Mr. Bones’ carousel-carving farm, to help create the human carousel.
 
“Stay safe, my friends!” True Rose said. Which is about the best advice to give or get nowadays.
 
She turned off the carousel lights and music. The Road Trip Gals’ job was done. Except for getting back home. She’d think about that whenever.
 
 “Yes,” True Rose chimed in. “I envision a world of revolving humans.”
 
“How about a Mustang?” Farfel wanted their joyride to be memorialized.
 
“Everybody will want a ride on this merry-go-round,” Bea Angel predicted.
 
They were on their way to happily ever after, as much as could be. The road-trip crew was heading home, to a place of safe and happy and snuggly, with dreams to come. They had done good, and they knew it. With snacks.
 
The quietly grazing former carousel animals raised their heads and tails in salute, as the big blue Mustang passed by, wending its way toward home. Farfel waved her hat in return.
 
Once home, Farfeldog rolled over and gave Mrs. Garden a high five. Then Mrs. Garden left to fix the breakfasts she knew everybody would greet as if they hadn’t eaten in days and had been busy driving all night.
														#
","July 31, 2023 17:42","[[{'Lyle Closs': ""If you liked the movie you'll love this story. Nicely written. Good fun."", 'time': '08:16 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Drew M': 'Fun and playful. You can really picture True Rose creating the world with her toys.', 'time': '00:14 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Juley Harvey': 'Thank you for reading my story and actually liking it! A writer needs to hear inspiring and good words.', 'time': '17:24 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ybfde2,Showdown at the Silver Dollar Saloon,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ybfde2/,/short-story/ybfde2/,Adventure,0,"['Western', 'Adventure', 'Mystery']",9 likes,"
I had killed once before, so I figured I was already damned—and I’d do what I had to do if it came right down to it. The sirens of the Sheriff’s dark gray Ford F-150 blared and lit up the hollowed-out canyons of the Climax Molybdenum Mine with red and blue bursts. The high country echoed with the whir of the siren. I’d just about navigated the roundabout of 91-S, but I wasn’t going to make it back to Leadville after all, from the look of things.  I stiffened up in my seat and took a few deep breaths. This could be just like the last time—he might leave me no choice. 
 
I hadn’t been back to Leadville since that night, fifteen years ago, just after Adi died, and I imagined I’d stroll in like a disembodied ghost—like Baby Doe herself, who literally froze stiff at the Matchless Mine—but still appears to locals in the old saloon to this day, as if she’d come in for a highball and a chat. 
 
I feared I’d find that the town I’d known as a boy with its local color, rich history, and grandeur was gone forever, like the Old West itself. Perhaps those days only lived on now in my memories, and in the tired drinking stories men told from barstools in dark saloons off Harrison Avenue. But maybe, if that were so, time had also covered over what I’d done that cold winter’s day. I had tried to talk myself into the idea that maybe my fugitive warrant and poster had been tossed in the dustbin with those old stories, but I knew Judge Dwyer still drew breath and wouldn’t rest until I saw justice.
 
I sure wasn’t gonna be that lucky. Not in this lifetime. No, sir. Mine was a sin unto death, and I was marked like Cain to wander this world as a fugitive from justice until the day I died. My fate was sealed shut with a spent shotgun shell steaming under fresh snow cover—a smoldering brand that could never be extinguished. I reckon it’s better to live life as a ghost than to spend it in a jail cell, but I can’t really say, because I was never going to let that happen.  Hell, be damned!
 
I tucked my Glock G19 9mm pistol down under the riser of my low-rise Buffalo jeans, pulled my blue denim button-down over the riser to cover over the butt of the pistol, adjusted my red ballcap, and waited for the Sheriff to tell me why he’d pulled me over. Sweating a little under my collar in the dry midday heat of the West, I thought it only takes a second to do something that can never be undone. My old man used to say, “you can’t step twice in the same river.” Ain’t that the truth.
 
“Where you headed today, son?”
 
“Driving into Leadville,” I said.
 
I noticed that the name badge above the double-breasted black utility denim read, “Dan “Buck” Lamont.” The gold 7-pointed Lake County Sheriff’s badge picked up the glare of the sun, making me squint my eyes. I shifted in the cabin of my Diamond Crystal Black Ram 1500 TRX Truck, careful not to move the pistol under me, and pulled out my registration and insurance—well, Ben Richards’s registration and insurance. My given name is Skyler Davis, but I’ll get back to that later.
 
“Ok. What do we have here, B-en Rich-ards. Alrighty.” Buck was about 6’2” and had dark black hair with crisp bangs falling over his brow and a full beard that offset his blue eyes. He was a big boy and solid and struck me as the kind of man who you didn’t want to scrap with for no good reason.
 
“Can I ask why you pulled me over officer?”
 
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid you are going to have to circle back off of 91-S and head back to 70 and up to Vail and then head back down Route 82 at Glenwood Springs and follow Independence Pass on in.”
 
“What’s the matter officer—the road is down?”
 
“No, no. We’ve got a forest fire being dealt with just up the road by Buckeye Peak. Now be on your way. Maybe we’ll see you in town.” 
 
And the Sheriff tipped his white Stetson with the leather buckled hatband, bidding me goodday.
 
* * *
 
It had been a cold, howling November day with the snow coming down in sheets off the Rockies. It was the kind of day that weren’t good for nothing but staying shet in and drinking coffee and huddling up by a fire. I’d lost Adi that fall to lung cancer and was left with a little girl, Callie, to raise all on my own—and I’d intended to do just that—even if it was just the two of us and the cattle hands on this big old ranch. Me and Adi had thought of naming her “Silver Dollar” after Baby Doe’s daughter, but sense won out there. She was a good baby and didn’t fuss much. Callie was in her crib in the bedroom sleeping, and her Meemaw, as she called her, was goin’ to shovel out and come by to take care of her later in the evening so I could get some time alone, and God-willing a little shuteye, for once. But, that weren’t to be the case.
 
I hated cancer. But life is unfair. From cradle to grave, the devil picks at your bones and heckles you like a rabid ky-oat, foaming at the mouth—so who can blame a man for striking back? And when Adi passed so young, I guess I shook my fists at God and anyone else that crossed me. I cursed myself too—for carrying on when she hadn’t—and wished he’d taken me instead. It got to where I had whiskey for supper. The first course was whiskey, the second whiskey and the third whiskey. It wasn’t a popular diet, but if it was good enough for Sir Oscar Wilde and Bram Stoker, who played down at the Tabor Opera House, not a hundred years ago, it was good enough for a hick like me. But I’ll be honest. I’m an angry drunk. And much worse on whiskey.
 
It started innocently enough with a few card games at the Silver Dollar Saloon. But, that soma’bitch is as haunted as a war cemetery. And before long, I’d run up a debt—a curse of grief—that caught the notice of Judge Wilbur “Willie” Dyer. Judge Wilbur wasn’t just a lawman. He was the Goddamn bank. He didn’t get his hands dirty—no, sir—he had his front men—but he was the money. Not only that, he weren’t afraid to enforce neither.
 
Judge Dwyer was an old-time cowboy. Sure, he wore them robes on the bench. But any other time, he had his wide-brimmed silver-buckled black Stetson, gold hair slicked back and neat trailing to his neck, black double-breasted gimme-cap shirt, grizzly stubbled muzzle, flared boot-cut slacks, gaudy gold belt buckle, and cowboy boots with the spinning-star rowel—and all.
 
What I couldn’t figure for the life of me, is with all the men he had on payroll, why he’d sent his son out that night to collect—from me, of all people. His son weren’t like the old judge. He was a boogahead college boy, with an affinity for strippers and whores, who played at that new-fangled ju-jitsu and was freebasing bumps and chasers most days until he was jittery as a coon and sure as shit convinced that he were invincible, when he weren’t—Lord knows he weren’t.
 
Watching the snow fall and sipping on my third nip of Macallan, I didn’t think for a second that the devil was on my doorstep, waiting for me. If I was going to keep the Lake Fork Ranch running through the winter, I needed to get down to the Hitch’n Post in Salida and haul back a trailer full of hay—and that was just the first item on my list. I was in my study, feet up on my desk, goin’ through a lot of such scheduling and paperwork—when I noticed something wasn’t right. You get to where the land is in your bones, and you have a sixth sense where the smallest thing that’s out of place in the land is like an itch on your own skin.
 
I set foot out in the whitewash of the blizzard with my trusty Winchester 21 shotgun and heard footsteps in the fresh snow. I dropped down on the deck and my heart started drummin’ in my ears. I knew straight off Judge Dyer had his goons out to collect. It just took a second. I heard a rustling in the brush by the end of the drive. This pucker-assed buffoon had been pissing on my property! But I didn’t know that then. I felt my blood pressure in my skull—I was so angry that some damned fool were on my property without announcing himself, and he was not going to get the jump on me or harm my baby girl.  I fired. Jimmy weren’t fifteen feet out. 
 
That slug hit him in the ribs and pierced his heart like a water balloon. Jimmy felled like timber. He never even saw it coming. And once I was standing over him and saw that fresh boy’s face—I knew I were dead too.
","August 05, 2023 03:26","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Start of something that needs finishing. Good start.\n\nThanks for liking my road trip.', 'time': '00:03 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Great writing and character work here Jonathan. I feel this is an extract and from a longer piece? As the whole name situation is left hanging! \nCurious to know more!', 'time': '10:35 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,n4ghre,Road to Serendipity,Seyma Tuyluoglu,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n4ghre/,/short-story/n4ghre/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Romance', 'Drama']",9 likes,"
“Jocelyn, ENOUGH!"" I yelled, my frustration boiling over as I slammed the door shut behind me. Freshly broken up with my boyfriend, my stepmom just couldn't give me a moment to breathe. Memories of my late biological mother lingered in my mind, but they were blurred by the severe brain damage I suffered in the car crash that took her life when I was ten.After her passing, my dad changed, becoming work-obsessed, remarrying, and barely acknowledging my existence. I couldn't forgive him for neglecting me during my darkest times. It wasn't just him; now I had to deal with my stepsister, Marine, too. While I didn't hate her, I resented her mother for taking my dad's attention away from me.That night, I made a life-changing decision. I had no clear destination or means of transportation; all I knew was that I had to leave, and I had to leave immediately. I couldn't leave Marine alone with them, so I planned to return for her when the time was right. The uncertainty of my future as a 19-year-old weighed heavily on me.As I stood on the beach at midnight, the sand felt unusually cool against my feet, a rarity in California. The solitude was comforting, granting me a sense of liberation I hadn't felt in ages. I gazed at the waves softly crashing onto the shore, finding solace in their rhythmic movement.Just as I was drifting off to sleep, the tranquility was shattered by the sound of approaching cars. Several people, my age or slightly older, stepped out of the vehicles. I tried to mind my own business, but one persistent stranger kept bothering me, offering me a drink repeatedly despite my refusal.Exasperated, I snapped back at him, but his persistence didn't wane. As the situation escalated, a stranger, tall and broad-shouldered, approached, saving me from the harasser's grip. He stepped in, pretending to be my boyfriend, which seemed to deter the stranger.The harasser's anger grew, and a confrontation seemed inevitable, but my unexpected rescuer skillfully knocked him out with a single punch. We knew we had to escape from his friends, who were now closing in on us. Without hesitation, he took my hand, and we ran for his black Porsche parked nearby.We managed to get into the car and sped away, leaving the group of men behind. Both of us were out of breath, and I couldn't help but feel grateful to this stranger who had come to my aid when I needed it the most.As we continued our conversation, I realized I didn't even know his name yet. His hazel eyes held a depth that intrigued me, and the adrenaline rush from the beach incident seemed to have forged an unspoken bond between us. It wasn't until we were safe inside the car that we finally introduced ourselves. His name was Aaron.Beneath his tough exterior, I discovered a kind heart and a tender vulnerability. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep next to this enigmatic stranger, my heart yearning for the adventures that awaited us on the road to Florida. Those hazel eyes were the last thing I saw before I gave in and fell asleep.*After ten hours:*I slowly opened my eyes to the bright light peeking from the car windows. It took me a moment to remember why and where I was. Everything was the same way before I fell asleep, except I was sleeping in the bed Aaron had made for himself, and he was driving. ""Morning sunshine,"" Aaron said sarcastically. ""What time is it? Are we in Florida yet?"" I said, yawning in between. ""Yes, just 10 minutes away. Of course not? What makes you think I have inhuman capabilities where I can drive for 10 hours straight with no sleep?"" answered Aaron. ""You could have just said no, you know,"" I replied, rolling my eyes. ""I slept not long after you. We have 2200 miles left. Let's just try to enjoy it, how about that,"" he said. I nodded. Then the realization hit me. Did we sleep together? I looked at him with questioning eyes. Our eyes met through the rearview mirror. His lips curved upwards, ""You wish,"" he replied to my gaze. The fact that he might have lied didn’t even cross my mind.I decided to enjoy the bed I had all to myself. I guess he was too much of a gentleman to obey his own rules. Why was he even traveling to Florida? I played ""Last Kiss"" by Taylor Swift as many questions rose in my mind about Aaron.As we approached a small town, I saw many people gathering around on the deck of a lakeside restaurant. It seemed like a festival. ""Aaron, look there is a music festival, can we please take a break for God’s sake? You said we should enjoy the trip, come on!"" I said with excitement. Aaron’s gaze met mine, and he offered a warm smile. ""I take that as a yes!"" I said as he pulled over to the parking lot. ""You go ahead, I’m coming,"" he said, as I took off. I saw him searching for something in the trunk. I joined the people slow dancing to the soft live music being played by a musician. Then I felt an arm curl around my waist and pull me into a dance. ""God, Aaron. You scared me! I thought I wasn’t your type, what happened to that?"" I asked, smirking. ""I told you that I might have lied didn’t I, love,"" he said leaning in, as I was trying to suppress my astonishment. Then I a black guitar case over his shoulder. ""You play?"" I asked with the new surprise. ""No, it's just for decor,"" replied Aaron. He went towards the musician and told him something. He took the microphone. ""Can I have your attention for a moment, please? I want to play something special for someone just as special to me. I met her unexpectedly, and developed a unique bond. Meeting her was serendipity. This song reminded me of her,"" he said and started playing ""Wonderland"" by Taylor Swift. Everyone started to sing along with him. I never knew he had this in him.After he was done playing, he thanked the audience, and everyone started clapping and praising him as he walked towards me. ""How'd you like the show?"" he asked. ""It was fine, glad you didn’t screw it up,"" I said, petting his shoulder. ""I would believe you had I not seen the sparkles in your eyes as I played,"" he replied. ""So, who is this special girl?"" I asked. He seemed lost for words for a second. ""Maybe I will tell you one day,"" he replied as he smiled. ""Oh come on. I bet she is a blondie,"" I said as I looked at him with doe eyes filled with curiosity. ""That gaze of yours might have worked on your ex, but it won’t on me, love,"" he replied as we headed towards the car.*It has been two days, I think, since we have been traveling together. The ride has been going smoothly so far, not considering the fact that one of the tires blew up, and we had no more gas left. Thankfully, Aaron had solved those problems hours ago.We were very close to Miami, our destination. We had unexpectedly grown close to each other considering the situation. ""Why Miami, Aaron?"" I asked. ""I needed to escape from my old life, start fresh somewhere new. Florida seemed like a good place to find myself again, you,"" he replied, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. ""Well, I kind of ran away from home. I have a terrifying stepmom situation that I didn’t feel like dealing with,"" I replied. Aaron seemed surprised, but it didn’t take long before he fixed his gaze on the road. ""I don’t have the words to reply to that, but I will when I have a good enough answer to say,"" he smiled.It was almost night, and we were approaching a beach. As we drove towards the sunset, I knew that this road trip had changed my life forever. Little did I know that it was only the beginning of a new chapter filled with love, friendship, and the thrill of the unknown. ""I really like sunsets,"" I said as Aaron pulled over to the beach. ""Wait, what are you doing?"" I asked. ""Didn’t you just say that you like sunsets? We can watch the sunset and spend the night here, how does it sound?"" he asked. ""Can’t say no to that,"" I smiled.""There is no better place than a beach facing the west to watch a sunset,"" Aaron said. ""I agree,"" I replied. We enjoyed the sunset for a while. ""How did the whole terrifying stepmother situation begin?"" he asked. ""Are you indirectly asking what happened to my biological mother?"" I answered. ""Well, you got me, if you don’t mind sharing,"" he said. ""I lost my mother when I was ten. In a car crash. I survived, she didn’t. I lost her with all of the memories I had with her. My father said that I resemble her a lot. Nothing ever went back to the way it was after that. He remarried, and forgot about me."" Aaron was listening attentively. ""You know it's actually not that bad. It's just the woman he remarried is impossible to tolerate, and that part you know of,"" I shrugged my shoulders.""You know for some reason I want to learn more about you. After hearing you play and sing, I remembered the fact that we are still strangers to each other,"" I said, changing the subject. ""Obviously we met two days ago,"" he said. I started studying him. He had lit a campfire and brought sodas from the car just before the sun set. He took a sip from his soda. ""To be honest I had forgotten about that had you not reminded me, Lina,"" he said. ""Oh really, I thought I was the only one who felt the connection,"" I said sarcastically, leaning towards him with doe eyes. ""You have no idea what you do to me, but if you keep looking at me with those eyes, you will know, and I won’t apologize,"" he said. ""Tell me then, what do I do to you, Aaron? I didn't think you cared about me,"" I said, but my words were caught off with the soft lips I felt brush against mine.As the waves crashed against the shore, Aaron pulled away from the kiss, his hazel eyes locked onto mine. There was a mix of emotions in his gaze – desire, vulnerability, and something I couldn't quite place. I felt my heart racing, my mind trying to process what had just happened.""I... I didn't mean to do that,"" Aaron stammered.""It's okay,"" I replied, my own face warming up. ""I didn't mind it.""He let out a nervous chuckle, and we both sat there in silence for a moment, the crackling campfire filling the space between us. It was the first time I saw him unsure of himself, and it somehow made him even more endearing.""I didn't expect any of this,"" he said finally, breaking the silence. ""This road trip, meeting you, the music festival, and definitely not that kiss.""He looked torn, his emotions playing across his features. ""You barely know me, Lina. You don't know the kind of person I am or the things I've done.""""Well, maybe I want to find out,"" I said firmly. ""I'm not asking for a commitment or a promise. Let's just see where this road takes us.""Aaron searched my eyes for a moment, as if trying to read my soul. Then he gave a small nod, his lips curling into a soft smile. ""Alright, Llina. Let's see where this road takes us.""The next few days were filled with laughter, deep conversations, and new experiences. We explored Florida together, from its vibrant cities to its serene beaches. With each passing day, I felt my connection with Aaron grow stronger, and I could sense he felt it too.But life has its own way of testing us. As we spent more time together, it became evident that Aaron was carrying a heavy burden. There were moments when he would withdraw into himself, and no matter how much I tried to comfort him, he would push me away.One evening, as we watched the sunset on a secluded beach, Aaron turned to me with a pained expression. ""Lina, I need to tell you something.""My heart sank, fearing the worst. ""What is it, Aaron?""He took a deep breath, his gaze never leaving mine. ""I'm not who you think I am. I've done things in my past that I'm not proud of. I've hurt people, made mistakes... I'm not the person you deserve.""I reached out and gently placed my hand on his cheek. ""We all have a past, Aaron. What matters is who you are now and who you want to be in the future.""Aaron looked torn, his emotions warring within him. ""I don't know if I can be the person you need.""""Then be the person you want to be,"" I said, my voice steady. ""You can't change your past, but you can shape your future. And if you want me to be a part of it, I'll be there.""Tears welled up in his eyes, and he pulled me into a tight embrace. ""You're too good for me, Lina.""At that moment, I knew I had to let Aaron go. He needed time to find himself, to confront his demons, and I couldn't do that for him. It was painful, but I knew it was the right thing to do.The next morning, I woke up early and left a note for Aaron, explaining my decision. I knew he might be hurt, but it was for the best. I needed to find my own path, too, and maybe in the future, our roads would cross again.Five years passed, and life took me on a journey I could have never predicted. I pursued my dreams, found my passion in photography, and even reconnected with my sister, Marine. But there was always a part of me that wondered about Aaron and what had become of him.One day, while visiting a photography exhibition in a bustling city, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. It was him – Aaron. His blond hair was a bit longer, and there were new lines on his face, but those hazel eyes were still as captivating as ever.We locked eyes for a moment, and without thinking, I made my way towards him. He looked shocked to see me, but a small smile played on his lips.""Alina, I can't believe it's you,"" he said, his voice filled with emotion.I smiled back, feeling a mixture of excitement and nervousness. ""It's been a long time, Aaron.""""Yeah, it has,"" he replied, his eyes searching mine. ""I've thought about you so many times, wondering where life took you.""""I've thought about you too,"" I admitted. ""How have you been?""He took a deep breath. ""It's been a rollercoaster, to be honest. I took your advice and tried to become the person I wanted to be. It wasn't easy, but I've made progress. I still have my struggles, but I'm learning to face them.""""I'm glad to hear that,"" I said genuinely. ""I knew you had it in you.""He smiled, and a warmth filled the space between us. ""Thank you, Alina. You always saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself.""""That's what people who care about each other do,"" I replied softly.As the sun began to set, we found ourselves back on a beach, just like the night we first kissed. The memories of our road trip flooded back, and it felt like coming full circle.""Aaron, I want you to know that I never regretted our time together,"" I said, looking into his eyes. ""You may have had your struggles, but you also showed me kindness, strength, and a side of myself I didn't know existed. I'll always cherish our memories.""He reached out and gently took my hand. ""Alina, you were the light in my darkness. You believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself. I'll never forget that. You changed my life.""As the waves crashed against the shore, we stood there in silence, lost in our thoughts and emotions. It was as if time had stood still, allowing us to savor this moment.""I never stopped caring about you,"" he said softly. ""I know I hurt you when I pushed you away, but I hope you can forgive me.""""There's nothing to forgive,"" I replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. ""We all have our own journey, and sometimes we need to take time for ourselves. I understand that now.""He smiled gratefully, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed between us. But reality was different now, and I knew I had to be honest with myself.""Aaron, I'm happy to see you again, and I'll always cherish our memories, but we've both grown and changed,"" I said, trying to find the right words. ""I don't want to hold onto the past, but I want to remember it fondly. You'll always have a special place in my heart.""He nodded, his eyes tinged with sadness but understanding. ""I know what you mean, Alina. We can't go back, but I'm grateful for what we had.""As I walked away, I knew that whatever the future held for both of us, we had grown and learned from our time together. And as I looked ahead, I smiled, excited for the new adventures that awaited me.
","August 05, 2023 03:42","[[{'Huda Nur': 'I got carried away. The feelings and the ambiance in general were creatively described. Got goosebumps in some parts..', 'time': '01:57 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Seyma Tuyluoglu': 'Omg, thank you so much for reading my story!', 'time': '00:11 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Seyma Tuyluoglu': 'Omg, thank you so much for reading my story!', 'time': '00:11 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,vvw3oc,Angie's Thought,Marco Lama,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vvw3oc/,/short-story/vvw3oc/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Coming of Age', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
Angie had just turned thirteen.She’d been looking forward to it. It had seemed like a magic number, signifying some mysterious shift in her life. But, after her birthday party, she felt the same as before.She wasn’t upset. She was resigned. Like the quiet part of her had known that after her birthday she would feel the same as before. So around this time, shortly after turning thirteen, Angie entered into a small depression. She couldn’t think of anything to look forward to. After school she went to her room, shut the door, closed the blinds, put on her night light, grabbed the fuzzy blanket from the drawer under her bed, and slept until dinner. Although Angie hadn’t yet begun cataloguing the common fluctuations of her emotions, she knew this was a small depression, not a big one. But her mom became concerned. Not because of the behavior itself, but because of the sudden shift before and after her birthday. It was like the power had gone out in the house, and she could not find the cause. She spoke to Angie about her concern. One evening, after dinner, the sky that pale blue dark before night, Angie’s mom quietly opened the door to Angie’s bedroom, walked to Angie’s bed, and sat on the corner facing the door, her body turned to the door, her head turned to Angie. She laid a hand on Angie’s foot, which was peeking out from the bottom of her fuzzy blanket, and said, “Angie, can we talk?” Angie did not want to speak. She told her mom she was fine. Her mom pressed. Angie became upset, because she knew that this was just a small depression, and the fact that her mom could not recognize that made her feel that her mom did not recognize her. Angie’s mom left. Stung by Angie’s rejection, Angie’s mom decided that maybe she had spoiled her. Angie was her only child, and they rarely fought, and whenever Angie wanted something, if it was reasonable, she usually got it. This was not how most kids were raised. This was not how Angie’s mom had been raised. Her parents had greeted every request with suspicion, and only gave what was earned. Angie’s mom hadn’t wanted to raise Angie that way. Up until now, that hadn’t been a problem. But now, it appeared, it was. So Angie’s mom punished Angie by giving her chores after school. This would kill two birds with one stone, she figured. It would teach Angie a valuable lesson about gratitude, and it would keep her out of her room. But Angie did not understand why she was being punished, and so she felt that she was being punished because of the feelings she was having. She felt she was being punished for feeling the wrong things. So she stopped speaking to her mom. This seemed to confirm to Angie’s mom that, yes, in fact, she had been spoiled. If simple chores elicited such a dramatic response, that was a sign of being spoiled. So Angie’s mom responded with more chores, telling Angie that if she didn’t change her attitude, the chores would only increase. This confirmed to Angie that, yes, in fact, she was in trouble because her emotions were wrong. This outraged and confused her, and she did not know how to process the outrage and confusion. Not only that, but the outrage and confusion stemmed from the fact that she was no longer allowed to do what she normally did when she felt emotions she could not process, which was to sleep in her room. So, unable to process her feelings, the feelings grew, and grew, until the quality of the feelings took on a frightening unfamiliarity. Angie became afraid. Up until this point, she had grown familiar with the various peaks and valleys of her emotional world. But now she was in new, uncharted territory. This frightening unfamiliarity extended itself into the physical world. Her house suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Her room suddenly seemed like someone else’s. Her mom, who had always been a static representation of a certain kind of safety, suddenly seemed like a dangerous stranger. For the first time in her life, a constant, ever-present panic seeped into her skin and remained. She began to have nightmares. When she woke, the nightmare feeling remained. She began to feel she had to do something. Since what she had done before was no longer an option, she felt it was important to do something completely different. Instead of hiding in her room with the things that comforted her, she decided to seek discomfort in the world around her.She’d always come straight home after school, and if she didn’t, it was because of a plan, agreed upon with her mom. So she decided one day after school not to come home. Instead she went to the Kwik Trip behind the school, at the intersection with the CoachUSA bus stop. She did not text or call her mom to tell her she was doing this.What she felt while sitting there, on the plaster bench painted to look like stone outside the front door to the Kwik Trip, watching the buses pull up to the curb, hiss air from their hydraulic systems as they lowered to let the people off, what she felt while sitting there, knowing that no one knew where she was or what she was thinking, what she felt was the first good feeling she had found in this new, uncharted emotional world she had now entered. It was like a high, this feeling.Riding the high, she looked down below at the fear she had been feeling for the past few weeks, and, outside of it now, it seemed suddenly terrifying, even more terrifying than it had been when she was in it. She looked at the fear. She looked at how she felt now. She looked at the bus.Just before it was about to pull away, she ran to the door, hurried up the steps, pulled her wallet from the small zipper in her backpack, and handed a twenty dollar bill to the driver. The driver, a tired looking old man with a grey mustache, accepted the money with his eyes on the road, and Angie shuffled past the passengers to an empty seat in the back of the bus. She sat, and it took several moments for her mind to decide how she felt.But as the bus pulled away from the curb and entered the stream of traffic, as it picked up speed and began rushing towards some new destination—Angie did not know where the bus was going—the thought that made its way into Angie’s mind was… Well, it’s not mine to share. It was Angie’s thought.
","July 29, 2023 12:43","[[{'Lily Rama': 'Amazing story! This was a great representation of how something small can grow into something big, and how assumptions can be false. Love it, keep writing!', 'time': '13:54 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Marco Lama': 'Thank you Lily! That means a lot :)', 'time': '14:01 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Rama': ""Of course! I look forward to seeing more of your works! \nAlso, if you wouldn't mind checking out my latest story, I would really appreciate your feedback! :)"", 'time': '14:17 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marco Lama': 'Thank you Lily! That means a lot :)', 'time': '14:01 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Rama': ""Of course! I look forward to seeing more of your works! \nAlso, if you wouldn't mind checking out my latest story, I would really appreciate your feedback! :)"", 'time': '14:17 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Rama': ""Of course! I look forward to seeing more of your works! \nAlso, if you wouldn't mind checking out my latest story, I would really appreciate your feedback! :)"", 'time': '14:17 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Interesting.', 'time': '13:39 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,wqrgtz,Overworked Guardian Angel ,George Georgerfrost@gmail.com,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wqrgtz/,/short-story/wqrgtz/,Adventure,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fantasy', 'Happy']",8 likes,"
	Life can change in a split second.  I know that sounds cliche, but I found it to be true. Simon was standing at the side off a desert road with his thumb out and a seven o’clock shadow.  His shirt was soaked with sweat and his shoulders drooped quite a bit. Feeling sorry for him, I pulled off the side of the road.
	“Thank you.” He said as he ran to my open window of my beat up twenty year old Toyota.
	“Where are you headed?? I casually asked as he got into the passenger’s side bucket seat. 
	“I’m trying to find Orson Newton.” He said reading off of a sticky note.
	I sat there stunned after he said the name.
	“Is there a problem?” He asked, noticing my shock at the name he said.
	“Yeah, I’m Oroson Newton.” I tilted my chin back to get a better look at the stranger who had just entered my car and knew my name. 
	“Wonderful.  I am your guardian angel.” He bubbled.
	“My what?” I turned my head so just my good eye was staring intently at him.  
	“Guardian angel.” He made sure he said it clearly so I would hear him correctly.
	“Who the Hell are you?” I was in no mood for some jokester and his pranks.
	“Simon.” He nodded.
	“Simon who?” I hissed.
	“Just Simon will do.” He assured me.
	“Not if you’re going to claim you are a guardian angel.  Folks around here are gonna wanna know what you are up to.” I put my hands on the steering wheel.  The unrelenting desert sun heated up my Toyota in a minute.  Sweat was already dripping down the back of my neck. 
	“I’m just here for you.  No one else.” He assured me. “In fact, you are the only one who can see me.” 
	“Great, just great.” I shook my head, “So I’m gonna go around talking to you who no one else can see?” 
	He nodded emphatically.
	“I need you to get out of my car.” I pointed at the passenger door his elbow was resting on, “I am in no mood for shenanigans.” 
	“I do not plan such activities, Orson.” He looked at me as if I was losing it.
	“You know you could have been an average Joe standing on the side of the road thumbing for a ride, but I wind up with you.”  I sighed.
	“Lucky you.” He chuckled.
	“How do ya figure?” I asked pulling onto the road.
	“Most people never get to meet their guardian angels, but you do.” He leaned back as I began to drive toward Palm Springs where I worked as a dealer at a casino. 
	“You know, I do not see the luck in that.” I groaned, “Luck is getting dealt an inside straight when the house just has a pair of deuces.” 
	“Sorry, I am not familiar with poker.” He shrugged as the dreary landscape went zipping by. 
	“You will be if you plan on hanging around me.” I said still not believing what was happening. 
	I had been a dealer at the Golden Goose for seven years.  The golden goose you may recall is what Jack grabbed when he was being chased by the giant.  He shimmied down that beanstalk and then hacked it down, killing the giant.  Some of the cops I knew that hung around the Golden Goose would have arrested Jack for B and E and first degree murder, but fairy tales are make believe and teach us lessons about life.  Me, I would never climb a beanstalk unless I knew where it was going to take me.  Even using caution, I wound up picking up this hitchhiker, Simon. 
	In my business you can’t ask too many questions or get to know the customers, because there are dangerous people who hang around and if you’re not careful you can wind up in a whole lot of hurt.  This is why I stick to myself and just deal cards.  There are some high level scammers who can take you for a ride.  One of my dealer friends wound up losing everything she had, poor lady, but Palm Springs can be a suckers’ town if you play with the wrong crowd. 
	“So are you just gonna follow me around, Simon?” I asked as the radio turned to static.  The empty area between Death Valley and Palm Springs did not have any sort of radio reception.  
	“That’s my job.” He nodded.
	“How the heck did you get this job?” I asked as I saw the Golden Goose Casino in the distance.  The desert is full of mirages.  While the Golden Goose appeared to be just around the corner, I knew it was about forty miles away on the straight desert road.  
	“In Heaven, you have to do some time as a guardian angel in order to get your wings.  Once you have your winds, you can get around a lot easier.” He paused, “But then maybe I’ve said too much.”
	“No, no, it’s good to know.” I was still not sold on Simon being what he said he was, a guardian angel.  
	“Do you do dangerous things?” He asked.
	“I try to keep myself safe and secure.” I jabbed my thumb into my chest for emphasis. 
	“Good...wonder why I am here.” He muttered to himself, making me uneasy once again. 
	“Why did you say that?” I asked.
	“Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you trade secrets, but guardian angels appear when their appointed one is in dire trouble.” He did not look at me as he spoke.  I learned not to trust someone who did not look you in the eye when they were talking to you.  It is an occupational hazard, but one I have found useful in the past.  
	“We are here.” I told him as I pulled into the employee parking lot after thirty minutes of absolute silence. “So no one but me can see you, is that correct?” 
	He nodded solemnly.  
	“Good.  You let me do the talking.” I chucked as I used my key to get in the backdoor.
	“Hey Orson.” Candy greeted me as she was putting the last touch ups on her bright red hair.  Dressed in the same uniform as I was dressed in with black pants and shoes, a starched white shirt, a black pinstripe vest and black bow tie, Candy had been coloring her hair for the past ten years.  She wanted to appear younger since the customers liked their dealers to be young and pretty.  She was a real stunner before she had grandkids.  
	I must admit, I color my hair and beard jet black as patches of gray have started to appear in certain patches.  Twice a month I go to a hair stylist in order to keep my grooming standards up to standards. 
	“Hey.” Candy looked directly at Simon.  My heart nearly froze, “Are you ready for the big blow out we got over the weekend?” 
	“I forgot all about it.” I rolled my eyes, thankful that she had not really seen Simon standing next to me. 
	“I’ll see you out there on the floor.” She smiled showing her lipstick stained teeth as she walked through the door.
	“So what is this blow out?” Simon asked.  We were alone in the backroom.
	“It’s a big poker tournament.” I answered, checking myself one last time in the lighted mirror.
	“Oh my.” Simon moaned as I walked out the door into the big room filled with all sorts of noise and calamity.  
	“Hey Orson!” Sammy called out, he worked at the table next to mine.
	“Sammy.” I waved.  Simon was right behind me, but Sammy couldn’t see him just like Simon promised. 
	“I want you to keep things copasetic.” Mack the pit boss instructed me, “Try not to have too many big winners.  Sometimes Orson you get too generous with the house money.” 
	“Yes sir.” I said as I laid the poker chips out on the table.  I hated Mack.  In our last meeting he brought up the fact that my table had the most winners during the week which was a sore spot for Alex Sparenter who owned the casino.  Mr. Sparenter would sit in the back of the conference room where we held our meeting with a Cuban cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth and wearing his opaque sunglasses.  Usually he was good to his employees, but it was well known that he would send his goons to your house if you took a slice off the top. Franz disappeared after it was discovered he was taking a grand here and there from the house money.  As a result the pit bosses kept a close eye on their dealers to which Mack Rollins made it his personal crusade against his dealers.
	“He seems quite mean.” Simon nodded.
	“He is…” I kept my voice at a whisper so no one could hear me talking to my guardian angel.  I mean Simon.  “You’ve gotta keep quiet.”
	“I will do my best.” 
	The customers rushed in once the doors were open.  Loud music played over the speakers consisting of some of the best known crooners like Sinatra and Nat King Cole.  Many of our customers did not like or trust rock ‘n’ roll, so we seldom played it during the evening.  Every once and a while a Neil Diamond song would slip in there, but by then the customers were too engrossed in their winnings to notice.  
	“That guy over there took some chips.” Simon pointed. One of the things we were supposed to watch for was when customers took what didn’t belong to them.  
	“Sir, you need to put that back.” I said out of the side of my mouth so the other customers didn’t hear.
	“Are you accusing me of cheating?” He asked with a semi-smirk on his face.
	“Did you take some chips from this pile over here?” I pointed to the red chips next to my left elbow.
	“Naw.” He chuckled.
	“He did.” Simon pointed.
	“Seems like I am missing a few red chips.” I said looking him directly in the eye.
	“Do you have any idea who I am?” He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I’m Victor Ambrelli.  Thee Victor Ambrelli.” 
	“I do not know who you are, Mr. Ambrelli, but you can’t take chips you have not paid for.” 
	“Are you accusing me of stealing?” He hissed, “I will have my uncle come over here and have a word with yous.” 
	“As long as you put the chips back.” 
	“Are you going to deal or what?” An elderly lady asked in a hostile tone.
	“Yeah, just a minute.” I put my hand up, palm out. 
	“I will not stand for this.” She got up and stormed off. 
	“I do not like this.” Simon shook his head.
	“That’s my Uncle Tony over there talking to Mr. Alex Sparenter.” He pointed.
	“That man has a gun.” Simon pointed to the automatic pistol tucked into his cumberbun. “I do not like this.  I do not.” 
	“Keep your shirt on.” I whispered.
	“Are you telling me to keep my shirt on?”  Victor asked.
	“Not you…” 
	“Is something going on over here?” Mack appeared from the crowd.
	“No, everything is fine.” I assured him.
	“It is not fine.” Victor raised his voice, “He accused me of stealing.” 
	“Victor, what is going on?” A very large man identified as Uncle Tony asked his nephew.
	“He accused me of stealing.” Victor pointed his finger at me like a gun.
	“Is this true?” Uncle Tony asked.
	“It is. It is.” Simon pointed at Victor.
	“He was seen pocketing two red chips.” I affirmed.
	“I can make good on anything he has taken.” Uncle Tony turned to Mack, “What is it he owes?” 
	“Nothin’ Uncle Tony.” Victor snapped.  
	After a back and forth exchange, the guns came out.
	“Oh my!” Simon exclaimed.
	“I can see it.” I said as Victor pointed his automatic pistol at my forehead.
	“What can you see?” Victor said, biting his lip. 
	“That I may have been mistaken.” I said afraid at any second he would pull the trigger and I would be no longer.
	“Too late you idiot.  I wanna pull this trigger and even things out.” I could see his finger wrap around the trigger.  
	“AHHHH!” I heard Simon yell as he disappeared. 
	“Victor, this is no way to settle things.” Uncle Tony urged him as security poured into the main room where Victor was getting ready to blow my head off. 
	“I don’t care.  I get tired of people accusing me of things I ain’t done.”
	Three shots were fired from his automatic.
	Death was surely a strange feeling.  I felt nothing.  Victor stood there with his mouth hanging open.  Glancing over at Uncle Tony who was standing next to Mack, he had taken his sunglasses off after doing a double take. 
	“Your brains would have been splattered all over the wall in back of you.” He said, shaking his head.
	“Drop the gun.” One of the security guards ordered and Victor complied with the order without a single hesitation.  One of the security guards put Victor in handcuffs.
	“What the hell happened?” Mack stood there with his arms out.
	“I don’t know.” I shook my head, happy that it was still attached to my shoulders. 
	“You’ve acting strangely.” Mack shrugged, “Maybe you need some time off.” 
	“Are you okay?” Candy rushed over, “Oh Orson, you scared the living…yeah.” 
	She hugged me.
	“I don’t get it.  I fired three bullets.  You should not be standing.” The handcuffed Victor sneered as the security guards led him out.  
	Newspaper reporters flocked into the casino.  One of them stuck a microphone in my face, asking, “So is it true Victor Ambrelli fired three shots point blank and yet you don’t have a mark on you.” 
	“Yes.” I looked around for Simon, but he was nowhere to be seen. 
	“You do know he has mob connection, right?”  Another reporter asked.
	“I do now.” I ran my hand through my hair.  There was a thick layer of sweat covering my forehead still.
	“What do you think was the reason you survived?” 
	I opened my mouth and then closed it again.
	“No more questions, please.  Mr. Newton is pretty shaken up.”  Mack began to herd the reporters into the lobby.  I felt that I was on the verge of collapsing so I went into the backroom to get some water.  When I looked into the mirror, I not only saw my own pale reflection, I saw Simon standing next to me smiling.
	“Simon?” 
	“Yes, yes, Orson.  I have to go back now.” He said as his reflection faded.
	“Where?” I asked.
	“According to the heavenly protocol, I should get my wings now.” He closed his eyes. “You see when that brute pulled the trigger, I became your bulletproof vest.  The bullets went into me.”
	“Oh my-”
	“Don’t worry, it didn’t hurt. You can only die once, you know.” He shrugged, “Just think of me as your overworked guardian angel at your service. I was glad to be there when you needed me, but now it’s time for me to go back. I will be watching.  But , please don’t make me have to come back and save you again.”
	“I won’t.” I promised and we both laughed at that as I watched his reflection completely fade away. 
	“Thank you for saving my life.” I called out, but Simon was no longer there. I flopped down in the chair and picked up a picture of water and drank half of it, letting some of it run down my chin.  
	“What the heck happened out there?”  Sammy asked, grabbing my arm. “You should’ve been dead.”  
	“But I’m not.” I shook my head.
	“It’s a miracle, ain’t it?” He asked..
	“Let’s just say my guardian angel was hovering around, shall we. He was there when I really needed him, huh?” I nodded. I was somewhat relieved when I glanced at the mirror and only saw Sammy’s and my reflection. 
 
","July 30, 2023 22:41","[[{'Kay Reed': 'Enjoyed reading your story! \n\nI liked the suspense of the guardian angel showing up at the beginning and the reader on edge as a result waiting for the inevitable (likely) near death experience to follow. I thought for sure it was going to be a car accident, and really enjoyed the detail that the guardian angel just hung out on the drive for a half hour with literally nothing happening— it had me surprised and built suspense all in one move.\n\nLike your other commenter, I also feel like this piece could benefit from getting expanded. The latt...', 'time': '06:47 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you so much for your in depth comment, Kay.  This helps me understand what a good reader is expecting.  \n\nGeorge', 'time': '22:51 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you so much for your in depth comment, Kay.  This helps me understand what a good reader is expecting.  \n\nGeorge', 'time': '22:51 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'George, I found your story very interesting. I do have one minor comment similar to some issues that I personally have in my stories. I do understand that you need to move the plot quickly in a short story. However, I was caught up short by the fact that an attempt was made so quickly to shoot Orson in the head. Very dramatic but it strained credulity for me.', 'time': '15:23 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'You are correct Bruce, I was running  up the word count and had to make this happen in a hurry.  I am going to revise and lead up to the shooting by building more suspense. Thank you for your comment however, it is appreciated.', 'time': '21:09 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bruce Friedman': 'No problem. Love your stories.', 'time': '00:05 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thanks, Bruce.', 'time': '21:38 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'You are correct Bruce, I was running  up the word count and had to make this happen in a hurry.  I am going to revise and lead up to the shooting by building more suspense. Thank you for your comment however, it is appreciated.', 'time': '21:09 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'No problem. Love your stories.', 'time': '00:05 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thanks, Bruce.', 'time': '21:38 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'No problem. Love your stories.', 'time': '00:05 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thanks, Bruce.', 'time': '21:38 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thanks, Bruce.', 'time': '21:38 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Boy what a guy has to do to earn his wings\n\U0001fabd\U0001fabd', 'time': '00:23 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Used to be everytime a bell rings...thank you again, Mary.  I like your humor.', 'time': '20:42 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Used to be everytime a bell rings...thank you again, Mary.  I like your humor.', 'time': '20:42 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,gatph3,A Drive to Nana's ,Rebecca Terenzoni,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gatph3/,/short-story/gatph3/,Adventure,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],8 likes,"
	With one final sigh, the sun sank below the horizon. It's colors of orchard yellow, peach, and mauve trailing after it and fading into the quite stillness of night. Peter flicked on the headlights of his beat up Honda Civic, and continued speeding down the straight stretch of highway, anxious to be at his destination. Pinpricks of stars began to appear in the dark night sky, and the moon began to poke it's head above the tree tops. 
	Peter hated driving at night. He could not confirm it but he was almost certain that he had some form of night blindness or light sensitivity. The headlights now a days were almost blinding. He especially hated those ones that were so blindingly bright that they almost changed colors when you look at them. They messed with his head. 
 Jesus, he thought, I sound like I'm old.
	His eyes flickered to the dashboard, 8:15 p.m., it glowed back. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Timing was important. He knew she wasn't about to leave this very second, but it felt almost urgent that he get to her house right away. 
	Without the conscious thought of the action, Peter accelerated and his eyes scanned for the next exit. His had to be coming up soon. He had typically only experienced this drive in his childhood when he was a passenger. It felt longer driving it himself as an adult. 
 Ah-Ha! He thought as the reflective green road sign came into view. 
	Exit 61, it read.
 Alright, only two more to go, he thought with satisfaction. 
 	It wasn't just the two more exits though. He still had to get off the highway, navigate route 3 to Piston Street or something like that, maybe Prestin Street? He never could remember... but the point was he still had twenty-ish more minutes of driving and he wasn't sure his nerves could handle it. 
	He had the curious sensation of dying to be at his destination and dreading when he actually got there. He found that his nerves did best if he tried not to think too hard about his it, merely focusing on the logistics of getting there, the journey and all that. 
	He called it micromanaging his thoughts, and he really only had to employ it in these drastic situations. 
	This, unfortunately, qualified.
	He passed Exit 62 and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. 
 One more to go, he thought somberly. 
	He'd already been driving for three hours. His bladder was full but he refused to pull over. He was hungry and thirsty but his water and snacks lay untouched. His thoughts were consumed with trying not to think too much, ironically enough. Try as he might, that was one hard task to do, especially when he was anxious. 
	Without meaning to, the memory of the phone call with his Dad surfaced from his subconscious. 
 
 ""Hello?"" Peter said as he answered his phone.
	""Peter?"" Dad asked.
 ""Yeah Dad, it's me."" 
 Peter was always annoyed when his Dad would call him and still feel the need to check that it was him. He knew it was just the difference in generations and technology and all that. He tried to be patient but it always slipped when he had to explain, once again, to his Dad these things like how he didn't have to address text messages as if they were emails or letters, or the general workings of his phone. He always felt guilty about this, but he couldn't help being a little annoyed. He showed him so many times how to work the stupid thing. 
 
	Exit 63! Peter took his exit and managed to merge onto Route 3 without hassle which was a small miracle. 
 
 ""Oh, hi son,"" Dad said. ""How is everything treating you?""
 ""It's good, Dad. School's been good. Almost done with this semester,"" Peter had said a little more shortly than he normally would, it was late after all and he was suppose to be going to his friend Dino's party. 
	""That's great Pete."" He had said, sounding a little distracted. Peter wasn't even sure if he had actually heard him. The words finally came out in a rush. ""So, I'm sorry to do this over the phone, but Nana's not doing too good. You know how she has that tumor on her throat, the doctors got back to her and it's not safe to operate on anymore..."" 
 Peter felt his stomach sink. He waited for Dad to collect himself once again. His voice had sounded strained and Peter knew he was trying not to cry. The knowledge that his father was trying not to cry scared Peter. Parents weren't suppose to cry in front of their children. It made Peter feel extremely vulnerable and completely helpless. 
	""Peter, I think you should go say goodbye,"" His Dad had finally choked out. 
 
	And so here he was, rushing to his destination and fearing it all the same. He didn't know what to expect when he got there. He was afraid of how she would look, would she act like a zombie? What would she say to him? Would she start crying? What if she didn't cry? The list went on and on and on and it drove him crazy.
	He took his turn onto Prescott Street, he was wrong on both those guesses but he knew he'd forget the name as soon as he left, and began checking the house numbers. He felt there was no real need to though cause he always knew his Nana's house when he saw it. 
	He stopped at a four way intersection. He didn't remember this at all. He peered up at the street sign. Mayfield Road? No, he was pretty sure that she was on Prescott Street. He continued forward, wondering if he should call his Dad to make certain. 
	Before he could reach for his phone, he saw it. There, along the curve of the road, was the small blue cape house with yellow shutters that was his Nana's house. It looked smaller than he remembered.
	It felt like his heart was in his throat. His stomach felt like it had shriveled up completely. He felt the itch to turn around and run for it (or speed more accurately), yet he continued until he was pulling up into the crowded driveway and shutting off his car. He recognized his Dad and Aunt's car. He wondered who else was there. 
	His heart was beating so fast he wondered if he was having a heart attack. He tried a few steadying breaths and when that failed he jumped out of the car and pace the length of his car. His hands were shaking. Now that the journey was over, the part he had  been trying so hard not to think about had arrived. 
	He had no idea what he would say to her. He had no idea what she would say to him. He was afraid he'd start just bailing in front of him. 
	He forced himself to take a slow steady breath in. 
	Better. The night air helped. It was cool with a little humidity but it wasn't unpleasant. He could smell the rose bush Nana had by the front door and the earthy musk of the mulch and gardening soil. The grass had been cut not long ago, Peter guessed early that morning based on the clippings left behind and its slightly sweet aroma it left in the air. 
	He took a few more steady breaths, his heart finally returning to a normal pace. 
 You're going to be okay, he told himself firmly.
	He nodded to himself and took in one big final breath, holding it slightly, and on his exhale he balled his hands into fists and made himself walk up the driveway to steps that lead to the side entrance. The curtains blocked the windows on the outside but he could hear voices inside. 
	He started knocking but thought better of it and just opened the door and went inside. 
	His Dad and Aunt were talking in the kitchen. Both had a glass of red wine and both had strained expressions. They turned at the sound of Peter's entrance and both broke away to give him a hug.
	""Thank you for making it,"" his Dad whispered in his ear.
	""So good to see you Dear,"" his Aunt had said.
	His mom materialized out of nowhere and planted a kiss on his cheek. 
	""How was your drive?"" She asked.
	""It was good,"" Peter said in a small voice. He felt so small, like he was a child again. 
	He was grateful to have his family there. He was even more grateful when Mom took him by the hand and calmly lead him in the living room. His nerves began to jumpstart again, but they were diminished, not the monster they were before. The company of his family helped keep the hysteria at bay, and he could not think how this would have gone had them not have been there. 
	The living room had the same gray carpet that it always had. A flowery thick rug only old ladies would have loved lay on top of it. The wallpaper on the walls were stained yellow from the cigarette smoke despite Nana having quit that ""nasty business"" (as she referred to it) thirty years ago. A big couch sat against the wall, and adjacent to this was Nana's puffy arm chair (it was actually Papa's but after he passed Nana spent every night in it). It faced the TV, which played Wheel of Fortune. An oxygen tank hissed and pumped next to the chair, and strapped to the oxygen tank was his Nana. 
	She was skinnier than he ever remembered seeing her. Though he had seen her three months ago for Easter, she seemed to have lost a significant amount of weight in that time. She had a crochet blanket draped across her legs and fuzzy slippers poked out from the bottom of it. Her calico cat Pepper, was on her lap and she purred away happily as Nana absent mindedly pet her. 
	She didn't realize at first when Peter arrived, her hearing was not what it use to be. Mom steered Peter in front of her and when her eyes rested on his, they were full of satisfaction and love. 
	""Oh, Petey my love!"" She exclaimed, a smile spreading across her face. 
	Peter smiled and felt his anxiety vanish. Looking into his Nana's eyes, he only felt love and concern, a little sadness too, but no fear. This was his Nana, and he loved her with all his heart. 
	""Hi Nana,"" he said as he bent down to give her a kiss. 
	She took one of his big, sweaty hands in both of her frail hands. They looked a little skeletal, but Peter focused on her eyes. Nana was still there in her eyes, and he felt relieved he could have this last moment with her. 
	Mom kissed the top of his head and went back into the kitchen. 
	Peter ended up staying the night. 
","August 02, 2023 17:51","[[{'Debra Koffski': 'Wonderful, moving story. I felt like I was there. I loved the descriptive terms. Well done!', 'time': '17:54 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': ""Beautiful story. Brought me to tears at the end. Grandma's eyes. Great term. You really captured the emotions of a college age kid facing the death of a loved one. Sounded truly real. Maybe from personal experience? Great job!"", 'time': '22:20 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Rebecca Terenzoni': 'Thank you so much! It actually was! I had to make a solo trip to say goodbye to my grandma  when I was of that age. I’m glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '13:24 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Rebecca Terenzoni': 'Thank you so much! It actually was! I had to make a solo trip to say goodbye to my grandma  when I was of that age. I’m glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '13:24 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'A sad but relatable tale, Rebecca. You brought out the pathos very well.  \n\nOne thing: you have ""it\'s"" in a couple of places where you should have ""its."" \n\nGood job. Cheers!', 'time': '01:23 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Rebecca Terenzoni': 'Oh thank you!! I will fix that!', 'time': '13:23 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Rebecca Terenzoni': 'Oh thank you!! I will fix that!', 'time': '13:23 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,dt9rf1,Rispetta il Cibo,Courtney Caruso,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dt9rf1/,/short-story/dt9rf1/,Adventure,0,"['Friendship', 'Adventure', 'Happy']",8 likes,"
The airport must have been designed by Versace.  Rome’s airport is bellissima.  I’ve been studying Italian since my sweet baby graduated high school.   All he ever talked about was cooking and many nights cooked for his father and I and his little brother.  The day he left broke my heart.  Our plan was to surprise him with plane tickets for Rome but for the following year.  He took it upon himself to enroll for that year, and we just couldn’t afford such an immediate departure.  I kind of lost my mind and we haven’t spoken since.  Occasionally, his father would get a text from him.  Happy Father’s Day, Buon Natale, Buon Compleanno, but nothing to me.  I realize that my son is one hundred percent my child, and has every ounce of my attitude, so while none of this surprises me, it still hurts.  I guess he’s trying to prove something.  It makes me crazy that he can’t just call.  Thank God for the language courses I’ve taken or else this would be that much more difficult.  As I pass through more TSA checkpoints and go to wait for my bag, I notice even their baggage handlers, and passport staff are all beautiful people.  Italians really know style, even if it is in a standard airport uniform.
 
I rented my car online, and because only my husband knows how to drive stick, I made sure I paid extra to get an automatic rental.  They gave me an Alfa Romeo.  My husband would be so jealous.  Thankfully, the apartment he’s living in is not far from the airport.  He’s in the heart of Roma and his apartment is a tiny studio with no view.  Only a tiny window of light in the kitchen and the bathroom. I guess for him, all he needs is a kitchen, bathroom and somewhere to lay his head, but he deserves better. 
 
Lennon has no idea I’m coming.  I think of every scenario in my head of how this could play out.  Either he’s going to be really mad, or really happy.  No mom wants to let go of either of her babies, but this one is so close to my personality, that you really can’t stand in his way.  When I opened my barbershop, my husband just stepped aside and was only there for support.  You couldn’t tell me anything.  I understand Lennon, but letting go was the hardest thing for me.
 
I finally arrive at his apartment but he’s not here.  I’m not sure what to do, so I put my bag at the door, and walk around his little piazza in hopes he might appear out of nowhere.  Maybe he’s working.  I guess I didn’t plan this out too well.  Just as those thoughts hit me, I almost get ran over by this asshole on a vespa.  And just as the words begin to form, “Hey, attenzione…” his helmet comes off.
 
“Mom?” 
 
Tears fill my eyes, and I can’t help but start crying instantly.  Il mio bambino!  We embrace for what feels like hours.  Just holding each other.
 
“Mom, what are you doing here?”
 
“I got your letter.”
 
Dear Mom, 
 
I know it’s been forever since I’ve talked to you.  I also know I could probably just pick up the phone and call you.  I’ve tried a hundred times, but I’ve always been afraid you’ll hang up on me.  I needed to do this for me.  Going to Rome was a huge opportunity for me, and I know you don’t like secrets, but you would’ve never said yes.  It’s been two years and I’ve learned a lot, but right now, I feel lost.  I need my mom.  I never thought I’d say that, but I wish you were here right now.  I hope you’d be proud of me.  I’ve been working really hard, and in two weeks, I’m driving up to Venice for a food festival called Rispetta il Cibo.  I’d love it if you could come to Venice for this.  I’m showcasing my food and it will give me an opportunity to show you that coming here was worth it.  I really miss you guys.  
Say hi to dad for me.
 
I love you, 
 
Lennon
 
·      
 
“I didn’t think you’d come.  I was literally leaving and forgot my phone charger, so I came back to get it.”  I notice his backpack and side bags on his Vespa.
 
“You were going to drive to Venice on that?”  
 
“Did you come here to lecture me?”  attitude on full blast.  Okay, calm down and give him a smart answer or you will have just wasted all this time and money coming here.
 
“I came here to drive us both to Venice.  I hope that’s okay?”
“It’s okay, Mom.”  Lennon began to put his things in my car, and we set off on the 4 and a half hour drive up to Venice. as they drove through the picturesque countryside and ancient cities. The initial silence was uncomfortable, but as the miles rolled by, conversation slowly flowed.
We reminisced about the past, recounting the joyful memories we shared when Lennon was a child. I remembered how we used to play games during long car rides, and we decided to play those games again.  My husband’s favorite game was “would you rather” questions.  With each game we played, the distance between us seemed to fade away, replaced by smiles and laughter.  
 
“Remember when you were first learning how to crack eggs?”
 
“Yeah, and me and Remy got into an egg fight in the kitchen, and you had a nervous breakdown because you knew you had to clean it all up, and we were grounded in our rooms for the rest of our lives?  Yeah, that was fun.”
 
“You’re supposed to be in your room still.”  We laugh.  This feels good.  I really want more of this connection.  “Can I tell you something?”
 
Lennon says with his typical sarcastic attitude, “haven’t you been telling me things?”
 
“Dad and I were going to pay for your plane tickets for Rome.  We just needed a little more time, babe.”
 
“It’s fine mom, that’s in the past.  I’m here, and I’m doing something with my life.  It’s okay.  And if I win this competition, I’ll get the money to pay off my student loans so I can get a better apartment.”
 
As they passed by Rome, Lennon pulls the car into Rome as far as he can and parks.  They get out and walk over to the Fontana di Trevi. 
 
“If you throw three coins in, make a wish, and they say it will come true.”  He says with a smile.
 
“I thought it was, throw three coins in and you’ll return to Rome?”
 
“I don’t know, but it’s good luck, and I’m going to need all the luck I can get.”  We throw the coins in, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see he took a selfie of us.  While we were in Roma, we had lunch at Osteria di Fortunata for the world’s best carbonara. The creamy, velvety sauce made with eggs, pecorino cheese, and pancetta creates a rich and savory flavor that dances on your taste buds. The al dente pasta perfectly absorbs the sauce, delivering a harmonious combination of textures. Every bite offers a burst of umami goodness, making it an irresistible and truly mouthwatering dish that captures the essence of Roman cuisine.  I have a feeling we’re going to gain weight while enjoy our drive.
 
Lennon talks about some of the other chefs he’s met while he’s been working and going to school here.  He’s independent and very sure of his career.  Secretly I hope that he chooses to come home one day and open a restaurant here, but I need to step down and just let him make those decisions.  I couldn’t be prouder of him, though.  The way he speaks about food is the way artists paint or musicians create music.  It just flows.  
 
Before I know it, a couple hours later, we have arrived in Florence.  Tuscany has always been on my bucket list with my husband, and now that Lennon is here, we’ll make a point to visit Tuscany together.  We arrive just in time for dinner at Di Poneta Novoli, and Lennon of course orders for me.  Eating Bistecca alla Fiorentina in Tuscany is a carnivorous indulgence like no other. The thick, juicy, and perfectly grilled T-bone steak, seasoned simply with olive oil, salt, and pepper, showcases the high-quality Tuscan beef at its best. As you cut into the steak, the smoky aroma fills the air, enticing your senses. The charred exterior contrasts beautifully with the tender, pink interior, resulting in a melt-in-your-mouth experience. Accompanied by a glass of robust Tuscan red wine, I am reminded that we have to get back on the road soon, so I can’t have more than one glass.  
 
I must say the Tuscan views are breathtaking and captures the essence of everything Italian. As we sit at the table, vineyards stretch out before you in neatly lined rows adorned with ripening grapes.  The rolling hills blanketed in vibrant shades of gold creates a gentile feeling across the landscape.  In the distance you can spot medieval hilltop villages with stone buildings standing proudly amidst the countryside.  Cypress trees stand out to me adding a touch of elegance and character to the surroundings.
 
Back in the car we return for more conversation.  It’s like two people finally getting to know each other and reclaiming a relationship that was never properly established.  It feels nice to be in Lennon’s comfort zone.  
 
“Are you getting nervous?”  I say, referencing the upcoming competition in Venice.  “What are you making?”
 
“I’m making my version of their dish, 'baccala mantecato'.  It’s a classic dish of Venice that is creamy and delicate made from salted cod, which is meticulously soaked, cooked, and then whipped into a velvety texture with olive oil and milk. The dish's richness is complemented by a hint of brininess, reminiscent of the sea that surrounds the iconic Venetian lagoon. Paired with a glass of crisp white wine, this culinary experience is an ode to Venetian culinary artistry and a memorable highlight of your visit to the ""Floating City.""”
 
“How long did it take you to memorize saying it that way?”  I said with a snicker.
 
“Mom!  This is my job.  If you can’t make food sound amazing, why would you ever want to eat it.  And for your information it took me about 4 days to memorize it and then transform it into my own version of it.  But Italians are very hesitant about changing their recipes so I have to be very careful of how I do this, or it could come off as insulting.”  
 
Three hours later, we arrive at the hotel where we’ll be staying.  I have to say, I’m beyond exhausted, and ready for sleep.  First, we drop our bags off at the hotel and settle in.  Lennon, then insists that we go to this tiny gelateria in town for gelato.  I must admit, besides having the best ‘proud mom moments’, Lennon’s been ordering for me the whole time, and it feels nice to let him take control.  I’m used to always making decisions at home with my shop, and the house, so it’s nice to let go a little.  
 
The mesmerizing green hue of the pistachio gelato adds a vibrant pop of color, creating images of lush Mediterranean landscapes and the essence of Italian gelaterias.  Each mouthful feels like a sensory journey evoking a sense of appreciation for the artistry and passion that goes into making this frozen masterpiece.
 
The next day, in a charming Venetian square, a culinary competition is underway, drawing a crowd of locals and tourists alike. Among the participants stands my baby boy, Lennon, his eyes filled with excitement and determination. He's here to showcase his culinary prowess and make a mark in the city of culinary legends.
 
Lennon confidently moves around her cooking station, his hands steady as he readies his ingredients. The aroma of his carefully selected spices fills the air, capturing the attention of curious onlookers.
 
The competition begins, and Lennon dives into his signature dish – a modern twist on classic Venetian baccala mantecato. His American flair is evident in the innovative use of locally sourced ingredients he discovered during his time in Venice. As he adds the last ladle of broth, his eyes sparkle with excitement, knowing that this dish is a reflection of his culinary journey.
 
The judges, seasoned Venetian chefs with a discerning palate, taste his creation with keen interest. Lennon stands tall, his heart pounding with anticipation, awaiting their verdict. The moment of truth arrives, and the judges nod appreciatively, their faces breaking into smiles of approval.
 
One judge remark, ""The blend of flavors is remarkable, and the delicate balance of the fish and Venetian spices is masterful.""
 
Encouraged by the feedback, Lennon beams with pride, grateful for the opportunity to share his passion for cooking with the world. As he finishes the competition, he is content, knowing that his experience in Venice has enriched his culinary skills.  
 
Proud is something I’ve always been of both of my boys, but this achievement has been a core memory we’ll both never forget.  I wish his father could’ve been here to see it, but I went live on Instagram for him, so he was there in spirit.  Lennon won the competition, but I had one more secret or surprise for him.  When my mom passed, she gifted both boys with money which has accrued interest over the last 10 years or so, and we have written Lennon a check to cover his entire school debt.   
 
The turning point came one evening after we returned to Roma, we went down to Amalfitana.  As we sat on a cliff overlooking the shimmering waters of the Amalfi Coast during the sunset. Lennon expressed how he had missed our closeness and how much he cherished this trip. We shed tears together and hugged, knowing that we were healing their fractured bond.
 
The road trip through Italy became a turning point in our relationship. We discovered that beneath our differences lay a deep, unbreakable bond of love and understanding. We learned that it was okay to have disagreements and imperfect moments; what mattered most was the effort to listen and communicate openly.
 
When Lennon took me back to the airport, we promised each other to maintain the newfound closeness and not let it slip away again.  
I got home and my husband showed me the best video that unbeknownst to me, Lennon had taken pictures of me, us, food, and our road trip through Italy.  It will be something I will cherish for the rest of my life.
 
That Christmas, instead of a “Buon Natale” text from Lennon, my youngest son, Remy opened the door to Lennon standing there, and for the first time in 3 years we were all together again.
","August 02, 2023 20:06","[[{'Joan Wright': ""Beautiful journey.  Your descriptions of people, places, and food are amazing. The food ones made me hungry. When Lennon was describing his own dish it made sense, but when you described the food on the trip, I wasn't sure who was speaking. Mom or a narrator. Perhaps you could have Lennon do the describing, the way you did it made it seem jumpy. Not like it was part of the story. Your characters were believable and interesting. It was nice to see the rift between them slowly disappear. Very few grammatical errors. But one was describing Lenn..."", 'time': '21:53 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Courtney Caruso': 'Aww thank you so much! I appreciate the feedback! 🥰', 'time': '21:55 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Courtney Caruso': 'Aww thank you so much! I appreciate the feedback! 🥰', 'time': '21:55 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,bgcw2s,Where the Bitches Are,Len Rely,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bgcw2s/,/short-story/bgcw2s/,Adventure,0,"['Suspense', 'Speculative']",8 likes,"
 “Imagine a train, Dr. Komorov, a train on which a small gray snake has become a passenger. It must have made its way in at the last stop through one of the open doors, and is now making its way along the overhead compartments while the train is moving, a train which has only one passenger.”
“What kind of train is it?”
“The kind where the whole inside of the car is lit by dim florescent lighting at night and the overhead luggage compartments are made of wire that runs the length of the car, and the passengers sit on benches.”
“That doesn’t sound like any train I’ve ever heard of. You’re describing a subway.”
“Look is this your imagination or mine?”
“What kind of snake?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What kind of snake is it? There are no snakes in Winter.”
“It’s about half a meter long, and it makes its way slowly along the overhead compartments in the same direction the train is moving.”
“Does it represent something evil?”
“What? No, the snake is a metaphor for what connects the mind operating the train to the passenger who is just sitting there.”
“And all three are asleep?”
“The passenger is, that is what keeps the train moving.”
“And what am I in all this? An omnipotent observer?”
“No let’s say you are somewhere else. Where was I?”
“I think you’re describing a situation where you were aware of your own dream, perceiving your conscious self and the subconscious mind as separate entities.”
“Yes, as long as nothing disturbs me the passenger isn’t roused and the snake is free to climb the rail until the train reaches its destination. That is the key.”
“Sounds like some sort of math problem. How long has it taken you to figure this out?”
“Twenty years.”
Dr. Komorov leaned back in his chair.
“So it starts this same way every time? And the images passing in the windows are places you are able to choose arbitrarily?”
“Yes and they always pass by in the same order. I’ve seen the Winter Palace in the time of the Tsars with hundreds of lords and ladies dancing.”
“What about the strange building and the girl who watches you from the water? Tell me about those.”
“I don’t like those dreams they’re just very common. An octagonal stone building that stands on a hillside has been looking at me my entire life. It has a carved human eye a meter wide, the pupil is made of black glass and there’s an inscription beneath it. The girl is from France in the time of Monet; the pond is the one in his paintings. I think she is his daughter. I’ve been seeing her since I was younger than she is and now I’m old enough to be her father. But those aren’t useful dreams.”
“And what is it that makes a dream useful? You said they’ve given you certain abilities.”
“Yes, have you ever had a spiritual or mystical experience in your life?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well let’s say you had just a small one, a moment of duress where you had preternatural strength, precognition or even heard the voice of God. Whatever it was is still preserved somewhere in your mind and can be revisited through introspection, all you have to do to harness it is to go back and live in that moment.”
“To achieve what exactly?”
“Travel through time, commune with the dead, assist ourselves. I had a conversation with my older self in which he told me a specific date that would be significant to me. Now what’s to prevent me from having that same dream again and passing on whatever information I choose? You know what the source of wisdom is don’t you?”
“Yes, experience.”
“Not anymore, you see I cheated! Do you understand what that means? You could potentially go back to a time before you were born and name yourself, or suspend time in your own thoughts, a step toward becoming a universal being!”
“Prove it to me.” the doctor responded.
The patient reached behind his back, took out a red, ripe apple and placed it on the desk in front of him.
“You’ll never guess where I got this from.” he said smugly.
“The cafeteria?” Dr. Komorov picked it up and looked at it.
“NO, that is not a regular apple! That is a dream apple, I brought it over with me!”
“I have no doubt you brought it with you.” he put it down again after brushing it off on his sleeve, although he couldn’t think of why he did that. “I thought you said you can bring objects from the dream world into reality.”
“Yes it takes several days just to prepare that one demonstration. You see not every dream is practical, I have to ride the train to an actual place I can go to in the waking world. One is a little overgrown clearing in the woods where I used to camp as a boy. It takes me four hours to drive back there each time, and a row of apples is there waiting for me on a bench.”
The doctor looked at him not knowing what to say to this.
“Aren’t you concerned spending too much time in this double life might have some unforeseen consequence?” he asked. “What if you couldn’t get back again?”
“It’s possible, but the point is we are able to create things with our minds. Anyone is capable of it, they just don’t know because their conscious self has no mechanism, no vehicle to reveal it to them.”
Dr. Komorov got up out of his chair and turned away from him, deep in thought.
“So what do you think?” the patient demanded.
“I’d like to try an experiment.” he went over to the bookcase and selected five books from the shelf, placing them on the table in front of him.
“I want you to choose the ones you like best, one at a time, without taking the time to think about it.”
He reached out and selected Tolstoy first, then the others leaving Franz Kafka’s The Castle behind.
“Why not that one?” the doctor asked curiously.
“I’m not sure.”
Dr. Komorov then walked over to the back of the old classroom where some dusty paintings were leaning against the wall.
“Now the same thing.” he said, holding out each one for him to see.
The patient chose a fantastical piece by Hieronymus Bosch depicting lost souls in Hell.
“What do you like about it?”
“It’s creepy and different I suppose.” he answered. “I enjoy things like that.”
“But not this one?” he held up a painting by the same artist showing Christ crossing over into the underworld, with a strange vase-like tower in the background surrounded by a raging river.
“No not that one.”
“And this?” he held up a famous Medieval portrait the patient knew was called Portrait of a Lady but he couldn’t recall the artist. The woman looked like a nun, although she wasn’t a nun.
The doctor put them back again.
“You have a fear of certain buildings and of women.” he stated. “I would even say your fear of women has almost been eclipsed by your first fear by now. Do you know why that is?”
“No, I don’t.” the patient shook his head.
“Tell me about your dream where you are the most comfortable. The one where you’re running in a park at night?”
“It’s just a running dream.” he shrugged. “My legs are pumping and it’s twilight like it is now.” He glanced over at the windows.
“What do you like about it?”
“The solitude, the quiet, the trees…”
“Can you draw a picture of this place for me?” Dr. Komorov placed a clipboard in front of him.
The patient hastily sketched a serpentine walking path with a footbridge going over a small pond and a stand of tall, narrow trees like Russian cypress on a hill in the background.
“What is behind those trees?”
“An abandoned building, a Catholic convent that was once a boarding school. But I only know that from when I was very young.”
“And what did they do to you there?” the doctor demanded.
“I’d rather not say.” the patient frowned.
“Well as a psychiatrist I would call those trees a ‘mental windbreak’ of sorts.” he mused.
“It was a long time ago and I’ve put it behind me. That’s wise for one’s peace of mind isn’t it?”
“Yes but there’s an interesting coincidence.” the doctor walked over to the windows. “The park where you used to run is the one down there isn’t it?”
The patient got up and stood next to him, looking down the misted hillside at the path below.
“Those trees were removed years ago.” the doctor said. “This building is the old convent where you went to school. In fact it’s still run by the same nuns!”
A line of hideous black-swathed hunchbacked creatures came tapping violently into the room, striking the floor with heavy aluminum yardsticks. They were in their seventies when he was a boy which would put them in their hundreds now. Their gap-toothed faces seemed to have lost every vestige of humanity as they closed in around him.
The patient spun around and saw through the windows the train that brought him here was leaving without him. He grabbed a chair and hurled it to break the glass; at the same moment feeling a sharp crack against the back of his head that sent him reeling to the floor.
“Doctor Komorov!” he pleaded, but the doctor was on the train waving back at him.
“I think some of them may need a bath!” he said gleefully. “Do you know how long an eternity I’ve been trapped in this place? I didn’t know your world was a real destination we can go to until you inspired me! Das vidaniya, dreamer!”
 The train shunted into the mist and out of sight.
 
 
 
 
","July 29, 2023 00:17",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,u5yc53,The Road to Nowhere ,Sofia Nesta,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u5yc53/,/short-story/u5yc53/,Adventure,0,"['Crime', 'Drama', 'Suspense']",8 likes,"
 	I’m staring out the driver’s side window as my car speeds through the coastline of my city. The sound of the motor is penetrating my eardrums as the crisp wind flows through each follicle of my hair. Never before had I felt so alive, and this wasn’t a feeling I wanted to disregard. I turn to my left as I watch my reflection grasp the steering wheel and zoom through the next tunnel. 
     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large opening as I turn towards the view of the ocean. The beautiful crisp water stares back at me as I’m longing for something beyond, something ahead of these waters. As I scan the road ahead, I catch a glare in the water made by the shining sun, and a sharp pain begins to shoot up into my head. I quickly turn away and rub my eyes as I hear the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
     Somehow this sound is drowned out by another: a piercing wave finding its way into my eardrums and washing out the peaceful sound of the water. Its screeching vibrations distract me from the road ahead, as I find myself swerving in and out of the side lane. I’m met face to face with countless other vehicles trying to get past as I quickly make my way back into my own. I’m brought back to reality as I cancel out the noise around me, focusing on what lies ahead.
     I often feel like a road trip is more about the journey than the actual destination, which is why I’m letting fate take me wherever it desires. I’m allowing my hands to steer the wheel in whichever direction they lead me, getting a thrill out of driving into the unknown. Just yesterday I was roaming around my city, letting the wind guide me through each shop as I encountered new people. Each one more different than the last, each with a story more unique than the previous. 
	I press down on the accelerator and slam the gear into 5th hitting the highest speed possible. As the piercing sound from behind is attempting to burrow its way into my thoughts, I think back to an encounter that I had just yesterday. 
	It was around 4:00 pm when I walked into my usual coffee shop. I was in the mood for a late day coffee, so I returned after my previous morning coffee run. I had been walking up to the register, rifling through my purse, when I noticed a lone man sitting out of the corner of my eye. He was attractive: tall build, sharp jaw, and the most crystal blue eyes I had ever seen. I felt drawn to him, and I knew that I had to go up and speak to him. I stepped out of line and approached his table. He looked up from his laptop and made eye contact with me, which sent a shock throughout my entire nervous system. 
	“Hi, is this seat taken?” I asked, as the man shut his laptop. 
	“Not at all,” he said. I sat down. There was a brief silent pause as I thought of what to say in my head, glaring into his eyes. I stared into what seemed like endless tunnels of ocean blue for maybe a minute, until he finally broke the silence. 
	“Can I help you?” he asked.
	“Have you ever walked into a structure and completely forgotten why you entered in the first place? It appears I have done just that.”
	“Well, a little company never hurt anyone. How about I order you a coffee?”
	And there it was. The initiation as to what started this all. See, I wasn’t the one to have made the first move, so really none of this is my fault. As much as they think it might be, he was practically begging for it.  
	“That would be lovely, thank you,” I said. 
	Hours passed, and we found ourselves lost in conversation: talking about everything and nothing, discussing whatever was on our minds. I could already picture it: a New York style townhouse with a white picket fence, two beautiful children and a small tabby cat. He’d go off to work in the morning, and I’d take the kids to preschool. I’d cook and clean and fold and tidy, anticipating the time where I could finally see him again. 
	But I’m not obsessive.
	We talk until the sun goes down and until I forget what day it is. His words are filling my soul in a way that I had never experienced before, and I never want to hear the sound of his voice come to an end.    
	Suddenly, I felt a vibrating sensation coming from the table. The man looked to his left and noticed his phone ringing: “Amy.” 
	There are very few moments in one's life when they feel as though all the happiness has been drained from their body. When they feel as though all hope is lost and all that is left is empty space.  
	Without warning, I saw the white picket fence vanish into thin air, leaving behind small fragments of what could’ve been our future. Next goes the small tabby cat, screeching in pain as the knife in my heart tears it to pieces. Lastly our beautiful children, who were far too young to go, and far too innocent to understand. 
	“Sorry, I have to take this,” and just like that, he was gone.
	My thoughts are now redirected to the road in front of me, as the next thought is far too painful to think about. I’m suddenly brought back to the infuriating sound. As it grows nearer and my body tells me to accelerate, I add more pressure to my foot as I bolt past every vehicle in sight. 
	As I make a sharp turn, I hear a muffled voice behind me. A loud thump is made, and I hear the sound of something scrambling. Without hesitation, I crank up the music and am peacefully left with my thoughts once again. 
	Thinking back to the previous day, I blur the sight of the road in front of me, and envision the events of the day before. All I remember is the man walking out of the coffee shop and never returning. A single tear rolled down my cheek, symbolizing the pain that I would soon project. 
	I looked around the coffee shop, and all I could see were empty chairs and tables. Each leaving behind a different aura from the person who had sat there before and leaving an eerie ambiance that left me feeling unsettled. 
	I needed to get out there. 
	Quickly, I grabbed my belongings and ran out of the coffee shop, frantically searching for the man whom I spoke to. Looking left and right, all I could see was an empty street with dim lamp posts as my heart practically fell out of my chest and onto the sidewalk. There was only one thing left for me to do: I threw my bags to the curb and ran. 
	It must have been kilometers, gosh, miles even, before I finally found who I was looking for. I spotted him from the other end of a long sidewalk, assuming he was still on the phone with “Amy.” I quickly made my way to the nearest car in an effort to conceal myself from his view. 
	It turns out, my efforts worked well. In fact, they happened to have worked a lot better than expected. 
	I’m suddenly brought back to reality when I notice a black and white car catch up to the side of my own car. I’m subtly shocked as to why it’s going against traffic, swerving through each vehicle as if it’s nothing. My heart starts to pound and an anxious feeling begins to grow inside my chest, telling me that this might not end well. 
	I start to hear voices arise from cars behind me, booming into the air and shaking the ground. Something tells me that they might be directed my way, but all I can do is press farther down onto the accelerator and look ahead into the endless black pavement.
	The muffled voice from the trunk begins to creep up into my thoughts once again, so I grab the nearest item in my car and throw it to the back. The noise stops.
	Thinking back to the previous day, I am once again left with my mind in a lone state. I remember waiting until I saw the man hang up the phone, probably leaving Amy with a big smile plastered across her hideous face. Just the thought of her made my blood boil. 
	I knew I needed to act fast. 
	I noticed the man turn on his car to gather a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. To my advantage, he must have forgotten to turn it off, because I quietly crept into the back seat without making a single sound. 
	I looked out the back window and watched as he inhaled and exhaled puffs of gray smoke, looking more stunning than ever in the dim seeming limelight. Every once in a while, he would tap on his cigarette and watch as its ashes fell to the ground and onto the sidewalk. 
	I could never really stand the smell of cigarette smoke. It reminded me of something dirty, like a room having been opened after several years. It’s a suffocating smell, really, not one that I think I could tolerate if we were really together. 
	My mind begins to travel into all different sorts of possibilities before I hear the sound of the driver's door open, carrying with it a man that would soon be mine.
	Already, the car is filled with an intoxicating smell that burns the insides of my nostrils and clogs the inside of my throat. I struggle not to make a sound as I fight back a cough, and resist the urge to rip that poison out of his hands. 
	The next turn of events are all a blur: the last thing I remember seeing were my hands around his throat as I stared in awe as his head collapsed into my arms. I remember him in my trunk as I fantasized about our now bright future together, reimagining our New York styled townhouse with our two wonderful children. I can picture tying him up with a grocery bag and some duct tape, improvising as to have been too caught up in the moment. 
	To think that I was too caught up in the moment is a scary thing, for I never stopped to think about the circumstances of the situation. 
	They often say that a road trip is more about the journey than the actual destination. Although my journey doesn’t quite have a set destination, the thrill of the ride is what keeps me driving as I try to outrun these cops.
	My life has become a never-ending chase after love, and although I believe that love is currently found in the back of my car, I find that our beloved tabby cat simply isn’t worth my never-ending race. The empty void in my life waiting to be filled will simply have to wait for another time. 
	I grip my steering wheel one last time as I drive my car off of the cliff.
 
","August 03, 2023 17:30",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,b1nlqq,Jack ,Robert Mccarthy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b1nlqq/,/short-story/b1nlqq/,Adventure,0,"['Friendship', 'Inspirational', 'Adventure']",8 likes,"
Jack
 
 
Once upon a time, there was a man named Jack who struggled with mental health problems. He felt lost and alone, and didn't know where to turn for help. One day, he decided to take a journey around the world to see if he could find answers to his questions about mental health.
 
Jack began his journey in Asia, where he met a wise monk who taught him about the power of meditation and mindfulness. The monk showed Jack how to quiet his mind and find peace within himself. carry on with the story
 
Jack felt a sense of relief and hope for the first time in a long while, he realized that he had been focusing too much on his problems and not enough on finding solutions. The monk's teachings helped him understand that he had the power to change his thoughts and emotions and that he could find peace in the present moment.
 
With newfound hope, Jack continued his journey, traveling to different parts of Asia, where he encountered various cultures and traditions that all had unique perspectives on mental health. He met a yoga teacher in India who taught him about the connection between the body and mind, and how physical exercise can help improve mental well-being. He also met a traditional Chinese medicine practitioner who showed him how acupuncture and herbal remedies can help balance the body's energy and improve emotional stability.
 
As he traveled, Jack began to understand that mental health is a complex issue that cannot be solved by one single solution. He realized that different cultures and traditions have different approaches to mental health, and that different methods may work for different people. He also began to see that mental health is not just an individual problem, but also a societal one.
 
He eventually ended up in Australia, where he met a group of people who had been affected by mental health problems. They shared their stories with Jack, and he realized that he was not alone in his struggles. They showed him that it is possible to recover and lead a fulfilling life even with a mental health condition.
 
Jack's journey to Africa was a transformative one. He met a traditional healer who was widely respected in the community for his ability to help people with mental health issues. The healer was deeply connected to the natural world and believed that the healing power of nature was essential to mental well-being.
 
The healer took Jack on a journey through the African wilderness, where he showed him how to connect with the natural world and the spirit world. Jack learned about the importance of spending time in nature, and how the tranquility and beauty of the wilderness could help calm the mind and reduce stress. He also learned about the traditional spiritual practices that the healer used to help people connect with their inner selves and find balance.
 
Jack was particularly struck by the healer's use of herbal remedies. The healer explained that certain plants have healing properties that can help balance the mind and body. He showed Jack how to use different herbs and plants to improve mood, reduce anxiety, and promote relaxation.
 
The healer also taught Jack about the importance of community in mental health. He explained that mental health is not just an individual issue, but also a collective one. He showed Jack how the community came together to support and care for each other, and how this helped to create a culture of understanding and acceptance.
 
Jack's time with the traditional healer was an eye-opening experience. He learned that mental health is a complex issue that requires different approaches, and that different methods may work for different people. He also learned that connecting with nature and the spirit world, using traditional herbal remedies and the power of community can have a significant impact on mental well-being.
 
Jack's journey to Europe led him to a meeting with a well-respected psychiatrist who specialized in treating mental illness. The psychiatrist took the time to understand Jack's condition, and explained to him the science behind it. Jack learned about the different types of mental illnesses and the various treatment options available.
 
The psychiatrist also emphasized the importance of talk therapy in treating mental illness. He explained how talking through one's thoughts and feelings can help people understand and cope with their condition. Jack found that the sessions with the psychiatrist were incredibly helpful, as he was able to talk openly and honestly about his feelings and experiences.
 
The psychiatrist also prescribed medication to Jack, which helped him to manage his symptoms. Jack learned about the different types of psychiatric medications and how they work. The doctor explained the potential side effects and how to manage them, and he also helped Jack understand how to use medication as part of a comprehensive treatment plan.
 
The psychiatrist also provided Jack with different tools to manage his condition, such as relaxation techniques, mindfulness exercises and cognitive-behavioral therapy. The psychiatrist also taught Jack about the importance of monitoring his symptoms and making adjustments to his treatment plan as needed.
 
Jack's meeting with the psychiatrist was a turning point in his journey. He learned that mental health is a complex issue that requires different approaches, and that different methods may work for different people. He also learned that there is a science behind mental health, and that medication and therapy could be effective in managing it. With the help of the psychiatrist, Jack was able to understand his condition better, and learn how to manage it, and that gave him a sense of hope and control over his life.
 
Jack's final destination on his journey was South America, where he met a community of people who had a unique approach to mental health. They treated it as a collective responsibility and worked together to support and care for one another. Jack was struck by the sense of community and support that he saw in the village.
 
The community had a strong emphasis on social connections and the importance of community in mental well-being. They believed that by coming together and supporting each other, they could create a culture of understanding and acceptance. They had a variety of programs in place that helped to foster social connections, such as group therapy sessions, support groups, and community outreach programs.
 
In this community, Jack also learned about the importance of tradition and culture in mental health. He discovered how traditional practices such as storytelling, music, and dance could be used to promote emotional well-being. He learned that by connecting with one's cultural heritage and tradition, people could find a sense of belonging and purpose.
 
The community also had a holistic approach to mental health, which included traditional healing practices, herbal remedies, and spiritual practices. They believed that mental health was closely linked to physical health, and they had a strong emphasis on healthy living and a balanced lifestyle.
 
Jack's experience in this South American community was a powerful one. He realized that mental health is a complex issue that requires different approaches, and that different methods may work for different people. He also learned that social connections and community support are crucial in mental well-being, and that traditional and cultural practices can be powerful tools in promoting emotional well-being. His experience with the community showed him that by working together and supporting each other, we can create a more understanding and supportive society for those struggling with mental health issues.
 
Feeling inspired, Jack returned home with a newfound sense of understanding and acceptance of his condition. He decided to use his experiences and learnings to help others who were struggling with mental health issues. He started a support group, where people could come together and share their stories, and he began to work with local organizations to raise awareness about mental health.
 
Jack's journey around the world had been a transformative one. He had learned that mental health is a complex issue that requires different approaches, and that it is important to support and care for one another. He had also learned that recovery is possible, and that he had the power to help others find their way to recovery too.
 
 
 
 
Jack's support group quickly grew in popularity, and he began to receive invitations to speak at conferences and events about his journey and the lessons he had learned. He also started to work with schools and companies to raise awareness about mental health and provide resources for people who were struggling.
 
As Jack's reputation as an advocate for mental health grew, he was approached by a leading mental health research institute, who invited him to be a part of their team as a consultant and speaker. Jack was thrilled to be able to use his experiences and learnings to contribute to the field of mental health research and was able to reach a larger audience.
 
With the support of the institute, Jack was able to create a comprehensive guide for mental health, which was made available online and included information about different cultures, societies and how mental health is viewed and treated in different parts of the world. The guide was a huge success and helped thousands of people understand and approach mental health in a better way.
 
Years went by and Jack's work continued to make a positive impact on the lives of many people. He was able to help people understand that mental health is a complex issue and that everyone has their own unique journey. He also made sure that people knew that recovery is possible with the right support and treatment.
 
Jack's journey around the world had not only helped him find peace and acceptance within himself, but also helped thousands of people understand and approach mental health in a better way. His story continues to inspire many, and his legacy lives on in the work he has done and the lives he has touched.
 
 
 
 
As Jack continued to work in the field of mental health, he also began to focus on addressing the systemic issues that contribute to mental health problems. He worked with policymakers and community leaders to address issues such as poverty, discrimination, and access to healthcare, which have a significant impact on mental health outcomes.
 
Jack also became an advocate for removing the stigma surrounding mental health. He spoke openly about his own struggles and encouraged others to do the same. He believed that by breaking the silence and talking openly about mental health, people would be more likely to seek help and support.
 
As Jack's work continued to gain recognition and make an impact, he was approached by a major media company to make a documentary about his journey and the lessons he had learned. The film was a huge success, and it reached millions of people around the world, further raising awareness about mental health and the importance of addressing it.
 
As Jack grew older, he passed on the leadership of the support group and the mental health institute to the next generation, but he continued to be involved as a mentor and advisor. He was proud to see the work continue to grow and make a positive impact on the lives of many people.
 
Jack's journey around the world had not only changed his life but also the lives of many others. He has shown that mental health is a complex issue that requires a multi-faceted approach, and that recovery is possible with the right support and resources. He has also shown that one person can make a difference and that by raising awareness and breaking the silence, we can create a more understanding and supportive society for those struggling with mental health issues.
 
 
 
 
As Jack entered his later years, he began to reflect on his journey and the impact it had made. He realized that mental health is an ongoing journey, and that he would always have to work to maintain his own well-being. He also realized that mental health is not just an individual issue, but a societal one that needs to be addressed on multiple levels.
 
In his last years, Jack dedicated himself to furthering the conversation around mental health and making sure that the most marginalized and underprivileged communities have access to the resources and support they need. He became a strong advocate for mental health care reform, and worked tirelessly to ensure that mental health is given the same attention and funding as physical health.
 
Jack's journey around the world had come full circle, and his legacy continued to live on through the countless lives he had touched and the positive change he had brought about. His story served as an inspiration to many, and his message of hope and recovery continues to be shared and passed onto future generations.
 
Despite his passing, Jack's impact on the field of mental health and the lives of those he helped will be remembered for years to come. His journey around the world showed that mental health is a complex issue that requires different approaches, and that it is important to support and care for one another. His message of hope and recovery continues to inspire many and his legacy lives on.
 
After Jack's passing, his family and friends decided to create a foundation in his honor to continue his work and legacy. The foundation's mission is to raise awareness about mental health, provide support and resources for those struggling with mental health issues, and advocate for mental health care reform.
 
The foundation has been a great success and has helped many people. It has a wide range of programs, including:
 
Support groups for people who are struggling with mental health issues
Community outreach programs that provide education and resources on mental health
Advocacy efforts to raise awareness and push for changes in mental health policies
Scholarship programs for students studying mental health and related fields
The foundation has also partnered with other organizations and institutions to create a network of support and resources for people struggling with mental health issues. It has also been able to establish a mental health clinic that provides low-cost, accessible mental health care services to underserved communities.
 
The foundation's work has been recognized by many, and it has received multiple awards and recognition for its contributions to the field of mental health. Jack's legacy continues to live on through the work of the foundation, and it is a testament to the impact one person can make when they are passionate about a cause.
 
Jack's journey around the world had not only changed his own life but also the lives of many others. His story continues to inspire people and shows that with the right support, anyone can find hope and recovery despite their mental health struggles. His legacy will live on through the foundation, and it will continue to make a positive impact on the lives of many people.
 
As the foundation continued to grow and make a positive impact on the lives of many, it also began to focus on research and development. It established a research arm that conducts studies on various aspects of mental health and explores new treatment methods and approaches.
 
The foundation also began to invest in technology and innovation, developing mobile apps and online platforms that provide mental health support and resources. These resources are accessible to people all over the world, regardless of their location or financial status.
 
The foundation has also started an initiative to train and educate mental health professionals, providing them with the tools and resources they need to better serve their clients. It also offers training programs for educators, community leaders, and employers, so they can better understand and support people with mental health issues.
 
Jack's foundation has become a global leader in the field of mental health, and its work has been recognized by many. It has been able to make a positive impact on the lives of thousands of people, and it continues to push for changes in mental health policies and attitudes towards mental health.
 
Jack's journey around the world had come full circle, and his legacy continues to live on through the work of the foundation. His message of hope and recovery continues to inspire many, and his legacy serves as a reminder that one person's actions can make a significant difference in the lives of many.
 
The End
","July 29, 2023 15:50","[[{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Interesting but too long. More like a biography than an actual story but inspiring , nevertheless .', 'time': '13:51 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,z7eefp,Bittersweet Journey,Kimberly Schramm,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/z7eefp/,/short-story/z7eefp/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Historical Fiction', 'Adventure']",7 likes,"
	The mournful sound of the train whistle floated across the mile between the track and my ears. I loved that sound, far away and lonesome. It gave voice to the feelings keeping me awake. Bittersweet, it hinted at mysteries of the unknown. When the sun rose in the morning, I would leave the only home I'd ever known.
   	 I could never sleep the night before a trip. Not that I had much experience. At six going on seven, I had only taken two trips. Those were vacations. This time is different. We were moving to Texas.
	Lying awake in one of the twin beds in Uncle Tuck's room at Mema's house, l had only night sounds to keep me company. My older sister, Caroline, was fast asleep in the other bed. We had to spend the night there because we loaded everything we had into a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back of our 1962 Buick Electra.
	Things seemed grim here after the hosiery mill shut down a few years ago. Once, everybody worked there: Papaw and Grandaddy, Daddy, and even Mamaw. After it closed, Daddy got a job at the fire department, and Papaw became a deputy sheriff. Granddaddy and Mamaw moved to Texas.
	Though I would miss my familiar life, especially Mema's house, I was excited about the possibility of moving. I could be a whole new me. My family had been here forever. Everybody in our little town knew everything about them, so they thought they knew everything about me, but they didn't.
	The rooster's crow woke me up just before the screen door slammed. Mema was up. Dressed in my pajamas, I raced to the kitchen, hoping I wasn't too late to follow her to the pigpen and the henhouse. 
	""I'm going to miss you, Mema.""
	""I'll miss you, too,"" she said and patted my long, red curls.
	""Will you come to visit us in Texas?"" I asked, but I already knew the answer. 
	""I've never traveled beyond a few hours from here, and now I'm too old."" Going to Texas seemed like an adventure, but knowing I would never see Mema and Papaw again made me sad.
	Some of my best memories came from Mema's kitchen: the smell of biscuits baking and garden-fresh vegetables frying in her big, cast-iron skillet, the slap of the dasher in the churn when she made butter, and the sight of her broad back as she stood at the sink, as steady and timeless as the mountains.
	""Come on,"" she said. ""It's time to feed the hogs and gather the eggs.""
	Mema and Papaw lived on five acres just outside the city limits. They kept two hogs, destined to become country sausage, along with chickens, a cow, and a small flock of guineas to keep the hawks and snakes away.
	There was a bucket outside the back door where she tossed peelings, parings, coffee grounds, leftovers from our plates, and anything else no longer fit for us to eat. I always marveled at how the hogs ate this revolting mess with such enthusiasm.
	We walked along the path to the hog pen where the hogs waited by the trough. They were soon rooting away and slurping up the slop she poured into it. They were several hundred pounds of sharp hooves with great snuffling snouts. I was terrified of them.
	Next, we visited the hen house. Mema gathered up the corners of her apron to create a cloth sack. Then she reached beneath the hens, who squawked and pecked at her hands as she stole their eggs. In a few minutes, we headed back up the path toward the kitchen. Mema put the eggs in a bowl and picked up a basket. We were headed to the root cellar.
	They built the old house on the side of a hill, so it created a space for storing vegetables underneath it. Mema would bring up jars of soup mixture from the root cellar in the winter and spring before the fresh vegetables started coming in. It was made from a blend of corn, tomatoes, beans, and okra canned from the garden. She stored the glass jars on narrow shelves made from planks. I can still remember the earthy smell of her root cellar.
	On our last morning in North Carolina, Mema filled her basket with jars for us to take with us. We didn't know what vegetables people might eat in Texas.
	When we reached the yard, Daddy was behind the wheel of the Buick, turning the car and trailer around so he could pull straight out onto the road. Papaw, already dressed in his blue deputy sheriff's uniform, stood on the gravel, giving him directions. Mama watched from a safe distance.
	""Go make sure your sister is getting ready,"" Mama told me. In the bedroom, I found Caroline lying on the bed with a pillow over her head.
	""Come on,"" I said, ""it's time for breakfast.""
	""Go away,"" came her reply.
	""We're all going away. If you don't get dressed, we'll go to Texas and leave you here."" With that, I grabbed the bed covers and yanked them back.
	""Mama!"" she shrieked at the top of her lungs.
	""Yell as loud as you want,"" I said. ""She's outside and can't hear you.""
	""Fine. Leave me here. I don't want to go to stupid old Texas, anyway.""
	I was happy about moving to a strange place. Caroline was angry about it. First, she tried begging Mama and Daddy not to do it. Defeated, she was determined not to cooperate. I didn't understand her. She just wanted to cling to Mama's apron strings. She could do that anywhere.
	Mama opened the bedroom door. ""Mema has a nice breakfast ready,"" she said. ""And your daddy wants to get on the road. Time's a-wastin',"" she warned us as she headed back to the kitchen.
	I got to the dining room where everyone sat, dressed and ready for breakfast. Before we ate, Papaw said grace. Instead of keeping my eyes closed in prayer, I looked around the room while he thanked God for everything.
	The women and children ate in silence. The men dominated the conversation as usual. If someone asked me a question, I was allowed to answer, but good girls kept quiet and waited until someone gave them permission to speak.
	I would miss sitting here at this table, covered in its red and white gingham cloth, loaded down with country cooking. Around this table, we had our big, noisy Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners with all my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
	Papaw's voice cut into my daydreaming. ""Roy,"" he said to Daddy, ""are you sure you want to drive that U-Haul around Dead Man's Curve? Hiring a mover handle it may be wiser.""
	Despite his anxiety about the long trip, Daddy said, ""We'll make it okay. Now it's time to get going.""
	We all walked outside. Mema hugged us. The men all stood around, eyes downcast. Everyone had tears in their eyes. We needed to go.
	Daddy climbed behind the steering wheel, Mama beside him. Caroline and I piled into the back seat, and we pulled out onto Granville Road. I knew Mema was standing on the porch, waving goodbye, but the U-Haul blocked my view.
	Usually, Caroline and I sat in the back seat and played games or squabbled, mostly about things I do that shouldn't bother her, but they do. I would aggravate her by singing or pulling my feet up on the seat too close to her. Today, however, with tension in the air, we kept quiet. She read a book. I watched the miles go by.
	As we approached Dead Man's curve, Mama stared straight ahead, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Caroline was breathing weirdly as she does when she gets nervous. I watched out the window, offering silent thanks as we reached the bottom of the hill. We made it.
	Somewhere along the highway in Alabama, the load shifted, and the trailer wobbled. Suddenly, it swung around and Daddy almost lost control of the car. His face turned red, and he started using his Marine Corps words that I hardly ever heard. We made a hard landing against the guardrail. Walking around the back of the rig, he assessed the damage.
	When he got back in the car, his face was serious. ""I don't think we can go any further with this trailer,"" he said. ""The car is ok, but the hitch is coming loose.""
	Two men in a pickup helped him unhitch the trailer and pull it off the highway.
	We drove to a roadside diner with a motel a few miles away. After we finished eating, Daddy used a pay phone to call a mover who would take our stuff the rest of the way to Texas.
	The motel was a low building, constructed of cinder blocks painted white. Our room had one double bed and one twin. The hotel manager brought a roll-away bed for me to sleep in. Daddy and Mama sat on lawn chairs outside the motel after Caroline and I climbed into bed. 
	I tiptoed and looked out the window. I remember seeing Daddy sitting outside in the dark, smoking a cigarette. They looked worried. What had they done in selling out, getting rid of our dog, and leaving the only home me and Caroline had ever known? Would this move bring happiness or misery?
	Morning came. A mover and some helpers moved our belongings from the U-Haul to a cross-country moving truck. We wouldn't see our things again until we got to our new home.
	Daddy returned the trailer, and we drove on toward Texas. We would travel faster now that we weren't pulling the trailer. We rode in the car for what felt like forever. The highway took us south and west through Alabama, then Mississippi and Louisiana. The view out the window changed from forest to fields and then, finally, to the flat, coastal plain. 
	Around 4 pm on the third day of the trip, we saw a huge, high bridge looming ahead. ""That's the Rainbow Bridge,"" Daddy said. ""We can see Texas from the top!""
	""Wow,"" I responded, my blue eyes wide with excitement.
	""It's the highest bridge in the state of Texas,"" he said.
	I looked over in my sister's direction. Her eyes were wide, too, but not with excitement. It was terror.
	""Stop the car,"" she said. ""I'm getting out.""
	""You can't get out,"" he said. 
	""I'm afraid of heights,"" came her quavering response. 
	She wasn't lying. Caroline was terrified of just about everything. That included heights. I looked over at her and saw beads of sweat on her forehead.
	""Caroline,"" Mama said sternly, ""we've got to go over the bridge. Just don't look.""
	My sister shrank back into the corner of the Buick's wide seat and covered her eyes with her hands.
	We had reached the foot of the enormous bridge. 
	""Wow!"" I declared. ""It's just like a rollercoaster!""
	""Shut up!"" came Caroline's voice from the corner.
	We were on the bridge now, making the climb to its crest. I heard the thumping sound the tires made on the asphalt.
	As we came to the top of the bridge, I moved to the middle of the back seat to see through the front windshield.
	Ahead loomed a city of tall smokestacks wrapped in fog. A thick cloud of dense, dark gray smoke topped each stack, stretching as far as my eyes could see. As we got closer, I noticed the orange flames on top of tall skinny pipes. The air had a heavy, metallic odor. I could taste it. So, this was Texas.
	What I saw made me think about things Grandaddy said about hell. Is this how fire and brimstone looks and smells?
	""It stinks,"" Caroline complained from her corner.
	I sank back in my seat. I had no expectations for our new home, but it turned out to be the ugliest and smelliest place I had ever seen. Why on earth were Mama and Daddy bringing us here?
	As much as I had chaffed against the sameness of life in North Carolina, our little corner of the world was beautiful. I loved the rolling hills, green and fragrant with pine. Just a short walk from our house, there was a place where the mountains seemed to kiss the sky.
	Daddy looked at me in the rearview mirror. ""That smell is from refining oil into gasoline. It smells like money to all the people who work here.""
	I glanced over at Caroline. Once over the bridge, she sat up and wrinkled her nose at the foul smell in the air. She looked like she might vomit.
	Mama didn't look too happy either. We were moving so she could be close to her family. I doubted she would complain.
	Daddy stopped to get gas and directions to the house in Groves where Mamaw and Grandaddy lived. He pulled up at a gas pump and the attendant appeared at the window. After he had pumped the gas and cleaned the windshield, Daddy asked him how to get to the address Mamaw had sent us.
	I bounced on my seat. I couldn't wait to see Mamaw and Grandaddy. Even better, I would get to meet my new cousin, Little Bug. 
	We pulled up into the yard and everyone came streaming out. Pretty soon, Mamaw engulfed me in a big hug. Mama was hugging Aunt Helen and crying. Helen's husband, Bud, walked out, leading a toddler by the hand. 
	This was our new life. I already knew it would not be what I had expected.
	I shook off my disappointment. There must be something for me here. It was my job to put a smile on my face and wade into it.
	The summer passed in a blur of long, hot days. We were staying with Mamaw and Grandaddy until Daddy found work and we could get a place of our own. He got up every morning and set out to knock on doors, asking if they were hiring.
	Daddy found a job in Port Arthur with a company that did services for the refineries. Now, we had to find a place to live. Every afternoon, after Daddy got off work, we drove around through nearby neighborhoods, looking for a ""distressed property.""
	One afternoon, we were driving through a neighborhood of tidy houses, except for one. ""See that?"" I asked, pointing at a house with a messy yard and a broken window. Mama turned around and gave me a big smile.
	Daddy pulled out the notepad he always carried in his pocket and scribbled down the address. Then, he walked over to talk to a man washing his car on the next driveway.
	""The boy that owned the house had to go on disability and couldn't keep up with the payments,"" Daddy said as he climbed back into the car. He always called everybody a boy, even when they were old, like him. ""I think we can take over the payments and get this place,"" he said to Mama.
	A few days later, Mama and Daddy went to a meeting at the bank about taking over the mortgage on the house with the overgrown yard. In North Carolina, we always had a place to live free and clear, with no mortgage or landlord. Everything that happened here was changing us.
	On the first day of school, my teacher, Mrs. Ward, introduced me to the class. She had a friendly smile, and she kept a collection of animals, including a huge boa constrictor, in her classroom. 
	Nervous and excited, I stood in front of the class as Mrs. Ward introduced me, the new girl.
	This is Jaime, Mrs. Ward said. She moved here from her home in the Appalachian Mountains. Then, she walked over and pulled down a map of the United States, and pointed out where I used to live.
	A boy, Charlie Thibodeaux, made a snorting laugh. ""She's a hillbilly,"" he said, and some of the other kids laughed, too.
	I felt my face glow red with embarrassment. I'm different, I thought. I don't fit in here.
	""She doesn't look like Ellie May,"" another boy shouted.
	""Charlie! John Michael! your comments are uncalled for. Jaime is our new classmate. When we meet people from different places, it's our chance to learn from them. I expect you to make her welcome."" The boys settled down, but the damage was done.
	I wanted to disappear into the floor. Instead, I sat at the desk Mrs. Ward indicated. The glow and excitement of coming to this new place had vanished.
	I dreamed of a place to be free, to be true to myself. Instead, I would be judged, once again, by people who thought they knew who I was.
	Texas suddenly felt like a place, not of hope, but where dreams go to die.
 
","August 04, 2023 19:34","[[{'Emilie Ocean': 'Hi Kimberly. Great story and brilliant writing. You describe scene beautifully. I felt like I was on the journey with everyone. Thank you!', 'time': '20:27 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,hoc0pi,Destiny or Journey,Zulma Suro,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hoc0pi/,/short-story/hoc0pi/,Adventure,0,['Inspirational'],7 likes,"
People have existential crises all the time. I had mine only a few months ago. After careful research, I figured out many ways to deal with it and tried most of them. I learned that some people go to a psychologist, others spend money on expensive clothing and designer accessories, a few dedicate more time to themselves, many keep a journal, and a handful quit their jobs to find their passion. I decided to take a more radical approach, a leap of faith. I switched my monotonous and meaningless existence for a life-changing journey. Furthermore, I packed my whole life in seven suitcases and moved from America to Europe. The decision was made arbitrarily. Either continue living an unfulfilling life or, take control and start all over. Although it felt like jumping from a trampoline into a pool where you couldn’t see the bottom, I was already too invested and could only move forward. 
When I look back, I cannot pinpoint the time when and how it all started. My mind is a bit fuzzy, but I mostly see snapshots of my life showing me evidence of pure malfunctions. One winter night as I was walking home from the gym, I looked at the sky and saw a gorgeous full moon about to be covered by clouds. It was me! Everything clicked at the time. I could not hide any longer behind a routine. I could not pretend anymore that I was happy. Everything became clear, I needed to break away and shine. Planning began and I had no backups, no Plan B or even a Plan C. There was only one plan, and it needed to work. I took it a step further by deciding not to leave anything in storage because this was a one-way journey with no turning back. In a matter of weeks, I got rid of everything I own. During many sleepless nights, I wonder how many people had packed everything and gone to a country they had never been to before.
There were many more times when I questioned myself if I was making a smart decision. Nevertheless, departure day arrived, and I remembered the moment I was on my way to the airport and realized I didn't have any keys with me. I no longer had a key for my car because I sold it. My work keys were also gone because I resigned and had to return them. To top it off, the keychain for my place was empty because I did not have one anymore. Not even a key to a locker at my gym! It felt like I was in limbo. A terrifying feeling that I belonged nowhere and had nothing came over me. My flight was leaving in four hours and with a bag of fear on my shoulders, I embarked on a journey of dreams toward my destiny.
Buildings, houses, and freeways were becoming smaller and smaller. The bike path on the beach that I traveled so many times was disappearing between the clouds. Seeing the city for the last time from the plane felt like a big relief. Likewise, I must admit that leaving so much behind was liberating. I had no doubts that I was not going to miss the people that drained my energy or the many worthless material things that accumulated throughout the years. It was an incredible feeling. It felt like taking a heavyweight of bricks off my shoulders. However, not knowing what was ahead was equally exciting and scary at the same time. In my loneliest moments, I prayed for a different lifestyle. I begged for a change and for the opportunity to start again. Yet, I was never prepared for everything that I was going to learn and experience.
When the plane landed it was past midnight. The taxi driver did not speak much English, but he was so helpful and welcoming with just his attitude. Somehow, he managed to accommodate all my suitcases in his car. On my way to the hotel, I could only see traffic lights and illuminated buildings. When I arrived at the hotel, I was exhausted but incredibly grateful and thrilled. The room was perfect, and the view of the mountains was exhilarating. It would be my new home for the next 3 weeks while I find an apartment. I felt humble, blessed, and extremely grateful.
I was eager to start seeing the city the following morning. I encountered a lively and energizing atmosphere. People rode their bikes and scooters throughout the square. Tons of cars packing the streets and as many people walking around. After getting a local phone number, I started my search for a place to live. My first meal was delicious and affordable; chicken kabobs, salad, softy springy bread, and a variety of sauces that could not figure out what they were except that they were delicious. When I was moving in, I was lucky to find people who were willing to help. I remembered the old man who helped me unload my suitcases from the taxi and placed them at the front door without accepting a tip. Even today I still see him around and we greet each other.
In reflecting on my journey, I gained more than I bargained for. Locals are so proud of their roots, their culture, their traditions, and their country. Moreover, it is admirable to see how this society has arisen from the ashes of communism barely 30+ years ago to become so strong and rooted. They had built modern sky risers, cute coffee shops, beautiful shopping malls, schools, and superb restaurants that highly contrast with their traditional architecture. Tall mountains, enormous lakes, multiple parks, and blue oceans were witnesses of a society that does not give up and seeks to strengthen its infrastructure. I discovered a society that valued reading, a good quality of life, and strong family ties. Simple everyday things are not taken for granted. This is a country that I like to call raw and innocent because its natural resources are not polluted by long zip lines in the mountains or fast jet skis on the coast for tourists. Coffee is king and family evening strolls are sacred. The square is the heart of town and people of all ages gather there to hang out. Additionally, their dairy products are the best I have ever tried. Similarly, fruits and vegetables are the freshest and come from the farm to your table. 
Of course, not everything around me is delightful. Streets and sidewalks are made of uneven cobblestones that could make you twist your ankle in a second. Outdoor cafes and restaurants are surrounded by a cloud of persistent smoke. Payment of utilities is done in person like my grandparents used to do it. Instant gratification is not the norm and postal service is almost nonexistent. Air conditioning and ice-cold drinks are rare luxuries. Nothing wrong with any of that! Although locals keep their livers healthy as alcohol is not overly consumed, unfortunately, their lungs are filled with smoke and nicotine. But a pink handheld fan is my best friend to hide from the strong sun, blow the smoke away, and capture fresh air.
When I look back, I see a bitter, impatient, and desperate person willing to risk everything. Moreover, I see a brave person convinced that this move was more than an incredible journey. It has been a transformation, a rebirth. Arriving in a developing country immediately made me appreciate life and be thankful every day. It has changed my perspective on life and has rearranged my priorities. Sitting on my balcony feeling the morning breeze, admiring the view of the city, reading a book, and drinking iced coffee is now a glorious moment in time.
I do not miss my car and much less driving in traffic. I walk and take public transportation. I embrace other religions while respecting our differences. In this learning path, I became a sponge trying to absorb a new language and traditions. Moreover, I learned to listen more than speak. 
I am happy with fewer material things around me. Downsizing has also been part of this new chapter. Who needs a toaster, a bread maker, a food processor, an air fryer, a slow cooker, an immersion blender, a rice cooker, a pressure cooker, a mixer, and a blender to make a delicious meal? Nobody! Do I need three pairs of tennis shoes for the gym? Negative. Less is more.
The other day a passed a group of tourists, and I felt so happy that I did not have to go back like them. I was fortunate enough to be able to stay and continue writing new chapters to my story. Every day I take a step forward as I continue to adapt and attempt to blend into a new culture. Learning the language continues to be challenging but an open heart and a smile have taken me far. 
I cannot wait to spend the holidays in my new place. How would the city be decorated? What types of events take place in December? I do not know how or when this journey ends, but I do not need to know. After only four months, it is still going strong. Dreams are now part of a beautiful reality that I would not change for anything in the world. I came to understand that although people are the same everywhere, culture and upbringing make all the difference.
My dream turned into my destiny, and my destiny is my journey. My cup is only halfway full, but I make sure to add new experiences each day while keeping an open mind for the unexpected.
 
","August 01, 2023 15:44","[[{'Joe Smallwood': 'Hello, Critique circle calling. You had me wondering what country your MC visited. My clues were many people did not drink alcohol, the country was in Europe and it was formerly communist. Was it one of the states that came into being when Yugoslavia collapsed?\nYour MC also mentioned that tolerance for other religions was a value, so I was thinking not a state with a very high percentage of the population being Muslim.\nAnyway, a clue to what I was thinking about while reading unless I missed that you stated which country it is! That would be...', 'time': '01:02 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Zulma Suro': ""Thank you for your feedback! You are absolutely right...this is all my story!  I'm living it as we speak!  Yes, I could have included my significant other and my job but it would have been too long.  I moved from Los Angeles to Albania, and I'm loving it! Thanks for taking the time to read it."", 'time': '15:44 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Smallwood': '👍', 'time': '22:19 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Zulma Suro': ""Thank you for your feedback! You are absolutely right...this is all my story!  I'm living it as we speak!  Yes, I could have included my significant other and my job but it would have been too long.  I moved from Los Angeles to Albania, and I'm loving it! Thanks for taking the time to read it."", 'time': '15:44 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': '👍', 'time': '22:19 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': '👍', 'time': '22:19 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,sbr1nn,The Eighth Vile Vermin,𝒮𝓏𝒶𝓁 𝒱𝑒𝒾𝓁𝓌𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sbr1nn/,/short-story/sbr1nn/,Adventure,0,"['Fantasy', 'Mystery', 'Adventure']",7 likes,"
Elara stood in the ornate chamber of the Tyrian Library, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, illuminating the rows upon rows of ancient tomes and scrolls that lined the shelves. She took a deep breath, her green eyes fixed on the imposing figure seated at the head of the long wooden table.
 
Before the young hare archivist sat the Lord Head Cleric: a venerable badger named Lord Thorne, flanked by his council of esteemed scholars. His fur was a mix of grizzled gray and white, a testament to his years of dedicated service to the pursuit of knowledge and to the God of Justice, Tyr. 
 
The other council members - a diverse group of creatures from different species - regarded Elara with a mixture of curiosity and scrutiny.
 
""Elara,"" Lord Thorne's deep voice rumbled, breaking the silence that hung in the air. ""You are no doubt aware of the significance of the task that lies before us.""
 
Elara nodded, her long hare ears perked up in eager attentiveness. She had heard whispers and rumors circulating within the hallowed halls of the library, hinting at an important mission that was about to be assigned. Her heart raced as she waited for Lord Thorne to reveal the details.
 
""The time has come for the Tyrian Library to embark on a journey of great importance,"" Lord Thorne continued, his eyes meeting Elara's with a solemn intensity. ""An expedition to uncover the lost relics of our ancient civilization, buried deep within the uncharted lands that form the basis of our culture.""
 
“I accept!” Elara chirped, bouncing on her honed hare legs. She then stopped, suddenly realizing who she was in the presence of.
 
She still had a bit of her father - the High Jester of the last Archjusticiar - in her.
 
The council smirked in unison. 
 
One of the older members, a field mouse with long lipfur, leaned over the table and leered at her.
 
“Do you recall what your thesis was on, young one?” He creaked.
 
Elara’s response was on the tip of her quick tongue. “Yes Member Northsnow: An exegesis on the Seven Vile Vermin: Specifically the first one: The Vermin of Greed, Prince John of the Lions.”
 
There was a muttering among the Council. ‘Prince John’ was considered very vile.
 
...Very vile indeed.
 
Northsnow was unimpressed and held up his hand. “That is all well and good, but-”
 
“-But none of the others have been confirmed?” Elara interrupted.
 
That stopped the council cold. Elara knew at that moment that she and her fellow archivists had been kept in the dark until that moment. Normalcreatures had been completely convinced without evidence, but Elara and her fellow archivists had nothing but stories... Northsnow cleared his ancient throat.
 
“May I continue?” He asked with authority, his voice echoing around the dark and cavernous room.
 
Elara bowed her head and folded her ears back submissively.
 
“As I was saying, that is all well and good, but... We wish for you... No, we order you - in the name of Tyr - to investigate the eighth Vile Vermin.”
 
Elara stood up and adjusted the little glasses on her snout. “The... the Eighth Vile Vermin, sir?”
 
Forget numbers two through seven - including the horrifying Savareth: The so-called ferret 'God of Torture' - Every time Elara mentioned the possibility of an eighth Vile Vermin, she was met with eye-rolls and scoffs, even from her most liberal-minded associates.
 
This time, it was Lord Thorne who spoke up. “Do you question the council, Elara Greenshield?”
 
“N-no, my lord!” Elara said. The acceptance of her thesis depended on his good graces.
 
“Good,” the badger warlord said, stamping a hitherto-unseen form. “In one month you will be sent on an expedition to the site of Rosehearth.”
 
Elara nearly jumped out of her furry skin. “Oh, thank you my lord! Thank you!”
 
There were some congratulations and a post-expedition social gathering. Lord Thorne was there, but Northsnow was absent. The drinks were the finest the New Nottingham archives could afford. The conversation was light, and when Elara returned to the dormitories in the middle floors of the huge Tyrian library, she was lightheaded.
 
It was a high honor to go on the ‘quest’ - the expedition - to the ancient ruins of Rosehearth. When she met with her other doctoral coworkers, she beguiled them with descriptions of the Council room, and then retired to her room.
 
Elara smiled at Rumblebirch, her less-than-studious roommate, and threw her cape on her bed.
 
“Missed you at the little gala we had,” the hare said, still sailing high on the idea of the expedition.
 
Rumblebirch - the badger daughter of Lord Thorne himself - hung her head in shame. Elara quickly wrapped her arms around her friend.
 
“Oh no, I didn’t mean that,” she said. “If you have to study, you have to study.”
 
Rumblebirch shuddered, a few tears escaping her strong badger eyes. Elara smirked. Not everyone could be as clever as a hare.
 
“You’ll figure it out, Rum,” Elara said. “Let me know if you need assistance.”
 
The sky outside was dark, and Elara had a few weeks to prepare. The hare scooped her ears behind her head and lay on her comfortable bed.
 
“Elara, I’m having some trouble. Could you help-?”
 
“Good night Rum!” Elara chirped happily.
 
The alcohol from the council party was still swirling in the young hare’s head. The dots and figures behind Elara’s head spun and spun. She could feel herself twisting and twisting.
 
Hello, a voice behind Elara's own eyes said.
 
Elara’s ears twitched.
 
I see you. I see you.
 
Elara spun and spun and spun. The bricks in the dormitory felt like air. Elara blinked and steadied herself. The drinks from the council were apparently much, much stronger than she anticipated. Even as she opened her eyes, the room was still spinning. The young hare held her turning stomach and focused on the other side of the room where her dear badger friend was collapsed over the easy homework from last night.
 
“Rum?” She said, trying to steady herself. “Rumblebirch?”
 
Twisting the badger’s head, Elara saw a hole where her friend’s face should have been. Instead of being afraid, however, Elara peered deeper into it.
 
Two violet dots peered back.
 
I see you, a voice whispered.
 
SNAP.
 
Elara awoke, staring a hole into the stone roof of her dormitory. Gulping she looked over to the desk on the other side of the room. There, the hulking back of her friend was still hunched over last night’s homework.
 
It had to be a dream.
 
It had to be a dream.
 
It had to be a dream.
 
One arm over the side of her bed, eyes focused.
 
It had to be a dream.
 
It had to be a dream.
 
Carefully, the hare nestled her paw over her badger friend’s head and rolled it over. She breathed a sigh of relief and saw the dunce’s face drooling over the parchment.
 
Elara scoffed, smirked, shook her head, and began to pack. She only had a couple weeks to choose the most important hundred pounds of gear in her career.
 
The next day, Rumblebirch had asked for a different roommate and Elara didn’t contest it. The next week, Elara had whittled down her most important gear to two hundred pounds. By the night before her voyage, she was down to a choice between two tomes.
 
As she ran to the pier next to the Temple of Tyr in New Nottingham, Elara’s extended family was gathered, waving her goodbye. Her fluffy tail twitched in pride as she turned and jumped for them all, wishing them all the luck of the God of Justice.
 
All at once it hit the young hare: She was leaving her family behind. Her throat rose in her neck as her huge family crowded the pier and wished her a happy voyage. Elara stopped herself from being too hasty, however, and simply waved goodbye from the prow of the research galleon as it pulled away from port.
 
The otter captain clapped her on the shoulder as voles and mice hauled in ropes behind.
 
“Lost continent, eh?” He said in his swarthy sea-honed accent.
 
Elara nodded, then gazed Northward.
 
“Aye, a little storm. ‘Tis nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”
 
Elara didn’t respond and instead retreated to her cabin - paid for by her family - to keep notes while the cold northern air tilted in. 
 
When she drifted to sleep, she dreamt of Rumblebirch again, this time surrounded by her family. She turned in her sleep instead of looking at their non-existent faces. 
 
Her body involuntarily shuddered as the ship headed into the storm.
 
","August 05, 2023 02:11","[[{'M B': ""I don't think she's going to be the same after this expedition is over."", 'time': '02:28 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'𝒮𝓏𝒶𝓁 𝒱𝑒𝒾𝓁𝓌𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇': ""Perhaps she was insane before this expedition: and afterward she will be able to see the world as it truly is ;) Perhaps she will be the only sane one in the whole world after the revelations from her trip...\n\n...On the other hand, perhaps she will go insane from sanity:\n\n“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.” \n                    — Shirley Jackson, 'Hill House'"", 'time': '23:06 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'𝒮𝓏𝒶𝓁 𝒱𝑒𝒾𝓁𝓌𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇': ""Perhaps she was insane before this expedition: and afterward she will be able to see the world as it truly is ;) Perhaps she will be the only sane one in the whole world after the revelations from her trip...\n\n...On the other hand, perhaps she will go insane from sanity:\n\n“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.” \n                    — Shirley Jackson, 'Hill House'"", 'time': '23:06 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,v95yqq,Unburdened and Anew ,Kelly Guerra,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v95yqq/,/short-story/v95yqq/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Crime', 'Contemporary']",7 likes,"
Bert Thomkins was the kid in school who absorbed the rules and lived by them as canon. He was the member of the family that was always depended on, but never favored. He was the safe friend of the guy who got the girl. He was the one who offered to pick you up from the airport, or to feed your cat while you’re away without expecting anything in return. He skipped through life’s milestones like a game of hopscotch; he checked all the boxes and didn’t cause any trouble. He became, of all things, a banker. He loved his family. He didn’t own extravagant things, but he had enough. 
 
	“Bert,” people in town said of him, “he’s just the kind of guy you root for, the type that has that potential all balled up inside just waiting to explode.” 
 
	Despite Bert’s lifelong efforts to remain a quiet member of the universe, to tip the karmic scales if only slightly, towards the better, the universe just relentlessly shat on him. There was the time he found his mother going through his mail; the service had turned him down, and Mary reveled in reading his humiliation aloud to the rest of the family. Then, in his twenties, Bert lost his grandmother, Aggie, his favorite person in the world. She was hit coming out of an AA meeting by a guy who blew a .30 on the cop’s breathalyzer. Her death left the old farmhouse in Wyoming abandoned, and so Bert became a citizen and banker of the sleepy town of Sheridan by 21. Now, in his forties, Bert sensed the universe squatting again; he smelled the stench of what was about to be dropped on him next. This time, it was about the money. 
 
	Bert sat at his desk in the back of the bank, staring at his calendar. The red circle around today’s date seemed to grow larger, darker, each time he blinked. It had been hard, setting a deadline and sticking to it. For the last few weeks, Bert’s heart and head wrestled with his reality. Even here, enclosed in his windowless cubby, he struggled. It was like the eyes in all of the family photos that lined his shelves were watching him, judging the piles of past due notices littering the floor. Bert knew, in his soul, that he needed to hit the road, clear his head, figure this out. He needed time, selfish time, where he could be relieved of his responsibilities. Once unburdened, he could begin anew. But, in order to do that, he needed to leave everything, and everyone, behind. 
 
	Bert let out a deep, wizened, sigh as he grabbed his keys, turned off the light, and shut the door behind him. He stopped, quickly, at the vault, withdrawing his measly personal savings in full. How cruel, he thought, to be surrounded by exactly what he needed, but not being entitled to any of it. He counted his bills, zippered his bag, and silently dropped his calendar page to the floor. Though so careful of what he took, Bert did not consider what he left behind. It was April 25, 1972, and Bert Thomkins was leaving town, in what would seem to others as the first rash decision of his life. How very, very wrong they turned out to be. 
 
********
 
Bert had set his sights on NYC the day the first debt collector called the farmhouse. “The Far East, “ he would call it in his mind, the city that never sleeps because it’s a melting pot of people and opportunities that needs constant stirring. If he could get there, he could submerge himself in the masses, slipping into the anonymity he needed to quiet his mind. To decide what was next. The drive would take three or four days, certainly enough to call it a road trip, which was what Bert told the bank, and his neighbors. 
 
About three hours into his first night on the road, a large buck darted out right into the middle of the otherwise abandoned I-90 East. The animal rooted its strong legs to the asphalt and forced Bert’s car to a stop. For an eternal thirty seconds, the buck fixed its eyes on Bert’s, and they were both frozen in that heartbeat between flight and fight. Then, a bolt of lightning flashed, the ominous rumble of thunder right behind it. In the time it took Bert to blink, the buck was gone. Bert revved the engine and turned on his windshield wipers. He was heading straight into the storm. 
 
The days that followed were nothing spectacular. Bert fueled his car with Regular 87 octane and his gut with sandwiches; the crustier the bread, the better. He saw the world’s largest time capsule in Nebraska, set to be opened July 4, 2025. Ted would have loved it. Bert wondered about the dreams and secrets locked inside. He stopped at a roadside stand in Illinois to buy a tangerine, Alicia’s favorite. He had been intrigued by the proprietor, a blind woman who sat by her produce holding a sign that read “Do the right thing, even when no one is watching.” He took pause at a rest stop in Ohio, a dingy concrete building with four stalls, a vending machine, and a complex hand painted diagram of sorts, titled, “How to be Happy.” That one would make Sarah chuckle. Reluctant to hand over precious cash to roach-infested motels, Bert camped for the night in Pennsylvania, a cloud of Citronella lingering stagnant over his head. By the time he drove across the New Jersey border, Bert felt he had seen every form of roadkill there was–deer, turkeys raccoons–he even swore he spotted an armadillo curled by the curb somewhere He tried to put the gory sights out of his mind on this last night, at a diner less than ten miles from Manhattan. It was tough to do when the waitress kept recommending their famous cherry pie. Bert opted for the tiramisu. 
 
The next morning, Bert pulled his car into a stretch of wheat fields that would later become Battery Park. He left the engine running as he stepped out, stretching his legs and arching his back. He dropped his wallet a few feet to the left. He used the pocket knife his father gave him to draw a line in his flesh and spilled a few crimson tears before dropping the blade in the dirt. He pulled his bag out of the trunk and double checked that his remaining cash was secure. Then, Bert took a stone, just heavy enough, and placed it on the gas pedal. Immediately, the car surged forward, unwavering. With a blank expression, Bert faced the skyscrapers and started walking. He didn’t even flinch when he heard the groan of metal as it wrapped itself around the trunk of a tree. Instead, he prayed a silent eulogy for Bert Robert Thomkins of Sheridan, Wyoming, perhaps at peace, no longer in debt. 
 
He made it to the Social Security Office by 1:30. Wiping sweat from his brow, he grabbed a numbered ticket and joined the others waiting, like cattle, for their turn at the counter. 
 
“125!” He strode, head held high, towards the voice. 
 
“Hello sir. Thank you for your patience today. How can I help you?” Despite her official badge and confident delivery, the girl couldn’t have been more than twenty five. 
 
“Uh, yeah, hi…I lost my Social Security card, probably left it in my pants that went through the washer. I’ll need a replacement.” 
 
“Sure thing Mister…?” 
 
“Smith, James Smith.” 
 
“And your date of birth, Mr. Smith?” 
 
“April 25th, 1929.” 
 
“One moment.” 
 
Bert held his breath as the young woman turned down a hallway, out of sight. He blew it out, slowly, as his eyes scanned the room. Next to him, in the corner, a radio played “American Pie.” It was catchy, a foot tapping distraction in these agonizing moments. Before Bert could learn what happened on the day the music died, the network interrupted with a special announcement. 
 
	Today, authorities are seeking the public’s help in solving a gruesome triple homicide. Early this morning, the Sheridan Police of Sheridan, Wyoming responded to a call for a welfare check at the home of Bert Thomkins. They entered the home after finding the back door unlocked. Inside, police found the bodies of a middle aged female, Sarah Thomkins, and two small children, Ted and Alicia Thomkins. Mr. Bert Thomkins remains at large. Anyone with information as to what happened, or as to Mr. Thomkins’s whereabouts, please call (307) 672-2413. All states be on the lookout for license plate number 248344. 
 
“Here you are Mr. Smith,” the woman chirped, bringing his attention back to the counter. “Be sure to check your pockets next time!” 
 
Smiling, he secured his future in his hands and thanked the woman for her help. With that, James Smith stepped onto the subway and disappeared into the bowels of the city, unburdened and anew. 
 
","August 02, 2023 14:28","[[{'Joan Wright': 'Great story! Very unexpected ending. Your character indeed went of a life changing journey. You have a way of using just the right words in your descriptions. I could see clearly what you saw. Nice job!', 'time': '21:49 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,evz9eo,"The Worst, Best Day",Debra Koffski,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/evz9eo/,/short-story/evz9eo/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",7 likes,"
My ad agency had only 8 employees, plus our fearless leader, and owner; Miya. She was laid back and cool, however, she was a micro manager. The company had been in business less than six months, but we've had some lucrative clientele. For the most part, I got along with everyone on the team, with the exception of one. His name was Josh, and he was a know-it-all. One time I was working on an ad campaign, and he walked up behind me, started reading what I wrote, and said ""that will never work"", and walked away. No constructive input, nothing at all...except negativity. He, by-far was the most irritating man I had ever met. 
 
Today, Miya wanted everyone to meet at 9 a.m. in the break-room. She had an issue she wanted to discuss with us. So, I got my coffee and headed there. I saw Sara, who was my favorite person at work, and sat down next to her. We've hung out on an occasional weekend night. She was fun. ""Any clue what Miya wants to talk about""? I asked. ""I have no idea, I heard Miss Snooty one and two chatting about it, but they were clueless too."" Miss Snooty one and two were two peas in a pod who thought their poo didn't stink, and we disagreed greatly. 
 
Miya walked into the room. ""Alright, I'm sure you're all curious as to why I called this meeting. I started this company because I was passionate about the kind of ads I saw on TV. Some were cringe-worthy. In the past six months, I've seen some amazing work from this team, however, every one of you could be phenomenal! The only problem I see is that you don't work as a team. You work as individuals, and that doesn't work for me. So, we have a new, very important client coming up, and I want a unified team working on it. I have signed up this team for a team-building seminar. You leave Monday, and come back Thursday. I have drawn names of two people, and these two will carpool together, and I don't care who you prefer to ride with. These are my rules. You will get your normal weekly pay, a gas and food allowance, and I rented a mansion with 8 bedrooms for you to stay. You can pick up the name of the team member, and the address of the residence at my desk. I expect full cooperation at this seminar. Anyone causing issues may come back to their desk being boxed up. Any questions?"" Nobody had any questions.
 
Sara and I talked after the meeting. ""I hope we're paired together. That would be fun!"" I prompted. Sara agreed, and told me she would go get hers, and meet me at my desk. I walked over to my desk, which was in a cubicle, but it worked well for me. I liked privacy. 
 
I saw Sara coming back, and she didn't look happy. When she got inside my cubby, she said ""I got Miss Snooty one! OMG, how am I going to survive a five hour trip with her!! I'm bringing a book for when I'm not driving."" I told her I was going to get mine. I walked up to Miya's desk, and she handed me my envelope. I walked away before I opened it, and my jaw dropped! I got Josh! The most annoying man on the planet, five hours with his holier than thou attitude. Sara could tell my news wasn't spectacular when I walked back in. ""Who did you get?"" I showed her the envelope. She hugged me. 
 
It was a quiet weekend of packing, downloading a book to my tablet, and attempting to calm my nerves. 
 
Sunday night Josh called me to get my address so he could pick me up Monday morning. I gave it to him, and hung up. We had decided we would take his car, because it was newer. 
 
The seminar started at 10 a.m. Monday morning, so we decided to leave at 4 a.m. That way we could get there, bring our bags to the house, and still have window for bathroom breaks. 
 
The alarm woke me at 3 a.m. and I was not feeling it, but I dragged myself out of bed, had some coffee, got dressed, and filled my water bottle. At 4 a.m. on the dot, I get a call that he was waiting downstairs. I went down, and got into the car (aka chaos car). 
 
""Good morning, it's awful early, I'm not even sure the birds are awake yet"". He laughed. I smiled in agreement. ""Do you have the directions programmed into your GPS?"" I asked. ""Oh, darn! he teased. I knew I forgot something"". After that we were pretty quiet, until about an hour into the drive. ""Um, Josh, I'm sorry, but I have to use the bathroom. Coffee does that to me."" He looked at the GPS, and asked me if I could wait ten minutes, because there was a rest stop coming up. I told him yes, and we pulled into the deserted rest stop. It was creepily dark out there, and only a dim light above the ladies room sign. I could picture horror movie outcomes with me visiting it. Josh looked irritated when I didn't get out of the car. He looked over at me. ""Well, it won't come to you."" I looked again, and tentatively stepped outside. Inside, I was freaking out. And then I heard it, a woman screaming! I quickly got back inside the car. ""I can't go out there! Did you hear that woman screaming? She's being murdered! We have to call the police! Lock the doors!"" I screamed incoherently. Josh looked at me, and gave me a calming smile. ""Emily, look outside. There are two foxes. They're nocturnal, The male screams like that to warn off competitors for his lady. They're on a date."". I just stared at him, ""So, okay, how do you know so much about foxes?"" ""I grew up on a farm, we always heard odd sounds and I was a curious kid."" He got out of the car, walked over to my side, and opened my door. ""I will be your bodyguard to the bathroom."" We both laughed.
 
We got back on the road, and I thought to myself that he wasn't as awful as I thought. Then I hear a thump thump thump sound. ""Crap!"" Josh exclaims! ""We have a flat tire!"" We both get out of the car when he pulls over, and start putting our bags into the back seat in order to get to the spare. Josh took off his dress shirt to change it, and he was wearing a wife beater tank, and I don't know if it was lack of sleep, or hormones, but yowzer, he was giving me major heartthrob vibes! His arm muscles were firm, without being overly muscular, and his chest was bare and yummy. It was a perfect moment, until I heard the barrage of swear words spewing from his lips. ""Josh"" I tentatively asked ""Is everything okay?"" He stood up straight and glared at me. The heartthrob had left the building! ""Well, the lug nut broke off and now I have to figure out a way to get the sucker off, so I would say everything was NOT okay!"" I turned and walked to the back of the car. 
 
He went to the trunk and got a torch, and I was thinking, uh oh. He fired it up, held it to the lug not for about thirty seconds, and then reached for WD-40, and sprayed it on. Then he got a rag, and twisted the lug nut, and lo and behold it came off! ""That was amazing!"" I hollered. He bowed, and smiled at me. He finished changing the tire, however, we had to head to the nearest tire shop because apparently you can't drive three hours on a donut. We found a town that had a tire shop, and they fixed us up. 
 
By this time it was close to 8, and we both needed a bathroom break and food. We found a little diner close by called Gigi's Southern Eats. We walked in to a small place with retro red chairs and silver tables. The curtains were gingham red and white, and there was a jukebox in the corner playing records. A woman came over to us, she was a bit husky with red hair, and was wearing a red t-shirt and a white apron. ""Welcome to my eatery. The specials are on the wall, but if that doesn't float your boat, special orders don't bother me none. Except I don't do capers, I'm not even sure what that is."" We sat down, and I chose pancakes with bacon, and Josh got a Sunrise Platter (which included everything)! 
 
During breakfast, we discussed the fact that we were never going to make it on time to the seminar. We flipped a coin to determine who was going to call and tell Miya, and I lost. We finished our delicious breakfast, and hit the road. I called Miya, and she was not happy, but it wasn't our fault. ""I think we'll probably be there about noon, and they do a one o'clock lunch break, so we can drop off our bags, and head over at 2. Does that sound alright to you?"" He agreed, and I took a cat nap while we drove. 
 
I woke up to Josh shaking me gently, ""we're here, sleepyhead."" I couldn't believe I slept that long! ""I am so sorry I wasn't much company to you. You should have woke me."" He got out his side, and opened the door for me. ""It's okay, you're beautiful when you're quiet."" he said with a teasing tone. ""JOSH!"" I got out of the car, and chased him. We were both laughing. We were standing inches apart, and he put his thumb on my cheek, gently stroked it, and kissed me. I felt it everywhere. 
 
So, even though I thought it was going to be the worst day, it turned out to be a pretty good day, after all. 
 
 
","August 02, 2023 16:02","[[{'Joan Wright': 'Cute story! I like how the couple found out the good things about each other, which became the journey. I felt the ending came a bit too soon. The last paragraph seemed rushed.', 'time': '21:27 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Debra Koffski': ""That is a bad habit of mine, if I go on I feel like I'm rambling on. Thanks for the feedback!"", 'time': '17:55 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Debra Koffski': ""That is a bad habit of mine, if I go on I feel like I'm rambling on. Thanks for the feedback!"", 'time': '17:55 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,86a2xk,Interstellar Runaway,Amanda Cedeno,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/86a2xk/,/short-story/86a2xk/,Adventure,0,['Science Fiction'],7 likes,"
	Sensitive item: Slavery
	“One order of Raatte Carbonara extra Ketchup!!!!” The chef bellowed. Sadly, another customer and I came up to retrieve it. An interstellar rule is that when two people order the exact same thing in a diner, they have to share, even if it is a burned, chicken-sized rat on a stick. Sharing wasn’t in my plans.
             “Come, we can sit here.” The Aca’t, who was the other customer, ordered while taking the plate of food, and ushering me to a booth near the bathrooms. An Aca’t is a humanoid species from the planet of Ro’Ock. They have catlike ears, eyes, a tail, and whiskers. Their wings are batlike. Aca’ts do not grow taller than four-foot nine. This one had black hair, and wings. I was told to never look an Aca’t in their eyes. He had a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He whispered in my ear, “After I eat and my Chevonda is charged, we will to-go your food, and you can eat, and we will talk in the car.”
             “But…” I started to protest.
             “PET, GET OUT FROM THAT SILLY COSTUME AT ONCE!! YOU ARE GOING TO INSULT A HURN!!!!” He bellowed. A Hurn in an alien from the planet H’Airra. They are creatures all covered with hair, so they look like walking fur piles. I was trying to pass as one.
             “Let me see.” He breathed as I was taking off the costume.
             *** I, the Aca’t, will describe the human female. She has black curly hair, brown eyes, and is five-foot. Humans were enslaved a hundred years ago by multiple alien species, so she had to wear a grey jumpsuit, and a collar. There are two types of collars; one that is easily removable and made of comfortable materials, and another that is electronic that causes pain when the owner pushes a button on the remote control. Sadly, her owner had her wear the electronic one. It did say that her name is Bertha and had information about her owner.
             *** I, Bertha, was scared and shaking, and wondered if there was a way out from this situation but couldn’t think of anything. He took three bites of the food and had the rest in a to-go box.
             “Now, Bertha, when we are back in the car, I will give you your scrap, and you are not to cry about it.” He warned. After the bill was paid, he ushered me into the back of his Chevonda. A Chevonda is a space-car which looks like a car without wheels, and his was blue. The space-car I had stolen was a beat-up memory of a space-car. He buckled me in and took the driver seat. 
             When we were a distance away from the diner, he gave me the to-go box, and explained, “Here have the rest, you look like you haven’t eaten in a while. We can freely speak now. Some of the people in that diner looked like they wondered if there was a huge price on your head.”
             “Isn’t part of this…” I started to inquire as I looked at the food box.
             “I always eat before I make my rounds. The name’s Lynx. Let me guess; you ran away fearing punishment?” He guessed. I started eating, even though I thought it was weird that he gave me his name.
             “Master is a Glu’Plyman….” I started to say with a huge bite in my cheek. A Glu’Plyman is a humanoid that looks like a human made of slime. The only people who like the Glu’Plymen are other Glu’Plymen. They create the worst foods in the universe, which is why I enjoyed the Raatte Carbonara extra Ketchup. Lynx groaned, pulled off to the nearest asteroid, and parked. 
             “One moment.” He excused himself, picked up his communication device, called someone, and started speaking his native language. I, who only knew English and the language of the Glu’Plymen, just continued eating. When he was done with his conversation, he looked at me, smiled, and asked, “Etuc os uoy era yhw? Why are you so trusting?”
             “I hope you didn’t insult me in your language.” I accused with a glare. He cleared his throat, and started to drive, again.
             “You don’t seem to ask me anything, and I could be taking you anywhere.” He commented.
             I stared into a memory, and recited “If you ask any questions, the punishment is ten.”
             “Ten?” He questioned.
             “He is a beginner at English, and all I knew was that I didn’t want to know what he meant by that. Mostly, if I did anything wrong, he would push the button once.” I explained and itched at my collar. 
             *** I, Lynx, allowed her to finish eating, and fall asleep. The first stop had to be the Universe’s Largest Ball of Twine. It is the size of Jupiter, has a breathable atmosphere, and five tourist towns were created upon it. I parked behind The Rat’s Nest hotel and knocked on the back door.
             “Password?” was the greeting from the eyes in the door’s small window.
             “Orion.” I answered, “And send for Dref.”
             Five minutes later, Dref, who is a Four Armed Eight-Foot Muscle Man, came, retrieved Bertha, and we went to his office which was underneath the secret pub. Four Armed Eight-Foot Muscle Men may be a long name for a species, but they insist. He set her on the couch, looked at her collar, and moaned.
             “You are either going have to buy her or take her to Trixy.” Dref informed, got a throw-a-way phone, and tossed it to me. The throw-a-way isn’t traceable. In my language, he commented, “If you fall in love, you will have to quit the group.” 
	I turned my face away from him and called the number on her collar. 
             “Hello? Iz thiz the owner of Bertha?” I greeted in a weird accent.
             “Son miss Bertha. Need back.” Was the garbled response and lie.
             “OH! My offzpring wanted to keep her, zo wanted negotiation?” I inquired with my lie. I heard two beeps; one from the phone, and one from the collar, so I smashed the phone. Bertha was awake and huddled in fear. Then, I moaned “That was useless.”
             “Send Trixy my greetings, and here is your room key.” Dref laughed and tossed me the key. 
             *** I, Bertha, had my first night sleep on a bed. Usually, I am to sleep on the ground, but Lynx ordered me on the bed. After good food for breakfast, we got in his car, again.
             “Why are you nice?” I asked when we were away from the twine ball. 
             “We are going to my friend, Trixy’s place, and it will hurt, but she will get that collar off from you.” He explained with worry. 
             “Hmmm?” I expressed. 
             “She’s a Vampire, and…. Uh…. My ex.” He stammered. There is a group of humanoids who looked through the human’s myth books and thought that vampires looked and acted similar to them, so they took on that name. The differences include that they can walk in the sunlight, can’t turn others into vampires, only live to three hundred, and they can’t turn into bats.
             “Do I…” I started to ask as I rubbed at and old wound.
             “You don’t have to do anything. She only requires a fee, which I have ready to give her.” He answered, and he decided to turn on the radio. His music preference wasn’t that good, but better than my master’s. 
             Eventually, he parked in the parking lot of a castle like building that had a sign that said, “Trixy’s Palace, where females and felines get the royal treatment.” The place was flamboyant to say the least. When we entered, we were crowded and placed on sedans, with four Four Armed Eight-Foot Muscle Men carrying the sedan’s poles. We were separated, and I was carried to Trixy’s throne room. The throne was too gaudy to look at.
             “Hello, and Welcome to Trixy’s Palace. Salon, spa, and where you come out looking like and feeling like royalty. I am Trixy, and first thing’s first, we need to get that horrible collar off of you, girly.” Trixy introduced, and clapped for a nurse, and a hospital bed to come in. She had neon pink hair, was five-foot seven, and wore an Egyptian dress. I struggled, but they placed a sleep sticker on me, and I was out cold.
             When I woke up, I was in a huge bed, my neck was throbbing, and I was wearing a patient gown. A door opened, and someone came in.
             “Where’s Lynx?” I hoarsely asked and coughed.
             “Good. You’re awake. I have breakfast for you, and we can begin the fun part.” Trixy informed, and servants placed a breakfast tray with a bowl of hot oatmeal, and juice. “Sorry, but you can only have soft food until tomorrow.”
             I smiled and started eating with some cough attacks. This food was better than anything I’ve eaten.
             “You are doing better than most.” Trixy commented. “Lynx is overly worried about you, and he isn’t too cooperative with everyone.” Then, she whispered in my ear, “You should look into his bright, blue eyes.” I blushed and looked away. The day was filled with fun things, and annoying things; I discovered that I liked manicures, that I was too uncooperative for pedicures, and that make-up felt like a Glu’Plyman decided to place his hand on my face. The best part was that I was able to choose what I wanted to wear, and what color I liked. Then when I looked at the full-length mirror, I could barely recognize myself, and my scars were well covered. I had a blue, tulle ballgown, my hair up in a princess hair do, blue, blinged flats, a blue bow chocker, fangs, and pointy ears. They had me disguised as a Vampire. 
             “Attention all ladies. A Hurn policeman and a Glu’Plyman has entered the building looking for his human. All must come to the stage, line up, and look down at your feet.” Trixy announced on the loudspeaker. I was ushered on the stage, and I followed one of the ladies. Trixy, who was sitting on an audience seat, instructed, “Now, you only get to choose one, so choose wisely.”
	I was scared because I knew that he was my Master, but others were acting afraid; one constantly cried, and one even fainted. They examined the fainted one and stepped over her to examine the next one.
             “Her.” My Master determined. Everyone, even the one acting like she fainted, in unison looked up, and laughed.
             “Sorry, Buddy, but you are the fifth person this week who has chosen me. I’m a real Vampire, and I’ve been working here as a janitor for fifty years.” The janitor, who has an aged voice, stated. She had a janitor’s uniform on, and looked like she was in her later years. The policeman tested her DNA with a handheld device just to make sure, apologized, and ushered my Master out.
             “Next!” Trixy yelled.
             *** I, Lynx, was furious, and had to be restrained when the Glu’Plyman was announced as looking for his human. Earlier, I was annoyed that they had prevented me from seeing Bertha, and had forced me to get cleaned up, and wear a tux with straight tie. At least, they didn’t force an annoying bow tie on me. When Trixy yelled “Next!”, I was pushed on the stage.
             “You have to choose which one to be your dance partner, and if you don’t, you will have to dance with me.” Trixy presented the challenge. Frustrated because I knew if I gave her a piece of my mind, I would end up dancing with her, I glanced at the line of women. My gaze stopped when I recognized Bertha, I went straight to her, and kissed her hand. She flung herself at me into a hug and started crying. Trixy had everyone dance a few waltzes in the ballroom, and since Bertha seemed to have enjoyed them, I began to enjoy them. She was a bit clumsy at first, but it was the first time she danced. Also, she looked in my eyes for one minute, and blushed while turning away.
             The next day, we left in my space-car, and she sat next to me. 
             “Could you put on a waltz?” She asked.
             “Aren’t you going to ask where we are going?” I inquired.
             “I figure that you know where a safe place is.” She answered and smiled with her faux fangs in her smile. The planet that was where humans could live as a free people was only three more stops from Trixy’s, and that’s where we headed to begin a new life. The End.
","August 03, 2023 00:19",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,a34wyz,That's Three,Debbie Dupey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a34wyz/,/short-story/a34wyz/,Adventure,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad']",7 likes,"
 
Her Dad’s favorite joke went like this:
A man is sitting in his favorite chair enjoying a beer. His wife is sitting in her favorite chair. Their little dog is sniffing around, stops and pees on the floor. The man points at the dog and says, “That’s one.” At dinner the dog jumps up to the table to try a grab a chicken bone off the man’s plate. “That’s two.” After Dinner, the man returns to his chair, but sees that the dog is sitting in his chair. “That’s three,” the man says calmly, grabbing the dog by the scruff of his neck, takes him into the back yard and shoots him with a 22 rifle. 
 
When he comes back in the woman is shrieking, “What did you do to my little dog?” The man leans his rifle against his chair, sitting down, he looks at his wife. “That’s one.” 
 
Oh, her dad would laugh at that joke. Kitara would laugh nervously along too.  She was daddy’s little girl. Her mom sat quietly, picking her cuticles.  
 
When she was seventeen, she and her Dad found her mom, weighing only 70 lbs., curled up on the bathroom floor, dead from an eating disorder. He came out from the bathroom and saw Kitara’s little puppy Cleveland, squatting down ready to pee on the hallway carpet, and he yelled, that’s three and grabbed the dog. Kitara is yelling, “no daddy.” He turned angrily and slapped her face.  “That’s one.” 
He continued out the door and Kitara covered her ears to try to block out the sound of the shotgun, but it was impossible.  She’d heard it too many times before. Stomping down the stairs, tears streaming down her checks, Kitara wasn’t sure whose death she was the most distraught about, her quiet mother who had been slowly starving herself to death, or her sweet puppy who didn’t have a chance in this cruel world.
“It wasn’t three,” she yelled at her Dad. Not that it would make a difference. During the 17 years of her life, her Dad had surprised her with 10 different puppies. Unfortunately, dogs had very short life expectancies in her home. Her dad’s favorite saying, “The only good dog is a dead dog.”
“Your mother is dead Kitara.  How can you be so selfish at a time like this.”
She went to her friend’s house until she graduated from high school. At 18 she was able to access the funds from her mom’s $50,000 insurance policy. She bought a van, threw a mattress in the back and hit the road. 
In northern California she worked in the orchards, picking fruit with mostly Zapotec laborers from southern Mexico. In the evenings, she attended a yoga teacher intensive. She liked teaching yoga. There was a sense of belonging and caring, but without any deep, messy connections. Between her Mom’s insurance money and what she could pick up teaching yoga in different nomadic camps spread around the country, she created a life for herself. Moving about the country, a carefree, yet solitary existence. She lived like a free bird, but not a free spirit. A broken arm from a fall on an icy parking lot in Colorado. Her van brokedown in Las Cruses. Drinking too much in Galveston. A rape in Mobile.
 
 
Wherever she sat up camp for a month or so, she would find an animal shelter where she could volunteer. It was impossible for her to have a dog again. It was simply too much for her heart to bear.
 
Five years later, Kitara had made her way all the way to the gulf side of Florida. It was fall, but there were no leaves falling like in the West. In the afternoons, thunderstorms crashed upon her and she took refuge in her van listening to Audible Books. In a small tourist town called Venus on the Tamiami Trail, she found a great RV park filled with snowbirds who loved her gentle yoga classes. Big bonus, it was near a Kill Shelter. 
 
Each morning, she arrived at 8am to walk the dogs, looking into their sweet eyes, giving them a little comfort before, well, you know. It was her penance. Her penance for still loving her Dad despite everything. And she did still love him. She refused to see him, but once a month he would call from Waldport, Oregon where he still lived on the small family farm.
 
It was stupid to stay in Florida so long, but she had met a man who had a sailboat, a wealthy and retired Argentinian, named Arturo, who was captivated by this sinewy hippy chick, liked caressing her inner thigh with his tongue. He was a good lover, plus he made her life so much easier. He was docked in Punta Gorda, a conservative worm hole of white haired snow-birds. She was having a good time, sailing in the evenings, eating raw oysters from the oceans. 
 
Every Wednesday, she continued to volunteer at the kill shelter.  
 
Then Ian came. Not another man, but a hurricane. She refused to evacuate despite Arturo’s pleading and instead kept her shift at the kill shelter. In the early morning, the hurricane increased in intensity, the wind tore at the roof; the lights flashed. Dogs whined from the metal pens.
She heard a knock on the door,
A man stood in the downpour with his eight-year-old boy and a young puppy. The boy had tears running down his face.  
“We got to leave,” the Dad explained. “We tried to stay with the animals, but the Myakka River overflowed and took out our trailer and the fence holding the cows. We barely got into the old Ford with this puppy.”  He looked down at his son, who was holding tight to the little black and white dog. “He’s right attached to this little puppy.”
“His name is Jangles,” the young boy whispered. Kitara was touched to see the Dad run a hand through the boy’s rain wettened black hair. 
Then there was another crash of lightening. The room went dark and for a moment they were frozen in darkness. Kitara found her flashlight. Shadow and light did an eerily dance about the cement walls.
“We got to get up to kinfolk in Tallahassee, but they don’t have no place for dogs.  We got to leave him here.”
Kitara pulled the dad aside while the little boy hugged his whimpering puppy. Kitara whispered so the boy couldn’t hear.  “You know this is a kill shelter.  If they don’t get adopted in 30 days, they are euthanized.” 
“I don’t have a choice mam. I got to get my boy to safety. My wife and his sisters left for Tallahassee yesterday. I thought the boy and I could wait it out with the animals.  Listened to those stupid SOBS on the radio saying it was going to hit Tampa.”
The little boy hugged the puppy. “Goodbye Jangles, when we come back home.  We’ll come and get you. I promise.”  The Dad mouthed silently, “We won’t be coming back.”
 
It broke her heart.  She knew that little boy’s ache. It was the broken record of her childhood.
 
After they left, Kitara put Jangles in a kennel. She gave him food and water, but he trembled, lying on his paws, too scared to eat.”
So, she sat on the floor, letting it shiver against her.
She knew no one was going to be adopting puppies after the hurricane. 
The newly completed paperwork with Jangles written on the top sat on top of the counter. She ripped it up and threw it into the trash. With the puppy in tightly in her arms, she ran through the rain, sitting him on an old sweater she kept in backseat. He would be scared, but safe.
 
An hour later, Max, her relief came. “It’s getting pretty crazy out there. Get yourself somewhere safe. They’re going to be shutting down the roads soon,” Max, a grizzled man of 40 would stay with the animals through the storm. Kitara smiled at him and spontaneously threw her arms around him.  His strong hands against her back felt like an affirmation that she was doing the right thing.
 
She and Jangles drove in the slow snake of traffic through Alligator Alley, rain pouring down, wind howling. They slept in a Walmart parking lot outside of Hollywood, on the Atlantic side. The storm was the exclamation mark she was waiting for; Jangles the reset button that was bringing something new into the fabric of her life.
A day later, with Florida still gripped in chaos, panic and destruction, her Dad called. 
“You’re not still in Florida are you baby girl? “
“That’s exactly where I am.”
“Come home where it’s safe.”
“My van is home.”         
Finally, he got to his real reason for calling. 
“I’m sick Kitara. My kidneys. They’re shot.”
Kitara takes a deep breath, sees him lifting her up above his head as a small girl, “Who has the best damn little girl in the whole world?”
“Maybe my little girl will give the man who gave her life one of her kidneys so I can keep kicking around a little bit longer.”
“Dad. I’d love to come, but I have this dog now.” She could hear Dad cluck in disgust, but she continued. “It’s just a little puppy and it’s scared.” 
“Leave the damn dog for Christ sakes and fly out here. You’ve always been soft in the head when it came to dogs.”
“Well, I guess I can come,” she fidgeted with her nose ring as she talked. “It will take me awhile.”
 
 She shutdown her cell phone and tucked it back in her over-the-shoulder purse. “Jangles, what should I do?” He looked up, a heavy, nervous look on his face. 
“I guess it’s time to go for a drive.”  Jangles cocks his head to one side, listening, his forehead wrinkled in curiosity.
Over the years, when he called her, he’d tell her how much he missed his baby girl. Living alone and on social security and a small military pension. The animals were all gone, sold off after her mom had died.
 
They shared the same B negative blood type. As kin, she was the most likely match. 
 
His only chance at continuing to live was nestled in her right side, under her skin, an organ the size of her hand. He had given her life, so did he technically have a share of her? It felt like it.   
 
She drove with Jangles slowly across the country, while her dad waited on the dialysis machine, his kidney slowly ceasing to clear his blood of toxins.
In Louisiana she stopped in Shreveport, sleeping in at a truck stop overlooking the Red River. As she walked with Jangles along the slow waters slugging through the city, she thought about life’s journey, not just her life’s journey, but her Dad’s and every person’s life journey and what caused it to take the direction that it does. 
When she was in the heat of Texas, staying in a roadside motel in Paris, she wondered if after she saved his life, if he will become a better man. If he would have one of those life changing epiphanies. Afterwards, they would grow close, she would have the kind and loving Dad she always longed for. 
Looking over the grand canyon she wondered what we owe our kinfolk for giving us life. She wondered how our brokenness connects the generations. Can the one who caused you pain also help you heal?
 
In Northern California, shadowed under the mighty redwoods, she longed to have her own confused soul soothed by healing him. 
 
Finally, seven days later, she was in Waldport.  She would sleep in her van on the family farm before heading down to the hospital in Portland.  Jangles ran crazy through the overgrown under story of the yard.  She loved watching him, but felt there were too many four legged ghosts haunting the place.  It was strange to be back, sitting on a front porch chair, watching Jangles leap and spin through the grass and small trees, Kitara found herself humming, “What’s love got to do with it?”
 Kitara left Jangles in the care of a doggy daycare while she went up to the hospital, trying to assure his sad eyes that she would be back for him. Poor guy. What if she died during surgery?  He’d be left all alone in the world.
At the county hospital she did the required blood and tissue tests that confirmed she was best possible match for a transplant.  
“You two are so much alike, biologically that it. It sets us up for an excellent outcome for your father,” the surgeon explained, smiling, pleased with himself.  Her father was silently crying.  She had never seen him cry before, maybe he was evolving?  He seemed a stranger to her, but there was not another human being in the world whom she was more tied too. 
 
Kitara didn’t know how to feel, but she understood her mother’s constant loss of appetite. Being so close to her father made her stomach pitch and turn. 
 
Later in the day with Jangles in the doggy care center again, she went back to the hospital to say good night to her dad and hear the final instructions from the hospital.
“Baby girl! I knew you’d come through. I knew you wouldn’t abandon your old man.” 
 
She remembered the closeness she felt with her mother when she was still alive, as if the umbilical cord, now invisible, still attached them together. But her Dad always had something more powerful, a magical chain wrapped around her, that could not be seen, but felt as if it were an iron shackle.  “So glad you’re here baby girl.  You’re going save my life.” He clung to her hand., with his weathered, veined one. 
 
“So weak. so pathetic,” she couldn’t help but think, but her chest felt tight. His eyes held hers, beseechingly.
 
A female counselor named Mauve, not much older than she, with dyed purple hair and a casual chatty way about her, explained the risks and asked sincerely if Kitara was prepared, if she understood exactly what she was undertaking. Kitara nodded, as she absently signed the paperwork. It was all set.  The counselor even found temporary housing that would accept Jangles and a dog sitter for when she was in surgery and throughout her recovery.  
 
The night before the surgery, she came intending to surrender herself to the hospital. She walked into her Dad’s room. He had lost so much weight his body looked like a rope underneath the cover, but his face was bloated and pale. 
 
His fingers twitched. He was struggling to breath. 
 
Words came haltingly, broken from his dry lips. “Little girl. I’m so glad you’re here.  We are going to have good times together now.” A thready and weak chuckle, faltered into a cough. 
 
Kitara smiled at first, nodding, and reached for his hand, moving close to his ear thinking she’d give him some comforting words, maybe even a kiss on the check, but that’s not what happened.
The words that had long been collecting in some gaping wound deep within finally released, “I’m not going to do it Dad. You’re not getting my kidney.” 
His expression shifted from the soft relief to fear, “What? I…I… What are you talking about little girl.”
“Daddy, I’m not giving you my kidney.”
“I don’t believe you. Why are you saying this? Everything is arranged. When his eyes teared up, she looked away and out the window. She felt a strong urge to bolt from the room before she lost her nerve.
“But why?” he asked. 
She took a deeps breath, but waited before speaking, letting the space between them fill with hard silence. Finally, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, “That’s three Daddy.” 
She patted his hand, looking into his eyes.
 “That’s three Daddy,” she repeated.  His eyes seemed to dim and then slowly close.  In synch, they sighed into understanding. She got up then, rather abruptly and left his room.
 
She and Jangles drove two hours to slept on the beach that night, the back of the van left open so she could hear the surf. Jangles’ body gave off a nice warmth and she rested her face close to his fur, comforted by his musty puppy smell. 
Around 9pm, she saw the number for the hospital light up her phone.  She let it go to voice mail. A week later, her Dad was cremated. The funeral home gave her his ashes in a wooden box. With Jangles by her side, they drove back towards Waldport. Halfway there, they turned down a lonely country road. There, in the middle of the hardened dirt, she dumped his ashes. Jangles watched her curiously, sniffing at the grey pile. Had there been a few cigarette butts, it could have been the contents of an emptied ashtray.
She brushed off a bit of ash that had drifted onto her hands and turned to her little puppy.
“Come on Jangles. Let’s go home boy!”
","July 29, 2023 19:36","[[{'Kristin Johnson': ""This was like a sledgehammer the way it hit you, in a good way. I almost thought she was going to save him at the end because she's a good person and blood is powerful. Readers can debate whether she should have just given him mercy, but he didn't really seem like he'd truly changed...the story didn't support her making such a choice. \n\nSometimes, people can acquire the characteristics of their organ donors according to anecdotes, but in his case, there was too much meanness in him. Killing animals and hurting kids and women pretty much make..."", 'time': '21:21 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Debbie Dupey': 'Thank you for reading and commenting. I appreciate it.', 'time': '10:49 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Debbie Dupey': 'Thank you for reading and commenting. I appreciate it.', 'time': '10:49 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,v4nrjr,Moments: Where Worlds Fall Apart,Brandon Langston,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v4nrjr/,/short-story/v4nrjr/,Adventure,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'LGBTQ+']",6 likes,"
	Charlie Westphal was back in New Orleans. He’d visited his friend Michael there last summer and left a piece of his heart in the city. Six months later Michael invited him to come find it during New Orleans’ famous holiday season, Mardi Gras. Michael picked up Charlie from the airport and dropped him off at his house, which sat just above Tulane University on a very busy section of South Claiborne Avenue in New Orleans’ White Teapot. Michael and his roommate Bryce, both law students at Tulane, had Friday classes left before the weekend could begin so Bryce’s large yellow Labrador named Ollie was the only one home to receive their guest. “Remember to watch Ollie whenever you open the door to enter or leave,” Michael warned as Charlie pulled his suitcase from the backseat. “He will run outside and has no conception of the fact that traffic can hurt him.” Charlie laughed, but he was careful as he crept inside and when he left that evening, and everything was fine.
 
	Usually it was his father admonishing Charlie about safety. Living with parents at twenty-four is only tolerable if they’ve long ceased trying to parent you, and his dad’s paternal anxieties were so often exaggerated that Charlie felt unable to respond to his more reasonable ones with anything but annoyance. Forgetting to lock the front door, Charlie recognized, deserved a reminder. But his dad was obsessive about it. The first thing he did before leaving and after returning home was check every window and door in the house. “You need to stop leaving your bathroom window unlocked Charlie,” he’d say, convinced that someone in their small, crimeless Pennsylvania town was going to scale the sheer drop up to that second story window and burglar them. 
 
	If his dad was too anxious, it was also true that sometimes Charlie wasn’t anxious enough. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that accidents happen, but that, still outgrowing the invincibility of adolescence, he understood them as only happening to other people. That’s why he could answer his little brother Nicky, sitting next to him in the back seat as their parents drove Charlie to the airport, with the professorial certainty of someone discussing a topic which they’ve thoroughly studied but whose subject matter they’ve never experienced. 
 
	They were listening to an audiobook in the car when the narrator said the phrase “all of a sudden.” “Charlie,” Nicky asked, “what’s a sudden?” Charlie asked what he meant. “The book said it happened ‘all of a sudden.’ What is a sudden? Can anything happen in half of a sudden?” Charlie smiled and explained that ‘all of a sudden’ was just a phrase. “Anything that you weren’t expecting to happen, and that you didn’t realize was about to happen until it was too late to react, is something that happens all of a sudden. It’s kind of how life goes, really. One second things are one way and the next, they’re not. You can’t always see it coming even if you’re looking. That’s why we sometimes say accidents happen all of a sudden.” 
 
	Charlie had separate plans from Michael and Bryce that night. They’d be with their law school friends while Charlie had a date at the parades with Theo, a local pastry chef he met during his first stay in New Orleans last summer. Each parade during Mardi Gras is put on by a social club called a krewe, Theo informed Charlie, and each krewe usually has a signature throw. Throws are the beads, frisbees, cups, and other trinkets they toss to the gluttonous crowds. But a krewe’s signature throw is an item hand-decorated by each member, unique and in limited supply. The parade they went to see down on Magazine Street was for the krewe Nyx. A decorated purse was Nyx’s signature throw and half the reason Theo wanted to go. To get one it helps your chances to have a child on your shoulders or to know a krewe member personally, but even then they have to actually find you in the crowd. The odds are never in your favor. Theo never got one.
 
             The scene was as grand as Charlie expected. Trees along the street, like fenceposts and fire hydrants and any other available surface, were dressed in skirts of Mardi Gras beads. The floats were pink and blue and green, all two stories high, and each expertly designed to a different theme. The krewe rained beads and balls and frisbees and printed plastic cups down on the people and the ground like so much litter. It’s really a lot of waste, Charlie thought, and began to wonder if it was all worth it, but the thought was knocked from his head by the impact of a plastic cup and Theo’s laughter. 
 
             After the last float passed, Charlie and Theo turned to leave in the direction it came from and noticed someone lying in the middle of the street fifteen yards away. A young woman – younger than Charlie – in jeans and a red zip-up sweatshirt was splayed out on the pavement, face-down with legs spread and arms at her sides, like she’d been punched in the jaw and fell forward unconscious. Charlie wondered aloud if that might’ve been what happened, but then he saw her back. The space where the bottom of her jacket should have met her jeans was nearly flat against the concrete like the trough of a grotesque valley. It felt like a whole minute had passed before someone finally yelled “Get the kids out! Keep your kids away!” When the paramedics arrived they couldn’t lift her body onto the stretcher lest it fold like an overstuffed wallet. She was internally severed, held together like two digits in a Chinese finger trap. For privacy the paramedics produced a massive white sheet and veiled themselves so the crowd couldn’t see. That’s when most people started to leave. 
 
             They asked around and learned that the young woman had been chasing floats up and down the street to catch the more valuable throws. Theo even remembered seeing her run past them twice during the night. Apparently she tried to cross between two tandem floats – the very last of the parade – and tripped over the hitch connecting them and was run over. That explained the valley. She didn’t get a purse either.
 
             “She looked young,” said theo, breaking the silence as they walked to his car. 
             “Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “Think of how her family is going to feel. Her friends. Over an accident that’s so, stupid. No purpose. Just because she tried to jump between a fucking float.” His tone suggested he was angry for the people who’d have to grieve her death, but he was actually nervous because he could imagine himself in a similar accident of his own making. Perhaps not that careless of one, but a careless one nonetheless which would end his life and weave suffering through the remaining days of those who loved him. It was on their behalf that he spoke.
 
             The next morning Charlie decided not to tell Michael or Bryce what happened. He’d thought maybe he ought to tell them; it was the kind of thing you told other people. But they’d probably hear about it anyway, and did they need to know he saw it? He wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t be because his head was too foggy to trust his own reasoning. He’d been remembering the woman and her lumbar valley since he woke up, so far without any real anxiety, and he was afraid that talking about it could lead his brain to uncontrollably fixate, creating the anxiety he’d so far avoided. 
 
	Since he was seventeen Charlie worried that there would always be something he’d anxiously obsess over. Always something about himself which might hurt other people. By age twenty he accepted it as an enduring feature of his life. But once in a while, when he noticed himself thinking too much about some new worry, he tried steer his thoughts away from it and avoid things that might cement the thoughts in his brain. He could never be sure what would become a new, long-term anxiety, so he was afraid that anything could. And he didn’t want a new fear. The old ones, despite their omnipresent weight, were at least familiar and expected. For this reason Charlie said nothing, reassuring himself that he could tell them at a later time if he wanted to.
 
	They spent that afternoon with Michael and Bryce’s law school friends watching the Krewe of Muses parading down the magnificently wealthy St. Charles Avenue. Their group was large – the three of them were joined by Michael’s girlfriend May and a group of their friends whose names Charlie couldn’t keep straight.  At first Michael and Charlie bet to see who could collect more beads by the end of the day but they tired of it in the first hour and called a stalemate. It was like betting to see who could get the most wet during a hurricane. Instead they joined everyone else in guzzling cheap beer and cheering for the floats and the performers that separated them. At one point Charlie caught a drawstring bag and put away the few throws he actually expected to keep: A face mask, a frilly bookmark, zipper pouches, a pack of turquoise Muses napkins, and plastic cups printed with fancy high heels – the Muses’ signature throw. 
 
	He filled the bag and swung it over his shoulders at just the right moment to be of service. One of Michael’s friends named Allen, who he hadn’t noticed leaving, reappeared in the group with his little cousin, a tousle-haired blonde boy no older than five. Allen had a light beer in each hand and held them out in explanation as he asked Charlie if he could hold his little cousin on his shoulders so the boy could see. “Please?” asked the tousle-hair boy, looking up at Charlie from hip height. Charlie shrugged and put the boy up, finding that as surely as it gave the boy a better view it caused adults in front of them to move too, offering the boy a better position near the street. In this way they found themselves standing right on the curb, as close to the floats as they were allowed to go. Then Charlie noticed someone yelling almost inaudibly in his direction. A Muse on the passing float was pointing between him and the boy with her one hand and grasping a bedazzled high heel held in the other. “You!” she yelled, and when their eyes locked she threw. It almost fell out of the boy’s grasp but, holding the boy steady with one hand, Charlie reached up with the other and helped him catch it. The boy was excited to have caught something, thrilled at the congratulations from adults around him, but disappointed that it was a useless woman’s shoe. He frowned as he handed it down to Charlie, who had Allen put it in his bag. A little trophy to take back to South Claiborne Ave.
 
	They all went back top Michael’s for a few hours of rest and by ten o’clock half of them were ready to go back out, the other half already at the bars waiting for the rest who still hadn’t left. Michael and Bryce went in the first uber but the second one for Charlie, Allen, Michael’s girlfriend May, and May’s friend Jenna was inexplicably late. They waited in the living room passing a joint around the circle formed by the couch on one side and two beanbag chairs in the center of the floor. Allen and Jenna were on the couch and Charlie was on one of the beanbags, Scratching Ollie’s ears until May stood up from the other chair and gave him the joint so that she could check if their Uber arrived. 
 
	The living room was in the front of the house where the street-facing wall is interrupted by two large glass doors that were used only as windows and provided a wide view outside. Between the house and South Claiborne Ave is a small front yard of grass and then a sidewalk. The highway itself was three lanes running in both directions, separated by a grassy strip of neutral ground, which Charlie called a median back in Pennsylvania. The front door was to the far right of the front wall. 
 
	No one registered what May was doing. She opened the front door just enough, for just a moment, and then the world turned more slowly. Ollie, seemingly asleep behind Charlie, saw the door open and bolted through it as if he’d been hurled by the hand of Zeus. May turned just in time to watch him pass her by.
	And then she screamed.           
 
	             “Ollie no!”
 
	Charlie was sprinting toward the door in freeze frames. Ollie ran sideways across the window’s view. May disappeared after him, and then she screamed like a steaming kettle, burning with the dread of helpless knowing. “Oh my god no! Stop Ollie please!” Then came the inevitable thud. 
 
	Charlie reached the doorway in time to watch the once-massive dog moving through the air, curled and spinning on his side at hip height. He hit the ground and skidded to stop against the curb like a hockey puck on pavement. The car sped away. The first thing Charlie registered when he arrived at Ollie’s side was that he suddenly appeared to be only half his normal size. He stayed that way for the rest of his life, and Charlie would never find an adequate explanation for it. 
 
	May fled into the house. Allen ran to Charlie’s side. Ollie was still stiff and curled, taking unnaturally heavy breaths at unnaturally slow intervals. “Call Michael and Bryce,” Charlie said to Allen, who fumbled for his phone. “We need a vet hospital, find out where to take him.” Charlie was already reliving the scene as he knelt on the curb. He felt everything he imagined May must have felt. The terror, the instant regret, the undeniable responsibility. And then Ollie, lying there in the street confused and hurt, without the only person who could bring him any comfort. He was dying among strangers. It could have been him, Charlie understood. This was proof that his own inattention could –  which he took to mean it would – lead to the destruction of other people’s lives. 
 
	“Was that your dog?” Charlie looked up and saw a middle-aged woman standing fifteen feet down the street from them, next to a parked van. “Yes,” Charlie said. “He’s just been hit.” 
 
	“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking at them awkwardly, unsure of herself. “Did… Did you guys call an Uber?” Charlie and Allen stared blankly at her. “Don’t worry,” she assured them, “I’ll cancel the ride.”
 
	It was a cloudy day in the dead of Summer and Charlie was standing in his bedroom, looking at the bedazzled high heel displayed on his bookshelf and wondering if it was all just dumb luck. He hadn’t told his parents about the finger trap woman or about Ollie, or how he was the one who drove Ollie to a vet hospital somewhere in New Orleans that Charlie couldn’t find again with a gun to his head. Charlie certainly didn’t say he’d relived those hours every day since with a vividness somewhere between memory and flashback, all the while brimming with fear that he could be May. Back home he began noting whenever the front door was left open, and secretly checking on Nicky whenever he and their dog Shiloh were outside. That only made him more afraid however, like reassuring himself inherently validated the underlying fear, and he would find that he had to then check again, and again, in case something were to happen at just the moment he removed his attention once again. He tried to resist it, the urge to go and see that Nicky was safe, but he usually felt helpless to do so. 
 
	Charlie sat on his bed to steady himself as the thought of Nicky’s safety entered his mind. He tried not to believe the cascade of thoughts, a string of cause and effects which he believed only he could prevent. He hated that he’d become compelled to furtively spy on his brother like some terrified parent. Hated even more that it felt out of his control. He felt like his dad, which bothered him too as he fought the urge to see where his brother was. But the potential cost of not checking…
 
	 Charlie knew his brother was playing outside, but his mom was in the garden and his dad out at work. His mom might not be watching Nicky, and with kids all it took was a moment. That was proved by the woman with a valley in her back, and by May and Ollie. The door was only open for a moment, but worlds fall apart in moments. For all the reasons Charlie knew he didn’t want children, this was the reason he was afraid to. 
 
	Out in the driveway Charlie found Nicky playing catch with a baseball and a pitching trampoline, right where he was supposed to be. He’s okay, Charlie thought to himself as he turned toward the door, guilty from his lack of self-control. Then just as he reached the front door he heard the ball hit the ground, followed by Nicky’s soft but quick foot steps. Charlie turned as Nicky ran down the driveway after the ball and heard himself screaming “No Nicky no!” But Nicky was already stopping himself and let the ball roll out into the street as a small green pickup truck drove by. 
 
	“Calm down, jeez.” Said Nicky. “I know to look both ways.”
 
	“You have to be careful!” Charlie chastised him through heavy breaths. 
 
	“Shut up, you can’t tell me what do,” said Nicky. “You’re not Dad.”
","August 04, 2023 16:53","[[{'Dafna Flieg': 'I love the imagery you bring to life especially showcasing New Orleans life.', 'time': '12:11 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Brandon Langston': 'Thank you for saying so - and for reading!', 'time': '16:59 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Brandon Langston': 'Thank you for saying so - and for reading!', 'time': '16:59 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,d3981r,The House of Goblincore,Indy Walen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d3981r/,/short-story/d3981r/,Adventure,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Contemporary', 'Fantasy']",6 likes,"
“You sure about this? Because once you do this there’s no turning back.” 
“Uh,” 
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding, Senorita. You’ll look fabulous.” The hairdresser used a comb to tangle out her client’s split ends. “Tell me again what your name is.” 
“Well, it’s Ivy. Ivy Meadows.” The hairdresser started mixing hair dye into a plastic dish.
“And just to confirm. You want black hair with just a tint of green?” 
“Um, yes.” 
“Perfecto. I will make it black enough that just enough green can be seen in the radiant sunlight. It will be fabuloso.” The hairdresser studied Ivy through the mirror. “Have I seen you before, Senorita? You seem familiar.” Ivy twisted her Elven ring nervously on her finger. 
“Just wait and you’ll see the real me.”
	Ivy shut her eyes tightly rethinking this whole ordeal. Why she didn’t think in the hours in the hairdresser's chair she didn’t know why. 
	“Okay beautiful, open your eyes.” Ivy opened them to see long flowing black locks cascading over her shoulders. Her emerald green nose ring had never been complemented this well against her snow white skin. She felt like Ivy Meadows, not Bethany Hofferman. 
 
 
	Down the winding road in the countryside, Ivy held her leather satchel close to her. It held all her belongings. She’d sold and donated everything else she’d ever owned giving up her old life completely. The contracts had been signed and the deposit was paid. Once she was at the house there was no turning back. 
	The trees on the road cascaded over the bus making the day seem like twilight before they approached the destination. It was like sitting in the dark waiting to pull the curtains back to reveal a new life. And that’s exactly what it was once the shade from the trees descended. The bus hissed behind Ivy as it drove away. She was alone standing in front of a grand two story cottage. It looked just like it jumped out of the page of a storybook. This was her new life and the journey would be life-changing. 
	“She’s here!” Fluttered a voice from the open hexagon-shaped window. Ivy waited with the sounds of the hanging windchimes while a middle aged woman exited the front door onto the wrap around porch. She sported an overall dress topped with a daisy flower crown nesting in her braided hair. 
	“Ivy Meadows?”
	“That’s me, ma’am.” The woman laughed melodiously. 
	You don’t need to call me that. I’m Lily Rain, the owner of this home and the founder of Cottagecore Sisters. This is your new home. Think of it like a boarding school but for the influencers of Cottagecore Sisters. Beginning today, you’ll get to decorate your entire room the way Ivy Meadows would. Complete it in your entirety to the theme of Goblincore. Once you’re prepared, that’s where the magic begins. Each of my students will get to film themselves for TikTok, YouTube, Instagram, you name it. I figure if the Cottagecore Sisters are living and learning together then we’ll become immensely popular. And speaking of learning,” Lily handed her a leatherbound notebook with a monogrammed G. “The G stands for Golbincore. It’s your itinerary for every week. Monday morning is the social media marketing workshop, Tuesdays are how to properly respond to fanbase with additional lessons on sponsors and competitive channels, Wednesdays are video brainstorming ideas, and Thursdays are editing hours. Fridays of course are off since we all deserve three day weekends. We are nothing like the typical 9-5 work human. “We are certainly not” thought Ivy following her up the porch steps. 
	“So, Lily, let me straighten this out. We’re all called the Cottagecore Sisters, but we each represent our own core?” 
	“Precisely. Let me give you the rundown. Cottagecore is the basis of other cores. It sits at the top of the so called tree. There are many branches off of Cottagecore. Ivy Meadows, that’s you. You’ll be representing Golbincore, your housemates Echo Mist will be representing Fairycore, Holly Branch will be representing Elfcore, Luna Night will be representing Witchcore, and your host-to-be, me, will be representing Cottagecore itself.” 
	“Sort of like, each of our characters would technically live in a cottage. That’s why we’re called Cottagecore Sisters?” Lily’s face looked betrayed. 
	“Ivy, you are not a character. This is who you really are. You are Ivy Meadows. The old you is dead.” Her stare lingered without another word. Ivy twisted the ring on her finger. A soft smile transcended from Lily. 
	“I was positively inspired by your potential on TikTok. I couldn’t have been more blessed to elect you as a sister. Now come with me. Let’s get you settled in.”
	Ivy walked through the open doors to a charismatic home. It was an old country house with English charm. A gramophone was playing piano music and bundles of sunflowers were displayed in vases on the wood furnishings. The glass French doors off the living room led to a kitchen carrying the scent of sourdough bread freshly baked from the oven. Through the lace curtains was the spectacular view of the mountainside and its neighboring flower meadow. 
	“It’s like a dream.” Said Ivy. 
	“It was just a dream, but for you, it’s a reality. Come with me up to your room.” They ascended the upstairs hallway passing closed doors to a room at the end. 
	“This is yours.” Inside the room was a four poster bed and a window. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. 
	“That’s it?” 
	“Well, what did you expect? You’ll be the one to get to decorate it in Golbincore. There’s a flea market down the road open until 4:00 and plenty of tape and thumbtacks by request. 
	After Lily had left Ivy sat on her bed feeling overwhelmed. She hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin. The call of a faraway crow squawked from her open window. Before she could realize it, that very crow flew inside and flapped around hysterically. 
	“Soot, get in here!” Luna Night barged into the room trying to catch her bird. Her long bloodred skirt perfectly complimented her dark lipstick and nail polish. She nestled Soot into her arms after he settled down. 
	“Sorry about that. He gets real ancy during the new moon. You must be Ivy.” 
	“And you must be Luna.” 
	“Well if you aren’t too busy, do you want to come help me set up my next video?” 
	Ivy agreed and followed her to her room. The black walls cast shadows around the room against the array of wax candles. There were jars lined on bookshelves with liquids of browns and purples. A caldron set was displayed on the desk Luna sat at. She reapplied her lipstick and readjusted her camera tripod. 
	“You can sit in the corner and press the record button. I work better when I have a live audience. After the camera rolled Luna began. 
	“Hello my witches and warlocks, tonight marks the celebration of the new moon. To celebrate the new moon we are going to use the moon’s energy in our manifestations to bring them to fruition. Follow along to these steps and ignore Soot if he gets in front of the camera again.” In a snap, Luna lit a match to a small piece of lavender cone. “For this spell, let’s first cleanse the air with lavender cone. Then I want all of you to write down on a piece of paper your manifestations beginning with “I am.” For example, I am going to be true to myself. Once you’re done sprinkle it with peppermint oil, fold it up towards you, and in a clockwise direction turn it around. Last we’re going to put our affirmations under a glass jar of distilled water and leave it in the moonlight tonight. Happy new moon.” Ivy cut the recording. 
	“That was magical, Luna. I really enjoyed it.” 
	“Thanks. People think that witches are Satan worshipers when that’s far from the truth. The Wiccan rede is “Harm none do as ye will.”
	“Are witches and Wiccans the same?”
	“Depends on who you ask. I can go by either. I’ve been doing this 14 years now so titles don’t matter to me anymore.”
	“Luna something’s gone horribly wrong.” Echo Mist popped her head inside the room. It was the same fluttery voice as before. 
	“Shouldn’t you be in the meadow for your video?” asked Luna concerned.
	Echo looked effortless in her tulle mini skirt. Her hair was shimmering in her space buns and her eye makeup looked whimsical. Ivy could never wear false eyelashes but Echo’s looked like butterfly wings every time she blinked. She held out pair of fairy wings with a slight tear. “I can’t look like this. People are counting on me.” She said with a trembling voice.
	“Don’t worry. I know how to sew.” Said Ivy saving the day. They followed Echo into her room. Fairylights hung over the walls and trinkets of gnomes and sketches of unicorns paraded the room like some sort of fantasy antique store. 
	“Here’s the sewing kit. I purchased one but never learned how to do it.” Ivy went to work on a toadstool chair while Luna reapplied Echo’s highlighter. In no time the three girls were outside in the flower meadow and Echo was tuning her harp in a fortress of poppies and tulips. 
	“She’s beautiful. Almost like a cartoon.” Said Ivy studying Echo. 
	“All that beauty doesn’t come without effort. Echo works harder than anyone here. She’s had over 470 videos uploaded.” Luna explained.
	“470? How many ideas can one fairy have?” Ivy asked a bit envious.
	 “Echo does everything mystical, magical, whimsical, you name it. It would put Tinkerbell to shame. Want to learn the proper way to tend to your pet unicorn? There’s a video for that. Want the perfect makeup with each change of the season? With each kind of tree, you pass in nature? She even makes her own fairy breakfasts from the forest with pure maple syrup and berries from the bushes.” Ivy wouldn’t be surprised if Echo found a way to fly.
	 “There’s something about Echo where butterflies and dragonflies attract to her. She’s brought so many into the house without meaning to. And yes, she has a video on every name she’s ever given them.”
	 “I’m ready.” fluttered Echo assuming position with her harp.
	The angelic music wouldn’t stop in Ivy’s head even during dinnertime. With all the cosplay conventions and Halloween parties, it wasn’t too odd to be sitting at the kitchen table looking at the Cottagecore Sisters in their complete attire. Luna, Echo, and Lily were deep in conversation over their meals. Holly Branch, the Elfcore sister sat quietly sipping from her goblet. Ivy noticed her Elven ring which was almost identical to hers. 
	“I like your ring, Holly.” She said pointing at it. Holly nodded in appreciation. “When did you move in?” 
	“Oh no, Ivy. Holly doesn’t speak English.” Lily interrupted overhearing. “Holly Branch only speaks in Sindarin the Tolkien Elfish mother tongue.” 
	 “She can’t have many followers then.” Ivy said without thinking. 
	“She has more than all of us combined. With the rise of the new Tolkien series, she’s risen exponentially. She reads all the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit books in Sindarin and even commentates on all the movies. She also does walkthroughs of every elf themed video game on the planet including the game based off the 2003 Will Ferrel film. 
	“Cin're making nin blush.” Holly said as her cheeks turned red.
	 Lily raised her mason jar of peach tea. “I wanted to thank everyone for welcoming Ivy to our Cottagecore house. I know you will all make her feel very welcome. But use some of that welcoming for another new person. Beginning next month after the construction of the guesthouse grotto, we’ll have another new member arriving. Pearl Sands is joining us to make the house of Mermaidcore.” The entire table applauded. “With the rise of success in the remake of Disney’s The Little Mermaid, I’m thinking her views will be a splash.” 
	“Excuse me.” Ivy muttered getting up from the table. Her hands were sweaty and she was in desperate need of the bathroom. She saw a door in the hall with a sketch similar to an outhouse and took her chance. Inside the bathroom, she tried not to smell the cinnamon potpourri burning into her lungs. She splashed cold water on her face and looked in the full-length mirror at herself. Although her hair still looked great, she wasn’t sure how she felt in her forest green cardigan and corduroy skirt. Her fishnets did compliment her Doc Marten but she felt off. She’d left everything she’d ever known for this new life. She quit her job as a dental hygienist. She even had a 401k. Was this going to be her new life journey? 
	By the time she left the bathroom, the group was outside around a bonfire. Luna and Echo were twirling each other while Holly played the mandolin. Lily was filming them on Instagram live with over 3 million views. 
	“Here she is, just like a goblin would be, ascending from her cave.” Joked Lily panning the camera onto her. Ivy went along with it. 
	“It gets sort of dark in there. I thought maybe the night sky would give me a little melatonin.” The group laughed. 
	“We’re a hit.” Lily mouthed over the video. 
	Over the next few weeks, Ivy prepared more and more for her first Golbincore video. The room was coming to life like an actual grimy cave. It was exactly what she’d hoped for. Real moss from the backyard pond garnished her four poster bed curtains and acted as her bedrug. The windowpane had mushrooms of all shapes from her midnight shroom hunts along with real animal skulls from roadkill found on the country lane. She even got a deal on wooden furniture from an amateur lumberjack from the flea market. 
	“Hi, humans. No, again. Hi, goblins and ghouls. No, no, too Halloween. Hi freaks, it’s Ivy.” She rehearsed into her camera head. She took a deep breath and hit record with her thumb. 
	“Hey everyone, it’s me. Not who you’ve previously seen but the real me. The goblin me. For the first time ever I am introducing myself to you all. This is my Golbincore channel. My name is Ivy Meadows and this is The House of Goblincore. We’re going to have a lot of fun here. Watch me paint my nails from the juice from the rotten apple tree outside. Follow me on the midnight shroom hunts. I’ll even tell you how to create your own Goblincore fashion from a few staples in your closet. I’ll give you a hint, doc martins and fishnets go a long way. Oh, and this channel doesn’t do any makeup from the drugstore. Everything on my eyelids and lips are from the natural earth. Mud and ash included. We Golins are hardcore. Maybe that’s why we’re called Goblincore. Make sure to like and subscribe to the channel and for more fun check out my sisters. We’re called the Cottagecore Sisters and yes we all live in a real life cottage. This is no joke. It’s our life now and there’s no going back and you get to see it all.
 
","August 01, 2023 16:17","[[{'Ben Buchan': ""Hi, I got sent here by critique circles! I enjoyed the story, the character and setting were quite vivid and interesting. There were a few words that felt a bit jarring, perhaps even misused, eg 'a soft smile transcended from Lily', and goblincore was spelt golbincore quite a lot of times. (I know typos are inevitable with the one-week deadline but still they take the reader's attention from the story so a more thorough spell-check would help for sure, and likely those read-throughs would give you a chance to change and improve other things ..."", 'time': '01:00 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ykwcq6,Seaside,Ben Buchan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ykwcq6/,/short-story/ykwcq6/,Adventure,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Adventure', 'Sad']",6 likes,"
Trust of people began, of course, as a trust of adults, and ended, of course, as the same. Parents, unconditional, friends and teachers, warier but natural nonetheless, strangers, programmed out of us – they were different, we were told, not to be believed, but the instilling of that suspicion just cemented our confidence that the first groups could always be relied on. My trust of adults crumbled on the same day I also lost reliance on my imagination’s accuracy. Perhaps that was the harder loss, as words could now float into my head and mean something, form something, but that something could be completely wrong. What can we trust if not the words themselves? A short car trip was the beginning of the end.
	  ‘Do you want to go to the seaside?’ The seaside. The three of them had been talking in the kitchen, and now I was there, and I was being asked if I wanted to go to the seaside. (I can only describe what I remember, and what I can remember is fragmented and childish, short clips of memory like a faded picture or a crumbling book with pages missing.)
      Should I let the word float into your head now, and mean something, and form something, and be totally wrong? Perhaps that’s what I should do. The answer to the question couldn’t be anything other than yes; I’d been to the seaside before, I’d sung songs about how I liked to be beside the seaside, and the word itself curled so deliciously through the room and promised blue skies, a golden hot sun, ice cream and a soft, bright towel that I’d lie down on and watch everyone around feeling the same things as me. There was no question of me not wanting to go to the seaside, and so we were going. To be beside the sea, in Scarborough Town, in November. 
      Simon had asked it. He was a friend. Not a parent, of course he was below that, but above a teacher and certainly not a stranger. We could believe him that we were going to the seaside when he said it, and really he wasn’t lying to me about that, it was all my imagination’s doing. But still he couldn’t be trusted afterwards. Simon, and my dad, and my mum, had been talking in the kitchen, now standing, having been sat around the table for half an hour, because as soon as I walked through they got up and Simon asked me. 
	  I don’t remember him too well now, just that he had thin, woolly hair and that at the time, when he asked if I wanted to go to the seaside he had a kind face, whatever that means. Being so young, a kind face just meant that he’d been kind to me and I associated his face with kindness. Maybe if I saw someone with those features now I’d think he had a tricksy face, but I don’t remember them to say for sure.
      Mum and Simon were taking me to the seaside, where I’d lose faith in the feelings that words gave me. The kitchen smelled like cigarettes, like it always did when Simon visited, because he and Mum smoked at the kitchen table, but it was unusual for Dad to be in there when they did because he hated smoke, and its smell. I liked it, of course, because I liked Simon and I liked Mum, and when Dad was angry, which he was when he complained about smoking, his faced screwed up and he tutted, and I didn’t like him at all. The kitchen smelled like mould anyway, so smoke wasn’t any worse, and somehow it made it feel cozier, too, because it meant there were adults there, chatting. I didn’t notice to think it was strange that Dad was talking with them around the table while they smoked, but like everything that day, it was.
      The back seat of the car on the way to the seaside was even colder than it was outside. Simon said the engine would heat us up after a while, and he smiled, and maybe it did, but I don’t remember that. I do remember now that he had thick, black eyebrows with a bit of grey, because I saw them in the rear-view mirror when he said it, and I do remember being excited to get there. Weather, and where it changes, wasn’t something I understood. The grown-ups must have known, and thought I knew without being told, that the seaside would be the same as outside the car. I know it was cold outside the car just because I remember Simon telling me it would get warmer, and smiling, but I hadn’t taken much notice of the sky, or the air, because I didn’t need to, because of where we were going. 
	  Mum was quiet, but she sat in the front seat, where Dad had always gone when the four of us drove somewhere. She didn’t talk at all except to give me a travel sickness pill which I had to swallow without water. We were in the car for a long time, but it was OK because I really liked driving, it wasn’t just like sitting around, and we listened to one of Simon’s cassettes, like every time, old folk groups that I never learned the names of. Having them play in the background made me feel like we were starting out on a long adventure so really, it wasn’t bad and it didn’t feel like a long time, not like waiting for a bus or for a maths class to end.
      Then we arrived at the beach, which was the first betrayal. I can’t call it the seaside, even now, out of loyalty to the word I knew. We walked, three shadows, into the swirling wind that blew painful sand into our faces, across the shore for I don’t know how long. Much longer than I’ve ever waited for a bus or for a maths class to end, but still I somehow couldn’t bring myself to give up on the seaside. We kept walking, braced against the cold, towards a café that Simon and Mum knew, not talking because the wind was so loud and also if we tried we’d get sand in our mouths, which I did anyway, and it tasted like nothing before or since, because it hurt when it hit my mouth and then it was bitter and coarse when it crept in and I had to spit it out and rub my lips.
	   The sky was a blank, overcast white without even shades of grey to give it life, and the sun never once came through to give it the brightness that can be that weather’s only virtue. Still, at the age I was, I never wondered why we’d come. The red-brick houses that looked down over the beach seemed empty, with all the lights off even though nobody was outside, so surely all the people were indoors where sensible folk would be. Eventually, we reached the café, which was boarded up and showed no signs that it would ever open again, so we walked back, and Mum and Simon said it was a shame because it was a really nice place with great cakes and tea, but then they stopped talking again, maybe because they got sand in their mouths as well. They said I was being good, and sorry if I was disappointed, but I didn’t care about the tea and cakes and simply couldn’t express what I was feeling, so I said nothing.
      We gave up and went home instead of looking for somewhere else, and left the seaside, or the idea of it, where it was. The journey home was even colder, and Simon gave me a paper bag with some boiled sweets inside, but I just kept it in my pocket and later when I opened it they were all stuck together. The songs felt different on the way home too, the same words and melodies suddenly contained a sadness that something special had ended, so even though it had all been a waste of time it was somehow hard to pull up outside the house and leave the car behind.
      Simon didn’t come in with us, and I soon knew why. He always came in with us, so finally I noticed something was strange and wondered the reason when he stayed in the car and drove away before Mum had even got the key inside the door. I soon knew why we’d gone to the seaside even though it wasn’t really the seaside, too, and I knew why my Dad had sat at the table talking whilst they were smoking, and not even complained. The conversation was too important not to be there, and too important to get angry during because Simon was doing him a favour, like grown-ups do. 
	  He didn’t tell me that himself, because I haven’t seen him since, but when I walked through the hall on the way into the house his brown leather suitcase was gone from beneath the stairs, where it always was because he hadn’t been travelling since before I was born. He had loved travelling, but he loved me more. He told me so. 
	   There are so many words since then that have lost their meanings – heavy ones used lightly, life-changing ones taken casually – and once the trust was gone from those to whom it had been unconditional, there was nowhere else for it to remain. How can you believe what another person says when the moment the words leave their lips the meaning changes from what they say to what you hear? 
	  So it is that about that day, what I remember most is how the meaning of the word seaside changed. If somebody asked me ‘do you want to go to the seaside?’ even now, I’d see bleakness, rain and windblown sand. The café would be boarded over and the journey home one of a deep disappointment that I somehow couldn’t pinpoint. No matter how many times I’ve been, and the word has meant what it was supposed to mean, the trust has never come back.
","August 01, 2023 21:19",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,0ryy2u,Redemption,Owen Stokes-Cawley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0ryy2u/,/short-story/0ryy2u/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Science Fiction', 'Thriller']",6 likes,"
	James stared across the cold, dark room as Iron Vale inmate 33527 materialized from the portal. His leg emerged first from the semi-translucent plasma, his arm and the rest of his body followed. The inmate had only left through the portal seconds before. Time jumps were quick from this perspective but Iron Vale inmate 33527 had spent hours on the other side living in the past. The next minute would determine whether he completed redemption and became a free man or served two more years in the prison before trying again. Redemption was the only way out of Iron Vale.
	Redemption had been a staple at Iron Vale since James had arrived a decade before. The idea was explained to inmates as a way to atone for their crimes by taking a more serious criminal off the streets. The criminals were chosen through a secret judicial process called a stealth trial. These criminals were so bad that they weren’t even aware their trial was being held. After they were charged, inmates were able to make up for their poor choices by murdering the guilty party of the stealth trial.
	James stood, analyzing the inmate’s reaction, as his fingers on his right hand danced against his thigh, a mechanism to focus left over from when he played piano. James glanced over to the judge’s booth. The judges were hidden, anonymous, on the other side of a row of lights that served as a progress bar to show how much data they had analyzed. The judges needed to scour their sources for any signs the target was alive to know if the inmate had completed his task and found redemption. The task was always murder. The progress bar was slowly lighting up, 20%, 30%. James went over the details of his own task in his head. Three opportunities. The locations that the target would visit, the bar, a quick detour to some nearby alley, a store to get groceries, and finally back to her house. James figured he could complete his task in the alley, possibly on the way to the grocery store, or before she made it to her house. His fingers skipped against his pant leg seemingly at random.
	Inmate 33527 still hadn’t moved from where he emerged from the portal. The progress bar had reached 80%. His eyes transfixed on the row of lights, his face already appeared resigned as the guards removed his leash, the technology that would automatically bring him back to through the portal after 12 hours, the maximum time allotted.
	The man stared as the final light turned red. He slowly fell to his knees before the guards cuffed him and dragged him by his arms towards the exit.
	James stepped forward; it was his first chance at redemption. He stopped underneath a row of spotlights leading to the portal, the rest of the room shrouded in darkness. As the doors closed behind inmate 33527, silence engulfed the cellar until several guards approached him. They lifted his shirt and attached the leash, a device the size of a deck of cards, to his back with an adhesive. He had to be entirely focused, he only had 12 hours. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as he stepped toward the rippling plasma screen in front of him. His fingers skittered faster against his leg, reaching a crescendo.
	He entered the circular plasma door and was immediately thrown forward, into the past.
	He stumbled into a dark alley, catching himself against the side of a dumpster. He composed himself, looking around to be sure no one saw him. He heard music and cheering at the end of the street, no one would have noticed him.
	James felt raindrops on his shoulders, a refreshing feeling after being imprisoned for a decade. He took a moment to lean his head back to feel the water land on his face before making his way towards the busy street.
	He spotted the target across the street at a bar near the window, a woman in her late 20s, dark hair and short stature. Not the kind of person you would expect could be capable of terrible things. James couldn’t just burst in, casualties were not tolerated and meant immediate failure. James took his chance to go to a bar across the street from the target. If he was outside the prison, he would at least enjoy himself for a minute.
	James entered the bar and made his way towards a dark corner booth by the window. He ordered a beer and thought about if being released even mattered, it wasn’t like there was a lot on the outside for him anyway.
***
	After the incident, James’s friends and family abandoned him one-by-one. He tried to convince them he was innocent, but they just couldn’t believe it against the evidence saying that he assaulted and murdered the two men with little provocation. He had gotten into some fights as a kid but that wasn’t who he was anymore. The smaller man from the incident, the man who lived, had made a compelling argument against him. He was visiting someone in the area, and just happened to be walking down the street when James attacked him. That was his story at least. The witnesses all saw that as well, no one saw them chasing the boy. No one saw them confront James. To his credit, the boy had remained persistent. That James had protected him from the two men. But he was just a kid who had been in shock at the time. He couldn’t even say a word when the police had arrived.
***
	James noticed movement across the street. The past didn’t matter anyway, he thought, he was focused on getting himself out. The target had gotten up, slung a tote bag over her shoulder, and was heading out the door. James chugged the last of his beer and headed for the door, his fingers tapping against his thigh as he walked back out into the rain.
	The next stop was an alley a few blocks away. He watched the target head outside and walk around the corner. She put on a raincoat and pulled the hood over her head as the rain picked up. She would be easy to tail tonight.
	James walked up the street, trying not to draw attention. In a minute or two he would head into the alley and complete the task. He trained his peripheral vision on the alley entrance since she had disappeared. But after only around 30 seconds James saw her turn the corner back onto the street and set off to the next location. He missed opportunity number one. He slammed his fingers into his thigh as he made his way toward the alley entrance. How was she so quick?
	He decided he was going to find out a little more information, see what she was working on in her last hours. He ventured deeper into the alleyway looking for a door or person but only ran into a dead end. He started looking around, she hadn’t looked like she was carrying anything out of the alley. Then he remembered the tote. She must have left it somewhere.
	James trudged around the back of the alley throwing up boxes and moving garbage bins. Finally, he spotted some graffiti spelling IV, and underneath it, a rusty bike covering the tote. He pulled the bike out of the way and grabbed the tote underneath. Inside he found a stack of papers. He gasped as he flipped through them. Pages and pages of emails and memos. One symbol showing up on nearly all of them, the Iron Vale logo.
	As James read a few pages, he found the memos formal, but the emails were clearly not meant for outside eyes. He started reading the correspondence, talking about removing certain people.
	“Shit” he said, realizing the time. He had missed the second opportunity while reading the papers. He folded a few and shoved them in his pocket but left the rest.
	He would have to take advantage of opportunity three, the final location. He began to make his way to the target’s house. As he rounded a corner, he realized that it wasn’t far from where the incident happened, where he was arrested. He was surprised he recognized the boring suburban streets in the rain.
***
	It had been a beautiful day leading up to the incident. He had been walking home from a friend’s place by himself along a quiet suburban street lined with cars and small houses. He had a grocery bag in one hand and his shoes in the other, choosing to feel the grass beneath his feet while avoiding the dilapidated sidewalk.
	He turned the corner and saw a young boy running towards him, maybe 15 or 16 years old. He looked terrified and when James noticed the two men running behind him, he understood why. The smaller man came barreling around the corner first before the larger man followed at a slower pace.
	The boy cowered behind James and whispered, “please help”.
	James looked around the street as the two men pulled up in front of him. There was no place he could go where they wouldn’t catch the boy. He would have to stand his ground.
	James stood a little taller, still in the grass. “Can I help you?”
	“Hey man, this has nothing to do with you, we don’t want to hurt you, just step aside.” The smaller one said.
	“Just leave the kid alone. Walk away and we can forget about this.” James said assertively.
	The two men started walking around James in opposite directions. James could feel the sweat start to pool on his forehead.
	Under his breath James whispered to the boy, “run”.
	“What?” the boy said, clearly missing the sign.
	“RUN!” shouted James. He watched as the smaller man faltered on a piece of broken sidewalk. The larger man was still too far to reach him. James lunged at the smaller man, knocking him into the car parked on the sidewalk, setting off the alarm. James reared back and landed a swift punch to the side of the small man’s face, knocking him out.
	The larger man had started running after the boy. James chased after, catching him just before he reached the boy and tackled him. He forced the larger man onto his back as people started flooding the street from all the commotion. All they saw was James punching this man in his face over and over.
***
	James made it to the final location and stood on the opposite side of the street, more determined than ever. It didn’t matter that this person had dirt on Iron Vale. This was about him securing his freedom. He stood opposite the nice two-story home with a big porch and from what he could see inside, a spacious living room. In the corner sat a stand-up piano. His finger tapped delicately against his quad. There were several lights on inside but no movement. James would catch her before she entered the house and would be on his way.
	James heard her footsteps before he saw her. The target was on the opposite side of the street, he needed to move quickly. He emerged from behind the tree and started around the nearest parked car when a truck came speeding down the road, music blaring. James crouched behind the parked car, cursing. The truck whizzed by, and James looked up just in time to catch the target open the front door to her home. He missed his chance.
	He would need to take his shot inside the house. He noticed a man coming into view of the front window, greeting the woman. James snuck around back, in through the unlocked back door, and found himself in the kitchen. He would need to be careful if he didn’t want any extra casualties.
	The man and woman were still talking in the living room as James slowly stood up. He pulled a knife from the block to his left and took a step. As soon as his weight shifted, the floor let out a long squeak. The talking in the other room immediately stopped.
	With the element of surprise gone, James took the knife and walked into the other room, they obviously didn’t have anything to protect themselves. The fingers on his left hand took over tapping his leg as he walked through the doorway with the knife in his right. He immediately stopped upon seeing the couple, the knife landing on the floor with a small clang.
	Before James stood the man that had witnessed his arrest, the man that had tried to stand up to the cops at his trial. The only one who even attempted to prove he was wrongfully convicted. He stood in front of the woman, his wife, the target, and after a few seconds his expression changed to one of disbelief and confusion as well as he recognized James.
	After a long pause, James blurted “What did she do?”
	“What do you mean what did she do, she hasn’t done anything. Why are you here, aren’t you supposed to be in prison?” the man, Sam, said.
	James picked up the knife as he remembered his task, he couldn’t stay locked up.
	“James, right?” Sam said. “No need for violence. Are you at Iron Vale?” Then to Heather, “I think it’s happening again.”
	“What are you talking about, ‘again’? And why did you have emails and memos from Iron Vale?” James said.
	“How did you see those? Were you following me?” Heather said.
	Sam cut in, “look, we can explain this all if you just put the knife down, but we promise you don’t want to do this.”
	James continued to interrogate them before they finally explained the case Heather had been working on. She had started compiling a case against Iron Vale several years ago. She had made some progress but was missing large pieces that were fundamental to the case. She knew that some inmates were released while others weren’t with almost no explanation. She knew that the few others who had looked into Iron Vale had gone missing, but the cases could never be tied back to them and there was no consistency to the murders. She also found that they had diverted massive amounts of energy to the prison, much more than the building theoretically needed, which made her wonder if they were electrocuting inmates. Though the biggest issue she found was that there really weren’t that many people that were questioning their practices. That’s where James’s stealth trial information was able to fill in the gaps.
	James’s grip on the knife had slowly been loosening as the pieces started coming together. The stealth trials were a ruse, just meant to take out anyone who stopped the prison from profiting. Finally, he caved completely. The three of them sat through the night creating a plan to get James out of prison while keeping Heather alive to continue the case.
	James left Heather and Sam alone to say their goodbyes, and just before sunrise Heather and James left. It would take some more time for the plan to be complete, but Heather needed to disappear for it to have any chance of success. Turns out James wasn’t the first one to come after them. Sam and James helped to extract some of Heather’s blood in order to spread it through the house. They also put some on the upholstery of the car before James and Heather drove away. After leaving the city and driving some distance, they abandoned the car, said goodbye, and Heather continued on foot. Before faking her death, James had helped find an abandoned location where no one would find her, not even Sam. Heather would remain there until the plan was carried out, however long that took.
	James found himself alone once more. He tapped his leg with his right hand as he reached behind his back with the other and pressed a button on his leash. Immediately he found himself back in the portal. He took a moment to himself before all of this became real. He would be a different person after walking through, but in this wall of plasma, he didn’t exist in the current world and nothing could happen to him, good or bad. He took a breath and a step, fingertips lightly tapping his thigh. 
	The guards started approaching as he took in the dark cellar around him once again. To his left, the white lights began illuminating, ticking off percentages of the data accumulated that the judges needed to confirm or deny that he was a free man. All it took was a single piece of evidence to suggest Heather was still alive and the judges would keep him locked up. The guards lifted his shirt over his head and removed the leash. Through his white shirt he could see the last light illuminate green. He breathed out for the first time since stepping through the portal.
	James was escorted into an elevator, given his personal belongings from a decade before, and strode out of the prison a free man. He saw Sam and Heather as they pulled up in a car having just become reacquainted just that morning, followed shortly by a dozen police cars.
	“Isn’t this a welcome sight” James said smiling as the cops filed past him and into the building.
	“One more surprise for you.” Sam said. “We had to make sure they wouldn’t travel back again, so I may have learned how to divert extra power to overload the machine, allegedly” Sam said holding a finger up in the air signaling James to wait. The ground started to lightly rumble and shake, followed by several muffled explosions coming from deep below their feet as they turned and walked back towards the car.
 
","August 05, 2023 03:11",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ksee8u,On Edge and Overjoyed ,Karin Eriksson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ksee8u/,/short-story/ksee8u/,Adventure,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Adventure', 'Coming of Age']",6 likes,"
 ""I'm headed for Montana. I'm going to hike the National Glacier Park. It's something I've always wanted to do."" My 24 yr old son Chris excitedly revealed in his weekly update phone call to me. ""Wait. What?"" I replied in a state of disbelief.Did I hear him right? If this was a long-time dream, how come this is the first I am hearing about it? Shouldn't a mother intuitively know their children's hopes and dreams? Why was I left out of this vital loop? I didn't even know that he hiked. Where had I been all this time?   My brain shut off within seconds of hearing his news, leaving me in a foggy haze. I ""space out,"" not fully listening or comprehending what he told me. His words became muffled and garbled, as if he was speaking underwater. When I returned my focus to the conversation, my thoughts raced about and were instantly replaced with every bad-case scenario such a trip could bring. Especially being a solo hiker on such an epic adventure. The graphic visualizations of grizzly bear attacks on unsuspecting hikers, a hungry mountain lion crossing his path, getting injured on a trail without cell phone service, and getting lost in an isolated region flooded my thinking. Would there be snakes? Every news story I had encountered (as rare as they may be) that ever ended badly with a hiker somewhere in the world suddenly resurfaced to the forefront of my brain. And with them, every cautionary tale and survival tip that Bear Grylls or some other adventurer might have warned their audience about. Let someone know where you are going and your plans... make sure you have adequate food and water on hand for an emergency... let someone know your estimated time of arrival back...bring your bear spray...take a first aid kit.. learn how to forage for food...what essential hiking gear to pack, and if stranded, be prepared to drink your own urine! Despite my anxiety, insecurities, and ignorance about hiking Glacier National Park's remote territories, I didn't want my fears to inhibit his journey or dampen his enthusiasm. So I did what any mother would do. I hid them with favorable reactions of excitement like, ""Wow, that's amazing!"" and ""Fantastic!"" Yes, I was happy for him, but I was also scared. By nature, I am not a doom-and-gloom person or a helicopter parent. I have always taught my children to explore the world and live out their dreams. My son had traveled abroad with me to several countries as a boy, had flown overseas alone as an unaccompanied minor to stay with his father, attended college in the Midwest while I was on the East Coast, and been an intern working in several other states from when he was a freshman/sophomore. He pursued his career aspirations at full throttle - with great speed and enthusiasm. Finding roommates, he moved into an apartment that was an easy commute to downtown Manhattan where he would work. In doing so, Chris achieved something that scares even the most tenacious - living and working in ""The Big Apple"" independently. He did it - off his own back and through persistent hard work. As the song says, If you can ""make it there, you can make it anywhere."" This proved true, and Chris' dedication to his work resulted in a fantastic opportunity to transfer to his employer's HQ on the West Coast. Chris dove in to accept the challenge without hesitation. Once again, moving to another state. Chris has always shown intelligence, independence, reliability, perseverance, and, most of all, common sense. He wasn't a person who acted impulsively or carelessly. So why was I upset and taking this news as something other than exciting and an excellent opportunity for him? Did the protective mama persona have to kick in? Parents always fear their child will get hurt in an accident. Still, here I was, unable to shake that worry even though he was now an adult and capable of looking after himself. Moreover, I had been an empty nester for years, so why did I suddenly feel I was losing him again? By compartmentalizing my emotions temporarily, putting the motherly worries aside, and focusing on Chris, I could see that he was revealing himself to me and wanting to share aspects of his life. What more could a mother ask for? He included me in his hopes, dreams, plans, and daily activities. Everything that excited and made him happy. The fact that I was the first person he phoned to tell, was very special.  I watched Chris blossom from a timid small boy to an adventurous young man ready to take on the world. The early formative years must have been difficult for him. Born and raised in the UK, Chris moved to the US with me after his father and I divorced. Everything that could happen was thrown at him at twelve years of age. The physical and emotional upheavals of a transatlantic move on a child of Chris' age were arduous. Leaving everything familiar behind, including family members, was a choice most children never have to consider. I constantly feared I had failed him as a mother and questioned whether I had made the right choices for us.  Moving from the big city energy of London to the isolated, quiet ruralness of western, upstate NY was about as far away as you could get from ""Blighty."" Double-decker buses were replaced by tractors. Stiff, rigid, and austere school uniforms were changed to blue jeans, flannel shirts, and sneakers. The ever-present threat of NY snow storms and blizzards now meant owning a cumbersome winter coat and heavy boots, which replaced the British rain ""brolly."" Attending an American school came with its differences as well. Gone were the GCSE and A Level subjects and exams. Moving to NY State meant taking different academic courses aligned with the Regents and AP college-level exams that earned higher education credits.   Instead of taking public transport to school, it was now the iconic big yellow American school bus. But most of all, there was the loneliness of not having your best ""mates"" to talk and joke around with and now having to make new friends at an awkward age. Somehow, Chris navigated it all and took it in his stride. Everything seemed to be a challenge he embraced. Upon moving to our new home, he commented on how our small village looked like something out of a movie set. The quintessential small-town ""hominess,"" I suppose. I saw life through a different set of lenses, all because Chris introduced me to new views and outlooks, and for that, I am thankful.In the coming weeks before his departure for Montana, Chris shared, at length, his plans for hiking a particular trail area, how he would rent a car from the airport, stay at an AirB&B, drive the three hours from his lodgings to the park entrance in the early hours of the morning before the sun came up. He provided details of how he had the required passes purchased to enter the Park and all the bookings and pieces he had in place. This was well thought out. Everything had been mapped out, researched, and planned meticulously. I needn't have worried. He had this. Chris was looking forward to seeing the scenic outdoor beauty that Montana offered and was famously known for. The magical crystal clear turquoise blue lakes, the glacier-carved rocky peaks, and craggy mountains, cloud-filled skies stretching across the horizon that appear to go on forever, stunning waterfalls...lush, green forests with pine, fir, and cedar trees that filled your nose with earthy fragrance intensity, and the alpine meadows covered in the colorful hues of purple asters, Glacier lilies, beargrass, daisies, lupine and variations of blooming heathers. Then, when night falls, the sky is covered in a blanket of twinkling stars to close out a magical day. It did, indeed, sound like heaven on Earth. As my son continued to describe Glacier National Park with all the imagery, I started researching it myself. My quest to learn more about Montana revealed photographs of some of the most stunning landscapes I had ever seen. The images instantly took me back to when I was in junior high school and could pick out my own back-to-school supplies. The Mead Trapper Keeper folders were my favorite. All of mine had the same type of nature photography on the covers. They transported me to that magical place with mountains, lakes, forest greenery, and wildflowers. I could see why Chris would want to go. Working in a career desk job, this was an extraordinary, life-changing trip for him. One that transported him to another place unlike any he had ever known or experienced. It begged him to use all his senses, to breathe the fresh air, witness the incredible beauty of nature and wildlife, physically challenge his body to interact with the elements and keep his wits about him throughout. The more he indulged me in his plans, the more I envied his choice of retreat and wondered if I might ever visit this glorious place on my own one day. Plans to go kayaking over fast-flowing rapids was an activity he had scheduled for the days to follow after his hiking. He was clearly ready for an exhilarating adventure braving all the elements. Paddling to navigate against the rough current may not be my idea of fun, but I give him credit for having the guts to try it. Nothing is worse than having regrets about the activities one doesn't participate in. The ""could've, would've, should've."" Chris would indeed have stories to one day tell his children and grandchildren.  Horseback riding with a guide was the last big event on his journey. Riding through dirt trails, crossing streams, and getting knee-deep in the water... he would find out what it was like to ride a horse for the first time in his life and feel the exhilarating thrill of galloping in the open fields. Something I have always wanted to do for most of my life. I envied him. I grew excited and genuinely happy for Chris. My fears were irrational. The inner turmoil was about realizing that my little boy had become a man and didn't need me to shelter, protect, or plan for him anymore. I wondered if my fears related to missing the old Chris - as a boy or if I longed to be who I was when he was young. As a mother, I was needed and was at his side throughout. Now he was branching off on his own. Discovering who he is and what he loves, independent of me. The way it's supposed to happen. To love your children is to support them ""leaving the nest"" and fly solo.  I am now the person stepping aside to hear his adventures. The ones he is making on his own. Despite my initial worry, I discovered something about myself - a new realization that had always been there. It is said that there are two gifts we should give our children; one is roots, and the other is wings. If this is true, I have done my job well. 
","August 03, 2023 17:04","[[{'Joan Wright': 'Excellent story. Mother and son interconnected on separate journeys. I love how you pain pictures with your words. I could see it all clearly. I loved the remarks of motherhood told in your story. Nice job!', 'time': '21:39 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Karin Eriksson': 'Thank you for reading & your comment! Very much appreciated.', 'time': '10:34 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Karin Eriksson': 'Thank you for reading & your comment! Very much appreciated.', 'time': '10:34 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,9gul75,THOUSAND MILE JOURNEY TO REDEMPTION,Melinda Madrigal,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9gul75/,/short-story/9gul75/,Adventure,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
These AA meetings are not working. The temptation is still within me. I miss the feeling of getting high. I miss the cold hard liquor. I miss it all. I promised my daughter I would go to the meetings and get better.
 
My daughter is my world. I broke her heart. I broke the promise I made to my sweet girl Violet. She caught me drinking. I didn't have any words to say to Violet. Violet left home that day. She never returned. I don't think she's ever coming back.
 
Everything that has happened is my fault. I can't take back what I did. Violet is lost to me. I will never get my girl back. The best thing for Violet is for me to leave town.
 
I pack all my stuff. I grab a picture of Violet and hop into my car. With tears in my eyes, I start the car and drive away to an unknown place.
 
I reach the town limit. I get out of my car and look back. Goodbye my sweet Violet. I get back in my car and drive off. I don't know where I'm going but I hope for one things. I hope to find myself.
 
How did I get to where I am today? Well, it all started two years ago with one drink after a rough day at work and it quickly escalated to the point where I couldn't stop.
 
I needed a drink every day. I needed the rush. It made me feel good. No matter how much I wanted to stop drinking, I couldn't. My marriage broke apart. My friends didn't want anything to do with me. My mom and stepfather got fed with me. My sister the same. The only one I had left was Violet.
 
I tried to do right by her but the urge was too strong. Now I have no one but the open road. The first stop on my journey is to get gas.
 
I stop at the gas station and park at one of the pumps. I get out of the car, open the gas tank and pump gas into my car. I look all around me. I wonder where all these people are going.
 
""Hey there.""
 
I look at the stranger next to me. I don't answer him. I finish pumping gas into my car. I go inside the store grab two bags of chips and two bottles of water and go pay.
 
The stranger is in front of me. I look at this profile. He looks familiar to me. He turns to me and smiles. I get the feeling I know him.
 
I stare at him for a few minutes. He gets into a classic car from the 60's or 70's. It's my turn to pay. I pay for my stuff and leave. I get into my car and continue my journey.
 
The open road is beautiful, a sense of freedom I never felt before expect when I'm drinking. I turn the radio up real loud and let the music take me to a different place. I sing along.
 
The next song that comes on is a song I played since my life began to fall apart. It brings tears to my eyes. I turn the radio off. Hearing that song is only going to remind me of what I lost.
 
For the next couple of hours, I drive and drive taking the back roads. I do this because I don't want to see happy families having a good time together. It will only remind me of what I lost and what I can never get back.
 
It's already getting dark. I need to find somewhere to stay. I put my strong headlights on. Up ahead I see a sign, Mountain Lodge one mile. I drive the one mile to the lodge. I don't know why I'm getting the feeling I've been here. I made it to the lodge. I turn into the parking lot.
 
Oh My God! This seems familiar to me but I can't place it. I park my car and go inside. I open the door and step into a winter wonderland. Wow, this place is beautiful. A sense of familiarity hits me once again.
 
I walk up to the desk and ask for a room for the night. ""We meet again."" I turn around and see the same stranger I saw at the gas station.
 
The lady gives the room key. I quickly go to my room. I open the door and go inside. What's he doing here? What's wrong with me? I stopped drinking ever since Violet caught me, that was last week. Now I'm seeing a stranger who looks familiar to me and this place. I know I've been here before.
 
I need a drink. I look around the room and spot a mini fridge. I open it and grab a small bottle of Vodka. No Jennifer, this is not the way to handle this.
 
I take out the picture of Violet. I'm trying for you baby girl. I'm trying. I shower and change into my pajamas and go to bed. I dream of Violet. Her beautiful smile. He infectious laughter. Her kind and caring soul.
 
I wake-up with tears in my eyes. I look at the picture of Violet. I miss you so much. I cry myself to sleep. The next morning, I wake-up get dress, pack my belongings and quickly leave. I check-out and go to my car. I don't see the stranger anywhere. Maybe he already left. I start my car and drive off.
 
The open road is beautiful yet scary. I always dreamed of taking a road trip with Violet. My drinking screwed that up. My stomach is growling. A sign up ahead, diner two miles.
 
Okay lets go to the diner. I wonder where I am. Another sign is coming up, Mount Clifton. Why does that name sound familiar to me? I'm sensing that I've been to Mount Clifton. But when?
 
This trip is already calling for a drink. Jennifer, you can't. This trip is about finding yourself. I reach the diner. I enter the parking lot and park my car. I step out of my car and walk to the diner. I open the door and step-in.
 
Well at least the diner doesn't look familiar to me. I find a booth and sit down. I'm looking at the menu when someone sits across from me.
 
""Are you some kind of stalker?""
 
The stranger looks at me and smiles. Oh My God! That smile. I know that smile but it can't be.
 
""Where are you heading?'
 
""Where ever the road takes me.""
 
The waitress comes up to us and takes our order. I order a Turkey club with French fries. The stranger orders a Chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries. The waitress leaves and it's just us again.
 
""Why are you on the road all by yourself?""
 
I don't know if I should tell the stranger my problems. He doesn't look like a serial killer or a rapist. I see no weapons on him. Maybe he can give me some good advice.
 
""I have a drinking problem. It started with one. It quickly grew out of control. I lost my family and friends. What's even worse I broke a promise to my little girl.""
 
I begin to cry. The stranger grabs my hand and tells me ""The good times are born out of the bad times. You need to look deep within yourself and ask this question. Is my drinking really worth losing the people I love? Only you can answer this question. Only you can decide what is right.""
 
I look at the stranger. His touch and his words hit my soul. His deep brown eyes look just like my own.
 
""It's hard to not think about drinking.""
 
""It's even hard to lose your daughter.""
 
The waitress comes with our food. We eat in silence. I ponder his words. Maybe he's right. Is my life worth it without the people I love? Is drinking worth it? I already lost everything. Drinking is the only thing I have left.
 
""I know what you are thinking?"" I look at the stranger and shrug. ""You're thinking is my life worth it? Every life is precious including yours. You just have to believe it. Lunch is on me.""
 
The stranger pays and leaves. I watch him walk out of the diner and into his classic car. I take a good look at the car. It looks just like my father's car.
 
I leave the diner, hop into my car and drive off. There is nothing in sight but the open road. The country is big and beautiful. I don't know what to do. I'm more than ever.
 
The stranger tells me to believe. How can I believe when I lost everything? I hate myself for doing this. I step on the gas pedal. The car is speeding. I'm losing control. Jennifer, this is not you. Your life is precious. The stranger's words echo in my head. I stop the car and begin to cry.
 
""Jennifer, my sweet girl."" Who said that? Oh My God! someone is outside. I get out of my car and look around. No one is here. Just then a white light appears. I step back.
 
""Hello my sweet girl."" It's the stranger. He's not a stranger. He's my father. ""Daddy."" 
 
""Yes, my love it's me. I've been following you since you left home.""
 
""Why."" I ask.
 
""To help you understand why you started drinking. Baby girl the day you started drinking was the anniversary of my death.""
 
I can't believe I didn't put it together. I fall to the ground crying. My father wraps his arms around me. I miss his hugs. I miss him so much.
 
""I messed everything up. I lost the people that mean so much to me. I lost my little girl.""
 
""Look at me Jennifer. Continue your journey and you will find what you are looking for. Remember I'm always with you.""
 
In the blink of an eye my father vanishes. I love you daddy. I get back into my car and drive off. Mountain Clifton, the Lodge, those two places I've been too with my father as a little girl.
 
I'm going to take my father's advice and continue my journey. After a few more hours on the road, I land in the town of Hope River. This town is beautiful. I park my car. Okay Jennifer time for new beginnings.
 
I step out of my car and begin to walk. I look at the beautiful store and the people. The tall trees and the most beautiful flowers. I come upon a flyer that reads ""Counseling, helping you start a better life.""
 
It's time to get the help I need. It's time I start to believe in myself. It's time I get my life back.
 
I walk in the direction of the counseling center. Here I go. I open the door and enter. ""Welcome, take a seat."" I take a seat among the people. I look around the room. I feel nervous talking to strangers about my problems but I'm going to do it.
 
I listen to each of their stories. Now it's my turn. I begin talking about my drinking problem. They sit and listen to me without passing judgement. I'm going to like it here.
 
The journey to Hope River has changed my life for the better. The struggle was real and it was never going to go away until I admitted to myself what the problem was and the cause.
 
I'm happy to say I haven't had a drink in over a year. I'm still learning to cope with my father's death. I learned to do things that will honor my father's memory. I hope he's proud of me.
 
The next step is to reconcile with my mother, stepfather, sister and my girl Violet. I hope they will see I have changed and I'm no longer drinking.
 
 A LIFE CHANGING JOURNEY TO REDEMPTION
","August 03, 2023 21:18",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,378rms,Embarkation,Leland Mesford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/378rms/,/short-story/378rms/,Adventure,0,"['Coming of Age', 'American', 'Teens & Young Adult']",6 likes,"
EmbarkationUber Airporter wasn't going to be at our doorstep for another ten long, boring minutes. My mom and dad had me outside of the house and at the curb waiting, because they were being overly cautious. Everyone knew that if you got on the app, you could see moment by moment real-time location updates on your Uber driver. I'd told them so. It hadn't been enough though. The Uber driver would come to your door too. Everybody knew that, too. My parents wouldn't listen to me though.There was no place to sit on the sidewalk in front of our house, and standing made me feel silly. It's not what the sidewalks were there for. The reason that the sidewalks had been put in was not for standing on.Our house had been built over a hundred and thirty years ago. My parents had found old black-and-white photographs of our neighborhood in the attic one summer, and there were no sidewalks in the photos. It was hard for me to imagine my neighborhood without sidewalks.I'd grown up with sidewalks. I walked on them. I'd walked to the school bus stop. I'd walked to the library. I'd walked to the rec center. I'd walked all over my neighborhood. That's what the sidewalks were there for, wasn't it? Walking.My parents had me standing there, early in the morning, waiting for an Uber. How ridiculous. How out of place I must have looked standing straight as pole next to the three-piece luggage set I'd chosen from the web and had had my parents purchase for me.The luggage had been bought well in advance too. It had sat in my bedroom closet for nearly three months. Other necessities too. Underwear was another example. I had had new underwear, still in its package, stuffed into one of the bags of the luggage's set. It had been waiting there for nearly as long as the luggage.As my departure date kept coming closer, other items, which had been deemed as necessities by my parents, had been added to the contents of my luggage set. I had picked out a few shirts and pants, but that was all. My parents had done the rest.It was so cool. It was so much bigger than any Christmas had ever been. I was going to travel and see the world. It was the kind of thing that I had only ever dreamt of.My shirt was brand new and had never been worn. My pants were one of my favorite pairs of blue jeans. On my back, was a brand-new back-pack, similar to the one my dad used when we went hiking together. Inside the back-pack was some fruit, in case I got hungry; a jacket, in case I was cold; my Kindle reader, so I wouldn't get board; headphones, so I could listen to music; and my Apple tablet with its keyboard, so I could stay connected. My smartphone was in my jean's pocket.The Uber driver was searching the street for house numbers, and double checking the directions on his phone when I saw him coming.He had an accent. Go figure.Our city was a melting pot. We had people from all over the world. My mom had once said that she'd gone through a whole day of running errands without running into one person who didn't have an accent. I was used to it. It was that way in school too. ""Had been"" that way in school, I should say. That's why they called it a melting pot.My guess was India. You would think that, having grown up in a melting pot, I wouldn't have to guess, but I couldn't tell for sure.He had said, ""Hello, are these your bags?"", and said it clearly and flawlessly, but not how I or anyone who had had English as their first language would have. His consonants were too perfect and his vowels too relaxed.I said, ""Yeah,"" and lifted the biggest one up and off the ground.He opened the trunk and took the bag from me. When we had finished loading my luggage, he let me choose between the front passenger seat, or a seat in the back. I took the front, and plopped my back-pack on my lap as soon as I'd sat into the seat.Then we were off to the airport. The driver came to the end of my street, and steered the car around the corner, onto 12th Street.My hands went to the zipper on my back-pack, and I began to dig through for my headphones. It was going to be a long ride.The driver said, ""Where are you headed?"", which seemed too normal. I think his accent made it seem that way.I paused my search for headphones, and said, ""I'm going to Peru."" It was so cool. I was so anxious to be there.He said, ""Oh, you're going to Peru, I'm from there.""I had guessed wrong. He wasn't Indian, he was Peruvian. I couldn't believe it. It was so cool.I quickly zipped my back-pack back up. I had questions I wanted to ask.I said, ""Wow, really? That's so cool. Which city are you from?""He said, ""I'm from Lima. You know it?""It was so cool! I was going to Lima. I said, ""Do you know Cayetano Heredia University?""He said, ""University Cayetano Heredia? Yeah, it's not far from my family's home.""""Unbelievable!"" I said, ""I'm going to Cayetano Heredia University.""He seemed quite surprised at that. He said, ""You're going to be a student at Cayetano Heredia University?"", and his voice rose when he did, surely because he was shocked. And he asked, ""Why?""I said, ""I'm going to be a Study Abroad foreign exchange student there."" I turned my head slightly, looked at his hands on the wheel, and said, ""It's going to be a life-changing journey.""""A life-changing journey?"", he repeated, and turned to face me for a moment, then said, ""Why?""The concrete curbs along the side of the road were empty of parked cars. There weren't many cars driving yet either. It was still early.I said, ""Most people go to a school close to their home, or to a big out-of-state school with a great reputation."" Before finishing my statement, I turned to look at him. He was watching the road, but nodded his head. He remained silent, and I finished, ""I'm leaving the country to go to a foreign university.""He began turning the car onto the freeway onramp, and said, ""I don't get it. How is going to a university in Lima going to be a life-changing journey for you?""I said, ""Because I have lived here my whole life, and I don't know what it's like in other countries."" Which was the truth. I was so excited to get to Lima and see what it was like there.He said, ""It's just Lima. I don't think it's going to change your life."" Then he looked at me twice. The first time I caught it out of the corner of my eye. The second time, we made eye contact briefly, he smiled, then turned back to the road and said, ""I think you will enjoy yourself at Cayetano Heredia University, but not change your life.""He didn't get it. I could have gone to any university. I said, ""You don't get it. I, literally, have lived here my whole entire life. Like literally, my whole life! Living in Peru for four years is going to totally change my life.""He said, ""I think you will have some good experiences in Lima, and school will be good for you. There's not really anything there that's going to change your life though. What do you think will change your life in Peru?""I said, ""Everything! I've only seen pictures and heard about it. Other than that, I don't know what it's going to be like at all. Now, I am actually going.""He said, ""You will like it. The people in Lima, Peru, are very friendly. I don't think it will change your life though. I think you will learn a lot about Peruvian people while you are in school, then you will come back home and go back to being the same. Not change your life though.""I said, ""How can you say that? I'm going to go to school in a foreign country where they don't even speak my language. I am going to take classes taught in Spanish during my first year. Nobody does that.""He said, ""Oh, you speak Spanish. That's really good. You are going to be able to have a lot of conversations while you are there.""He just didn't get it. Peru had a culture way different than I had ever been exposed to. I said, ""Look, they don't even wear shorts in Peru. Everything is different there. The heritage, the customs, everything is different there.""He said, ""Didn't you bring shorts? You should go to the beach. It's very popular.""I said, ""I know about the beaches. I might go. It just depends.""He said, ""Oh, you know about the beaches. How do you know about the beaches?""I said, ""I saw them on the brochure. They are on the internet too."" I had done a lot of research. I knew everything about Peru. The beaches where just a small part of what I knew.He said, ""The internet? Can you show me?""I pulled my phone out of my pocket and said, ""Yeah, sure."" Then, I did a quick internet search.When the search results populated, I selected the ""image"" tab, then held the phone out to him and said, ""See!""He glanced quickly away from the road, and then back. He said, ""Can you give me your phone so I can see?""I said, ""Ok, here, take it.""He took it from my hand and held it in front of his steering wheel. Once he'd had a second or two with it, he said, ""Wow, yeah, that's Lima, Peru. That's my home."" Then, handed me my phone back, and said, ""I think that after you finish school and come back home, you will agree that going to Peru did not change your life.""That was it. I'd had enough. I said, ""Look! Going to Peru is going to change my life! I have never been to college before. I'm going in Peru. I have never lived somewhere where I would have to speak Spanish all of the time. I will in Peru. I have never been somewhere where they don't wear shorts. And no, I have never been to a beach in Lima, Peru! Going to Lima, Peru, is going to be a life-changing journey.""He said, ""Ok, maybe it will change your life, but not for me. For me, it's just home.""I didn't have much else to say about it. I was going to go to Cayetano Heredia University in Lima, Peru, and it was going to be a life-changing journey.He continued driving down the freeway, and we both remained silent for several minutes. I was going on a life-changing journey. That was that. I unzipped my back-pack and found my headphones. The airport was still a long ways away.The End
","August 04, 2023 02:08",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ahw1wg,Two Passing Strangers,JOHN SIKO,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ahw1wg/,/short-story/ahw1wg/,Adventure,0,['Adventure'],6 likes,"
 
	TWO PASSING STRANGERS
    In the back of the deuce-and-a-half mud-covered truck sat twelve members of Able company of the Third Infantry Division. They are tired, dirty, hungry, and need a shower. One of the tired and dirty GIs was Stanley Dombrowski, a draftee from the south side of Chicago. This group returns from a ten-day skirmish with Charlie in a delta rice paddy. Stan is not only returning from the battle but is returning from his yearlong tour of duty in Nam. He had just survived the last of many such battles in the past year. Lying in leach-infested rice paddies, the only cover being the sword grass growing therein, and trying to take shelter from the Cong snipers in every tree whose sole purpose is to kill as many of the Yankees as possible—surviving the unrelenting ten days of rain and cloud cover that prevented the gunships from flying and providing the firepower needed to neutralize Cong’s forces and allow the squad to leave the premises of another insignificant battle. The sun's welcoming, and the helicopter gunships' arrival neutralized the Cong and allowed the fatigued dog faces to leave the battlefield and return to base camp. Compared to what the squad had been through, the hot and bumpy ride in the truck was considered just an inconvenience they must suffer to get back home.
 
    Stan was looking forward to a shower and eating something other than the chicken ala king MREs he had survived on during the battle. MREs refer to “Meals ready to eat,” the replacement for the second world war’s K rations, and can be eaten right out of the pouch. His return would also enable him to recover the letter he had written his mother and left at the base camp to be sent to her if he was killed in action. Looking back, he found it hard to comprehend that he had survived one year in this hell hole of a country.
 
    As Stan dismounted from the truck and headed to the barracks, he passed the fresh troops assigned to relieve Able company on the front lines. As they passed, Stan stopped one of the fresh-faced troops to ask if he had a cigarette. The name stenciled on the individual’s blouse was Rodger Brown, who had been drafted shortly after graduation from college. Rodger reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Camels, and offered one to Stan. While lighting it for him, he asked Stan, “What is it like up there?”
 
    Stan stopped to think about what he should tell him: he would constantly be wet from either the rain or walking or lying in rice paddies with temperature in the nineties and humidity the same. What little sleep he will get will be under a tree wrapped in his poncho. He may lie next to his best friend, who has a bullet in his back and is crying out for a medic, or even worse, he is crying out for his mother, knowing his time in Nam is ending. Should you tell him of the villages he will enter and where he and his squad will assume all the women and children are members of Charlie’s family, you will burn their thatch houses down. You will immunize yourself from even caring about the dead women and children lying among the dead water buffalos. You will be constantly hungry and thirsty and look forward to the quiet accompanying breaks between battles. Or do you tell him it is hard to describe and wish him luck?
 
 
    Here are two individuals previously unknown to each other going in different directions. One is headed back to the south side of Chicago, where he has just as good a chance of being killed 
by a gang banger as he was by a Charlie sniper. He will return to a civilization that will call him a baby killer and have a great chance of becoming an alcoholic trying to cleanse his mind of his experience in Nam. He and the protesters in the street will question what the country has gained by his spending one year of his life fighting for “his country.” Will the direction followed by Stan now be much better than the direction Rodger is about to embark on?
 
    The other, Rodger, had left the corn fields of Nebraska to go to college to major in agronomy so he could return to the farm he had spent his childhood with the hope of continuing the family name. He is now preparing to enter a muddy truck with many others who question why they are doing so. Will taking a year out of their lives to destroy the farms and villages of people he does not know aid him in his return to the farm he hopes to continue to grow? How does he feel about being advised to write a letter to his family to leave with base camp to be sent to his family if he should be one of the many who do not return to the farm? How does he explain to his father that receiving this letter will spell the end to the family name continuing to run the farm? As an educated man, Rodger remembers it was Cicero who noted that, in peace, sons bury fathers; in war, fathers bury sons. Rodger can only hope the latter is not valid.
 
    Thus, two strangers have met in a county foreign to both of them. They are just passing and are headed in different directions on a journey that may determine the future life of both Stan and Rodger. One to an unknown future on the streets of southside Chicago and one to his unknown future in the rice patties of Viet Nam. It is hoped that in a year, Rodger will have the same chance encounter with a fresh-faced GI passing in the other direction, the one he once took. He will take the opportunity to bum a cigarette from him and wish him “good luck and keep your head down.”
 
    However, all did not end well for either. Rodger died defending Hill 946, a meaningless piece of high ground immediately abandoned after a brief encounter with the Cong. Stanley was killed in a drive-by shooting while he sat on the stoop of his house eating an ice cream cone with his six-year-old daughter.
","July 29, 2023 18:13","[[{'Patricia Williford': ""You've painted such a profound, gut wrenching,  and honest story,  John.  Really makes the reader think about the realities of war and also of the dangers of life here.  Nicely done."", 'time': '00:21 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,n1h2n0,Not Now but Soon,Dafna Flieg,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n1h2n0/,/short-story/n1h2n0/,Adventure,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Sad', 'Contemporary']",6 likes,"
I want to pick up where Holden left off. In his mental state and more, I wish I had a room to lay out for a while. I have more than a room, I have a house and a yard too but it isn’t mine and they’re watching. You can't relax well when people are watching or “watching” you. It just makes you sweat. He’s my best friend, after El. I try to do more good than bad. I think that’s what life is about. I may have just figured it out. I cracked the code. But this leaves only one conclusion which is that you’re bound to do both. I’ve reached a point in my diminutive life that I’ve just said “Fuck it” and rare do I say the word “Fuck” but I mean it, honestly I do. What is money? What is money if not for a perspective that's less than intelligent and quite frankly, basic. Everybody buys things with money I want to buy things with blueberry muffins. I think the universe might benefit a lot from people betting on muffins instead of coins that represent billions. It’s terrifying. I never asked for this, I wouldn’t have ever asked for this. It’s madness and it’s scary and I'm too old to sleep with my mom, and too young to know what to do with this kind of knowledge other than weep about it. And that's another thing, I tend to cry a lot. I'm not exactly a walking soap opera but my emotions and I are very “in touch” if you know what I mean. Anyway, the way I see it, and the way I’ve been seeing it for a while, is that there's always a reason to cry. There's always something heartbreaking going on and it's just a matter of how long you can ignore it for, I guess. I choose to face things head on, and not get too distracted.The past few weeks have not been easy and that's putting it lightly. El and I have been traveling around for the better part of the year or honestly chalk it up to nearly three years on the road (if you count the Kibbutz home which we nested in for 10 months awaiting something that never came. Total bust if you ask me). That's the thing about the wide open road; it tends to lead nowhere. And there isn’t too much freedom in empty stomachs, chilly rains and depression. El keeps my spirits lifted slightly higher than his. I find freedom in his hair which is long and dark, just like mine. The thing about El is he has a brain that just works. I mean he really knows what he’s doing with that thing. By his own handiwork we have a roof over our heads (with close to no cracks) and a flourishing garden complete with brussel sprouts, hot peppers and all the dark shades we could hope for. So the past few weeks haven’t been easy but it isn’t a reflection of our food stash. It's a reflection of my goddamn mood. I've been dealing with it for years so I really don’t need the low-down but recently my mind hasn't been cooperating with the drugs I've been prescribed. It feels like I'm committing a sin every time I swallow one. That disfluidity in one girls’ body really has a way of making her see frog-eyed. I can't even keep my cupids-bow lips from pouting. I hate this shit.El’s been cooking up some hash browns for me as he knows they're my favorite and that their greasy, crispy taste is bound to put some kind of smile on my face, even if it only makes a brief appearance. For his sake I try and really show it off for him.“Mmm those potatoes smell delicious babe.”“Almost ready for consumption… just need to add some pepper.”He starts rummaging through our pantry looking for the pepper- I start to lose focus. With blurred vision I see him come sit down next to me.“Just tell me when” he says as he starts to dish it out. He’s lovely.“When.”After dinner he retires to the garden or the shed or both or neither. I started reading a book I already read and still wouldn’t be able to tell you the story line. It's in French for one, a language I do not speak nor understand, however I have a good grasp on vibrations. Or at least that's what my mother always told me, I’d like to think she was right. So in this book I'm reading, some fictional novel of sorts, there's a poor family. They’re poor but they’re really happy folks! I mean the really happy kind of people that you see from time to time, not often, not at all, that are always just plain, chipper. Giddy. Glowing with some kind of light that's blinding to most. A kind of light that could kill. This family had that light shining all around them yet they couldn’t even afford bread. No tablecloth on the table, at least I don’t think so anyway. No visitors by Christmas and certainly no presents for the kids which I think there are six. But these people are mad with happiness! I think that's what drew me to read the book again because if you can't be happy you might as well have a chance to READ about other people being happy. It's called ‘vicarious living'. So there I sat “reading” my book. Crying a little and ultimately falling asleep to a dreamless slumber. peace. Some while later, El returned inside and walked over to the couch. He kissed my head and with both arms spread, scooped me up in his arms and carried all 100 lbs of me to the bed. He put me down more delicately than you would a baby and gave me another kiss on the head. I remained dreamless.I awoke the next morning with a skip in my heart and after about ten minutes things started to settle down in my mind. clarity. I stepped into my slippers and trotted off to the bathroom to meet myself in the mirror. It was then I knew that today would be better than yesterday and for that alone I was grateful. That alone almost got me believing in God again. There's something I should tell you right off the bat and it's more true than most truths. It comes in a sequence and that is that 1) it's all fabricated and 2) by you. This means that every day, noon and night we as human beings make a conscious choice of how we will be affected byour surroundings, our thoughts and our feelings. That last one is important as I usually am subject to abuse by my emotions... but not today. And not any day if I don’t choose it. And instead I choose not to let it sink in below my surface, under my skin, into irritation and into my heart. It's a choice and this depression isn’t chronic, it's manic and it’s manipulative, if only we allow it that chance to breathe and to exist as an attribute of life but by no means the conductor of it. I run my life and into his arms and that's about all I need. He smells like cinnamon, dew, and smoke. I breathe in his every fiber. His arms wrap around mine too and heknows today which choice I’ve made. I told you, his brain just works!Before long, we were working together on the porch, just cleaning away the excess paint and making room for some redecorating. As we’re moving the orange cushions from top to bottom and bottom again, I came across an old shell that I don’t remember having seen before. El told me we picked it up off the beach by Netanya, last time we were there. I trust him and with his words a memory starts to form. Whether the memory was created on the spot, or was always there, just buried, I’ll never know. But nonetheless I chose to dust the shell off and lay it back under the cushion for safe keeping. As the day progresses so does my mood and soon I am no longer making active choices again, but rather, simply following the leader of myinner slug, unsure if it’s still me. I try to pull myself back into my center. (Whatever the fuck that means) to remind myself of the choice that I need to make to be happy, but after a few hours of it already, I’m exhausted and decide to give all my glory to the slug. Basically I start feeling blue throughout. At this point I would usually turn off and drop out but the guilt of my Mother and El and even my unborn children, is so great I don’t think I can get it to cease. Guilt is one of the worst things I’m not kidding, its toxic and cruel and hardly ever serves anybody anythingthat they really need. It's a hopeless ride and at this point, I’ve been on it for the past 30 minutes, when El knocks on our bedroom door. I tell him how he doesn’t need to do that as he sleeps here too, and all. I’m not sure how we got to this point but to tell you the truth it’s probably best that I just lay down. (Then I look down and I already am.)The next morning the sun leaked through my window and spread its warmth on me like a blanket. I chose to ignore this clear sign from The Creator to open my eyes and greet the day. I rolled to the shaded side of the bed and bathed in the warmth of my covers instead. I had to preserve this moment. It was the least strenuous part of each of my days. I cherished this moment and often let it linger just a bit too long. I wanted to get up, not now but soon. After about an hour or two or maybe way, way less, I arose like a rose. Bloomed and breathed a fresh breath of air and exhaled thank you. Every day (moment really) has so much potential. Like a newborn child. It’s so delicate and possible, at the same time. It’s a little leaf of hope. And that alone is so pure and untouched that I wonder how it can possibly lose its purpose, and just like that *fingers snap* it happens so fast that it almost takes my breath away. And that truly is the most symphonatic part about it. It just happens. It just is. Sometimes, before the anxiety occurs, I’ll be so preoccupied with wondering where it is that I’ll simply bring it upon myself. Almost as if waiting for the mailman to arrive that you end up pacing around the room, walking out to the porch and down the block, up the road and nearly to the freeway, and to the post office itself where you greet the mailman and accidentally say “Looks like I’m first on your route today!” Like it’s the very thing you’ve been waiting for. That begs the next question which is: why?Being a nomad on the road really isn’t all that it boasts to be. It’s both so exhilarating and yet also very humbling at the same time... And how something can be so full of both is beyond me. It’s open ended, open minded, open road, open heart kind of feel that just oozes with authenticity and something that can really belong to you. A real piece of heart that I have yet to find in something else.The spring began to unravel before us like a fruit roll-up finally being set free. I felt lucky to be there and witness the glory of spring. The sounds. The smell. The feel. It’s bliss and really, I think I’ll spend my whole life waiting for spring and somehow miss it every time it comes around. But today I was there, present with my body and my mind that lives in here with me and my thoughts and it’s as though I just learnt to meditate today, for the very first time! I heard, and I breathed, and I felt so in love.Hours go by in seconds. By the time it’s evening I’m ready for it to be, I never like to linger in the in-between for too long. The grumble from my stomach indicates that I should start making some dinner. We try to eat well to nourish well, to feel well, it works well, about 50% of the time or so, so it’s always worth a shot. We’ll usually eat vegetables and rice or rice with vegetables or just vegetables or just rice, and always with sweet tea. I believe sweet tea is one of the most obvious and giving gifts we have in this day and age, and it surely always knowshow to put me in a good mood. As we’re chopping, chopping, chopping away El asks,“What do you think about Alaska?”“I think it looks like one of the most beautiful places in the world” I say.“We should go.”“To Alaska?”“Why not?” He raises a good point.The idea first appealed to me most because it is quite simply the farthest possible place we can go from where we are now, and if that alone isn’t exciting I don’t know what is.“But how?” The sadist part in me asks.“I don’t know, but we can figure it out.” He says optimistically.And just like that, we started to plan our next adventure to Alaska. And just like that I am no longer a slug, but a butterfly, on my way.
","August 04, 2023 10:58","[[{'Joe Smallwood': ""Thanks for reading and liking my story, which put me onto this story which I will not soon forget.\nOh how you captured mental illness! The inability to live because of the pain that can't be faced, that lives like an unseen stain, seeping everywhere, undermining, destroying. I wrote a story about mental illness, My Stealth Assassin.\nBut I prefer your take on it, because it is what you don't talk about that gives evidence to the destruction. It's in the moment, whereas my story is a reflection on what is endured written at a later date.\nSorry..."", 'time': '14:46 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Dafna Flieg': 'Wow thank you so much for sharing your insight on my story! I am so glad this held some recognition with you and I would love to read your story too! Was it one you wrote on here? Thank you for your comment! :)', 'time': '20:07 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Smallwood': ""Hi again. Yes, I wrote Stealth Assassin here:\nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/928eul/\nA kind of light that could kill.\nall 100 lbs of me to the bed. \nam subject to abuse by my emotions...\nit's all fabricated\nHints for what really lives in your MC. I don't buy the ending, did you intend to have the reader believe that a trip to Alaska would solve anything? Just asking. The ending is really appropriate, don't get me wrong. Mentally ill people constantly delude themselves. I hope you are not offended. I had to read it again, to see if my fi..."", 'time': '18:35 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Dafna Flieg': 'Wow thank you so much for sharing your insight on my story! I am so glad this held some recognition with you and I would love to read your story too! Was it one you wrote on here? Thank you for your comment! :)', 'time': '20:07 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Hi again. Yes, I wrote Stealth Assassin here:\nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/928eul/\nA kind of light that could kill.\nall 100 lbs of me to the bed. \nam subject to abuse by my emotions...\nit's all fabricated\nHints for what really lives in your MC. I don't buy the ending, did you intend to have the reader believe that a trip to Alaska would solve anything? Just asking. The ending is really appropriate, don't get me wrong. Mentally ill people constantly delude themselves. I hope you are not offended. I had to read it again, to see if my fi..."", 'time': '18:35 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Hi again. Yes, I wrote Stealth Assassin here:\nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/928eul/\nA kind of light that could kill.\nall 100 lbs of me to the bed. \nam subject to abuse by my emotions...\nit's all fabricated\nHints for what really lives in your MC. I don't buy the ending, did you intend to have the reader believe that a trip to Alaska would solve anything? Just asking. The ending is really appropriate, don't get me wrong. Mentally ill people constantly delude themselves. I hope you are not offended. I had to read it again, to see if my fi..."", 'time': '18:35 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,gq0xtu,Whitney,Jereld Yaussi,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gq0xtu/,/short-story/gq0xtu/,Adventure,0,"['Friendship', 'Adventure']",5 likes,"
		The California sun had only made the odor of the homeless man in Kayvan’s Chevy Impala reek more. He opened the car door and assaulted his elderly passenger with the air freshener he’d bought in the gas station.
           “Hey, hey, hey!”
           Kayvan found the linen smell that filled the vehicle reminiscent of his parents’ living room. “Ah, that’s so much better,” he said, then slid into the driver’s seat.
           His passenger, Pace, brushed at his dirty, threadbare jacket in a vain attempt to get the aerosol particles off. The man’s grimy white beard shifted as he smiled. “Ya know, yah coulda just asked me tah take a shower at a truck stop or somethin’.” Over the past couple hours, Kayvan had found it gradually easier to understand Pace’s Texan accent.
           Kayvan put his iPhone in the cradle on his dashboard. “Not if you want to make it to Sequoia before the afternoon is over.”
           “Y’know, in general yah’ed be more courteous tah the customah,” Pace said as he put his seatbelt back on.
           “That’s what happens when you pay in advance,” Kayvan said. “As long as I get you to Sequoia, I think that’s the only thing that matters.”
           Pace only chuckled at that. He laughed off a lot, it seemed.
           As the Impala descended the on-ramp back to Interstate 5, Kayvan still marveled that he was doing this. He’d left the job center in San Francisco only a few hours ago when he’d been approached by a homeless man. The guy started pestering him to drive him to Sequoia National Park upstate, but Kayvan had tried his best to ignore him. Most homeless people that approached Kayvan would get the message if he didn’t pay them any attention.
           But most homeless people didn’t flash ten thousand dollars at you.
           That kind of money could float him until he could find a new place to work. It was a no-brainer. Maybe he could even stay in the tech sector instead of settling for something else.
           He’d be able to justify the past six months to his parents much easier if that happened.
           His aspirations were interrupted by the abrupt entry of outside air as Pace opened the window.
           “Come on,” Kayvan said. “I have the air conditioning on.”
           “Yah sprayed me and yah subject me tah artificial air,” Pace said. “The customah’s gotta get somethin’ their way.”
           Kayvan groaned a bit, but decided to pick his battles. As the car zoomed down the Interstate, he eventually realized the open window was dispersing a lot of Pace’s smell.
           He couldn’t help side-eye Pace. No homeless guy should have that much money on him. And despite some eccentricity, he seemed relatively normal. The money was good, but Kayvan knew he’d gotten himself involved with an oddball. Who was he?
           “So help me get this straight,” Kayvan said, once the silence and his own theories got too much for him to bear. “You’re going mountain climbing at Sequoia Park?”
           “Jus’ like I told ya,” Pace said. “Not just any mountain, though. I’mma be hikin’ up Mount Whitney.”
           “Is that a good one to hike, or something?” Kayvan asked.
           “Well, I guess ya could say that,” Pace replied. He reached into his jacket. “It’s the tallest mountain in the country. Well, besides one ‘a them in Alaska.” He pulled out a heavily used pocket notebook, ringed at the top. Some pages hung out lopsided, and the sides were completely frayed. He opened it, pulling the cover and several pages over the top. “Course, ‘Whitney’ is jus’ the name the White man called it. Y’know what the Native Americans called it?”
           “Why would I know that?”
           Pace chuckled. But instead of answering, he lifted up a couple more pages. “The Paiute Native Americans called it ‘Too-man-i-goo-yah’”
           “Come on. If you have to confirm it with your notes, then don’t assume I’d know it.”
           Another chuckle. “Fair enough. So I won’t ask ya my next question, and I’ll just tell ya. That Paiute word means ‘the very old man.’” He gave an overly goofy smile at Kayvan, as if begging him to laugh.
           “So you just want to go because it’s appropriately named for you?” Kayvan asked, not a hint of amusement in his words.
           “Well, I guess ya could say that,” he said, a bit more quiet than normal. “But the thing is...”
           The conversation was interrupted by the chime of Kayvan’s iPhone. The screen lit up with the picture of an Iranian woman with curly hair, the word “Mom” in the top-center of the screen. Kayvan quickly tapped the “hang-up” button on his steering wheel.
           “If you wanna pull over, I can step out for a sec,” Pace offered.
           “It’s fine,” Kayvan said.
           The following silence was very loud.
           “I get it,” Pace said. “I’ve pissed off a good number of my brood, too.” He went back to staring at the passing scenery.
           “It’s not like that,” Kayvan said, too quickly.
           “Well, everyone’s got their problems,” Pace said, clearly not convinced.
           “It’s really not like that.”
           Pace put his hands up in surrender and settled back into his seat.
           Kayvan was glad to be done with that. For about a mile, at least. But with each additional mile marker that passed, he knew Pace was just filling in the blanks with his own assumptions. It was only natural. The same way Kayvan had been wondering about Pace.
           “Look,” Kayvan said suddenly.
           Pace jumped a bit.
           “Look,” he continued, “let’s just say we’ve got something in common.”
           The look on Pace’s face made Kayvan realize the bum hadn’t been ruminating on the matter at all.
           “Ah, now that I think abou’ it, I did meet ya outside a job centah, didn’ I?” Pace was stroking his putrid beard.
           Kayvan fixed his eyes on the road and willed the topic to die.
           “So how long ya been between employments?” Pace asked.
           Of course he wouldn’t. Kayvan sighed. “About six months.”
           “Things been tense with your folks?” Pace pressed. “That why you ain’t keen to talk to your ma?”
           Kayvan let the silence answer for him.
           “Pleasin’ your parents can be a rough bidness. My old man weren’t never satisfied with what I did.”
           “I’m sure he’d be proud of you now,” Kayvan said.
           “Sarcasm truly is the greatest flaw in your generation,” Pace said, not angrily. “But nah, I learned a long time ago my fathah’s problems were all him. Don’t mean I didn’ try for too long ta please him, though.”
           “Sorry about that,” Kayvan said, almost reflexively.
           “Tha’s life,” Pace said, with the least enthusiasm Kayvan had heard yet. “My pa lived longer than anyone wanted. He was spittin’ venom at me even when I was the only one visitin’ him at the doctah’s.”
           This was why Kayvan hated talking about this stuff. What was he supposed to say to something heavy like that? He sped up and passed a slow-moving Ford pickup.
           “Tweren’t all bad,” Pace continued. “Once I met mah filly and we had our own little ones, I realized what I’d been missin’.”
           “Maybe you should have used that ten thousand on a therapist,” Kayvan accidentally blurted out.
           But Pace just laughed. “Ye’r a rude cuss, ain’t ya? Would ya believe this is me after the ther’py?”
           “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
           “S’fine. Other people might find ya insufferable, but I always liked straight shooters.”
           People didn’t find him insufferable. Did they?
           By this point, Kayvan couldn’t detect any of Pace’s smell. It seemed it was all being funneled out the window. The heat also didn’t seem to be as oppressive as it was when Kayvan had stopped at the gas station.
           It would probably be unfair if Pace was the only person to share. “My parents aren’t the problem,” he said. Kayvan almost hoped his passenger couldn’t hear him.
           No luck.
           “Oh? That mean yer a little hellraiser, or somethin’?” Pace chuckled.
           “No, no, no. I’ve always been pretty straightlaced.”
           “Oh my pa’ed have loved you,” Pace said. “Well, maybe not…”
           “…Oh. Then yeah. Sorry, but your dad was an asshole.”
           Pace laughed very loudly at that. “You ain’t wrong!”
           “But, no,” Kayvan continued. “I just haven’t called my parents because it isn’t worth it.”
           “They wouldn’ like you not havin’ a job?”
           “I mean, no. But they wouldn’t be lecturing me or anything.”
           “They soun’ pretty reasonable, then,” Pace said.
           “That’s the problem,” Kayvan said. “They’d just tell me everything is going to be all right and not to worry.”
           “Wha, you want ‘em to lick you over it?”
           “I guess, kind of. I already know they’re disappointed in me. They’d just be hiding it by being nice. At least if they ridiculed me they’d be honest.”
           Pace, who could find the humor in anything apparently, chuckled. “Yer an interesting one, Kay.”
           “It’s just temporary,” Kayvan continued. “I’ll call them as soon as I’m able to get back on my feet.”
           “If I can be honest fer a bit, it sounds like yer pride is keepin’ ya from callin’ more’n anything.”
           “Maybe you’re right,” Kayvan said. He accelerated the car, slightly over the speed limit.
           “We’re more alike’n you think, it seems,” Pace said.
*         *         *
           Kayvan smacked another mosquito. It must have been the hundredth in the last hour. He kept one hand affixed to the handhold that had been installed, a chain suspended between several metal rods. He almost carelessly took his hand from it, thinking two hands would help keep the bugs at bay. Not that he could actually see any in the cloak of night.
           “You good, Kay?” Pace looked back, spritzing some bug spray around himself.
           He refused to share it. Kayvan was sure Pace was getting back at him for the air freshener thing. Apparently, it was the one thing he’d bought before hiring Kayvan. Something about knowing mountains always had tons of bugs.
           On top of that, Kayvan had been forced to carry Pace’s grody sleeping bag up, strapped to his back. It was the one possession Pace had had to put in Kayvan’s trunk.
           “Ya coulda stayed back, gone home,” Pace said as he continued climbing.
           “You’ll need someone to take you back,” Kayvan said. He pulled himself up by the chain. It was annoying to be outpaced by an old homeless guy.
           “Thought yer job was only ta get me heyah.”
           “Come on, I’m not heartless.”
           Pace chuckled. “Fate gave me a kind hand wit’ you, Kay.”
           “Bite me.” He slapped another mosquito. “Not you!”
           “Yup, the bugs’ll get ya.”
           They’d arrived at Sequoia National Park around five that afternoon. Most of the subsequent time had been spent climbing Mount Whitney, expressly against the advice of the park rangers. Kayvan had never been the most athletic person, so hiking up this peak was like some sort of divine punishment. He’d already passed three “points of no return” where he was sure he’d collapse.
           Still, after over five hours, they reached the peak of Mount Whitney a little after eleven.
           “I’m gonna die,” Kayvan said between breaths.
           Pace chuckled. “Y’know, when you think about it, with Whitney’s prior name bein’ ‘the old man,’ you could look at it bein’ a place o’ death. So maybe it’s a good place fer ya ta kick the bucket.”
           “Oh shut up.”
           The night was so bright and clear that they hadn’t needed any lights on the way up. Despite all the physical hardship, Kayvan had to acknowledge the night sky was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He’d lived in San Francisco so long he’d forgotten how much the stars were blotted out by light pollution. As he looked over Whitney’s edge, he could see a surprising amount of Sequoia National Park below, too. Everything was draped in a beautiful filter of blue-black night. It was like looking into a completely different world.
           If he’d stayed in his dinky apartment back in the city, he’d just be watching Hulu again. It almost made the trip itself worth it, like he didn’t need the ten thousand dollars.
           There was no way in hell he would ever give that back, though.
           Pace walked around the summit, his eyes skyward. The lack of dumb jokes and laughter probably meant that he found the whole thing as poignant as Kayvan did.
           In his hand he had a medium-sized, sturdy stick that he’d picked up a couple hours ago. It was too short to be a walking stick, so Kayvan just assumed it was something to keep his hands busy. He was probably right, since it looked like Pace was using it to doodle something in the ground.
           “Hey, Kay.”
           Kayvan plopped down on a big, flat rock. “Yeah?”
           “Y’know, they say blood’s the strongest ties yah’ll ever have, and it’s true.” He looked to the young man, and for once looked serious. “And they are. Certainly, they’re the mos’ important, for bettah or worse. But just ‘cause they’re the strongest don’t mean those ties can’t be torn.”
           “Is this about the thing with my parents?”
           Pace chuckled, but he didn’t look any less serious. “I suppose yah could say that.”
           “I am…very exhausted. Do you mind if I be a bit direct?”
           He smiled this time. “Didn’ know ya could be any otha’ way.”
           “Ha ha.” Kayvan took a swig of water from the Dasani bottle he had. “What I was gonna say is, if fixing your family BS is as simple as talking to them, why don’t you do it?”
           If he’d known him for longer than a day, Kayvan would think the look Pace gave him was one of pride.
           “Ain’t nevah said it was easy. Hardest thing in the world, honestly. But even if it’s hard, it needs tah be done.”
           “So why are you wasting your breath on me?”
           “Well, my kids ain’t listenin’ tah me right now, so I guess I just want to impart some wisdom on somebodah, I guess.”
           With that, he took out the top-ringed notebook he’d brought out in the car earlier and turned to a page. Then, with his other hand, he resumed doodling with the stick.
           “So what now?” Kayvan asked. “How long are you going to be up here on your little late-life crisis?”
           “Well, I figahed I’d spend the next, oh…hour here. Seriously, Kay, yah can head back down.”
           “I already told you I’m not leaving an old man in the wilderness. I don’t need bad karma when I’m already having so much trouble finding a job.”
           “Then take a nap down the way a bit. There’s a good place fer it a couple feet back down the trail.”
           The idea of getting forty winks on the side of a mountain in a homeless man’s sleeping bag was disgusting. But he was so tired that he didn’t raise the myriad objections he had as he rose from the rock. “Fine. Wake me up when you’re ready to go back down.”
           As he left the summit, Kayvan barely heard Pace say “Thanks, Kayvan.”
*         *         *
           Kayvan didn’t dream. The hike had sapped all his mental energy. Ironically it was the most peaceful night of sleep he could remember. The only blemish was some loud sound that had woken him up briefly. But he’d conked back out soon enough.
           As he woke and stretched, he bemoaned the stink of Pace’s sleeping bag. He’d been too tired last night to let that stand in the way of getting some rest. But no shower, no toothbrush, and being exposed to the elements all night made for the most uncomfortable morning of his life. His leg was still cramped as he made his way back up to the summit.
           “Pace! You done yet?” he yelled.
           But the summit was barren. Pace wasn’t there.
           Had that S.O.B. gone back down without him?
           It was then that Kayvan noticed all the drawings in the dirt.
           There were countless patterns of swirls, right angles, and zigzag patterns in the dirt, all across the top of Mount Whitney. Kayvan had no idea what to make of them, but it all seemed to be some sort of organized chaos.
           In the middle of all the symbols was Pace’s stick, a folded piece of paper underneath it.
           “Pace?” Kayvan yelled again. Though he somehow knew it was pointless.
           As he investigated, Kayvan realized it was a folded photo under the stick. He pulled it apart, and saw a picture of a large group of people, centered around a clean-shaven man with graying hair. He had an arm around a squat woman who was probably his wife. And they must have had a dozen people around them: some kids, some younger adults, some people the same age as the central couple.
           It took two solid minutes for Kayvan to realize the man in the middle was Pace. He was completely different from the unkempt man he’d met yesterday.
           When he flipped the photo over, he saw written on it “Strong, not invincible.” The Sharpie ink was fresh.
           He looked around the area of the summit for another hour. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish.
           Eventually he took a good look over Sequoia National Park, bathed in the morning sunlight. As opposed to the opaque splendor of the night, the sun illuminated the nooks and crannies of the land and the trees, providing beauty in its detail.
           It made him think of the pitiful view from his window every morning from his apartment.
           “What am I doing?” he muttered.
           He pulled out his phone and gave one last look at Pace’s picture before he dialed.
           “Hey Mom.”
","August 04, 2023 21:18",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,p62ehe,Homecoming,J. S.,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p62ehe/,/short-story/p62ehe/,Adventure,0,"['Drama', 'Inspirational', 'Sad']",5 likes,"
	I found out that my mother died in the middle of my grocery run. Surrounded by canned fruit and juices and little packets of drink mix, the soothing voice of the nurse on the other side of the phone did nothing to ease the feeling of the floor being ripped out from underneath me. One of the employees found me a few minutes later, crumpled on the floor against the shelves and two breaths away from dipping into a panic attack.
	It’s funny how the most world-shattering moments can occur at the most ordinary of times. I had known it was coming—why did it still hurt so much?
	The employee who had been unfortunate enough to stumble upon my little scene was thankfully completely understanding, though it took a few minutes for me to stumble through the words with my still-shaking voice. She offered to call somebody for me to drive me home, which I figured stemmed from the fact that my hands were still trembling and I could barely let out a word. I said no, furiously wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands like I was a seven-year-old. Before she could protest, I turned and stumbled out of the store the same way I’d come in, forsaking the reason I had even gone there in the first place.
	What did paper towels and chicken noodle soup matter to me then?
	By some miracle, I was able to get outside without making another scene. My car was still in the shop due to a bad read-end the other week, so I was stuck walking home. It didn’t matter, though—the store was a few minutes away from my house, and it wasn’t as if I had any groceries to carry.
	I don’t know how I made it home. Everything from that night is still blurred together in my brain. Somehow, I remember stepping through my familiar doorway around when the sun was fully below the horizon, but I was so debilitated that I could barely make my legs walk through the door. The achingly empty expanse of the beige living room walls rose up to greet me—a reminder of the similarly empty house beyond.
	Half-stumbling, I collapsed onto the couch. My view of the ceiling above me was swimming, but I wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or tears. I grabbed the ring on its chain around my neck, desperate for its familiar grounding feel against my fingers as a sob rose in my throat.
	The quiet was short-lived, however—the next moment, my brain reminded me of the fact that I had no car and thus no way to get to my mother’s funeral.
	The following few seconds were a flurry of movement. I was up and on my feet, looking for where I had thrown my purse and then for where my phone was hiding inside it. My aunt would be the one who would arrange the service, given that she was the only one who still lived with my mother. If she had already decided on a date before my car was finished—
	Finally, the phone was obtained. Turning it on, I could see the first notice was two missed calls from “Aunt Monnie”, timed from around when I had had my breakdown. Fumbling with my shaking fingers for a moment, I called her back, lifting the phone up to my ear. When my aunt’s warm voice hit my ears, I almost broke into sobs yet again.
 “Oh Diana dearest, are you alright? I’ve tried to call you a few times now but you didn’t pick up.”
 I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Yeah,” I replied, but my voice was so much more fragile than I expected. “Yeah, Monnie—I’m fine.”
 “Did you get the news?” Monnie’s voice sounded frail now, too—as if she was also trying to not shatter all at once.
	I bit my lip, attempting to stop it from trembling. “Yeah, I did,” I whispered. Two tears rolled down my cheeks, one on each side. “Monnie, I—”
 “Shh—it’s okay, dearest. I know.” The sound of muted crying rang out from the other end of the line. “I know.”
 Taking a deep breath, I asked: “Have you already planned out the funeral?”
 “Yes—I had to do it soon because the relatives from out of the country are in town. Two days from now, Diana—I’ll host you if you need a place to stay after the service, of course, but—”
 I stifled a cry. “I can’t,” I whispered. Monnie stopped mid-sentence. “I can’t, Monnie—my car got wrecked last week and it’s still in the shop and I—I don’t have money for a plane or bus ticket and I…I can’t—”
	A sob rose up in my throat. I broke off, voice teetering into dangerously fragile waters.
 “Oh,” Monnie said. “Oh dearest, don’t worry. Warren said he’s going to be driving in—if he’s as close as he told me, he should be able to pick you up tomorrow.”
	I froze, unsure if I had heard her right.
	“So now Mr. 'Singer Extraordinaire' decides to come home.” I tried to layer some anger into my voice to disguise how much emotion really lingered behind it. “I don’t want to talk to him, Monnie. Not now.” A telltale tremble echoed in my words.
 “Diana, I understand, but this is your mother’s funeral we’re talking about. Can you not find common ground in that?”
	“I’ll ride with him if he’s offering, but nothing else, Monnie.” My lip was trembling again. “I don’t want to relive the past ten years all over again.”
	“Okay, I’ll let him know. But please, Diana—I know it still hurts, but he made an effort to come. Does that not mean anything to you?”
	I was silent for a moment. What could I even say to that? “Good night, Monnie,” I finally replied before hanging up.
	The tears came back after that.
 
***
 
	Warren Queen himself pulled up in my driveway a day later. When his Porsche rolled into my little suburban neighborhood, the scene looked so out of place that I wanted to laugh.
	Numbly, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and stepped out the door, making sure to lock it behind me.
	When I caught sight of my brother as he stepped out from the driver’s side, a thousand different feelings flew through me. Eight years really did change a person—except for those same metal glasses, everything else about him was different from the twenty-two-year-old I remembered. He was taller, lankier, and had significantly more lines on his forehead. At some point, he had also dyed his coffee-brown curls black, which completely threw off my mental picture of him.
	“Hi,” Warren said blankly.
	“Hi,” I responded. Without so much as a smile, I rounded the side of his car and deposited my luggage in his trunk before slipping inside the passenger’s seat. He did the same on his side without a word.
	We sat there in silence for a few moments. I got the feeling Warren wanted to say something, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with his half-hearted conversation. After a bit, Warren seemed to decide against it anyway—he hit the ignition and we were on our way.
	For the first few hours, it was complete silence. I had no intention of speaking to Warren unless I had to, and he seemed content to comply with my unsaid declaration. The book in my lap provided plenty of distraction.
	What was there to talk about, anyway?
	That only lasted for so long, however. Two hours in, Warren apparently had had enough of the silence—he suddenly cleared his throat before testing the waters with a “Can we please talk?”
	And that simple sentence broke the dam I had aimed to keep standing until the funeral was over.
	“Oh now you want to talk,” I bit back. It started to rain outside—the sound began to override our conversation. “You didn’t want to talk for the last eight years, but now Mom dies and suddenly you’re a chatterbox again?”
	“That’s not—“
	“You just left, Warren,” I said, slamming my book shut. I pointedly didn’t look at him, since I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep my calm if I did. “You left Mom and you left me and you left everything to go travel across the world and ‘start a band’ to ‘find yourself’.”
	“Di, I—”
	“No,” I cut in. “No, you don’t get to ‘Di’ me. When Mom got her diagnosis, Monnie and I were there. When mom started chemo, Monnie and I were there with her at every session. And when Elliot was stationed at a new base and we had to move, Monnie was there with Mom when I couldn’t be. And where were you, Warren? Off galavanting and writing songs with your new friends?”
	Warren bit his lip. “Di, please just listen—”
	“You didn’t even come to his funeral!”
	Warren shut up at that. Through the lump in my throat that always came back when I talked about Elliot, I almost laughed at how quickly he stopped talking. 
	If I would have bothered to look at him, I would have seen that it was because he was crying.
	But I didn’t. All I was thinking about was how heavy the ring around my neck felt.
	I turned back to the road, noticing that Warren was pulling into the parking lot of a rest area. The rain was getting worse—I figured that was the reason he wanted to stop. Not because of me.  
	It didn't matter. I couldn't be in the car with him anymore.
	“Stop the car,” I said as firmly as I could, wiping away a tear before Warren could see it.
	“Di—”
	“Stop the car!” I hadn’t meant to yell, but the words tumbled out of my throat with a kind of anger that wasn’t premeditated. It had come from somewhere deep in my chest, buried away just like the rest of my feelings toward Warren had been.
	Warren hit the brakes. As soon as the car was out of motion, I threw the passenger’s side door open and stumbled outside. I could hear Warren utter the beginning of another sentence behind me, but it was quickly cut off by me slamming the door shut.
 
***
 
	The rain was torrential. Biting cold water hit me on every inch of my body, easily seeping through my clothes and infecting me with a chill that I knew would remain in my bones for a long while. I broke into a run, speeding across the rest of the road and into the parking lot of the rest area.
	I knew Warren wouldn’t follow me. Leaving me alone had always been his specialty, hadn’t it?
	When I finally laid a hand on the door and swung it open, the cheery music emanating from the rundown rest stop seemed to taunt me. Wiping my eyes clean of a combination I knew was both rain and tears, I walked in, trying my very best to take in deep breath after deep breath.
	The place looked like most other rest stops I’d seen throughout my days on the road—a combination fast food restaurant and general store. It was utterly decrepit, and it was the perfect place for me to clear my mind in peace.
	Fiddling with the ring around my neck, I stepped into the closest aisle and started vaguely inspecting the little trinkets to try and calm down.
	“Are you okay, Miss?”
	I looked up from the shelf to see an employee—a lanky teen who couldn’t have been older than eighteen—standing at the start of the aisle. He was eyeing me with concern so visible it hurt.
	Hastily, I swiped at my eyes again—as if that would improve my appearance. “Yeah,” I replied, but my voice felt thin and strained. “I—where’s the bathroom?”
	The teen pointed farther down the aisle we were already in. “All the way down to the wall and then to the right.” He gave me another concerned look. “Are you sure you’re okay, Miss?”
 No. “I’m fine, thank you,” I said quietly, smiling slightly in thanks before turning and stumbling down the aisles and into the dingy women’s restroom. I was the farthest thing from okay as I dried myself off with rough paper towels and only succeeded in further smearing my mascara across my face. I was the farthest thing from okay as I stared at myself in the mirror.  
	“Be strong,” I whispered to myself. “Be strong for Mom.”
	And with that, I turned and walked back out of the bathroom.  
	On my way out, however, something on a nearby shelf caught my eye: a small stuffed animal cat, perching unsuspectingly behind a group of medicine bottles. Hand shaking, I reached up and grabbed it. It was nearly identical to the one Mother had given me as a child, right down to the brown coat and black spot over the left eye.
	My vision blurred, tears spilling over and dropping onto the cat with soundless plinks.  
 “Thank you for forgiving Warren for spilling juice on this little guy.” I could hear the words my mom had said as she held the newly-cleaned cat next to my sullen ten-year-old form. “You two need to be there for each other, Di—even after things like this. Can you promise me that?”
	Something cracked inside me then.  
 Can you promise me that?
	“Oh Mom, what have I done?” I whispered. I whipped around to stare out the far-off window near the entrance and saw Warren’s car now parked in the lot, its owner running toward the building. The rain had since stopped, and the sun seemed to be returning.
	Placing the cat back on its shelf and swiping at my eyes again, I ran through the aisle and out into the lot, letting the door slam behind me.
	When Warren caught sight of me running towards him, his face melted into what looked like pure relief. As I approached, however, I saw his expression more clearly.
	He was crying.
	I slowed to a stop.  
	“Listen,” Warren said firmly. “And actually listen, please, because I’ve been trying to tell you this ever since you got in my car.” He let out a deep breath, and then: “I quit the band.”
	Four words—four words I had been aching to hear for the past eight years, and yet they now hurt more than I ever could have expected. “You…but—but that was your dream—”
	Warren shrugged, swiping an arm across his eyes. “I quit as soon as Monnie called me. I—” He broke off, tears rising in his eyes again. “I will never be able to make up for not being here for you when Elliot died. No excuses of performances or being out of the country will ever fix it. I chased my passion, but I missed out on eight years of family in the process. And now—and now Mom—”
	Warren broke at that, but I was there to throw my arms around his neck and hold him like an older sister should do. It hit me that this was the first time I had hugged my brother in more than eight years, and that made the first of the sobs I had tried so hard to keep back break loose.
	“Mom would be so mad at us,” I whispered, burying my face into Warren’s shoulder. “She would never have wanted this.”
	Warren sniffed and pulled away from me. He chuckled slightly as he drew his arm over his eyes again. “It’s like that time I spilled juice on your cat all over again,” he said, and I smiled sadly at the resurgence of that memory.
	It was silent for a few moments after that. Both of us seemed to need a second to process everything that had just happened. And then, Warren spoke.
	“Di, can we start over?”
	His words hung in the air between us for a moment. He looked scared—scared that I would refuse. 
	Eight years apart—could I put that behind me? Could I put that behind me for Mom?
	I smiled, I cried, and I pulled my little brother into another crushing hug.
	“All you had to do was ask.”
 
***
 
	The funeral itself was as painful as Elliot’s had been. Seeing Mom again, face so pallid compared to what I remembered, was the hardest part. That, and the realization that I was again left standing over the casket of someone I loved.
	I didn’t know what I would have done if Warren hadn’t been there. He had an arm around my shoulders as we both looked at the body of our dear mother, which proved to be the only reason I didn’t collapse at the casket. Even after that, he barely left my side during and after the service, always no more than a foot away at all times. I felt as if he was trying his very best to make up for lost time, which made me sad, considering I was trying to do the same.
	Monnie gave both of us the warmest hugs once she saw us. I had the suspicion that the smile on her face and the tears on her cheeks were as much for seeing us together again as they were for Mom.
	Once we arrived at the cemetery itself, it started to rain. In the midst of the gentle storm, I remembered that I had once heard that rain during a burial symbolized God’s tears of both sorrow and joy—sorrow in sharing in the grief of the bereaved, and joy at welcoming the deceased home.
	Standing there beside the then-filled grave, hand clutching Warren’s, the thought brought a smile to my face even amidst the tears that were blending with the rain. Mom was finally home, and in a way, Warren and I were too.
 
 
 
","August 04, 2023 22:39",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,bsuapv,A Parable of Spoons,Christopher A. Hanson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bsuapv/,/short-story/bsuapv/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'LGBTQ+']",5 likes,"
Act 1: AnimaThere once was a man with visceral visions, a foolproof plan. A solo trip into solitude, big brown boots stomping through these woods, into the unity of all things. It was a similar tale to any other starving artist. He patiently waited for divine intervention, for a sign or perfect timing. Days weeks months passed by as he retreated further into a hermit state. The journey into oneself is endless, yet he was always in a rush to get nowhere specific. After following a beaten path, he chose a divergent route along this treacherous trail. He stumbled upon a mystical meadow, this wishing well.                                                                                               leapJuturna appeared beneath a weeping willow. “Take a                   of faith,” they seemed to say. The man returned to the world – untrammeled grounded. It was summer. Take the leap of faith echoed in his head. During his journey, he collected moments in photographs. He reflected often. Ruminating, journaling. These silly scribbles, little doodles, tiny pixels will all become something beautiful. Someday, he told himself. A trip down Memory Lane brought him to his childhood home. A shitty serving job. A clunky, cherry red cruiser. These circumstances were less than ideal, doing whatever to keep the dream alive. One day, a familiar face walked into their workplace. An old flame. He took her out that weekend for dancing. She provided the party favors. He brought her hiking. She brought him camping. He made her a playlist. She was a serendipitous gift. August rushed to return to Autumn, dreaming with eyes peeled open. She called it Hippie-Dipping, candyflipping for Halloween. They were both Enneagram type seven, yet their favorite number was eight. They shared stories, tall tales, bigger-than-life aspirations. The man told her about Juturna, the well, what he wished for – unbridled freedom, peace amongst the worry. “Come with me,” she replied. A few years prior, the woman acquired a short bus & converted it into a home on wheels. “Take me anywhere,” he told her. It was as if manifestation had met fruition, trusting the process of becoming a transient poetographer, transmuting mundanity into magic. It was the perfect recipe for an escape artist. They climbed aboard her rocketship to Fall out of orbit. It was November. Took a trip to never come back, from the Midwest into the unknown. It began by driving through the night, to arrive in Denver, awake for the sunrise. Spiritual living in a secular world. They weren’t quite sure where they were going, two aimless wanderers, without a final destination. Thanksgiving was spent eating gas station burritos, playing cribbage, rejecting holiday traditions. Parking lot hopping instead of pub crawling. Their first shower, freezing water. Deadheads told them to go to Garden of the Gods. A puppy approached them there with the name Juturna. Another chance to make a wish, yet they felt they had everything they needed. All the man could ask for was some wisdom. Thrown out in the cold, observing flickering flames trapped inside this woodburning stove. Steam rising, sulfur lingering, from pockets of bliss along the streets of Pagosa Springs – the real “Hippie-Dips”. Suddenly, they woke up in Utah. Zion. A place of peace & relaxation. Angel’s Landing. Fear of the future being the next casualty. Along the way, while staying at a friend’s place, the woman turned to the man. “There is a commune in the desert. We can park there, learn from the people, live from the land.” This was everything they were dreaming of. The next day came. Flight delays. Scheming, envisioning. Deadheading plants. Cherry-pitting. A test of patience. As it goes; it’s part of what made it beautiful. Two sitting ducks awaited flight until the day eventually arrived. Snowbirds migrating south, passing gorges, adobe colors, diving into dry heat. Guided along a sacred path, although you cannot avoid every bump in the road. The desert people, the drum circle. The December weather that reminded them of a Midwest summer, mountain tops that resembled the head of a lion. They saw this sign inside some upcycle shop in Tucson [Arizona], the beginning is now. Everything comes full circle, although it felt unfinished—Act 2: The Perfect StrangerThey say lovers are always waiting & I concur. The man wrote this in his travel journal. It was February after a miserable Midwest winter. The man split up from his travel partner after a couple months of traveling; he envisioned life amongst the road, alone, a stranger in every city. I am going to pick up my things from the bus where the two left it in Arizona, but enjoy all the moments in-between. His home was a 2019 Hyundai Elantra at the time, tending to travel light. He was at a family reunion in Florida, feeling so taken care of by them, blessed by God, by everyone he met. Even so, there was never a time this man was not in multiple places at once – in his head & heart, diverging desires, back & forth. While the family was busy bumbling, he was busy thinking about the journey ahead, a month of meandering. Filthy feet dipped in this beach, long farewells, leaving prematurely. Cruise control. Windows down. Rolling on the interstate. Signs behind smokescreens, subliminal messages, approaching New Orleans – he always had an affinity for this place, unlike any other city. The gates had opened, potholes paved with gold, a taste of Heaven. The man was clueless about Carnival Season. People parading, tossing beads from balconies, wandering around parks with bare feet. He parked outside of Louis Armstrong Park, planned to frolic along Bourbon Street, gave himself an hour to play. The moon looked gorgeous, transformed into an orange slice. Everywhere felt so alive. They were right he thought it is magic: confetti falling upon buskers, art getting the attention it deserves, street poets & free expression. The humidity took a brisk turn. A tarot reading reeled him back in. Another drink, bargaining with himself to stay out longer. Then, a song drew him deeper, coming from an intersection. The man followed the sound to reach a DJ mixing music, turning tables, from their mobile trailer. An impromptu dance party on that street corner. Time moved differently as he indulged in not knowing where the night was going, grooving alone on a sidewalk. There was a masked person, fox face, that approached him. They exchanged words, however, neither of them would remember what was said. “I like your mask,” the man sent his compliment. “Come meet my friends,” Fox Face replied, gesturing to a group chatting beneath the balcony at Good Friends, the bar they danced next to. Fox Face ushered him over to meet their partner, Gator Head, both of whom would become so important to the man. There was a pretty boy standing next to a handsome man. “Hi, I’m Josh,” the handsome man greeted him. The pretty boy remained aloof as the man studied Josh’s soft eyes, bold pupils, soothing aura. “Are you on magic mushrooms?” asked the man, who felt more like an enigma in these circumstances. “Ha! Nope. My name is Josh, though,” he introduced himself twice, a bit shy, slightly awkward. This only attributed to his charm. In this swift pivotal moment, the man felt his spirit tethering to Joshua – “may I call you Joshua?” – their bodies engulfing one another. How could I possibly forget those silent spells we spoke that fateful night? The scenery around them began melting, squeezed tight, giggling between kisses. The group gathered again to express their concern about the man sleeping in his vehicle parked on the street. “It’s dangerous,” they said. It did not take long before Joshua said, “I own a guesthouse,” a quaint bed & breakfast, “if you need a place to stay.” True southern hospitality. The man climbed aboard Joshua’s bicycle, off into the night they went, landing at this blue house on Elysian Fields. The guesthouse resembled something similar to his own visions for communal living. A polydactyl roamed around the porch, the fountain, the potted plants. Murals on the wall, the fence. You could hear the performers playing their brass instruments, comfort found in the stillness of this bed & breakfast. One night became a few more, which made for quite the romantic week. It began by being serenaded in parks with small guitars, cups of coffee in a cow mug, support from unsuspected sources, strolling through sculpture gardens, biking across bumpy, bustling streets - completely blissed. The man wanted to say, “take me where love feels most alive,” yet it was as though Joshua was already listening. They stumbled with infatuation, from survival to creation, from chaos to the calm, from a perfect stranger to the man’s life partner […]
","August 05, 2023 01:14",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,lfwj3w,The Graduation Trip,Emily Kaltenberg,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lfwj3w/,/short-story/lfwj3w/,Adventure,0,['Drama'],5 likes,"
Ainsely parks her car on the side of the road near the entrance of the wrought iron gates and turns off her car.  Hands still on her steering wheel and eyes closed, she takes a deep breath.  It’s Monday June 7th.   She reaches for the carnations on the passenger seat and her cane.  She climbs out of the car the best she can with her bad left leg.   She walks through the gates for the tenth time.   The pain hasn’t left her.  The memories have not faded and the hole in her heart is still there.  Everyone told her that with time, the pain and grief would become easier.   
She slowly makes it to the far end of the cemetery.  “Hi Bobby.”  Kneeling down, she places the flowers on the ground and a hand on his headstone.  “It’s not getting easier.  Everyone told me it would and it’s not.”  She says with a painful smile, fighting the wave of tears that are about to come pouring from her eyes.   “It’s my fault.  I will never forgive myself for this.  I don’t know how to.  You’d still be here if I never left that night.”  
While she continues to sit there and talk to Bobby, trying to reminisce on the good memories, someone walks over to her.  “Hi Ainsely.  You don’t know me, but I’m Bobby’s Aunt Jean.” 
Ainsley, trying to stand up and be polite, she reaches out to shake her hand.  “Hi.  I recognize you from the service.  I’m sure you want some time with him, so I’ll leave you be.” 
“No, dear, that’s not why I’m here.  You see, after the accident, Bobby was coherent for a couple days before he passed.   He wrote a note for you and gave me specific instructions to deliver this to you.  I have always tried to get here to give it to you, but I kept missing you and I don’t know where you live.” 
She handed Ainsely a shoe box with an envelope on top.  “You can wait to open it later if you want.  I’m sure there are some emotional pieces in there” Jean says with a gentle smile.   
“Thank you. I’ll open it when I get back home.  It was nice to meet you.  I should get going.  It was nice meeting you Jean”.  Ainsley starts to make her way toward her car.   
“You know he loved you very much.  I don’t know if he ever told you that.  But he did.”  Jean smiling while tears line her eyes, she hugs Ainsley and wishes her well.  “Thank you” Ainsely says through a crack in her voice.   
*** 
Ainsley gets home and opens the envelope on the box and takes the lid off.  There are pictures of them, concert tickets, the boutonniere from prom, and so many other little mementos.  The letter was short. It wasn’t his normal handwriting; it was chicken scratching at best.  
Ainsley- 
This isn’t your fault.  The accident was just that; an accident. 
Get well soon and get out of this small town.  
If I don’t make it out, cuz I don’t think im gunna, know that I love you. 
Live our dream and go on That Trip! 
-XO Bobby  
As she reads this note, the ink of the note starts to bleed from the tears running off her cheeks onto the paper.  Soon her eyes are so full of tears, everything is blurry.  She squeezes them shut so tightly, hoping that maybe when she opens them, this nightmare will be over.  Her flood of tears turns into a heartfelt sob.  She cried as she did the day, she found out Bobby was gone.   Sitting on the ground, she pulls her legs in and cries until there is nothing left.  At some point she must have pulled herself off the floor and onto the couch and pulled a blanket over her head, because that is where she woke up the next morning. 
As the week passed, she continued to walk past the box sitting there with the note stuffed inside.  ‘Go on That Trip’.  She kept seeing those words in her head.  She knew exactly what he meant. 
*** 
It’s Saturday morning.  She takes her fresh cup of coffee over to the couch and stares at the box some more.  After 15 minutes of staring, she finally leans over and rips the lid off.   Taking a deep breath, as she stared at memories and pictures of the love of her life, there were items buried at the bottom that she knew she would find.  A couple maps, one of USA and the other of the state of Oregon, that they had drawn on together, a compass and their “bucket list”: Hike to the top of Tom, Dick and Harry.  She instantly became very sad at the idea of doing this trip solo.  Without Bobby.  That was supposed to be ‘Their Trip’ after graduation.  Starting to well up with tears, the ball in her throat growing, she says “I can’t do this without you.  I don’t know how.”  Her head falling into her palms, she cries some more.  She is reliving the painful weeks that followed his passing ten years ago.  It feels as if someone just ripped off the scab and the wound is fresh.  After a few minutes have passed, she wipes her eyes and says “Ok Bobby, I’ll do it.  We will still do it.  I know you’re still with me.” 
*** 
Ainsely spent the next month training and prepping for hike.   She worked with PT to help rehab her leg.  She has purchased all the gear she will need for this trip.   Her car packed to the brim, the box of their past, and a vase of dry dead flowers.  She was sent flowers after his funeral, and she could never bear to part with them.  She dried them up and left them sit in a vase until she knew what to do with them.   She knows now.  On August 1st, she hit the road. 
The drive from Wisconsin to Mt. Hood, Oregon is roughly 30 hours.  She’ll break the drive up over the course of a few days.  An hour into her drive, she starts to talk to herself. 
“This is crazy.  I don’t know if I'm going to be able to do this hike alone.  I should turn around.” 
“No! Stop!  Just do it.  There are hiking guides.  You’ll be fine.”   
“What do people do when they are on a long car trip by themselves?”  She turns down the music and continues to talk to herself.  It, in some ways, feels very soothing to talk through everything she is feeling right now.  Anxiety.  Fear.  Sadness.  Anticipation.   
“Alright Bobby we’re in this car now for the next 3 days as we drive across the country.  What should we talk about?  Well, it’s more me talking to you and you just listening, if you are” glancing over at the box of their belongings on the passenger seat, along with a bag of all the dried flowers that are nothing more than bits and pieces of the flower petals.  She didn’t want any of his remains.  It felt wrong for her to have them. His parents needed them.  She kept the plants she was given and the vase of flowers, that are now the dried-up bits on her car seat.  She is going to hike to the top of the mountain like they had planned to do and will spread those flower petals into the wind.  Just thinking about this has tears welling up in her eyes.  “Bobby...” there is a slight catch in her voice, a lump growing in her throat.  “I don’t know if I can do this.  Say goodbye.  Let go of what was and try to move on.”  Tears steadily stream down her cheeks, like a light rain that never stops.   
She has been living in a world that feels stuck in place.  She knows Bobby is gone. He has been for 10 years.  But there is something about this final stage of grief that she has been avoiding.   
The miles pass, the hours tick by, and it's time to find her first gas station.  She pulls off, fuels up and goes inside to grab a few snacks for the road.   After getting back into the car, she gets situated with her snacks, water and coffee.   Looking at the route on her phone, she gets a rough idea of where she will be at 8pm.  She finds a town with a few motels to stay in for the night.  She makes a quick call to check and see if they have a vacancy.  The motel sets her up with a 1-bed room for the night.  Ainsely gets her directions back up and pulls out of the gas station and heads toward the highway.   
Night one in a strange town makes her feel very alone.  She has never left her hometown.  She has never spent the night outside of her hometown without her family.   But tonight, she will.  She is going to learn on this trip how to become comfortable being alone, being with her thoughts.  So, she sits in silence thinking about everything, until she is too tired to keep her eyes open.   
For two more days she repeats this; sitting in a car for 8-10 hours, talking to herself, and feeling endless amounts of anticipation until she arrives at her little cabin just outside of Mt. Hood.  She gets unpacked for the night.  She tries to relax, knowing she has a big day ahead of her in the morning.  And as she has done for the last 3 nights, she wrestles with her thoughts, tries to find comfort in the loneliness and eventually drifts off to sleep.  
*** 
She left her cabin early that morning.  She wanted to have a head start and allow plenty of time to complete the hike, knowing it could take her a while.  She has plenty of snacks, water, clothing for any potential weather change, and her good hiking sticks.  Her leg is feeling good today, but she still brought her pain meds in case.  She checked in at the trail office to talk to their guides.  She inquires about the conditions, making sure the route is safe to hike.  They give her their bits of advice about the route, and the rough timeline of how long it should take.   She added the desk phone number to her phone along with the ranger’s number if, for some reason, something went wrong.  
She heads over to the trail head entrance.  She anxiously checks over her bag one last time before staring.   She heaves her hiking pack onto her back and stares at the trail for a moment.  There are so many emotions running through Ainsely at this moment.  Something she thought she was going to do 10 years ago.  She planned this whole trip with Bobby.  And now here she is, doing it alone.  However, Bobby wanted her to do this.  He wanted her to finish it, even if it meant doing it without him.  So, she’s going to do it.   One foot in front of the other, she starts.  It’s about 30 minutes into the hike when she sees the split to different portions of the mountain.  She laughs to herself as she walks past the sign “Tom Dick and Harry Mtn”.   
“Alright Bobby, here we go”.  She has his high school ring on a chain around her neck and the bag of smashed flower bits in her pack.  This hike will roughly take 4 hours in its entirety.   It’s early and a weekday, which means the trail is nice and quiet with very few people on the trail.  She planned it that way.  She figured she should add an hour to the expected time of completion.   
After a couple hours of huffing and puffing up the mountain, taking a couple brief stops for water and a snack bar, she finally takes her final few steps to the top.  She’s frozen.  It’s as incredible as the pictures on the internet showed, but better.   It is breath-taking.  “Bobby” she whispers “it’s beautiful up here.  I hope heaven looks this good.”  She has a smile a mile wide and her hand raises, gently covering her mouth.  Ainsley is speechless.   She is so proud she completed this journey.  Not just the road trip, but the few hours it took hiking up a mountain.  Being here at this very moment means everything.   
She set her pack down on the ground next to her and she sat for a moment, saying nothing.  She pulled out her water and a couple more snacks.  After spending 20 minutes just soaking in this moment.  She opens her pack and sees the bag of flowers.  She takes a big breath in and out.  “It’s time.”  
Everything is packed up and she continues to sit for a moment, flower baggy in hand.  Using her hiking sticks to help her up, she stands near the edge of the mountain.  She closes her eyes, and a few tears slide down her cheeks.  She feels the breeze on her face drying the trail her tears left behind.  She slowly opens the bag of flower petals, grabbing a small handful of them, she crushes them in her hand and slowly lets the wind carry them away.   
“Bobby, we always had plans to do this together.”  Grabbing handfuls of crushed petals, she talks to him on this mountain top.  “I need to accept that what happened was not my fault.  It was an accident.  I miss you terribly.  I think about you daily.  I love you with my whole heart.  So, because I need you to rest peacefully, I need to let you go.”  With one final fist full of petals, she says “I love you.  It’s ok, I’m going to let you go.  See you later.”  Slowly opening her hand with the last bits of flowers slipping through her fingers, she watches them fly to their new resting place on the mountain top, in the clouds, in the most beautiful place on Earth.  
*** 
A few weeks had gone by since Ainsley’s trip ended, and she returned home.   She walks a little lighter.  She smiles a little more.  She tries to see joy in the subtleties of life.  That Trip.  It was everything it was meant to be, but also so much more.  She has started grief counseling since she returned home.  She quit her job she hated, and now is moving toward something better.  What that is yet, she doesn’t know.  She learned a lot on that trip: Life is meant to be lived.  Life is painful.  But life is also full of love.  That trip was the trip of her lifetime.   
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 05, 2023 02:42",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,ex9409,Leaving it all Behind,Diane Hawkes,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ex9409/,/short-story/ex9409/,Adventure,0,"['Adventure', 'Creative Nonfiction']",5 likes,"
Today is court day. Another day in the nightmare I can’t seem to wake up from. My son and I decided it would be pointless to try to fight it. She would have falsified her docs and she is familiar with that particular judge. Still, that societal conditioning ached at me, telling me, to fight any way. 
At exactly 8:30 A M, court time, I took my dogs out for their morning walk. Of course, her husband was outside watching.  We will have 5 days to appeal before she can file a force to vacate. We are still waiting for my paycheck to arrive so we can leave. The sad part of all of this, she is doing this to my son, not me. 
The next morning, Janelle, was parked across the street at the dollar store in her BMW, with the sparkly license plate cover. At first, I didn’t even notice her, until she purposely drove past me. For a woman that is pregnant, with 5 other children and runs an entire apartment complex, would think she would be too busy to be concerned with what I was doing. Sometimes, the best way to handle a baddie is to just ignore them. 
I remember back when we first moved into the apartments, just over a year ago, and Janelle tried to illegally evict Latisha, the mom with her 9 angels and star seeds. I helped Latisha gather the docs to fight it; she won. I also showed her how to purchase her own home so her babes would have a safe place to grow. This didn’t bode well with Petty McQueen. There are monsters in this world, and sometimes they look like people. 
 
I started smoking again. I look around the apartment and try to decide what was coming with us. I have learned this before, to let material stuff go but, I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon. I will take the few things I have left that belonged to my mom, back to my brother’s house, where I lived just over a year ago. 
My mind just can’t seem to focus on a task, so I sit by the window and have another smoke, thinking it will clear my head, but it doesn’t.  I sit there, between the dishwasher and the makeshift coffee stand, watching another homeless person wandering around with an orangey-yellow hoodie over his head, pacing back and forth. What is he waiting for? The dollar store to open? Thinking about all the homeless in the Area of Divergence, how did they get there? 
We have only a few days left until we have to leave Lancaster Heights; the time here is coming to a close. I can feel it, we both can feel it. I wake up each day with the heaviness around me. Is my life really an adventure? Or just a series of really bad choices on my part? My pride and temper, looking back, seem to get the best of me. Add a bottle of wine to the experiment and BOOM-A hot headed Irish Woman does it again! How are we getting to California with my two dogs in tow?   There just doesn’t seem to be enough money to make a solid plan.
I still have my daughter’s things here, now we have to figure out where to put them, because her mother is being evicted from her apartment. The apartment on the East Side; drug and gang activity increase as the cycle of tenants come and go. There is the tan SUV that watches me; I took the dogs out to walk one morning, not noticing the drug deal happening in the parking lot until it was too late. Of course, they know which apartment is ours. It doesn’t help that Fort Worth’s finest check in on my son periodically to make sure he’s okay. 
 
Running out of time, and trying to hold on, my check finally arrived.  We had more than enough to make it to California. Our car, with 315k miles on it, new spark plugs and a new day; we packed what would fit and left Lancaster Heights behind. 
My son drove the whole way; he didn’t stop until we crossed the Arizona State Line, parked at a rest stop in San Simone. My son, 2 scared pooches and me. We slept. 
 
I could feel the sun peaking over the mountain range, as I slowly realized where we were. It was pretty cramped for room in the 2007 Kia Optima, Kali found a spot on my son's backpack in the back, and in between us, Olive slept in the center console.
Opening my eyes with that familiar urgency and knew the pooches did as well, I opened my car door and saw a welcoming rest area with vending machines, facilities and a marked off doggy area for my babes. I looked off to the left and witnessed a most beautiful Arizona sunrise just off the mountain peak.
Just 850 miles ago, we were being evicted from the apartment on Beaty Street. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet.  I made some sliced hardboiled egg sandwiches on croissants from the bakery and some Starbucks in a can and we continued on to our destination.
Crossing the Kumeyaay Highway and over a mountain range that topped out at 4100 feet above sea level, Ms. Kia made it without a hitch or a hiccup to our first destination.  
You could smell the familiar aromas of the West Coast, South Beach, San Diego, California
My girls, being Texas born, never saw the ocean before, the California Ocean. There is something about being here, the vibe, the energy-you have to experience it firsthand to understand it fully.
 My son walked the beach to get us some West Coast famous Carne Asada burritos; while I let the pooches check out the new territory. The beaches were crowded, which gave way to anxiety for my little furry ones. It had been a long trip.
Also, my first time in S. D.; this is where my 7-year-old granddaughter lives, that I haven’t met yet. I wanted to meet her. This is what got me this far.
 
 When we left Texas, we left with a car full of stuff, two dogs, a little bit of hope and about $250. We didn’t stop until we crossed the state lines.
 I ate my burrito while enjoying the O. B. Sunset; it brought back so many memories of my childhood. The peaceful serenity I remember so fondly as a child, before the heaviness of adulthood. I could feel the ocean drawing in the last year of my life and replacing it with thoughts of peace; she filled my soul with hope and perseverance.
Exhausted from the 1100 miles we since drove, still just enough money for fuel to get to our final destination, we parked in a quiet neighborhood, where my son used to live with his father in military housing, to rest for the night. I found a hoodie and rolled it up for a pillow.  We made our makeshift beds in the front seat of the Kia, Kali on the backpack and Olive in the console with my shawl.  The 4 of us didn’t make a sound for a solid six hours.
I woke up the next morning staring at some palms as the morning sun kissed the tips of the fronds creating almost a halo or a glow around the proud trees; it was the most glorious morning. I open my eyes fully to see this beautiful orange and yellow beacon peaking over the palms and mountain ranges filled with green trees; such a welcoming way to start a new day.
That last 8 hour stretch that separates Southern California from Northern California, the foothills being our final destination. 
 
We hadn’t showered since we left Texas, wearing the same clothes; maybe a quickie wash in the rest area bathroom with some hand sanitizer and wet wipes is all we got. But none of that mattered. The smells of California smelled like freedom.
My son’s awaited check finally posted, so of course we had to treat ourselves with a homemade breakfast burrito, So Cal style. 
We hopped on the freeway and began our journey once again.  That last stretch through Los Angeles and Bakersfield. After that, all you can see is just vast wasteland of orchards and ranches that can barely survive. The grasses were a burnt, dried up yellow that looked like unkempt straw.   Our Ms. KIA, with over 300k miles on her, just purred like a kitten all the way to our final destination. 
We finally arrived in Oregon House. A small rural town nestled in the Sierra Nevada foothills. It was dark when we arrived, and Barbara was waiting for us. Brad was gone taking care of his other son’s house, while Jake and his new bride, Britney were off on their honeymoon. 
We took showers and Barbara had some wine waiting for me, so I poured a glass and sat in the living room to visit with her. 
It was so surreal to be here. Back in Northern California, my birthplace, the place I grew up. It had been 25 years since I have been here, my childhood even longer. 
When I woke the next morning on a cot with fresh quilted blankets and my pooches on either side of me, I knew we were about to embark on another new adventure. 
 
","August 03, 2023 19:33",[]
prompt_0033,Write a story about someone going on a life-changing journey.,9yqh0m,The Adventures of Enlightened Wisdom:,Ronnie Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9yqh0m/,/short-story/9yqh0m/,Adventure,0,['Adventure'],4 likes,"
The crisp morning air of Lauterbrunnen carried the scent of dew-kissed grass, as Maya LeClair, a spirited 20-year-old woman with long brown hair and bright green eyes, stepped outside her wooden cottage. The picturesque village, nestled within the embrace of the Swiss Alps, was her home – a place of comfort and familiarity, yet every fiber of her yearned for adventure and enlightenment beyond the rolling hills and towering peaks.
 
“Maya, don’t forget to feed the chickens!” Elena LeClair called out, her gentle green eyes mirroring those of her daughter. With a soft smile, she handed Maya a basket brimming with golden kernels.
 
“Of course, mama,” Maya replied warmly, embracing the daily routine that tethered her to the life she knew. She moved with practiced grace, scattering the kernels across the ground as a flock of chickens eagerly pecked at their morning feast.
 
As the sun rose higher in the sky, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone paths, Maya assisted her mother with various chores around their humble farm. They worked in companionable silence, punctuated by moments of laughter and tender exchanges; their bond is woven from threads of love and understanding.
 
“Maya, why don’t you take a break?” Elena suggested, noticing the distant look in her daughter’s eyes as if they were seeking something unseen. “Go play your flute by the river. I’ll finish up here.”
 
“Thank you, mama,” Maya’s eyes sparkled with gratitude, knowing well that her mother recognized her restless spirit. Clutching her cherished wooden flute, she meandered toward the babbling river, her heart swelling with the music that seemed to flow through her veins.
 
As she settled herself upon a moss-covered stone, the melody came to life, intertwining with the symphony of nature that surrounded her. The notes danced upon the water’s surface, reaching for the sky as if to touch the very clouds that whispered promises of adventure.
 
“Mother understands my longing for more,” Maya mused inwardly, her fingers caressing the smooth surface of the flute. “But how can I leave this place, this life, and still hold onto the love that grounds me?”
 
The river answered in its own language, tumbling over rocks and weaving through the verdant banks, a reminder that life was ever-changing, ever-flowing. And perhaps, like the river, Maya too could forge her path without losing sight of where she began.
 
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the verdant valley. Maya stood by the riverbank, her flute silent for a moment as she gazed longingly at the towering mountains beyond. Their jagged peaks seemed to pierce the sky, a tantalizing boundary between her familiar world, and the unknown realms that beckoned her restless soul.
 
“Maya, what are you thinking about?” A gentle voice interrupted her reverie. It was Anna, her closest friend in the village, standing beside her with a knowing smile.
 
“Anna,” Maya sighed, “I can’t help but wonder what lies beyond these mountains. What adventures await me out there, where the sky meets the earth?”
 
As they strolled along the river together, Maya confided in her friend about the journal she kept hidden beneath her bed, a tangible testament to her dreams of exploring far-off lands. She described how, late into the night, she would pour over maps and scribble down her thoughts, each ink-stained page brimming with curiosity and longing for a life unfettered by the confines of their picturesque village.
 
“Maya, your passion is inspiring,” Anna admitted, her eyes shimmering with admiration. “But don’t forget about those who love you here. The bonds we share run deeper than any river.”
 
“Of course,” Maya replied softly, her heart torn between her thirst for adventure, and the love that anchored her to this place. “I could never truly leave you all behind. But sometimes, I feel as though my spirit yearns to soar, like an eagle traversing the skies above.”
 
“Perhaps one day, you’ll find a way to reconcile your dreams with your roots,” Anna offered, her hand resting gently on Maya’s shoulder. “Until then, let your music be your wings.”
 
As Anna’s words settled around her like the evening mist, Maya raised her wooden flute to her lips once more. The haunting melody wove through the cool mountain air, a wordless prayer for the enlightenment she sought, and the courage to pursue it when the time came.
 
“Thank you, Anna,” Maya whispered, as the final notes lingered on the breeze. “No matter where my journey takes me, I’ll carry our friendship in my heart.”
 
“Always,” Anna promised, her smile as warm as the last rays of sunlight that kissed the mountaintops. And together, beneath the vast expanse of sky that held their dreams aloft, they stood at the threshold of a world filled with untold wonders, waiting for the moment when destiny would call Maya’s name.
 
As twilight descended upon the village, casting long shadows that danced in the cool mountain breeze, Maya entered her family’s cozy cottage, her thoughts swirling with dreams of far-off lands and untold wonders. The familiar scents of home - freshly baked bread, dried herbs, and smoldering firewood - enveloped her like a warm embrace, reminding her of her deep love for this place and its people.
 
“Maya, dear, you’re just in time,” Elena LeClair, Maya’s mother, called from the fireside, her gentle green eyes reflecting the flickering flames as they cast an amber glow on her wavy brown hair. She gestured to the steaming mugs of hot cocoa on the small wooden table beside her, a loving smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Your stories are waiting.”
 
“Thank you, Mama,” Maya replied, settling into the plush cushion beside her mother, wrapping her hands around the smooth ceramic mug and feeling the warmth seep into her fingers. As she sipped the sweet elixir, she marveled at how something so simple could bring such comfort, even as her heart yearned for more.
 
“Tonight, I have a new tale for you,” Elena began, her voice soft yet filled with the magic of a gifted storyteller. “It is a story of a young woman who braved the wildest reaches of the world in search of enlightenment, guided by the notes of a silver flute.”
 
Maya’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward, captivated by the image her mother painted with her words. A fierce longing welled up within her, compelling her to listen intently as Elena wove a vivid tapestry of a world beyond their quiet village, where magical creatures roamed free, and the wisdom of the ages lay hidden in the very air itself.
 
“Tell me, Mama, did she find what she was looking for?” Maya asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile enchantment that hung in the air between them.
 
“Ah,” Elena replied, a mysterious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “That is a question only the traveler herself can answer. For each journey is unique, and the path to enlightenment is as varied as the stars in the sky.”
 
As the fire crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows on the walls of their humble abode, Maya felt the pull of her mother’s stories deep within her soul. The tales of bravery, love, and self-discovery fueled her desire for adventure, and she knew, with certainty as solid as the mountains themselves, that one day she would set out to chart her own course through the world beyond the village.
 
“Remember, my dear,” Elena murmured as the last embers faded into darkness, “the greatest adventures are often found in the most unexpected places. And no matter where your journey takes you, you will always carry a piece of home - and my love - with you.”
 
Her mother’s words echoed in Maya’s heart, and as she drifted off to sleep that night, cradled in the warmth of the fire and the comfort of her mother’s presence, she dreamed of the enchanted worlds that lay just beyond the horizon, waiting for her to take that first step into the unknown.
 
As the evening sun dipped below the jagged peaks that encircled the village, Maya sat with her mother by the fireplace, eagerly awaiting the next tale of far-off lands and magical creatures. The room was filled with the scent of fresh pine needles, and the soft glow of candlelight flickered across the worn pages of Elena’s storybook.
 
“Tell me about the Silver Guardian,” Maya implored, her green eyes wide with curiosity. “Is it true that it has two heads and can fly like a bird?”
 
Elena smiled, her fingers tracing the intricate illustrations that adorned the page. “Indeed, it is said that the Silver Guardian is a creature unlike any other. It soars through the skies on broad wings that stretch across the heavens, its silver fur shimmering beneath the light of the moon.”
 
Maya leaned in closer, her heart racing with excitement as she took in every detail of the mythical beast. She could almost hear the rustle of its wings as it soared through the night, the haunting echoes of its cries reverberating through the mountains. She imagined herself standing atop the highest peak, face-to-face with the fearsome creature, her wooden flute raised high above her head as she prepared to challenge it in an epic battle of music and magic.
 
“What happens if someone encounters the Silver Guardian?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. “How do they defeat such a formidable beast?”
 
“Ah, my dear,” Elena replied, her voice taking on a mysterious tone, “that is a secret known only to those who have faced the creature themselves. But I can tell you this – the power of music is a force to be reckoned with, and there are few things more potent than the songs that come from the depths of one’s soul.”
 
As the words washed over her, Maya felt a surge of determination and resolve. She knew that her own journey would lead her beyond the boundaries of her village, and the thought of facing such incredible challenges only fueled her desire for adventure. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to be swept away by the vivid images that danced in her mind’s eye – the taste of crisp mountain air on her tongue, the sound of a thousand voices singing in harmony, and the sight of colossal, ancient beings awakening from their slumber.
 
“Thank you, Mother,” Maya whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling flames of the hearth. “Your stories inspire me to seek my own path, to discover the wonders that lie beyond these mountains.”
 
Elena smiled, placing a warm hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I know that one day your dreams will take you far from here, Maya. And when that day comes, remember this: the greatest magic is not found in the pages of a book or the stroke of a brush, but in the power of love, friendship, and music that resides within us all.”
 
As night settled over the village, its gentle embrace wrapping around the narrow streets and rustic homes, Maya could not help but feel that the world was calling out to her, beckoning her forward into the realms of legend and enchantment. And with each passing day, she knew that the time was drawing near – the moment when destiny would sweep her off her feet and carry her away on the wings of adventure.
 
The following morning, as the first light of dawn crept over the mountaintops and into the quiet village, Maya stood by the river’s edge, her wooden flute in hand. The gentle burble of the flowing water harmonized with the melody she played, each note a testament to her yearning for adventure.
 
“Maya!” Anna called out, her voice echoing through the glen as she approached, a basket of freshly picked wildflowers in her arms. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
 
“Good morning, Anna,” Maya replied, lowering her flute and turning to face her friend. Her bright green eyes sparkled with curiosity as she continued, “What brings you here so early?”
 
“Your mother told me you’d be by the river practicing,” Anna said, smiling warmly. “I thought we could spend some time together before we have to start our chores.”
 
“Of course, I’d love that,” Maya agreed, tucking her flute into her satchel and joining her friend on the soft grass beside the water.
 
As they sat, the scent of wildflowers mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil, Maya couldn’t help but let her gaze drift toward the mountains towering above them. She imagined what it would be like to soar among their peaks, to explore the hidden valleys and ancient forests that lay beyond.
 
“Maya?” Anna’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Is something on your mind?”
 
“Sometimes I just wish there was more to life than this village,” Maya confessed, her voice tinged with longing. “There’s so much I want to see and learn about the world.”
 
“Your dreams are boundless, my dear friend,” Anna said, her voice gentle yet supportive. “And who knows? Perhaps one day you will find your way to those far-off places.”
 
“Maya, come help me with these baskets,” Elena called out as she approached her daughter and Anna, laden with the day’s harvest. “We need to deliver them to the village market.”
 
“Of course, Mother,” Maya replied dutifully, her adventurous thoughts momentarily brushed aside by the weight of daily responsibilities.
 
Later, at the market, Maya overheard a conversation between her father and some village elders.
 
“Her head is always in the clouds,” her father lamented, concern etched across his face. “I worry for her future here.”
 
“Ah, but isn’t that the beauty of youth?” one elder mused. “Their dreams may be far-reaching, but they are also the lifeblood of our village. Perhaps it is time we consider nurturing such aspirations instead of stifling them.”
 
“Indeed,” another agreed. “The world beyond our borders is not without its dangers, but who’s to say that one of our own cannot face them and bring back new wisdom and wonder to share with us all?”
 
As Maya listened, her heart swelled with hope and determination. She knew that, though the path forward might be uncertain, she could not abandon her pursuit of adventure and enlightenment. And with each loving interaction, every challenging conversation, and the unwavering support of those around her, she felt herself drawing ever closer to the precipice of her destiny.
 
As Maya returned to her family’s cottage that evening, the golden rays of sunset cast a warm glow on the whitewashed walls and wooden beams. Her fingers traced the worn pages of her journal as she contemplated the day’s events. The words of the village elders echoed in her mind, whispering of possibilities yet unexplored.
 
“Maya,” her mother called from the kitchen, interrupting her thoughts. “Would you fetch some firewood before night falls?”
 
“Of course, Mother,” Maya replied, setting aside her journal and stepping outside into the cool evening air.
 
As she gathered the wood, Maya noticed unusual tracks in the soft earth near the edge of the forest. They were unlike any animal prints she had ever seen – larger, with sharp claws, and a strange pattern. She felt a mixture of fear and fascination stir within her.
 
“Perhaps these are the footprints of the Silver Guardian,” she mused aloud, recalling one of her mother’s stories. If such a creature truly existed, what other wonders might be hidden beyond the confines of her village?
 
“Maya!” Anna called, approaching with a basket of freshly baked bread. “What are you looking at?”
 
“See these tracks?” Maya pointed them out to her friend, eyes shining with curiosity. “I wonder what could have made them.”
 
“Maybe it’s just a big wolf or something,” Anna suggested, trying to sound dismissive, but the sparkle in her own eyes betrayed her excitement.
 
“Or perhaps it’s a sign of things to come,” Maya whispered, more to herself than to Anna. “A harbinger of adventure.”
 
“Who knows?” Anna agreed, grinning. “But for now, let’s get back to the cottage before your mother starts worrying.”
 
As they walked back, Maya couldn’t help but let her imagination run wild. She envisioned herself traversing treacherous mountain passes, encountering mythical beasts, and discovering long-lost secrets. Her heart raced at the prospect of a life untethered from the familiar comforts of her village.
 
Later that night, as Maya lay in bed, she heard the faintest of sounds – a melody so delicate, it seemed to float on the very air itself. Drawn to its ethereal beauty, she followed the notes through her attic, where she discovered a hidden compartment concealed behind an old tapestry.
 
“Could this be the key to my destiny?” she wondered, her pulse quickening with anticipation. As she reached out to touch the secret door, she felt a chill run down her spine – a premonition of challenges yet to come.
 
“Maya,” her mother’s voice called gently from below, pulling her back to reality. “Sleep well, my child. Tomorrow is another day.”
 
“Goodnight, Mother,” Maya whispered, reluctantly leaving the attic and its mysteries for now. As she closed her eyes, she allowed herself to drift off into dreams of far-off lands and epic quests, her spirit yearning for the adventures that surely awaited just beyond the horizon.
   [1]
 
 Ronnie Smith at 8/4/2023, 1:31:51 AM said:
 May want to shed some light on Maya’s father uttering, “I worry for her future here.”- why he is worried about the future “here” can be elucidated.
 
 
","August 04, 2023 01:57",[]