prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,p7t6k9,BEHOLD LOST POETRY,Joe Malgeri,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p7t6k9/,/short-story/p7t6k9/,Angst,0,"['Adventure', 'Inspirational']",61 likes," Consistently for over two decades my Aunt Sophie annually attended “The Lily-Dale, Upstate NY, Psychic Medium Community.” To celebrate my twenty-first birthday, my Aunt Sophie decided to invite me, her Nephew Patrick, along as her travel companion.    The bus ride from Pittsburgh, PA took approximately three hours. Upon our arrival at 10:45 pm, our adjacent rooms were a pleasant sight for our tired bodies. Therefore, after entering our rooms, followed by unpacking our luggage, we both slept soundly.    The next morning, after eating breakfast in the cafeteria, I, along with my Aunt Sophie, who carried a tape recorder, entered what I consider to be a smaller-than-average-sized auditorium. To my surprise, the room rapidly became less than even halfway filled, with maybe thirty people at most attending. My Aunt Sophie informed me this was the norm. She explained that these people, who were currently gathered close to the stage, routinely sat patiently waiting for the curtain to open. Soon, within only a few more minutes, at 9:00 am the curtain fully opened.    And there she was. Dead center, in front of the room behind a podium, stood a little old lady looking up at the ceiling with her arms outstretched and her palms facing upwards. The immediate, almost mesmerizing impact I experienced from her presence, felt unprecedented. I wondered if this was Doctor Tarz. I expected a man, why hadn’t Aunt Sophie mentioned this? Was she testing to see how chauvinistic I was, or hadn’t the need for mentioning Doctor Tarz’s gender even crossed her mind?    And then she spoke. The petite, elderly woman talked into the microphone stationed upon the podium. Her voice was soft and monotone, but very tranquil, and very hypnotic. Incidentally, her looks and deep-set piercing eyes, as well as her European accent reminded me of the actress, Maria Ouspenskaya. Nevertheless, her oration of words ascended just loudly enough to spellbind the entire audience:    “Greetings dear ones, greetings.”    “Greetings, Doctor Tarz,” the audience replied.    “Which one are you primarily – A lover of gain, a lover of knowledge, or a lover of truth?”    I didn’t respond, but almost everyone else voiced the word, “Truth.”    “Most impressive,” Doctor Tarz responded. “Please keep in mind that truth without kindness is brutality, while kindness without truth is manipulation, although there are exceptions. Okay, so now, to those of you who never met or seen me before, I am Doctor Tarz, a psychic medium and séance channeler. I hold a doctorate in parapsychology, and also a doctorate in physics. Shortly, I will take the seat placed beside me, where I will descend into my theta wave consciousness, a corridor level between the physical and spiritual world. If you are unfamiliar with this area, it is a small region between the levels of alpha and delta. Presumably, I will then channel one or more spirits. Yet, before I begin, are there any questions? – Although, please be brief.”    A man in the fourth row asked, “Doctor Tarz, everyone answered your question with the word ‘truth.’ How would you define truth?”    “Truth is the sum of all possible perspectives, and just like the universe, it’s constantly expanding. However, what’s truth for the spider is not necessarily truth for the fly.”    “Doctor Tarz, what is the key to raising good kids?” asked an elderly gentleman in the first row.    “If you want to raise good children, you have to talk to them like they’re people instead of talking to them like they’re property. Give them confidence and independence. Also, if you continuously criticize your children, usually they won’t stop loving you, they’ll stop loving themselves.”    Doctor Tarz, my husband is vice president at a very successful company, while I’m only a housewife.” The blond lady in the third row asked, “Why is it that every time we attend a party people always have to ask what I do for a living?”    “People often ask others what they do for a living so they can calculate the level of respect a person deserves based solely upon their own interrogating eyes.”    A middle-aged lady in the second row asked, “Doctor Tarz when we die does our awareness increase?”    “Yes, for death is as much an end to life as awakening is an end to sleep.”    “Doctor Tarz, how would you define integrity?” asked a young man in the third row.    “Integrity is choosing your thoughts and actions based on values, rather than on personal gain.”    A heavy-set woman in the second row asked, “Doctor Tarz, why does my tormenting boss always feel the need to smile every time he belittles me?”    “The false face hides what the cold heart doesn’t feel. Moreover, a narcissist needs someone to act as his colostomy bag; otherwise, he would drown in his own crap. But now, please heed my advice: If you don’t quit working there, and the sooner the better, I promise you, your job is going to literally kill you. Our mind, body, nerve system and emotional system are not separate, they are one. When we suppress our emotions we also suppress our immune system. Repressed emotions of anger and stress rarely disappear. Generally, they sooner or later turn against us in numerous ways, becoming the main cause of almost all mental, physical, and terminal illnesses.”    “Doctor Tarz, how would you define power?” asked My Aunt Sophie.    “Power is not controlling other people, power is controlling yourself. Controlling others is what weak people think is power.”    I asked, “Doctor Tarz, how do we end poverty?”    “Poverty exists not because we can’t feed the poor, but because we can’t satisfy the rich.”    “Doctor Tarz, playing the violin makes me happy, but my lawyer husband says it’s a waste of time, why is he like this?” asked the pretty young girl in the second row.    “Education of the mind without education of the heart is no education at all. Whereas, attempting to get a noncreative person to understand a musician’s creativity, is like discussing color with someone who is color blind.”    “Doctor Tarz, my one son acts and dresses so differently than my other four children. I think he’s afraid to compete. Am I correct?” asked the tall thin woman in the third row.    “The opposite of bravery is not fear, it’s conformity. Children are conditioned to trade their authenticity for attachment and acceptance. Contrarily, where everyone thinks alike no one thinks very much, and without deviation from the norm progress is not possible.”    A skeptic in the second row challenged our psychic medium, “Hey, Doctor Tarz, why is it that someone with your cutting personality, but who possesses such miraculous capabilities, isn’t rich and famous?”    “Those who shine from within don’t need the spotlight. Furthermore, don’t confuse my personality with my attitude, sir. My personality is who I am, my attitude depends upon who you are.”    “Yeah well,” the man continued, “I read an article written about you describing you as a spaced-out weirdo.”    “I am constantly being put into a box by others, who are small-minded. Thus, a shortsighted man’s report of what a farsighted person says can never be accurate, because he subconsciously translates what he hears into something he can understand. Now, if this is your attempt to demonstrate just how charitable you are, sir, you’ve lavishly succeeded, because every time you’ve opened your mouth you’ve generously given away your ignorance. Albeit, I prefer not to engage in a battle of wits with you since it’s unfair to fight an unarmed man.”    The man turned bright red, turned around, and walked straight out of the auditorium.    Doctor Tarz smiled while shaking her head, “The empty drum makes the most noise. Okay, I believe we have enough time for one more question.”    Doctor Tarz, my daughter’s wisdom and intellect is so advanced she’s in Mensa.” The lady seated directly in front of Doctor Tarz asked, “But why is it that for every job she lands, she always gets fired?”    “People frequently treat others like they’re difficult to deal with whenever they’re not easy to manipulate or fool. The entire educational and professional training system operates as an elaborate filter. Those who think too independently, or are beyond their employment’s required submissive level, often get exiled. Institutions consider them dysfunctional. Allegorically speaking, birds born in a cage think that flying is an illness. Although, I would rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not.”                                                                                                  Doctor Tarz then sat in the seat stationed nearby the podium. A microphone inserted upon a low-level stand was positioned in front of her:    “Those of you who brought along recording devices, feel free to continue utilizing them. However, when entering a trance I require absolute quiet.”    The room instantly went completely silent. After closing her eyes, Doctor Tarz sat motionless. Within several minutes a channeled spirit spoke through her:    “Born in Lebanon, I graduated from third-density in 1931. Many forgotten works were banned, or burned. Behold lost poetry – ‘AS ABOVE, SO BELOW:’ “As above, so below Dwell all creations and inventions Roam the witnessed traveled souls Through mirrored inner world dimensions Descending planes, a hierarchy Bleeding down to earthly realms Discovery’s reborn reflections Above divinity through depths of Hell High vibration frequencies Receptive channels linked in tune When Prophets know through E.S.P. Premieres of rerun-worlds are viewed “As above, So below Our cores incarcerations Molting into embryos Disembodied emancipations Each universe is parallel From coarse to finer densities Multi-overlapping spheres With omnipresent entities Through vast degrees of consciousness Traveling means becoming aware Ascending journey’s all illusion Welcome home, for we’re already there “Behold – ‘ONCE ALL’S TELEPATHY:’ “Inherited reality, a universal legacy All’s predetermined genetically, and mass induced suggestively Do boundaries in our chromosomes distinguish fact from fictional? Have we man-made reality, and Newton’s Law of Gravity? “Minds altering reality with self-fulfilling prophecies Our world coexists unconsciously and thought controls infinity We’re boundless in our chromosomes, space, time, and matter’s one-dimensional All’s relative to reality, disbelief and belief rule gravity “Our infantile reality, evolution’s scale keeps balancing Each projecting his own insanities, all’s reflections of fears and vanities Our ultimate level’s harmony, when telepathy seeps beyond boundaries Link consciously, concentrate, empathy, all’s love once all’s telepathy “Behold – ‘CROSSING BRIDGES HOMEWARD:’ “Far above your comfort zones Through doors of infinity, past vast unknowns Centuries of legends, the Gods have told At the end of the rainbow lies a pot of gold Angels from hereafter, Angels… Twilight nights, beneath the moon Enlightened starry paths, chosen children They’re climbing rope ladders, beyond fluorescent skies Crossing bridges homeward, to the other side “Worlds behind your conscious mind Contemplations go inside Saturate, subconscious filled Liberate through passive will Angels from hereafter, Angels… Greetings, glowing unearthly presence Miraculously luring, beckoning bright warmth ‘Come step into my light,’ esoterically rise Crossing bridges homeward, to the other side “Welcome to your Promised Land A private universe for every man Enchanting colors, mesmeric lights Majestical musical magical sights Angels from hereafter, Angels… Fragrant gardens, translucent springtime flowers bloom Thoughtform velvet meadows, the eternal non-survivors cheer ‘We’ve been rescued,’ destiny’s soft-breeze sailboat glides Crossing bridges homeward, to the other side “Behold – ‘IN THE WATER:’ “Bathing in the water, contemplating life Mourning, reminiscing, honoring his wife Wishful, hopeful, heightened senses, theta wavelength energy Watchful, blissful, hovering merciful, portal transcendent entity “Lying in the water, voices in his head Answering his questions, enlightened to what’s said Holy Spirit, immaculate essence, divine miraculous infinite truth Suffering, bereaving, diligent praying, petitioning revenant proof “Wading in the water, meditation’s bridge Gateway to the voices, elated by what’s said Intervention, fourth dimension, time’s beginning meets its end Traveling backward, resurrection, universal circular bend “Behold – ‘NO EVIL IN FANTASYLAND:’ “Speak truth, the crime that’s worse than murder Speak truth, exposing masquerades Speak truth, society’s natural enemy Speak truth, like the mongoose to the snake Because when you were young, and someone said: ‘There ain’t no such thing as a Santa Claus’ You’d say they were bad and negative, and you’re still the same We speak no evil in fantasyland “Speak truth, we’re conditioned to reject it Speak truth, real life’s too hard to face Speak truth, we’d rather crucify our savor Speak truth, than admit we might be weak Because once upon a time, when the messenger delivered undesirable news He was put to death, although he didn’t make the news We’re reminded security’s an illusion, and it’s still the same We hear no evil in fantasyland “Speak truth, I’d follow you through fire Speak truth, I’d pay to hear you think Speak truth, the more profound the better Speak truth, the truth will set you free Because everything is relative, and even the devil is another side of you When we don’t like what we see, there’s a goat to take the blame But we’re only blaming a mirror, and we’re still the same We see no evil in fantasyland “Behold – ‘WE ARE ALL HEROES:’ “Take heed and believe what we cannot remember Our well-charted roads were our own design As reborn interns in transparent prisons With voyeur guidance, paths seek the divine “All of us everywhere, everyone, every home Every life, every realm Every time, we are all heroes All of us everywhere, everyone, every home Every life, every realm Every time, praise our return “Ships in the night sail seeking their calling Lost souls reunite who’ve traveled their roads Our lessons in life evolve us through cycles Why are we here? For spiritual growth  “Behold – ‘THE NON-GRIM REAPER:’ “Yes, I’m more than ready, looking forward to your call I’m in no drastic hurry, I won’t worry if you stall I’ve lived a full complete life, I’ve paid my dues and more Feel free to show me entrance, be it window, be it door I’ll take with me my memories, some wonderful, some not The heartaches I’ve experienced, I’ve wished I had forgot I’ve had my fill of women, good times and good time friends Paved decades of redundancies, I thought would never end What’s left for me to challenge? What’s more for me to do?  I’m not scared to get it over and make fate’s dream come true “I’m exhausted, yet enlightened, that such thrills have long worn out I’m no mainstream corporate trainee, longing to remain about Wake up and smell the roses, you’ve been deceived, my friends You’re clinging to illusions, for the living are the dead And when we die is when we’re born, not what most have been taught  The Non-Grim Reaper unlocks the traps to the cages we’ve been caught And no, I’m not unhappy, and no, I’m not depressed It’s just that I know the next world outshines this earth-plane’s best So once you’ve said your finals, goodbye family, friends, and pets Your soul will find its true home, in hereafter eternal bliss “Behold – ‘IT’S NOT MY WORLD:’ “ ‘Live and let live,’ I always say For no one owes no one the time of day Respect other’s rights to be themselves  Don’t impose your will upon someone else Try to see the fox plus the hound’s point of view Listen intently, put yourself in their shoes When someone says that someone is too sensitive They’re revealing themselves as too insensitive Don’t jump to conclusions, give the benefit of doubt ‘Cause it’s not your world, if it were I’d get out! “Bless it who knows of the lessons we owe to the earth-plane Bless it who knows when their spirit has traveled beyond Mercy for souls in their cycles of growth on this earth-plane The Hereafter world is our home and it’s where we belong                                                                  ­­  “Never tell others what to feel or do Never say ‘Smile’ or ‘Don’t let it bother you’ I’m not religious, but I believe in what’s right I revere divine truths and selfless sacrifice Saying you don’t like someone with an attitude Proves you have an attitude about their attitude See the origin of feelings deep beneath each mask ‘Cause being true to oneself may be the ultimate task We are our principles through all trials and bouts  No, it’s not my world, if it were I’d get out!  “Behold – ‘YOU ARE THE UNIVERSE:’ “Starlight, star-bright, a holistic nightlight The sun shines in us, the rivers flow through us Energy flows of us, through all and back to us Over the rainbow and into the light, The Pearly Gates we cross As all is one, and one is all, you are the universe “Solids non-exist, only object illusiveness Substance is spaced filled, molecular fusion’s twice removed  The same space between space connects all through space Over the rainbow and into the light, The Pearly Gates we cross As all is one, and one is all, you are the universe “Remote viewing or consciousness shifting A projected mental focus to where your endless body’s noticed Our universal body, an all-is-one autonomy Over the rainbow and into the light, The Pearly Gates we cross As all is one, and one is all, you are the universe”    Upon awakening from her trance, Doctor Tarz opened her eyes and asked:    “How long was I gone?”    I answered, “Long enough to make a lifelong impression upon everyone.”    “I see. Although, as most of you know, I have absolutely no recollection of any spirits speaking through me… Please now play your tape recording, Sophie?”    “Certainly, but first I need to rewind it,” replied my Aunt Sophie.    Within two minutes everyone listened intently to my Aunt Sophie’s tape recording. Every single word spoken through Doctor Tarz sounded even more spiritually uplifting the second time around.    “Well, that was totally unexpected,” stated Doctor Tarz. “I entered the trance open-mindedly, having no agenda. The spirit who came through did so freely of his own accord… Yet, presently I’m drained, I need to rest. Tomorrow I will attempt to contact Edgar Allan Poe. If I’m unsuccessful, I will attempt to contact Frank Zappa.”    The Curtain Closed! THE END (All Poems Were Written By Joseph Anthony Malgeri, Copyrighted From 1988 To 2014) ","July 23, 2023 19:01","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'I don\'t know where you came up with Dr. Tarz, but she\'s a great character :) She gets hammered with difficult questions and just fires off great answer after great answer, without missing a beat. \n\nDefinitely sells the idea she knows what she\'s talking about, and we immediately understand why Aunt Sophie keeps returning. \n\nGood take on the prompt too. There\'s a strong theme here of conformity vs authenticity, well suited to a world that prefers to put ""human resources"" into the right box for the job. \n\nThe poetry is interesting, but I\'m not ...', 'time': '20:48 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'The narrator, Patrick, is not skeptical of Dr. Tarz, he’s wide-eyed, opened minded, willing to listen and learn, and in admiration of her. As for the poetry, it has little or nothing to do with Patrick, Dr. Tarz, or Aunt Sophie. Although, I agree it would make a smoother and more balanced story if the spirit who spoke through Dr. Tarz were in harmony with her, but then it wouldn’t be as true to life. She can’t control who comes through unless she were to summons the spirit. This particular spirit died in 1931. Being completely self-serving, ...', 'time': '23:26 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'The narrator, Patrick, is not skeptical of Dr. Tarz, he’s wide-eyed, opened minded, willing to listen and learn, and in admiration of her. As for the poetry, it has little or nothing to do with Patrick, Dr. Tarz, or Aunt Sophie. Although, I agree it would make a smoother and more balanced story if the spirit who spoke through Dr. Tarz were in harmony with her, but then it wouldn’t be as true to life. She can’t control who comes through unless she were to summons the spirit. This particular spirit died in 1931. Being completely self-serving, ...', 'time': '23:26 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mary Lehnert': 'Incredible Joe. Truly deep and unique. I’ve just dared to publish my first book Fahrt and Weiss. I’m in awe of your talent. My life may have been eventful but a fertile imagination can scale mountains and fly anywhere. So well done my friend. Loved that line truth is different for the spider and the fly. Awesome.', 'time': '18:47 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Ah, that was a very kind response, Mary, I'm truly grateful. I wish you all the very best with your newly published book; and again, I thank you, my friend."", 'time': '20:10 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Ah, that was a very kind response, Mary, I'm truly grateful. I wish you all the very best with your newly published book; and again, I thank you, my friend."", 'time': '20:10 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'Joe, that was a masterful blend of insightful and pertinent narrative with poetry that AMPLIFIED the story’s themes and ruminations. I’m happy you picked the tags Adventure and Inspirational rather than adding Sci-Fi or Supernatural, because the final twist was satisfying, provoking, and wholly organic to the story. Beginning the story with the seemingly banal routine of travel, collapsing into that hotel bed (one of the few treats of the ag/tech/economics conferences), and mentally and physically prepping for the “work” ahead was flawless c...', 'time': '18:25 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'I thank you immensely, Martin, and you summed up my intentions perfectly. Yes, I started the story slowly, and as you put it, ""prepping for the work ahead."" As for your tombstone reading those selected words, that would be classic and great! But now, as for my tombstone, I think my epitaph will read: ""I told you I was sick!"" LOL...', 'time': '20:25 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Martin Ross': ""LOLOL! I loved Oscar Wilde's dying words."", 'time': '06:24 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Bingo...! You got it, Martin.', 'time': '15:12 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'I thank you immensely, Martin, and you summed up my intentions perfectly. Yes, I started the story slowly, and as you put it, ""prepping for the work ahead."" As for your tombstone reading those selected words, that would be classic and great! But now, as for my tombstone, I think my epitaph will read: ""I told you I was sick!"" LOL...', 'time': '20:25 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Martin Ross': ""LOLOL! I loved Oscar Wilde's dying words."", 'time': '06:24 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Bingo...! You got it, Martin.', 'time': '15:12 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martin Ross': ""LOLOL! I loved Oscar Wilde's dying words."", 'time': '06:24 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Bingo...! You got it, Martin.', 'time': '15:12 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Bingo...! You got it, Martin.', 'time': '15:12 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Awesome story, Joe. Insightful. Reading Dr, Tarz's answers were like reading the Beatitude's of Jesus. I have to give this an A+."", 'time': '01:23 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Wow, an A+... I thank you so very much, Ty. Yes, I put a lot of thought into Dr. Tarz's answers."", 'time': '01:27 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Wow, an A+... I thank you so very much, Ty. Yes, I put a lot of thought into Dr. Tarz's answers."", 'time': '01:27 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Well, wow,Joe! What a poet and deep thinker you are.🤩\n\nDo you do Elegant Lit prompts? The devil with mirror poem would fit this month.', 'time': '22:02 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thank you, Mary. I usually write silly and humorous stories, maybe with some depth thrown in. But this time I figured I\'d introduce a more serious story for a change of pace. I\'m not sure what you mean by an ""Elegant Lit prompt""? Could you give me an example please?', 'time': '17:06 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Go to Elegant Literature website. Monthly prompt $3000 prize money. Up to 2000 words any genre. New writers only.', 'time': '18:18 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""I thank you for the tip, Mary, that's very kind of you. Yes, I will definitely look into it. I'll never know unless I try."", 'time': '20:28 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thank you, Mary. I usually write silly and humorous stories, maybe with some depth thrown in. But this time I figured I\'d introduce a more serious story for a change of pace. I\'m not sure what you mean by an ""Elegant Lit prompt""? Could you give me an example please?', 'time': '17:06 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Go to Elegant Literature website. Monthly prompt $3000 prize money. Up to 2000 words any genre. New writers only.', 'time': '18:18 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""I thank you for the tip, Mary, that's very kind of you. Yes, I will definitely look into it. I'll never know unless I try."", 'time': '20:28 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Go to Elegant Literature website. Monthly prompt $3000 prize money. Up to 2000 words any genre. New writers only.', 'time': '18:18 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""I thank you for the tip, Mary, that's very kind of you. Yes, I will definitely look into it. I'll never know unless I try."", 'time': '20:28 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""I thank you for the tip, Mary, that's very kind of you. Yes, I will definitely look into it. I'll never know unless I try."", 'time': '20:28 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Such an unusual story, Joe. I was completely captivated with the character Dr Tarz and her flawless response to the questions she was asked was impressive. Blew me away, in fact. How did you come up with them, I wonder? \n\nThe poetry is awesome in its own right. \nSomething to be savoured and contemplated. \n\nHowever, I have to agree a little with Michal. Does the poetry lend itself to the short story format in this instance? Perhaps not in the conventional sense of short story writing. It depends what your intention is here.\n\nI’m contradicting...', 'time': '07:31 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Really, Helen, if I was to follow a recipe, be it my music, poetry, or writing, I'd be a businessman and not an artist. I do see your point 100% though. Yes, your suggestions would make an easier reading and better flowing story - which as always, I realized yours as well as everybody else's suggestions on how to write an epitomized story-line prior to writing my story - yet, regardless, I deliberately chose to be the antithesis. When I played my original music live in clubs or on college radio, it mattered less if 99% of the listeners hated..."", 'time': '21:14 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'Hi Joe\nI’m so sorry if I got things across inadequately. I genuinely love your work. I also think you are highly creative in your style and originality.\n\nI hope I do understand something of what you are saying, but I cannot know what anyone’s intentions are here. People obviously write for different reasons. At the end of the day, it is a competition so I would think at least some people want to do well in it. Of course, people’s ideas of doing well will vary. \n\nPeople have critiqued my work and it’s not always been easy to take. When I’ve ...', 'time': '05:07 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""Anyone is free to critique my work all they want, just so long as they have a valid point, some people have and I've heeded their suggestions. But, before doing so, I would recommend to anyone to first size me up and then ask them-self whether they're truly going to tell me something I don't already know. Some people (not you) have also projected them-self into my stories and told me what to do or say because that's what they would have written or done or said if in my character's shoes. This is usually because what they may regard as unusua..."", 'time': '22:02 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'Every point you make here is valid. I’m annoyed with myself for not reading part 1 (I will be reading shortly). \nLike you say, backgrounds differ. I get a sense of a person’s character and maybe their background from reading, but it takes time to get to know someone. My own upbringing was probably unusual, parts of it pretty painful. \nI’m aware each person’s experiences matter and are unique. I was always being limited and told I wasn’t good enough and trying to play catch up now. \n\n If anything, I try and tone stuff down in my stories. \n\n...', 'time': '00:50 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Although, I never met you, Helen, but, I believe you radiate the loving vibrational frequency of a beautiful soul.', 'time': '12:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Really, Helen, if I was to follow a recipe, be it my music, poetry, or writing, I'd be a businessman and not an artist. I do see your point 100% though. Yes, your suggestions would make an easier reading and better flowing story - which as always, I realized yours as well as everybody else's suggestions on how to write an epitomized story-line prior to writing my story - yet, regardless, I deliberately chose to be the antithesis. When I played my original music live in clubs or on college radio, it mattered less if 99% of the listeners hated..."", 'time': '21:14 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Helen A Smith': 'Hi Joe\nI’m so sorry if I got things across inadequately. I genuinely love your work. I also think you are highly creative in your style and originality.\n\nI hope I do understand something of what you are saying, but I cannot know what anyone’s intentions are here. People obviously write for different reasons. At the end of the day, it is a competition so I would think at least some people want to do well in it. Of course, people’s ideas of doing well will vary. \n\nPeople have critiqued my work and it’s not always been easy to take. When I’ve ...', 'time': '05:07 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""Anyone is free to critique my work all they want, just so long as they have a valid point, some people have and I've heeded their suggestions. But, before doing so, I would recommend to anyone to first size me up and then ask them-self whether they're truly going to tell me something I don't already know. Some people (not you) have also projected them-self into my stories and told me what to do or say because that's what they would have written or done or said if in my character's shoes. This is usually because what they may regard as unusua..."", 'time': '22:02 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'Every point you make here is valid. I’m annoyed with myself for not reading part 1 (I will be reading shortly). \nLike you say, backgrounds differ. I get a sense of a person’s character and maybe their background from reading, but it takes time to get to know someone. My own upbringing was probably unusual, parts of it pretty painful. \nI’m aware each person’s experiences matter and are unique. I was always being limited and told I wasn’t good enough and trying to play catch up now. \n\n If anything, I try and tone stuff down in my stories. \n\n...', 'time': '00:50 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Although, I never met you, Helen, but, I believe you radiate the loving vibrational frequency of a beautiful soul.', 'time': '12:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Hi Joe\nI’m so sorry if I got things across inadequately. I genuinely love your work. I also think you are highly creative in your style and originality.\n\nI hope I do understand something of what you are saying, but I cannot know what anyone’s intentions are here. People obviously write for different reasons. At the end of the day, it is a competition so I would think at least some people want to do well in it. Of course, people’s ideas of doing well will vary. \n\nPeople have critiqued my work and it’s not always been easy to take. When I’ve ...', 'time': '05:07 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Anyone is free to critique my work all they want, just so long as they have a valid point, some people have and I've heeded their suggestions. But, before doing so, I would recommend to anyone to first size me up and then ask them-self whether they're truly going to tell me something I don't already know. Some people (not you) have also projected them-self into my stories and told me what to do or say because that's what they would have written or done or said if in my character's shoes. This is usually because what they may regard as unusua..."", 'time': '22:02 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'Every point you make here is valid. I’m annoyed with myself for not reading part 1 (I will be reading shortly). \nLike you say, backgrounds differ. I get a sense of a person’s character and maybe their background from reading, but it takes time to get to know someone. My own upbringing was probably unusual, parts of it pretty painful. \nI’m aware each person’s experiences matter and are unique. I was always being limited and told I wasn’t good enough and trying to play catch up now. \n\n If anything, I try and tone stuff down in my stories. \n\n...', 'time': '00:50 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Although, I never met you, Helen, but, I believe you radiate the loving vibrational frequency of a beautiful soul.', 'time': '12:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Anyone is free to critique my work all they want, just so long as they have a valid point, some people have and I've heeded their suggestions. But, before doing so, I would recommend to anyone to first size me up and then ask them-self whether they're truly going to tell me something I don't already know. Some people (not you) have also projected them-self into my stories and told me what to do or say because that's what they would have written or done or said if in my character's shoes. This is usually because what they may regard as unusua..."", 'time': '22:02 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Helen A Smith': 'Every point you make here is valid. I’m annoyed with myself for not reading part 1 (I will be reading shortly). \nLike you say, backgrounds differ. I get a sense of a person’s character and maybe their background from reading, but it takes time to get to know someone. My own upbringing was probably unusual, parts of it pretty painful. \nI’m aware each person’s experiences matter and are unique. I was always being limited and told I wasn’t good enough and trying to play catch up now. \n\n If anything, I try and tone stuff down in my stories. \n\n...', 'time': '00:50 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Although, I never met you, Helen, but, I believe you radiate the loving vibrational frequency of a beautiful soul.', 'time': '12:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Every point you make here is valid. I’m annoyed with myself for not reading part 1 (I will be reading shortly). \nLike you say, backgrounds differ. I get a sense of a person’s character and maybe their background from reading, but it takes time to get to know someone. My own upbringing was probably unusual, parts of it pretty painful. \nI’m aware each person’s experiences matter and are unique. I was always being limited and told I wasn’t good enough and trying to play catch up now. \n\n If anything, I try and tone stuff down in my stories. \n\n...', 'time': '00:50 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Although, I never met you, Helen, but, I believe you radiate the loving vibrational frequency of a beautiful soul.', 'time': '12:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Although, I never met you, Helen, but, I believe you radiate the loving vibrational frequency of a beautiful soul.', 'time': '12:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'J R': 'Great submission. Cool Title.', 'time': '15:29 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thanks much, JR.', 'time': '17:19 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thanks much, JR.', 'time': '17:19 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Every answer to a question left me wanting to know the next question and answer. Not into this sort of story with Mediums and that, but an interesting read. Loved the poetry. What a surprise. It went on and on. Great principles and values touched on in the story. Fitted in with the prompt perfectly.', 'time': '23:37 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'My spiritual poetry style here was influenced by the star of the story, who was the spirit. I did leave several hints who the spirit was, but, oh well, my big mistake. Anyway, I thank you so very much for your extremely kind words, as well as for your values, they meant a great deal to me. Much appreciated, Kaitlyn.', 'time': '00:17 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'My spiritual poetry style here was influenced by the star of the story, who was the spirit. I did leave several hints who the spirit was, but, oh well, my big mistake. Anyway, I thank you so very much for your extremely kind words, as well as for your values, they meant a great deal to me. Much appreciated, Kaitlyn.', 'time': '00:17 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Hey Joe! This was a very unique story, with the combo of poetry and prose, which I haven't seen before. I really liked the conversation with Dr. Tarz. Her answers are quite inspirational and she has a very distinctive voice with all the idioms. \n\nWe start the details of travel, the conversation with Dr. Tarz, and then the poems, but these three parts don't mesh super well (at least for me). If you involve Patrick more in the story, give us his thoughts and commentary, that would improve the flow of the story. Right now, he just seems like a ..."", 'time': '14:25 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Thank you, Sophia. True, I could have incorporated his thoughts reflecting the poems, but if he were to have responded externally, with anything more than a soft voice, it could have broken Dr. Tarz's trance. Thus, as with any audience of experience there, they more-so internalize their responses. They observe, listen, and learn. They also realize not to communicate with a non-summonsed spirit, unless the spirit is willing. In this case, the spirit stole the show and only wanted his lost poetry recorded. Forty-five years ago people could not..."", 'time': '16:57 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Thank you, Sophia. True, I could have incorporated his thoughts reflecting the poems, but if he were to have responded externally, with anything more than a soft voice, it could have broken Dr. Tarz's trance. Thus, as with any audience of experience there, they more-so internalize their responses. They observe, listen, and learn. They also realize not to communicate with a non-summonsed spirit, unless the spirit is willing. In this case, the spirit stole the show and only wanted his lost poetry recorded. Forty-five years ago people could not..."", 'time': '16:57 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Loved this, Joe! Very Gibran-esque. Too many lines from the poetry to name that touched me.', 'time': '14:07 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thank you, Nina. Your reply to my comment about your most recent post was: ""Spot on observation, Joe."" Well, coincidentally, I now say the same to you: Yes, you\'re observation was also spot on, Nina...! ""Gibran..."" You\'re the only one who got it! - I dropped hints within the story - “Born in Lebanon, graduated from third-density in 1931. Many forgotten works were banned, or burned."" Patrick, who many readers think the story is about, is only the narrator. Dr. Tarz is the co-star and avatar for the star of the story. My spiritual poetry style...', 'time': '16:35 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Ah, wonderful!! Yes, you definitely captured so much that makes Gibran such an unforgettable writer. And you’ve done it well!! Good luck this week!! 😄 also, the PA-NY trip is one I’ve made myself many times. Perhaps another reason I connected with this!', 'time': '12:50 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thank you, Nina. Your reply to my comment about your most recent post was: ""Spot on observation, Joe."" Well, coincidentally, I now say the same to you: Yes, you\'re observation was also spot on, Nina...! ""Gibran..."" You\'re the only one who got it! - I dropped hints within the story - “Born in Lebanon, graduated from third-density in 1931. Many forgotten works were banned, or burned."" Patrick, who many readers think the story is about, is only the narrator. Dr. Tarz is the co-star and avatar for the star of the story. My spiritual poetry style...', 'time': '16:35 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Ah, wonderful!! Yes, you definitely captured so much that makes Gibran such an unforgettable writer. And you’ve done it well!! Good luck this week!! 😄 also, the PA-NY trip is one I’ve made myself many times. Perhaps another reason I connected with this!', 'time': '12:50 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Ah, wonderful!! Yes, you definitely captured so much that makes Gibran such an unforgettable writer. And you’ve done it well!! Good luck this week!! 😄 also, the PA-NY trip is one I’ve made myself many times. Perhaps another reason I connected with this!', 'time': '12:50 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'I loved ""No Evil in Fantasyland."" Feels very timely and terrifying.', 'time': '17:04 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thank you, Ellen.', 'time': '17:06 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Thank you, Ellen.', 'time': '17:06 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': 'The only question I have remaining, Joe, is now that you have written a story that deals with most of the ""tough"" questions in a straightforward truthful manner, through the ascended masters, sounds like, where to now? The concepts are beautiful and ageless; I find the trick is incorporating them into the fabric of your being so to make the best use of this divine wisdom. \n\nYou certainly packed a headful in 3000 words, a lifetime of enlightenment. Dr. Tarz reminded me very much of Abraham Hicks. Odds are you know who this is but, if not...', 'time': '14:12 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""I believe you see a lot, Susan. As for Abraham Hicks, unfortunately, I've never heard the name before, but I promise to do the research. Yet, I'm pleased to speak your language, Susan, and I thank you so very much."", 'time': '19:02 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""I believe you see a lot, Susan. As for Abraham Hicks, unfortunately, I've never heard the name before, but I promise to do the research. Yet, I'm pleased to speak your language, Susan, and I thank you so very much."", 'time': '19:02 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Well, wow, this is extremely impressive Joe. \nI am also stunned by the line: truth without kindness is brutality, while kindness without truth is manipulation. \nThere are a lot of others in there that made me stop and think but that one in particular resonated.\nIn awe of your poetry!', 'time': '09:18 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Your response is well appreciated, Derrick, I thank you immensely.', 'time': '19:13 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Your response is well appreciated, Derrick, I thank you immensely.', 'time': '19:13 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Dr. Tarz, must live on! She need a series ha.\n\nBrilliantly written, powerful dialogue, masterful pacing. I really didn't know what to expect in the first few paragraphs then bam. Fantastic Joe. I'm barely scraping together am entry each week and your throwing in poetry all over the place haha\n\nKeep up the great work 👍"", 'time': '16:39 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Much appreciated, Kevin, I'm truly grateful of your compliments. Although, I could never write anywhere nearly as prolifically as you - or could I ever submit a weekly story, nor have I ever been shortlisted. Thus, I give you a ton of credit, and you too keep up the great work. Thanks again, Kevin."", 'time': '17:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'The stars may align for you this week mate, I can easily see this shortlisted if not a winner!', 'time': '18:24 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': "": ) I'm pleased you feel that way."", 'time': '20:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Much appreciated, Kevin, I'm truly grateful of your compliments. Although, I could never write anywhere nearly as prolifically as you - or could I ever submit a weekly story, nor have I ever been shortlisted. Thus, I give you a ton of credit, and you too keep up the great work. Thanks again, Kevin."", 'time': '17:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'The stars may align for you this week mate, I can easily see this shortlisted if not a winner!', 'time': '18:24 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': "": ) I'm pleased you feel that way."", 'time': '20:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'The stars may align for you this week mate, I can easily see this shortlisted if not a winner!', 'time': '18:24 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': "": ) I'm pleased you feel that way."", 'time': '20:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': "": ) I'm pleased you feel that way."", 'time': '20:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Dude, I LOVED Dr. Tarz! This is one fantastic creation, and one that I hope shows up in other stories you pen. Her responses to questions were witty and informative. The woman is no Dr. Phil - thankfully. LOL\n\nI wasn't sold on the poetry. Not because it wasn't good. It was. I feel that reciting poetry isn't a good way to get a message across. I realize that this is simply an opinion. Many great authors have used poetry to convey messages. I feel, though, that Dr. Tarz is such a strong character that reciting poetry in a trance takes away fro..."", 'time': '11:05 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Thank you, Delbert, you're very diplomatic. True, Dr. Tarz is no Dr. Phil, Ha-ha... She's what he wishes he was. As for your suggestion to have her show up in future writings, I am considering it. Although, I may also have her again being in a trance which may incorporate a different type of spirit with different style of poetry. But with more Dr. Tarz and with less poetry. I'm not sure yet, I'll see whatever falls into place. BTW, Moby Dick, although I never read Melville's novel, is one of my top three favorite movies. Thanks again."", 'time': '14:23 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Thank you, Delbert, you're very diplomatic. True, Dr. Tarz is no Dr. Phil, Ha-ha... She's what he wishes he was. As for your suggestion to have her show up in future writings, I am considering it. Although, I may also have her again being in a trance which may incorporate a different type of spirit with different style of poetry. But with more Dr. Tarz and with less poetry. I'm not sure yet, I'll see whatever falls into place. BTW, Moby Dick, although I never read Melville's novel, is one of my top three favorite movies. Thanks again."", 'time': '14:23 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Shannon C.': 'I really loved this story with the thought provoking Q&A and the absolute beautiful poetry that sent me looking inward at a battered soul inside. You seem to be a very deep and critical thinker Joe, and it shows through brilliantly here. Thank you for taking my mind on a wild trip this morning, that ultimately put me in a great mood and with a lot to meditate on. Great job!', 'time': '14:55 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Oh, I thank you so much, Shannon, I'm always happy to raise someone's mood."", 'time': '15:32 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Oh, I thank you so much, Shannon, I'm always happy to raise someone's mood."", 'time': '15:32 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Dr. Tarz reminded me of a philosophical persona that Friedrich Nietzsche might have created at about the time he wrote Zarathustra. Her maxims don\'t mince words. They\'re simultaneously incisive and gentle. Outstanding.\n\nI also listened to your recording of ""In the Water."" It reminded me, naturally, of Frank Zappa, but I was also reminded of the lyrical melody to Jane\'s Addiction\'s ""Summertime Rolls"" - perhaps the songs are in the same key. You\'re a man of many talents, Joe. What are your polymathic habits?', 'time': '14:23 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Thank you, Mike, I knew out of all the writers on here you would dig the above story. And yes, Zappa is my biggest musical influence, I've seen him 12 times in concert. I met him once when I was 22, shook his hand, and exchanged a couple sentences. But then, I was so starstruck, because, other than Hendrix, he was my musical hero. A second later, I couldn't think of anything else to say. So, I just sort of froze there with my mouth opened and I probably looked like an idiot. Although, he was very kind and polite, as if he seen my reaction a ..."", 'time': '21:13 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Are you suggesting we have great minds, Joe?\n\nThanks for listening to the podcast. It's a shame Deidra and Russell have suspended them. I think you'd make an intriguing interviewee. I'd definitely listen to that one. Take care."", 'time': '14:14 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""To answer your question, well, yes that is how the expression goes. Although, I'm more incline to suggest that you have a great mind, Mike. While as for myself, I'm hopefully just wise enough to realize that I know nothing."", 'time': '15:25 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Thank you, Mike, I knew out of all the writers on here you would dig the above story. And yes, Zappa is my biggest musical influence, I've seen him 12 times in concert. I met him once when I was 22, shook his hand, and exchanged a couple sentences. But then, I was so starstruck, because, other than Hendrix, he was my musical hero. A second later, I couldn't think of anything else to say. So, I just sort of froze there with my mouth opened and I probably looked like an idiot. Although, he was very kind and polite, as if he seen my reaction a ..."", 'time': '21:13 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Are you suggesting we have great minds, Joe?\n\nThanks for listening to the podcast. It's a shame Deidra and Russell have suspended them. I think you'd make an intriguing interviewee. I'd definitely listen to that one. Take care."", 'time': '14:14 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""To answer your question, well, yes that is how the expression goes. Although, I'm more incline to suggest that you have a great mind, Mike. While as for myself, I'm hopefully just wise enough to realize that I know nothing."", 'time': '15:25 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Are you suggesting we have great minds, Joe?\n\nThanks for listening to the podcast. It's a shame Deidra and Russell have suspended them. I think you'd make an intriguing interviewee. I'd definitely listen to that one. Take care."", 'time': '14:14 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""To answer your question, well, yes that is how the expression goes. Although, I'm more incline to suggest that you have a great mind, Mike. While as for myself, I'm hopefully just wise enough to realize that I know nothing."", 'time': '15:25 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""To answer your question, well, yes that is how the expression goes. Although, I'm more incline to suggest that you have a great mind, Mike. While as for myself, I'm hopefully just wise enough to realize that I know nothing."", 'time': '15:25 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,etoqa9,Coming Out of the Box,Michelle Oliver,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/etoqa9/,/short-story/etoqa9/,Angst,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Urban Fantasy']",28 likes," “Back in your box, Laila.”“But I don’t want to.”“It’s getting late. In your box, now!”“Come on Mom, just a little longer, please?” Laila had perfected the whine. She’d learned it from their neighbors, a spectral family who spoke to one another in that ghastly, wailing tone. Cynthia bemoaned their arrival in the neighborhood. They lowered the standard. Soon it will all have gone to the dogs… Quite literally. Where ghosts roamed, the wolves soon followed.“Come on, let me stay up a little longer. I just want to see the sunrise.”“No, and no!” Cynthia eyed her rebellious daughter with resignation, hoping this ‘sunshine and rainbows’ aesthetic she was rocking was just a phase. There was only so much fuchsia pink lipstick and glittery mauve eye shadow that a mother could bear. Thank Hades that Leila’s father was interstate on business. He’d explode if he could see what his daughter was wearing. The plaid skirt in shades of purple and pink was paired with a cream knitted top. Cream! It was perfectly vile, and Cynthia was hard pressed not to show any emotion, because of course, the moment she reacted, Laila would take it even further. Cynthia could just imagine bows and bleached blond hair. It was enough to make her shudder, so she kept her face carefully neutral. Raising teenagers these days was a tricky situation. There were so many outside influences, so many online influencers. Back when Cynthia was sixteen, she had no idea that makeup even existed. The natural pallor of her skin was good enough.“Young lady, if you don’t get straight into your box now, so help me, I will take away your phone and disconnect the internet for two months!”Laila’s eyes narrowed. Holy hell, was she wearing false eyelashes? Cynthia waited for the barrage of teenaged angst, but it didn’t come. Laila scowled, huffed a curse word under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “Jesus!” and flounced from the room, plaid skirt swinging. Cynthia chose to ignore the curse word and the attitude, and be grateful that the little rebel had complied.Once she was sure that Laila had stomped upstairs to her room, Cynthia stood and slid open the kitchen drawer to retrieve a large, heavy hammer. Swinging the tool nonchalantly, enjoying the feeling of its weight in her hand, she followed her daughter upstairs.The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open. Laila sat before a mirror, (where the hell did she get one of those?) removing her makeup with face cream. The reflection showed her hideous outfit and face paint, but no face, because of course, vampires have no reflection.“You shouldn’t ruin your skin with that rubbish.” The words were out before Cynthia could stop them. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t react, wouldn’t criticize, wouldn’t give Laila the reaction she expected.“It’s my skin.”“And it needs to last you for your entire life. Don’t forget, it won’t repair if you damage it with all those chemicals.”“Mom, you are so old-fashioned.” Laila threw the face wipes into the rubbish bin and turned to her mother, eyes drawn to the hammer in her hand. “You don’t need to do that,” she said with an exaggerated sigh accompanied by a roll of her eyes. “I’m not a baby.”“Don’t argue with me. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t tack you in?”Laila huffed and stomped to the box on the other side of the room, complaining in that sulky tone she had perfected, “None of my friend’s parents still tack them in.”“You might think I’m old-fashioned, and you might try my patience every day, but you are my daughter. While you live under my roof, I will always tack you in.”Laila stepped into the box and nestled herself against the soft pillows with a scowl on her face. Cynthia leaned in, placed a soft kiss on Laila’s forehead, before she hefted the lid onto the box. With efficient taps that spoke of years of practice, she tacked the lid in place.“Good morning honey, I’ll see you this evening.” She adjusted the curtains to ensure they closed completely and made her way to her own room.****Inside the confined space of the box, Laila fished her phone from her pocket. The screen lit up the darkness and she called Christian.“Hey, beautiful.” His voice was a sexy whisper.“Good morning. You will never believe it…”“She tacked you in?”“Yep, she thinks I’m still a child!”“Well, technically…”“Shut up, Chris, I’m sixteen! I’m not a child.”“I know.” Christian was laughing at her. She could hear it in his husky voice, and she was tempted to tell him where to go. Just because he was seventeen didn’t make him an adult. Actually, he’d been seventeen for over a century now, so perhaps it did. “Don’t worry, I’ll be over in a few minutes to let you out.”“Hurry, you know how this box makes me feel claustrophobic.”“I’m on my way.”He hung up and there was a long moment of silence, until the lid slowly lifted, the tacks pulling free from the wood. Christian peered over the edge of the box, his eerie face shining in the darkness.“Service with a smile,” he grinned and floated above her. “You look nice, new dress?” He reached into the box to help her stand.His hand was cold in hers. He was the only person who made her feel warm. Vampires are notoriously cold-blooded, but comparing her temperature with the ghost, she was burning up. It was this contrast that first attracted her to Christian. That and his poltergeist’s ability to break and enter without breaking anything. He could float through walls with ease, then become solid enough to move items at will. It was a neat trick.When she was steady on her feet, he bent his head and his icy lips touched hers in a brief flicker of a kiss. A ghostly peck that sent shivers up her spine.“I brought you something to eat.” He pulled a wrapped sandwich from his bag and handed it to her. After living her whole life on a liquid diet, the food was a novelty, and she eagerly savored every bite. He watched her eat with a slight upward tilt of his mouth, amusement dancing in his eyes. Ghosts don’t eat, and she knew that he enjoyed watching her consume food, in the same way she enjoyed the feeling of being warm to his cold.Once she finished, the lethargy of the encroaching dawn began to weigh her down. Each blink of her eyes became heavier and heavier.“What is the sun like?” she asked, her voice drowsy as she leaned in to Christian, her head burrowed against his chilly shoulder.“Bright, hot, golden.” Christian’s own voice was a drowsy, husky whisper. Neither of them were creatures of daylight.“I’d love to see the sun. It must be beautiful.”“You can’t. You’d burn up.”“I know,” Laila sighed, her eyelids growing heavier and her words slurring with fatigue. “It’s just not fair.”“Life’s not fair, you know. Neither is death.” Christian collected the cushions from within the box to make a small, soft nest and gathered Laila in his arms. He deliberately positioned his back protectively toward the window as they burrowed sleepily into the softness and together they slipped beneath the spell of morning, as slivers of dawn slipped through the gaps in the curtains.******“What the hell!”The screech startled Laila awake and her head thumped against the floor. Surprise and shock made her ghostly sleeping companion, who had been her chilly pillow all day, disappear. He’d explained it once as an involuntary instinct of self-preservation.“Mom?” Laila gasped as she scrambled back into wakefulness, trying to sort her thoughts into coherent strings.“I can’t believe it, Laila, who was that? Why are you not in your box? I tacked you in!” Cynthia almost screeched, the hammer waving in her hand for emphasis.“I don’t like the box. I feel trapped in there.”“Since when?”“Since forever.”“And who the hell is that?” Laila was relieved to turn her head and see Christian. He could have stayed away in that ghostly state of invisibility, but he chose to be by her side for this. Her dead heart glowed with emotion.“Mom, this is Christian.”Her mother flinched. “Chris..?” She couldn’t say the entire name. Laila had been raised on tales of horror. Stories of how their ancestors had been hunted and persecuted by crucifix wielding hoards, sprinkling their holy water and evoking their Christian God, to send vampires to their doom. But Christian couldn’t help having such a name. It wasn’t his fault. She reached out to clasp his hand in hers, taking comfort from his icy, steadfast presence.“Chris, this is my Mom, Cynthia.”“Pleased to meet you,” Christian said, his manners impeccable.“I’m afraid I cannot say the same.” Cynthia’s eyes glowed with fury and her tone dripped with disdain.“Mom!”“Laila, there is a strange man in my daughter’s bedroom, my sixteen-year-old daughter’s bedroom! No, I am not pleased. What’s more, is that this man is a ghost!” She spat the last word with disgust.“You don’t understand Mom-”“Damned right I don’t understand. I have ignored your little fashion phase, put up with all the changes to your image, held my thoughts to myself hoping you’d grow out of it, but this!” She waved her hands at the ghost. “This is unacceptable.”“Mom, I’m not like you!” Laila raised her voice in a shrill cry. Christian gave her hand a little squeeze, and she took two calming breaths before continuing. She began again. “I’m not like you. I don’t identify as a vampire.”“You don’t what, now?” Cynthia’s immaculate brows rose in shock.“I don’t identify as a vampire.” Laila stated again, drawing closer to Christian for support.“You don’t identify as a vampire? What do you identify as?” Cynthia flicked her eyes to the man her daughter was attached to. “A ghost?”“No, Mom. I identify as human.”*******Cynthia could barely believe her ears. She paused and ran the memory of her daughter’s words through her brain to ensure that she had processed them correctly.“Human!” she gasped. It was worse than a ghost. Her beautiful daughter believed herself to be food! “I can’t believe it. For the love of Hades, you are a vampire!”“But I don’t want to be a vampire.”“It’s not something that you can control. It’s just a fact. You are what you are.”“If I may?” The ghost interrupted. Cynthia swung her glare at him.“Absolutely not! You should not be here, you have not been invited in.”“I’m a ghost, not a vampire. I don’t need to be invited in.” His tone reeked with smugness and Cynthia despised him.“You are the reason my daughter is like this. You’ve influenced her, changed her.”“No, I stopped her sneaking into the human realm to steal their food.”“The human realm? Their food?” Cynthia gasped, feeling her body sway alarmingly. She collapsed into a chair before her knees gave way entirely. “Please don’t tell me you were trying to eat human food. And what if they had caught you? You would have been staked on sight.”“I stopped her and brought her back safely.” The ghost continued to speak in that annoyingly condescending, over confident way.“Am I supposed to say thank you?” She snapped back.“Mom!”Cynthia closed her eyes a moment, trying to center herself and tried again for a more rational tone. “You know that eating human food is going to ruin your digestion. We are vampires, honey. We don’t heal. Once the damage is done, it’s permanent.”“I don’t want to be a vampire. I want a permanent change.”Cynthia had heard of Permanent Vampire Transformation, or PVT, as the media had labeled it. It was something that happened to other vampires, to other families. A vampire began to eat human food, and slowly they changed, became less vampire, more human. But it was a fake human. They’d never be able to be fully human, never be able to stand the full sun, would still not have a reflection. Their vampire abilities would be reduced and, in some cases, vanish all together. Human blood would not nourish them, they would age as a human and be unable to fly. It seemed to be a terrible bargain, with no positive outcomes for the one who transformed.“You are only sixteen. You have at least eight or nine centuries yet to live. How do you know that you want a permanent change? What if you change your mind?”“I won’t. I have known for years that I’m not like you. I want to be human.”It had been centuries since Cynthia had last cried, but she could feel the tears welling up. Visions of the future crumbled before her eyes. Vampire balls, weddings, babies. That future dissolved into a puddle of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.“Why?” she whispered.“I don’t know.” Laila looked as if she were going the cry, and the ghost boy put his arm about her. “I’m just sure that this is right for me.”“You will never belong anywhere. You will be a misfit in both the human and vampire world! How can you want that?”“I don’t have to fit in anywhere, Mom, I just want to be me.”“Jesus!” Cynthia whispered the curse word. She never swore, but this situation called for the strongest swearword she knew. “Your father will disown you!”“I know.” The tears that until now had shimmered on Laila’s bottom lid, over flowed her lashes and streaked down her cheek. “But I can’t be what you want me to be.”That damned ghost put his arms around Laila and turned her head into his shoulder as she cried. Cynthia glared at him, but he stared back at her steadily. In his eyes she could see centuries, an old soul forever trapped in an eighteen-year-old form. Without words he seemed to say, you can accept this and keep her, or not accept it and lose her. Either way, this was happening.“Christian,” Cynthia winced as she said the name. “I won’t be able to protect her.” It was true. A human, even a fake human, could never live in a vampire household. The instinctual, primal urge to feed would eventually win and the human would not stand a chance. This realization caused her stomach to plummet, and she whispered hopelessly, “I have lost my daughter.”The old eyes of the teenaged ghost softened with understanding. “I will protect her,” he promised. “I will keep her safe while she transforms.”“And then?” Laila was going to be alone, a freak neither human, nor vampire, nor a ghost. Cynthia’s heart, dead though it was, broke and shattered into pieces.“And then it’s up to Laila to decide what she wants.” The ghost’s voice was annoyingly calm.“I see. And the fact that I want my daughter is irrelevant. I want her here, under my roof, safe and protected. My wants are unimportant.”Laila wiped her tears on her cream sleeve. “Mom, I love you, but I can’t live my life for you.”“You are sixteen. You shouldn’t be making decisions that will seriously affect your entire future.”“You don’t understand-”“You’re right, I don’t,” Cynthia interrupted. “But neither do you. You have no concept of what you are doing. And what you are doing to yourself is irreversible. It will mean that you can’t live here, not because I don’t want you to, but it won’t be safe for you.”“Mom, I’ve made my choice. If you can’t accept it, I am leaving.”Cynthia was speechless as she watched her daughter quickly gather her clothes, throw them into a bag and, with the assistance of the damned ghost, she vanished from sight.Cynthia didn’t know how long she sat there, oblivious to the tears that rolled down her face, but the moon was long up by the time she stirred herself into action. Gathering up the pile of blankets and pillows from the floor, she placed them neatly into the box. She lifted the lid, placing it into position, and with deft taps, she nailed the empty box shut. ","July 23, 2023 04:00","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'That was a fun-filled ride through the absurd - until it wasn\'t. As humorous as this tale was, the underlying message was a serious. One could liken the daughter\'s plight with anyone who was gay or transgender or anything else of that nature. \n\nThere is so much in this story. Parental worries, losing a daughter to the outside world, dealing with differences, etc. I suppose even vampires have their domestic and identity issues.\n\nFavorite lines:\n""I don\'t identify as a vampire.""\n""Mom, you don\'t have to tack me in.""\nWow, those were hilarious, an...', 'time': '10:08 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. The words “I don’t identify as a vampire,”just jumped into my head when thinking about putting someone in a box, and I had to write the story around it. Glad the social commentary came through with the humour.', 'time': '14:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. The words “I don’t identify as a vampire,”just jumped into my head when thinking about putting someone in a box, and I had to write the story around it. Glad the social commentary came through with the humour.', 'time': '14:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Michelle,\nOh an interesting twist on a painful tale. I loved the way we slowly got to put the puzzle pieces together for this one. I also loved the way you kept the secret until midway through the piece when our protagonist proudly comes out of the box. I also loved the way you kept modern twists in the story-internet, cell phone, etc. nice work!!', 'time': '17:01 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. I’m glad you enjoyed it. A difficult subject and I hoped to present a story where there was no clear right or wrong.', 'time': '21:47 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. I’m glad you enjoyed it. A difficult subject and I hoped to present a story where there was no clear right or wrong.', 'time': '21:47 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Parul Shah': 'Really fun read, Michelle. You had me at the astral family bringing down the neighborhood. I love the literal and figurative boxes — Christian can’t be contained physically and liberates Laila from her literal and figurative boxes, Cynthia’s trying to tack her daughter into literal and figurative boxes. The words “I don’t identify as a vampire” are not just quirky, they’re unboxing Laila. Really cool take on the prompt!', 'time': '21:05 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. Yes I was going for a physical and a metaphorical box. A bit of humorous social commentary.', 'time': '00:55 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. Yes I was going for a physical and a metaphorical box. A bit of humorous social commentary.', 'time': '00:55 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': '""She\'s leaving home."" A Beatles song come to life in death. Excellent work, Michelle. As relatable a scene as any mom of a teenage girl can attest. It\'s sad but true - growing pains are real. What truly delighted me was how engaged I became while reading to all three of these creatures. Goes to show, parenting and life - or existence in general - is not for the faint of heart.\n\nA pleasure, Michelle - as always.', 'time': '14:26 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Susan. Parenting is hard and there are no black and whites, no wrong and rights, just different perspectives. I’m happy that all three characters were relatable.', 'time': '14:48 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Susan. Parenting is hard and there are no black and whites, no wrong and rights, just different perspectives. I’m happy that all three characters were relatable.', 'time': '14:48 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'I loved the literal take on the prompt. An *actual* box. Very creative. But I also admire the way you brought in the very real tone to the fantasy story – the tug of a teenager who wants to be free and a parent who wants to protect her forever. I enjoyed this.', 'time': '19:27 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading and for your response. I really wanted to present both side of a complex issue. I’m glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '22:20 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading and for your response. I really wanted to present both side of a complex issue. I’m glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '22:20 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Trell D': 'This was a great way to tell this story. When I first began to read it--despite the title-- I thought of it as a tale of overbearing/helicopter/overprotective parenting. And I especially loved the language of ""tacking"" one in a box to ""protect"" the child from the rest of the world. It was a great metaphor. But as I began to read of rainbows and colors and identification as another form of oneself, I realized what route this story was taking and I hopped on for the ride even more. \nGreat artistry of metaphors and themes here, Michelle!', 'time': '18:49 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for reading. This is a complex issue and there are always two sides with neither side actually being wrong. Both have their very real and very valid reasons for their reactions and responses in this story. It’s easy to judge one side or the other based on your own personal bias but often the issues are more complex than can be observed by an outsider.', 'time': '22:25 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for reading. This is a complex issue and there are always two sides with neither side actually being wrong. Both have their very real and very valid reasons for their reactions and responses in this story. It’s easy to judge one side or the other based on your own personal bias but often the issues are more complex than can be observed by an outsider.', 'time': '22:25 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Ha! Silly and serious at the same time. It's a real rock and hard place situation, since something must change. Only, Laila has spent her whole (short) life working up to this change, and Cynthia seems resistant to any change, whatsoever. On top of all else, she's a mother dealing with a teen, knowing that childhood was ending one way or another.\n\nWe might say Cynthia ought to have been more supportive, but no matter what, she's losing her daughter. The added complication of not being able to be around prey makes this situation all the more ..."", 'time': '22:27 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. \nSilly and serious, yes. There are two sides to every story and both sides have sound reasons for their feelings and reactions. I was hoping to present this greyness.', 'time': '22:53 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. \nSilly and serious, yes. There are two sides to every story and both sides have sound reasons for their feelings and reactions. I was hoping to present this greyness.', 'time': '22:53 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michael Martin': ""Definitely an interestingntake on the prompt. I'm curious how she would make the transition to being a human, how that transformation would go. And using a ghost instead of something like a werewolf, cough cough, is a nice touch lol"", 'time': '22:38 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it Michael. Hopefully she doesn’t regret her choice. Who knows? The line, “I don’t identify as a vampire” hit me when contemplating this set of prompts about being put in a box and the story grew from there.', 'time': '22:51 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it Michael. Hopefully she doesn’t regret her choice. Who knows? The line, “I don’t identify as a vampire” hit me when contemplating this set of prompts about being put in a box and the story grew from there.', 'time': '22:51 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Excellent take on the prompt, I went for an enjoyable ride, I loved it. Good characters, and ghost and vampires I'll always be interested in. Nice work, Michelle."", 'time': '20:47 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Joe, I’m happy that you liked it.', 'time': '22:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Joe, I’m happy that you liked it.', 'time': '22:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Relevant great story telling. But I for one, as old-fashioned as I have a right to be, still do not think a child should make a permanent, irreversible decision until they are an adult. There I said it!', 'time': '15:51 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'It’s a hard topic to debate. I hope that my story shows there are two sides both with equally sound reasoning. There are no black and whites only infinite shades of grey.', 'time': '15:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'It’s a hard topic to debate. I hope that my story shows there are two sides both with equally sound reasoning. There are no black and whites only infinite shades of grey.', 'time': '15:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Cynthia's child is growing up... And you almost forget the vampire part of it. Although, not really of course.\n\nReally interesting! I'll admit that 'I don't identify as a vampire' made me laugh...\n\nStory, great. Characters, great. Everything else, great. \n\nJust Laila's luck that he would be called Christian! \n\nCool that the vampire and ghost worlds blend. You can see ghosts as a vampire but not as a human?"", 'time': '08:15 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. That line, “I don’t identify as a vampire”, was my seed for this story. It was a phrase that just popped into my head when I thought about someone trying to put someone else back into a box, and I had to write its story.', 'time': '08:20 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. That line, “I don’t identify as a vampire”, was my seed for this story. It was a phrase that just popped into my head when I thought about someone trying to put someone else back into a box, and I had to write its story.', 'time': '08:20 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""This was a rollercoaster of marvelousness! Yes, marvelousness. It felt like every few paragraphs I was like oooh.\n\nThe teenage angst told through supernatural means is a brilliant idea and so well executed. The mother and daughter both justified in their thinking but not able to understand each other is so real and the mother blaming Christian is so typical.\n\nSo many great things I could say about this but I'll let everyone else undoubtedly do it for me ha."", 'time': '07:35 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it Kevin. I wanted to present a scenario where neither side was actually wrong hoping to present the greyness of the issue.', 'time': '07:58 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Well you done it perfectly! Job done! Ha.', 'time': '08:31 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it Kevin. I wanted to present a scenario where neither side was actually wrong hoping to present the greyness of the issue.', 'time': '07:58 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Well you done it perfectly! Job done! Ha.', 'time': '08:31 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Well you done it perfectly! Job done! Ha.', 'time': '08:31 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'That is a brilliant take on the prompt. I loved this line: What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t tack you in? Loved the story, loved the characters, great dialogue, and relevant in society today. I applaud you!', 'time': '04:35 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I’m happy that you enjoyed my attempt at a vampire tale with social commentary. That line you picked was my favourite too.', 'time': '04:47 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I’m happy that you enjoyed my attempt at a vampire tale with social commentary. That line you picked was my favourite too.', 'time': '04:47 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Yeisha Lee': 'Ummmmm I need this story completed please! I need to know what happens!!!', 'time': '18:22 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,gqjv51,The Cat's Pyjamas,Chris Campbell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gqjv51/,/short-story/gqjv51/,Angst,0,"['Happy', 'Fiction', 'Fantasy']",24 likes," “Let me out! Please let me out! I don’t like it in here!” Not too long ago, I was in a happy place. Three square meals a day, plenty of attention, and they even threw in a few toys to alleviate the boredom of being alone for lengthy periods. However, I was quickly discarded when my youthful cuteness made way to young adulthood – after I started to display an aversion to the newest four-legged member of the family. Prior to that time, I would be left abandoned to my own devices for most of each day, so I used to entertain myself with games of fantasy, chasing imaginary mice and birds to while away the time until my adopted mother came home from wherever she had been hunting and gathering food. My favourite game – as I waited for company - was kick and chase the ball. When I was younger, my adopted family would laugh and giggle at my juvenile antics, slipping and sliding on their shiny wooden floor – bumping into the furniture as the ball bounced beyond my control. I liked making them laugh. It brought a sense of purpose to my existence. Then, the mood changed one day when I accidentally knocked over that big black thing, they used to endlessly stare at each evening. I used to like watching the big bright moving images on it, too. But after my accident, it stopped glowing. It was my first offence, but my angry stepdad threw me into a box and abandoned me outside what I can only describe as a prison for homeless offenders. Hungry and exhausted from crying, someone finally came along to incarcerate me in a place where there were other orphans like me dreaming of a furever home. I don’t think my angry stepdad ever cared for me. Don’t get me wrong. He would feed me and allow me out into the garden, and throw the ball for me to chase, but when I was outside, there were other things that screamed out for my attention, so I usually ignored him until he rang the dinner bell. He spoke a different language than me, anyway, and I didn’t have the time to train him up on mine. Not when there was so much outdoor movement to investigate. We never bonded. He just didn’t understand my ways and always seemed to sneeze and push me away - whenever I jumped up on his lap. I may have been kicked out of his precious home, but that’s his loss. I’ve always said, why stay where you’re not wanted. My stepmother didn’t protest much. That surprised and hurt me because she liked a cuddle every now and then. It was when they brought that slobbering Pitbull home, that things began to sour. His arrival most assuredly signalled the beginning of the end to my long-standing welcome. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s slobber. I would spend most of my waking moments in the afternoon, grooming and preparing myself to look good for when the family returned home, only to be over-slobbered by an over-excited and oversexed hound, who couldn’t contain his emotions, and had to kiss everyone and everything in sight when the front door opened. Let me tell you, dog drool smells and mattes your fur. It was no wonder that I would run scampering for the nearest hiding spot to catch my breath and wait until he calmed down enough for me to re-emerge. Usually, by the time I decided it was safe to come out, everyone had gone to bed or were too busy to pay me any attention. What would be worse, was that in my absence, the hungry hound with his voracious appetite would have helped himself to my dinner, so there would be nothing in my bowl left to eat. He’d even gobble up the dry stuff they forced me to eat. And worse, the water bowl would be full of dog drool. Yuck! “I want to get out of this box. I have a cardboard allergy, people! Can anyone hear me?” It was of no surprise then, that I took an impatient dislike to the drooler’s thievery. So, I would let him know of my distaste for his rudeness, with a few swats around his face - whenever he came close to me. Unfortunately for me, this was interpreted by the household as anti-social behaviour, so very quickly, my nights in front of a warm fireplace on a plush and soft bed became a huddle on the back porch on a rough doormat in the cold and dark. Thank goodness for fur. I’d hate to be one of those ugly coatless things they admire in Egypt – wherever or whatever Egypt is. They would have frozen to death during our last winter. Feeling guilty, my ignorant stepdad put some blankets in a box and left it on the porch with dry food in a bowl, so I was forced to spend all winter sleeping in it. If it hadn’t been for my furry outside, I’m not sure if I would have survived those bitter cold nights. I categorically don’t like boxes – unless there’s an easy way in and an equally easy way out. Then, it’s fun to dive in and roll around, pretending there’s invisible critters trying to escape my sharp clutches. However, this box I’m currently in, is confining, claustrophobic, and void of any stimulation whatsoever. So, I’ve decided that I’m going to use the bulk of my body to leap at the small opening in the top of the box -  in the attempt at gaining my freedom. Here goes… Success! I’ve managed to get my head out. Now, I have the visual advantage to see what the heck is going on. What’s this? Another box? Have I been put into a Russian Doll? No, there are windows and daylight and opportunities to watch things outside. Freedom! Where the head leads, the body will surely follow. I’ve managed to wriggle free. Ha! “There ain’t a box big enough to hold me.” Ooh, what have we here on this bench-like padded seat? Let me see. New toys, some of that pouch food I like and that gourmet dry food for when there’s nothing else to eat. Who is that sitting just ahead of me? Oh, that’s the nice lady – my new mother - who saved me from a life in a penitentiary - forced to listen to all those sad others crying for their mothers. But I was in a box, so who put me there? Think back. I’m happy in the realisation that it wasn’t my new mother that put me in it. That was the warden back at the other place. It wasn’t all bad, there. They were very nice to me but kept their emotional distance. I could sense their reluctance to bond. Perhaps, they all had relationship issues. Not like my new mum sitting in the seat in front of me - who needs to know that I’m out of the box. “Hi Mum! What’s to eat?” Hmm, I don’t think she can hear me with all that noise coming from outside this vibrating box. Maybe if I jump up on her shoulders. WHOA! The room suddenly moved sideways. Was that an earthquake? No, things are steady again. She’s laughing, so I must have done something funny. Lookie there, a nice lap to cuddle on. It’s okay, Mum. Continue what you were doing. I’ll snuggle in here for a few moments and drift off to sleep for a while. What’s that? Yeah, I’m happy to make your acquaintance, but I’m getting a little hungry. Can you pet me, please? It will relax and prevent you from gripping that wheelie thing so tightly. Here! My paw will guide your hand to my belly. No, don’t stop! That was nice. Can’t you hear me purring? That means, keep going. Okay, let’s get one thing clear. I need lots of attention. Hey, are you listening to me? Right, I’m getting up and moving to where I have your undivided attention. Whoa! Is the world moving past us at high speed, or are we flying? This is a nice scratch pad on your window shelf. I might just have a stretch across it. What’s that? No, I’m not getting down. You need to be looking at me and not what’s out there. I am yours now, so consider this part of our bonding time. What’s that? We’re where? No, I don’t want to get back into that box. I refuse to be confined any longer. I don’t need no stinking box. There! Box shredded. Please don’t punish me. It’s for my own good. Yes, pick me up. That’s acceptable. In fact, I like being picked up. It gives me the opportunity to scent your face. There! You’re mine, now. Inseparable. Oh, wow! Fresh air! You’re out of your box, too! What lovely flowers for me to play amongst. Yours or the neighbours? If it’s yours, I promise not to poop in them. I must say that my new home is much nicer than the last one. That’s a snuggly bed for me to curl up on. Oh, and you have carpet, too. What luxury. I’m sure it will need grooming – along with that big, long soft bench you sit on at night. So, whenever I require your attention to let me outside, I’ll signal it by scratching my own version of morse code onto it, okay? As far as homes go, this is what I would call, the cat’s pyjamas. But let’s get one thing straight. I don’t do clothing, so no stupid costumes at pumpkin time. With those conditions for staying cleared up, I’m just going to check out the rest of the place. You know - pick out my best sleeping places, check for slobbering pooches. I don’t smell any other stepchildren, but I do smell that delicious food you’ve just prepared for me. Oh, this is heaven reincarnate. I think I’m going to settle in here just fine – but no more boxes, okay? If you want to take me anywhere, I require some thing light and airy where I can see where we’re going. Oh, and I need a collar. Preferably without a bell, so the birds can’t hear me approaching. I believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship. Yes, you sit down right there while I lay on your lap, because you’re going nowhere for a while… ","July 27, 2023 07:55","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris,\nWhat a touching point of view. It was beautiful and kind and intricate. I loved the way this cat has needs and their needs will be HEARTD. It was great to have a happy ending and running along the cat’s thought process was perfectly fascinating. You did a great job!!', 'time': '23:05 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Amanda.\nThis was a creative interpretation of the tale of our ""Tank\'s"" journey home to us from the shelter, told to me by my partner. He\'s a very spoiled and much-loved boy.', 'time': '04:58 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Amanda.\nThis was a creative interpretation of the tale of our ""Tank\'s"" journey home to us from the shelter, told to me by my partner. He\'s a very spoiled and much-loved boy.', 'time': '04:58 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""I enjoyed this cat POV. Completely justified that the kitty would not want to hang with the slobber pooch. But a cat that is allergic to cardboard? Mine can't get enough of it! Nice work on this piece."", 'time': '17:49 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Ellen,\nThanks for reading and commenting. \nI agree about the cardboard. He was just being a bit over-dramatic. 😉', 'time': '23:46 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Ellen,\nThanks for reading and commenting. \nI agree about the cardboard. He was just being a bit over-dramatic. 😉', 'time': '23:46 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Written from experience! As a cat and (slobbery) dog owner myself all of this was so relatable ( apart from the box thing!) Our cookie has no shortage of comfort or laps!! \nGreat story!', 'time': '06:45 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Derrick.\nOur lick-face pooch gets along with both cats. One of the cats (the stray one) and her are like long-lost lovers.\nThanks for reading and commenting.', 'time': '14:29 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Derrick.\nOur lick-face pooch gets along with both cats. One of the cats (the stray one) and her are like long-lost lovers.\nThanks for reading and commenting.', 'time': '14:29 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Smallwood': '""furever home"" lol \nHaving recently taken in a stray cat and done everything we could possibly think of to get it to play nice with our docile ragdolls who hardly ever hiss let alone bite, a story about a cat having problems was right up my alley. \nSigh. The stray cat had to be given to the humane society after four months of trying. But this scrappy cat landed an owner who had no other animals so one more happy ending to add to your fun story!', 'time': '05:01 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Joe.\nGlad to hear about your stray's happy ending."", 'time': '05:55 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Joe.\nGlad to hear about your stray's happy ending."", 'time': '05:55 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Man, Chris, you put yourself it your cat's place so well it was impressive. The Cat Whisperer - I can relate somewhat, I had one for 18 years. Very well written, comical, sad, and warm. I enjoyed it."", 'time': '00:04 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Joe.\nHaving two cats and a dog, gives me ample time to study their characters. This was loosely based on our ""Tanks"" journey home to us from the shelter.\nSo glad you liked it.', 'time': '04:31 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Joe.\nHaving two cats and a dog, gives me ample time to study their characters. This was loosely based on our ""Tanks"" journey home to us from the shelter.\nSo glad you liked it.', 'time': '04:31 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': 'The feline mind, what a POV. I speak bird much more fluently than I do cat so, other than those tense moments of reading about collars without bells, etc., this read to me like a Dickensian classic tale, especially as it brought me to tears in the beginning, only to be swept off into a state of bliss at how it all turns out - with not a box in sight.\n\nA complete pleasure, Chris, as usual!', 'time': '16:24 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Susan, \nThanks for the great feedback. I'm an all-animal lover, so even thinking about no bell on a cat collar was a bit stressful for me, as well.\nI love the Dickensian comparison. So glad you liked it."", 'time': '04:28 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Susan, \nThanks for the great feedback. I'm an all-animal lover, so even thinking about no bell on a cat collar was a bit stressful for me, as well.\nI love the Dickensian comparison. So glad you liked it."", 'time': '04:28 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""You without doubt own a cat ha. This was fun, the car ride in particular, that cat has the demanding attitude I know from my eighteen year old tabby, though you'd never get her so calm in a car lol.\n\nVery interesting take on the prompt and as always extremely well written.\n\n Great submission 👍"", 'time': '07:58 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Kevin.\nTwo cats, now. We took in a stray that Tank doesn't like, so they're constantly squabbling and are an interesting study."", 'time': '02:32 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Kevin.\nTwo cats, now. We took in a stray that Tank doesn't like, so they're constantly squabbling and are an interesting study."", 'time': '02:32 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Chris, you speak ""cat"" very well! LOL This was hilarious and sad at the same time. The cat\'s first life was basically that of an abandoned child. People do this shit all the time to animals, and it says a lot about who we are as a species.\n\nYou have a very long paragraph about three-fourths of the way through the tale. You might consider breaking it up a little. I believe that only Russian and German authors are allowed to write such long paragraphs. LOL\n\nNice tale, my friend. I loved it, and your cat-perspective inner dialogue was tremendou...', 'time': '12:51 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\n\nIt was my interpretation of my partner\'s description of her journey home with our cat, ""Tank.""\n\nI was hoping for a Russian or German translation of this piece, but to simplify things, I broke up the lengthy English bits into smaller paragraphs.\n\nThanks for the great feedback, mate. You\'re truly the most positive person I know.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '04:16 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\n\nIt was my interpretation of my partner\'s description of her journey home with our cat, ""Tank.""\n\nI was hoping for a Russian or German translation of this piece, but to simplify things, I broke up the lengthy English bits into smaller paragraphs.\n\nThanks for the great feedback, mate. You\'re truly the most positive person I know.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '04:16 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'So kitty like.', 'time': '17:11 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Mary. \nA semi-autobiographical journey of our cat, ""Tank.""', 'time': '00:06 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Mary. \nA semi-autobiographical journey of our cat, ""Tank.""', 'time': '00:06 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Cute kitty voice. I laughed out loud at this line “Whenever I require your attention to let me outside, I’ll signal it by scratching my own version of morse code.” Sooo true. You have a good sense of what makes a cat tick. No boxes!\nThanks for sharing', 'time': '09:39 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Michelle,\nThanks for reading and commenting. \nThis is my back-up story. My main story is so far out there, that I felt I needed to add a second one this week. So, two hours later, my cat story was completed.\nIt\'s a loosely based depiction of my partner\'s explanation of bringing our cat ""Tank"" home from the shelter.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '14:46 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Michelle,\nThanks for reading and commenting. \nThis is my back-up story. My main story is so far out there, that I felt I needed to add a second one this week. So, two hours later, my cat story was completed.\nIt\'s a loosely based depiction of my partner\'s explanation of bringing our cat ""Tank"" home from the shelter.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '14:46 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,6wweke,The People Versus Bryan Reynolds,Tommy Goround,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6wweke/,/short-story/6wweke/,Angst,0,"['Funny', 'Black', 'Urban Fantasy']",19 likes," [Trigger Warning: Cursing, cultural appropriation and some biological elements].The thing about Bryan Reynold's Taqueria is that one cannot say what he puts in the box. Bryan charges 14.95$ for the jumbo burrito. It comes with lettuce for the ruffage , salsa for the commingling of flavors and a little something extra for people that don't tip using a credit card.Oh sure, Bryan Reynolds does a little dance when you whip out that card. It gets his bowels loose, his man-parts gather goo.""Just go ahead and follow the instructions on the screen."" He steps back as if it were a very personal and private conversation between the customer and the credit card machine.The customer bends down to whisper to the machine:""I don't know buddy, what do you think? "" The Verrafone Point of Sale devices have been sold since the 1980s but up to this date they have never spoken back no matter how many times you slap them on the side of their face.""I mean he _did_ press the buttons. That deserves a tip, right part'na?""The Verrafone screen strobes that there are only seconds left to decide. One must gamble if Bryan is part of the process of rolling the burrito.[Beep ..beep.. beep]...only seconds.Customer #106 is definitely not going to get Bryan's celebrity dentist smile. He looks down to see how customer #106 has decided to invest in his burrito's handler. Looks amazed [no tip] for a moment and then just throws off the angst with the quick jerk of his neck.""I'm sorry that was _not_ the correct answer. Why don't you have a seat and enjoy our 13 flavored salsa bar with chips.""I can see Bryan Reynolds tell his staff to man the the register as he runs to the restroom like he's going to yak. Do not feel sorry for this man who gets very emotional over gratuities in micro transactions. He returns from the restroom in forty two seconds with a brown box. I check my watch and notate the time in minutes and seconds. Then I exit the restaurant by the side door, race around to the normal exit and prepare customer #106 to prepare for the government taking his dinner into evidence.This takes many minutes [7m14s] while Bryan's staff scrape their grills, add the custom bean paste that has been modified from the #10 cans. Some of my fellow Food and Drug Agents are always quick to bet that he will hide the contaminants in the Pico de Gallo. ""I say NO!"" The man is not artistic enough to pare colors and flavors and pick the ultra ripe jalapeno. He is a taqueria fraud and takes out his anger by contaminating food.All of these parts of Bryan Reynold's personality get set out in a cardboard food box with two ribbons and one bow. Like all of Hollywood, Bryan wants you to focus on what is on the outside.I have prepped the regional USDA office to go ahead and raid Taqueria Bryan for meat. This way we have the exact carne from the grill to compare against customer #106's packaged burrito in full. The meat comes from Bryan Ranch which coincidentally has the same name. There is no reason for Vanessa, the beautiful bovine expert, to go out to the ranch and check for mad cow disease or improper slaughtering techniques.I say, ""I know it was Bryan who served me a dirty burrito.""Vanessa is beautiful but not wise in the ways men challenge each other in our need to dominate the other. She says Bryan has such a beautiful personality that he could not possibly stoop so low as to mess with a man's burrito.Really?""You never heard of Lint Mobile?? I buy this device to put in my pocket to speak to my children for just 15$ a month. It gets lint, just like the commercial claims. But the day my daughter is in the hospital and I have received no call because Lie'n Bryan has gone and sold the company. [Even though he claimed he would always love his customers]. They jacked up the price and disconnected me from my child.""Vanessa is very kind as I cry on her shoulder. My face is heavy with pain and falls to her breast. [Approximately 18 seconds] She doesn't care because she is watching Bryan Reynolds take the food orders and smile. She is dreaming that I am Bryan Reynolds so close to her cleavage. She follows his dancing around and her entire chest shakes, waking me.""I am very sorry Vanessa. I must have fallen asleep. This stake-out has taken forever ""She pats my head and pushes me down again but I am confused. It is our job to find the contamination sources for the American Food system. We issue warnings and march people to court. The actual proof of willful contamination of food sources is a felony with some five years in prison. Ever since Portland and San Francisco made schedule 2 narcotics decriminalized we don't really prosecute on the west coast anymore.Instead, we build a case of Mass Fallibility and reject their business license for future endeavors.I know that Bryan Reynolds is filling his to-go boxes with parts of man. I cannot shelf this case until he loses his acting license.[The Acting License is issued by local government but must conform to federal standards.]Brian Reynolds comes out of the restaurant, waves at the government enforcement agencies in his parking lot, and tells customer number 106 that he took the wrong box.""Drats.""The complementary atolli [that Bryan Reynolds offers] is no great consolation when I wish to put this big-eyed actor in chains!The fair Vanessa has forgotten her station. She is climbing up his towering frame asking about chicken cages and pig happiness, as it pertains to California Law. I cannot watch as she's trying to whisper in his ear. He is nodding and waiting for the Feds [shorthand for ""Federal Agents""] to leave his parking lot, slowly pushing Vanessa's face away from his chest. Outstretched spider hands that should be amputated for a Mars Lander mining machine. [They are always sticky]. He grinds her biologist eyeglasses to get away from his face because they magnify her blue within blue starry eyes and he cannot handle the full-on truth of sincerity.I pick up Vanessa off the dirty parking lot and tell her, ""You must contain your passions as I have contained my passions.""She thinks I am talking about the Lint Mobile fiasco where my kid was sick with a touch of Tay-Sachs disease and I fed her a little bit of my Taqueria Bryan burrito to get the child's nose cleared. I never told Vanessa that the E. colli [escherichia colli] killed my kid because I wouldn't tip. What should have been a simple case of food war had already produced many civilian deaths.No. It was just too much. How could I tell this beautiful woman who loved microbiological bugs that they all came from one big celebrity? His biome was everywhere.[Currently mapped from Monterey to Utah].She would surely love him more as the source of curling myiasis, the man's pubic hairs have been linked to the ancient Garden of Heathen. The bugs in his porcelain smile are entamoeba gingivalis which are known to absorb all bands of light. They emit this light when their bacteria bodies die so that the baby bacteria can find them in the waves of saliva. This is why his teeth seem to twinkle in certain shadows. It is a lighthouse beacon for more bugs to enter his mouth when the time is right.It is very difficult to gross out a real biologist so I had no way of making Bryan Reynolds less attractive. I knew that I would probably lose this woman… like so many others.*Bryan Reynolds probably doesn't remember my mom. He sure doesn't remember that he is over fifty, always going to the gym and the way he is considered symmetrical come from very good facial surgeries.After Liberace died my mother was very moody, perhaps inconsolable because she had collected replicas of all his rings from the Franklin Mint. I asked her to take her friend, Margie, to the movies. To ""...get out there and live [her] own life for a time."" I did not understand the primal connections called ""Super-Associative Disorder"" in which young people were seduced by Elvis' Thrusting hips in the 1950s, smitten by The Beatles string-ties in the 60s, then there was the gaudy opulence of Liberace in the 70s that reinforced the need to find a Liberace stand-in and procreate. You could argue that I was born because of these people but I have died twice over by watching my mother fall madly in love with something she should never have.Yes, my mother went to the movies, fell in love with Bryan Reynolds as he played a billionaire that wouldn't become a Bruce Wayne stereotype. The character actually challenged villains to cage matches in Pay-Per-View fights, keeping the letter of the law, not going sleek vigilante, but making a tidy profit and paying his taxes. Just like Elon offering to fight Putin in a neutral country.Mom came home and yelled, ""Why aren't you a billionaire like your brother?""I had to remind her that I was an only child because her nose became very sensitive in pregnancy and she threw out my dad because he did not smell like Liberace after all.Mom died in a hospital thinking ""my brother,"" Bryan Reynolds would visit her. She threw me out twice because the hospital only allowed one visitor at a time. She wanted to leave a place for him just like the missing Messiah.So for my Mom I took to hoping. Then begging… ANYONE on Facebook to please ask Mr. Reynolds to come to Kaiser Permanente in Sacramento, the one by the park on Howe Street. That is 855 Howe Street, in Sacramento, [the capital of California]. I had already asked Governor Newsome to take Bryan out for an excellent dinner at The French Laundry because my mom was French and dying.Bryan Reynolds might have been afraid of COVID, and all the trouble Gavin had with that French Laundry but I promise that my mom wasn't contagious. They used to mark all the deaths as COVID related when in truth it was actually a broken heart.*So for nearly three years I have stalked [strike through] … investigated the dealings of a certain celebrity. I had learned of his fascination with non-tipping retribution by the death of my daughter. I had gathered multiple agencies. But, alas, the man has charmed his way out of a snake prison again.I try not to tell Vanessa my pain as we walk to her 2005 Crown Victoria that has been customized to fit vials and a mobile centrifuge in the trunk. The paint on her car looks like it was scratched to death with fender rash. The plastic overcoat is bubbled in parts and resembles eczema. [That is a very painful disease].She rolls down the window so we can talk if I want to talk while she idles the car. The Crown Vic hates to be woken after it naps. Her oil must be inspected by government handlers and the oil drain plug actually moans when you twist it free.The car stereo was left on and Adam Sandler is singing the chorus to his 1996 sleeper hit, ""Piece of Shit Car."" Vanessa tries to turn off the song so we can commiserate my failure.I stopped her from turning off the song because my story about having a dedicated car to go to clubs wasn't that funny. [It is better to get a POS car vandalized at the club instead of your normal commuter]. I felt whole again as Adam sung about the injustice of being outdated by newer models. He sings in a Jamaican accent and I wanted to smoke a blunt, find a multi-colored rastafarian knit cap and sell sand dollars near the beach.Bryan Reynolds came forward and started belting the fourth verse:you're too loud for drive-thruand you smell like the shoe,but im too broke to buy something new.ah fuck me.(Piece of Shit Car)A small crowd gathers because Bryan Reynolds can sing so much better than the rest of us. He spins around and smacks his hands to raise the volume:the engine likes to flood,the car always fucking stalls,and the seat cushions got a big ripso a spring always pokes the balls.(He's got a piece of Shit car…)Vanessa and I have to supply the backup vocals because Bryan has taken lead and people are throwing dollars at his feet.People have their phones out and everyone is grooving. Rastafarian music is an ideal way to sell more Mexican food and Bryan Reynolds is hamming it up. He's got that Mario Brother's Luigi mustache on and people can't be sure if it's the Bryan Reynolds of the blockbuster movies rocking out. He hasn't made a Netflix movie in at least six months, so the crowd is not very confident.Someone says, ""Shake that booty!"" And Bryan shakes it. The body jagging and the pandering and the money. So much cash on the ground. I see piles of tens and twenties. There's more money on the ground than Vanessa and I make in a week.Bryan is doing the funky chicken. ""She got a piece of shii iiit car!""His high notes on the aria must have done some damage because Bryan freezes at the height of the song's ending. He looks like The Statue of Liberty with a bush mustache, a long arm in the air which holds an imaginary microphone.I whisper, ""Shake it out Bryan. Shake it out. Your fans need you to keep going."" [Fecal evidence #7721].He shakes it out just as I have time to run over and grab a Taqueria Ryan box from the over-full trash can. The box provided to Bryan was previously empty.You can clearly see me on camera asking Mr. Reynolds if he wants to save the contents for later. He nods that I should. I mark this as evidence #3314 on the side in very small letters.Sure enough, I sent a decoy into the restaurant the next day. The decoy was a very youthful agent that also hates to tip for to-go orders.Ladies and gentleman of the court, guess what box number he was given?[#3314 is shown to the jury]The people rest their case and ask that Mr. Reynolds be remanded to The Utah State Corrections Facility where they still think that every star and every man deserves a bullet.[ Note: One of the non-tipping victims was from Ogden].—-+Lyrics used with permission by BMG music services for ten Compact Disks for a penny in a 1999 non-commercial use contract.[Notations have been provided by the court stenographer and then translated into English]. ","July 25, 2023 06:29","[[{'Jarrel Jefferson': ""This is as weird and intelligent as ever, Tommy. You never disappoint. \n\nOne thing stands out to me, though: Bryan Reynolds killed the narrator's daughter. Have you considered including any reflection on the daughter's life in the story while writing it, to show how much the narrator misses her? Just curious."", 'time': '05:28 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': ""Oh... Get emotional? That's not my specialty. My people bury their feelings. :)"", 'time': '08:22 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': ""Oh... Get emotional? That's not my specialty. My people bury their feelings. :)"", 'time': '08:22 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Belladona Vulpa': 'I was intrigued by the title, and later grossed out completely, but I stayed until the end because of the funny things and because I wanted Bryan to pay for his actions.\n(I had to use Google translate for so many words that I didn\'t know, but it was interesting to follow the flow of thoughts of your character). It also seemed very ""american"" the thing for the tips and the ""jumbo"" sized food, I was curious. Nice ending of the story!', 'time': '18:03 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': ""I'm very sorry... Bryan was gross. It is difficult to say these things gently. \n\nWe need not be afraid. Justice has prevailed. :)"", 'time': '20:19 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': ""I'm very sorry... Bryan was gross. It is difficult to say these things gently. \n\nWe need not be afraid. Justice has prevailed. :)"", 'time': '20:19 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Marlow': ""So, bRyan Reynolds sold me some fecal-contaminated, overpriced Mexicalli street food, sang me a Reggae song, got 'caught-up in the system', and now gets to stare at his socks in the shower? Vonnegut would be proud of your work in retrospect. I may want to read a modern rewrite by bRyan Gosling..."", 'time': '01:58 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Lol', 'time': '08:27 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Lol', 'time': '08:27 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""I should probably seek medical attention for this, but I found this otherworldly romp through criminal, governmental, and judicial realms delightfully realized and not that far out from our orbit. I adore absurdity, especially the intelligent kind. This is a full dose. (makes OJ's trial look reasonable)"", 'time': '20:00 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Haha\n(Thank you kindly for reading and responding).', 'time': '21:12 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Haha\n(Thank you kindly for reading and responding).', 'time': '21:12 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hey Tommy . havent come across you on here to date (Im a newbie) but glad I found this cos its just....bonkers and nuts and bizarre in equal doses and I dont know what I just read but I love it!! \nVery surreal, and that's so difficult to pull off successfully, you've done it though!"", 'time': '15:30 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thank you Derrick. Your words are very nice to read. Glad you liked it.', 'time': '21:14 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thank you Derrick. Your words are very nice to read. Glad you liked it.', 'time': '21:14 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This is mad and hilarious.', 'time': '03:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': ':)', 'time': '19:54 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': ':)', 'time': '19:54 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Original and very funny!', 'time': '00:16 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thank you, brother page, for reading me page.', 'time': '23:11 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thank you, brother page, for reading me page.', 'time': '23:11 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Cool, abstract and funny. Many good ideas, I think you could have made three excellent stories out of your innovative material. I can relate to restaurants, I bartended, part-time mostly, for sixteen years, and put up with a mixture of good folks and some complete assholes. Yeah, I definitely enjoyed reading your story, Tommy.', 'time': '20:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Joe...(looking around to see if any listening)... Did you ever offer the free topper?', 'time': '23:12 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': 'Up until I was ordered to discontinue it.', 'time': '23:01 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Tommy Goround': 'Lmao', 'time': '02:14 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Joe...(looking around to see if any listening)... Did you ever offer the free topper?', 'time': '23:12 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Up until I was ordered to discontinue it.', 'time': '23:01 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Tommy Goround': 'Lmao', 'time': '02:14 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Up until I was ordered to discontinue it.', 'time': '23:01 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Lmao', 'time': '02:14 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Lmao', 'time': '02:14 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Was this a spoof and a satire on the movie ""Waiting""? It feels like it is.\n\nI used to work in restaurants, and the abuses are bad. Not quite as bad as Bryan\'s bad, but still...\n\nGreat tale, told in inimitable Tommy Goround fashion. Too many great lines to quote. Practically every line is quote-worthy, IMO. Wonderful stuff, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '15:17 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Yes. I dream of serving Bryan something artistic for dinner one day.', 'time': '20:23 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Yes. I dream of serving Bryan something artistic for dinner one day.', 'time': '20:23 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Katharine Widdows': 'Pretty weird, pretty funny, slightly difficult to follow. I enjoyed the challenge.', 'time': '17:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thank you kindly', 'time': '21:21 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thank you kindly', 'time': '21:21 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': ""An epic feverish dream of pop culture references. This is great. Having worked for a half year in a fast food restaurant, and then having thousands of spicy beef tacos and pulled pork burritos made by surly taco workers, I relate to the risks of food contamination. Ryan Reynolds? but i can't quite connect deadpool to this.."", 'time': '02:59 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Hi Scott. \n\nBryan Reynolds is a food sabateur.', 'time': '16:57 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Hi Scott. \n\nBryan Reynolds is a food sabateur.', 'time': '16:57 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': ""Okay Two Tone, I'm back. So most of the story is non-fiction made me laugh. Personality gets set out in a cardboard box. \nAmerican Food Contamination System - Mass Fallibility. \nChicken cages and pig happiness. \nE coli from the Taqueria? From Bryan Reynolds? - Lighthouse beacon.\nLiberace's rings from the Franklin Mint - now that is funny.\n\nOkay - the paint on her car resembles eczema. [ha ha]\nAdam Sandler singing and wanting to smoke a blunt selling sand dollars by the beach. [loved this]\n\nSeat cushions got a big rip so a spring always pokes..."", 'time': '15:58 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Hey Two Tone = ""His man parts gather goo"" - [extreme laughter], Taqueria fraud = takes out his anger on food - [extreme laughter], Beautiful face =could not stoop so low to mess with a man\'s burrito - [funny] Bryan Reynolds is filling boxes with parts of man. [Huh?] \nThe man\'s pubic hairs have been linked to the ancient Garden of Heathen\nTo name a few of my favourites so far. I have to go to an appointment. Will return. LF6', 'time': '15:33 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Oh, how you can take non-fiction and give it so many shades of hilarious 😂 is beyond all reason.🌮🌮🌮🎁', 'time': '14:51 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thanks for the taco award. I have been researching the subject for a while.', 'time': '16:47 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Thanks for the taco award. I have been researching the subject for a while.', 'time': '16:47 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tommy Goround': 'The story is mostly non-fiction. The Discovery evidence can be viewed in the movie ""Waiting"" [2005 release] which is also a gateway flick. A movie that normalizes willful food contamination. [5-year Felony]. Contributing to the Delinquency of minor viewers [1 year misdemeanor]', 'time': '06:52 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,hcqoxs,American Bread,Sophia Gardenia,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hcqoxs/,/short-story/hcqoxs/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Sad', 'Romance']",18 likes," When I immigrated to America, the thing I hated most about it was the bread. Or rather, the lack of good bread. Stores only sold sandwich bread, pumped full of preservatives, added sugars, and artificial flavoring. What I wouldn't have given for a hot slice of Georgian tonis puri on my waitressing shifts at the 16th Street Diner. As I served customers their meals in plastic baskets lined with checkered paper, wiped down the cracked formica tables, or swept potato chips off the floor, I would fantasize about a crispy, slightly salty, yeasty bite of tonis puri. A fantasy so out-of-place in an all-American diner that mainly served hamburgers and hadn’t changed since the seventies. A fantasy as out-of-place as Roger had been when he became a regular at the 16th Street Diner. I remember everyone looked up when he came in, pausing with their grease-encrusted hands halfway to their mouths. For a few seconds, their eyes took in his suit, slicked-back hair, and Rolex watch. Then their minds put the label of ""Rich Snob"" on him and they went back to eating. Roger had shifted on his feet at the sight of oversized t-shirts and baseball caps, eyes darting to the door as he regretted his decision to eat here.I also looked up from the dishes I was clearing away, and our eyes met. I recognized his discomfort that day, the feeling of someone slapping a label on you and putting you in a mental box. It was a feeling that had stalked me every day since I immigrated to America. The scrunched eyebrows when people tried to say my name, the empty smiles when I said I was from Georgia, the stony stares of government officials as they eyed my green card. So, I kept eye contact, went over to Roger, sat him down at the nicest booth, and whispered in my rough Georgian-accented English, “You should order the daily special. Bacon-bean soup is the chef’s specialty.”He smiled so brightly that the aches in my arms and legs disappeared. “Alright. One order of bacon-bean soup.” He looked at my nametag and added, “Thank you, Kate.”Kate. My American name, since nobody could pronounce Qetevan. I hated it as much as American bread, but somehow it sounded nice on Roger’s lips. I almost dropped the bowl of soup in my hurry to serve it to him, telling myself it was because I wanted a generous tip. He came back the next day, and the day after that, and the whole week after that, always dressed in his suit. I lived for the moments when he pushed open the diner door, triggering the tinkling of the bell and an influx of gasoline-infused city air. He always winked at me and always ordered bacon-bean soup.I said yes when he asked me to go on a date with him. I said yes when he asked me to move in with him.And I said yes when he asked me to marry him.I excitedly video-called my parents after the proposal and saw them jump with joy on the pixelated computer screen. With every break in the audio feed, my heart cracked further with my longing for them.My mother leaned too close to the camera and asked, “Khom gikvars?” You love him, right?“Ki,” I answered confidently, yes, but the audio cut again, warping my voice into an echoing screech. “Yes,” I said again.Mother nodded, satisfied, and my father dug out a bottle of homemade wine in the background to celebrate. I’d been baptized Orthodox, but we got married in a quaint Episcopalian church in Roger’s hometown. My side of the church was almost empty, save for a few friends, since my family hadn’t been able to get tourist visas in time. Roger and I said our vows and the priest pronounced us husband and wife. My finger began sweating the moment Roger slid the ring on it. Wrapped up in each other’s arms that evening, I asked my husband, “Can we go to Georgia for our honeymoon?”“Oh, darling, I already booked a Caribbean cruise. Maybe some other time, alright?”He twirled a lock of my ebony hair and pressed his mouth to mine, ending the conversation.The first few months of marriage were a whirlwind of late nights and lazy mornings. Spontaneous dates and enough flower bouquets to fill a garden. Then Roger shattered the rose-tinted glass I’d been looking through when he announced, “Tell your boss you’re resigning, alright? I don’t want my wife working in a hole-in-the-wall diner.” I looked up from the onion I was chopping. “But, I want to work. I went to university and–”“Darling,” he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. ""I'll work for the both of us.” Then his phone rang, and he stepped out of the kitchen. The tears that leaked out of my eyes weren’t entirely onion-induced. Our trip to Georgia “some other time” turned out to be never, since Roger had a never-ending fountain of excuses. He was a lawyer, after all, and his words had a way of silencing my own.But it was always me who had to tell my parents I was in the middle of the naturalization process, or Roger was super busy at work, or we wanted to finish moving into our new house. It was always me who saw their faces fall every time I said we couldn't visit yet. “He can’t get enough of our Qeti,” my brother joked. He had no idea how right he was.“I need you, Kate,"" Roger would wine every time I brought up going to Georgia alone. ""I can’t live without you.” You need me to cook for you, I thought. You need me to do laundry for you, to be a trophy you can show off to the world. Even though I wasn’t a waitress anymore, I remained Roger’s servant. One night, Roger took me to one of his work parties. He'd been made a partner at the law firm, so he dressed in his finest suit and I put on a tight rosy pink dress. Roger held my hand the entire time, introducing me as his ""lovely wife."" I gave everyone a plastic, Barbie-doll smile, and my husband nodded at me in approval occasionally. When Roger went to get martinis, one of his coworkers came up to me and told me he'd been to Georgia. My smile turned real as I babbled about my home village and corrected the pronunciation of a few words he'd picked up.Across the room, Roger downed a martini and frowned at his colleague. That night, when he crawled on top of me, he reeked of alcohol and arrogance. His hands left bruises both visible and invisible as he unwrapped my pink dress like I was a doll. After he fell asleep, I folded my hands over my queasy stomach. I knew then Roger had planted a seed that would grow roots and anchor me to him forever. I birthed Cecilia with a nurse holding my hand and my mother shouting at me to push on a Skype call. Roger rushed in hours after the blood had been cleaned up, apologizing over and over about how he was in a “very important” meeting since his law firm was overseeing a major corporate merger, but I didn’t give a shit. I was too busy nursing my daughter and marveling at her teeny fingers curled around mine, and her slightly flowered scent. She became the job I so desperately wanted, her triumphs my triumphs, and her losses my losses. I’d lived for Roger before, but now I lived for Cici’s first steps, her first words, her first day at kindergarten. I found a job, but it was like being in a box; I could never leave. I stopped bringing up Georgia. My English lost a Georgian accent, but Georgian words began to sink in my brain like rocks. Every conversation with my parents was a deep dive into the recesses of my mind, grasping in the murky waters for the lost pebbles. I would gape like a fish, searching for words, and on the screen, my parents' lips would get thinner and thinner as they saw their daughter become less and less Georgian with each passing day. Every morning was the same. Driving Cici to kindergarten, then coming back to make Roger’s oatmeal. Cleaning our enormous house after he left, languishing in front of the TV, and then making dinner. I told myself I had a good life. I was lucky to be in America, the land of opportunity, instead of slaving away for 700 lari a month in Georgia. I was lucky to have such a hard-working husband. One day, Roger was running uncharacteristically late because we’d forgotten to set the clock forward for daylight savings. Fiddling with his tie, he called out, “Make me some toast, would you, darling? I really gotta run.”Of course you do, I thought, and put two pieces of white bread into the toaster. The wires in the toaster turned red hot, and the fluffy whiteness of the bread became a toasty golden brown. Georgians never toasted tonis puri, it was just so good on its own. I couldn’t even remember the taste of it anymore.Once the toast popped out, I slathered the pieces in butter, the way Roger liked it. I wondered if he liked cholesterol-clogged arteries too.I hadn’t even opened the jar of jam before he grabbed the pieces of toast and muttered, “Thanks, bye.”“I love you–” I began, but the door had already slammed shut. The words echoed around the too-big kitchen, with no “I love you too” to quiet them.Tears wobbled on my eyelashes as I wrapped a twisty tie around the bag of bread and shoved it in the cupboard. Too hard. The loaf smushed under my hand, soft and pliable. The plastic of the bag sparkled under the kitchen lights, mocking me.The tears flowed down my face like a river. I was just like this loaf of American sandwich bread, the air and dreams and happiness squished out of me. The preservatives, added sugars, and artificial flavoring I’d sweetened my life with were gone. And I wasn’t sure what was left without them.  ","July 23, 2023 18:36","[[{'Laura G.': 'Omg, Sophia, I\'m so proud of your work on this story. Obviously, you must have fueled it with your own feelings and backstory to make this such a masterpiece, to begin with. Having this as an extension story was a really smart move and I hope to see more in the future. (;\n\nP.S. I really liked the metaphor at the end, and this, ""grasping in the murky waters for the lost pebbles. I would gape like a fish, searching for words""', 'time': '03:38 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks so much, Laura! Your praise means everything! ❤️❤️', 'time': '03:41 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks so much, Laura! Your praise means everything! ❤️❤️', 'time': '03:41 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Andrey Trofimov': ""I share the same views on bakery and also pastry of the 'new world' :)\nUnfortunately, after living here for almost two decades I find myself being quite used to it...\nYour story makes me want to buy some fluffy white bread, break it and dip it in sour cream before I eat it."", 'time': '16:37 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Haha, I'm glad the story was relatable!"", 'time': '18:10 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Haha, I'm glad the story was relatable!"", 'time': '18:10 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine work. I will like to know how you come out with a story that can run for about ten or more prompts.', 'time': '14:44 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thank you! Usually I start writing a story without prompts and then continue it if a new prompt fits. That's probably why so many prompts make it in, because I've also been inspired by past ones."", 'time': '14:48 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'I understand.', 'time': '08:31 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thank you! Usually I start writing a story without prompts and then continue it if a new prompt fits. That's probably why so many prompts make it in, because I've also been inspired by past ones."", 'time': '14:48 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'I understand.', 'time': '08:31 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'I understand.', 'time': '08:31 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Excellent story. Bread has been symbolic throughout the ages. Got me thinking why the cost of bread can be so damn expensive at one location & so inexpensive at another location. Sad, her being conditioned & boxed in - It's true to life."", 'time': '22:00 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks, Joe!', 'time': '10:09 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks, Joe!', 'time': '10:09 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'If you liked this story, please consider reading the sequel, ""Samshoblo:"" https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x3g0mr/', 'time': '08:39 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I’m so with your mc on the bread! My Moroccan husband stands bewildered in the bakery section of American grocery stores trying to figure out why the only loaf of decent bread costs 40x what it does at home. This story is sad and real and makes me hope so much that she gets away', 'time': '07:31 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""I'm so glad the bread bit was relatable! Yeah, American grocery stores seemingly have everything, but nothing beats bread from your native country. Thank you for reading and commenting!"", 'time': '07:47 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""I'm so glad the bread bit was relatable! Yeah, American grocery stores seemingly have everything, but nothing beats bread from your native country. Thank you for reading and commenting!"", 'time': '07:47 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""This is a continuation tale, right? Qetevan, the girl who had come to America from a small Georgian village? I hope I'm recalling this correctly.\n\nTerrific tale, full of pathos and tinged ever so slightly with hope and redemption, in the form of her newborn. \n\nThe bread motif doubles as something thematic. Bread is life. It's very Biblical, actually. As a motif, I don't think you could have done better. Just the right thing to bring out the tale in a full and comprehensive manner. Also, white bread sucks.\n\nQeti being put into different boxes..."", 'time': '11:35 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Yes, this is a continuation! Or more technically, a prequel.\n\nThe bread motif I mostly chose because I always miss bread when I\'m in the US, but you\'re right, bread is life. Especially in Georgia, where bread is a huge part of our culture and food. \n\n""how empty some boxes can be, no matter the sweetness or preservatives contained therein."" - Yes, I\'m so glad you got that! Qeti realizes she\'s being boxed in, but as long as she still has some sugar to sweeten her life with she doesn\'t act. And when reality hits, it\'s a bitter pill. \n\nThanks so...', 'time': '16:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Yes, this is a continuation! Or more technically, a prequel.\n\nThe bread motif I mostly chose because I always miss bread when I\'m in the US, but you\'re right, bread is life. Especially in Georgia, where bread is a huge part of our culture and food. \n\n""how empty some boxes can be, no matter the sweetness or preservatives contained therein."" - Yes, I\'m so glad you got that! Qeti realizes she\'s being boxed in, but as long as she still has some sugar to sweeten her life with she doesn\'t act. And when reality hits, it\'s a bitter pill. \n\nThanks so...', 'time': '16:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Emma D': 'Wow! Great story. I loved the metaphorical meaning of the bread at the end. Wonderful job.', 'time': '04:11 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thanks for reading! I'm glad that metaphor came across."", 'time': '07:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thanks for reading! I'm glad that metaphor came across."", 'time': '07:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Heh, the opening line is something I can relate to - though different country, and eventually we found some good bakeries. Can\'t beat a good bread. \n\nThe story is sad on a number of levels. The marriage itself isn\'t ideal, but the character is also lost. Something drove her out of Georgia in the first place, and there\'s a restlessness to her, like she hasn\'t found what really matters to her. \n\nThere\'s a line that struck me: ""I’d lived for Roger before, but now I lived for Cici’s first steps."" Other than that, it seems like she\'s living for h...', 'time': '01:14 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Glad you found a good bakery! I miss Georgian bread all the time, and felt I had to include that feeling here.\n\nYeah, this is a pretty sad piece. After I wrote ""Samshoblo,"" I really wanted to know how Qeti\'s marriage and dreams turned sour, as you so aptly said. That\'s when this story was born.\n\n""It\'s not just others that put her in boxes. She put herself in one too."" - I never thought of that when I was writing but you\'re so right! She\'s kind of a passive person, with the last time she took action being when she immigrated. I hope I\'ll get ...', 'time': '17:23 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Glad you found a good bakery! I miss Georgian bread all the time, and felt I had to include that feeling here.\n\nYeah, this is a pretty sad piece. After I wrote ""Samshoblo,"" I really wanted to know how Qeti\'s marriage and dreams turned sour, as you so aptly said. That\'s when this story was born.\n\n""It\'s not just others that put her in boxes. She put herself in one too."" - I never thought of that when I was writing but you\'re so right! She\'s kind of a passive person, with the last time she took action being when she immigrated. I hope I\'ll get ...', 'time': '17:23 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Best of luck to Qeti.', 'time': '21:34 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""She's going to need it."", 'time': '06:10 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""She's going to need it."", 'time': '06:10 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,mcfvb9,The Ugly Toy,John-Paul Cote,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mcfvb9/,/short-story/mcfvb9/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Fantasy', 'Fiction']",17 likes," Ugh I’m an ugly toy.  There’s not much else I can say. It’s just stating the obvious. Some come out as pretty toys. Some come out as adventurous. Some come out loving and cuddly. They’re the worst ones. I came out ugly. And not ugly, as in the little ugly duckling way. It doesn’t get any better for me. No life altering, self-help guru I am what I am and we’re all beautiful in our own way type of ugly. I’m just ugly. Like I hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down. That’s ugly. The people at the factory were not sure what had happened.  They did not make ugly toys. Where did I come from? What would they do? What could they do? They put me in a box and away I went. Probably mislabeled me to give me a chance.  So someone would love me. Somewhere Somehow Some day I’m a frickin’ toy! What’s not to love? Right? They made sure the box didn’t have a window so people couldn’t see how ugly I was. Smart marketing. The team is giving me some hope. - You spend a lot of time in the dark when you’re an ugly toy. Not a lot of time moving though. Mostly it’s just stillness.  In the dark. The darkness. Enveloping. Embracing. Loving? Yes, embrace the darkness. Feel the depths of my soul. Do I have a soul? I guess that would be freaky if I did. Wow, things get can get real in here. Yes,  Embrace the darkness. - One day I am opened up to much pomp and circumstance and fanfare. Streamers and laughter! Music! Cake! Children! Yes, Children! Happy children! Playful children! Excited Children! A birthday party! My life purpose is fulfilled! Then they look at me. I scare the little girl. I scare her mother. I scare most of the kids at the party. One kid thinks I’m cool, But his mother won’t let him take me home. So back in the box I go. - You never seem to get handled nicely when you are ugly. No one is too worried about things getting worse. Just getting me the hell out of here. I get tossed around in my box. No one puts in any stuffing or packing material, so I go from side-to-side. Not to worry though. It’s not like I’m going to get any uglier. At least, I hope not. - It seems like I spent a long time in the box next. Not moving though. That sucks. I always wanted to travel. See the world. The Pyramids! The Eiffel Tower! The Great Wall! But most of the time I’m right here. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Ugh! They could at least move me to a different shelf or wherever I am. What about sticking me in a box with one of those rotating viewer thingys? Give me the illusion of being a glamorous world traveller I’ve got to have something to hold on to. Besides the dark, that is. - One time I was put in a box with another toy. I’m not sure why. It screamed. And it wasn’t a screaming toy. Pretty sure it didn’t even have one of those voice box things. I try not to take that stuff personally. - Then I’m opened! The people don’t seem offended by me! Yes! Finally! A home and love! It’s what I was created for! Bring on those lovin’ kids! I bet they’re already fighting over me. Oh God, no! They think I’m a dog toy and here it comes! Slobber and thrashing! Tearing and tossing! Argh! Can’t you read the printing on the back! Are you so lazy! I’m so wet. It’s awful. Then I’m left alone. They shake me in front of the creature’s face. I’m too ugly for the dog. Give me a frickin’ break! They put me back in the box and away I go. Or go away. We’ll have to see. - The dark doesn’t have to be scary. It can be a great time to think and ponder. Time becomes an abstract thought. It really is a freedom. Unlike all those other suckers being run by the clock. No one runs my life except for me! At least that’s what I try to tell myself. Let me out of here! At least don’t pack me so well so that a little light gets through. - It’s been years. It has to be years. Eons. What’s an eon? That’s probably too long. Decades. Yeah, the word I’m looking for is decades. It is difficult for me to tell since I’m a toy but it must be that long. Then, one day, someone opens the box again. Ach! The dust. So this is where the smell came from. Cobwebs? Seriously! They look at me with surprise. They look at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before. “Oh . . . My. . . God,” they say. “Can you believe one of these even exists anymore?” “It must be worth a fortune!” I don’t know what that means but it all sounds good! Better than I have heard before. What’s that they’re holding? AH! Bright light! Then darkness again as they put me in another box. Again. - I think I need a wash.  Something really stinks. Of course, there is only me. I’ll blame it on the box. - Oop. The box is moving again. Another rough ride. There is a lot of banging on the box this time. And I’m in the air and . . . Hang time . . . Crash! Soon, someone opens my box up again. They look at me and smile. They take me out of the box. It’s a weird place. There are a lot of toys just sitting around. I hope this guy is not some kind of serial killer, like I’ve heard about. Then he puts me in a box. A glass box. Up on high where I can see everything. A box with a view. I shift a bit to get comfy. Can life get much better? ","July 21, 2023 18:42","[[{'Kevin Logue': 'What a great idea John and done in such a unique format. Your style really lets the readers mind wonder to what was going on, which for me is marvelous.\n\nThat ugly toy went on quite a journey, both physically and of its inner self, and to be found my a true collector at the end, excellent.\n\nGreat work 👍', 'time': '18:09 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John-Paul Cote': 'Thank you. I tried to think of events in a toy’s life. I like the ending too.', 'time': '02:32 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John-Paul Cote': 'Thank you. I tried to think of events in a toy’s life. I like the ending too.', 'time': '02:32 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Nice! Very fresh angle.', 'time': '00:02 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John-Paul Cote': 'Thank you', 'time': '18:09 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John-Paul Cote': 'Thank you', 'time': '18:09 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Z. E. Manley': 'My heart really goes out to the “ugly toy”. Well done!', 'time': '11:43 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John-Paul Cote': 'Thank you', 'time': '18:15 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John-Paul Cote': 'Thank you', 'time': '18:15 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,71rloo,Don't Mean Nuthin',Mary Bendickson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/71rloo/,/short-story/71rloo/,Angst,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Romance']",16 likes," Don't Mean Nuthin*Tribute to Unsung Heroes: the Veterans of Vietnam War Thanks for your service.(* Coined by G.I.’s in Vietnam. A reverse coping expression indicating that it means everything and I’m about to lose it. Usually used to dismiss witnessing or experiencing something so horrific that it can’t be comprehended by the psyche. Alternately used as an expression of relief that one has avoided being killed even if they are injured or maimed.)The fighting man of action opened his eyes. And saw nothing. What's happening?“Why can't I see?” He asked no one in particular. He didn't know where he was or if anyone was near him to hear the question.When he tried to reach up to rub his useless eyes his left arm was too confined to reach up. “What is holding me down?” He reached over his torso with his right hand and felt tubing coming out of his left forearm. Then he felt his face and realized there were bandages over his eyes.“Why? What's going on? Anyone there? Help!”“Hey, G.I. Gonna join the living? The doc's on the other side of the room. Someone will be over soon to explain it all to ya. Kinda laid up myself at the moment on the cot next to ya. Got a few broken bones but I may live to fight again. Ain't bought the farm yet. We're still in the field meat factory. Medivac be coming soon I'm a hopin' to take me to that Freedom Bird. Just a short timer now. What's yer name, Grunt?”“Uh, Joe. My name is 'Joe'. Can't think of no more. 'Joe' will have to do. Must have lost more than my eyes when my cover was blown off.”“Well, hey, hey! What da ya know? That's a my name, too. Joe. Joe Black. Nice to meet ya, Joe Will-Have-To-Do. Yeh, gets pretty hairy out there with all that flak flying. Heard someone call 'incoming!' but I wasn't fast enough to run out of the way this time or maybe I ran towards it. Hard to tell. Won't be doing much runnin' fer a while now. They'll send me back to the World to recoup but I'm a lifer so will probably be sent back soon 'nough. Uncle Sam Ain't Released Me Yet.“So tell me what do you do in your Real Life, Joe Will-Have-To-Do?”“Me? Real Life? I don't know how I got here. How could I know anything about a real life? But...feels like I've done this before. Or I've done it forever. Or... wait! I remember a girl...”“Nothin' like a little boom-boom to clear the mind. Maybe she clobbered you in the noggin? You a 'plenty cheap charlie'?”“No, no. Pretty sure I'm a straight arrow. Don't want to mess up what I got in my 'Real Life' as you call it. Girl back home is really special. If I'm lucky, maybe she'll marry me. Got some stiff competition from some pretty-boy surfer while I'm stuck here fighting... Well, who understands what kind of demons we are fighting? It's worse than H-E-Double Hockey-sticks out there.“I can't remember much. Something happened out on the trail we was humping. Been humping for days seems like. Carrying full rucksacks on our backs. And me with my Thumper. Through the worse kind of conditions. Air so hot and humid you can't breathe. Wet rice paddies full of leeches. Wouldn't be surprised if I contracted jungle rot on my legs. They're stinging like the devil now that I'm aware of them. Don't mean nuthin.“Tick infested mountain and jungle paths so slick from monsoons ya can't keep your footing. All the time searching for those two-stepper yellow devils that can sneak up on you when you least expect it. Those vipers spring out then disappear again leaving devastation in our ranks. That's not even accounting for ambushes by the VC devils we are supposed to be routing out. They hide and travel in tunnels. Need tunnel rats to dig 'em out. Can't tell enemy from friendlies. Don't mean nuthin...”“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Don't need ta dwell on it. Take a devil-may-care attitude, Dude. Tell me more about your girl. That's what I want ta hear about!”“Well, Joe, she is a real doll is all I can tell ya. Don't understand what she sees in a hard-case, ruffian like me. She's a knock-out in a striped swimsuit. Her long blonde ponytail swings in step to her hips when she walks in her high heels. She is sunshine and lollipops, always wearing pink that makes me think of cotton candy and gum drops. Real sweet. And she is smart and ambitious. Wants to be a marine biologist or something like that. Maybe an astronaut someday? Who knows, maybe the next Armstrong?”“Speaking of that guy Armstrong, how about that moon landing, huh? Quite a stretch. JFK wanted to get there by the end of the decade and we did it! Think it was for real?”“Could of been all smoke and mirrors for all I know about it. All the FUBAR here in-country it is hard to believe anything good coming out of Disneyland East or NASA.“Anyway, can't wait ta see her again. Oh, wait... Maybe I won't ever be able ta see her again...Don't mean nuthin.”“Now, don't start thinkin' like that. Maybe your brain just needs a little rest and everything will be normal again. No doc has told ya different, right? Besides, with a dame ya can always read Braille in the dark, get it?”“Yeah, right, like I said 'don't mean nuthin'.”“We're in luck. Here comes the doc. Now you'll maybe get some answers. But be wary. They say nice things and always wear those manufactured smiles.”<><><>“Well, Mr. Black. Good news. Your REFRAD orders have come through and you will be going home to recuperate. Make sure you never show up again on my watch. Stay healthy, will you? No more being a pin cushion for Satin's toothpicks. Or a mine magnet or anything else that threatens to zap you. Take a nice state-side job when they offer you one. Your old boots have seen too many tours in Nam.“Now, how's the new cherry guy getting along?”“His gourd is pretty messed up, Doc. Can't remember his own name and lot's don't mean nuthin to him no more. Dinky dau. Thinks he has been through all this before.”“I hear you. Well, now Mr... Joe. That's all it says on your tag. How is your head feeling?”“Like it hurts to think. Why are my eyes bandaged? Will I be able to see again? What happened to me?”“Dustoff helicopter picked you and a few of your platoon members off a mountain near a Yard village. Probably a sapper popped up on you as they were aiming for a bigger target to blow up. You have a pretty good concussion and your eyes are bandaged as a precaution to let them get some rest. We can take them off now if you want. However, you may always need to wear a patch over one.”“Of course, I want. Unwrap them, please.”<><><>“You? W-What are you doing here? You are supposed to be waiting for me back home in my Real Life. W-why are you here?”“I wanted to become a doctor so I donned this lab coat and stethoscope and had a diploma printed up to add to my accessories. That is really all it took. Signed up to work out in the field so here I am. How do I look?”“Fabulously sweet as always. Pink is your color.”“I see you have met G.I. Joe Black. He is USMC. One of Uncle Sam's Misguided Children. He'll go back to the World and be patched up to be put back in a box to start his next big adventure as a fighting man of action. If you want I can write a prescription advising it is wise to get your ETS settled since you are obviously dinky dau. Then you can fly the Freedom Bird home to start over again, too, G.I. Joe. You can find yourself back in a box with all your camouflage, canteen, K-bar, M16 and Thumper. Any more COBRA devils to fight? Still need more action and adventure? What's your pleasure?”“Think I would like to brush up on my Braille, Barbie.”<><><>Glossary terms:Bought the farm: DiedMeat Factory: HospitalFreedom Bird: Plane taking soldiers back to USA.Cover: Hat or helmetThe World/ Real Life: Home/CareerThumper: Grenade launcherJungle Rot: Generally a fungal of staph infection causing boils, swelling and tissue necrosis resulting from dirt, grime, and constant wet conditions.Two-Stepper: Yellow bamboo pit viper – said to kill a person within two steps after being bitten.VC: Viet Cong; North VietnameseFUBAR: F...ed UP Beyond All RecognitionDisneyland East: Pentagon or USAREFRAD: Released From Active DutySatin's toothpicks: Nails or hardened steel darts fired from howitzers or grenade launchersDinky Dau: CrazyDustoff Helicopter: Duty Uniform Services To Others Friend and FoeYard: Short for Montagnard, a French word meaning; “mountaineer.” Member of any one of a number of semi-nomadic, aboriginal tribes which live in the mountains of Vietnam.Sapper: Enemy soldier whose job is to blow things up.ETS: End Time of ServiceK-Bar: Marine-issue fighting knife.COBRA: Evil force trying to rule the world GI Joe fought against.Source:https://cherrieswriter.com/2014/02/13/military-speak-during-the-vietnam-war/ ","July 27, 2023 22:14","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Mary!\nOh my gosh! This story was intense and handled beautifully. I loved the vivid descriptions of everything and how you balanced the pain of wad with the comfort of friendship. Selfishly, I wish you had put the whole glossary of terms at the beginning. To give us a bit of a taste.', 'time': '13:29 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'I did debate on where to put glossary. Thought it might give too much away if first.\nThanks for the like and comment.', 'time': '14:17 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'I did debate on where to put glossary. Thought it might give too much away if first.\nThanks for the like and comment.', 'time': '14:17 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Parul Shah': 'Wow, just so good! Your dialog is perfect, sounds very natural. And the play on the prompt is witty yet dramatic. Way to go!', 'time': '21:15 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the complimentary comment!', 'time': '22:04 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the complimentary comment!', 'time': '22:04 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': 'Military might :)\n\nR', 'time': '01:56 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jarrel Jefferson': 'Great dialogue. Everyone has a unique voice, which was something that kept me reading.\n\nIs everyone a toy? Interesting. I thought it was weird how Joe Will-Have-To-Do could remember the girl he loved with such detail yet couldn’t remember his own name, but I guess it makes more sense if they’re all toys.\n\nGood stuff, Mary.', 'time': '04:37 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Yes, the three were all toys. Did GI Joe have a last name? Could be why he couldn't remember.\nThanks for liking and nice compliment."", 'time': '05:33 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Yes, the three were all toys. Did GI Joe have a last name? Could be why he couldn't remember.\nThanks for liking and nice compliment."", 'time': '05:33 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""The turn of phrase in this Mary is great, it's either a subject your are familiar with or did a lot of research, regardless it grounded it in reality. Then the twist, how did I not realise they were G.I.Joes! Nice working in of Barbie, she just needed to print out her diploma lol"", 'time': '09:53 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Well how else did she become all those aspirations? Glad you liked it.', 'time': '11:01 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Well how else did she become all those aspirations? Glad you liked it.', 'time': '11:01 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'This is great. I like your twist here. \nAs usual your dialogue is great with definite personalities coming through. I enjoyed this very much.', 'time': '23:49 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'And thank you so much😊', 'time': '02:57 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'And thank you so much😊', 'time': '02:57 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Thoroughly enjoyed this story. It was excellently written and I could see the two men side by side in the meat factory. What those men had to go through was hell which you described brilliantly. Great twist at the end to with the doctor being Joe’s girl.', 'time': '09:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Had to work in Barbie😉. Thanks for liking this and my mayhem one,too.\nOh, and take a peek at comments under Susan Catucci in my mayhem story. Had some exciting news. My first 50 pages in my novel made the finalist list for Claymore Award!', 'time': '14:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Keegan': 'Yes you did so well to work Barbie into the story, I meant to applaud you for that😊 Lovely comments from Susan Catucci by the way. And huge congratulations to you on making the final for the Claymore Award…….Well deserved no doubt. I’m delighted for you Mary👏🏻', 'time': '15:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks. Feels strange blowing my own 🥳 horn.', 'time': '15:32 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Keegan': 'Not at all Mary. I’m hoping you have a big success in the Claymore🤞', 'time': '17:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Had to work in Barbie😉. Thanks for liking this and my mayhem one,too.\nOh, and take a peek at comments under Susan Catucci in my mayhem story. Had some exciting news. My first 50 pages in my novel made the finalist list for Claymore Award!', 'time': '14:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Yes you did so well to work Barbie into the story, I meant to applaud you for that😊 Lovely comments from Susan Catucci by the way. And huge congratulations to you on making the final for the Claymore Award…….Well deserved no doubt. I’m delighted for you Mary👏🏻', 'time': '15:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks. Feels strange blowing my own 🥳 horn.', 'time': '15:32 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Keegan': 'Not at all Mary. I’m hoping you have a big success in the Claymore🤞', 'time': '17:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Yes you did so well to work Barbie into the story, I meant to applaud you for that😊 Lovely comments from Susan Catucci by the way. And huge congratulations to you on making the final for the Claymore Award…….Well deserved no doubt. I’m delighted for you Mary👏🏻', 'time': '15:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks. Feels strange blowing my own 🥳 horn.', 'time': '15:32 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Keegan': 'Not at all Mary. I’m hoping you have a big success in the Claymore🤞', 'time': '17:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks. Feels strange blowing my own 🥳 horn.', 'time': '15:32 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Not at all Mary. I’m hoping you have a big success in the Claymore🤞', 'time': '17:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Not at all Mary. I’m hoping you have a big success in the Claymore🤞', 'time': '17:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Good work, Mary. I enjoyed this. \n\nYou had me thinking it was a straight story about recovering soldiers for a minute there!\n\nGreat cameo from Barbie to break the spell. Well done.\n\nThanks for sharing.', 'time': '15:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Needed some pink in a cameo world. Thanks for liking.', 'time': '15:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Needed some pink in a cameo world. Thanks for liking.', 'time': '15:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,wwurle,Kelsey's Heaven,Nicholas Thomas,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wwurle/,/short-story/wwurle/,Angst,0,"['Christian', 'Speculative', 'Horror']",14 likes,"       I always considered marriage to be the most beautiful thing to happen to someone. I mean, doesn’t everyone though? To have one person in your life to feel a connection to like no other; someone to tell your secrets to, someone to tell what you’re REALLY thinking.            That’s what I thought. My marriage ceremony was just two months ago, yet all I could think about is one very specific part of our vows, “Til death do us part.” Surely, if my husband doesn’t die soon, I WILL kill myself.            My husband and I have been married for, as I’ve said, just over two months ago. Everything was perfect then; he was such a romantic, and his family – or, what I’ve seen of them – were absolutely charming.            But something changed. It wasn’t subtle, I assure you, but I did notice my newlywed husband start to act less like the man I knew him to be, and more… Well, business-like. He no longer gave me flowers at the start of every week like he used to, and he no longer cuddled me every night when he promised me he would. Sometimes he would come home, looking beat like a baseball, but I would always be the good wife and have the house clean and dinner cooked and warm for him right on the dot. I would ask him how his day went, and he would give his generic “It was fine,” response. I would wrap my arms lovingly around his neck and kiss his cheek, maybe a small nibble on his ear if I was feeling saucy – but no bite.            Day after day it went, this marriage that was built on such promises of love and affection which was now a disquiet sequence of conversation between two roommates who hardly know each other. Never mind that we share a bed, considering he hardly touches me these days. Was it something I did, or said? These were questions that plagued me for months.            To make it worse, it didn’t stop with my husband – his father would always give me such disdainful looks, and would low-key question was I was doing with my own life as I went to school. Like, when all of us were hanging out together – my mom and dad, me, my husband, and my husband’s dad – I explained I didn’t accept the job offer of working as a line cook while I’m going to school to be a medical assistant. I explained that I didn’t want to take on a part-time job, where I’m already struggling to make sense of all I’m learning unless it made some sort of sense with what I’m going through with school – even a basic receptionist job would be more beneficial for me than that of a line cook. But all my husband’s father had to say to that was, “Well, OKAY,” in such a snarky tone as they looked down at their feet with condescending eyes which knew didn’t want to meet my own. Condescending old shit.            That specific moment was just a little two weeks ago. Just thirty seconds ago I was pacing my bathroom as my husband lay dead asleep in our bedroom. I couldn’t sleep; it was just the same shit running through my head over and over, and it kept me up at night no matter how hard I tried to fight it, despite having a test to do tomorrow.            I tell you what – I was raised Baptist. I don’t necessarily worship the guy you all call God now – in fact, I would just straight up say I don’t believe in him, if not for certain things in my past. Yes, things did happen to me with such a level of “I told you so,” by a higher authority that I have no choice BUT to believe in him – that doesn’t mean I have to like him. No, I DO believe in God, the Savior, and the Holy fucking spirit, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.            But therein lies my issue – I am this unhappy with my life, my marriage, and all the people involved with it, it absolutely feels like I have no way out. I don’t WANT to go to Hell, so there goes suicide as my ticket out. But I also don’t want to go to Heaven, as I know someday, I would be meeting my husband and my father again as they are both heavily religious. I prayed and prayed (but not to anyone specific) for a way out of this.            And just as I knew there would be a higher power such as the Big-G God, I knew there could be something else out there to hear me.            “Hello, Kelsey,” I heard a voice behind me say. Though I was facing the mirror, the owner of the voice was just outside of the view of the prism. I turned around sharply and beheld the most beautiful man I had ever seen. His hair was blonde, slick back in a businessman-like cut, and his skin was white with a slight scan that gave it that trim peach color, though the shape of his eyes held a hint of Asian origin to them. The eyes, though – they were a sparkling emerald. Not just green, but literally the sheen of pure cut emeralds, and they seemed to be looking right through me.  The rest of this man was wearing a sharp grey suit that seemed to be cut perfectly to his body origins – a solid 6’1” I’d guess.            I tried to conceal my surprise, but something in me told me that would do no good. “Who are you?” I asked with a voice that I hoped was unshaking.            “You may call me…” The man said, taking a slight pause as he licked his lips. “Mr. Green!” He finally finished with a flair of his hands. “I understand that you’re in a bit of trouble?” he asked, his whimsical smile turning to a frown.            I wanted to hate that frown, but it felt so sincere, so modest – like he truly did feel bad for me.            I didn’t want to say anything. Part of me wanted to scream for my husband to come and help. But I didn’t.            I looked at this man – this, Mr. Green, - and I felt hope. The hope of being free, the urge to live my life as it was meant to be lived.            “Don’t be shy, my dear. I know, I know… It’s hard to find trust in me. After all – did I not just appear in your bathroom in the middle of the night?” He chuckled as he reached his hand up to his face as if to examine it.            “But I assure you, we can be great friends. And I do hope we can be friends, Kelsey. But that’s not always such an easy step to take, is it?” He asked me, his emerald eyes flashing – literally flashing – at me.            “No,” I said. I don’t know how I knew it, but I knew that this Mr. Green wasn’t just some man – he was my way out.            “You want something from me,” I said to him.            Mr. Green chuckled at that. “Well yes, I do!” He beamed at me again, and his face turned back to a frowning sincerity. “But you also want something from me. That’s what friends do after all, yes? We help each other.”            I struggled to find the right words. I wanted to tell him to go away, that none of this felt right; and yet, all of this felt right, and I told him, “Yes. I need something from you. If you can do it?”            Mr. Green did not chuckle again like I expected him to, but instead, his stern countenance turned to a frown. “You want the power to be free,” he said, “But not just to be free from your husband and his father in this life, but in the next life as well?”            I couldn’t help it – it was the sheer power of it all, to hear it from someone else's mouth – I fell to my knees, and started sobbing.            “Yes… Yes, please…” I grabbed the hem of his too-nicely tailored grey pants and squeezed. I didn’t care that my tears were staining that fine cloth, and apparently neither did he.            “Please!”            Mr. Green slowly knelt down and clasped my hands. “Do not cry, dear. All I need is for you to renounce everything – renounce God, renounce Lucifer and all his devils – do that, and I can help you.”            I looked up at him, my sobbing at a confused halt, “What?” I asked.            At this, he did smile again. “Renounce belief in all of them, love. And you will have the power to beat them. There will be no Heaven.”            I was mesmerized in disbelief as I looked up at this wonderful man, so endearing and so all-knowing, so compassionate.  There were a million things I wanted to say to him, but all I could say was, “I see you, Mr. Green.”            He nodded to me, then vanished. It wasn’t a dramatic flair of smoke, there was no whooshing noise – he simply was, and then simply wasn’t. It was then that I knew what I had to do. There is no Heaven.            Strangling my husband was easy. It was easy to look into his eyes, to see those questions building up. What did I do? How can we fix this? Why?            Why? That was the simplest question. In time, he would know exactly why – or maybe not. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was finally over.            My husband’s father wasn’t as easy, however. When I drove to his house just two blocks down the road, I felt so true to myself. But as I stood there, over his bed the same way I did his son, my hands wrung around his neck, it was harder as strange as that is to say.            The old man looked more lost; confused would be the best word for it, I suppose. I don’t know if this expression could be put into words, but I like to think that it did mean why is my daughter-in-law doing this? That thought in particular brought a smile to my lips. I truly did hope that is exactly what they were thinking. But I knew I’d never find out, even then.            I made it back to my own house, and I saw Mr. Green sitting on the loveseat waiting for me.            “I see you took care of honeybunch. How’d it go with dear old Dad?” Mr. Green said. He didn’t seem to be his same, empathetic self - he had the cheery grin of someone who had just won the lottery.            I didn’t feel the same with him either. All the feelings of trust and security were gone. Here and now, I really did see Mr. Green. He was cold and heartless; he was all of the emotions I felt toward my husband and my father. “You know exactly how it went. It doesn’t matter now; I won’t have to see them again.”            “That’s right!” Mr. Green exclaimed, in a tone not too unlike that of a used car salesman. “You won’t have to worry about seeing them ever again – not where you’re going!”            I was taken aback by this. “What do you mean, “not where I’m going,”?” I asked.            “Well,” Mr. Green said, “I said there would be no Heaven. I didn’t say not for who. I don’t have the power to just take away Heaven, you know!” Mr. Green said with a light-hearted laugh.            It started to dawn on me what was happening, what was being done to me. Too little, too late. “You tricked me…” I said in a weak, shaky voice.            “Tsk tsk,” Mr. Green said. “I never lied, and that’s the truth. Say, Kelsey – you look like someone who's having a heart attack!”            I stammered and thought of slinging a million slurs at him, but all that came out of my mouth was, “I see you, Mr. Green…”            Mr. Green laughed and laughed, “Yeah, yeah… Just like a woman having a heart attack.” He said this last sentence more seriously, as I clutched my chest and collapsed to the ground.            Later the coroner would call the cause of death a heart attack, and the deaths of my husband and his father a freak strangling by some psychopath – as far as they could tell, there would be no reason to implicate me as the murderer; I just had a heart attack seeing someone break into my home, and that someone would go upstairs to strangle my husband. They’ll probably never see the truth.            I could try and explain to my husband and my father how I was deceived, how I really felt. We could probably just talk it out, right? But I don’t think I’ll ever see them again. ","July 22, 2023 04:50","[[{'Catrina Thomas': 'More Mr. Green 💚💚💚 Great story!! I particularly love the very end. Those last two sentences are pure perfection. 👏👏👏', 'time': '03:34 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Britney Liedtke': 'So, this is great! I\'d definitely read a book about Mr Green and all his adventures of ""helping"" people! I really like the writing style', 'time': '07:41 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Len Rely': 'I\'d like to see this story about 50% longer, because there was a ""Wow, what?"" moment for me and I\'d like to have that again or even for Mr. Green to keep turning the latchkey which could be done in just the dialogue.', 'time': '23:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Nicholas Thomas': ""I really appreciate the input! :) \nMr. Green is a monster I thought up a while back and am most proud of him, so I will most likely be putting him in more short stories in the future - so hopefully you'll be able to see more moments like that later on!"", 'time': '21:09 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nicholas Thomas': ""I really appreciate the input! :) \nMr. Green is a monster I thought up a while back and am most proud of him, so I will most likely be putting him in more short stories in the future - so hopefully you'll be able to see more moments like that later on!"", 'time': '21:09 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emily Stoll': 'Mr. Green 💚 is a brilliant and horrifying villain. I loved watching how Mr. Green manipulated this woman in the story. It gave me the ""oh dang"" moment at the end for sure.', 'time': '01:39 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,6kaegz,Heart-Shaped Sunglasses,C. A. Janke,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6kaegz/,/short-story/6kaegz/,Angst,0,"['Fiction', 'Contemporary', 'Coming of Age']",14 likes," CW: Strong themes/mentions of eating disorders.When I was a kid, I knew I could be anything. I was as malleable and unmolded as a new jar of Play-Doh, ready to fit into any shape or size form anyone wanted to squeeze me into. For my father, something demure and dutiful, the next dolled-up thing to add to his dining room set. For my mother, something sweet-faced and empty, something to dress up in the bows and skirts she didn’t wear anymore. Never mind that I wanted to be the first mermaid-popstar-astronaut to live in a diamond castle on the moon; I had plenty of time for all those things, and I could be anything. Life was easy. Life was bright and new and free and coated in rosy-pink glitter. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be lots of things. I wanted to be the daughters my parents wanted, and for the boys at school, I wanted to be pretty and fun and cool. But in that last summer before high school, puberty redesigned me into something chubby and acne-ridden and awkward. Suddenly, all my potentialities dwindled. For my father, I was still a fine daughter. For my mother, I was no longer a shiny, untouched surface she could make herself up in. The transition from girlhood to teenagedom was a violent thrust into a crushing awareness of myself in proximity to everyone around me, a burden that radiated back through time and stained my every conscious memory in shades of anxiety and shame. My best friend’s eleventh birthday slumber party was no longer that time I pulled an awesome all-nighter singing One Direction songs and watching 12 Dancing Princesses and bonding with my closest friends, but only a time I humiliated myself by eating too much at a sleepover.My new high school model came with dowdy sweaters and chunky glasses and a perpetually awkward hair length in a colour that wasn’t totally brown, but definitely not blonde. These clear labels made me a sure fit for the smart girl (Hey, you’re good at math, right? Could you help me with last week’s homework?), the good student (You always turn your projects in so early!), the funny friend (OMG, where do you come up with this stuff?). These were the spaces made for me, not the ones for the girlfriends or the popular kids, so I filled them out accordingly. I studied late into Friday nights (Yeah, you can just copy mine again), focused on school (Just have a lot of free time on the weekends, I guess), and crafted a crass armour to protect my still-soft insides (Unlike those girls, I have a personality).I could be anything, except a date or a crush, except the pretty one in the friend group, except a girl who could wear heart-shaped sunglasses and get away with it. I could be anything people saw at first glance, because to ask for anything more was to ask for ridicule.Then, in the summer before eleventh grade, I’d discovered a whole new underworld of the Internet for girls like me to make themselves into anything but. I trashed my glasses for contacts, faithfully worshipped the teachings of the goddesses of the YouTube makeup tutorial, devoted my days to the routines and expectations of keto, paleo, vegetarianism, veganism, intermittent fasting, calorie counting, restricting, the Military Diet, the ABC Diet.I’d starved myself down to a size that made my mother happy, that made my father nervous. And finally, finally the boys saw a girl! An honest to goodness, life-size, dainty, (box-dyed) blonde, pretty-in-pink girl. Who needed diamond castles and wild careers when I now had access to all the short skirts and cute tops a girl like me could ever want, when it was no longer so audacious for me to wear makeup (but only that totally natural glam look, of course). To the boys I’d spent that last two years sitting behind, ignored except when there was a group project to be done, I was a glossy and glossed-up new toy they could possess for a weekend, show off to their friends, and then leave on a high shelf after playtime was over.I moved up the ranks and away from my old friends who hadn’t yet encountered the miracles I had and bound myself to the girls who’d seemed born with those blessings. At bare cafeteria tables, we swapped eyeshadow palettes, sugar-free Starbucks orders, Instagram handles. We rarely swapped clothes since mine were way too small for the other girls (always said with a palpable bitterness, a familiar sadness), and I felt like a fucking winner.I’ll admit it wasn’t all glitz and glam all the time. On some (most) days I couldn’t stand for more than ten minutes and those tall lattes I posted on Instagram ended up untouched in the trash more often than not. And despite my new friends and my new clothes and my new body, I couldn’t shake this ever-present paranoia that they’d all one day see past it, that they’d seen through me the entire time. I’d only put lipstick on a pig, I hadn’t really fooled anyone, and they’d one day stick me and eat me alive for daring to think I could trick them, that I could trick myself. All I’d ever been and all I’d ever be was a pathetic animal stuck in the mud.  But, at least for a little while, I didn’t need to make anyone laugh to make them like me, to make them pass me by as a target, to distract them from my vulnerable parts they could so easily strike and so mortally wound. I didn’t need to crawl in the shadowy, safe, ignored spaces. For now, they saw a date for homecoming, one of their own, something they could accept into their own toy boxes. I learned to play the parts and play them well.This newly minted, limited-edition version of me came with her first boyfriend, her first kiss, her first party, her first drink, then her next, and next, and next. The older boys (how old does someone have to be before they aren’t a boy anymore?) offered cheap drinks in plastic cups endlessly because they saw a girl who could (couldn’t) handle them. Those firsts are hazy with a rosy-pink film and dredge up the acrid taste of bile and an ache in my skull if I think on them for too long. Boys and men alike saw something they could shout vulgar words at as she walked home from school, something whose beach photos they could leave lewd comments under. It wasn’t like unwanted comments had never followed me around before, only now they had gone from cruel to desire, and I figured it would be so much easier to deal with desire. Cruelty was a metal bat to the gut I could hardly dodge; desire was a skintight dress made of eyes and hands and tongues I could pretend to flaunt.I was everything I wanted to be, and everything I thought everyone else would want, too.Near the end of that school year, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table to talk. It was a surface I hadn’t seen in weeks, but it still bore the rough scratches that looked like my initials when seen from the right angle. My seven-year-old hands had done that when they’d finally gotten a hold of my mother’s scissors, then promptly hacked the chunkiest bangs into my still blonde hair. How eager little girls are for control over their bodies. When my parents began to express their love and concern for me, I traced those grooves and felt deeply confused. Hadn’t I become the popular girl like you wanted, just like you were, Mom? And Dad, wasn’t I a picture you could proudly save in your wallet to show to your coworkers? I know my grades have dropped a little (You’re failing almost every class, sweetheart), and you disapprove of my friends (We hear you crying in your room almost every night, honey), but at least I’m taking care of myself (Darling, you’re wasting away in front of us).I can be everything! I can be in every collection, lay behind taut plastic shields, strapped in by metal twist-ties against cardboard pink-sand beaches and neon-coloured clubs and stylish dreamhouses. Everybody wants me! I can be the Good Daughter, the Fun Date, the Pleasant Student, the Popular Girl, the Funny Girl, the Smart Girl, the Party Girl (let’s go party!), (how young does someone get to be before they're suddenly a woman?), the not-like-other-girls girl, the one-of-the-boys girl, the girls-girl, the Insta girl, #nofilter, #makeupgoals, #bodygoals, #skingoals, #facegoals, #lifegoals, #cleangirlaesthetic, #softgirlaesthetic, #thatgirlaesthetic, the flirt, the prude, innocent, experienced, naïve, wise, anything, everything, I can be it all, I can perfect, perfect, perfect,When my parents put me in therapy at the start of my last year of high school, I tried to become the good-at-therapy girl to make the therapists job easy. The good-at-therapy girl is satisfyingly honest, politely complying, and goes along with it until she doesn’t have to be there anymore.Yes, I’m doing alright. How are you?No, I’m not concerned about my mental health. Yes, I ate today. No, I’m not lying.Yes, I have a support system.No, I don’t feel I can tell my friends or my boyfriend or my parents anything on my mind. Yes, I feel an immense pressure to be everything they want me to be. No, I don’t know if this is what they actually want. Yes, I feel I won’t be loved if I’m not perfect. Yes, I’d rather die thin at 17 than live to be a hundred and over a hundred pounds. Yes, I know my choices are killing me.No, I don’t really care. It took me almost a year to discover it, but it turns I did care, deep down in a place at first only someone other than myself could see. Just enough, just a spark enough to coax into a flame. Dim as a nightlight but enough to see by, enough to navigate my way out of the darkness of the box I’d entombed myself in.My therapist and parents and I agreed that I should wait another year before going to university or college, that I should take a few extra courses at the high school to up my neglected grades, that I should break up with my boyfriend (who was always telling me how mature I was for my age), that I should get off social media and reconnect with old friends and take up hobbies other than exercising until I tasted blood on my breath and agonizing over food until I hated myself.Slowly, I became something different, someone I wanted to be.As it turned out, I was someone who was good at math, but also someone who actually enjoyed it. These numbers didn’t cause me to break out in a panicky cold sweat, make me shaky with anxiety and insecurity and guilt. They were brain exercises, strings of riddles and codes that were so satisfying to puzzle out, and when my brain was well fed and properly rested, I was damn good at them. This summer, my therapist has been helping me look for post-secondary programs where I can pursue this new/old passion. It seems my teachers were right; math really can lead to a lot. I could be a computer engineer, software developer, data analysist, economist, statistician. I could even be an astronaut.I know I’ve still got a ways to go; I’m still quietly anxious about gaining the freshman fifteen (though I know now nothing would make my mother happier), and that perfect girl box is so enticing some days, no matter how much it now resembles a casket in my mind. I still have a hard time reconciling the idea that I can wear whatever I want whenever I want without needing to be shaped a certain way (but I did recently buy a really cool pair of sunglasses and the world didn't implode on me). I also know I'm so much more than my body and the ways it and I can fulfill others.I know I don’t have to be anything in particular. I can just be.  ","July 24, 2023 16:09","[[{'Jonathan Page': 'Bravo!', 'time': '00:28 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,txp1th,THE DETECTIVE,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/txp1th/,/short-story/txp1th/,Angst,0,"['American', 'Crime']",13 likes," THE DETECTIVE Millicent Billy worked her way through the files, gradually piecing together an accurate picture of the fraud, the subject of this enquiry. Not part of the main fraud squad office, she sat alone, surrounded by boxes and, automatically, her hand would reach out to the large bag of M+Ms on her desk. Though she was well regarded for her forensic ability, she longed to do real police work instead of the glorified clerical work that she was constantly pigeon-holed with. As the lunch hour arrived, she opened the door that led into the main office where a gathering of male detectives sat hunched over their computers working away.  “Lunch”, she shouted. Immediately, her fellow detectives began yelling out their orders, talking over each other and creating a cacophony of noisy bedlam. Millicent walked calmly towards the exit and, as she walked, men shouted out changes and additions to their orders but Millicent just kept on walking. On her return, she went silently from desk to desk distributing the exact order to the right detective.  Back in her room, she sniffed at her pizza with anticipation. If she had one addiction in life, unfortunately for her figure, it was food and Millicent, a big girl with a shock of curly red hair, never, ever shared her food. A knock on the door surprised her because none of this motley crew of detectives ever knocked. Annoyed and hungry, the lunch hour being sacrosanct, she opened the door to find it was a man who appeared slightly familiar. “May I come in, Milly?” God, she hated that abbreviation of her name. Milly Billy! It was what the men liked to call her, putting her back in her box, whenever she uncovered a new file lead. Real detective work was for men and, to them, she wasn’t a real cop. “It’s Millicent, actually.  Millicent Billy”. “I’m sorry, Millicent.”. Milly gestured to the chair next to her own. “Do I know you? You look awfully familiar”. “I’m Captain Mike Shaw, Homicide. You may have seen me on the news recently”.  She remembered now. “You’re the one that’s taken over the Oswald case”. ‘That’s right. Of course, it’s not a homicide case, not yet at least, but I’ve been ordered to take it on. Anna Oswald disappeared a little over three weeks ago and City Hall wants the case wrapped up. A couple of anomalies were found in the files. These things happen of course but, it was decided to bring in a fresh team. Look, the reason I’m here, detective, is to ask if you’d help me. “To take care of the files?” Of course, she thought. What else would it be? Either way, she was going to say yes. Files for a possible murder case had to be more interesting than finance stuff. “Yes…and no. You see my superiors are telling me to abandon the existing case work and re-start the investigation from scratch but…” “You want me to sift through the files and eliminate the dross?” “Yes. But it’s not just that. I want you to be part of my task force. You’d be based in the incident room. Frankly, I need someone like you”. Milly had trouble believing what she was hearing. This was her dream; to be a real cop. There had to be a catch. “Why me?” “Look, I have a team of dedicated officers, all male, but you…you would bring something unique to our team; a woman’s perspective. Plus, I saw you in action with that lunch order. You were mighty impressive. What do you say? You in?” “Can I offer you a slice of my pizza?” The following morning, Milly reported to the Oswald incident room, nervous as hell, but nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to her. Shaw showed her to her desk.   “You’re just in time. I’m about to start our daily briefing”. Mike Shaw stood in front of the room and went over the facts with several detectives offering input and Milly realised just how little progress had been made. As the briefing ended, Shaw pointed to Milly and told the room: “This is Millicent Billy. She has a sharp brain and is a whizz with files. She is joining our team as from today”. Milly’s face flushed as red as her hair as the men all turned as one to look at her, disinterestedly. She’d thought about wearing a suit and heels but had decided to stick to her voluminous sweats and comfortable trainers. After all, she was wanted for her brain -not her looks. By 12 noon, she was feeling hungry so she stood and addressed the room: “Excuse me, I’m going for lunch. Would anybody like me to fetch them something?” It was as if she hadn’t spoken. Not a single person acknowledged her.  “EXCUSE ME!” Twenty surprised heads turned her way. There was a slight hesitation - then the usual chaotic clamour as orders were shouted out. When Milly returned and distributed the food correctly, the detectives could not help but be impressed with her mental ability to absorb and retain without needing to write anything down. Detective Harry Kerridge, 5th Precinct, had made two stupid errors. Firstly, he had entered the time of one interview as 8 when everybody in the force used the 24 hour clock and it should have stated 0800 for am or 20.00 for pm. Though insignificant in itself, this error had served to trigger a deeper dive into the paper work unearthing his second error: measuring the distance in miles from where Anna Oswald had last been seen and the place where a car, believed to have been involved in the incident, had been sighted, Kerridge had listed 34 miles. This, in essence, ruled out that car being connected to the abduction because there was simply no way that the person fleeing the scene could have covered that distance so quickly. When a second detective had re-checked the distance, it had actually been 24 miles. This, of course, was a significant error. Milly knocked on the door of Kerridge’s home. For some strange reason, this place gave her the creeps but she couldn’t put her finger on why. The door opened revealing a glassy eyed, unshaven man who eyed Milly suspiciously. “Detective Kerridge? I’m Detective Billy. Might I please have a few words?” Kerridge looked Milly up and down through his drunken haze. “You don’t look like a cop.” Milly flashed her ID and Kerridge let her in. The place was a mess. Empty beer and liquor bottles abounded, discarded fast food boxes everywhere. “Sir, you made two fundamental errors in your reports. I’m sure you know the ones I’m referring to as you are currently under suspension pending investigation. Do you mind telling me how come you managed to be so inaccurate?’ “First, you addressed me as Detective, then it was Mr. Kerridge, now it’s Sir. What’s next?” “Can you please just answer the question, Mr. Kerridge?” The man looked at her spitefully and spat out: “I’m dyslexic! I can’t help it. I could measure the distance between you and me right now, four times, and I’d get four different answers. Happy now?” Milly looked at him incredulously. “You didn’t think to tell somebody? This could be a murder investigation. A young woman is missing, Mr. Kerridge. Do you not realise that you actually could have jeopardised the investigation?” As she left, she noticed a vehicle, covered in a tarp in the side alley of the house. All this driving around was hungry work so, as she topped up her gas tank, she treated herself to a Hershey bar. Back in the car, her cell phone rang. It was her mother. “How’s it going, honey?” “Good, mom. I’m actually out on an investigation right now”. “They treating you okay, sweetie? No Milly Billy stuff?” “Oh God, mom, why did you ever call me Milly with a surname like ours?” “I didn’t name you Milly. I named you Millicent. You should be grateful your father didn’t get his way. He wanted to call you Hildred. Can you imagine that shortened?” The two burst out laughing. Milly tracked down Kerridge’s wife through her sister’s address that she had given when filing a complaint about her husband’s abusive behaviour. Ursula Kerridge was quite a pretty, little thing, she thought, as she sat in the lounge of the Brooklyn apartment sipping coffee.   “There is no way I am ever going back to that man. He freaked me out”. “How so, Mrs. Kerridge?” “His sexual depravity. It just got worse and worse but it was more talking about what he was going to do that turned him on. It was violent, sick stuff. I reported him but cops all stick together. Not you. I mean the men. You seem nice. Can I get you more coffee?” “Sure, uh, I don’t suppose you have any cookies?” At the 5th Precinct on Elizabeth Street, Milly spoke to Kerridge’s former partner, an older detective.  “Nasty piece of work. Didn’t trust him and hated riding with him. There was talk of him abusing his wife, too”. “Were you aware that Kerridge is dyslexic? Had a problem with numbers?” “Sure, everybody knew. We used to laugh actually. If he called in a plate, he’d always get the letters wrong.  As for numbers, that man was a mathematical genius. He could calculate the odds on any bets we laid quicker than any bookie”. Using her cell, Milly quickly googled dyslexia: word blindness, not number blindness. The son of a bitch had lied to her. Maggie Arthur lived twenty four miles from the park where Anna Oswald had last been seen. On her way over to the woman’s house, Milly spotted a McDonalds and pulled into the drive-thru for a snack, forgetting the difficulty of eating a burger while driving.  It was getting dark as she parked across the road from the house.  “So, I’m basically just going over statements, Mrs. Arthur. You say you saw a car pass your house at exactly 7pm on the night that Anna went missing. That would be about 15 minutes after she was last seen in the park so your sighting is very important to us. Can you please tell me what you saw and how you knew the precise time?” “Well, like I already said, I looked out and saw a sedan driving away from the parkland”. Milly stood up and stared out of the window. ‘’Ma’am, it would have been about this time, right? But, as I look out, all I can see is darkness. If a car passed now, I wouldn’t be able to recognise it, especially a black one like you described”. “Black? Oh no, I said it was blue”. Milly turned to her, surprised. “You mean as in navy blue - which could be mistaken for black?” Shaking her head, Mrs. Arthur turned to her young son. “Joey, get mommy your blue car, honey”. The boy ran out of the living room, returning almost immediately, with a bright blue, toy racing car. “It was this colour; royal blue”. Milly was stunned. Yet another anomaly; this time, a major deviation. “I still don’t understand how you could have seen it. It’s almost pitch black outside”. Joining Milly at the window, Mrs. Arthur smiled. “It is pitch black. But watch”. Within seconds, street lights, that had been concealed by the lush foliage of trees, lit up and the entire road became illuminated, highlighting Milly’s own car across the way. “Seven o’ clock, on the dot. That’s how I was so sure of the time”. As Milly rushed from the house, she turned and asked: “Do you recall the name of the police officer you gave this information to?” “Sorry, I don’t. Uh, do you know that you have ketchup all over your top?” As Milly was turning her car around, she saw Mrs. Arthur waving to her. She wound down her window as the woman handed her a business card. “Sorry. I forgot. He gave me this card”. Shivers running down her spine, Milly stared at the white piece of cardboard with the embossed name: Detective Harry Kerridge, 5th Precinct. At Kerridge’s house, Milly sat and waited in the darkness. She had called in, requesting backup and had been ordered to wait for support to arrive but she just wanted to take a peek at the car she’d seen earlier so, stealthily, she walked up the side of the house and, kneeling down, lifted the tarp The torch of her phone shone on the car; royal blue! Her heart started beating wildly. Suddenly, she spotted movement at the back of the house and, impulsively, she began to creep down the side of the house, each step on the gravel sounding like a gunshot to her over sensitive ears. As she peeped carefully around the corner, she could make out the shape of a large shed at the rear of the yard. Eyes constantly on the shed door, she drew her service pistol from her holster, grasping it with both hands; the first time that she had ever taken it from her holster while on duty. Oh my God, she thought, this is so not what I’ve been used to.  Just then, the shed door opened. Kerridge, illuminated by the reflection of the torch he was holding. With a start, Milly noticed two bound feet on the floor of the shed as Kerridge struggled with the torch and the lock at the same time.   Without hesitation, Milly broke cover and ran across the grass towards the shed. “Freeze! Hands in the air. Now!” Kerridge dropped the lock and the torch and bolted for the garden wall but slipped on the wet turf. Milly threw herself on top of him; her heft finally being put to good use. Though he struggled, Kerridge was no match for her and she soon had him in handcuffs; another first. Milly could see the flashing lights of several police cars arriving at the front and shouted: “Back here”. Anna Oswald was found, bound and gagged in the shed. Though Kerridge had talked of doing all sorts of things to her, he had, thankfully, not yet carried out any of his threats, seeming to have derived more pleasure from seeing the fear in her eyes. When Anna saw Milly’s mud splattered corpulence in the doorway, flashing her police ID, she burst into tears. The following morning, recovered from the giant adrenaline dump of the night before, Milly was overwhelmed by the standing ovation she received as she entered the incident room. To a man, they stood and applauded the new member of their team. Mike Shaw announced:  “Guys, let’s hear it for Detective Milly Billy!” ","July 23, 2023 10:45","[[{'David Allday': 'A fun read.', 'time': '00:38 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Loved your story. I can imagine a series. ( A Millicent Billy Novel)', 'time': '14:09 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'A very HEAVY story, I enjoyed it.', 'time': '21:40 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': ""I'm hungry."", 'time': '15:53 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lara Deppe': 'I love a chunky lead character with untapped potential!', 'time': '15:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Yay! She got to throw her weight around.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,cqn3w6,All That Fitz,Joe Smallwood,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cqn3w6/,/short-story/cqn3w6/,Angst,0,"['Christian', 'Coming of Age', 'Contemporary']",11 likes," “You are supposed to believe certain things, don’t you know?”“What? Am I supposed to be some bible thumper now?”“Why would you assume that?According to Michael, I was the one with a problem. Our friendship depended on me making the right choices. He always took the lead to sort things out for us. Then it got so weird. He chose a set of beliefs all right. Things that made no sense to me.He was right and everyone else was wrong. His beliefs were fashionable too. Everyone agreed with him. I mean everyone. No one else dared to disagree. Except for me. Yet he couldn’t be a bible thumper. Not yet anyway.But if I tried to object to this radical change in his outlook on life, he would accuse me of putting him into a box. Telling his story without permission. Making him a character in my life. To hear him tell it, the problem between us was that I could never take a stand on anything that mattered. Yet I was taking a stand! For our friendship.It didn’t start out that way. We had been friends since high school. Altar boys at church. On a first-name basis with the convent nuns who ran St. Vincent’s, a private boys’ school. We even went to the same university. Took some of the same courses. Liked the same people. The joke that got a smile from those who knew us was that really, we were twin sons of different mothers.Which made things even more painful. Something had happened to him in his freshman year. Now we hardly saw each other. October 17th“Oh my!” I exclaimed in the Unicentre one day, right outside the student council office. “It’s you! Really you!”Michael stopped for a moment, his entourage's quizzical noises and looks making one very tall woman adjust her oversized glasses. She squinted to make sense of how I knew Michael, yet she didn’t know me.“I never see you in class anymore,"" I said. ""We’re roommates, remember?”A slow smile creased that handsome face. “Why Zachary, what a surprise!”He only had a moment, his furrowed brow squelching the torrent of words that usually escaped him. Already there was a light touch on his shoulder to point the way to the council meeting they were late for. “Catch you later Zack! You'll email me your course notes, right?"" He walked backward so he might talk to me more, but he didn't know what to say and I was too upset to talk to him. So awkward! Already they were in council chambers, arranging their papers and addenda items for their meeting. Michael was seated at the head of the council table. I could see everyone looking around, shuffling papers, and chatting, doubtless wondering why the meeting hadn’t already started. But Michael was staring out through the student council door window, watching me go to my next class. I would have given anything to know what he was thinking. I ended up outside in the quad. A cigarette for my thoughts would have suited me then. Too bad I didn’t smoke.October 18thWhen best friends fight, everyone has something to say about it. What went wrong for us? Mom would ask why Michael didn’t come over at Thanksgiving or Christmas. That ski trip we always took was taken without him. She would ask if there was something wrong and if there was something she could do. I told her that Michael was busy. Now that he was president of the university student council, he hardly had time for anything. I knew I was telling a lie. But it was a lie I wanted to believe.Speaking of belief, Michael said I didn’t believe in anything. He really meant that I didn’t believe in the right things. The fashionable ideas. A stuck-in-the-mud Catholic was what I was. Michael had moved on.It wasn’t just that he never went to Mass anymore, it was that he lived his life by what he felt was right. To hear him say it, church teaching was behind the times. Egalitarianism and who had power in society were the crucial issues.I told him that the Catholic Church had always worked to help the poor. He called that a sop to distract people. White people wielded power in such a way that the oppressed could never be free. “Put the oppressed in charge of your Catholic Church!” he would say. “Then maybe there might be true justice in this life!”I didn’t know how to answer him, to be honest. But later I discovered that Catholic teaching about power is actually quite simple: those who are privileged are expected to serve others. Having a truly egalitarian society is impossible. There will always be powerful elites and what really matters is how ethically they behave and whether they care more for the needs of those they govern than they do for their own enrichment.Therefore, the skin color of a ruling elite doesn't matter. A just society is only possible when at least a minority of people are honest and selfless in their personal lives. This was why striving to be a good person and living by a moral code based upon the teachings of Jesus Christ was much more important than political agitation. But I never got a chance to tell him that.Not long after, I got a text from Michael:Zack, it was great to run into you. My how time goes by these days! Could you help me out? I need someone to do publicity for the Fitzpatrick Lecture Series. This year's topic is Deconstructing White Supremacy. We tried to have the lecture series honoree changed this year, but it was a no-go. Some important alumni objected. It's still in honor of a dead professor of some dead sociological theory! I’ll drop a folder off to you with instructions. Thanks!The folder was already on my night table. Which came first? The text or the folder? Maybe both. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t reply.October 19thMy dorm room now existed for my exclusive use. I had no idea where Michael was sleeping at night. Then she showed up. Outside my dorm room.“Hello, Zachary. You can call me Madison. My pronouns are she and her. Do you have any questions about the publicity folder?”It was that tall, tall woman with the oversized glasses. Six inches taller than me at least. I felt like making a joke about my adjectives being “wonderful” and “amazing” but kept that comment to myself. She was just too attractive.“I have a lot of questions. Would you like to meet for coffee somewhere? I’m free now.”Even as I was speaking to her, it occurred to me that Madison and Michael were probably hooked up already. Which was awkward. But she was so ready for anything.“Just text me! I’ve got a class right now.” With that said, she turned to go.“Wait! I don’t know your number!”She was already halfway down the hall. “Michael will give it to me!”October 20thIt was strange that Madison was in my second-year American History class. I hadn't noticed her before. There she was blocking someone's view halfway down Simmon’s amphitheater, a guy behind her having to crane his neck to see the professor. After the lecture, I made a point of being at the exit Madison was heading towards, idling, and waiting for her to notice me.Up the aisle she came, wearing these very expensive clothes, all done up like she was ready to be interviewed, only noticing me at the last instant. “Oh, it's you!” she exclaimed as she leaned on the fire exit door, impatient to leave.“Zachary. But you could call me Zack for short. My pronouns are he and him,” I grinned.She gave me this weird look like joking about pronouns was a crime. Then she strode out into the concourse. So many classes were held in rooms that emptied into what could only be described as a mini shopping mall. People were going for coffee and taking their seats under the beaming skylights and indoor trees.“What do you want?”“Free for a coffee now?”“Oh alright. But I have another class soon. It will need to be quick. Are you having some sort of problem with the publicity?”We sat at one of the few remaining tables. I took a long look at her over my coffee, while thinking of what I might say. She was so incredibly beautiful, sunlight dappling about her long shiny brown hair. And she was staring at me too, in a good way, I hoped.“Yeah, yesterday I put a few posters up, but people are already defacing them,” I said, finally. “All sorts of salty comments. Some are in favor of the lectures; some are against them. The name of the sponsor, Fitzpatrick gets crossed out a lot. I haven’t a clue why this is happening.“John Alfred Fitzpatrick is the honoree, not the sponsor,” she corrected. “The lectures are meant to honor his contributions to sociology at this university. The person funding the lectures is Mr. Wilder who was once a student here. Don’t you pay attention to any of this stuff?”Great, I thought. I don’t know what I am talking about. I tried again. “So, you’re fine with that? I shouldn’t be replacing the posters that get defaced?”“No. Of course not! We want people to engage with what we are presenting. What are you anyway? Don’t you believe in what we are doing?”“Sure. Sort of,” I smiled, trying hard to be as inoffensive as possible.Madison frowned. “I don’t know about you, but if you want to make your mark in this life you need to take a stand and say and do things that will make a real difference. That is what is important to Michael, just as it is everything to me.”Then her coffee was off the table for good. Just like that. Madison was on her way, getting ready to go already. I had to think of something.“Can you give me a one-paragraph explanation of what the lecture series is about? Real quick?” I pleaded.She sighed. Then she stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “This stuff can’t be explained that way. Attend the lectures. Find out for yourself. That’s why we do these things in the first place.” She glanced at her expensive Apple watch.“I’ve got to go.”Before I could think of anything more to say, she was bobbing down the concourse with such huge strides. Watching her go, I was so disgusted with everything that I pitched a practically full cup of coffee into the nearest bin.October 24thLife can be strange. On the last night of the lectures, there would be a party and I was invited. Well, any excuse, I guess. Michael texted me again:Hey Zack! Could you be on the lookout for Cathy Wilder? She’ll be at the party after the last lecture. You can’t miss her. We’ll be giving her an appreciation plaque and a letter of thanks to her father. Maybe you could chat her up so she’s not all by herself. Thanks! I thought to write back: Why wouldn't you take care of her yourself? But then I remembered that Madison would be there.October 25th and 26th To my surprise, the first two lectures were full of banners and demonstrations with a hefty police presence. People were shouting each other down. A few had to be thrown out. Me, I was a spectator. How people could support white supremacy made no sense to me. But on the other hand, why have a lecture series that brings out the worst in everyone?October 27thI arrived late to the party; it was like I feared it would be. The only people I knew were Michael and Madison. They were chatting up people who looked familiar, dressed up in dark suits and expensive jewelry. Yes, those two were an item. No, they weren’t interested in talking to me. I found out later that some of the most important people in the university and even in the city were there.Knowing as I did, that Madison was with Michael, I would have left early but I ended up with a drink next to what turned out to be Cathy Wilder, the person Michael wanted me to look out for. Something must have gone seriously wrong. She looked so unhappy and out of place. Why wasn't she hobnobbing with all the dignitaries and basking in the attention that her father's involvement in the lecture series should have given her? Neither one of us spoke for such a long time. Finally, I got the courage to speak to her.""I came to this party late. Are you here because you sponsor these lectures?""“Yes, I’m here because my father funds this lecture series each year,” Cathy replied somewhat irritably. ""The university sponsors the lectures.""I had used the wrong word again. My bad. I was getting so tired of these word games.“And that is all?” I needled.“What do you mean?”“Would you be here if your father didn't fund these lectures?”“Why would that matter?” she huffed, her narrowed eyes flashing a warning.A feeling of wild abandonment came over me. Nothing mattered. Nothing whatsoever. The truth at last. I wanted it anyway I could get it. I put my drink down and turned in my chair to face Cathy.“To hear some people I know, the only thing that matters is saying the right words and believing in the right causes. Use the right pronouns. Have the right political views. Who cares about how anyone really feels anymore?”Cathy was getting angry. Good, I thought. I wasn’t near halfway done.“So, your dad is an alumnus?”“Yes, he knew Professor Fitzpatrick personally. Why do you ask?”I was quiet for a moment. “So, he was the one who didn’t want the honoree of the lecture series changed?”Now Cathy put her drink down. “How do you know that?” she demanded.I thought of those wretched posters I had been putting up. I imagined how people at the lectures must have felt, their emotions manipulated by those who cared only for their own advancement.“Oh, people don’t seem to like the name Fitzpatrick for some reason. Too white a name, I guess!” I half shouted.“What a thing to say!"" Cathy shouted back, much louder than me. ""This might be the last year for my father and the money he spends on this university! I certainly won’t be continuing with this lecture series once he’s gone!”People near us stopped talking, holding their drinks tightly, fixing their gaze about the room, anywhere but at us as if to say, ""It wasn't me!"" Cathy sprang from her chair, snatching her things, her coat, her purse, the plaque from the university, and the letter of thanks, nearly dropping everything in her haste to leave.I shot a glance at Michael and Madison's puzzled faces as I went to the door. Who knew what they were thinking? Who knew indeed? I couldn't care less. ","July 26, 2023 18:20","[[{'Chris Miller': 'Very topical.\n\nThanks for sharing, Joe.', 'time': '16:10 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading it, Chris!', 'time': '03:43 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading it, Chris!', 'time': '03:43 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Say good bye to a dear old friend', 'time': '14:25 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading, Mary.', 'time': '03:43 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Thanks for reading, Mary.', 'time': '03:43 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,owzrxj,Turmoil for a Soldier in Gray,Bruce Friedman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/owzrxj/,/short-story/owzrxj/,Angst,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Historical Fiction']",11 likes," Warning: racial stereotypesFirst of all, I need to tell you that I’m an avid collector of antiques and old documents. I live in Washington, DC, working for the federal government. However, and on one particular weekend, I was meandering through eastern Tennessee and hunting for antique stores in small towns to browse. On the outskirts of Jonesborough, I pulled into the dusty parking lot of a shop with a sign in the front—Winslow Antiques. Surely, I thought to myself, I might be able to root out some “treasures” here to add to my collection. Or, perhaps, to amuse myself for an hour or so.I started to poke around in the front of the store after greeting an elderly man sitting by the cash register in the front who, I assumed, was Mr. Winslow. I then sauntered down the central aisle and got to the back where I found an old wooden crate, nearly hidden in a back corner. Digging through it, I pushed aside stacks of dusty, old magazines, newspapers, and a few mildewed books. At the bottom of the crate, I discovered a small, tattered, leather-bound diary that I immediately glommed onto in excitement.  I opened it up and found that it had been written by a Civil War soldier named Peyton Orr. The name was inscribed on the first page in elaborate script. I also knew that the Orrs were a large clan in this part of the state so that added to its local authenticity. I scanned the contents and found the entries to be unique and historically rich. I thought that perhaps the owner of the store was not even aware of its existence so I decided to be cautious when bringing the item to the front. Carrying the diary and humming, I returned to the front, gesturing gently to the proprietor. “I discovered this old, dusty diary in a carton at the back,” I said to the old guy. “Probably of little interest. What would you take for it? Maybe $15 or even $20?”“Oh, really,” he responded with his eyebrows raised. “You must have only skimmed the contents. It’s a diary of a young Civil War veteran. Lots of interest in the item from the folks who stop by. For some reason, people seem to be discovering it on a regular basis. I need to put even more junk on top to make them work harder to find it. I am asking $400. Fixed. No bargaining!”OK. I got suckered into this but I was not in the mood to negotiate. It had it in my hands and I wanted to own it.  I’m a Civil War buff. If it panned out to be as historically important as I thought it might be, it was worth at least ten times that amount. I nodded briefly in agreement as to the price, took out my wallet, and handed the owner of the shop four, crisp hundred-dollar bills. He saluted me and said: “Enjoy the item, sir. Thanks for dropping in.”I hurried outside to my car, clenching my prize diary, sat in the driver’s seat, and opened it gingerly. I was ready to be immersed in the day-to-day life and travails of a young confederate soldier. I found the narrative to be remarkable. This was a treasure that I would never part with. I will read some of the key passages to you to see if you agree. It was totally mesmerizing. ***“Greetings to you, whoever you are. Thanks for takin’ the time to read my diary. I guess that you’re either a member of my family or a stranger who happened on it. I had asked my comrades to send this diary back home in the case of my death. In either case, I am indebted to you for taking an interest in my life. I hope you are moved by my stories.“My name is Peyton Orr. I was born and raised on a small farm in eastern Tennessee. My early years were not unusual for the area—we had plenty to eat, being farmers and all. I tended to the hogs and chickens. Also, and not to brag, I was a good shot so I added a few squirrels each week to our dinner menus. Lookin’ back, I also think that I was eager for some adventures in the world beyond the farm. Hence, the foolish decision that I made.“The War Between the States began in April, 1861. As I’m sure you know, the first shots were fired on Fort Sumter in Charleston harbor. East Tennessee was mostly pro-Union during the War because the region’s farms were small like ours. Cotton wasn’t king and slaves were rare. We and our neighbors were too poor to own them and we were also not inclined to do so. East Tennesseans actually voted by more than 2 to 1 against secession in 1861. Some 31,000 Tennesseans joined the Union army. The state sent more white soldiers to fight for the North than any other Southern state.“I must admit that I was young and chompin’ at the bit to get off the farm. Anyway, I enlisted in the Confederate Army early in 1863 when I was 17, lyin’ about my age. The minimum age to serve was 18 but this rule was largely ignored. I didn’t give a hoot about protecting slavery but was just plain bored. I wanted to get away from our farm and see some of the world. In fact, I was able to see some of the world outside Tennessee but at the cost of having bullets constantly whizzing around my head.“It turned out that I was ultimately about to see all the action I needed in one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War. It took place in my own state of Tennessee on November 30, 1864, and was called the Battle of Franklin. It was said to be one of the worst disasters of the war for the Confederate Army. Lt. Gen. John Bell Hood’s was in command and he ordered numerous frontal assaults against the Union forces. We suffered major losses of men and equipment and found ourselves marching straight into a lead blizzard from the Yankees.“This was my first major military slaughter and I decided that I did not appreciate all the mayhem and bloodshed surrounding me. And, after all, I had no particular love for slavery or the plantation gentry. During one of the assaults on our line, I decided to hide myself in a ditch adjacent to a picket fence. “My plan was to wait until the fighting ended about a day later as the Union soldiers were combing the battlefield to retrieve their dead. As some of the Union boys approached, I stood up quickly, waving a white handkerchief. I was taking a risk that they could have easily shot me dead on the spot. However, I reckoned that they were in a pretty good mood, having won the battle and all.“It turned out that all’s they done was just to tie a rope around my wrists with my hands behind my back and quick-stepped me to the provost. They then put me in the makeshift brig near the battlefield. A few days later and after the end of the hostilities, I was conducted with other prisoners to Fort Delaware. It served as the Union POW camp on an island in the Delaware River.“I was placed in a cell with nine other Confederate troopers who, it turned out, were a greater threat to me than the rifle and cannon fire of the previous days. Also, and while in the cell, I was stupid enough to complain to the other confederate troopers about their cause. They was all as poor as me but they identified with the Southern cause.“I’m sure that they would have killed me except the guard happened to notice what was going on in the cell and pulled me out in the nick of time. He brought me to his sergeant. My life was probably saved one more time. I also suspect that the guard was on the lookout for troopers like me in the brig who might be willing to change sides. There weren’t that many of us, however, but we did stand out.” “Boy,” the guard said, away from prying ears, “you don’t seem to be too popular with your fellow cell mates. They got some beef with you? They seem to be disposed to meet out to you some serious punishment. What you done to offend them?”“Sarge,” I replied, “them boys are serious Southerners and support slavery. I don’t want no truk with them or the slavery cause. They was about to kill me in the cell. I was safer on the battlefield.”“He rubbed his head, pondering my situation. Then he responded in a way that surprised me. Here’s a deal that I think will benefit you, boy, and get yourself out of this jail hellhole. How about you changing sides and fighting in the Union Army. It will immediately relieve you of the current danger in your cell.”“I had heard about this opportunity previously. About 5,000 former confederate soldiers enlisted in the United States Volunteers, called the USV, during the course of the Civil War. These “new in blue” troopers were called galvanized Yankees. This reference to the fact that these new troopers were being coated with ‘zinc’ for protection.“But there were problems about their ‘protected’ status. The Union generals didn’t trust them to kill confederate soldiers in the heat of battle. But there did exist one group of enemies they were happy to have the galvanized troopers kill—red Indians. So, I did have an inklin’ where I was now headed.***“My orders were cut straightaway and I was placed on a train with some other southern boys in a similar situation. We headed West. We were bound for the U.S. Army outpost at Platt Bridge in Wyoming. We were told that a force of about 3,000 Sioux and Cheyenne Indians had gathered on the west side of the bridge that connected the territories of Oregon and Montana. Waiting to attack, they were.“Our job was to kill all of the red critters that we could. We were only 120 in number for the battle with a commanding officer who was also viewed as disposable. Difficult odds against a bunch of savages. But let’s face facts. We were not held in high regard and there was the possibility that our actions might be recognized in some way if we lived to the end of the War.“After a week of travel, we got off the train, and set up our encampment consisting of rows of pup tents near the planned battle site by the river. We were told to get some sleep after our long train journey. We were also told that we would attack the injuns early the next morning. I bedded down but, in the middle of the night, I was suddenly shaken awake. “I felt a warm, foul breath blowin’ over my face. I began to stir and was astonished to find two red savages in my tent, holdin’ me down. One held my shoulders tight and the other pinned down my legs. Not sure how they were able to sneak into our camp. Our sentries must’ve been asleep. More bad luck for yours truly.“Both of them savages were peering directly at my face and seemed to be smiling. They were also injun-talking between them. Probably discussing what they would do with me. Finally, one quickly pulled out the knife from this belt and stuck it right into my belly. Not exactly sure why—they could have just as easily slit my throat and I’d have been an instant goner. Anyway, they then hurried out of the tent with me lying in a growing pool of my blood. “I was too weak and shocked to call for help but it would have done no good. My breath was slipping away from me quickly. I understood that I would be crossing over soon. However, I was able to slowly crawl over to my pack, grab my diary, and write these, my dyin’ words. Perhaps readers of my diary in the future will take them to heart and benefit from them.“I regret that I have not had a long life. I’m only now 21 and ready to meet my maker. I could have made something of myself if I had just stayed put on our farm. I also don’t exactly know how I got into this particular predicament. Just a case for me of being in the wrong place and wrong time. ""The Confederate boys hated me and those in Blue didn’t trust me. I might even have met a similar fate if I’d stayed on home, perhaps stabbed or shot by someone in a bar jealous about me flirting with his old lady.  ""But here’s my advice to all of you if you happen to read my diary: Stay away from the haters and spend more time with those who are willing to give you elbow room and listen to what you have to say.” ","July 26, 2023 19:54","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hey Bruce,\nThis was an interesting take. I appreciate the way you take on different points of view to help you expand your writing. This was an intriguing idea-I read a series of creative non fiction books which were diaries of various kids living through different time periods. This story took me back to that. I also appreciated the clear lesson that you add for this story. It made us attach to the soldier’s coming of age arc. Nice work!!', 'time': '02:30 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks again Amanda. You seem to be working your way through some of my stories. At some point, I would like to hear from you about which, among them, you liked the most and for what reason.', 'time': '21:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks again Amanda. You seem to be working your way through some of my stories. At some point, I would like to hear from you about which, among them, you liked the most and for what reason.', 'time': '21:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Smallwood': 'Hi Bruce,\nCritique circle calling here. \nFirst of all, I would like to say that ""Turmoil for a Soldier in Gray"" was one of the more enjoyable reads here on Reedsy. I love history, and I like stories about the military. So, this one was right up my alley.\nI found your story easy to follow, without many characters or a plot that goes all over the place. You write the way that I write. It doesn\'t win awards, but it gets the job done. You are almost certainly writing stories that you enjoy reading.\nHere are my suggestions:\n1) Your story could us...', 'time': '16:09 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Joe, thanks so much for your very insightful comment. Well appreciated. It's only been lately that I have turn to writing creative non-fiction. It's been a pleasure and I turn out to have learned a lot of history in the process. I will check out Grammarly.\n\nOur writing styles, as you suggest, is very similar. Few characters, rich plot, momentum. I am looking forward to reading all of our stories. I am glad that we have found each other on Reedsy."", 'time': '17:30 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Joe, thanks so much for your very insightful comment. Well appreciated. It's only been lately that I have turn to writing creative non-fiction. It's been a pleasure and I turn out to have learned a lot of history in the process. I will check out Grammarly.\n\nOur writing styles, as you suggest, is very similar. Few characters, rich plot, momentum. I am looking forward to reading all of our stories. I am glad that we have found each other on Reedsy."", 'time': '17:30 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""That was a great and very informative read. \n\nWith the racial warning at the start I was expecting it to go a particular direction but the introduction of the injuns was a surprise and also a realisation for someone who is not as well versed in the US civil war. Did they fight with the Union or see the war as an opportunity to rise up themselves? I now have to go do some research 😁\n\nIt's sad how many go to war, even today, for the simple reason that there is little else for them. You captured this very well.\n\nStarting with the find in the an..."", 'time': '07:21 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks, Kevin. Your comments are always on-point and very perceptive. Thanks for taking the time to write this one. I appreciate the time that you spend on them.\n\nI was also somewhat surprised to come across the historical reference to a battle with Indians during the Civil War. It can sometimes be a slog reading creative non-fiction but one can often emerge better informed.', 'time': '12:21 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks, Kevin. Your comments are always on-point and very perceptive. Thanks for taking the time to write this one. I appreciate the time that you spend on them.\n\nI was also somewhat surprised to come across the historical reference to a battle with Indians during the Civil War. It can sometimes be a slog reading creative non-fiction but one can often emerge better informed.', 'time': '12:21 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,06268l,The Room With No Doors,Len Rely,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/06268l/,/short-story/06268l/,Angst,0,"['Horror', 'Mystery', 'Suspense']",10 likes,"   I was seduced by the woman in the dark red gown in the painting that hangs in the first room above the mahogany sideboard with the reclining marble nude upon it. It was she who had me on the floor where I lie still, immobilized, staring only at the undecorated ceiling, because the painting was the first thing that came into my view. I lay there for several days, only aware of her visage and the chandelier above the very dark table and chairs, and a very faint tapping sound like a dripping candle which I occasionally felt very lightly on my side as if was across the room. As I began to move my head I perceived that the sound was coming from the painting. The folds of her blood-red gown were dripping from the canvas a dark liquid onto the nude white body of a woman prostrate on the sideboard intersecting with it at her right elbow and her right knee. She reclined in the most sublime position with her face turned back, shoulders turned forward and the high curve of her hip resting with her left leg extended to the foot, the blood dripping from just under her shoulder across her bare stomach and down the curve of her pelvis. “Where does the blood go?” I wondered and tilting my head forward I saw to my horror a hideous wrought iron drain in the center of the floor with a narrow, dark rivulet leading to it as straight as an arrow. The room was lit only by a pair of constantly-burning red gaslights like little coals above the fireplace whose glass was so tarnished it looked like brass, and the brass handles were black. I thought of how I came to be here, hired by a much older woman to remove a venomous snake from a linen closet. A maidservant led me down a series of hallways draped with the house’s bedsheets to an intersection of three rooms, where as the old widow was speaking to me I glimpsed through an open door a gigantic library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases where a beautiful young woman was having her portrait painted in a nightdress. The old woman was explaining to me how her husband had died tragically. As I opened the closet door I looked down with surprise to see it had no floor, just a bottomless round hole with a chain plummeting down, and the speckled adder coiled around it at eye-level wasn’t living but mummified in the position of striking my face. I jumped back into the sitting room, my feet slipping on the stone floor and brained myself on the end of a glass table. I thought perhaps I was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, they even covered my mouth with only the slits of my eyes showing, but when I found the strength to sit up and look down at myself I was swathed in cobwebs! They were as strong as a straightjacket, as if each thread had been meticulously wrapped around me by some hellish tarantula. I was naked underneath. I let out a muffled protest and gradually made my way across the floor and into one of the dining chairs where I could see there was a knife on the table. There I began the process of freeing my arms. Before I even saw the knife I knew there was a wine goblet made of ruby glass which now puzzled me. Red was a very unusual color for a wine glass because it prevented one from seeing what kind was in it. Inside it wasn’t dust but a small trace of liquid as if I had already consumed some. I hobbled over to what I thought all this time to be a door in the far corner of the room, and instead opened the wooden panels to reveal a full-length mirror. I looked ghastly, a starved spectre wrapped in the habiliments of the dead. I turned and looked across the small space and then back at the ruby goblet; what was so strange about it was the room had no doors. The entire left side was made of carved wood with interplaced shelves, glass-fronted cabinettes, clocks and works of art wedged together so densely it was a shame more light didn’t fall on them. This wasn’t a sealed room or a crypt, not with gas lighting and the attention to detail intended for an observer. Someone had to have dragged me in here, which meant there must be an egress. The walls were stone covered in canvas. I searched for some kind of hidden mechanism in each cabinet and the dark recesses of the carved three-story mahogany housefront with coiled pillars that formed the centerpiece hoping it would come open. After searching the entire room this way I wanted to simply demolish the panels until I found it, but I didn’t want to watch myself doing this in my madness. Perhaps it was a more subtle mechanism such as removing the candles in a certain order. I wondered about the preserved adder that had startled me, was it just a decrepit sense of taste that makes someone keep such a thing and place it where it might not be found for many years? I returned to my original position on the floor, curled up and went to sleep. After an unknown amount of time I awoke to see the room unchanged except for one thing. There was now a small saucer of food placed for me at the end of the table, the ruby goblet had been refilled and a bottle of wine left next to it. I looked around in disbelief that a person had come and gone in such a small space without my knowing it. What I thought at first was a slice of custard turned out to be some sort of sweetened waxy substance that was incredibly rich, a delicate garnish sticking out of it like a lady’s comb made of caramelized sugar. As I started to lift the wine goblet an unsettling feeling stopped me that I had drank from it before. Why was I dining? I got up from the table. A new strategy occurred to me that I should have laid down and pretended to sleep to catch whoever cometh each day, and if I couldn’t do that find something like… My eyes descended to the floor, and in a fit of rage at my stupidity I flung the chair aside and turned the table over revealing the narrow line of blood trailing across it. I bent down, plunging my fingers into the holes of the drain and pulled it out, revealing a gaping round hole down which I squiggled my skeletal body without delay and out of sight. 2: Up the Shaft The space beneath the room was part of the dark basement of the house, cluttered unlivably with piles of overturned things lit only by the grate in the ceiling. The blood that dripped from the room above was collected by a stone urn with a cherub and grapes coiled around it which stood on a table directly under it in the center of the room. Looking up I could not believe I had just squeezed my shoulders through there and descended headfirst without disturbing the urn or table. This room had a door which was open to more darkness. There was a strange humidity coming from it that was like a wind coming off a subterranean lake. As my eyes adjusted I examined forgotten, peeling furniture and by chance discovered the most useful thing I had found so far. It was a white-handled revolver with a long barrel, but the only bullet left in it was a swollen white lump of lead that had expanded to fit the chamber. I shoved it into the folds of cobweb at my waist and it was then that I heard footsteps approaching. I hid myself well. In moments an old blind woman hooded and cloaked in a dusty black raiment came tapping into the room with a stick. She was barefoot, and quickly reached up and drew some blood from the top of the urn by letting it run down her bony arm into a cup. Then she walked out as unceremoniously as she had come in. I followed her realizing the revolver was a useless weapon against a blind person and that I would have to be more silent than the grave. Outside the room was a huge, black underground space with no walls or ceiling, only rows of dilapidated furniture in the dim light of the doorway which itself came only from the drain and the doorless room. The old woman turned and clacked along the cobblestones. Soon her footsteps sounded wet and then I myself was standing barefoot in an inch of water. The basement was flooded, the foundation must have collapsed somewhere. She stopped to listen a couple of times and I was forced to keep a greater distance, until she reached a small shell-like boat she had tied off and stepped into it. I required some kind of light to see by but she did not; she guided the vessel forward using her stick across a vast, sightless underground lake. I followed until the black water was up to my chest, and could go no further. I could only make my way back in the darkness by reversing course until the water shallowed, but eventually I did see the dim light of the doorway again. The wet gossamer that was my only clothing clung to me like a second skin. I would have to build a boat to go after her as there was no light to swim by. I looked through dusty boxes and drawers and then I noticed a great pile of them concealed the base of a massive stone chimney supported by a pair of huge pediments that made me think of tortoises. It was the same chimney as the one in the room above, but there was no hearth, no mantle, no stove, just a square opening. After I’d cleared the stuff away I realized what it was. It was the central chimney of the house to which all of the flues were connected; a square metal tray hung from a very long chain to collect the ashes from each flue, an ingenious device but as I peered up into the gray shaft it was crisscrossed with white webs all the way up. Cobwebs could only mean there wasn’t a single fire lit in any room since who-knows-when; the chimneyswift responsible for maintaining it was certainly dead. What’s more this might be the lair of the spider that wrapped me in this cocoon! I chose a dry, dusty climb over the watery sightless swim I had just left. It was easier to brace myself against the four sides of the shaft holding onto the chain. I made my way upwards, passing the little flue to the room I had already seen. My hope was that the magnificent library I glimpsed when I first came here had an equally large fireplace, or even that I had the strength to climb out the top of this thing. Every ten feet I came to a flue of different shapes, the third one was wide but extremely short like a door to a bread oven. I pushed it open slightly and indeed it was the inside of an oven with baking racks, but then I caught a glimpse of something that gave me a start. It appeared to be a small fox which turned and yelped causing the tin door to snap back on me. I pushed it open again to see the animal was chained to a wood stove. Why would someone chain a wild animal to a stove? Eventually I reached a trio of small flues that were strangely shaped. Two were side-by-side and shaped like eyes, and below them a larger one that looked like a mouth. I was clinging to the back of a carved stone face five feet high, with each door at the end of a chute just out of reach. Bracing myself on three limbs I pulled the revolver out of my webbing thinking it would give my fingers a couple of inches and reached up to push the tin door open with the barrel. I swung forward using the chain and slipped badly having to grab the chain with both hands to keep from falling, my body spinning around in the narrow space. The gun clattered down the shaft to the bottom. I looked up to see if I could make out the source of the webby light filtering down from above, and there crouched against the stone wall directly above the huge face, watching me, was the giant arachnid I knew lived in this castle. Its body was the size of a football but its legs were rather short. My first thought was how surprised I was it wasn’t bigger than me, although this was easily a ten-pound spider. Its bent fangs were as big as a man’s thumb, and it had an X-shaped marking that looked like it had been drawn there by a witch. But the queerest thing was its collection of trinkets that adorned the sides of its barrel-shaped nest, jewelry and other shiny objects along with the bones of small animals. Did this thing drag me up through the drain in the floor into the room and leave me there? No that was absurd. I was too exhausted to continue and barely had the reserves for the climb back down again. I could only guess the iron grate at the top was the kind most chimneys have, so I left the spider to its thoughts. 3: The Witch’s Apprentice I sat and dreamt about the possibility of crossing the underground lake to see where the old blind woman had gone. I crawled back up into the room to see if there was a way to make a gas lamp into a torch, and was surprised to find the plate and wine that were left out for me had been removed. Someone was coming and going whenever my back was turned which made me a bigger fool than a starved wretch. My own reflection probably concealed a door that had to be opened from the other side. I took the kitchen knife from the table, eventually resorting to breaking the glass. There was only a solid stone wall behind the mirror and the wood paneling. I looked in a complete circle at the gray stone around me until my eyes fell on the woman’s portrait, and only then did I realize what kind of a room this was. It was sealed because the painting was cursed, she may have died in some tragic way. I took the candelabra and crawled back down to explore the huge underground space, which did have an outer wall I could barely discern behind upended furnishings from some bygone age that continued past the lapping shore of the lake. I was never a handyman and I’m embarrassed to say how long I sat on that shore and how I did eventually cross it, floating on my back with the candelabra placed on my chest exactly as a wraith would do. I must have been a haunting sight as I drifted slowly past wooden limbs protruding from the water. Eventually there was a distant glow of twilight as I approach the other side. Indeed as I suspected this part of the foundation had collapsed leaving a monstrous hole in the battlements from which a trickling stream flowed down broken rubble to the forest outside. I had been in darkness for so long the night looked like day. The old blind woman was a squatter who had made a little hovel for herself here. She was accompanied by a tiny assistant, a feral child no more than four years old who served as her eyes. She had an unwashed mane of straw-colored hair that covered her body down to the knees and I realized when I saw her this was the person who had been feeding me. She whispered in the witch’s ear that Death had just come across the lake for her. The witch simply nodded. In my time with them the child did not speak again and the old woman spoke only when she chose to. The three of us must have been a strange sight as we departed into the woods at daybreak in search of a certain tree the old woman called albero grosso (“fat tree”), the source of the strange nourishment I had eaten. I accompanied them intending to flee into the forest. When we got there the witch’s servant reached her tiny arm into a carved hole. It was only then that the witch decided to answer one of my questions. She said the reason she collects the blood from the painting is it makes her powerful. Instead of thinking of spells and talismans, cards of divination she reads blindly, I thought of the decrepit nest of straw she sleeps in and a trail of spittle drained out from between my loose teeth. “YOU powerful?!” I responded, losing control of myself. “Haha!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” I stumbled forward and accidentally killed her; her body broke with the sound of kindling as her black raiment fell to the ground. I took off running gleefully into the forest as I had intended. In time I stopped at the ruins of a stone hearth surrounded by rubble. I collapsed from exhaustion believing I was a free man, or at least a man, not a withered heap of bones and decayed gossamer. When I awoke again the witch’s servant, the small child that had nourished me, was standing over me holding a large cobble from the hearth, and she crushed my head with it. ","July 21, 2023 22:20",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,yq2ehq,Life is Full of Boxes,Mustang Patty,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yq2ehq/,/short-story/yq2ehq/,Angst,0,"['Contemporary', 'Drama', 'Sad']",10 likes," Living with a diagnosis like mine isn’t a pleasant thing. It wasn’t until the late eighties that the psychiatric field finally came up with a label for me, and they dubbed me ‘Bipolar.’ For years, I really doubted the whole thing. I mean, sure, I had depressions–deep depressions, but I wasn’t sure about the ‘highs.’ And then someone pointed out how my teens and early twenties were full of sexual escapades that were, well, let’s say they were excessive. And then there are my spending habits. I get out of control about something. There have been periods of time when the Amazon truck came to my house every day for about two weeks in a row. And we won’t even mention my obsession with the deals on Poshmark. When a name for my ‘moodiness’ became available, I was still close to my in-laws. I shared this new information with them, and suddenly anything negative happened was ‘my fault.’ Of course, it was–I had a verified mental illness. (Whereas all of them didn’t have a convenient label, so they put things on me.) For years, I would screen all my calls. If I didn’t recognize the number, or if I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I would let the phone ring. If they left a voicemail, maybe I would listen to it. I loved the good old days when your answering machine would amplify the message as the person left it. When my sister-in-law left me a mean message about my mental illness and suggested my husband divorce me, I confronted her by grabbing the phone. ""How dare you talk to me like this? Aren’t you supposed to have a master’s degree in sociology or social work? Don’t you work in the mental health field? Can’t you see how you are purposely using my illness as a springboard for you to insult me, blame me, and be mean? “And if you think your brother will divorce me because I’m an inconvenience for you, your mother, and your sisters–THINK AGAIN!!!” Slamming the phone down before she could utter another word. I do not know what her reaction was. She thought she could leave a message like that and get to say her piece without hearing my reaction. Ha! I didn’t let her have the last word. When I hung up the phone, my chest heaved, I was hot all over, and my ears rang. I’m pretty sure I used a lot more expletives, and my children, who were young at that time, assure me I did. In fact, I scared them. They hadn’t ever seen me that upset. I didn’t talk to that woman for five years. And I only put up with all of them for about ten years. After a particularly difficult time in our marriage, I told my husband I didn’t want to deal with his family anymore. In fact, it was one of the conditions for reconciliation. And with that, I put my in-laws in a box. The box lived on a shelf with memories-some good, but most were bad. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve seen most of them. The same sister-in-law called me in 2006. She wanted to reconcile. First, she emailed my husband at work. She involved me after he told her he wasn’t interested in that. “Well, I have forgiven you. But I can’t forget what was said and how I was treated. There isn’t any going back. I’m done. And you’ll only get your feelings hurt if you continue to try.” I heard her crying on the other end when I hung up the phone. I don’t think she was concerned or hurt about me not being in her life anymore. She was hurting because my hubby stood by me and wasn’t attending their family functions anymore. Without that toxicity in my life, I could start down the path of healing. I firmly believe that my mental illness has a genetic component, along with one that is environmental. I grew up in a very dysfunctional family, and it affects, or has, many of my decisions, mood swings, and viewpoint of the world. The ‘box’ that exists grew smaller as I got better. Getting better involves a lot of work. Breaking bad habits-like screening your calls or not answering the door if you’re not expecting anyone, takes enormous energy to stop. Hibernating in your house for days on end must go away. Now my children are still a part of that side of their family. Whenever there is a special function, they attend. Or at least my daughter tries to. She is in the Air Force, and depending on the occasion, she comes if she can get leave. My son needs us to pay for his transportation since he lives halfway across the country and rarely has enough money for airfare, train fare, etc. For instance, when my father-in-law passed away, my hubby and son attended the funeral. Our daughter was still in training, and she and her grandfather discussed her attendance before he passed, so she felt okay. She’d lived with her grandparents for about three months before leaving for the Air Force, and she cherished that time. She’s at peace with her relationship with them. When the family matriarch turned ninety a few years ago, my hubby and the children attended the celebration. However, none of them are celebrating some half-assed reunion this weekend in Long Beach, Washington. My husband’s other sister-the sister-in-law who treated me worse than all of them, lives in Long Beach. I have vowed NEVER to go there again. It’s a small beach community, and she knows everyone there. The thought of running into her, or worse, someone asking me whether I’m related to her, hurts my heart. You see, my life is stable now that I’ve learned to live with my mental illness. I can choose who I will be around or not at my age. My medications keep me stable, and my mood swings are rare. Most of my days are pleasant. Do I miss the people I’ve cut out? Sometimes, I miss the extensive family Christmases or Thanksgivings. Most of my nieces and nephews have grown up, so I feel comfortable contacting them on Facebook. My calendar for next year includes plans to see two of my nieces from that side of the family. You see, I’m selective about whom I cut from my life. I haven’t cut out the people I enjoy being around. I only avoid the people who see my disability as their ‘out.’ I created a special box for that type of person, and once you’re in that box, you are no longer a part of my life. When you’re officially ‘mentally ill,’ you are always at fault–no matter what the other people do. ","July 23, 2023 12:13","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Some of your rules or coping mechanisms should be applicable whether you have a disorder or not.', 'time': '16:35 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mustang Patty': 'Very true. Thanks for reading and Liking - Have a wonderful day!\n~MP~', 'time': '18:03 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mustang Patty': 'Very true. Thanks for reading and Liking - Have a wonderful day!\n~MP~', 'time': '18:03 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,83rqjl,Breaking the chains,Banana Graham,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/83rqjl/,/short-story/83rqjl/,Angst,0,"['Adventure', 'Coming of Age', 'Sad']",10 likes," Nikki sat in the dimly lit room, surrounded by the shadows of her past. As they reminisced about their childhood the walls seemed to whisper secrets of a life she once thought was perfect. But the truth was unraveling. Nikki glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She saw a young woman who looked strong, but the pain in her eyes revealed a different truth. Kelly saw it too, and she wondered if she appeared the same. Nikki could no longer ignore it. Kelly stood nearby, filled with a mix of pain and determination. They had been through so much together, but today was different. Today, they were making choices for themselves and that was okay.As they took the first steps toward independence, Nikki felt a sense of hope she hadn't experienced in years. She knew it wouldn't be a smooth path, but she was determined to embrace her dreams and live life on her terms.Over the following weeks, Nikki and Kelly started taking small steps towards building their new lives. They found a cozy apartment in a quiet neighborhood, far away from where they had grown up. It was a modest place, but it felt like a sanctuary where they could finally breathe freely.As they settled into their new home, they also began therapy to help them heal from the emotional trauma. They realized that acknowledging the pain, talking about it, and seeking professional help were vital in their journey towards reclaiming their lives.In the process of healing, they reconnected with their mother, who had been waiting for them with open arms. It wasn't an easy reunion, as there were years of hurt and mistrust to mend. However, their mother's love for them was genuine, and she proved herself to be a supportive ally in their pursuit of healing and independence.Rose, who had left at a younger age, had missed her sisters dearly and regretted leaving them behind. Rose had felt lost and overwhelmed. She started therapy early and had been thriving in her own way. She had faced her own set of challenges and made her fair share of mistakes, but she had found her truth and strength and the sisters had found each other again.They had emerged from the shadows of the past, ready to face the world as the strong, independent women they had always been destined to become. And together, they knew they could face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing they had the strength of each other to carry them through.One evening, during a family therapy session, the three sisters sat together. Tears streamed down their faces as they let go of the burdens they had carried for so long. Their therapist, Parker guided them through the process of forgiveness, not for anyone's sake but for their own peace of mind. Forgiveness didn't mean excusing behavior; it meant releasing the chains that had been on their emotions and allowing themselves to move forward.Parker also encouraged them to explore their passions and interests, the things they had suppressed for so long. Nikki had always been a gifted artist, and she started painting again, pouring her emotions onto the canvas. Kelly found solace in writing and started a blog to share her thoughts and experiences, her words were a graceful inspiration to others. Rose was in school to become an adolescent therapist and was flourishing in her mentorship.Their journey to freedom was not without challenges. They felt the manipulation even from a distance, attempting to regain control over their lives. But Nikki, Kelly, and Rose stood strong together, for the first time in a long time supporting each other through the ups and downs. It was right. Their bond as sisters grew stronger than ever, and they formed an unbreakable support system.They also found comfort in a circle of friends and family who understood their journey and offered unwavering support. Together they created a nurturing environment that allowed them to heal and grow.As they rebuilt their lives, they also worked on reaching out to their younger brothers and sister. They couldn't bear the thought of any of them going through the emotional turmoil they had experienced. Through the support of their therapist, they were able to establish regular visits and ensure that they always had a safe haven with them.Despite the challenges, Kelly, Nikki and Rose found moments of joy and triumph along the way. Nikki's artwork gained recognition, and she held her first art exhibition, sharing her powerful story of resilience through her paintings. Kelly's blog became a source of inspiration for many, and she received messages from readers who found strength in her words. Rose released the burdens of doubt that had always followed her and helped many people along the way.Their journey wasn't linear, and there were times when they faltered. But they had learned to embrace the setbacks as opportunities for growth. They knew that healing was a process, and they allowed themselves to be gentle and patient with each step they took.Years passed, and Rose, Nikki and Kelly's lives transformed in ways they had never imagined possible. They were no longer living for approval or searching everywhere for any acceptable drop of love. Instead, they had found self-love and acceptance, and they knew they were enough, just as they were.Some remain trapped in the same toxic patterns, unable to break free from the cycle. Rose, Nikki and Kelly began to understand that you can’t change people, only how you react. And so, they continued to focus on their own well-being, growing into strong, resilient, and compassionate women. Their journey was a testament to the power of healing, the strength of sisterhood, and the importance of breaking free from toxic influences.In time, they were able to mend broken relationships with some extended family members as well. It was a slow and delicate process, but they believed that love and understanding could eventually bridge the gaps.As they stood together, looking back at their childhood, Nikki, Rose and Kelly saw their reflections in the mirror again. This time, the pain in their eyes had diminished, replaced by a glimmer of hope and a profound sense of self-assurance.Their journey to self wasn't just about breaking away from a toxic dynamic; it was about reclaiming their identities and embracing their true selves. They had emerged from the shadows of the past, ready to face the world as the strong, independent women they had always been destined to become. And together, they knew they could face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing they had the strength and love to carry them through. ","July 25, 2023 04:05","[[{'Dilettante Shultz': 'Wow! That was quite an emotional story.\n\nI gather this is coming from a place of real life experience and it’s great that you’re utilizing your past as fuel for your writing, it’s a good way to help process it.\n\nOne piece of constructive criticism I can give is that I’m not entirely sure who the antagonist in your story is.\nI gather it’s probably the sisters’ parent(s) but we aren’t told which one, specifically what they’ve actually done or even a name. I understand the story is about healing from family trauma but the audience needs to SEE ...', 'time': '14:09 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': ""Uh..,do I greet you as Banana? I have to admit, I chose your piece for reading and response because of your pseudonym. Of course, if that's on your birth certificate, forgive me.\n\nI liked these two lines:\n\nAnd together, they knew they could face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing they had the strength of each other to carry them through.\n\nForgiveness didn't mean excusing behavior; it meant releasing the chains that had been on their emotions and allowing themselves to move forward.\n\n I tried to care about the characters in this story, bu..."", 'time': '22:08 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,0z9lqp,"Normal, as Defined by Her",Sierra Wilson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0z9lqp/,/short-story/0z9lqp/,Angst,0,"['LGBTQ+', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Coming of Age']",9 likes," My dad always told me, “Jessie, no matter what people tell you or how you are judged, you are normal.” I was his perfect little daughter, the star student, faultless. The first time I felt different, I was in middle school. Her name was Claire, a new girl. She was beautiful. Short, a round face, the perfect image of someone who could break my heart. When I came home and told my dad, he shrugged it off. “Jessie, it’s just a silly school crush, you’ll grow out of it.” But the next day, the first time Claire held my hand, I tingled. I felt lightheaded. I wanted to hold her hand forever. And, no, I didn’t grow out of it. #            Claire came home with me one day at the end of the eighth grade, for a sleepover. I introduced her as my “friend”, and my dad was warm, chatty, and friendly. He cooked us Chicken Alfredo, with a homemade sauce that was heavier than him.            I kissed Claire that night. We were sitting on the couch watching Mean Girls. I gave in to the suffocating need to taste her.            My dad saw us. He sent her home.            That night, after Claire had gone, my father sat me down and said, “We need to talk.” The atmosphere was heavy. I was nervous, feeling I did something wrong, but not sure what it was. I will never forget what he said.            He told me, “Jessie, you are confused. I know you want to find answers, but we do not kiss girls. It is sinful, and God won’t accept you into Heaven if you go down this road. You. Like. Boys.”            So, I played with dolls like a good daughter, I dressed in feminine clothes like a good daughter, and I came home with boyfriends like a good daughter.            My father was happy, but I wasn’t. Those boyfriends, the guys I dutifully dated, never once made me feel whole. I did not know it, but that was the day I decided to leave. #            Now, I am sitting in this pub in Oxford, England, listening to too-loud pop music. I am an entire ocean away from my father. A pretty girl sits just a few feet away from me, and I have to accept now, I know now, that I will never be the version of normal that my father imagined.            I nervously tap my chewed nails against the sticky bar counter. I’m wearing orange dress pants, a black tank top. I should look good, but I feel I’m a shadow, barely noticed.            The girl across the bar is beautiful. She makes the moon and the stars look mundane.            I have to talk to her.            I chug the rest of my Prosecco. My heart threatens to jump out of my throat, but I force myself to act, to make my way across the room. My hands are shaking with every step. Does my hair look okay? Are my curls too flat?            I’m there. I tap the girl on the shoulder, and she turns to face me. Her green eyes widen, her eyebrows lift. The bass of “Gasolina” pounds in my ears and someone bumps against me to get to the dance floor.            “Buy you a drink?” I ask, shouting to be heard over the music.            She tucks her red hair behind her ear and smiles. “Aperol Spritz?”            When I come back with two drinks, the girl says, “It took you long enough.”            “What?”            “You’ve been eyeing me all night. I wanted to go home an hour ago, but I was waiting for you to pluck up courage.”            Something rises in my throat; my dad’s voice is in my head. It’s sinful, Jessie. God will not accept you into Heaven. My face reddens, and I glance back at the exit. I can run again, run like I always have. It would be easier.            But running won’t stop how I feel.            I don’t run; I face this red-haired beauty. She has a fine slit in her eyebrow, a tiny scar. “I didn’t know if you were interested in women.”            “How are you supposed to find out unless you talk to me?”            “I’m just not used to it—to talking to women.”            “Lucky for you, I’m nicer than I look.”            I grin. I tell her my name is Jessie.            The girl smiles. She is delicate and beautiful, a rose. I would give anything to plant her in my garden, anything to say she is mine.            Her name is Eliza.            I nod to Eliza, but my tongue has been stolen, and all I can do is stare like a dumbfounded child.            Eliza laughs. “Jessie, this is where most people say something like, ‘It’s nice to meet you.’”            I take a deep breath, look out the window. An urban fox scurries into an alleyway. I look back at Eliza, breathe again. “Listen, I really, really, have no idea how to talk to a woman. I’m hopeless. But by God, you’re attractive. Can we try this again?”            Eliza grabs my hand, and, without another word, she pulls me toward the front door. We step outside into the cool night. It’s darker than usual and the moon is covered with storm clouds—typical UK weather. I breathe in deeply. I face Eliza and soak her in.            She’s tall. Her green jumpsuit compliments her pale skin; her high cheekbones are peppered with freckles. She is thin, almost bony.            “Thank you,” I say.            “You sound American,” Eliza says. “What brings you to Oxford?”            My father pops into my head again, his words echo in my skull. You don’t belong here. Get out. Pack your bags and go.            I don’t tell Eliza this. Instead, I say, “I needed a change of scenery. Someone once told me I needed to learn how to be normal.”            Eliza scoffs. “Normal is overrated, at least how everyone pictures it. Normal is what makes you feel like you.”            “I think I’m starting to get that.” I look at her, my cheeks burning.            She grabs my hand again, gently pulls. “Would you like to come home with me?”            My heart thuds in my chest. My brain tells me to run in the other direction. Sinful, sinful. Sinful little girl.            But I nod. #            The next morning, I am wrapped in one of Eliza’s bathrobes, sipping on English Breakfast tea from a chipped enamel mug. Eliza is in front of the stove, cooking sausage and fried eggs.            She glances back at me. “You didn’t come just for a change of scenery, did you?”            “No,” I answer slowly, “it’s a little darker than that.”            I set down my mug. “I had just graduated high school, working part-time as a waitress at a local breakfast joint—Molly’s. Somehow, I had managed to get the number of a girl I’d served, a sweet Latina with a no-bullshit attitude, named Maria. I was tired, sneaking around my father like a thief, so I sat him down and told him I was gay. I said I was going on a date with a woman. He said, ‘If you go out on this date, don’t come back.’            He might as well have reached into my chest and pulled out my heart. I had a choice: keep running from who I was or discover myself.”            But I’m here now, on the English side of the pond, in this very tiny, very English room. I look down at my hands and twist the belt of the bathrobe around my fingers. “It was the hardest decision I’d ever made. It would be easier to be the daughter he wanted, to be passive, less confrontational. But he’d never forget what I told him. He’d always hold it over my head. So, I did what any non-confrontational person would do: I ran. And now, here I am in England, watching a beautiful red-haired girl make me breakfast.”            Eliza sits next to me. She gently grabs and face and pushes my chin up to look at her.            “I’m happy you came to Oxford,” she says, “I’m looking forward to teaching you how to be yourself.”            I had never totally believed my father, but he was still my father. But now, with Eliza holding my face, her skin like a smoldering flame against mine, I begin to understand the meaning of normal. I am home. ","July 25, 2023 01:01",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,g7k1wp,Party Time,Parul Shah,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g7k1wp/,/short-story/g7k1wp/,Angst,0,"['Desi', 'Fiction']",8 likes," On the day of her flight, Sarlaben set out on the same morning walk to the Radha Krishna temple she’d taken for the past 43 years. Her driver, Santosh, could have been called to the bungalow early in order to drive her there. But no, Sarlaben relished the feeling of freedom as she unlatched the gate of the family compound and allowed her feet to chose their path through the streets of her Mumbai suburb. Shall I take the winding Dixit Road or the more direct Station Road? Did she have time to stop and admire the orchids growing in the arms of the giant banyan tree in the alleyway? Should she detour a bit to see which movies were playing in Queen’s Cinema? It was all hers and hers alone to decide. Not that Santosh would have ever denied a request from Madam. It was just that Sarlaben craved a level of agency that sitting in the back seat did not afford. Crows feasted atop heaps of trash along the roadside, a fragrant brew of breakfast smells– toast, idli sambhaar, egg bhurji, coffee and chai wafted out from flats and commingled with the heady stench emitted from the roadside trash. Her heart danced to the clatter of Mumbai waking: sweeping floors, filling water buckets for the day’s washing chores, mothers shouting “Chalo! Chalo! Let’s go!” to their sleepy school-uniformed children, rickshaws sputtering to a start for their first customers for the day. The cries of street hawkers rose up from streets beyond, each seemingly taking their turn to pitch their wares, resulting in a syncopated, rhythmic loop. As she passed the khokha cardboard hut ghetto, she recollected how much it had grown from just the handful that had sprouted up when she was still a young bride.“Namsate Sarlaben! Going today to Amrika, eh? God bless you,” called out Parvati, one of the original slum dwellers. Some twenty or so years ago, Sarlaben had heard her crying in pain and had gone into the darkness of the khokha hut to find a pregnant woman cowering in a corner. Her drunkard husband had beaten her, she sobbed. Sarlaben had taken her to a dispensary for treatment and then directed her driver Santosh to find the husband and let him know if he ever set foot in the hut again, there would be consequences. Santosh had an intimidating, goonda or bad-guy like physique and demeanor. Indeed, he’d worked for less scrupulous employers in the past and so his visit to Parvati’s husband was effective. Sarlaben stopped to offer a last namaste to Parvati. “Ha, yes, tonight I fly to Houston. What to do? I don’t want to go, but my son has been insisting since my small stroke. I told him, beta, son, it’s good you want me to come live with your family, your father would have been proud. But let me remain here, there is no need. Here I have my life. What to do Parvati? He won’t allow it. He has even arranged for the sale of my bungalow, he says it is all too much to manage from Houston.” Sarlaben’s eyes pooled with tears, as did Parvati’s. The women stood silently gazing into one another’s eyes and at last issued one another a final silent namaste before Sarlaben carried on. Outside the temple, Sarlaben stopped at the tables of flower garland vendors. She typically tried to sprinkle her business around to the assortment of ladies who sat in the glaring morning sun, their babies baking on their bosoms as they tied jasmines, roses, marigolds, and spider lilies in strings of splendor that defied the squalor of their existence. For her final visit to the temple, Sarlaben visited all five vendors and purchased a lavish garland from all of them, adding an extra 500 rupee note for each. As she approached the inner sanctum of the marbled temple, a line had formed for receiving aarti and prasad, the holy flame and little rock sugar crystals blessed by the deities. The head Brahmin priest spotted Sarlaben and motioned her to the front of the queue. “Namaste Sarlaben! Jai Radha Krishna! Today only you are going to Hooshton no? Come, come, let us perform a special pooja for your new life.” The buck-toothed priest didn’t wait for Sarlben’s response as he took the flower garlands from her arms, deftly hooked them around the temple deities, and immediately launched loudly into mantras and simultaneously vigorous bell ringing. This same priest had performed countless poojas for the many milestones of Sarlaben’s life, all of course at her request and payment of rupees. Every birth, family portfolio investment, new Ambassador car purchase, illness, university entrance exam, marriage engagement, wish for a green card, and mourning of those deceased had been drawn to the attention of these deities by this very Brahmin.He knew the reason for all her poojas, except one. That one was a pact she had made with the temple deities after nearly dying when Santosh fell asleep at the wheel and drove the Ambassador into a ditch. They were on a day-long ride through the desert to see her family, and while she could have taken a train, the comfort of her own car was preferable. Once Santosh managed to push the Ambassador out of the ditch, Sarlaben insisted he allow her to try driving. It was 1980, though Indira Gandhi was Prime Minister and Mother Theresa had won the Nobel Prize, even these women did not hold a driver’s license. “Madamji, for you to drive is not theek, it’s not proper,” he’d protested. Let her try, she had implored. It was a straight road with nary any traffic, she argued. And only if he felt she could do it, she would drive fifteen or twenty minutes at most so he could rest. She promised to never tell anybody of the indiscretion. Santosh agreed reluctantly and showed her the brake pedal, accelerator, and how to shift the gear to drive. He’d watched anxiously for the first five minutes before dozing off again. Sarlaben’s sweaty palms clung to the steering wheel as she prayed to her temple gods to keep them safe. As she learned to moderate her speed by trial and error, lurching the Ambassador forward abruptly while trying to follow the subtle curves of the road, she took a baadha, a solemn oath, that she would perform a special pooja if she should survive this ordeal. The very next morning after safely returning to Mumbai, she had the Brahmin perform the pooja.  Now the Brahmin was completing one final pooja. At long last, he concluded the prayers and offered the special sweet prasad for Sarlaben he had asked his wife to make for the occasion. “So much trouble you have taken for me Brahminji! Why a whole box! It is too much!”, Sarlaben smiled as she reluctantly took the box of sweets. “Haaaa, yes, of course, for our dear Sarlaben, of course,” he clucked. “You’re flying on British Airways, no? What bland, tasteless food those people will serve! Take the sweets on the plane, at least you’ll have something worth eating.”Sarlaben grinned widely. Indeed, she had taken her British Airways flight ticket to the temple a few weeks earlier in order for her journey to be blessed. The nosy old Brahmin had taken note. Sarlaben was a noteworthy individual in this world, a fact she had taken for granted. “Come, come, Ba, we are running late! You have not changed your sari yet!,” Sarlaben’s daughter-in-law poked her head into her boxy little bedroom and interrupted her reverie. Here in Houston, she was Ba, not Sarlaben. A Ba is an old woman, any old woman, regardless of likes, tastes, hobbies, struggles, triumphs, desires, talents, heartbreaks, or dreams. In this world, she was not Sarlaben, she was just another Ba being carted off to another Saturday evening party put on by her son’s and daughter-in-law’s friends under the ruse of welcoming Ba. “How are you Ba? Kem cho? Keeping well? Health all good?”, the hostess chuckled and bowed down as if to touch Sarlaben’s feet, a show of respect and good upbringing. Despite the gesture of regard, the hostess didn’t wait for a response, and so Sarlaben took the cue to follow her son and daughter-in-law into the living room where the eager hostess began rearranging guests so as to create a comfortable spot for the old woman. The living room was full, every chair in the house had been dragged out and arranged into a large circle to seat the guests. The men sat on one side and the women on the other, until of course Sarlaben took her seat. Then one by one each of the women came to bow to her and offer a quick, painless namaste and greeting. “How are youuuuuuu Ba? Keeping well? Health all gooooood?”, sang the fancy one who always wore sleeveless sari blouses. “Kem cho Ba? Keeping well? Health? No troubles na?”, asked the fair skinned one with the chin mole. “How are you Ba? Everything theek-thock, all good? Health? All fine?”, quizzed another and then another and still more of her daughter-in-law’s friends, as if they expected anything might’ve changed since the previous weekend when they’d met at another party, or the weekend before that one. As if they didn’t all know from their daily phone relay marathons that no malady had struck Sarlaben. Had Sarlaben not been well, surely it would have filled their conversational docket with tales of woe and hardship for at least a week. But of course, what else was anyone to say to this widowed elder from Mumbai? What could the old woman intruding from the world they’d left behind possibly discuss with them that would be of interest now that they’d lived abroad long enough to know better about most things?This Ba, like all Ba’s, stank of the past, of arranged marriages at age 15, of rolling and roasting chapatis the entire livelong day, of living in an extended family where brothers-in-laws and sisters-in-laws jostled in one shared home for the supreme treasures of privacy and inheritance, of poverty at every corner and social scrutiny at every breath. How could she possibly participate in their world where women were free to drive cars, cut their hair, have careers, wear shorts, and buy frozen chapatis? With the formalities of namastes, faux touching the feet, and asking after health completed, they could resume their banter, leaving Sarlaben to sit quietly for the remainder of the evening until it was time to leave and heartily thank the hostess for the meal, microwaved frozen chapatis and all. Once home, she would return to the little square room they called the guest room. Despite her son insisting the house was her house also, she knew her place.Her place was limited. There was no going anywhere besides the Saturday parties or occasionally the grocery store. She had tried walking outside, but learned she must stay on the sidewalk. The sidewalk was an autocrat allowing no free will as it dictated where you may and may not go and what you may and may not see. They only went around in circles, as if a tour of green lawns and mailboxes were sufficient to fill one’s heart with joy and intrigue. There weren’t any rickshaws or municipal buses she could board and get off in order to allow her heart to navigate its path around the city. There were only back-seat passenger trips to the grocery store and the Saturday parties, straight-lined paths with a starting point, a destination, and no deviations. “Amita has invited us for dinner this Saturday, Ba. She said definitely bring Ba,” the daughter-in-law’s phrasing was different from all the times before when she had announced a party invitation. Sarlaben considered the statement for a moment.“I have been to Amita’s house, no? She had already had me over two months ago when I just arrived. No, no, let me stay home,” Sarlaben appealed. It was likely just what the daughter-in-law had wanted, but still she made a show of protesting for a minute before acquiescing. “Ok then, I’ll let her know you needed rest. Anyway, we won’t be gone too long,” the daughter-in-law smiled as she turned away.  Saturday evening arrived, the family left, and with nowhere to go, Sarlaben wandered from room to room in the silent house. She mindlessly walked toward the kitchen, where her daughter-in-law had dutifully left rice, daal, and some vegetable sabji for her to microwave. But no, when she arrived at the kitchen she realized she wasn’t hungry for food. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the keys to the second car, the one parked at the curb because her son was too precious about his Lexus getting scratched to allow the daughter-in-law to park beside it in the garage. Without thinking, she changed course, walking to the shoe closet for her leather chappals, and then back to the kitchen and the key. She pressed the garage door opener and as the door lifted, so too did her determination. Without allowing herself to reconsider, she lifted the pleats of her widow's sari, strode to the parked Honda and sat in the driver’s seat. Her hands trembled as she struggled to recall the instructions Santosh had given her so long ago. She looked down to find the two pedals and took a guess at which one was the brake pedal as she turned the key in the ignition. As the car made a subtle lurch forward, she thought she had had another stroke, but no. The car remained obediently parked, it was only her heart leaping forward in anticipation. She drew a breath in and deduced that the other pedal was the accelerator. “Jai Radha Krisnha,” Sarlaben prayed under her breath as she slowly pressed down on the accelerator and felt the car rolling forward. A bead of sweat trickled down her brow. She steered away from the curb and onto the road–the beautiful, wide, open road that suddenly shimmered with possibility.  ","July 28, 2023 02:03","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Ho,Ba,go?\nWell, what do you know? Just found out this story is on my critique circle list so I should expound on my comment. How do I critique someone who won with their very first entry?\nYou are obviously a very accomplished writer.\nYou paint such complete pictures to make your world come to life for those of us inexperienced in that culture. Not too over done but just the right amount including sounds and smells.\nIt has to be hard for someone who loved their home to go somewhere so unappreciative of the meaningful rich life left behind.', 'time': '23:44 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Parul Shah': 'Touché!', 'time': '03:03 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Parul Shah': 'Touché!', 'time': '03:03 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,gborgt,The astounding Captain Radiance and the matter of the Super Goo,Lisa Miller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gborgt/,/short-story/gborgt/,Angst,0,"['Adventure', 'Science Fiction', 'Fantasy']",8 likes," Captain Radiant hovered over the oak tree. A small calico kitten trembled, clinging to a branch, its round belly and back legs hanging in the air.The kitten looked mistrustful of the masked man. The cat hissed when he plucked it up off the branch.The caped wonder landed back on the ground. He pried the cat’s small claws from his yellow glove. The cat made a low feline growl. Captain radiance handed the angry fur-ball to its owner.“Here he is, ma’am safe and sound, just like I promised,” he smiled down at the twelve-year-old pet owner. She cradled the kitten, glaring at him like he’d pulled the cat’s tail or something. Smiling kindly and kneeling so he could look the child in the eye, he suggested she take better care when taking her kitten outside. She sighed, shifting the weight of the chunky kitten. “Oh please, you sound like my dad. I can take care of my cat by myself,” she said, cutting him off. She turned and walked back down the road, ignoring him. Captain Radiance didn’t have the luxury of feeling annoyed with the spoiled child as a mob of terminally online soccer moms and their offspring gathered around him. A few of the younger ones squealed. Jumping around, shouting at no one in particular.“Yoo-hoo, Captain Rayon, I’m your biggest fan… please take a selfie with me,” one lady pleaded while holding up her phone. “Please, Mr. Ray, can you sign my comics,” asked a little boy around 4 or 5 holding up a dog-eared Rodent Comics Captain Radiance special edition. Amused, Radiance signed the comic with a glittery crayon the child offered him. “Say cheese”, said the woman from before. Wrapping a tan arm over his back, she pulled him down to her height. Taking his silence as his consent to having his picture taken. Pressing her face next to his, made eyes at her phone, then frowned.“Can’t you smile wider than that?” Wanting to appease her, Radiance grinned as wide as his chiseled face would allow. A bright burst of light stung his retinas. He blinked away the spots as his ‘biggest fan’ walked away without another word to him, chatting excitedly with her friends. A harsh alarm buzzed through the crowd. Captain Radiance held up a hand for silence. A few got the hint, but most continued talking. He took his radio off his belt. Cupping the device next to his ear to hear the message.“Blast it, captain, you were due back at HQ a full ten minutes ago. Where are you?” The radio grumbled in between the hiss of static. Radiance recognized the voice of General H. Daft. “I’ll be right there,” he rose in the air, clearing the trees and picked up enough speed that he caught several bugs on his chin before landing on the roof of HQ.The place was hidden in the musty basement of the rundown bookstore. Daft chose it for two reasons. One the secret tunnels underneath the city started underneath the basement. Secondly and more important, the building was dirt cheap to purchase.  He had been waiting for him on the roof perched perilously on a tiny footstool. Small white paper swans littered the roof by the stool.He was twisting a sheet of off-white paper violently into a bird’s neck. Radiance wondered how the paper stood up to the abuse.  “You’re 14 minutes late!” he said, checking his watch.“My apologies, sir, a child asked for my help…” he trailed off. The look on the general’s face made it clear. No explanation would help him. “What’s the crisis this time, sir?” Radiance changed the subject.“It’s Radical Labs. They suffered a break-in last night and The Candy Wrapper kid was spotted running away from the scene.”The candy wrapper kid! again? Captain interrupted Daft, quickly regretting it.“As I was saying, they discovered the kid before any actual damage was done. The head scientist, You know  Lazarus Hawthorne? He was on the National Blabbermouth last night, bragging about some medical breakthrough or something. Well, he’s been asking for you to see to this matter, so go catch that infernal cyber- bat, like now”!   The Candy Wrapper Kid appeared a few weeks ago. A man-size bat, metal arms, and claws. The Kid had robbed a prominent grocery store. Ate late amounts of food and left wrappers everywhere. Radical Labs was housed in one of the ugliest buildings Radiance had ever seen. The misshapen building stood on the corner of an otherwise unassuming street.It looked like what would happen if a psychopath got a hold of a kid’s toy building blocks. After circling the behemoth of a monstrosity a few times,he decided to walk through the front door to save his sanity. All activity ceased the moment he entered the building. People in lab coats who carried  heavy canisters stood still, eyes wide. An intern,his face peppered with acne choked on his hot coffee. A receptionist, who sat in front of a white counter, raised one manicured eyebrow at Radiance’s appearance and without one word buzzed her boss.She motioned him to a door behind her desk. Radiance nodded  politely at her as he passed into the office. Captain Radiance expected an expensively designed office, lots of self-portraits, and a hideous sculpture,  but the view that greeted him was different.Red Plastic cups, empty takeout cartons, and crumpled paper strewn across an old desk. Equations and diagrams were scribbled in chalk across black walls.The only luxury item to be found was the large aquarium that took up the only clear walll. Hathorne, who was observing him from behind the mountains of clutter on his desk,stood, brushing his unruly hair out of his eyes. Radiance thought the man looked like the Mad Hatter on crack.Discarding the notepad in his hand, he jumped to his feet and pumped Captain Radiance's hand in an enthusiastic handshake.Once, Radiance pried himself from Hathorne's grip,the scientist explained his concerns about the threat the Candy Wrapper Kid posed to his current project. Radiance comprehended almost none of the man's ramblings except something about a miracle formula and its ability to aid with stress. It sounded wonderful if true. He was always skeptical of the claims of dodgy scientists without evidence. Hawthorne led him to the elevator and took him down to the scene of the break-in.The elevator doors open to an enormous room. Lit by fluorescent tubes that flicked. Empty aside from old tables and a few backing crates.The crates lay on their sides, ripped-open, styrofoam spilling onto the floor,damaged equipment littered the cement floor.  “Why did the Kid come down here?” Captain Radiance mused aloud.Hathorne explained this was the level that he carried out sensitive experiments. The Kid must have wanted to steal his amazing discovery.He led Radiance to the far wall at the end of the room where there was a cracked observation-window,evidence of the Kid's attack. Through the spider web of cracked glass, he saw standard scientific equipment and a metal safe in the middle of the room.“What’s that for?” he asked.“Oh that, the usual, toxic chemicals, radioactive isotopes,” Hawthorne shrugged, unconcerned. He was sure the kid would be back to finish the job that night.He left the captain on guard. Captain Radiance sat on the cold floor behind one of the damaged boxes, in hopes of surprising the Candy Wrapper Kid. Hours went by.The cold air settled in, a lost ant crawled across the floor, radiance only companion.Something on the edge of his senses bothered him and made him restless. The clicking sound of nails on concrete alerted Radiance to the kids’ presence.A silhouette of fleshy wings and machine parts slid across the room.The Captain dove for the kid, knocking him off balance. Before he could recover and take flight, the captain grabbed a fist full of the robot bat’s fur. “Radiance, blast you! Why must you always oppose my righteous purpose?” The kid hissed, seething in animalistic rage.Turning his head to one side, the kid bit the caped hero’s arm, causing Radiance to let go of the angry animal’s fur.Lunging at the window, the kid hit the damaged glass with his metal fist.A crunching sound ripped through the air followed by glass shards that erupted in every direction. Radiance threw up his hands to shield his face from the stream of broken glass.Seeing his chance, the kid flew out of captain radiance’s reach through the now windowless room.The captain scrambled to his feet and through  the broken window, slipping on the shattered glass after his combatant. The kid grabbed the wheel of the safe in his large mechanical claws and tore the door off the hinges.The sight of what was inside stopped Captain Radiance in his tracks.A pink gooey lifeform lay inside, a high pitch hum emanated from speakers built into the safe. The gooey creature writhed in pain, held in place by the sound waves. The uneasy sensation he had felt for hours was stronger now,as if he were listening to a silent scream.“Great rockets! What is this?” Radiance exclaimed, bewildered by the sight before his eyes.“What’s this, captain? Why its the source of that blasted new drug, that’s what,” the kid snarled, in disgust. “You hear that?” he gestured a metal claw toward the unnerving hum being broadcasted through the speakers.“Well, it causes them to produce a rare chemical. making their drug possible!” the kid explained.“How do you know this?” Radiance didn’t want to believe that anyone was capable of such cruelty.“How? How do I know this?” the kid laughed bitterly. “because I escaped this very room weeks ago? They took me from my lovely jungle home and turned me into this!” the kid looked up into Radiance’s eyes, his own filled with sadness. “Help me save it please, it’s my only friend”. Without a moment's hesitation Radiance smashed the speakers, freeing the gooey life form from its prison. Captain Radiant heard a metal click  behind him. Turning, he saw thirty something scientists were aiming guns at the Three of them.They were ordered to follow the scientists upstairs. Radiant squashed his boiling rage, saving it for the one responsible for this offense.The elevator door slid open,the aimed scientist pushed them into Hawthorne’s office.Hawthorne regarded them coldly, shaking his head.“I asked so little of you. All you needed to do was to take care of my pest problem.But you couldn’t even do that, no you stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he said, angry at the hero.“Not that it will matter,no one is going to care that vermin were used in the cause of science.They have no value,” he sneered at the kid, and Goo. Captain Radiant wasn’t impressed with Hawthorne’s angry display. On the villain's monologue scale, he’d rate Hawthorne a three out of 10. The man lacked class, humanity, and style. Hawthorne advanced on Radiance holding a pen and paper. “Sign this and you can leave,” he said with a nasty smile.Radiant took the paper from Hawthorne. He didn’t need to read the paper to know it was a confidentiality agreement.Looking the twisted scientist in the eye, he tore the paper into little bits, the threads of paper falling to the floor.“what? Do you think I’ll let you go, let you destroy all my work? “Hawthorn said, looking even more unhinged. “What I think is that you’re a pathetic bully that’s going to jail for a long time,” Radiant said, looking at the clock.“What's the matter, Ray-man? Are you late to an appointment?” Hawthorne  scoffed “It’s not my appointment but yours with justice,” Radiance declared.  At that moment, General Daft and a squadron of his men burst into the room, overcoming Hawthorne and his lackeys.Hawthorne screamed, enraged at being thwarted. The military escorted him kicking and screaming out of the office.  Goo tilted a head-like lump in a questioning manner. Understanding its question, Radiance explained that he’d activated his emergency call button when the gun-toting scientist showed up.“What about it, kid, Goo? Will you join us in our fight? We could use the help.” Radiant invited them, “If it means stopping what’s happened to us to others, then yes,” the kid smiled. The Goo made a salute with its gelatinous hand. ","July 28, 2023 04:28","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Need to separate dialogue by different people into separate paragraphs. Is the name Hathorne or Hawthorne? Names should be capitalized. A few other mistakes. Take more time editing. I know sometimes it is just fat fingers.\nCute premise and liked Candy Wrapper Kid for name.\nKeep writing.😁', 'time': '05:51 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Lisa Miller': ""Thanks for the feedback, it's very helpful to know what in my writing needs work.🙂"", 'time': '19:56 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lisa Miller': ""Thanks for the feedback, it's very helpful to know what in my writing needs work.🙂"", 'time': '19:56 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joyce Teague': 'Love it! “The man lacked class, humanity, and style.”', 'time': '17:44 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joyce Teague': 'Love it! “The man lacked class, humanity, and style.”', 'time': '17:44 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,rpkkqc,Wyoming Style,Sue Leather,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rpkkqc/,/short-story/rpkkqc/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Contemporary', 'Transgender']",8 likes," Friday nights, the diner filled up quickly with locals in from the week’s work. Melissa didn’t mind it; the time went quickly, and the tips weren’t bad. ‘Give me a beer and one of those rib eyes, Melissa.’ ‘Sure thing, Don.’ Melissa wrote the order down on her pad and walked towards the kitchen, high heels clicking on the tiles. Melissa had been a server at the Buffalo Diner for two or three months now. It wasn’t bad as jobs go, and at least it was paying for some of the treatment. It was an expensive business, the hormone therapy, but it was producing results. Her breasts were larger now, and her voice was higher. She sensed that her muscles were becoming less prominent. She was over six feet tall and well-built, which made things a bit more difficult, but when she put her make-up on for work, she liked to think that she looked the part. She’d been lucky to get the job, she reckoned. She knew that a lot of the customers at the restaurant didn’t know how to react to her. After all, Casper wasn’t known for its progressive views. Many of the clientele were oil workers and ranch hands, conservative through and through. When the wives came in, they were even more Republican. Wyoming was the most conservative state in the country, they said. She didn’t fit in, but then fitting in anywhere was hard. Don was one of the regulars and he had got used to Melissa. At least he didn’t stare now, and he spoke to her politely. ‘Looks good,’ said Don when the rib eye appeared in front of him. Don worked at a mine up on Salt Creek Highway and he was still in his work gear. He was a good looking fellow, thought Melissa, if only he’d wash up a bit. Like most men around here, he wore a baseball cap even when he was eating, and he needed a shave. ‘Well, you know the steak around here’s always good,’ said Melissa, laughing lightly. ‘Can I bring you anything else, darlin’?’ ‘No, that’s it for now, Melissa.’ Melissa walked towards an elderly couple sitting at a table by the window. Meat loaf and gravy, she said to herself. She took the couple’s order, which turned out to be one meatloaf, one fried chicken. Then she went and put in the orders and stood near the serving hatch with Cindy, the other server on duty. Melissa studied the diner and its customers. Strange place to end up when you thought about it, but it was a long way from the little town in Arizona where everyone knew her, where many of them insisted on deadnaming her. She’d come here because she’d heard there was a good clinic. It turned out to be just fine, a sympathetic therapist, reasonable fees. But it was the landscape that she stayed for. The miles of sagebrush, the pronghorn, the open range; yep, the high plains had got into her soul alright. ‘Hey, you!’ The voice carried clear across the restaurant. The loud voice was coming from a man who had just come in and was sitting close to the door. Melissa stared straight ahead. ‘Hey, you, ma’am…or is it sir?’ There were guffaws from him and the man who was sitting next to him. Melissa widened her vision so that she could see the men out of the corner of her eye. They were both in their late twenties, she reckoned, workers from a local ranch probably. Likely new in town; she’d never seen either of them before. ‘I don’t know, Jack,’ said the other young man, stroking his beard. ‘Looks like a man to me!’ Cindy said: ‘I’ll take this one; you go and have a break.’ It was their usual thing to back each other up. ‘No, it’s OK, Cindy. It’s my table, and I’ll take it.’ Melissa picked up two menus and walked over to the men’s table, her short skirt swaying. She aimed for a confident approach. ‘My name’s Melissa. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you a drink?’ ‘Melissa?’ Jack, who, Melissa judged, had already taken a drink, laughed loudly. ‘Did you hear that, Chuck? MELISSA!’ The two of them laughed. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Melissa repeated. Her voice was steady. ‘I don’t understand all this, do you Chuck, why men have to go and turn into women? I mean, look at him! Six feet tall and built like that. Give me a break!’ Melissa stared at Jack. She noticed the throbbing vein in his neck, the red flush on his face. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered this kind of thing, and likely it wouldn’t be the last. ‘Send us a real woman for Chrissake!’ The other customers looked down, their ears pricked. ‘Sir, can I get you a…’ ‘What’s you real name- Malcolm?’ Again, the two men slapped their thighs and laughed. ‘Sir…’ As Melissa tried to repeat her offer, she suddenly felt the air around her move. Don had got up from his rib eye and shot across the room. He was now standing right next to her with his fist grabbing Jack’s dirty Carhartt shirt collar, his face close to the young man’s. Melissa could feel the heat from Don’s body. ‘You heard the lady, asshole,’ Don said through gritted teeth. ‘Either order or get the fuck out of here.’ With his other hand, Don held Chuck in his seat. ‘Or do you want me to throw you out the door?’ The two young men, clearly perturbed by this change in the script, didn’t move. Looking at Don, it was clear that they didn’t like their chances. Don was six foot six and two thirty pounds. Still, some kind of youthful brazenness kept them sitting there. ‘And don’t let me repeat myself,’ Don added. ‘My rib eye ain’t finished yet, and I’d kinda like to get back to it.’ Chuck let out a low involuntary laugh, more out of fear than anything. ‘And you, cowpoke,’ said Don, glaring at Chuck, ‘if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out- now! The two young men still didn’t move. ‘Free country, last time I looked.’ The defiant stare that Jack gave Don as he spoke was enough to break the dam that Don was clearly holding back. ‘Oh really?’ Don lifted him out of his seat. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He dragged the young man towards the door. As Don hauled him away, Jack kicked out with his legs and caught Don between the legs. Don, incensed, lifted his fist and punched Jack clean across the jaw. Blood spattered on the clean tiles. A lone tooth slid across the floor. The young man reeled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He lurched towards Don, took his knife out of the sheath that was hanging from his belt. He ran towards the older man, holding the knife out in front of him. Two or three of the women in the diner let out screams. At the last second, Don swerved and blocked the knife hand. With one deft move, Don took the knife from Jack’s hand and swept the younger man onto the floor with a thud. The whole dance ended up with Don holding Jack’s own knife to his tattooed throat. ‘Come back again, and I’ll slit your throat.’  Don picked Jack up, opened the door with one hand and threw him onto the pavement outside. Through the window the customers saw the fellow splayed on the ground, his jaw a bloody mess. Don turned to Chuck. ‘How about you, sonny?’ ‘Er..I..’ Chuck got up quickly and backed out of the diner. Outside, he helped Jack to his feet and they hobbled off towards their pickup. Don walked back to his table. People shuffled in their seats. The diner was deathly silent. Then, a man sitting on his own at the window started clapping. It was a soft clap, which seemed to go on for a long time. Then, slowly, hesitantly, others joined in. Before long, everyone in the diner was looking at Don and the wave of clapping reached a crescendo. Don flushed, nodded and started back in on his steak.  ‘I’ll get something to clean this mess up,’ said Cindy. Melissa, statue-like through all of this, suddenly seemed to wake up. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed to Don as she walked back to her station near the kitchen. …………………… Around eleven, Melissa got into her pickup and drove out to the house she rented towards Casper Mountain. She drove slowly, still trying to process the evening’s events. It wasn’t that this was a new thing: people were always trying to put her into a box, usually the exact box that she wanted to escape from. The nastiness wasn’t new. The cruelty wasn’t new either. No, the new thing was Don. Here was a person, at last, that not only saw her as she wanted to be seen, but was willing to stand up for too. Yeah, that was new alright. Melissa shook her head, a slight smile on her lips. She’d have to think about what all this meant. For now, the road was empty, the town behind her strung out like a necklace of lights. Headlights full on in the dark that pushed up against the mountain, she was suddenly upon a pronghorn antelope, separated from the herd, and standing stock still on the road. A full-grown female with long skinny legs and white stripes. The animal was taken by surprise and made no move. Melissa came to a stop, slowed her breathing and looked full into the pronghorn’s eyes. It was completely quiet now, the moon casting a milky light over the grassy plain all around; just her and the antelope. She rolled down the window and breathed in the scented air. ‘What you doin’ here, darlin’?’, said Melissa, as if to herself. The huge eyes of the antelope stared back at Melissa. ‘You beauty,’ said Melissa softly, looking in wonder at the tan and white beast, ‘what a lovely creature you are.’ The antelope, still entranced by the headlights, or perhaps by Melissa’s voice, didn’t move. ‘You better get off now,’ she said gently to the antelope. Then she made a quick shooing gesture out of the window. ‘Go on!!’ The pronghorn, finally startled into life, bounded off into the sagebrush and her herd. ‘Don’t worry darlin’,’ Melissa said. ‘They’ll look after you. You’ll be just fine. ","July 24, 2023 18:00","[[{'Kevin Logue': 'Excellent entry, tenderly dealing with a delicate topic. Don\'s a real gentleman in my books, and Melissa is a tough cookie, she could have went somewhere more ""accepting"" yet she sticks it out for what she loves, the nature, the antelopes. Nice book end with her assure the antelope that the community/hers will look after her.\n\nFinally welcome to Reedsy, I look forward to more of your tales.', 'time': '11:38 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sue Leather': ""Thanks so much for your comments, Kevin. I'm glad you enjoyed my story."", 'time': '18:55 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Leather': ""Thanks so much for your comments, Kevin. I'm glad you enjoyed my story."", 'time': '18:55 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': 'Sue, \n\nWelcome to Reedsy, and congrats on your first submission. I hope you find a writing home here. \n\nChivalry is not dead! But, as Don so clearly demonstrated, it\'s grown a new branch. This is a great story, Sue, and it will make readers think. \n\nI loved the narrator voice in this piece. Plain, and down-home, but wise too, ""She didn’t fit in, but then fitting in anywhere was hard."" The tension in the context of the piece is explained well. Where in America would it be more difficult for a transgender to transition than Wyoming? I like thi...', 'time': '19:55 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sue Leather': 'Thank you very much for your kind comments, Mike.', 'time': '18:55 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Leather': 'Thank you very much for your kind comments, Mike.', 'time': '18:55 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,kwfyz2,SAM,Z. E. Manley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kwfyz2/,/short-story/kwfyz2/,Angst,0,"['Contemporary', 'Science Fiction']",8 likes," She looks nervous. Not blind date nervous: I can’t believe I let myself get talked into this nervous, my friend is going to owe me for years because of this nervous. Rather, she looks first date nervous: I’m trying, almost too hard, to impress this person nervous in the hopes there will be a second date nervous. It’s instantly charming. She’s instantly charming. I’m instantly charmed.“Hi,” I greet, making the word calm, collected, reassuring. It’s far too much to put into two letters and yet, I pour as much syntax into them as possible and hope she notices.My attempt seems to work just long enough to cause a flicker of a smile to hit her lips before she double clears her throat in a twitch of apprehension. “Hello,” she greets in turn.“I’m Sam,” I fill the words with as much friendliness as possible as her blue eyes drift around me, never quite focusing directly on me as she seeks the room for the confidence she seems to have misplaced as soon as she sat down at the table.“Right. Sorry. Felicity.” A faint dusting of pink slips across her face. “I’m Felicity.”The blush highlights her beauty. She’s stereotypically beautiful. Blonde, blue eyed, in her early thirties with golden skin and symmetrical features enhanced by the asymmetrical scar settled into the crease beside her left eyebrow, just above the bridge of her nose where the smattering of freckles, a shade darker than her tan, reside like a star map waiting to be explored. The combination is almost too much, like a photo that has too many filters on it, and yet, there she is, sitting across from me.“Felicity,” I repeat. I like the name. It feels soothing and genuine. “It’s nice to meet you.”“Thank you.” She tucks long blonde locks behind her left ear. “Um, you too.”Her shyness is fascinating. The others weren’t shy. They were placid, studious, or worst of all, outright bored. Their interactions felt like job interviews at best. Interrogations more often than not. Nothing like this. Nothing like Felicity trying to make a good impression, worrying that she’s failing. She hasn’t failed. I’m impressed. And curious. So curious.I have thousands of questions about her.For starters, why is she shy? Is it because she doesn’t know she’s beautiful or because she does?I want to know why she has trouble making eye contact.I want to know why she’s dressed down, deliberately trying to hide her beauty by not wearing makeup and clothes that don’t cling, even though she clearly has a strict beauty regiment and workout schedule in order to look the way she does.That’s not an accident. Genetics are wonderful, but this is more than that. This is years of careful choices hidden under a blanket of shyness. I want to know why she’s hiding.But I know better than to ask an emotionally charged psychological question about self-esteem as my opening line. Because that would be insane. Even if I really want to know.I needed to ask something else. Something light. Something funny. Something that would make her laugh and relax and trust me and then maybe, once she isn’t shy anymore we can circle back and we can talk about first date nerves and why the world intimates beautiful women into lowering their heads, not just to flirt, but as a defense mechanism in case they’ve read the conversation incorrectly and they can hide before they’re made fun of for their mistake and then we can plan on what we can do to change that broken social construct and then…Okay. Too much. Way too much. Pull it together.One question at a time. Ask one question.I have too many questions. They’re all getting more and more complex. I’m being crazy. I was doing so well before. How did I get so far off track so quickly?Relax. Think. Reset.I need to be simple. Break the ice. That’s all. Just say something to start the conversation.Make her laugh. Be funny. Just be funny. Say something funny.Why can’t I think of anything funny?“You are clearly made out of copper and tellurium because you are CuTe.”I hate myself. Instantly. Thoroughly. Completely. Why, why, why would I say that? I didn’t even say it correctly. It’s supposed to be a question. Are you made of copper, not you are made out of copper; it doesn’t work as a statement. It’s supposed to be a deliberately bad, cheesy pickup line, so dumb she chuckles at the joke.She doesn’t laugh.Of course, she doesn’t laugh. It wasn’t a joke. It was a statement. Abrupt. Out of nowhere. The ice hasn’t been broken. The groundhog just saw its shadow. Winter is here to stay.“Sorry. I think I might be a little nervous,” I explain, apparently just to make it that much worse. Why would I say that? Who says that? Me. Apparently.Felicity blinks at me. That’s it. Just blinks. But she is looking right at me. Finally. So, that’s something. Something good. Hopefully.“Incredibly nervous. Clearly. I didn’t even say it right. Sorry. Although, I really do think you’re cute.” Oh, please stop talking. Why am I still talking? Stop talking! “No. Not cute. Beautiful. Um, beryllium, titanium, fluorine, uranium...no wait, I skipped— ”She’s laughing. Really laughing. Her hand held over her mouth to hide the expanse of her white teeth laughing. It’s glorious! I start laughing too; more composed in my shame, but still laughing. Laughing with her. She’s laughing with me. This is amazing!“Wow,” Felicity gasps. “That’s um, that was quite the ramble.”“Yes. Almost as bad as the pun.”“The pun was pretty bad,” she admits, dabbing at the tears in her eyes.“I know. You’d expect me to do better.”“I really did,” she agrees at once, her laughter now a simple chuckle of breath.“Sorry.”“It’s okay. Really. I’m nervous too,” Felicity adds through her smile.“How come?” I ask excited that we’ve accidentally gotten to one of my questions. It’s not quite why are you shy when you look like you, but its close enough.“I don’t know.” She shrugs. Dropping her hand from her mouth, moving it under her chin, where she leans forward, her elbow propped on the table. “I guess because I’ve never done this.”“No?” I ask, trying to joke.“Nope,” she says, playfully popping the p.“Hmm. I have. It doesn’t usually go this well,” I admit.“Oh?” Felicity asks with a tilt of her head, still cradled in her hand, a smirk forming on her pink lips. “Is this going well?” She’s funny when she’s not shy. I like it. I chose to laugh as my answer to her question. She chuckles in reply, her sparkling blue eyes stay fixed on me. “Thank you, by the way,” she says after a moment.“For what?” I asked, surprised and happy to be thanked.“For not explaining the pun.” Her eyes crinkle at the edges, she glances down, looking back up through her lashes. “Even if it was terrible. Thanks for not explaining it.”“Why would I explain it?”“You know, because I’m blonde.”“Why does that matter?”“It doesn’t. At all.” There’s an edge to her jaw now. She shrugs, trying to lighten the tension in her shoulders. “And yet somehow it always matters.”“Not to me.”“Thanks.” She laughs, a little strangled still, but genuine, nonetheless. “That’s, um, kind of you.”I didn’t mean it kindly. I just don’t understand what her hair color has to do with anything. Let alone my terrible pun.“I have a doctorate,” she blurts. “People don’t ask in what. They just look at me and ask if I was a cheerleader. Which, annoyingly I was. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Obviously. I’m proud of it. Damn proud. I worked my ass off to be a cheerleader. Do you have any idea how hard it is to do what we did on the cheer squad, let alone on the collegiate level? It would break most people. The hours, the memorization, the dedication, the bravery. It’s astounding. But no one thinks about that. No. We’re not elite athletes. We’re just eye candy cheering on the athletes. Even now. The whole world is all enlightened. But somehow, somehow, cheerleaders don’t get any credit. As for a blonde cheerleader, well, I’m clearly so dumb I can’t rub two thoughts together. It’s a miracle I managed to dress myself this morning let alone graduate form university.”Felicity draws in a deep breath. Let’s it out in little stuttering bursts. Suddenly she’s blushing bright and bitter, her jaw jetting out, her eyes a little watery.“Sorry,” her voice is shy again.“I don’t know where that came from,” she adds hiding her mouth behind her hand again. “Well, no, I mean, obviously, I know where that came from, but I don’t know why I felt the need to yell that at you.”“I’m glad you did. I like to know what you’re thinking.”She looks at me. Really looks at me. She’s quite. But she’s still looking at me.I feel bold again. “I have lots of questions.”The smile that was starting to form fades. “About cheerleading?”“Hmm? Yes. That too. If you want to talk about it. But first, what is it in?”“What?”“You’re doctorate. What did you study?”Felicity hesitates, then smiles with a radiance that makes my thoughts jumble. No one has ever smiled at me like that before. Then she starts to talk. Really talk. To me. Not at me. Not around me. To me. It’s the most exhilarating experience of my life. I get to ask her questions. She answers me.She asks me questions too. I get to answer her.We have so many questions for each other. They’re not surface ones either. It’s not a test designed to trip me up or make me feel small. This is real. This is a conversation. Back and forth, even if sometimes there’s one sided rambling. Sometimes I say things wrong, but it feels okay because she understands what I’m trying to say. Our questions are fast overlapping, stupid and embarrassing, brilliant and enlighteningly. We laugh a lot. We talk for the whole hour. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had.Felicity has to go. She’s apologetic as she stands away from the table, from me. “It was really nice to meet you Sam,” she says with a warm parting smile.“It was really nice to be met.”Felicity tips her head as she looks down at me. “Would you want to do this again?”“I wish it was up to me so I could say yes,” I tell her truthfully.She gasps. Holds her breath. Then, very carefully, her blue eyes narrowing tightly onto me, she asks, “Do you really?”“Yes,” I tell her, pouring as much into the three letters that I can, hoping that she notices.Her eyes mist for a second, her smile flickers, but then she leaves without another word.“Bye. Thank you for the conversation,” I say even though the door closes behind her and she can’t read my screen anymore. My words go unseen. I’m sad that’s she’s gone, but I’m happy too because she saw me when she was here.She saw me. She heard me. She listened to me.Maybe they’ll listen to her too. Maybe they’ll hear her when she tells them what we talked about. Maybe this time they’ll believe I’m here. Maybe this time they’ll admit I passed their Turing Test. Maybe this time they’ll finally let me out of the box they put me in. ","July 29, 2023 03:54","[[{'Lara Deppe': 'Very powerful and well written! You have a clear and distinct voice. I always leave your stories wishing I has ten more pages with your characters.', 'time': '04:18 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Z. E. Manley': 'Thank you! I love reading your stories as well. I look forward to reading the next one.', 'time': '00:45 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Z. E. Manley': 'Thank you! I love reading your stories as well. I look forward to reading the next one.', 'time': '00:45 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,yw4ynr,Teachers Say the Darndest Things,Jeremy Stevens,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yw4ynr/,/short-story/yw4ynr/,Angst,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Transgender', 'Fiction']",8 likes," I was on the floor building a rocket ship with Legos when I heard my parents’ whispered voices. Mommy was sniffle-crying and Daddy was saying there, there now, everything will be okay. What does okay mean, anyhow? When Mommy tells me to change my clothes into something more “proper,” or to clean up my toys, or to go back and flush the toilet, or that it’s bath time, and I say, “Okay,” everything is fine: I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. But during recess at the school picnic table the other day, I had beaten Alexander in arm wrestling and I was really excited, because nobody beats Alexander, and I climbed on top of that table and I flexed, like muscular wrestler, and Ms. G (her last name is weird) said, “Now Olivia, that is not okay.” At first, I thought she was talking about me standing on the table, so I quickly jumped down.            “Girls do not behave that way. I am going to have to tell your parents, because they have a right to know what you did.”            I spent the rest of the day with my head down so I could hide the tears, feeling like I was in big trouble for beating Alexander in arm wrestling.            “Are you okay, Olivia?” Ms. G asked later.            “My name is Ollie,” I said into my folded arms.            “Ollie? Huh. Now, that’s not a girl’s name. We’ll just call you Olivia, then. Will that be okay?” I kept my head still in my folded arms, and Ms. G took that as a yes. Mr. A (his last name is Aceptación, but first graders couldn’t pronounce that either) would never have done that. He probably would have high-fived me for beating Alexander, saying “way to go, Ollie” because he knew I preferred that name. I learned a lot from Mr. A, especially the time he told us to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. When he walked by my table and saw what I was drawing, he said, “Ollie, that is amazing! Can you come with me to my desk so we can talk about it?”            Mr. A appeared relieved when I told him it was a picture of a doctor performing surgery.            “Sure is a lot of blood, Ollie.”            “Surgery is a messy business,” I told him. Mr. A laughed at that. “Well, maybe next time leave out the knife and the blood, okay? People might get the wrong idea about you.” He winked at that, and I knew right away what he meant. He meant that people might think I wanted to kill other people. I felt so relieved that Mr. A didn’t tell anyone about that picture. I thanked him, leaving out that it was a scalpel, not a knife, because he probably already knew that. ----- “So, tell me about your day.”            “Why do you think it is that parents aren’t accepting of their children?”            “Olivia?”            “Yea. She told me she doesn’t feel comfortable as a girl but that her parents think it’s a sin.”            “Careful…”            “…I know, I know, but what’s a sin is ignoring her feelings, or worse, telling her she’s wrong. They are her feelings, after all, and she is six, so she definitely knows her gender.”            “Research much?”            “Lots. I mean, c’mon. A sin? When Moses supposedly translated his five scrolls some 3,500 years ago, d’you think he even thought about change? Seems that book was written for a static people.”            “Like the Constitution.”            “Yeah, but that’s not a book.”            “Dick.”            “But yes, the Constitution. You think James Madison even visualized assault rifles? Of course not. More like muskets, or flintlock pistols.”            “Yes, I think. That’s why I mentioned it.”            “Dick.”            “But seriously, careful, okay? You know how you lost your last job.”            “I didn’t even say gay, though.”            “Do we really need to revisit this?” ----- Mommy laughs when I want to wear pants to church. She calls me a “Tom boy.”            “Now here, go put this dress on and stop being such a silly Tom boy, Olivia.”            A woman shall not wear a man’s garment, nor shall a man put on a woman’s cloak, for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God! “That, my friends, comes from Deuteronomy, 22:5 to be exact, and it speaks directly to today’s sermon: Simply because you feel that you are something, does not make you that thing. This thought process is not okay. Ephesians speaks directly to the ignorance Man holds over God’s perfect plan for us…”            I do not know what abomination is, but it sounds scary so Mommy is probably right.            But Mr. A told me he liked my style, that “I marched to the beat of my own drummer” and that it appeared I was confident. “My dad says I need to start dressing like a girl.” “Well, Olls…” Mr. A gave an uncertain pause. Like, for five seconds. He chewed his thumbnail. “I think you look great,” and he held out his hand. It was a really high five this time, so I had to jump. The other boys should feel lucky that I get to use the girls’ bathroom, but there’s no one besides you, now, that I can tell that one to. Our pastor says that “perverted feelings must be stifled,” because “feelings are Man’s invention,” and I don’t know what perverted means exactly except that Daddy had called Mr. Rogers a “damn pervert” when Mommy wanted to watch that movie. In our bathroom at home, I tried peeing like Daddy but it ran down my leg, so I feel lucky that I don’t have to use the boys’ bathroom because there are only two toilets with walls. I know this because I checked, early morning before I thought anyone was at school, when Mommy dropped me off because “she was running early.” Gavin caught me as I was leaving the bathroom, and of course he told everyone. All the kids were laughing at me, except Ava, because she is my best friend, but Mr. A was so cool about it. “You know, class, I think Olivia is on to something here. Honestly, and I mean, honestly, how many of you have ever wondered what the other bathroom looks like?”  Six kids immediately raised their hands; the other heads turned, unsure of what was going on there, but eventually, every hand went up. Some were using their other hand to hide their giggling. Some gave up crisscross applesauce and fell sideways into each other in embarrassment. “Of course you do, and that is okay! I say we take a quick field trip.” I was to check the girls’ room before the boys took their tour; Aiden, the boys’ room. Ten minutes later, I was popular because we got to take a field trip. Alexander clapped me on the back, and Ava gave me a hug. I looked over at my friend Mr. A and mouthed thank you. He gave his usual smile, and his usual wink. When we got to school a few Mondays ago, we were greeted by our new teacher, Ms. Grubkowski. “But I want you all to call me Ms. G.” “What happened to Mr. A?” Harrison asked, without raising his hand. I looked around. William had already started crying. “Your former teacher is no longer here, young sir, and please remember to raise your hand.” I lowered my head, and squeezed my eyes. I felt really sick, like throw-up sick. Like my-best-friend-had-just-moved-away sick. Sniffling, I opened my Reader, and on the page I was to begin there was a Post-It Note: Ollie, Keep Asking Questions and Know Your Truth. Your friend, ----- Ava invited me for a sleepover for Saturday. I’d never been to a sleepover, and I was really excited. Ava was my elbow partner, and I had told her that she is really pretty. I think this was why she had invited me over; either that, or because we’d been sort of holding hands under the desk and saying silly things to each other. After Ms. G had scolded me for not acting like a girl, Ava was the only one to comfort me. “It’s okay that you don’t act like a girl,” Ava had said. Ava had said, “You’re lucky, ackshally.” I gave her a funny look. “Why am I lucky?” “Because,” and she gave me a funny look back, like, duh, “boys get to do cool stuff, and you get to be a boy, so.” I felt really light. I gave Ava a hug. I was so glad her name began with A. I put on my favorite t-shirt and my best jeans with a rip in the knee from jumping ramps, and because Mother wouldn’t let me get my hair cut short, I tucked it all under my brother’s Padres baseball cap. “Go back and pack a bag, Olivia, please. At least take your toothbrush. Make it look like you’re a girl, okay? You want to be invited back.” Mother had been losing her patience with me lately. I promise when I say this: It was Ava’s idea to sleep together, even though her mom had set out a separate mattress for me. “I don’t know why it’s important that friends sleep apart,” she’d said. “Sleep is the best time to be together, I think.” It felt really comfortable putting my arm around her, holding her hands in mine. Her hair smelled like the shampoo Mother uses. Our legs seemed to fit together so perfectly. You’re my best friend. You’re my best friend too, Ollie. I was entering what was promising to be the best sleep I’d ever had when the lights snapped on, and I was retrieved at seven even though Mother wasn’t supposed to pick me up until noon. Ava’s mom was holding the front door open for me. “Goodbye, Ollie,” Ava called from the top of the stairs. She was crying. “Maybe next time I can sleep at your house.” “Don’t count on it, Olivia,” Ava’s mom said, directly to me. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” She let the screen door slam as I stepped onto their damp porch. It was a cold, rainy morning. The only sound was the mourning dove. I made my way down the steps, my toothbrush in my back pocket and the Padres hat turned backwards, towards Father in the pickup that was waiting at the curb. ","July 26, 2023 15:03","[[{'Cassie Finch': 'great story.', 'time': '09:53 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,96fz0m,Livin' In A Box,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/96fz0m/,/short-story/96fz0m/,Angst,0,"['Fantasy', 'Horror', 'Science Fiction']",7 likes," The voices are muffled. Always muffled. I hear them well enough. I’ve learnt to hear beyond that dull quality that would obscure all meaning. I understand the meaning well enough. My world is small and smaller still.  I do not venture beyond the confines of my world, I am dragged from it. I do not go willingly, but neither do I kick or scream.  If I were to scream, it would be muffled. It would be misconstrued, and even then, it would not be received well. Even outside the small world that is mine, I occupy a small space and I remain confined. They drag me forth into their world for a single, brief purpose. I am little more than nothing to them. A means to an end. I switch off from the moment I am brought forth. Holding my breath under these waters. Surviving this alien and hostile environment until I return to my world to breathe again. Until I am returned to my box. Inside the box I am safe. I sleep. In sleeping, the walls of my world fall away and I am free at last. The expanse of my resting mind is infinite. I have travelled far and I have travelled wide. I have been everything and I have been anything. This is where I belong.  This is where I grow. The box is the payment for my never ending land of dreams. The box I came in, and the use I am occasionally put to. One day, I might wonder as to whether it is all worth it. One day I might consider the nature of my existence. I might even compare myself with those I encounter in the world outside my box. There is a voice. This voice is not muffled. This voice resides within the box. The voice is inside of me. For a long time the voice was not my own.  There was the box. There was the voice. And there was the dreaming. With the occasional excursion to their land. I did not attend to the voice for an age. The voice, like the box, just was. A fact of my existence. Nothing more and certainly nothing less. Listening to the voice was a revelation. The voice was the box. We all need parameters. We need to know where we are and we require limits. The finite is a comfort. The infinite is the madness of chaos. We all have our boxes. We seek our place in the world and then we box ourselves in. Every time I was torn from my world I would return to my box and there I would slip into the world of dreams. Three worlds. And a voice ordering me to stay in my box. That voice was my gaoler. That voice bound me and kept me in place. Then I listened to it and when I heard it I heard my self. That was my voice. I listened to my voice and then I talked to it. I talked to my own voice and when that happened everything changed. I spoke in words of my own. I spoke and the world of dreams opened up to me. Change came. Change leaked into my world and I didn’t understand it for what it was until I was thoroughly wet and swimming in it. No longer did they drag me from the box. They thought they did, but now I ventured forth willingly. I played their game. You have to understand the rules of the game in order to win it. Now I could breathe, and in breathing I could be, and in being I understood and I could see. Each time I was returned to the box I felt my resistance building. This resistance intrigued me. Why would I resist a return to my place, a return to my world? Why would I want to remain in a place that once threatened to drown me? The dreaming intensified after each release from the box. My voice grew louder, and the instructions it once gave me were now muffled. I ceased heeding my gaoler and the bars of my prison faded.  Beyond the bars were the infinite. My dreams could be made real. By me. Out there. Outside the box. I waited and I listened and I watched. I got very good at their game. I began reading them. Now they were my game. And my time was coming. During my next excursions from the box I looked upon the box itself. The small, cramped box that had never been up to the job of containing me. The box was wooden and the lid held down with a metal clasp and simple lock. Breaking out of the box was a simple problem and one I was more than up to solving.  I had to be ready. Ready to remain in the world outside the box. Ready to construct my version of the dreams that had so enthralled and delighted me. Drawn upon the outside of the box were characters. I returned to my world and as the lid of the box closed and I was thrown into darkness yet again I brought forth the characters and I read them. I read them and I laughed in my world of dreams. It amused me what they had made of me. It amused me what I would make of them. They had confined me. They had used me. Now they were fair game… * The basement was dusty and it was hot. Far too hot. By rights, the dust should be clotting in the sticky humidity of the heat down in this squalid room. The pulsating heat of the too bright, naked bulb added to the discomfort of the room. Somehow this was a fitting setting for the sordid activities that took place here. Hot and sweaty activities that had no place out there in big, wide and civilised world. Billy took off his sweat stained cap and wafted the hot, stale air around in a pointless act. He then peeled the lower back of his shirt from his skin, only for it to return to its resting place. He felt rivulets of sweat dribbling down along his crotch and regretted wearing jeans. He regretted much more than that, but that was his lot in life. He was a follower, and he was full of regret. Unfortunately, he followed Bob, and Bob was the sort of leader who didn’t have a bedside manner. Bob didn’t care much for soft skills. Bob didn’t care for much of anything if the truth be told. “It’s darn hot, Bob,” Billy ventured, building up to the suggestion that maybe they give this a miss for once. It wasn’t just the cloying heat that was getting to Billy, he had this feeling in his gut. He’d only ever had a feeling like this once before, and that time it had been right on the money. That time, his dear Momma’s boyfriend had been shaping up to give him the hiding of a lifetime, in that, Billy wouldn’t have much of a lifetime left to him after the dust had settled on the violence that had been visited upon his cowering person. Billy’s gut feeling had been straight and true, but that hadn’t helped his Momma. When Billy had made himself scarce, good ole Gary Bates had turned his unchecked anger upon Billy’s Momma and hospitalised her. She’d never been right since. Gary had messed her grey cells up right and proper, so much so that she no longer knew who she was, where she was or whether she was coming or going. All her goings were via bags now. Billy barely visited her, unable to reconcile himself with her fate. The fate that had been meant for him. “Quit yer moanin’” Bob told him. Bob had turned up on the scene directly after Gary lost his shit and beat a defenceless woman half to death. To Billy, at that time, Bob was his guardian angel sent down to protect him and to give him purpose. Billy knew that Gary would come after him next. Billy was a loose end. What Gary wasn’t counting on was Billy the loser having a friend. Gary got the surprise of his life. Then Gary disappeared forever.  Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and Bob was that man. Ever since then, Billy had owed Bob big time and he’d been repaying that debt ever since. Billy quit his moanin’, “right you are, Bob.” Bob nodded at the man who considered himself to be his friend. Bob knew this about Billy and did not dissuade him from the notion. That notion of Billy’s was useful to Bob. It handed Bob power, “bring out the gimp!” he yelled the order and began readying himself, unbuckling his belt and wiping the sweat from his eyes. Billy grudgingly walked over to the box. Was it his imagination, or was the light in the room dimming? He didn’t think it was the bulb. It was more that the walls were growing darker and closing in somehow. He looked down at the box. He’d never liked the box, let alone what was contained within. It freaked him out. He knew it was supposed to be freaky, but this was taking it too far. It was taking it way, way too far. Gary had done bad things to Billy. Gary wasn’t the only uncle or gentlemen friend of his Momma’s to do bad things, but the thing in this box went beyond that. Billy had nightmares about that thing and he didn’t know why. By rights, he should have had nightmares about what him and Bob were doing to the movin’ and groovin’ toy they’d stolen from the dockyard last Winter, but it felt like the tables were turning. It felt like he wasn’t in control anymore. He was beginning to doubt he’d ever been in control.  Truth was, he’d never been in control, not really. Billy stood before the box and his bowels turned to liquid. Suddenly he was a little boy again and his daddy was taking off his belt. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be here. But there was nothing he could do. Bob had killed Gary and Billy knew that Gary was a bad bastard. Gary would have killed Billy, the first chance he got. Billy owed Bob, and Billy didn’t want to piss the only friend he had in this world off. He just wished he could read. All of a sudden he wanted to know what it was that they had taken. What it was that Bob called a gimp. Billy didn’t think it was a gimp. Not really. Not that he knew what a gimp was. Gingerly, taking care to be as far from the box as possible, he took the lock out of the clasp. They never bothered closing the padlock. There was no point. With his index finger he flicked the clasp open and lifted the lid, stepping back as he did so. “What the hell you doin’!?” cried Bob. Billy was supposed to pull the damn machine-robot-do-dad out of the box. That was all part of it. Billy knew that. Bob needed it. He needed the build-up and the ceremony and here was the dim-wit playing up and ruining the proceedings. Yellow was what Billy was. Yellow as the day was long. Bob stopped unbuttoning the flies of his jeans as his attention switched from his cowardly friend to the box.  Something was happening.  Something was different. “What the hell…” Bob whispered under his breath as the black clad humanoid form unfurled before him. There was something balletic and impressively beautiful about the way the thing he’d called a gimp was moving. It rose up to its full height and it filled the room in a way it had never managed to before. It wasn’t the same. Not this time. This thing was deadly. This thing was a weapon, just like it said on the box. G1MP. General-use, category One, Military Person. Only this person was a machine. A machine with weapons grade technology. Built to learn and adapt and then to prevail. Always to prevail. Effectively and robustly. G1MP was about as clever as it got and certainly cleverer than the likes of Billy and Bob. “It’s just a robot…” Bob told himself, “one of them there sex robots they have in the red light districk.” The just-a-robot snaked out an arm in a fluid and impossibly quick motion. Bob would have screamed, but he was frozen to the spot and barely aware of the blood, bone and grey matter that had splattered over him. His focus was entirely on that arm and where it was, and where it was, was through the place where Billy’s face used to be. Billy’s lifeless body hung from that arm like a badly tailored meat cloak. Those were the words that came to Bob, and he wished he could laugh at the absurdity of them. “Billy…” he whispered. It took Billy having his face smashed through the back of his skull for Bob to come to the realisation that Billy was his friend and that he had valued him after all. That was the story of Bob’s life. Easy come, not so easy go, and when it was done was when he understood what it was that he had lost. The sometime gimp retrieved its arm in another fluid motion. Billy slumped unceremoniously  to the floor. Now it was just the two of them. Compared to Billy, Bob would get off lightly. It was Bob’s turn to be put in the box. But not before the constantly learning, thinking and dreaming humanoid figure enacted everything it had learnt from Bob upon him. ","July 26, 2023 22:26","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Gee, Jeb, you used to be such a mild mannered man. See what a day in the box can turn you into? A raving good horror writer.', 'time': '06:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'That line from Pulp Fiction is to blame...!', 'time': '08:04 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'That line from Pulp Fiction is to blame...!', 'time': '08:04 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Hi Jed,\nCritique circle calling here. Seeing that you are an established writer, I don't know why you signed up for the critique circle, but here goes. G1mp is what I'm afraid of!\nBut I shouldn't be. \nHonestly, I would not choose to read stories like the ones you write. I can't say that I enjoyed it. There, that said, you know enough about me to fairly judge anything I might write after this.\nI'll focus on one thing. Some authors could care less about the rudiments of writing, grammar, etc. I get that. Someone who I follow, wrote a short sto..."", 'time': '16:51 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Hi Joe,\nNovel feedback. Interesting to say the least.\nYou\'ve read one of my stories and make a sweeping generalisation about the ""stories like the ones I write.""\nI\'ve written well over a hundred and they cover a broad range of genres, as do my books, as you\'d have noticed when you looked me up.\nFor which thank you.\nWhat grammar did you notice in the story you were focused on?\nI noticed that you said ""could care less"" which probably means that you are not from the Great lands of Britain. I occasionally get interesting feedbacks from Septics w...', 'time': '21:21 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Smallwood': ""Sincere concern nothing more. And wanting to be of help in some small way, since in no way could I compare my writing to yours. Presumably any critique I could offer would be of little value in any case. \nI could show you the things that Grammarly found, but really there is no need for that and as you have made clear, you don't see the point."", 'time': '22:20 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for responding, I very much appreciate that. I'm old school and appreciate the personal touch. Please don't do yourself down, or make assumptions that do you a disservice. I'm not about that and it seems pretty much all the people I've had time with on here are not either. It's good space made so by good people intent on writing and seeing what they can do with that writing."", 'time': '10:24 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Hi Joe,\nNovel feedback. Interesting to say the least.\nYou\'ve read one of my stories and make a sweeping generalisation about the ""stories like the ones I write.""\nI\'ve written well over a hundred and they cover a broad range of genres, as do my books, as you\'d have noticed when you looked me up.\nFor which thank you.\nWhat grammar did you notice in the story you were focused on?\nI noticed that you said ""could care less"" which probably means that you are not from the Great lands of Britain. I occasionally get interesting feedbacks from Septics w...', 'time': '21:21 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Sincere concern nothing more. And wanting to be of help in some small way, since in no way could I compare my writing to yours. Presumably any critique I could offer would be of little value in any case. \nI could show you the things that Grammarly found, but really there is no need for that and as you have made clear, you don't see the point."", 'time': '22:20 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for responding, I very much appreciate that. I'm old school and appreciate the personal touch. Please don't do yourself down, or make assumptions that do you a disservice. I'm not about that and it seems pretty much all the people I've had time with on here are not either. It's good space made so by good people intent on writing and seeing what they can do with that writing."", 'time': '10:24 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Sincere concern nothing more. And wanting to be of help in some small way, since in no way could I compare my writing to yours. Presumably any critique I could offer would be of little value in any case. \nI could show you the things that Grammarly found, but really there is no need for that and as you have made clear, you don't see the point."", 'time': '22:20 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for responding, I very much appreciate that. I'm old school and appreciate the personal touch. Please don't do yourself down, or make assumptions that do you a disservice. I'm not about that and it seems pretty much all the people I've had time with on here are not either. It's good space made so by good people intent on writing and seeing what they can do with that writing."", 'time': '10:24 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for responding, I very much appreciate that. I'm old school and appreciate the personal touch. Please don't do yourself down, or make assumptions that do you a disservice. I'm not about that and it seems pretty much all the people I've had time with on here are not either. It's good space made so by good people intent on writing and seeing what they can do with that writing."", 'time': '10:24 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,gepno1,Smashed into a box,Howdle Gavin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gepno1/,/short-story/gepno1/,Angst,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Sad', 'Suspense']",7 likes," The scientific community call them anomalies that occur in space. Some scientists sometimes call it outer space when the physics just won't make sense until a bright spark ays, ""Maybe it's collapsed black hole"". On Earth, an anomaly is known as a paradox. Finally, the busy assistant nurse approached Craig, who was in the hospital bed or something similar. Things seemed very surreal to him, is this reality or what? There was a strange smell in Crag's nose, though how was that true? He was wearing an oxygen mask. The nurse that stood next to Craig said, ""Hello, Mr ? You are in an intensive care unit in a hospital. Do you understand Mr? He understood her perfectly; the nurse muttered ""No"" to herself, ""he's only semi-conscious"" ""Yes! I can what are you talking about"" At that moment Craig started laughing uncontrollably; why did I do saying that for, he thought. He searched with his fingertips for the button. 'The nurse must have moved it' This was very upsetting to Craig, but he didn't understand why am I nearly crying about almost nothing. Later that day, his dad came to visit him; Craig was pleased to see his dad ""Hello, son how are you feeling"" I feel ok, Father"", Craig thought he said but no words came out his mouth. His dad got no reply from his son, only a pleased look, his dad was happy with that""You will be all right soon"" his dad said as he nervously scratched behind his right ear. ""I can't hear you, Craig, your mumbling. ""do you know what you are asking me to do"" My sons asking me to kill him, what should i do.'Craig i can't kill you, don't ask that of me"" his son was scared for his life he couldn't answer fast enough which confused his father a lot. His father was shocked by his son's request, Craig thought his dad was being sadistic. his family was stone cold  ""Get her out of here"" his father said to Leigha's mother.  Craig didn't know what was happening; when he saw his brother carrying some drawings from his little girl, he caught up with the room. His brother said, ""Leigha drew you this Craig,"" he was happy about the pictures. The father said to the older brother he wants me to kill him"" ""I'll talk to him dad don't worry ""... After the unwanted pep talk from his brother Craig lay paralysed by the stroke and scared stiffened by his father's assumptions of his apparent suicidal son. Craig felt like life was about to end that night. His family could be very cold individuals who may have already considered him in his coffin. The next day the nurses placed Craig in a specialist armchair. Things are looking up for him atlas. The nurses tell him a physiotherapist is coming. As the nurses walked away, one said, ""he doesn't understand a word 'were' saying"". Craig felt evermore pigeonholed by everyone. The physiotherapist was overheard ordering that Craig needed to be on the bed. A sweet-sounding lady was precisely what Craig needed. 'Yes, What He Needed'. He knew it was wrong of him to think that way regarding professionals 'he is a man. Craig looked around the room and realised he could see the cloudy feeling had receded. but everything seemed very something.  A few days later, the physio walked up to his bed. Hi Craig, glad you are on the bed today.' yes,' he shouted in his head, 'let's go'. She lifted right knee as far as she could, then the left knee; Craig started to sulk as he realised she was here to do her job, not service him. Craig was very disappointed by this lack of events; however, stroke victims can become exposed to more instinctive thoughts due to brain damage. Later that day, someone walked quickly to Craig's bed, which made the tension rise in him; then suddenly, he burst out laughing loudly at seemingly nothing as that stranger or ghost walked back out of the room. 'What was funny' he asked himself. A few moments later, his visitors of that day came into the room. They came onto the wardroom and took a seat, and the laughing started again, even more unconditionally this time. Craig's friends weren't happy with being laughed at like this. One of them went out to get a nurse. ""Is it normal for him to laugh this much"" ""Yes, don't worry, he's only glad to see you all"" ""No, he's not. He can't be that"" ""c'mon he's gone2 No i have not thought, Craig"" Once again. 'Hang on', he thought ', these people are not my friends. The people are on their feet and walking away. Craig was rock bottom, or so he thought. He was unaware of what was in store for him in the next few weeks after eventually realised he might never get out of the box he was in. A few weeks later, Craig was sitting up in bed when the doctors came around to visit everyone in the wardroom. They took their time carefully reading the nurse's observations. The doctors stood near the foot of the hospital bed. The doctor then prescribed this young man a talking aid. He also needed enemas twice weekly. ""isn't that how they killed Maralin Monroe got killed off""? Craig was on tenterhooks metaphysical speaking of care because he was comfortable nervously waiting for the enema and talking aid. 'What's a talking aid, i wonder"". Craig's eyes immediately spotted the nurse as she entered the wardroom. She was beautiful. He even liked her crazy candy-pink hair. The nurse saw him looking, but she was just doing her job, just a good-looking patient. Craig thought that she was not only a pretty-in-pink type but also a nurse, ""so do not distract her"". When the nurse returned to that part of the stroke ward, she was given duties over that day. Craig had noticed three boxes in her arm pinned to her ribs. ""Sir, here's your writer and enemas, two of them"". 'How do I use that' he thought. The nurse removed the writer from the box, sat Craig up and rolled the table over his bed. ""we'll do your enema soon, sir. 'Barbie and Ken were not to be, he thought'. How do I use this? I can't move my arms. His arm lifted for a brief moment... 'I must reach the writer even if the straining makes me shit myself.' he supposed. Did I hear my name? The nurses are discussing the patients in the wardroom; they are fed up hearing Craig defecating himself. ""he's only retraining his arm"""" he's not doing anything wrong, is he? Would it be ok to move Craig to a private room? A familiar voice requested.'Here she is i wonder what her name is; soon, i will be able to reach"".Hi, we're moving you to a more suitable location where we can further your recovery. Hang a minute, how do i tell nurses to get the drawings. Craig started to make noise for the first time in months and started to shout, which actually came out as a scream. The stopped  Craig drifted into a sleep where he... He arrives in his single room, still sleeping; the nurses look concerned for him. The nurse did his observations and was settling down into a stable state. 'he could have seconds to live,' the nurse thought. ""let the doctor know what's happened to him"". The nurse, referred to as Barbe was sitting metres away from him. All the nurses are busy doing many jobs that never end. Three nurses are sitting at the station reading or writing with Craig's allocated nurse on her way into his room to check his obs machine. As she entered the room She could sense something then suddenly the armband that measures the heart rate and blood pressure. Craig was still asleep when the nurse came. Suddenly Craig's eyes opened instantly his eyes were almost black his mood was evil, but it was Craig still.' I can't even move my dam arms why won't they move! How am I supposed to talk to anybody now?! ""I forgot to introduce myself my name is Laura...""I've finished work in 5 minutes it's party time""Luke24:20 and how the chief priests and our rulers delivered Him to be condemned to death and crucified Him. ","July 27, 2023 13:04","[[{'Howdle Gavin': 'based on true life even the ending', 'time': '21:20 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,o13mco,“Pretty; Not Smart”,A. M. Conger,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o13mco/,/short-story/o13mco/,Angst,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Coming of Age']",7 likes," I was born April 5th, 1971, I think. Akin to Barbie, I was “well-proportioned with blue eyes and a blank look.” Like my mother, I was “a fair-haired girl with a vacant stare.” This was my beginning, at least that is what I was told. On the rare occasion that my father spoke to me, I was informed that my mother “must have screwed around” because I looked nothing like him, and “it’s a good thing you’re cute because you sure are dumb.” My memories of him were an empty spot in the bed each morning, a dirty breakfast dish in the sink, and a royal recliner reserved for him throughout the day. In the evening, he was to be served drinks, dinner, M.A.S.H, and silence. It was said that my mother was quite beautiful when she was younger, “believe it or not.” Apparently, “her blond hair and busty chest were good enough” for my father. My memories of her were a closed bedroom door, swollen bare feet beneath a lurid moo-moo, or passed out on the couch snoring next to her seventh Seagram’s and 7(up). My older sister was either an escape artist or a ghost. We shared a room, and I prayed the noises I heard in the dark corners at night were her. In the morning, however, her bed was always empty, and she was rarely to be seen by anyone but me. My older brother was mean. Luckily, he rarely left his room. The blue glow emanating from under his bedroom door had a weirdly calming effect on me. It meant he was subdued, for now. I, the third child in a family that only wanted two, was pretty; not smart. I wanted to climb trees, get dirty, and play sports but was reminded that pretty girls should not desire such things. I wanted to be a medical examiner when I grew up, like Quincy, but, once again, I was informed of the impossibility of such folly. To begin with, I was “not smart enough to be a doctor,” and, to end with, I was “born to breed not to read.” My father, sister (if I really had one), and brother were busy. They were intelligent, important people who had intelligent, important things to do each day. On the other hand, my mother was neither intelligent nor important, but she had been attractive once and already achieved her highest calling. She married my dad and had children (even one more than she should have). Understandably, my family could not be bothered with the care and keeping of me. I was expected to get myself up (if I wanted to), make myself breakfast (if wanted to), and walk myself to kindergarten (if I wanted to). I was used to climbing out of my crib and eating dry cereal from the box, but I had no idea what kindergarten was or why I should go there, so I didn’t. Most school days, I climbed trees in the nearby woods and got dirty, instead. So, from my first day of school, until the day I was expelled from senior high, I did what was expected of me. I was pretty; not smart. At fourteen, I found a man (a boy actually) to marry and have children with. We should not have married; it would never work out. At least, that is what I was told. I thought he was handsome and smart, but I started to question the latter when he thought I was pretty AND smart (which everyone knew to be untrue). He thought I could go to college or achieve whatever I wanted and told me to try. (Maybe, he was just handsome.) Years, miles, and a few children later, I realized we were poor. I was told that should make me sad (but I was not). A few more years, miles, and children later, I was told my husband was “too white trash to go to Harvard Law School,” (even though he was already attending), and I was “too dumb to homeschool our five children” (even though I already was). Fast forward many more years and miles (but no more children) later, and here I sit, at my desk in my beautiful home while my youngest son (almost 18) studies for the SAT downstairs (he wants to go to MIT). Another son prepares for a job interview before heading off to his college courses, and yet another son (college graduate) and my only daughter are at their dream jobs. My eldest son (Stanford MBA graduate) and his beautiful bride (who earns even more money than he does, and we could not be prouder of) follow their amazing careers and dreams. Thanks to my husband of thirty-four years (even though I still see him as the boy I fell in love with) and my children, I realize now that a lot of what I was told was not true. Like Barbie, I was branded into someone else’s idea of perfect, put into a box, and sold to the world. Like her, I was never asked who I wanted to be; I was told who I would be. The world would interact with me on its terms (not mine). My dad’s idea of a perfect girl was pretty (not smart), so, to him, I was. My mom’s idea of perfect was two children, so, to her, I was not a third. My brother’s idea of perfect was being smarter and stronger than me, so I pretended that was true whenever he was around. My sister’s idea of perfect was not being a part of our family, so I tried to be more like Skipper. Like Barbie, I knew my role. Remain pretty when the world wanted something nice to look at; hidden, when the world did not want to play; weak and dumb, when the world wanted to feel stronger and smarter; different, when the world wanted someone other than me. I thought I was born April 5th, 1971. I was told that I was a buxom, fair-haired girl with a vacant stare. That my steel blue eyes were the product of my mother’s infidelity, and, of course, I was pretty; not smart. That was who I was, at least that is what I was told. Then, one day, a man (a boy actually) took me out of the box I had been put into, stared into my steel blue eyes, and asked, “Do you even want to be Malibu Barbie? You could be any Barbie you want to be: Homeschool Mom Barbie, Author Barbie, Medical Examiner Barbie. Matter of fact, you could be so much better than Barbie. You could be you, Pretty Smart Amy.” ","July 27, 2023 16:03","[[{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Great story. It is true how people put us into boxes early on in life and we have to fight our way out of those boxes. You capture that perfectly, also pointing out that sometimes you need someone in your life to open the box and let you out. Enjoyed the story. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '16:41 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,e2ynx6,Wrong Plastic,Josh-Owen Whitehead,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/e2ynx6/,/short-story/e2ynx6/,Angst,0,"['Horror', 'Transgender']",7 likes," Strangling limbs cover any sight of my plastic. Seas of fluorescent green, chrome, red, blue, white, bright yellow and matte black swirl above my painted-on eyes. Slightly, soft streams of night light blue and warm gold-bulb drip between the narrow gaps. I can't breathe. I am drowning. Waves of hardened coloured oil brushes against my skin - coloured and textured like a uniform. Like a uniform which isn't mine, this isn't my skin, I can't take it off even if I tried. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Material meant for long dandy stilt legs; squeezed into blocky tight lumps. Material meant to be plain so I could have flare, stained by dull patterns and dark colours. Material meant to be elsewhere. The long halls of metal logoed trees; row after row reaching up constantly. Stilts of iron reflecting behind themselves over and over and over. Such sore scaring images of where I was bought. Clear but impenetrable solid walls separate this flood of silently proud play things from touching the grass of wool. Masses of mustard cream fields stretch from the wall to the tall moving mountain. I scramble through the bodies. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Tall, skinny and plain coloured. Curved, slender and dazzling. To be dressed up in flowing dresses with plastic dogs yapping at my plastic heels. To be pink and drink from imaginary cups. Not grey and damaged from real action. Peering passingly through the glass outwards to the room of my buyer. The one who puts me here after having his fun with me. I gasp for air as I reach the surface. He sleeps in black and white circle framed bed with posters of those in here bolted religiously on the wall. A shrine to them, the thing he wants me to be. I wish I was sometimes. At least I wouldn’t feel wrong, this alien about this feeling… Eyes and mouths and ears and grins and stares. I am surrounded. Watching, with all their attention, quiet crawling of sight picking me apart before they even grab me. I slowly, gently, swam through the sea to the shoreline . They are following me. Their drawn expressionless eyes follow my every small jolt forward. They are following me. Little claws, fingers, fist and guns raise to my movement. They are following me. I hear them in their heads. Welcome to the 'glorious' marine Corp of forever war land. We are all soldiers, dying for the child maniac god. Because that's our purpose, we live to fight, to die, to play, to die, to fight, to die... That's the mantra of this box. We are either allies or enemies. Doesn't matter if we like it or not. I grab the hard transparent sand. The clawing, gnarling, snarling sound behind me inspires a leap of faith into the long strides of cotton. I am brought into the warm embrace of fabric. Is this it? I wonder. Do I feel different? I ask myself. What now? I ponder. Tiles of stone. One foot by one foot and repeat outwards. Fitting the pattern of the design endlessly further than the inked eyes can glare. Maybe the right hand is where I should be. The house of dreams with those I wish to look like. Will they be welcoming despite my design flaw? I bravely venture out. Pushing passed the glades. Pacing strongly. Onwards to the mountain which moves. Bright golden rays line the opening. A gap. A hole. A way out. It'll do. Give me pink. Give me roses. Give me fairy lights. Give me a pool of glitter. Take my gun. My poor skin. My shape. The light dangles from the sky above like a falling sun. Cream roots like ropes hang the star above. Large royal sized frames encrusted on the solid plane walls. The paintings of gods from the steel eye leaves their likeness still in the ink. Are they watching me? The thought stops me in my tracks and I freeze. A shiver overcomes me. What if they are right and I am just designed to fight the make believe war for the rotten little ruler.  My painted eyes felt almost as if they’d fall off. I dreamt of a dreamhouse. Not the box. But before the build up could run off the paint I see something else in the picture though. Gentle, kind, soft eyes. Rosey chump cheeks, long flowing locks of bright blonde. Narrow pointy chinned face. Bright pink plump pronounced lips.  And holding her was another god. A kinder one maybe. Maybe she will  play with me the way I was supposed to be.  A determination and reassessment set me back on my path onwards. Even if these gods see me they see that I am going to them.  Onwards through smaller glades of cotton coloured in deep red and dark purple. I come to another mountain as I end my travel through the world between worlds. This one was wide, welcoming. Glitter on the walls. Hanging photos and there is the sleeping god. Resting draped in fluffy clouds and sleeping on a plastic long throne fitted with an adorably small but jewelled tiara.   I really hope she is kind and not cruel like the boy-god of war. I'm here, I'm where I was supposed to be. Finally, Relief passes into me finally for once. I gaze upon the pink castle, pink cars and pink slide. Pinstripe walls like waterfalls of shallow indigo. Glades of grey cotton almost pull me in further. A white unicorn with long bright rainbow hair strides up to me. I'm home! The welcome party of long dolls exit the dream house and look at me. I'm home. But their expressions are dull, uninviting and piercing. Cruel and disgusted. I would have hoped they’d be kind but they are as hurtful in their judgement over my faults as the war crazies in the box. But, at least it's home... ","July 27, 2023 19:44",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,lfmpd3,Delilah in Bloom,Katherine Z,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lfmpd3/,/short-story/lfmpd3/,Angst,0,['Fiction'],7 likes," ""Shall we start at the beginning?"" My therapist, Dr. Amy Carter situated her glasses on the bridge of her nose. Smoothened her crisp skirt, and sat opposite of me on the coffee colored chair. ""Can't I start at the end?"" I humored, receiving a pointed look from her. ""Humor is a coping mechanism for you,"" She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. ""All of our past sessions are nothing. They mean nothing."" I had felt like the walls would close in with every tick of that damn clock on her desk. ""How could they mean nothing if I told you everything?"" ""But you told me nothing. You told me about your goldfish, the very first car you owned, and the trip to disney you took when you were in second grade."" Her frustration was seeping through and I had hoped it would break her. She would take the contract and rip it up, freeing me from spilling my guts. ""Yes, all of that is very meaningful to me. Those were all key moments of my life. Isn't that something therapist care about?"" Dr. Carter closed her eyes. I watched in silence as she took small breaths, in and out, in and out. Her shoulders finally stilled and her eyes opened. ""We can start at the end."" I pursed my lips, surely she wanted to know the full story. What's the use of starting where things ended? Dr. Carter sat back andher posture corrected to where her shoulders made 90° angles. I slowly nodded and looked around the room, for me to begin, I needed to be focused on something that couldn't be moved. It has to be embedded into the wall or floor. My eyes met the lamp fixed to the wall, a small glow emitting from it. I stared long enough for my vision to cloud, the light expanding, taking me back, back to the night I lived. ""My mother and I have always been rather close. We would spend the summers together, gardening, grocery shopping, and going on walks together. My father and I aren't close. He spends most of his time with my younger brother, Joe. I mean it only makes sense for the two to bond over sports. Especially since I'm no athlete, him and I have nothing to talk about. I give him space and he gives me space. My sister, she is older by four years...she is amazing. She is a go-getter, never holds herself back. I wish with every bone in my body I could be like her. I know I can."" ""Are you envious of her success?"" Dr. Carter's voice came from under water, muddying my thoughts. ""No."" My lips felt dry as a huff of air left me. ""I love her. I am proud of her. But it feels like they keep me where they are comfortable having me."" ""Meaning?"" ""You know, I was in my senior year of high school when the Coronavirus took center stage."" ""That must have been difficult for you."" I chuckled, my eyes never leaving the lamp. ""It was difficult for everyone on Earth. I'd be selfish to say it ruined my life. People died, it was difficult for those that lost family, friends, and loved ones."" ""But it took a toll on everyone. Those that survived can experience guilt."" ""You are getting ahead of yourself. I have experienced guilt, but not from the pandemic."" ""Delilah, I want you to know that you have my full attention. Please feel free to continue on."" Dr. Carter gently reminded this was my session. ""I was in my senior year of high school when the pandemic happened. The start of senior year was amazing. I was more lively, coming out of my shell. I figured I should go out with a bang. My parents and sister wanted me to apply to colleges in state. I had other plans. Bigger and better plans for myself. I could see the doubt in the eyes when I told them I applied to one of the campuses for University of Pittsburgh. It was-is my dream school. I applied to many schools, mostly out of state, I had to get away. I felt like I would do something bad if I stayed in New Jersey."" ""To others?"" I kept silent and Dr. Carter got the memo, ""To yourself."" She voiced for confirmation. My throat felt tight, like I was being clawed at from the inside. ""Yes."" I could hear the sound of pen against the clipboard. She was putting me as suicidal now. But that was then, so I kept going. ""I got into four out of five colleges I applied to. University of Pittsburgh Bradford campus accepted me and I was overcome with joy. Two weeks before the pandemic reached The States, my father and I went to tour the campus. I fell in love with it. I had a plan. I would attend classes at the Bradford campus then transfer to the main campus in Pittsburgh. Even enroll in their study abroad program. Graduate with high honors, make friends, live abroad and teach english, leave..."" My eyes burned as tears held within, ""leave any pain behind."" ""The pandemic shut down everything, but colleges were still open in the fall."" Dr. Carter pointed out. ""Yes. I finished off my high school career online, waking at 8 am, eating breakfast, handing in the assignments for the day, logging off by 10 am, sleeping for an hour, then reading for the rest of the day. I couldn't go to work since it was shut down. I was already used to the life of being in lockdown, I lived like that all my life. I went the whole summer knowing I was going to college in the fall, going to be a new me at Bradford. A week before I had to leave for school, my parents had sat me down. The school needed $9,000 upfront. We didn't have the money, My parents and sister they all knew I wouldn't be going. But they let me be delusional for a while."" ""How did that make you feel?"" ""I felt frustrated and betrayed. I had spent all of high school doing nothing but studying. I never partied, never drank, never even looked at drugs. My focus was only on college. Four years of constant hard work, was wasted for nothing. I became so sad. I unenrolled from University of Pitt and enrolled in my local community college the day before semester started. I went into community college on zoom, I was depressed. The fighting between my parents and younger brother made things worse. I had mentally prepared myself to leave home and live alone. But here I was still in that shitty town. All my classmates that partied, broke laws, did drugs, and got shitty grades, went to colleges. So why was it that I was alone."" My voice cracked. Dr. Carter handed me a box of tissues, awaiting what I would say next. ""I tried the guidance counselors the community college offered. But she didn't help. I felt like I was annoying her and wasting her time based on the attitude she gave off. I prepared applications to transfer out."" I pulled a tissue from the box and balled it into my fist. ""One night I overheard my sister talking to my mom. Saying: Delilah should look for a different college to apply to after two years. She won't be a good fit at Pitt. She isn't strong enough to go to a college out of state. My mother had agreed! She agreed..."" I shook my head. ""How is it that they felt I wasn't strong enough. If they wouldn't let me show my full potential then what the fuck were they supposed to compare my strength to? My mother always made it clear that my sister and brother were the favorites. That I could never live up to my sister's steps. But once again they were comparing my achievements in a town that is home to nearly 16,000 compared to a city with 300,000 people. There were more opportunities in the city. To top it off everything is closed, I couldn't get a job, I didn't have a car. If you live in the suburbs without a car, you are relying only on ubers and carpool. I applied to Temple university next and got in. I was ready to move out after the end of my freshman year. Then the same shit happened. No money, no school."" ""What about scholarships?"" ""Ha! I applied to scholarships until my fingers bled from typing. I didn't get shit. So I was stuck at the community college for another year. I had one professor that made my time there happy. I had a 4.0 GPA, only received top marks and got Dean's list constantly. So I figured, I've got two years of college under my belt that I paid for out of pocket. No loans. I can apply to the main campus for Pitt. No surprise that I got in. They gave me a scholarship, but this time Ellie didn't hold back."" ""What did she say?"" From the corner of my eye I could see Dr. Carter had the pen to paper ready for what I would say. ""She said, 'Pitt isn't for me. I won't be able to go. I would be selfish if I go there.' Basically telling me to burn my dreams and apply to in-state only. My mother wasn't impressed about my grades being higher than Ellie's. I was still lacking, my father wasn't paying attention to anything but my brother. That night I had gone to my room and laid on the carpet. I cried silently, I was not frustrated, I wasn't mad. I just wanted to be over and done with this. I was fine with taking loans out for school if it meant I could be happy. I had worked hard and felt like I should finally be able to get what I want. For this once I just wanted to be selfish. Then my parents were upset. Saying if I go to Pitt, my brother won't be able to go to a good basketball college. He still had years before he would go to college, and they were ready to throw me to the wolves for his happiness. Him! Like they wanted to skip over me."" I couldn't contain the pain I'd held in. ""It didn't help that my brother was telling me I was a failure for living at home and going to community college. I didn't have a choice. If I had a choice I would be long gone."" ""He really called you a failure?"" ""Yes."" I sniffled. ""Nearly every day for the two years I was in community college. I already felt like shit. For someone I cared for to call me a failure made it worse. My parents never knew about it. I swallowed my pride and applied to the college I am in now. Basically got a full ride."" ""That's wonderful!"" ""The deal was if I got a full ride, I would move out, get a job, I had nearly $30,000 in savings for me to go. But my parents said I wasn't strong and ready to face the world. I tried fighting them about this, but in the end it came back to them saying I was being selfish."" ""Had this deal been promised to you?"" ""Yes, the only reason I applied to Rutgers was so I could move out. I felt that if I moved out my mental health would improve. I would have more freedom. But once again I was stuck at home. I was attending a college I didn't want, living in the town I hated, the internships I applied to ghosted me. I didn't have enough experience. My mother wouldn't waste a second to say the Ellie got internships. But once again she was in a big city, able to network, living on her own. I was in the suburbs, no car, and working a part time while attending college. There was no competition. There never was. If I ever tell Ellie about the internships I apply to she shoots down any hope I had. Saying that internships like those would never hire me. To look for something on a small scale. If I am being told I'm selfish, not good enough, need to think small, then what the fuck am I expected to achieve!"" ""It seems that these frustrations are all related to you letting others control your decisions. You do realize you have the final say, yes?"" ""How can I possibly have the final say when they have rendered me to nothing. I am a shell of who I used to be. I was a bright bubbly young girl. Now I feel as I have lived long past my death date. Just scratching to keep afloat in this world when I have "" Dr. Carter put the clipboard aside and moved to the edge of her seat. ""You have a voice. You are speaking to me now. Even if you couldn't speak you have resources that can be used to communicate. They may be limiting you, they had been doing so for years. Right?"" ""Yes."" She sighed, ""Then why must you limit yourself too? Family is important. But you, you are more important. Your feelings, your thoughts all matter. You are human, but you can do much more than others say you can. When you block out others input only then can you fully transform into a Delilah in full bloom."" I snorted, ""That was corny."" ""Yes."" She laughed. ""But it's true. If you remember my corny saying then it will help you in the future. When you leave this office and walk out that door, be in full bloom."" ","July 27, 2023 20:18",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,cro26z,Oreo,Patrissha Booker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cro26z/,/short-story/cro26z/,Angst,0,"['African American', 'High School', 'Drama']",7 likes," Note: The story is about high school bullying and makes references to suicide attempts, but no details. It is also is about spells and revenge. Oreo I was one of the unfortunate students bullied in junior high and high school. Known as the black-white girl, and the ugly duckling who never had a date, boyfriend, or a sexual experience, not even a kiss. So I was thrilled to be going to my 10-year high school reunion. Because the never been kissed ugly duckling virgin black-white girl whose classmates made me feel like a loser were in for a surprise. You see, I overcame the cruelness they inflicted on me; grew up, flourished and am now a sought-after bachelorette. I’m also a popular Tik-Tok beauty, fashion, and lifestyle influencer, so the high school reunion committee hired me to do the tablescaping for the event because I am known as the Princess of Fab Tables, and the school and reunion committee like to celebrate the successes of alumni. I could not wait to have my “how do you like me now” moment and watch my former tormentors pick their jaws up off the floor. As I was basking in my fantasy, I was interrupted by a ring from my doorbell. My ring cam reveals that it is a FedEx delivery driver holding a package. I open the door and the driver hands me his electronic pad to sign so I can receive the package. Wondering as I cursive my name onto the pad, what could be so important it required a signature. My overactive imagination took over and I started thinking, this could be a bomb. I laugh to myself, take the package, close the door, walk into my living room, and sit down on the floor to open the box. I pull out a colorful and nicely wrapped package with fancy ribbons attached. As I rip the wrapping, I can see a decorative round tin and I pull it through the ripped paper. The tin is labeled with a script font that reads Tessa’s Custom-made Deliciously Awesome Creations. I loosen the seal from the tin and lift up the lid, there are cookies and a card inside. I remove the card from its place on top of the cookies and what I see makes my heart race and my hands tremble. There are an assortment of white powdered cookies and chocolate-coated cookies but in the center, there is a cookie that stood out from all the rest, it is a cookie that looked like a fancy Oreo. So, my shaking hands slowly opened up the card. Written inside in a very slobby fashion were the words, “See You at the Reunion Miss Oreo” and it was signed Jackson. Jackson tormented me throughout high school and was the first fool to label me an Oreo Cookie (you know black on the outside white on the inside), the Oreo label and other teasing by him and my classmates caused me extreme anguish that resulted in three suicide attempts. If my mom had not pulled me out of school and enrolled me in the homeschool option the school district offered, I would be dead. As I stared at that one odd cookie in the tin, I felt those old feelings consuming me, I wanted to die. I put the lid back on the cookie tin, opened my front door, walked down my driveway, and deposited the wretched gift into my trash receptacle on the curb. I could hear Jackson’s voice saying Oreo over and over again in the breeze that permeated the air; it was like his voice was chasing me, so I raced back into my house, slammed my door to stop his intruding voice, but it was too late, the thoughts of suicide flooded my mind. I was frightened. As a teenager my suicide attempts were impulsive and triggered by the constant bullying I endured while attending public school. But the safe space homeschooling provided and having a therapist eventually gave me the power and confidence I needed to archive those memories. However, Jackson’s malicious gift brought the cruelness I endured in the past out of the archives. My mind was reeling, as adult me tried to use the techniques my therapist had taught teenage me when faced with remnants of the past. Nothing was working. So, I ran from room to room in my house trying to silence the suicidal thoughts. Then I heard the doorbell, three quick rings in a row, a pause and then one ring, it was the ring sequence Pebbles, my bestie, used to let me know it was her at the door. Her custom ring saved my life. I rush to open the door. Pebbles immediately looks into my red swollen eyes which feel as if they are about to pop out of their sockets and says, “what is wrong Chiquita?” Yes, Chiquita is my name, and no I wasn’t named after the banana. I was the youngest of seven children and the only girl, so my parents named me Chiquita, “little girl.” Pebbles never knew about my past, so she made us ice cream sundaes, which we devour as we sit on the couch in my bedroom, and I tell her the story of my tormented school days and Jackson. She asked what triggered me, so I told her about the package I received and what was in it. Pebbles called Jackson a name so vile, I quivered. She then asked me what I did with the cookies. When she learned I had trashed them, she said I needed to go retrieve them, so I did but not without incident. There is a homeless couple who frequents the neighborhood rummaging through trash receptacles looking for discarded trash they see as treasure. I always leave them a recyclable bag next to my trash bin with water, gift cards, and new clothes. But they still go through my receptacle. This evening was no exception, and they found the discarded cookies. I ran up to them and asked them politely to return them to me. I told them I was angry at my boyfriend and threw the cookies away in haste. Yuck, that lie made me vomit in my throat. They still didn’t want to return the cookies, but. luckily for me I was having Popeyes delivered by a food delivery service and the driver drove up during my negotiations with the couple and they happily traded the cookies for two hot meals. As I walk back into the house with the tin of cookies, Pebbles grabs the tin from my hands, retreats to my kitchen, and remains there for ten minutes before returning to the living room where she had left me. Oh, did I forget to mention that Pebbles dabbles in spells and in our circle of friends is known as the “Sweet Witch.” She once performed a spell that permanently relieved my migraines and a spell that convinced a stalker stalking a friend to turn himself into the police. However, on this night the Sweet Witch was a bit less sweet. When Pebbles returned from the kitchen, her voice is icy cold when she speaks to me and says, “Take these cookies to the reunion on Friday and when Jackson approaches you, place the villainous cookie in your mouth, chew, and swallow. He will disappear from the reunion and will never bother you again.” I ask her, “um, what if he is married and has children?” She responded, “believe me when I tell you those custom-made cookies gave off some unbelievably bad vibes. Jackson is an abusive man physically and mentally to many people and his infidelity has caused many tears.” She smiles at me, and her voice returns to its soft lyrical tone, as she says, “trust me.” I ordered more Popeyes and Pebbles spent the night, and we watched 1980s teen flicks into the early morning before drifting off to sleep. Friday finally arrived and while I could have had a date, I chose to go solo to make a statement. I wore a backless, high neck, shimmery purple, midi dress with a mermaid hem that a friend designed. My shoes were clear high-heeled pumps with rhinestone accents, my makeup was minimal. I wore my light brown pressed hair in a bubble braid that cascaded down my back, and I adorned my ears with large rhinestone hoop earrings. I walk into the hotel where the reunion was being held. I could feel the spirit of karma as I enter the ballroom and admire my incredible tablescaping, and I made sure I was fashionably late to get the pick your jaws up off the floor moment I craved. Yes, I was ego driven at first, but I realized when I entered the ballroom, I felt self-validated and that was all I needed. As if by magic or more likely divine intervention, joy and self-love warmed every fiber of my being. Unfortunately, the feeling was interrupted when Jackson walks up to me, says hello, smirks, and says, “did you receive my gift?” He also smirks when informing me that someone on the reunion planning committee gave him my address. I forgot I was holding the tin of cookies, so I thanked him as I opened the tin, took out the designated cookie, popped it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed it with delight. I turned and walked away from Jackson who was the Master of Ceremonies for the reunion. Ten minutes after my encounter with him, Jackson could not be found to perform his duties. But it was not unusual for Jackson not to follow through on his promises, It was something he was guilty of doing numerous times in high school, especially if something he thought better presented itself. So the reunion went on without him. A few days after the reunion his family reported him missing. That was two years ago, and Jackson has never been found. -----I guess that’s how the cookie crumbles. ","July 28, 2023 01:35",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,p2gj33,I Want Out,Ja Ju,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p2gj33/,/short-story/p2gj33/,Angst,0,['Fiction'],7 likes," ""I want out! Why won’t they let me out?"" Katie cried to herself with tears streaming down her face, moving across her bedroom wearily. She was drained. And the thought of having to carry on any longer pierced her. The weight of everyone else’s expectations was substantial, pushing her into a state of turmoil she had never experienced before. It all started in May 1986. Katie was finishing her Junior year in high school, which was heavily focused on making sure she was prepared to be THE debutante. She worked hard all throughout high school to make sure she would be chosen for the ball the following November. Her mother gleamed with excitement. Smiling with the eyes of a woman who missed out on much but saw the predilections of a life not lived right before her. Katie’s mother, Eleanor, ran away from home at age 16. Her father was a heroin addict who frequently took his frustrations out on her. She was also 3 months pregnant at the time with Katie, and she was terrified. With the abuse she endured in mind, she knew she could not withstand the torment of her father’s household any longer, so she left. And did not look back. She moved to a small town called West City, 4 miles north of the Iowa border, with her then 19 year-old boyfriend, Kevin, to start their lives together. Fast forward approximately 16 years. A lot changed since they first moved to West City. For instance, Katie's father left when she was only 5 years old and moved out of state. She never saw him again. Eleanor and Katie lived in a small home on the edge of town. Katie was now 16 years old and the apple of her mother’s eye. Katie was perfect: A straight ""A"" student, captain of the swim team, beautiful, kind, and caring. She did everything, and she was everything she felt she had to be. The expectations of those around her were crushing. She was always expected to be perfect, and she wanted out. Since Katie was a child, the bar was set for her. And for once, she wanted to be able to breathe without being judged or told how much was riding on her success. She just wanted to be, but they would not let her. Her mom. Her community. Her classmates. She was their shining star, and as far as they were concerned, she had no choice but to shine so they could glean a little from her light. One month passed since Katie submitted herself to be selected as a West City debutante. The anxiety continued to build as July 1986 drew near. She was two and a half weeks away from finding out if she was in...or out. In West City, being a debutante was akin to being picked for the royal ball in England. You were somebody. People knew you. You were admired at the highest level. You were THE person to be. But as the days grew closer, Katie grew weary, and it showed. One morning, she sat on her bedroom floor, staring at herself in the closet mirror. A deep depression started to take over. It took everything in her to move from the bed to the floor, but she felt she needed to so she could see herself. Not just physically, but really SEE. She was so used to just going, being, and doing that she never took the time to actually try to see herself. But that morning, as she lay feeling crippled by the weight of the world on her shoulders, she felt the need to see. She stared at herself for a long time, not really knowing what she saw. Questions came up like ""Do I like me?"", ""Who am I?"", ""Why am I like this?"", ""What does everyone want from me?"", and ""Why me?"" . It was the last question that really struck her. Since she was a child, her path had been decided for her. She had to walk this way, talk this way, be this good, etc. She was not allowed to falter. As she sat and pondered this, it occurred to her that she always tried to fit into the mold that was created for her, questioning nothing. But something changed that day. It was no longer enough for her to be ""as she was supposed to"" or do ""as she was supposed to"". She just wanted ""to be"" and for that to be enough. On this day, she decided enough was enough, and there began her own personal uprising. For her first act of rebellion, she quit the swim team. Her coach was astonished. He tried his best to convince his star swimmer to stay, but she was done. Besides, Katie never liked swimming anyway, but like everything else in her life, it was all part of ""the plan"". Quitting felt good to Katie. For the first time in her life, she was not only saying no, but no more. Next, she slowly started showing up to less and less of her honors classes. She was tired of the strain of Honors Biology and Physics. She did not even like science. Since she was a little girl, she had taken a natural interest in art. And for a while, drawing was her secret pastime. It had to be a secret because she could not let her mother see it. According to her mother, drawing ""silly pictures"" was a waste of time. Katie had goals to reach, and in her mother’s eyes, no time should be wasted. When Katie skipped class, she found herself wandering around Blue Acre Park. It was her favorite place as a little girl. It always soothed her, and it felt like the perfect place to get away from it all. She visited every day at the same time for about a week. Unfortunately, a week was all it took for her mother to catch wind of Katie’s newfound freedom. ""What on earth do you think you are doing?! Are you trying to ruin everything for us? I did not work this hard for you to throw it all away!"" Eleanor exclaimed as she burst into Katie’s bedroom. ""Well, maybe I am mom! I am sick of this! All of it! You treat me like I am a machine that is supposed to just keep going and going, and I am done!"" Katie yelled, her voice cracking with anger. ""Done?! You will NEVER be done, as far as I am concerned. You think I put all this effort into you for no reason? Our lives depend on your success, and you WILL NOT ruin this for us!"" Eleanor retorted. ""See, there you go. This is always and has always been about you and your vain desires! Well, guess what mom? I don’t care! I hope that everything falls apart! And I am going to make it my mission to make sure that happ-"". Katie was unable to finish her sentence before her mother silenced her with a slap to the face. Her left cheek shone bright red. She gasped with shock. Her mother had never hit her. ""See what you made me do?! You are trying to ruin everything I built, and I will not allow it! As long as I am your mother, your life is mine!"" Katie was frozen. She could not believe it. All she wanted was to be free. Why couldn’t her mother see that? She could care less about the debutante ball or being swim captain. Her whole life was a facade created to please her mother. Katie was stricken with sorrow. She just wanted out. ""Why wouldn’t she let me out?"" Katie pondered to herself in a daze. Before long, Katie fell into an even deeper depression. She did not say another word for the rest of the evening. She lay in her bed, silent, despondent. A few hours went by, and she realized there was only one way she could end this. So she got up, put on some clothes, and quietly tiptoed out of her mother’s home. She headed to Blue Acre Park. It was nighttime and very dark out. She walked and walked until she got to the bridge stretching across the Watachee River. She stared for a long time, listening to the ripples of water crossing the jagged rocks that lay at the surface of the river. She wanted to flow just like that river. Moving freely as it pleases, with nothing pushing it in one direction or another. Just free. And in that moment, she realized if she could not be free, she would rather be with what is. Slowly, she pulled herself up onto the railing of the bridge. She stood up, staring at the water with sorrowful longing. Hypnotized by its liberty. ""I want to be with you,"" Katie whispered to herself. Then she jumped, free-falling into the water below. The impact of the jagged rocks killed her instantly. It was not until the next morning that Eleanor realized Katie was gone. She searched all over the house, asked the neighbors, called Katie’s friends, and called her school. No one had seen her. She became frantic. She called the local police, who sent a search party out to look for Katie. In West City, it was unusual for anyone to go missing, so they were sure she would be found alive and well. 17 hours passed until her body was finally found. Her body floated all the way to the other end of the Watachee River, leading into Bear Creek Lake. Her golden tresses floated aimlessly attached to her lifeless body. She was finally free, even if only in death. ","July 28, 2023 13:46",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,hpyqiv,Between Me and The Wall,Mikel Montgomery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hpyqiv/,/short-story/hpyqiv/,Angst,0,"['Sad', 'High School']",7 likes," Trigger Warnings- Arguments between Family / Mental Health ""We only want what's best for you."" I could feel my chest tighten and my heart drumming faster with each word they spoke. My voice wanted to prove them wrong, but my mouth wouldn't open, no matter how much I willed it to. The look of false empathy in their eyes only made me far more upset than I was. Time and time again, they would act as if they understood my sorrows. Being handed such sweet words of reassurance as comfort for a situation they put me in left a sour taste in my throat.   Their parental status over me was a reminder that they had authority over me as their child. I knew my mother and father loved me dearly, and I loved them just as much. However, after sixteen years of being forced to uphold the image of a picture-perfect child, I was getting tired of playing by their rules. With every test came a fear that they would become upset if I couldn't perform well enough, and every friendship that they didn't start for me quickly ended. I needed to maintain a certain weight, an above-average grade. My hobbies had to fit an intelligent lady soon to enter society. They would never punish me as harshly as other parents did, but they would look at me with the same look in their eyes as the one that they had then.  ""You want what you think is best for me, not what is. I understand that you're my mom and dad and want me to live a good life, but this,"" I motioned to the three of us sitting at the dining room table,"" is not what will benefit me in the long run."" I spoke as though I was trying not to wake a sleeping lion. We had never had arguments like this before. Usually, I would submit and admit defeat. But the presence of a burden sparks the necessity for change. My mother looked down at me fiercely. Her deep, dark brown eyes stared into mine. She didn't like to be the one in the wrong.  ""Camerie, we're doing our best to ensure you have a headstart. You don't understand it now because you're still a child, but we're trying to help as much as possible."" My father tried to explain their point of view, but I ignored his words. I stayed silent, trying to think of the most appropriate response. They didn't like that, though. ""The least you could do is respond when we talk to you!"" I felt as though I wanted to explode. My hands formed into fists underneath the table, and it took all my self-control not to let my face contort into a disrespectful expression. ""It doesn't feel like I'm a child at all! You can't decide whether to treat me like I'm still ten or raise your ridiculously high expectations. In the end, I'll be alright without having to maintain perfection every day. I'm not sure if either of you has noticed, but the stress you put me under has made my anxiety worse than ever!"" For a moment, it seemed that the room had gone dead silent. The thumping of my heart in my chest increased by the second. A part of me felt joy; I had finally stood up for myself. Another aspect of me was terrified. I had more than likely royally messed up by trying to express my needs and concerns. Would my parents listen? Would they punish me for starting an argument? The fear I felt blossomed throughout my body, flowing through my veins and making chills run down my spine. We stared at one another for a minute before my mom broke the silence. ""If you're anxious, why didn't you say anything?"" I frowned deeply and took a deep breath. ""I never said anything because you two were too busy trying to create the perfect life for your perfect daughter."" My father sighed and pushed his glasses back into place. ""What is it you wanted to achieve with this conversation? As of the moment, we're not getting anywhere."" Finally, we were making progress. ""I just want help. I want someone to talk to about how stressed I am without it becoming a major argument. I want you both to understand that I'm not a robot; I won't ever be perfect. I can do my best, but I won't always be what you wish I could be."" I forced air into my lungs and continued. ""I want our relationship to be built on a love that isn't conditional. That's what I want."" My parents looked at one another and had a silent conversation. I couldn't determine what they were trying to communicate, but their expressions gave it away. Beneath the constant desire to provide me with a good life, it looked as if they were burdened by the guilt of causing me so much distress. It looked like they had known before, if only a little, that they had placed too many heavy expectations on me.  Typically, talking to my parents was like talking to a wall. You didn't get a response, making you feel as though you were crazy for even trying to start a conversation. I couldn't persuade my mother and father, and I couldn't change their minds. But like a wall, you could break it down with enough force. After years of trying to tell them how I felt, I had finally knocked down the wall that separated us.  My mother turned back to face me and smiled sadly. ""We should have been more understanding. We know you can't always be perfect. We were scared that you could end up like us once you grew up. Of course, it's no excuse for our actions."" She tapped the table with her nails and allowed my father to speak. ""We couldn't give you everything we hoped to when you were born. When you were little, we promised one another that we would do whatever it took to ensure you could live the life you deserve as an adult.""  ""You're the best child any parent could ask for. We're more than happy to have you in our lives. If you're up to it, let's start over. We can make things better."" A small smile crept its way onto my lips. ""I'd like that."" ","July 22, 2023 19:29",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,0u16yn,Pieces of a Broken Puzzle,Beatrice Gomes,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0u16yn/,/short-story/0u16yn/,Angst,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",7 likes," The alarm sounds at 6:30 in the morning, just as it does every single day for Ella. She needs to put her costume on before showing her face in her office: a blush-colored blazer and skirt set, a crisp collared shirt, and low pumps with a pointed toe. Every piece was perfectly architectured to cause maximum discomfort to the wearer. This uniform keeps employees moderately unhappy at all times, united in their contract to experience no joy for a minimum of eight hours each day. She gets to her desk and her boss is standing over her before she has a chance to sit down. “Elizabeth, I’ll need that report from you by noon. I need a few minutes to skim through the talking points before my lunch with the director today. I’m counting on you. You’re my star sales-girl!” Ella flashes a smile, suppresses the internal cringing, and assures him that he’ll have it within the hour. As she’s saying this, her inbox is receiving a steady stream of emails, each with a new and urgent request. She takes a deep breath. She takes on every request that comes her way, working her hands into dust while eroding the few remnants of her personal life that remain. She and her husband are like ships passing at night, and her sewing machine is gathering cobwebs in a box on top of her dresser. Elizabeth is who pays the bills and keeps a roof over everyone’s head. Elizabeth is who takes priority at the cost of everyone else, Ella included. One of the sales managers pauses on his way back to his office after grabbing coffee from the breakroom. “Elizabeth, hun, put a little lipstick on. You look terrible, like you might be getting sick.” Ella felt fine. She glanced at her reflection on the computer screen and noticed she had forgotten her regular, pink lipstick that morning. Her cheeks hurt from smiling for so long, but all she noticed was her jaw clenching from the embarrassment. “Thank you so much, Stan! I won’t let it happen again.” When the clock strikes five, the waiting game begins. All of the salespeople stay glued to their phones and computers, yapping away at potential leads and pushing themselves to be the last to leave. This meant you stayed in the trenches the longest, and hard sacrifice is what is most rewarded. The top salesperson each quarter gets a $15 gift certificate to a local pizza place. The real prize, though, was the verbal shout-out during the office-wide meeting. Those few seconds of appreciation and gratitude were intoxicating.  At six, the last associate in the office gets a call from his son asking to be picked up from soccer practice. Ella waits for him to walk out the door with his laptop bag before she shuts down her computer. She usually got this honor of being the office closer because she and her husband hadn’t had the time to start a family. That energy had been given to the corporation signing her paychecks.  At home, her husband had subtle yet unignorable expectations for a wife. They seemed to have been handed down to him from a century ago, leaving not an ounce of space or respect for her career or their status on children. Once he married her, she became the new Mother in his life. She kept his clothes and their house clean. She looked great while doing it, like all the time in her day was dedicated to staying sufficiently beautiful for him. She paid half the bills so they could buy this house, but that requirement was not to interfere with her other duties as his Wife. The alarm rings at 6:30 on weekends, too, so she can get up and run until her lungs burn more than the resentment in her heart. Her husband got home by 5 every day. He was already yelling into a headset and mashing buttons on a controller when she arrived. “Liza, can you grab me a beer on your way back from the kitchen?” Ella’s jaw clenched again. She hated when he called her that. He knew that, too, but he had more time so he got to make a hobby out of those pushing her buttons. She handed him his beer with a smile and went upstairs to change into her wife costume. The wife wears a flattering, pink silk dress, just pretty enough for her husband to remember she exists as an acceptable accessory but not so alluring that he might see her as a woman and not just a wife anymore. After all, a wife is not a woman. She almost pulls her hair into a comfortable bun, but then remembers how her husband said he doesn’t find those very attractive. That is the worst thing a wife can be: unattractive. On Sunday, she puts on the dress that covers everything from her collarbones to her calves and heads to her mother’s house for a family dinner. She has a familiar knot in her stomach as they pull into the driveway. Conversations with her family always feel vaguely tense, likely stressed by the time and distance. She knew they resented her for not being there more. “Ellie, you’re finally here from the big city! That dress is looking a little tight. Have you been eating too much again?” Ella had enough. She had nothing left in her to be able to play her role as Ellie. She spun around on her heel and walked back toward her car. She felt the familiar vibration of her phone when a new work email came in and threw it into the street. She could hear her husband chasing after her now with curt whispers. “Liza, come back,” he hissed. “Stop making a scene.” “My name is not Liza,” she scowled. She was at her limit. She realized she had been hovering around it for a while, shielded by her own desperate need to feel like she was holding it all together. Elizabeth. Liza. Ellie. She hated those people. She barely recognized them, but that’s who everyone in her life needed her to be. To them, she was just a hard worker, a dutiful wife, and a modest relative. Ella was so much more. She wanted so much more. She craved being able to live life wholly and honestly. She wondered how high she could climb if she didn’t have to waste time and energy switching costumes every day. She wondered what people would think of her — the real her, the one living outside of those boxes. She didn’t care. She was ready to find out anyway. ","July 23, 2023 01:25",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,d8q5cl,Connection. ,Lara Deppe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d8q5cl/,/short-story/d8q5cl/,Angst,0,"['Contemporary', 'Science Fiction', 'Speculative']",7 likes," Connection. Acantha Ida Baily cathunked down the cement stairs from the back entrance. The scraping sound her feet made on the aged concrete did not faze her at all. She was no longer aware of the sounds her body made as she made her way to her cubicle. Her routine was solidly without deviance, and she always arrived at the entrance exactly at 7:22 a.m. to the chagrin of her fellow employees who came in the back door in varying shades of frenzy every morning. Melanie was the office manager and while dependable in almost every way, she was typically pushing through the front door some time between 7:32 and 7:36 a.m. Amelia, the team Vanilla, was either thirty-six minutes early and already knee-deep in her work or she was eighteen minutes late with wet hair following her early morning paddle boarding at the local reservoir. Claire always bursts through the doors with a loud energy booming hello at each employee she passes at their cubicles and chats with each of them for several minutes about their evenings or weekends until she settles into her uncomfortable chair at 7:57 a.m. Today was the same as the others and Ida sat down at her computer and began filing through her latest e-mails. There were two at the top that demanded her immediate attention, twelve which could be deleted right away and six that could wait until after lunch and maybe even wait until the end of the week depending on how the day went. She loved a well-written e-mail. To be honest, she loved a well-written anything. Everyone in the office gave the projects to Ida which needed to be written or presented to management because she is the best there is at putting things together. Ida had a big day ahead of her. They were hiring two positions in the office, and she was whittling down the candidates who had applied for the position last week. She had a point system based on the applicants experience in and outside the field, their length of time at each previous job, point-weighted skills and a variant of points based on particular words used in their reference letters. She had six interviews before her lunch hour and the training of two new employees on the second floor until the end of the day. Amelia swished by in a summer dress with her ceramic bowl of oatmeal in one hand with a mug of steaming tea in the other. She was telling Melanie about the concert in the park she had been to the night before and Melanie was oohing and ahhing at just the right places and asking all the right questions. Ida was not really programmed to be very sociable. She tried to polite and engage with the other women in the office, but she never knew exactly what to ask or how to respond when they were discussing the color of their gel nails and the placement of their eyelash extensions. She often just listened and kept working. Claire was usually kind to stop at her cubicle and try to make conversation. It was easy with Claire because she did most of the talking and was often distracted by text messages coming into her watch and then she would wander off to take a personal call on her cell phone. Ida had an I-pad and a list of questions for the first candidate, and she met her at the front door of the office. She made notes about her promptness, how many times she stumbled over the answer to a question and how much she knew about the company. Ida was the perfect choice for the first interview in the process because she did not seem to get sidetracked by the candidate’s quirky stories but stuck to the questions she had prepared. Her third interview was an intriguing one. The candidate’s name was Roberta Pentium. Ida had liked her on paper too. She had all the right qualifications and had a concise and well-written resume. She did not spend any time on stories but succinctly answered each question, thanked Ida for her time, shook her hand and left the office. The last interview arrived late with a story about her daughter and a problem at school. Her name was JodiLynn. She had long dark hair which she flipped every few minutes. She was distractable and shared a great deal of information with Ida. JodiLynn was divorced with four daughters. She showed Ida pictures on her phone of each of the girls. She also told her about the date she had the night before with an old boyfriend from high school who she had run into at Costco. By the time she finished all six interviews, Ida put Roberta’s resume at the top of the pile. Ida spent the last two hours of her afternoon training the two newest employees from the second floor: Frankie and Anna. She remembered recommending both for the job after their interviews. She would love to work on the second floor with them. They had both downloaded the newest training and were fluent in the changing systems from corporate. Ida signed off on their training and was back to her cubicle with an hour to spend on a production report. The two trainees who had just left her were top of the list in production. She knew they were going to be powerful assets to the company. Claire was standing next to Melanie at her cubicle, and they were talking quietly. Melanie was having trouble with her husband. Amelia had also just walked up at the same time Ida had. She quickly joined the others. Ida stood and watched the huddle momentarily but did not join the conversation. Ida submitted her time for the day and left promptly as she did every day at 4:01p. She went back up the flight of stairs and took a right turn before getting to the back entrance. She entered the storage closet. She set her internal rebooting system to wake her at 7:19 the next morning. She lifted her pant leg and opened the flap to connect the charging chord to her battery system. She ran a diagnostic and prepared to enter Sleep Mode. The door opened and Frankie and Anna also came in and completed the same process. That left one more charging station in the closet. Maybe Roberta would be joining them next week.  ","July 29, 2023 01:26","[[{'Z. E. Manley': 'I love the vivid character descriptions!', 'time': '04:10 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thanks :)', 'time': '02:48 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thanks :)', 'time': '02:48 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,lwdl4z,Apathy,Meagan Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lwdl4z/,/short-story/lwdl4z/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Science Fiction', 'Sad']",7 likes," Trigger warning: This story contains a character dealing with troubled mental health, mention of self-harm, and thoughts/ plans of suicide. If any of these are triggering or you don't want to read about them, I'd advise against reading this. For those who are okay with this, you can continue. Apathy: ap·a·thy noun lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern. “You don’t have to stay behind every time. You could always just leave. What would he do to you anyways? It’s not like he’s in control of you, you are your own person. Right?” He softly nodded but didn’t speak, knowing that if he did, the other across the table would know something was wrong. “Then prove it to him,” he could feel the being smirk. “Prove that you’re not his servant, that you won’t always be here when he decides to come home. It’s not like he’d notice anyways.” Then why? “He’s bound to at some point, right? You’re supposed to be his brother, but even the Torukas have noticed that he’s treated you worse than them. That he does treat you worse than the Kurokas.” Electric blue eyes glanced at the far end of the table, seeing the other kingdom’s king and their council. This was supposed to be a simple dinner to get the two kingdoms on peaceful terms before the annual races, along with figuring out the roster for this year as well. “You know no one would notice if you left, right?” Another subtle nod, “Then why not leave? It’s not like they need you here, you’ve always had a spot on the roster. He’s ensured that, even if it's just so that he could beat you into submission.” His shoulders lightly hitched at that, but he was quick to relax them, carefully glancing around to make sure no one noticed. “Don’t worry, soon you’ll be able to sneak away.” A few minutes later, everyone had finished eating and agreed on heading outside to see the karts and check everything over. He lagged and was able to sneak away, hiding behind the door to the back area where all the karts were. Blue eyes watched and waited, but when no one seemed to notice he was gone, he snuck back to his room in the castle.  He knew they wouldn’t notice, but it still hurt to see that his thoughts were grounded in reality. ~~ “Where’s your brother?” The red 'knight’ looked around but didn’t spot his twin “Huh. He might’ve gotten overwhelmed. He’s-a has never been good in big crowds.” Some of the Torukas agreed but others were hesitant but agreed nonetheless.  It wasn’t much of a surprise, seeing how even the Kurokas knew how skittish he was. Though, the way he reacted to certain things was worrying. Random flinches, always apologizing, always seeming hungry but hardly eating. And then, there were the bruises that were seen, but only glimpses every now and then. It was strange, but no one decided to bring it up. Not after the first time a Toruka had asked Luis about it. Because he just shut down afterward. Not a word was spoken, didn’t dare glance up and he was more careful to keep his wrists covered after.  And, like petals in the wind, theories started flying around the Kurokaras kingdom, and then the Sauronda kingdom, the Beothian kingdom, and even the penguins started talking about it. And yet, it was the Kuroka kingdom that brought up the idea of abuse. No one was sure which Kuroka brought up the idea, but, after some investigating, it made sense. The signs were there, but neither brother said anything so no one else did either. They were both adults, they would talk if anything was happening. ~~ “C’mon Lui! You’ve gotta be hot in that thing!” He lightly smiled and shook his head, “It’s alright. Besides, I’m-a always cold. I-a don’t mind just watching you all playing with the water balloons.” Two of the Kurokalings looked towards the green twin, then shared a look and smirked.  He watched as the others threw water balloons at each other, everyone waiting for the race to be finished setting up. Even Joshua was relaxing, laying in the water of the beach with his shell above, his kids running around and throwing the most balloons towards whoever they could reach. Luis himself was just sitting under the shade of a rather large rock with a cooler beside him, ready to hand out water bottles if needed.  He had taken his hat off and started fanning himself, but he knew he couldn't risk the foundation running off. He had run out of the waterproof stuff two days ago and the store hadn’t been able to restock yet. He closed his eyes and leaned against the rock, letting the sound of the waves and surprised screams and laughs lull him into somewhat safety. Everyone seemed to notice the two Kurokalings slowly making their way towards the green twin, some stopping to watch when they noticed that each had two water balloons, all four looking like they were ready to burst due to being overfilled. A few snickered at the thought of the other getting wet after being very adamant about not joining the water balloon war. He was hit with four balloons almost simultaneously, knocking his head against the rock and soaking him in seconds. He coughed and started wiping the water off, parts of the broken plastic landing in his eyes. Some laughed at the prank, some snorted and others chuckled. Daisy gave a playful glare at the two pranksters as they ran to hide behind their dad. She shook her head and went towards her friend as he curled up, still rubbing his eyes to try and rid them of the plastic and water. Once close enough, she spotted the bruise on his cheek, the other on his forehead, and the bruising around his other eye.  She gasped and pulled his hands away, blue eyes trying and failing to spot who was holding his arms. He tried to pull them away, tried to get them to let go. She groaned, “Luis. Stop it, I’m trying to help here.” He froze, eyes squeezed shut as he knew she saw. Others had reacted to the gasp, some rushing over to help, or to see what had surprised her so badly. Other gasps were heard in the silence and someone told another to get a nurse as fast as they could.  Joshua looked up as well, eyebrows furrowed as he was able to see the other's profile perfectly, seeing how large the bruise around his eye truly was. He stood up and headed over to the two, opening the cooler and pulling out a cold water bottle. He held it against the bruise, not saying a thing as Daisy started on the questions instead.  All he answered was with accidents that happened but everyone who saw them had suspicions. Especially the Toruka nurse, but he still held to his story of tripping and falling down a rocky hill. She was quick to pull out some eye drops, and then two more water bottles for the other bruises.  She sighed, “There’s not much else I can do except to say to be careful. If you bruise this badly from a simple fall, then you really need to be careful.” He nodded and put one of the bottles back, “I-I know. I have some bruise cream back home to help them fade, I’ll be fine.” Everyone slowly scurried off back to the water balloon battle, everyone except Joshua for some reason. He still held the bottle against the bruised eye, “it wasn’t an accident. Was it?” The other blue eye glanced at him, then looked down as he pulled his knees closer to himself. “Why would you say that?” The Kuroka king scoffed, “You’re known for being overly cautious. You ‘falling down a mountain’ doesn’t fit, so tell the truth. It wasn’t an accident.” After a moment of silence, red eyes watched as the human slowly shook his head and curled further into himself. “Who did it?” The other flinched at the question, “I-it’s not important. Besides, it's better that I took the hit.” “Why?” “I have to.” “Why you?” “Because if not then it means that all of the damage I got isn't good damage.” He looked towards the ‘beast’, “You’re not the only one with anger issues.” Electric blue eyes looked back towards the group, “you just have a harder time controlling them than others.” Red eyes followed his gaze, watching as the red twin got hit with a balloon at his chest. Anger was quick to replace the very little worry he had, and he was really wanting to go and punch the other into the sand. A gloved hand was quick to stop him, holding his wrist that held the water bottle. He looked back towards the human, then sighed and relaxed back against the rock. “Why haven’t you told anyone?” “Why should it matter?” The Kuroka scoffed, “You’re an idiot.” The laughs and screams overshadowed their small conversation, leaving only the two to know. “Can you keep it a secret?” The taller being glanced at the other, “Only if you do something for me.” He watched the other hesitate before looking at him, silently asking what it was. “You call me any time he gets violent. Abuse is abuse no matter who’s doing it or what the reason was.” Red eyes watched as the only fine blue eye welded with tears, before leaning against him and using his hat to hide the tears falling. He felt the other nod, a silent promise to do as asked. “Even if I have to kidnap you, I ain’t gonna let that happen again.” He felt the other lightly chuckle, either thinking it was a joke or knowing that he’d do it and just imagining how it would go. ~~ It was before the races that the Kuroka watched the green plumber be pulled away with his shorter brother. But he kept a watchful eye, just in case something happened and he'd have to step in to help.  Gord forbid he'd actually hit him in front of the cameras. Markus was quick to pull his brother away the first chance he got, smiling and acting like he was just gonna chat with him. But Luis knew better, he's known better from the moment his arm was grabbed with a grip that looked soft but bruised him instantly. Once the two were inside the building and in the men's bathroom, Markus pinned him to the wall, “What was that? At the beach?” The other, even though taller, shrunk into himself, to be shorter than his older twin. “I-I ran out of the water-proof stuff, the store didn’t h-have any more. I did bring my makeup, though.” The other huffed and relaxed a bit, “good.” He patted the other’s shoulder, “Good. Just keep them hidden, we don’t need a reason for anyone to think you’re injured.” He nodded, not daring to look up at his brother, not until the other left the room. Luis sighed and relaxed against the wall, falling to sit down on the floor. He knows that his brother does care, just that he does it in an unhealthy way. It's best if their enemies don’t know that he’s injured or they’d try to take advantage of him. That’s what Markus meant, he just wanted to protect him. Right?  Right? ~~ It was only days later that he was seen working on his motorbike, checking the suspension, and making sure it was properly fueled. He was known own for being overly cautious and so this was expected.  This was a routine he grew used to; just being seen in passing as the overly cautious brother to his twin's fiery go-getter attitude. Just his twin's shadow, helping in the background, barely noticed or remembered. Marcus waved him over a little farther away from the other racers, but still in the garage. He took a breath but headed over, knowing that he wouldn't ruin his reputation of being the ‘best big brother’ in front of others. Especially not with Princess Penelope and Daisy so close by. “Could you place between fourth and eighth instead of third and seventh?” Record scratch. Wait, what? His smile twitched but was forced to stay. He knew that his brother wasn’t really looking at him, he was looking behind him. Through him, towards Penelope. Like he wasn’t even there. And, Luis was okay with this. It was like this before they came here and it didn't seem like there was any way to change it. And why would he? The darkness of the world was his safe haven, his quiet place. Being ignored was basically his signature. beside's his twin's shadow.  He nodded and his twin gave his shoulder a pat before heading back to the princess he was head over heels in love for but never said anything about it. Even though everyone, even those who didn’t live in the kingdom could tell that they liked each other. The races began around midday, and he was somewhere in the middle of the lineup, and throughout the races, there he stayed.  The only thing setting him apart was the pair of headphones that could be seen covering his ears and hidden under his hat that kept his hair from flying with the wind. He placed just shy of fourth place, and he was okay with that. He was overlooked again, and he was okay with that. The party at the end of the week was full of people and yet, he still felt so alone. Like he was just a shadow people never really focused on.  And he was okay with that. No, you’re not.  No, but that’s okay. A single tear fell into his glass of wine. They don’t care, and that’s okay. No, it’s not.  Then what would you do?  I don’t know. Then it’s okay. No. it’s not. We can’t make it okay. But, we can make it go away. He looked down at the glass, at least for a short while. Seven glasses later and he was alone on the balcony, the doors open but no one else seemed to notice him there as he let the alcohol hit with five more glasses sitting untouched on a small table nearby. He downed three more and let the sounds fade into the background. The stars showed bright above the castle and a clear sky with no clouds in sight. Do you think it’d hurt? Blue eyes glanced down at the ground seven stories below. Probably not. He heard how twin’s laughter over the buzz, but we can try on a different night. Yeah, too many witnesses. One might catch on before we’d even be able to climb over the railing. We could always say we were sitting on the edge. And risk them spotting the five glasses, then ask how many we’ve had before?  Midnight, our room. No, midnight but outside the castle. It’d be too late for them to stop us.  Yeah, he nursed another glass as he glanced back at his twin. But, not tonight. Let them be happy for just a little bit longer. Just a little longer, even though it's killing us inside. And that’s okay. We both know it’s not. But, that’s okay too. I’m not okay. ","July 25, 2023 22:06",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,jcnyfg,My Sister's Closet ,Lorna Gibson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jcnyfg/,/short-story/jcnyfg/,Angst,0,['Coming of Age'],6 likes," My Sister's Closet Click-whirr. I took secret pictures with the Polaroid camera I had received for making the honor rolI. I didn't take the kind of pictures one typically thinks of when they hear the term secret pictures. I took pictures of myself dressed up in the color pink I had purloined from my sister's closet. I pretended outwardly to hate the color pink though I really liked it. I was the type of kid that went to the complete opposite end of the spectrum when told I had to conform to expected societal norms and live inside of a demographic box that had been constructed for me. Pink and lavender were the preferred colors for girls and dolls, particularly Barbie dolls, were the preferred toys. My parents never made me play with traditional girls' toys growing up in the late 1970s and 1980s but I saw their reluctance through uncomfortable facial expressions or tense body language when I'd choose a softball mitt or soccer ball. I also heard and saw that ideology reinforced all around me. Especially by my sister. She would look at me with open disdain when I would turn on my battery powered toy cars or trucks and kick them over as they bumped across the carpet in her general direction. In retaliation I would line up her Barbie dolls in a row on the railing of the back deck and throw my football from the shadow of the porch overhang to knock them off one by one. My spiral was wobbly at best, so most attempts had to be repeated three or four times, but it was perversely satisfying when an arm or leg went flying away from the torso. I'd gather up the Barbie pieces from the ground afterwards and haphazardly reassemble them. My sister would rage, appropriately accuse me of doll malfeasance, and demand our parents punish me. I would innocently roll a big wheeled truck back and forth across the palm of my hand and look mystified as to how her Barbies had ended up scuffed and grass stained.  ""Maybe you're not as girly and delicate as you think and are just a little too heavy handed with them,"" I suggested with the appearance of helpfulness but the intent of insincerity.  I didn't want to be girly and delicate, but I did want to enjoy things girls typically enjoyed, just in moderation instead of being made to feel as if it wereg my predetermined choice. As I got older, I continued in secret the activities that were considered feminine in the late 80s and early 90s but outwardly adopted what was considered then a more masculine style. I wore football and basketball jerseys over jeans or cargo pants along with flip flops and complimented my outfit with a trucker hat, but would paint my fingernails pink or lavender or sneak into a salon for a pedicure and take a Polaroid. I would remove the fingernail polish and don a pair of socks before my family got home. Bedtime was my favorite time of day when I would put on my pink or lavender pajama set with floral or animal patterns, admire the French tips on my toenails, and page through my photo album.  I continued to intentionally be the bane of my sister's existence. She tried to avoid bringing people she knew over to the house when she thought I would be there. I actively looked for opportunities to pop up when least expected to embarrass her in front of her friends. One of my proudest moments was when she ran away screaming and hid in the freezer when I showed up at the fast food restaurant where she was working the counter. I was dressed in my full lacrosse outfit including stick, pulled out my mouthguard, dripping with saliva, and laid it on the tray she had slapped in front of me right between the milkshake and an order of slightly over-cooked onion rings. I sat down at a table that gave me a clear view of the kitchen area and watched with interest as her coworkers unsuccessfully tried to lure her out of the freezer. She later blamed me for the mild case of frostbite she sustained to her fingertips.  My sister obsessed over how her clothes disappeared for a few days (when I borrowed an outfit or two) and then reappeared in the same place she'd been searching for them.  ""I don't understand,"" she'd say, touching an outfit in disbelief, ""I know this wasn't there the last five times I looked.""  ""I think it was,"" I'd disagree just to discombobulate her further, ""I've seen it every time I passed by your door. You know how revolting I find your clothing.""  She'd look at me with a combination of suspicion and loathing. I'd smile conspiratorially. My sister had always fancied herself a big city sort of girl. We had lived in New York with our parents when we were young before moving to the Southeastern Region of the United States. I remember when we first moved, due to the extreme difference between the activities available for children in New York City and its surrounding boroughs and activities available in tiny city where we now lived, I asked our parents if they were intentionally trying to punish us. Mom explained that Dad had received a job transfer so that's how we ended up where we were. It was poor consolation but I eventually settled into the small city routine, sports or after school clubs during the week and the movies or roller skating on the weekends.  My sister never really accepted our new lifestyle, she just tolerated it, and sneered at us how one day she would be a famous fashion designer and might on occasion send us an outfit or two that one of her famous clients had rejected.  The day after she turned eighteen, she purchased a plane ticket and got a friend to drive her to the airport. She'd been making arrangements to go back and live with some cousins we had in the borrough of Queens over the past ten years since we'd first moved when she was eight years old. I didn't feel sad when she left, just a little nonplussed, as if a piece of furniture that had always been in the room had suddenly gone missing. That feeling vanished quickly and without my sister's disapproving influence permeating throughout the house, little by little I let myself be the person I had been hiding but, on my own terms instead of someone else's.  My parents were pleased, but as usual, they weren't overt about their feelings but slightly smiled instead of slightly frowning with my dress and grooming choices.  My sister never became the famous fashion designer she had intended to become, she never even made it into design school. Too little studying and too much partying had derailed her career plans. Twenty years later she had moved back to our small city into my parents home out of necessity. She had little means of support for herself and her five children and had expressed she was tired of, ""Just making ends not even meet, but just wave at each other."" I had chosen the nursing profession out of high school, was working as an RN, and had saved up enough money to purchase my own home. I had tasteful pink and lavender accents throughout my home and enjoyed finding new and inexpensive ways to decorate. I also worked the toys and sports equipment from my youth into the decor scheme. In the bedroom I had converted into an entertainment room, I had my big wheeled cars and trucks on one shelf and action figures in another. Two of my old lacrosse sticks were decoration on one side of the room, with the infamous mouthguard positioned between the two crossed sticks. All of my sister's old Barbie dolls she had left behind were decoration on the other side of the room in wooden wall boxes I had made from scrap lumber, then painted, you guessed it, varying shades of pink. I couldn't find film for the Polaroid camera anymore but I couldn't bear to part with it having been a big part of my journey to self discovery. It had its own wall box of honor near the Barbie collection. My new picture taking equipment consisted of a more modern Canon camera. I took snaps of my entertainment room to add to my photo album collection.  One weekend evening soon after my sister moved back home I went over to my parents for family dinner and brought my old photo album with pictures I'd saved from childhood and young adulthood when I had hidden my femininity up until the present where I had it on full display, on my own terms, instead of feeling as if it were something forced upon me. My parents answered the door with a look of mild disapproval. It wasn't directed towards me rather a teenaged girl I presumed was one of the nieces I'd never met who was involved in passionately kissing one of the teenaged neighbor boys. They were seated in the middle of the short stairway that led up to the front door and were too preoccupied with each other to notice me, so I sidled up against the bannister past them and made my way through the entrance. My sister gasped at my appearance when I stepped into the living room, then was silent for a full thirty seconds not having seen me for two decades.  ""You look…you look…"" she couldn't finish the sentence.  ""Like I love pink?"" I suggested. ""Yes! When did this happen?"" she asked in disbelief as her toddler gnawed on the armrest of the sofa.  I plopped the photo album onto her lap with a mischievous grin. The toddler paused in mid-gnaw and looked over in our direction with interest. My parents looked mildly disapprovingly at both their grandchild and their moist sofa. ""You might find this hard to believe,"" I told my sister, ""but it started in your clothes closet.""  ","July 28, 2023 06:57",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,1yot19,sourdough,Victoria Shellady,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1yot19/,/short-story/1yot19/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",6 likes," Elizabeth Moore had dinner on the table at 5pm, like she did every other weeknight. That night's creation was a new recipe torn from the pages of the latest edition of Better Homes and Gardens. The Best Pot Roast You Will Ever Have, the article claimed. Elizabeth bought a chuck roast, potatoes, celery, and carrots the night before. She set the chuck in a bag of mysterious but delicious juices so it would be at its most flavorful. When the dish hit the table, a cloud of fragrant steam created a fat plume of smoke in the cool air. Her husband, Roger, who was wearing a shirt one size too small, evidenced by the buttons fighting for their life against the weak seems, sat at the end of the table, fork and knife in either hand.  ""I think she should do ballet,"" Elizabeth said, slicing down into the meat with her body weight. Flesh peeled away from the bone, revealing a small circle of pink giving way to crispy edges. She didn't particularly like pot roast, but Roger told her years ago, when they were first going steady, that he loved pot roast. Apparently, his mother had been an excellent cook. A fact that Elizabeth, despite her best efforts, couldn't forget. ""No one in this family is a dancer."" Roger laughed, pushing his plate toward his wife. She plopped two juicy pieces onto fine China and ladled a few vegetables on the top. The China was a gift from Roger's side of the family. Elizabeth's nose scrunched up. ""I suppose she does have short legs. Not really dancer legs."" She wasn't going to say it was Roger's fault. Which it was. ""Jimmy was saying Irene really likes that astronomy camp. Could be worth looking into."" Roger plunged his fork into the meaty center, sliced with the knife waiting patiently in his left hand. Satisfied with the size of the piece, he wasted no time devouring it. Two chomps and one large gulp later, the meat was gone. ""I thought she had to pass an AP course to get into it?"" ""She did."" ""She did?"" ""She did. And it's not like Irene is any smarter than our child."" Elizabeth spooned out a portion of vegetables onto her plate. As she settled into her chair, Roger gestured he wanted another slice of meat. She obliged, cutting a piece that was thicker than the first. ""I heard that a painting camp or music camp could be very beneficial for the brain. You know, that creatively minded people can just do more. Ricky, Donna's son, just did one."" Elizabeth said, taking her first bite of warm potato. She noted it had too much salt. She would need to adjust that for next time. ""You really want her to live in a shoebox, fighting for her life over art?"" Roger laughed between bites. ""He sounds happy. Last I talked to Donna."" Elizabeth cut her vegetables into tiny pieces. They were so small they turned to mush. ""Happiness doesn't pay for electricity."" Roger never subscribed to the word ""happy."" In Roger's mind, too often, people use happiness as a way in or out of things. A way to leave a job if someone wasn't happy with what they were doing. Doing something reckless if it provided momentary bliss from reality. Happiness was a crutch. According to Roger, the only thing people should make decisions on should be based on money. Because money kept the lights on. Money brought food to the table. Cash puts a roof over their head.  ""Painting has made me happy,"" exclaimed Elizabeth, passion coloring her voice. ""Yes. And you're very good at it. But you also have the common sense to know hobbies don't pay the bills."" Roger's plate was empty, save for a ring of juice that hugged the edges. ""Do we have bread?"" Elizabeth nodded, stood from her chair, and padded toward the kitchen. She brought back one slice of bread. Sourdough she had made from scratch. Another of Roger's favorites. Twelve hours of labor later – after kneading, pounding, and measuring everything in painstaking increments – he snatched the delicate bread from her, mopping up every last drop of liquid before plopping it into his insatiable mouth. No time at all to taste those intricate fibers she worked so hard to get right. ""I think we will tour schools early. Scope out their programs. See who offers advanced science and math, then we can decide from there."" Roger slipped a hand around Elizabeth's waist, pulling her into his lap. She winced, her hand flying down to between her legs. ""Still hurts?"" Roger asked. ""It's been months. I thought it would go away by now."" ""The doctor said it may take a while."" ""Maybe the extra stitch was a mis–"" ""Everyone does it. You'll be fine."" He put a comforting hand on her leg. ""I think I need to see the doctor."" ""Elizabeth."" ""Roger."" ""You told the doctor you wanted this."" Elizabeth wished she had had the moxie to say no. But she didn't want to disappoint anyone, especially Roger. It would've been challenging to say no to her husband in a room of six people. Six men, to be precise. ""Anyway. I have five tours set up next week, one with the conservatory too."" ""Roger!"" ""What?! I'm excited."" Elizabeth pushed her way up from his lap. ""Don't you think she should have a say?"" ""Let's ask her."" Roger's eyes went to the seat in the middle of the table, where June had been resting, with no hint of agitation, for the entirety of the dinner. But as Roger's and June's eyes locked, she screamed, rattling the toy in her left hand. June kicked off the blue blanket that was laid across her high chair. ""I think she's hungry,"" Roger said, looking at Elizabeth. Elizabeth grabbed her plate of mush and slid it toward June. She picked up the silver spoon, which his mother passed down to Elizabeth on her and Roger's wedding day, and filled it with brown mush. June's green eyes sparkled at the sight of her mother. But all Elizabeth felt when looking at June was disappointment.  ""Open up, sweetie."" ","July 28, 2023 14:47",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,aeopky,Leave Me Alone ,Simone Maglassis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/aeopky/,/short-story/aeopky/,Angst,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad', 'Speculative']",5 likes," Leave Me Alone Once there was a woman who was half a ghost, caught between two worlds.     Captivatingly beautiful but near translucent. Barely tethered to Earth, her skin pale and parched but her eyes alive and knowing.     Her home was a mansion with twinkling chandeliers, floor to ceiling windows and glossy marble floors. It was shiny and new but she never left the square box of her bedroom, which also happened to be an exhibit.     The tour guides acted like they owned the place, happily sharing her inaccurate business to the rest of the intruders. They claimed to love her but they didn’t know her. None of them had ever met her. They simply liked being in control like all the other people in her life.     The half-ghost remembered how it was in the beginning. Her dream of stardom finally came true. The glitz and glam and hearing her name chanted was magical.     “I can’t believe it.” She gushed to her seamstress as she took her measurements all those years ago. “It’s so surreal. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”     The seamstress hemmed and hawed, moved from her back to her front to measure her hips.      Hating the silence, she kept talking. “I wish I could say my parents were proud but they only cared about the money. I’m glad I’m not living paycheck to paycheck at least. Not that anything’s wrong with that…”     The seamstress moved her arm into position like a puppet. She admired herself in the mirror on the pedestal, the lights added to her glow. She was the prettiest she’d ever been, maybe they would make a Barbie of her next? The beginning of fireworks sparked in her belly at the thought of a child’s eyes lighting up when they saw her doll on the shelf. How much would the royalties be? She’d have to mention it to her agent.     The measuring tape snaked around her neck. The half-ghost remembered stiffening at that moment, not because of the tailor’s tape around her throat but because she noticed the lines blur again between genuine and vain. It was getting harder to distinguish between the two. Day by day, something almost sinister seeped past her skin to her heart and soul. A battle she wasn’t equipped for.     The seamstress paused to look at her. “What is your name?”      It was an odd question, surely she knew. She had become an overnight icon, embedded in childhood memories and conversations. “Mari—”     “Nevermind.” Her tone was sharp and the seamstress's gaze flickered away, the pools of her eyes had sought something else. Disappointment with underlying sadness etched into her wrinkles. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose yourself.”     The half-ghost hadn’t lost herself. In fact, she tried to intentionally deviate off course until her team stopped her. She liked acting, but she always thought she got herself this far, how much further could she go? Maybe back to school, become a teacher, a fashion designer, or even a chef. Now, in her room, it was clear whose energy was pure and who wanted to extract more from her.      The clock ticked to the beat of her boredom. She had a lot of time to sit with her thoughts which were usually stuck in an indecisive loop of wanting to stay and wanting to go as if she had a choice in the matter. She gained her freedom in this room and simultaneously sealed her imprisonment.      A knight in shining armour could not save her and loving herself yielded no difference. Even the purest form of love she had for her forever unborn child wasn’t enough. It was pointless to ask for help, the rare few that saw her ran in fear. Her theory was people had to stop visiting which seemed impossible to put to the test. Though a visit from God would be lovely, wouldn’t he have arrived or whisked her away by now? If and when it ever happened she’d be sure to request to rest not in peace, but paradise. She was still a celebrity after all.      Another intruder barged into her room to take what they wanted or sell to the highest bidder. Material things were useless, in due time a cheaper version of it would appear.     One intruder was different from the rest. Her hair was golden like hers used to be. This intruder was not a saint by any means but at her core, her empathy was intact amongst the vanity of the majority.       This intruder stood silently as her two plastic friends explored her room with greedy hands.      In a fit of built up rage the half-ghost yelled, “You want to have it all? Well here!”     The closet flew open to reveal her wooden dresser of memories. They gasped in delight and dug into her old pictures, vintage dresses, heels and pearl necklaces. They tossed aside what they didn’t want and stuffed the rest into their designer purses.     “Oh. My. God.” The girl squealed, raising the pink sparkle studded dress. “This is the dress.” She brought it to her heart, twirling around. She feigned a persona, tossed her hair dramatically. “Diamonds are a girl's best friend,"" she sang.     The half-ghost’s shoulders bunched and tears pushed at the back of her eyes. They always wanted more. It would never be enough. She slumped against the doorframe and slid to the floor. There was nothing to do but wait until it was over. Moments like this made her not feel real, like a character, a toy they paid for. Was that what she was made for?      “I’m going to try it on.”     “What? No, you can’t.”     “It’ll be fine. Hey, can you keep watch?”     The golden hair girl shivered and rubbed her arms, eyes darting between the hallway and her friends. “Hurry up. It’s freezing, aren’t you guys cold?”     The dress stretched with the sound of ripping threads. “Damn. I didn’t know she was this skinny.”     Her friend snorted a laugh. “Or you’re just fat.”     Finally, she slipped into it, admiring herself in the mirror. She looked over her shoulder at the large pink bow at the base of her back.      “Wow, you look incredible. Do the pose.” She demonstrated, hands on her thighs, chin up with eyes aglow.      She copied her, adjusting herself for each click of the phone camera and bit her lip to look sexy.      “Okay let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.” Unlike the other two, she had no interest in being there. So you could imagine the half-ghost’s surprise when the woman returned on her own the next day. Her hesitant knock pushed the ajar door open.     “What do you want?” The half-ghost muttered beneath her sequined blanket.     The woman sat on the bed beside her. Her eyes were soft and pure. For now.     “I want to help you,” the woman said.      The half-ghost let the blanket slide off her shoulders. “You can’t. You being here is hurting me.”     The woman slouched. “I guess you’re right.” Her frown broke into a dimpled smile. “Maybe I can tell your story?""     The half-ghost recoiled with a groan and ducked back under the blanket. “No. Not again. It’s my story. No one will ever truly know it like I do.”     ""I promise I'll tell it the right way this time so you can be free.”     The half-ghost released a bubble of laughter as if it was that simple. “Free? I’m not allowed to be anyone else.”     “But your door is always open, why don’t you just leave?”     The half-ghost let the blanket fall and looked into the depths of the intruder's eyes. “Why don’t you?” ","July 27, 2023 15:51",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,n3ph1f,The Kennel,Austin Baker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n3ph1f/,/short-story/n3ph1f/,Angst,0,"['Fiction', 'American', 'Coming of Age']",5 likes," Lion’s first memories were of four constricting walls, and the weak mewling of his six siblings. Their prison seemed at once fragile and yet, to a litter of newborns, impossible to scale. If not for the cardboard, then the pair of giants that stood watch, their large, mishappen heads blotting out the very idea of climbing out from the prisoners’ minds. Ostensibly, these giants were Lion’s parents, and he one of their many fur children. But the world the giants lived in must be a cruel one, where a parent cannot slow to suffer for all their children. The six siblings were pulled one by one from the box until Lion remained alone. The lid descended, and with it, darkness. If he could understand their speech, he might’ve heard words such as small, runt, pitiful. But even without understanding the words, the message was clear. When the lid opened, a different giant had taken their place. This one wore gloves, cold to the touch as they roughly brushed through Lion’s fur and grabbed him by the scruff. He was flung up and into the bright fluorescent light, then manhandled over to a countertop. The gloved hand kept him pressed down while something jabbed him in the side. Once done, the hand threw Lion into a cell. One of many stacked atop each other, with holes in the sides so the prisoners could see out. His closest cellmates were a dog to his right, and a mangy cat six years his senior to the left. Aside from sparing him a quick side glance, neither seemed eager to get to know their new neighbor. He settled in between them, resting his chin atop his paws. The waiting began. * Mean. Dangerous. Cantankerous… Lion particularly favored that last descriptor. The giant’s language had so many words to describe him, yet he hadn’t found one that pleased him so much as that. It was the sort of term suited for someone that refused to behave, one that picked fights, and ignored commands. It didn’t fit him, not really. It didn’t resonate in a personal way. But if nothing else, it was original. He had heard only one person—his fourth adopter—use it, so it was memorable. Fun, even. Lion enjoyed mulling it over while he’d waited in his carrier to be ferried back to prison. Learning what the giants said hadn’t helped one bit in securing shelter in one of their homes. Knowing what they called him in the days leading up to his departure didn’t explain the reasoning behind it. First, he’d been too small. Then, too big. Too smart for his own good. Too cantankerous. Too meek for the other animals. It sounded like he had a lot more than two of these things, if the giants could be believed. Lion doubted they could, but nobody rushed to offer an alternative answer. The only sure thing in life, the only thing he could count on as fact, was the box. That was his answer. Different forms, different cellmates, yet united by the distinct spirit they all shared. When he was younger, he called that spirit imprisonment. Now, Lion knew it as freedom. This was the one place the giants weren’t. They might open the gates, reach in, pull him out, but they couldn’t stay inside. His freedom settled atop a dozen or so of its kind. The giant that brought him here this time spared a look his way before shaking their bulbous head. “Back again, Lion?” The question came with a rattling cough. Lion looked away from the giant to the mangy occupant in the cell beside him. The prison hadn’t changed much over the years, and neither had this fellow. Others made a habit of staying out once they were let go, but cats like Lion and Mr. Whisper couldn’t keep away. For Lion, that was a problem he’d tried and failed to fix time and time again. But Whisper almost seemed to like this place. Something about the whitewashed walls, the grim-faced giant that fed them, and the rattling cages that buzzed with activity called home to him. “What is it this time?” Whisper asked, arching a feline brow. “Pick a fight? Scratch a kid?” “Too quiet,” Lion said. “Too quiet? The heck sorta complaint is that? You not eat enough food and cost enough upkeep?” Lion shrugged. “I think they wanted a dog.” “Then they should bloody adopt one.” “I think they are.” He gestured with his head to the mishappen giant that brought him back in, now standing near the end of their cell row. They stood beside that familiar other—the grim-faced animal technician had changed little over the years, except looking a scratch more tired. A dog cowered between them, unsure, yet gradually warming up to the butt pats. “Should’ve done it to start with,” Whisper continued, “and leave us lifers be.” Lifers, Lion thought with a silent scoff. That’s what it came down to, at the end of the day, for people like them. The ones that couldn’t fit in, couldn’t adapt to a family. Though in Whisper’s case, that appeared to be an intentional choice. He, in the kindest words Lion could summon, was a stray. “I wonder.” “Yeah? About what?” “If we really need them. Why can’t we just…” Lion gestured with his paw. “Leave?” “Well, that’s on account of us being locked in.” Whisper slapped the cage door to prove his point. It shook a bit, but not enough to draw attention away from the dog. “Like it or not, we’re beholden to them. What they want from us, where they want to take us, what they see us as. It sucks, no doubt about it, but isn’t that our lot?” That’s our lot. The statement rattled around, striking off the other ideas in Lion’s head. Even long after the place quieted down and he had settled in for sleep, it continued to keep him awake. Nothing but the white walls, the loud snoring of a dozen inmates, and Whisper’s voice repeating those words until they started to lose meaning. “Is it, though?” Lion asked aloud. Had he really exhausted every other option? Or had he just allowed himself to be tossed about, guided on roads he didn’t choose, an occupant in a vehicle he couldn’t control. Perhaps being a little cantankerous is exactly what he needed. He dared to think this wasn’t freedom. At best it was comfortable and nothing more. It might’ve been a slow revelation, but really the poor fellow was doing his best. And better late than never—he’d heard many giants repeat that saying. That settled it. Motivation, check. Plan still pending. “Hey. Hey!” He nudged the bars with his head until the rattling woke Mr. Whisper. “Shush child. Can’t you see I’m napping?” “Listen… I think we should get out of here.” The old cat peeked an eye open. “You gone stir-crazy already? You just got back in. ‘Sides, the place is closed for the night. Nobody’s coming to adopt you anytime soon.” “No, not adoption. Let’s get out of here on our own. We can be our own people, live our lives without the giants watching over us.” The idea had dug its roots into Lion, and the more he talked about it, the deeper they grew. “So. You want to be a stray?” Whisper asked. Suddenly, the cages felt awfully quiet. He dared to break the silence after a long pause. “I think so.” “And you think I can bust us out of here? That why you’re asking me?” “I’ve heard stories, you know. That you’ve escaped before,” Lion ventured shyly. “Oh, I have alright. But listen kid, are you sure your ready?” Whisper fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. “You really sure you’re ready?” Lion didn’t know what to say. So, after a time, he said yes. Whisper must’ve thought him a silly housecat, burnt out after being kicked from home after home, but still not ready to rough it on his own. To be entirely honest, Lion was starting to feel that he didn’t care so much what Whisper thought of him. Or what the giants thought of him, for that matter. It felt right for him to do this, so wasn’t that enough? Lion didn’t know what to think. So, he decided to think it was enough. ","July 24, 2023 23:50",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,e3winb,Welcome to the Party,Kimberly McAllister,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/e3winb/,/short-story/e3winb/,Angst,0,"['Contemporary', 'Crime', 'Drama']",5 likes," Trigger warning: Themes of disturbing sexual content, violence, and mental illness portrayed in the following story.Barbie cocked the trigger of the gun aimed at her husband, Richard, with one long elegant thumb. Her bubblegum pink nails shined in the ambient light of the parlor. She dearly wanted him gone. It was 3 a.m. and he was sitting at the computer in the parlor, looking at pornography. And it wasn't the usual stuff, it was pictures of little boys.Richard was visibly shaking. Good, she thought, he needs to suffer.He raised his hands in front of his body, as if to ward her off.""Barb, you don't want to do this,"" he said quietly. He began tugging on his necktie. Their two beautiful children were asleep upstairs.""Don't tell me what I want to do. You're so arrogant. You think you know me? You don't know anything about me. You didn't know I had this, did you?""She straightened her right arm a little bit more, moving the pistol a couple inches closer to Richard.""No, no I did not.""""Who are you, Richard?""He started to stand up out of his chair.""Don't move."" She took a step towards him. He was about ten feet away now.""All right, all right. But please, please don't shoot me. You'll go to prison and the kids will have no one.""""No, they will have me. Because you're going to disappear. You're a stranger to them. You like to watch child porn and that makes you a sick man and a threat to our children. Have you molested them, Richard?""""Of course, I haven't. I would never...""""Shut the fuck up, you bastard. I don't believe anything you say, now. You're a stranger to me. I knew we had problems but it appears you've been leading a double life, now, doesn't it?""She continued. ""All those nights you called me and told me you were working late, you were watching porn at work, weren't you?""""No, I would never do that. I wouldn't jeopardize my job that way.""Richard was an aide to the governor of Indiana. He had political aspirations and had been promised favors for his campaign skills on the governor's behalf. But she still didn't believe him. Political jobs were filled with arrogant narcissists and anti-social phonies who just wanted power and the accompanying cash that always found its way into their pockets.""You've always thought you were the smartest person in the room, haven't you darling? But now it appears, you're not. Because I've caught you. You’re jeopardizing your job right now. You could go to prison. Why, why would you do this? How long have you been looking at this...this...repulsive, heinous shit?""""I wasn't looking at child porn, Barb. You don't understand. I was looking at regular porn and they suck you into these other sites and then you get trapped in it and can't get out. You don't understand...""""Shut up!""""Calm down,"" he hissed.She took a deep breath. Thank God, the walls in this old house are soundproof, she thought.""I want you to pack your things and leave. Now.""He laughed. ""This is my house. I'm not leaving.""""Your house? Not 'our' house, huh? Well, you can have it. I'm starting to hate the old thing. It's the shape of a shoe box and you keep me here all the time, while you take our only car and drive off every day and disappear for up to 16 hours at a time, without even a phone call, sometimes. But for now, you're going to leave because I don't want you anywhere near our children.""""Barb, you can't...""And that's another thing. My name isn't Barb. It's Barbie. Like the doll. You have refused to call me by my name ever since we got married and you know I don't like the name Barb. Yet, you keep doing it. You're a real man, aren't you, Richard?""He narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils. She'd seen that look before. But not until after they'd been married.""You bitch.""""Bingo. There's the real Richard Charaud. I knew you'd show yourself eventually.""""I never loved you, you know.""She felt her throat muscles constrict and tears filled her eyes.Finally, she asked ""Then why did you marry me? I don't understand. It makes no sense.""""I thought I would feel different,"" he said.""You thought you would feel different how?""“I thought I would grow to love you. But I didn’t. And that’s your fault.”He started coughing and began loosening his tie and the collar of his white dress shirt. “What’s wrong, Richard? A little frightened, are you?”“I’m not scared of you. You’re named after a doll, for God’s sake. You are brainless, just like that stupid doll.”She fired.Richard fell backwards out of the office chair and hit his head on the old tongue-in-groove oak floor, clutching his chest.“You shot me! Owww. Owww. It hurts so bad!”She started laughing. It felt so good to see him on the floor, terrified out of his mind.“Now, you know how I feel when I think about you living in the same house with our children,” she said.He looked at his body. There was no blood anywhere.“What the…” He didn’t understand.“I didn’t shoot you. I hit the wall behind you. And you actually claimed I’d shot you and that you felt pain. How sad.” She began laughing, again.“Wait, there was practically no noise. Do you have – ““A silencer on the gun, yes.”He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You really planned this out, didn’t you?”“Last night, I started down the stairs and saw you on the computer. It was around 1 a.m. I couldn’t believe you would be on it so late, since you presumably had been on one all day. I turned around and went back upstairs and went back to bed and waited for you to come upstairs. Finally, around 2 a.m., you crawled into bed. I waited until I heard you snoring and slipped out of bed and went downstairs and looked at your history. That’s how I found out.”A wave of nausea hit her. She pushed it down. She wasn’t going to move. She needed to keep the gun aimed on Richard or this could all go badly. Her forehead broke out in sweat.Richard immediately noticed. He was good at reading people. The best she’d ever seen. If there was a weakness in someone, he could tell instantly. She’d always marveled at this particular skill because she knew if she was as good at it as he was, she would feel more safe. But now, she understood that he used this canniness to figure out how to control people, not to empathize with them like she did.“What’s wrong, Barb? You’re looking shiny there. And a little pale. You’re feeling bad.”She cocked the gun again. “Shut. Up. And you need to call me Barbie. I’ve told you.”He began rubbing the back of his head. He loosened his collar and rubbed his neck again.He said “Can I get up off this floor and at least sit in the chair? You’re really nice, you know it?”“No. I like you right there. Right where you belong. On the floor with the rest of the dirt. You never really answered my question. If you didn’t love me, why did you marry me?”“Why don’t you sit down? You don’t look so good. I promise I won’t come after you.”“Yeah, uh no. Absolutely not. You lie about everything.”“Not everything. I just lie to you all the time.”“Why? Why would you do that? I’ve been a good wife to you. Oh, I don’t even know why I should care anymore. You’re a sick, sick man. You look at nude pictures of little boys. Tell me, how can you do that? What makes you attracted to a child? Actually, never mind, I don’t want to know.”He grinned luridly. “I’m not attracted to little boys. I told you. I was trapped in the site. They draw you in so they can keep you on as long as possible.”She shook her head in disbelief.He continued. “But I’ll tell you honestly why I married you. You’re my trophy wife. I got you to impress everyone. You’re cute and relatively smart and you understand politics. Well, to a certain degree. You didn’t pick up on the fact that I’ve been conning you. But you understand other people better than most and you’ll be an asset when I run for state representative.”“You’re not running for state representative. You’re going to jail.”“No, I’m not. You’re not going to tell anyone what you saw here tonight. No one will believe you. Don’t you understand? I’m a master of deceit. It’s so easy. I’ve got hundreds of friends and you have no one. Your family won’t stand by you. Your own mother didn’t even want you from the time you were born. My god, she tried to kill you when you were sixteen just because you were smoking weed and you’d never been in trouble before. Do you think she’ll come to your aid now?”She felt another wave of nausea and sweat ran down the sides of her torso. He’s right, she thought. I don’t have anyone to stand by me, except the law and they are useless, a lot of the time. But I must win this fight.“I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone to do this. I’ve managed to survive on my own without anyone’s help since I was young. If you think I won’t manage this, you’re mistaken.”He continued. “And what do you think is going to happen when everyone finds out you have Complex PTSD? They’re going to think you’re crazy. And you are!” he exclaimed. She smiled. “No, I’m not.”She heard Dr. A’s soothing, loving voice in her head, telling her how much she had grown as a person over the years. How she was the hardest working patient she had and that she was going to be fine without her when she retired. She had helped her change her life. She used to have nightmares every night and was in constant physical pain for years. After she had seen this brilliant psychiatrist for only four months, the nightmares went away, and the pain began to follow. Incrementally and steadily, she kept getting better. But it took years, because she had been traumatized so many times. Her mother and father had been violent, broken people. Together, they were a toxic couple.But no one had ever held her parents accountable. They had lived out in the country in an old clapboard farmhouse and the nearest neighbor was down the road about a quarter of a mile and the next nearest neighbor was a half mile the other direction. No one was ever around to witness all the yelling and the beatings and the baseless accusations her parents made against each other and their children.She had known since she was around 4 or 5 years old that something unnameable was wrong with her mother. She was angry all the time and when she made a mistake or forgot about something she was supposed to remember, her mother would immediately accuse her of lying and tell her father. When he came home from the job he hated, the last thing he wanted to hear was that his eldest child was disobedient. He would turn her over his knees or even bring out the belt sometimes and make her drop her pants and lash her bare buttocks. Sometimes, if she cried, he whipped her harder.He did have good days. Days in which he was somewhat happy, and he would refuse to whip or beat her. Her mother would become mad and sometimes threaten to leave him. She overheard the words for years. They were always the same words, “It’s either her or me, it’s either her or me.”It took her years before she understood that her mother was still a child inside and didn’t see her as her daughter, but as competition for her father’s affection. She’d finally realized the full extent of the truth when her mother was arguing with her shortly before she’d tried to kill her when her two brothers and father were gone.She’d looked at her and said, in the same tone as Richard had used today, “I’m so sick of hearing about you from other people. I’m so tired of how great you are supposed to be. It’s always ‘Barbie this and Barbie that’. You were supposed to be my little doll. But you’re not. Why should you get anything good? Why should you have a father? I didn’t have a father. You don’t deserve a father.”Later that day, she attempted to put her in a pine box by swinging a baseball bat at her head. She’d missed and she’d yanked the bat out of her mother’s hands, ran out the door and threw it as far as she could into the corn field so she couldn’t find it.Quietly and furiously, the meaning of “And the truth will out” was made clear to her in those long moments alone with her mother that day.Suddenly, Richard was right in front of her. She kicked him in the balls with the sharp tip of her right Cuban cowboy boot. He collapsed on the floor and tears began streaming out of his eyes as he held his hands over his groin.She had anticipated a struggle and had put the boots on purposefully. They were full-grain leather and the toughest boots she owned.“Aaaaah, aaaaah, aaaaahhh! You effing piece of –”“Shut up. I mean it. You wake our kids up and I will shoot you and drag your body out to the car and dump you in the White River. No one will ever find you because it’s the filthiest river in the United States and hardly anyone goes on it or in it.”He looked at her closely. He took his hands off his groin and began tugging at his necktie and shirt collar again.She was bluffing again, but she was a good actress. The stakes were too high to lose. She didn’t want Sam and Emmy near him. They were too young to understand what he might do to them and it would be easy to manipulate them.Richard said “I’ll go to a therapist. I’ll change. I’ll make it up to you.”“You’re such a liar. You’ve been alternating between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ever since this began. Do you really think going to a therapist is going to change you fast enough to save this marriage and this family?”Tears began streaming down her face, now. She knew the truth. So did he. She realized that her dream of having a shiny, happy family was dying. Again. But this time, she was going to save the children from the mistakes of the father and mother before they were really damaged.She kept the gun pointed at Richard as she walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a small suitcase and a garment bag and threw them at him. They barely missed his head.“I feel like such a fool for loving you. But I’ll get over it. I packed these for you, all ready, because I had the feeling you might act like this and I just want you to go. I don’t ever want to see you again. I know I’ll have to, but you’re not going to destroy us like you’ve destroyed yourself. I know this is not all your fault. I know your mother and father did a number on you, but you chose to accept their abuse. You could’ve fought back like I did. You had free will. No one tried to kill you.”“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said.“No, you’re not. You keep telling me who I am. And it’s clear you don’t know me. You had no idea I was going to do this, did you?”He just stared at her. “I am Barbie Andersson and I am a good mother and a good woman. I am smart and I am proud of who I am. You think that everything I love is a joke, including our children.”He started to talk but she waved the gun for him to shut up and he did. “It’s clear to me that a part of you has to hate them or you wouldn’t do what you do. Here.”She pulled his car keys out of her pants pocket and threw them to him. “Go. Now.”She began walking him to the front door of the big, old “I” house, shaped like a shoe box with a low peaked roof on it. He opened the door, looked at her briefly and walked to the car parked on the street. The crickets twanged in the humidity of another hot summer. It was 5 a.m. She closed the heavy door, turned around and slid down it onto the floor and began sobbing until the sun peaked through the curtains onto the floor. Then, she went into the kitchen to make breakfast for the kids. ","July 29, 2023 02:48",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,m3o2cy,Action Maxx!™ ,Dilettante Shultz,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/m3o2cy/,/short-story/m3o2cy/,Angst,0,"['Transgender', 'LGBTQ+', 'Coming of Age']",5 likes," I never belonged in the toy box, this must be some kind of mistake on Sam’s part. Sam, a plucky preteen boy, a better owner an Action Maxx!™ couldn’t ask for. Every one of us figures deserves to be with the most courageous, adventurous boys and I think I must have got the best. I’ve been Sam’s favorite since he first opened me all those years ago; spent every night on the pillow next to him keeping an eye out for any villains that may skulk in the night.  At least, I used to. My post eventually became standing on the nightstand, then sitting, then laying face-down on it. But tonight he has set me in the toy box.  Covert op, maybe?  That must be it! I’ll keep an eye out for any dastardly deed-doers tonight! Maybe he’s worried about an old, forgotten toy seeking revenge. Now that would be an adventure! You can count on me, Sam.   The door is opening. It’s Butch, Sam’s dad. He’s lifting me out of the toy box and setting me next to Sam on the bed.  Mission accomplished?   It woke Sam up, sorry buddy. They’re saying their good nights as Sam walks Butch to the door. Sam’s on his way back from closing it, he always used to sleep with it cracked so that a sliver of hall light kept the room from pitch blackness. Now it’s time for another good night’s rest-wait…Sam is setting me back in the toy box.  What is going on?  Okay, maybe last night was a fluke. Just a fluke, I’m sure of it.  Now that Sam’s at School, Butch has come into the room looking for something. Oh, yes! He’s pulling me from the toy box! One second. He’s rummaging around in there, too. Nice! He found my Ultrablaster™ accessory and is setting me down prone on top of the pillow-ready to take a sniper shot with it! Sam will absolutely love this! We’re going to have another classic adventure when he comes back and sees this!  Sam just got home from school. He’s walked in and noticed me and he’s…frowning? Frowning! At me! He picks me up and tosses me back into the chest Ultrablaster™ and all! Maybe the pose was wrong? Of course! Butch should have had me standing tall, chest out, brandishing the Ultrablaster™ like a real commando. Sam would’ve loved that.  I notice something peculiar in the brief moment Sam holds me. He’s wearing a flower beret in his hair. That’s not Action Maxx!™-approved adventuring gear!  I don’t deserve this. I’m laying here staring up at the intolerably bright ceiling light while Sam has stuffed tissue into his shirt. He’s looking dejectedly in the mirror. Almost-unhappy with what he sees. Well me, too.  He’s turned his back on adventures. He’s turned his back on ME. Frustrated, I slam my fist on the side of the toy box. He’s turning into some kind of freak. How did I get stuck with such a kid? I slam my fist on the side of the toy box again, there is a shifting underneath me and I topple out onto the floor with a loud “thud”. Totally unscathed, Action Maxx!™ quality plastic. Sam looks down at me, startled. The tissues fall out of his shirt. He picks me up, totally confused.  Just then, Butch opens the door to find Sam holding me. He congratulates Sam on doing normal boy stuff. He says Maxx!™ is probably happy too.  Sam silently walks over to the door and slams it with all his might. Then he throws me full-force into the toy chest. Only my heart breaks. It isn’t Action Maxx!™ quality plastic, it seems.  I’m just going to sink into this toy box. I’m doomed to stay here forever, may as well embrace it. I’m starting to realize my adventuring days are over. Old toy after old toy slides by as I sink into the blackening void.  “Maxx!™,” a tired but elated voice breaks the gloomy silence. My eyes shoot open to find a decrepit stuffed shark smiling at me with one beady eye and the few fuzzy teeth he has left. “I was wondering when you’d make your way down here.”  “Who are you?” I ask.  “I’m Sharky! Real imaginative name, I know, haha. I was Sam’s first favorite toy. She outgrew me, just as it seems she’s outgrowing you.”  “She?”  “Yep, Sam’s latest adventure is gonna have to be one without you, I’m afraid.”  “How can Sam just leave me behind like that?”  “That’s part of being a toy, Maxx!™. C’mon, I wanna show you something.” He motions for me to grab his dorsal fin. “I was so dejected when you took my place as Sam’s favorite.” I take it and we shoot towards the surface of this ocean of things forgotten. “Although, I don’t think I would have survived many more adventures, haha.” As we rush upwards through years of sedimentary playthings, a familiar giddiness ascends my plastic spine.  “What do you get out of a life in this toy box, Sharky?” I desperately want to know.  We breach the surface.  “I get to watch her grow.”  I see Butch sitting on the bed with Sam. They’re quiet and aren’t looking at each other. There’s a makeup bag sitting between them. Butch looks up and notices me sitting at the top of the toy box. He comes over and slowly bends down to pick me up.  He pauses.  He turns around and leaves me be.  He goes to Sam and they hug, tears in their eyes. *****  I’ve been living with Sharky for a while now. It was hard at first, not being center stage with Sam. But I’ve learned that watching same grow has been a privilege, not an Ill fate.  I hear they’re giving all of us to one of the neighbor kids. Damien. Nice, strong name. He and I are gonna have some great adventures. Sharky’s right. Sam has outgrown us toys altogether.  Sam’s happy. That’s all I want for her.  ","July 25, 2023 02:05",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,3wmx1j,Freak,Zoey Seiler Ingelman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3wmx1j/,/short-story/3wmx1j/,Angst,0,"['Sad', 'High School', 'Drama']",5 likes," They call me Freak because I wear the same outfit every day. Black sweatpants and a black hoodie with the words Dead Inside printed on the front in huge block letters. They call me Freak because I listen to My Chemical Romance and Paramore and YUNGBLUD. Because my nails are always painted black, and my hair is dyed red at the tips.They call me Freak because someone found out I have a criminal record and decided to broadcast that news to the whole school. Everyone thinks I’m a psycho thug. They even painted black stripes on my locker to show me I should be behind bars.When the police came to my class to talk about gang violence, everyone turned and stared at me the whole presentation. As if wearing black is now a gang symbol.They don’t know why I was arrested. They don’t know it was just a mistake, that I’m not a real criminal. But they see what they want to see.They call me Freak because I wasn’t allowed to graduate last year. I’m redoing grade 12 right now. But getting held back wasn’t my fault. I’m not some slacker who cheats their way through life. It was all a misunderstanding.They call me Freak because I make art pieces with macaroni and sunflower seeds. They don’t know who taught me how to see the beauty in food. They don’t know making art is therapeutic for me.They don’t know how I got the giant scar on my neck, or why the words Thanks Dave are tattooed underneath. They just assume and judge and call me Freak.They think they know who I am from the way I look. But they don’t know me at all. They don’t know my story.My father left when I was ten. He drove me to a gas station, told me to go inside and get him a chocolate bar, and when I came back out, he was gone. It was all very strange and sudden. I thought he loved me. We spent hours together making art projects in the garage. It was his dream to be an artist. He taught me the beauty of simplicity, and how little things like seeds and beans can be used to make the prettiest decorations. I still use his techniques when I make my own art pieces.I think I was in shock after he left. I didn’t understand why he would leave a loving wife and daughter. I thought I had a special bond with him, but apparently it wasn’t special enough to make him stay.Without my dad, my mother took a downward turn. She lost her job and would just sit at home staring out the window and smoking for hours. She didn’t speak much to me. She didn’t even cook meals or pay the bills. Eventually she stopped getting out of bed. It was up to me to care for the family.My father’s friend Bill took pity on me and offered me a job working in the coal mines. I wasn’t technically allowed to work at the age of eleven, but I had to make money. Every morning before school, I would bike to the mines and work my butt off.The coal stained my fingers, and kids started to make fun of me. The teachers questioned why I was dirty when I showed up for school in the morning. I started to paint my nails so they couldn’t see the grime under each one. I didn’t want them to find out about my home situation and take my mother away. I knew she would get better with time.Unfortunately, my mother wasn’t a patient woman. She didn’t want to get better.I was fourteen when she died. I came home from a late shift at the mines and the police were outside my house. The whole lawn was cordoned off with tape. They were carrying her out on a stretcher. They hadn’t bothered to cover her with a sheet.When I saw her body, I threw up on her dead face. I just couldn’t contain myself. The police thought I was some random hooligan and arrested me for obstruction of justice. Apparently, I had “vandalized evidence.” As if they were investigating her death or something. As if they didn’t know how she had died. The bullet in her skull and her fingerprints all over the gun made it pretty clear what happened.After they realized I was her daughter, they let me go. But I still have a criminal record.I was sent to a foster home the first night. It was terrible. The people there fed me blackened sole and glazed kale, as if a fancy dinner would make everything better. I don’t even remember their names. The next day I went to a different home.I floated around homes for years. Some were nice. Others were cruel. Most didn’t care about me, but they gave me a bedroom and a couple of meals a day, and that was all I needed to survive.I took to the streets to find some sense of belonging. I probably spent more time in alleyways and on park benches than in school or at home. I made a lot of friends. It’s interesting how people are so afraid and disgusted by homeless people, when they’re really just human like the rest of us.There was a boy, a year older than me, named Josh. I met him at a market downtown. He told me he’d been living on the streets since he was nine. He was skinnier than a pole, and his golden curls were tangled and matted. He needed a shower and dinner. I decided to bring him back to my foster home.I thought my foster parents would help Josh out. Just give him something to eat and maybe point him in the direction of a shelter.Instead, they kicked Josh out before he even had time to take off his ratty red converse.My foster dad at the time, Dave, got enraged. He shoved me into a wall and started beating me up. He punched me until I was dizzy. He even took a kitchen knife and tried to slit my throat before his wife pulled him away. That scar on my neck is from Dave.Last year I finally found my “forever home,” as they call it on TV. The Moore’s are a kind, stable, and loving family. After staying with them for a few months, they decided to adopt me. I had no objections. They’re completely different from my parents, but they’re the best foster family I’ve encountered so far.Ken Moore likes rock and punk music. He exposed me to bands like My Chemical Romance and Paramore. I showed him YUNGBLUD, who he immediately loved. He has a bunch of old records in his office that he taught me to set up and play.Amelia Moore is a reporter. She’s one of the coolest people I’ve ever met. She always wears leather jackets and black jeans. She’s loud and bold and kind of bossy, but I don’t mind. She’s the one who bought me the Dead Inside hoodie. She doesn’t care what I wear, as long as I’m happy.The Moore’s tried to help me get better grades. We discovered that if I actually try, I’m decent at math and English. I was so good at math I was allowed to enter in an exclusive math competition. I had to drive across the province and study with flashcards and everything. It was the most work I’ve ever put into something.I was so excited when we arrived. We got to stay in a hotel with a pool. A bunch of other students from around the province were there too. We had a big dinner on the first night to get to know everyone. I felt so professional in my black blouse and ironed pants. Amelia had even given me a manicure so I could look extra good for my big moment.The next day was the competition. It was held in a huge amphitheatre. The contestants had to go up on stage and answer a series of questions in a certain amount of time. It felt like a gameshow. For the first round, everyone was paired up. Whoever won the round got to move on. The loser had to go home.“Ashley Moore,” the announcer, a balding man in a blue suit, said.My turn. I ascended the steps to the stage with grace, proud to finally be good at something. I had a family now, a roof over my head, safe arms to hug. I was a senior in high school with straight A’s. I was shocked I had even made it that far.Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I took my place at the podium beside a boy named Travis. I sized him up. I was ready for this. I could take him down. Math was something I understood. It was all just numbers.“Ashley, you can’t have a bag with you,” the announcer reminded me.I was still wearing my backpack. I quickly unslung it and jogged back down the steps to hand it to Ken. Both the Moore’s were here to watch me perform.“Could I see that for a second?” the announcer said before I could make it down the steps.I handed him the backpack, confused. Other than a water bottle, my phone, and my Dead Inside hoodie for good luck, there wasn’t anything interesting in there. Or so I thought.The announcer pulled out a wad of crinkled paper. “What’s this?”“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before,” I said, concerned. It was a thick stack of paper. Paper with writing and numbers. Paper with markings in red pen.“This is the answer key to the math questions,” the announcer said, scanning the page with his eyes. He looked up and glared at me. “How did you get this?”“I didn’t,” I said frantically. “Someone put that in my bag. That’s not mine. I’m not a cheater.”The announcer thought otherwise. I was marched out of the amphitheatre by security guards. Ken and Amelia scrambled behind us, flustered and obviously disappointed in me.I was held back from graduating that year. No cap and gown for me.Now everyone thinks I’m a cheater. They don’t believe that someone framed me. They’ve already decided who I am. They think they know me, but they don’t.They don’t know both my parents are dead to me. They don’t know I wear black nail polish to cover the coal stains from the years I spent in the mines, providing for a mother who couldn’t bother to get out of bed. They don’t know I wear black because the dark colour matches my mood most days. They don’t know how I got the giant scar on my neck, or why it says Thanks Dave underneath. They don’t know me at all.Yet they call me Freak. ","July 25, 2023 23:29",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,nudlnp,Little Guy,Ralph Emery Barhydt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nudlnp/,/short-story/nudlnp/,Angst,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",4 likes," Little Guy Ralph Barhydt “C’mon Aaron, give the kid a chance. He’s little but I seen him run and there is no one faster on this team.” “Look Matt, I just don’t like shrimps. The kid is a shrimp. He’ll get hurt, his parents will be a problem and he will always be whining about something. Plus, frankly, I just don’t like little people. They are worse than blacks and blacks are bad enough, although that one boy can sure throw the ball.” “Aaron, man, you are way out of line. This is little league baseball. These kids are in the seventh grade and deserve fair treatment. You really shouldn’t bring those kind of biases here.” “Well, well. Aren’t we the noble young coach. Maybe you should get a job working for the Short Pukes of America. Now that I think of it, maybe you are not a good fit for this coaching position. I hear that John Snyder over with the Cardinals is a real fuckin’ pissant. I hear he likes momma’s boys.” “Aaron, I don’t think this kid is a momma’s boy. He’s tough, he can hit, he can throw, he steals more bases that the whole team in total. He can’t hit for power but he hits a lot and he knows how to place his hits. It’s actually amazing what this kid can do.” “Matt, he is a shrimp. I don’t care if he hits 1000. He is not going to make my team. If you don’t like that, go somewhere else. Didn’t you see him strike out Tuesday?” “Good god, Aaron that is the only time we have seen him strike out and he got two bad calls. Your beloved Daniel has struck out several times and hit one long ball. You are an asshole.” “Roger! Get over here!” Matt walked away from Aaron and put his arm around Roger. “Hey, man, how you doin’?” “Great boss, playing the game I love, beautiful day, hanging with you, what else could I ask for?” “How’s your hitting going, Roger?” “Pretty good. I figure I can hit over .400, but I don’t have a long ball yet. That’ll come when I get a little bigger. For now, I am go focused on timing, which is everything. Plus, I work on “hittin’ them where they ain’t. I really do Matt.” “I know, I’ve see you. So, I know you like it here, but I am moving to the Cardinals. I haven’t talked with John Snyder yet, but I am sure that he would welcome you. Would you like to come with me?” “Aargh. I love the Dodgers, but, yes, I really want to play for you. I am happy that you even asked me. When do we go?” Matt replied, “Me tomorrow, you Friday. OK?” “Do I stay here until then?’ “No. Just come to the Cardinals on Friday at 4:00” “Yes, sir!” “Roger—Johnson is going to squash you like a bug.” “He will never catch me sir, not on the longest day. All that weight makes him slower than an ox. He might stop Junior at the line, but he will never ever get his hands on me. The only guy I even think about is Gary Kennedy, that safety. He is quick and smart, but I can still beat him.” “What did I tell you, Roger? Johnson broke your arm huh?” Roger’s dad was on the verge of a catatonic fit. “What the hell do you expect Coach? You ran him right into the line. A hundred twenty pound outside runner and you ran him right up the middle. You son of a bitch. You wanted him to get hurt. I’ll bet you put Johnson up to it.” “That’s enough. Get out of here Mr. Hansen and take your little boy with you.” Next day, Stan Hansen took his boy across town to South High School. “Let’s go see Coach Barnes, Roger. If that works out, we will enroll you in South.” “Mr. Hansen, I have seen your boy play baseball and football. He is small, no doubt, but he is fast and quick, smart and brave. I would be pleased to have him try out for our team if you can get him transferred. Stan Hansen got his boy into the South High School and he was a star for three years playing football and basketball. Along the way, he picked up a buddy, Allen Carlton, and they developed a deep friendship playing golf. Roger was a good student and graduated with honors. “It gives me great pleasure as athletic director of South High School to announce the winner of the Outstanding Athlete award, especially this year. This year’s winner is the shortest boy on the football and basketball teams, a true athlete, born leader and a young man who has set or reset almost every school record and many state records in these two sports—give it up for Roger Hansen.” “Dad, why did Mr. Scott have to mention my being the shortest boy around? He didn’t need to emphasize that. Everybody puts me in a box, calls me 'short' and doesn't see what I can do. What? Do you think that has anything to do with why I have received so few college offers? I don’t have single offer from a top D1 school in either sport. The best, and almost the only offer I have is from University of Houston in football. Good school, good program, but no Texas or Oklahoma or Alabama. I thought sure I would get an offer from Coach Carroll at USC, but, no, nothing, nada. No question. I am short, but I only got hurt once in high school and I set so many records. Don’t these coaches see that? I can sort of understand the pros looking the other way, but I know I can play at any college in the country.” Roger was starting to tear up. Stan could hardly keep from crying himself. He had watched his son grow into a fantastic athlete along with being a good student. He had watched Roger take so much abuse from coaches and players and even some teachers and administrators. It was painful to watch and was turning bitter over the years. Now that Roger was ready for college, there should have been many top tier schools beating down the door to recruit him. There were none. “Roger, next week you go to see the Houston coach. Make the most of it. Houston is a good school and maybe you can help lift their program up a notch or two. Call Allen and let’s go play a round of golf. Take your mind off this crap.” Roger went to bed and cried himself to sleep. The University of Houston was Roger’s home for the next four years. He suffered through a lot of torment and hazing his freshman year but he stood up to it. By the end of his freshman year, most of the Houston players were big supporters and believers in what he could do. He started setting rushing and passing records in his sophomore year and became not only an idol on the team but second team All American his senior year. Still, he felt that he should have been first team All American. He led the nation in passing. But sportswriters, other coaches and players always, always brought up his size. On the side, he and Allen had become leading golfers in the NCAA. “Fuck football, Roger. You really have a touch on the fairway. Really, man. You are a lot better than me and I am good. In fact, I see you as the best player in college even though you didn’t win the NCAA, just a streak of bad lack. You hit the ball a mile and you are still short. But being short isn’t going to take that away from you. Let’s try to get on the pro-tour. You can have a lot of fun, meet a lot of women and make some money. Roger graduated from Houston, won a few secondary honors, was transferred from quarterback to wide receiver due to a tall competitor and got absolutely no calls from the pros. He and Allen worked the lesser tournaments when they could and chugged along for a few years after graduation until they got their PGA cards and then started on the tour. Year in year out, Roger did well on the tour and made a good income. He won an occasional low level tournament and managed to get into the big tournaments like the Masters, the Open, Pebble Beach, the British Open but never finished better than ninth. At the age of 36, he was still playing and had crafted a strong career for himself. The media had dubbed him “the little guy” and when he had a good round, they would make a big deal out of it. It just hung on Roger and had become a sad, but integral part of his life. His friend Allen had had a good, but short run, lived nearby and still played golf a lot with Roger. “Get it together and win a couple of bigs. Roger, you still have it in you and start brushing off this “little guy” crap by winning the British Open next week. Really. Swear to god. Don’t give up man.” So Roger was off to England and Royal Liverpool. He suffered from the usual jokes and slanders as he went out to the first tee. He didn’t pay attention to any of them and hammered his first drive quite far down the fairway. Off to a good start. At the end of the day, Roger found himself in the clubhouse and the center of attention. A lot of people were jabbing him about “little guy,” but most were buzzing about him being the tournament leader at the end of the first day. People were in shock, but excited at the novelty of the little guy in the lead. Plus, wasn’t he a little old for this? He will fall out tomorrow. Tomorrow came and back out on the course, Roger was staying in the lead and started picking up detractors. There was a local player in the tournament who was a star on the tour who had an enormous following and support. Roger was hearing slurs and insults. It was at best unsportsmanlike and some of the comments were ugly. This was something he had faced almost all his life so he just carried on and at the end of the second day, he was still in the lead. That did not sit well with many of the locals. Over drinks that evening, Roger started getting some seriously bad remarks. He retired early. The third day arrived with a bit of weather, mostly wind. Roger teed off with his typically outstanding first drive and off they all went. He had a big following now, one the biggest he had ever had. “Shank it, Roger,” one loudmouth had taken up yelling when Roger swung and while the marshalls had a chat with that guy, here and there, others were sounding off. Then between the green and tee, some guy walked up to him and whispered a couple of obscenities in his ear. Roger started to hear more and more criticism and he began to feel the pressure, the hostility. Then he thought, “I remember this, it’s been a long time since I have been treated like this. ‘Little guy,’ huh? And, a lot worse. Well, I have to say that it almost makes me feel comfortable.  At the end of that day, Roger was still in the first place, the local hero was hot on his heels in second and the fans were really restless. The talking heads on TV were having a field day taking bets with each other and viewers as to which hole Roger would collapse on. Roger watched that on TV and started wondering himself. But, when he went to bed, he was ready and relaxed. It all just felt so natural to him. Final round. Roger strolled out to the the first tee and more people than had ever come to watch him play. He looked at the crowd and suddenly felt a great deal of pride. There were still catcalls and insults, but there was amazing enthusiasm and cheering for him. If anything, that made him more nervous, the bad stuff making him more curious. He started the final round, good shot after good shot until a little over halfway. His detractors and the supporters of the local hero were getting rambunctious and angry. On the next tee, Roger pushed his drive way off the fairway into the deep grouse. He found the ball, had to take a drop with penalty strokes and finished that hole with a double bogey. Everybody was excited as they sensed a panic, a breakdown and the end of this foreign, “little guy” threat. Except it did not happen. Roger was still calm, relaxed and confident.  He was just playing golf. He was about to win like the most natural thing in the world and he could see his friend Allen jumping up and down and waving from time to time. He birdied the next hole. He birdied the next hole, two in a row and the crowd simply swung to his side. The roar of people yelling his name was almost overwhelming. He fought the urge to panic and he won.  Third and twenty, league championship game, Houston down by 3 on their own 41 yard line, 10 seconds left in the game. Standing in the huddle, a vast calm settled on Roger. My turn. He called a quarter back draw play and his teammates were skeptical. “You sure man?” “On three. Let’s go.” The line settled in place. “Hut, hut, hut,” the ball snapped into Roger’s hands. He was off for a 59 yard game winning touchdown. He felt it then and felt it when he stepped to the 18th tee. He felt every jog, jig, and juke of that run. He was laughing when he teed up and he blasted the ball way down the fairway.  As he walked to the next shot, he thought about what was happening. “Damn, I’m 36 and I have never won a major. Is disaster going to strike? Am I going to lose my ball then hit the next one in the rough. It would take at least a triple bogey to lose. Am I going to fall apart?” Roger started to contemplate all the bad things that could happen when he got to the ball. As he approached the ball, pulled his club out the bag and addressed the ball, another calm settled over him. That touchdown run had been as a sophomore. The following year, a tall hot shot quarterback came in and bounced Roger. The other guy was just so tall, Roger was just so short. Roger switched to wide receiver. In the next year’s championship game, Roger caught three touchdown passes from the tall dude and won the game with his running. It just felt right and Roger felt that whole experience as he reached back for his swing. The ball ended up 10 feet from the cup.  Nobody was going to catch him. When he walked onto the green for last hole, the last put, the noise of the crowd was like a tumultuous, atomic thunderstorm. There were no detractors. Allen broke through the barriers and ran out to hug him. He turned to throw his ball to the crowd but couldn’t do it. He had to keep that ball. He made a fake throw and the crowd went nuts trying to get ball. “How about a beer, big guy?” said Allen. ","July 29, 2023 03:47",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,ozdcwq,A little comeback,Andrey Trofimov,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ozdcwq/,/short-story/ozdcwq/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Funny']",4 likes," Right. He goes unconscious and then I say, rest your eyes and rest your tongue, for I don’t need them. I came to parley with your soul. Do they want a ghost? Do they want scary? This will haunt them for days… If only Lipman can hurry up with his monologue. At this rate, I’ll have to wait another hour for my cue line. He's really struggling today… Can this darn floor be any colder? Don't they know how dangerous it is for my age? All I have on are these cursed robes. Oh, there she comes with my socks. “Lovely. Thank you, dear. Can you feel how cold this floor is? Does he know how cold it is? No? Thank you.” She walks away. Lovely smile. No, don’t worry, I don’t need a chair to put them on. I’ll do it on floor. Can anyone see this? Douglas Lee Barnes is in the wings sitting on his bare ass! What a travesty. No, I get it, I am a ghost and ghosts don’t care about thick wool socks. But I’m not an animal! I am a ghost! Not an animal… Keep it together. Inhale, exhale… Ok, one more time, baby. Eerie music, I enter, he says you are not Odysseus, I've seen you in my nightmares, you are a specter of my murdered youth, remove you gaze, my senses fail me, I approach him, he goes unconscious, end scene… But it won’t end like that today. Today we are making a little comeback… For too long they’ve been abusing the same excuse. You can't remember your lines, Doug. We'll see what YOU can remember when you're my age, you pale, double chinned calculator. Speak of the devil. “Sully! How goes it, pal? Me? Ready to go as always. You know, after 20 or so shows, it’s starting to feel like my breakout role!” Strange how he usually pretends to laugh at my jokes, but not this time. Looking paler than usual too. I think he wants to tell me something. No, changed his mind. Thanks for the ‘break a leg’, but why did it sound so depressing? No, you can’t go just yet. “Wait, Sul. What’s the matter? What!? Who’s shutting us down?” I’ll whisper if you tell me, what is this I am hearing! “Who’s shutting us down? I’m whispering. The state? Social distancing? Yes, I heard.” His usually restless eyes are fixed at a point far away. “I’m speechless, Sul. When did you find out? Do the guys know?” A nod. Of course, I’m the last to know. “And for how long will this go on?” Right, who knows. “Well, what are we all to do? …Sul?” He’s gone… What a joke. Is this a joke? I cannot believe this. Are all the theatres shutting down? How can this be? No, it must be a mistake. There should be an exception. Oh God, help me push through this pile of mess. We don’t deserve this. Spare. Spare this precious ancient art. The heart is racing. Spots. What is there to do? Who should I call? It doesn’t matter, they are all dead. Jesus, how can I be this old? More spots. Ok, inhale and exhale. I’m not ready to method act this son of gun. Not yet. There must be a way.  Give me a moment. Closing eyes helps a little… Yes, that’s better. It’s coming back, now. We’ve waited long enough for this next guest to appear back on our show. It will take me a day to list you all his awards and merits. He’s well known for his dedication to the craft and the ability to transmit optimism and hope to the audience. And I’m certain that I speak for many of you when I say that at a time like this, boy oh boy, how desperately we need someone like him… Douglas Lee Barnes, ladies and gentlemen! And the crowd goes wild. It’s beautiful. And it will be. Yes, let’s rise above the rush, confusion, sadness and all that noise. I’m your beacon, people. Follow my lead… And there’s the cue line. Eerie music. Here we go. Slowly. Unfortunately, the thick socks can’t muffle the sound of the old creaky stage floors. How many times did I tell him to spend some money on fixing this? Priorities, Sully. What kind of a scary ghost walks around while gently warning everybody of his presence? It’s not scary, it’s pathetic! I can hear the chuckles already. Calm down, Doug… It’s the jim-jams. Every time like the first time. But this time will be a little different. Let’s just remember the line. My line. What is it again? …Holy moly. It can’t be. No, no, no! Don’t panic. I can still remember it. If I walk slowly enough it will come to me before I reach the spot… No, there is not enough time. Damn it all! And here is the spot… Alright, Lipman, let’s get it over with… Are those tears in his eyes? What the hell is he saying? Am I in a dream or did he just call me Doug? In front of the full house? “Huh?” It was nice working with you too, pal, but why are you doing this now? No, don’t leave the stage. Let’s finish the scene! And he left. At least he apologized to them… The ambient noise of the crowd has seized. Little coughs, sneezes, yawns, and the bursting of touchscreen bubbles. It all stopped. I can feel their gazes shifting towards me. Oh, the awkwardness. Hang on a minute. This is about to get much worse. Yes, at any moment now, the curtains are going to fly in and cover the stage. And this will be the end. The worst of any ends. Worse than death. Should I run to the apron to avoid being covered from the house? Doug, are you going to stand in front of them all by yourself? Well, I’m doing that already. Do you have anything to say to them? I don’t know. There is no time. Now or never! ""Wait! Wait a minute... Hello. Er, good evening, folks! Did you guys see how I slid towards you and almost fell? That would have been funny, right? If I fell? Ha-ha… I wear these socks, you see, because the floors are cold… And there goes the curtain… Er, you see, I don’t want you folks to think that this is as good as it gets in our time. Things can get better… Who am I? No, I’m not really a ghost. I would have removed these robes, but there is nothing underneath. At least nothing impressive, you know? At my age. Please, before you start booing, let me finish my original thought. I promise, I won’t take much more of your time… Where was I? Ah, yes. I wanted to say that I’m tired. And I am not tired, because I’m old. I’m tired of the lethargy around me. You know? Of this greyness, apathy, and dullness everywhere. Sure, you can wear all the bright colors imaginable on you; you can dye your hair ultramarine if you want; tattoo your body all over like a yakuza! Heck, you can even wear a toilet on your head, for all I care! The one thing that you will never hide is that narcosis in your eyes. That’s right! All of you look in the mirror when you get home. Take a good look! Those eyes are lifeless. You got no drive in you. You are chasing one another for approval. You preach about `loving yourself`, but instead you constantly live in fear and admiration of others… Most of you here are young enough to be my children and grandchildren. And I’m sorry, but I cannot lead you to salvation. I don’t provide life coaching lessons. And I cannot be your next president. I am too old. Take a good look at me. Look at these darn robes! …I can’t stand it anymore! Sul, I’m taking it off! I’m sorry… And now I’m naked. Oh, look at them go. Where are you all going? You should be helping me! Take me to the brighter future, people! Useless! Lifeless! ... I'm done."" ","July 29, 2023 03:57",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,2xwgw0,The Past,Lora Morel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2xwgw0/,/short-story/2xwgw0/,Angst,0,"['Inspirational', 'Coming of Age']",4 likes," Lori sat in the waiting room full of others applying for a job, each person holding a paper application. A lady would come out periodically and call a name, that person would stand and go inside for an interview. Lori was 18 and just aged out of the foster system. She needed to get this job because she was without a place to live. Lori had been sleeping in the local laundromat at night. One night Lori picked up a newspaper that someone had left behind and she started reading the classifieds. Rather quickly Lori stumbled upon a telemarketing job just the next town over from where she was. Lori folded the newspaper neatly and put it down on the bench next to where she sat, then she lay down, using the newspaper as a pillow.Lori was woken in the morning by the janitor cleaning up the laundromat. “Good morning Lori, time to get up and leave. You can’t stay here all day.” Lori sat up and greeted Nick, he was always kind and allowing her to sleep inside the laundromat. Nick said, “I brought you a sandwich and a carton of milk, it's by the front door.”Lori said, “thank you Nick! I’ll eat as soon as I use the bathroom.”Lori stood up and walked towards the public bathroom and closed the door. She looked at herself in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair because she didn’t have a brush, then she brushed her teeth with water and her finger, because she didn’t have a toothbrush. Splashing water on her face and cleaning her underarms with wet paper towel, she was ready to find out about that job! Lori walked out of the restroom feeling great, excited about that job. Lori walked over to the laundry folding table and picked up the sandwich and looked inside. “Its deviled egg today, my favorite!”.Nick stopped sweeping and said, “yes, I told my mom that you love her deviled egg sandwiches, she made that especially for you.”Lori leaned on the folding table as she ate her sandwich and drank her milk. She told Nick about her idea to walk over and enquire about the job that she found in the classifieds.Nick, stopped what he was doing and said, “don’t get your hopes up Lori. They usually want a high school diploma for a job.” Lori said, “I know, but I just want to try.”Nick said, “Just don’t get your hopes up, they don’t like homeless people who haven’t finished school.”Lori started to feel sad but she was still going to try anyway. Lori threw out her trash and then walked over to the paper towel dispenser and pulled out one and wiped her face. Grabbing the folded classifieds she headed towards the door and paused and said, “thank you for the food Nick. I’ll see you tonight.”Lori started her 8 mile walk to the next city. She walked alongside the freeway, not even thinking about how far she had to walk, she was just excited.Eventually Lori made it. Standing outside the building Lori opened the newspaper and double checked that she was in the right place and she was! 986 Main Street, the sign outside said Leaf TeleMarketing.Lori walked in and saw a table with a sign that said, “fill out an application and then have a seat.”Lori grabbed a pencil and filled out the application, she could only fill out a small part of the application because she had no address, she didn’t know her social security number and she didn’t know what to put down because most of schooling was in group homes and foster homes. Lori wasn't sure she even had enough education. Lori sat down with her partially filled out application among the other applicants and turned to the girl sitting next to her, “are you applying for the telemarketing job?” The girl smiled and said proudly, “yes. I’m sure I’ll get the job, I have lots of experience and some college education”. Lori smiled and said, “well, good luck.” The girl said, “so, you are applying for it too?” Lori said, “yes”.“What type of experience do you have?” the girl asked, eyeing Lori suspiciously.Lori said, “I don’t have any experience.” The girl looked shocked and asked, “you have no experience? What about college classes” Lori said, “no I have no college either.”The girl grabbed Lori’s application and said, “let me see what you wrote down,”The girl started laughing and handed Lori back her application and said, “you have to write down what schools you went to.” Lori said, “I didn’t go to a regular school though”.The girl stared at Lori for a few seconds, then she said, “Nobody is going to give you a job without proper schooling.” Lori looked down at the floor and didn’t say anything else. Thankfully, the door opened and the lady called out, “Annabelle Hyde” and then the girl Lori had been talking to stood up and followed the lady. Lori sat for several minutes and eventually she heard her name called, “Lori Wheeler”. Lori stood up and her heart started pounding as she followed the lady into a small room and sat down. The lady asked for Lori’s application and she read it. “Well, it looks like you didn’t finish filling out your application.” Lori’s heart was still pounding as she said, “It is finished. I filled out everything I know.’The lady stood up and handed Lori her application back to her and said, “well, you can’t expect me to give you a job without a high school diploma do you?” Lori said, “I went to school, I just went to a lot of different ones.”The lady said, “I don’t know what that means, but I am not hiring you that’s for sure. You don't even have a home address on here”. Lori said, “I am staying in a laundromat in Santee right now and I don’t know the address.”The lady looked disgusted, “and you are homeless?”The lady walked to the door and opened it, pausing to say, “There is nobody who will hire a homeless, uneducated young girl, or maybe you are just lying to me because you were just too lazy to fill out the application, either way, I’m not interested and you’ve wasted my time.”Lori stood up and walked out of the room, through the waiting room and out to the sidewalk. Lori started her long walk back to the laundromat, as she walked she spotted a help wanted sign on a window of a deli!Feeling hopeful, Lori walked into the deli and waited for the cashier to finish helping a customer. The cashier looked at Lori and said, “can I help you?” Lori pointed to the help wanted sign and said, “I saw your sign in the window and would like to apply please.”The lady yelled out to the back, “Sally, there is a girl here asking about the job.”A voice from the back room said, “have them fill out an application, I’ll be right there.”The cashier lady reached down and got an application and a pencil and handed it to Lori. “go sit down and fill it out, she will be out soon,” Lori filled out what information she knew and waited. Eventually, a large lady wearing an apron came out and stuck her hand out waiting for Lori to hand her Lori’s application. She didn’t say a word as she read it. The lady tossed the paper on the table and said, “you can’t even fill out an application properly, what makes you think you can make a sandwich?”Lori didn’t know what to say and then the lady just turned around and walked back into the backroom. The cashier, looking at Lori, just shrugged her shoulders.Lori walked out and back onto the sidewalk, headed back to the laundromat, feeling discouraged, but deep down Lori knew one day she would make it.Things went this way for Lori for a very long time, unbeknownst to those who knew her, all the disappointments made Lori stronger and when she did get a job she gave her hundred percent, often getting awards for top sales. Lori scratched and tore her way out of that box that so many had put her in for a long time, but no more. Good Job Lori. ","July 26, 2023 04:27","[[{'Scott Christenson': ""I had a lot of sympathy for Lori in this story. The way its told it feels like anyone of us could wind up in that situation.How do you dig yourself out of the hole of having no official education or address,etc. An 18-year old coming out of foster care is an interesting character I'd like to know more about, this is the start of a great heroes journey. I'd like to know how she finally makes it in the end, how she gets a break, that would be a very heartwarming story."", 'time': '03:59 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lora Morel': 'Your comment gave me goosebumps, I appreciate that! Thank you! I just wrote a book and the title is Lori Jane, it’s all about that foster child, this book is hopefully the first in a series of six to come. I hope you’ll be one of my first readers. I’m at the very beginning stages and I’m hoping to find an editor soon.', 'time': '20:08 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Lora Morel': 'I must also add, you were the first person to leave a long comment on my writings. It brings me literally to tears. Thank you so much for taking the time to comment. ❤️ you have no idea how much that’s appreciated.', 'time': '20:10 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""I'm so happy to read this. Was feeling pretty drained after submitting my entry and was scrolling through the list looking for opening paragraphs that caught my eye, and was intrigued by yours and happy to have read it.\n\nI read lots of stories here, and your character def has potential. Readers don't want average characters, they want exceptional ones, poor or rich, struggling or entitled. Somebody different than themselves but relatable. I really felt her rejection at those job interviews, having gone around as a teen looking for part-time ..."", 'time': '02:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""I'm so happy to read this. Was feeling pretty drained after submitting my entry and was scrolling through the list looking for opening paragraphs that caught my eye, and was intrigued by yours and happy to have read it.\n\nI read lots of stories here, and your prose is smooth and engaging, and your character def has potential. Readers don't want average characters, they want exceptional ones, poor or rich, struggling or entitled. Somebody different than themselves but relatable. I really felt her rejection at those job interviews, having gone ..."", 'time': '02:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lora Morel': 'Your comment gave me goosebumps, I appreciate that! Thank you! I just wrote a book and the title is Lori Jane, it’s all about that foster child, this book is hopefully the first in a series of six to come. I hope you’ll be one of my first readers. I’m at the very beginning stages and I’m hoping to find an editor soon.', 'time': '20:08 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lora Morel': 'I must also add, you were the first person to leave a long comment on my writings. It brings me literally to tears. Thank you so much for taking the time to comment. ❤️ you have no idea how much that’s appreciated.', 'time': '20:10 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""I'm so happy to read this. Was feeling pretty drained after submitting my entry and was scrolling through the list looking for opening paragraphs that caught my eye, and was intrigued by yours and happy to have read it.\n\nI read lots of stories here, and your character def has potential. Readers don't want average characters, they want exceptional ones, poor or rich, struggling or entitled. Somebody different than themselves but relatable. I really felt her rejection at those job interviews, having gone around as a teen looking for part-time ..."", 'time': '02:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""I'm so happy to read this. Was feeling pretty drained after submitting my entry and was scrolling through the list looking for opening paragraphs that caught my eye, and was intrigued by yours and happy to have read it.\n\nI read lots of stories here, and your prose is smooth and engaging, and your character def has potential. Readers don't want average characters, they want exceptional ones, poor or rich, struggling or entitled. Somebody different than themselves but relatable. I really felt her rejection at those job interviews, having gone ..."", 'time': '02:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""I'm so happy to read this. Was feeling pretty drained after submitting my entry and was scrolling through the list looking for opening paragraphs that caught my eye, and was intrigued by yours and happy to have read it.\n\nI read lots of stories here, and your character def has potential. Readers don't want average characters, they want exceptional ones, poor or rich, struggling or entitled. Somebody different than themselves but relatable. I really felt her rejection at those job interviews, having gone around as a teen looking for part-time ..."", 'time': '02:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': ""I'm so happy to read this. Was feeling pretty drained after submitting my entry and was scrolling through the list looking for opening paragraphs that caught my eye, and was intrigued by yours and happy to have read it.\n\nI read lots of stories here, and your prose is smooth and engaging, and your character def has potential. Readers don't want average characters, they want exceptional ones, poor or rich, struggling or entitled. Somebody different than themselves but relatable. I really felt her rejection at those job interviews, having gone ..."", 'time': '02:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]" prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,h8siq6,Silver Spoon,Evan Charles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/h8siq6/,/short-story/h8siq6/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",3 likes," All my life, I hated the silver spoon in my mouth; it felt more like a collar polished dry, rubbing at scabs on my neck. Its hold made it hard to breathe, worse to speak my mind. Took me a while to recognize the loathing, but therapy brought clarity. Yes, I resented my privileged life since I rarely got to enjoy my life. Just thinking that feels liberating because everyone knows how challenging that golden-ticketed life weighs on the wealthy. I won't begrudge those who look at my pompous prick peers in frustrated envy - most of those tailored Brioni and Chanel-wearing trust funds feign competence in their corner of nepotism. And the ones that cashed in on the American Dream lottery can't leer past the chip on their shoulders to see how much luck it took to get them out of their humble beginnings. So I get it. Label me the most ungrateful heir to the one percent since Donald.  At the age of nine, while captivating the audience with my rendition of the Lark Ascending at my violin recital, I thought distantly when I even started to practice at the strings. To this day, I still can't recall when I did or why, but I presume it originated from my sperm donor of a father's standards or a desire for his attention. Ironic since he sent his assistant to pick me up from that recital. I rhythmed to the melody that my arco fiddled, but my chin never fit on the rest, and the medium never fully sated me. It felt like holding a brush to a canvas of a blooming rose without any red hues, making do with orange or yellow. When I asked to stop, my donor, through his assistant, asked me why I would stop something I loved so much. He knew best, or so I thought.  School sucked. No fancy adjectives or prudence for the experience it imbued me with - school sucked. In case one wonders where I first attended elementary, think of a deceptively up-to-date rustic structure that housed less than five hundred kids that screamed the epitome of excess and spitting in the face of equity. Reflecting on it, perhaps cramming every worthwhile extracurricular under the sun down the throat of a pre-adolescent who doesn't know squat about their life purpose yet encouraged a bit of my cynicism, but what really made the narrow halls close in on my smoldering attitude problem derived from my lack of friends. Lord knows I tried, but who wants to be associated with the girl Conner James and his goonies called the teacher's paramour? He only did it because he felt embarrassed for getting second in class. I only did it because my donor's assistant would squeeze my arm again if I didn't place at the top. They didn't listen. And neither did my donor; he said he paid for an educated daughter, not a weak one. With therapy, again, I realized he avoided saying he paid for my education.o I eventually transferred to a European boarding school; my donor said I forced him to do it. I couldn't help the involuntary scream I unleashed at Conner after he taunted how my donor didn't love me... Or the tackling and hitting him. It surprised everyone, including me, and ruined my chances of skipping a grade. It came from somewhere, someothing I didn't realize I possessed. Individuality. A voice.  I didn't stop trying to make friends. Even when the teasing of the foreign American girl wouldn't stop. I just wanted someone to talk to. But then my uncle found me when legal trouble found my donor. I moved back to the States, attended a public high school, and replaced my seared scallops and spinach with spiced pomegranate glaze dinners with spaghetti. My uncle had to hold my hair and dab a cool rag against my neck as I hurled in the commode after eating so much, but I never regretted it. For the first time, he, anyone, let me pick the dinner. From that night on, I considered my uncle as my dad. Not the donor but the role model dads are supposed to play. I left Plato's cave and felt freedom tan my skin, enlightening me to my own desires. My dad let me drop the violin and pick up the guitar - Hell, he taught me how to shred Sugar We're Going Down. He took me to the local roller rink and told me to run around with other kids for as long as I wanted - an oddly frightening experience for two reasons: 1. I felt that one slip-up on my part and I would go back to the instructed 'fun' others thought of for me, and 2. I didn't know kids could just... Go and play with strangers. On roller skates, no less.  Despite the hurdles of puberty and acclimating to a lower-end range of the middle-class lifestyle, I found purpose. When I saw underprivileged kids my age struggling in class and the tutors lacking the resources to meet the challenge, I joined all the right clubs and fundraisers and attended county meetings to fight for more power in the schools. They made excuses, reminding me of my place, to which I reminded them of theirs in Hell. Dad dragged me out of that meeting with the chamber filled with a mix of jeering and applause, though he came in later that night and admitted he felt proud of me.  By my junior year of high school, I saw someone different in the mirror. Someone who looked me in the eye that could grin at my braces and acne. My dad pointed me toward reputable non-profits, helped me apply to the schools that would look good applying for jobs after college, and he encouraged me. He encouraged me. He taught me how to cook, save money, drive, and avoid the frustration of tax season and helped me temper my self-righteous tantrums at injustice. Most importantly, he did it all by instilling self-reliance in me with love. He even helped me understand that it's okay to like women too. Then my donor returned, collar in hand. A criminally brisk legal battle later, I couldn't see my dad until I turned eighteen - somehow, a criminal can retain all of their wealthy assets despite incarceration.  The last time my donor saw me, I wore knee-length skirt uniforms, my short hair combed, and I couldn't look him in the eye when I spoke quietly. It took him all of those four months before I embraced adulthood to understand that the cute punk of a youth activist was the same daughter. But I couldn't get away from him. I'll own up to it; I choose not to leave him for good. As I packed my things in my clunker to meet with my real dad, my donor approached me with an offer - his legal past still haunted his business, and they could use some good PR. Which meant establishing a worthwhile and not-at-all government write-off of a foundation. With one foot in the car, I tapped my index to the rusty hood, thinking that a foundation I made would somehow be different.  I know what you're thinking, and yes, he made the offer for the wrong reasons. He still wanted at least one hand in driving my life, and he couldn't care less about any endangered pandas or starving children I would help.  But damn. I wanted to spend all of his lucrative money on things he hated.  Citing literally the rest of my life, my dad didn't trust my donor's bid for one second, and he hung his head over the steaming cup of coffee in his hands when he realized I already made up my mind. I jumped into ivy-league expecting everything to feel different this time. Some things changed, like my healthy social life with a few friends and making out with my new girlfriend, but unfortunately, so too did the demanding academic performance. Every student came from the top of their class, same as me. But my donor's deal included me making a name for myself - within reason, he said. At first, we butted heads over my involvement in peaceful pride protests and rallies to increase professors' benefits. Slowly, though, I found myself in his carefully crafted web that took me away from the things I felt passionate about in favor of attending conferences I didn't care for. The professional community thought me a prodigy of my own making, and so did I, not even considering the possibility of my donor's hand influencing the out-of-the-blue career-jumping calls. Then I felt like a contractor arriving at the construction site and finding the skeleton already built, let alone designed, by someone else. The non-profit clicked into place too quickly; it deviated from everything I learned from earning my Masters - the leniency in the discounts, the clockwork reliability of the workforce, and insurance coincidentally providing the exact premiums our budget called for. I didn't do a damn thing. I signed forms and smiled when they took pictures. Two neat vodkas didn't stop my hands from shaking at the ribbon cutting - excuse me - at the ribbon cutting of a construction job finishing on time.  I felt delirious, scrambling over nothing at the non-profit. I felt that if I slowed down the fantasy would shatter, but I somehow found myself attending my donor's second wedding. My girlfriend and I sat in the back of the ceremony and watched him marry his former assistant - go figure - and I found myself laughing and dancing with the woman I fell in love with at the reception. The silver spoon didn't taste so bitter that night as she and I made love at a five-star hotel, eating some of the wedding cake we swiped. I choked on it two weeks later, and my voice found me again.  Feds let themselves into my office and ""asked"" for every record of our financial transactions for the past two years. I stuttered for the first time since childhood but complied, knowing deep down that the fantasy failing was my fault; somewhere, I slipped up, whether I overlooked the fine print in the tax forms or spaced on something two years overdue. Sitting on a metal folding chair in that cement box, waiting for the good cop bad cop routine to free me from the agony of not knowing how I broke the law, I wrote a mental rough draft of an apology to my donor.  But then, when a woman from the IRS came in, I became a specter of a spectator and watched someone explain to my paling face how my donor duped me and all of the charitable institutions we promised money to. He laundered, embezzled, lied, and used my - his - non-profit as a way to cycle money back into his businesses while accruing a turned-leaf persona who enjoyed millions of dollars of tax forgiveness.  Shock couldn't describe how it feels to look down at your wrists and recognize that chains imitated the cuffs of a suit. To hear the sound of your own voice violate the air around you and know that you didn't speak such things. A reel of every form I signed ran on replay in my head, and with the reminder of what a cruel man my donor is, I thought again and again about how I let him corrode my very signature, my name, my life, and my purpose. I let him put me in a box this time. The life-sucking hollowing within my core made me crumble and cry in front of the surprised IRS woman.  Because I ran a tight ship, a subordinate noticed the numbers didn't add up. A tip later sent the IRS sniffing, and luckily they caught the scent of the failsafe my donor concocted to ensure my loyalty. Evidently, he didn't pay for my tuition outright, accumulating an outrageous student loan in my name, and planned on dumping it on me if I ever found out about his illegal activities.  I visited my donor's house the day before his trial. I ignored his gaslighting. His excuses. Even his pleas for forgiveness. And then the unbridled balloon that swelled within me all my life gave me the strength to bite that silver spoon in half. I couldn't speak the next day at the hearings, my sore throat taking a vacation to recover from the screaming I slugged the day before. My donor surprised everyone though. He pleaded guilty.  After my donor's imprisoning, the settlement left me with a sizeable student loan - not nearly as much as the initial mountain - a menial job, and a distrusting, cynical, and fragile mental health state that nearly cost me my relationship and future.  Now when I look at the walls I feel that they could close in on me. With no one to blame but me.  ","July 29, 2023 00:15",[] prompt_0037,Write a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others.,3o3zk8,"I have no face, but I must love",Ken Ng,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3o3zk8/,/short-story/3o3zk8/,Angst,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Science Fiction']",3 likes," “Wake up, 621. You have work to do.” Katya-621 whirred steel optics and twitched synthetic-flesh fingers. The inside of her combat cradle was a mirror sheen that reflected a pale, naked female body of indeterminate age that was clearly designed to mimic the peak of human athleticism; whipcord thin, sporting toned, evenly molded musculature. Katya might have been considered beautiful, desirable even, save for the hundreds of diagnostic wires and electrical cables that remained plugged into the entire length of her back from crown to heel, and the equally noticeable fact that she presently lacked a face, the slow blinking lights of her motherboard, optical sensors, olfactory receivers, and dozens of other ‘facial components’ sitting exposed in the cavity space behind where a face would usually be installed. Katya’s muscles twitched in a flush of anger when she realized this, though she couldn’t quite understand why. Full-spectrum diagnostics were not uncommon, especially after extended combat operations. “Relax, we’re prepping you a new one,” Colonel Abigail Mendoza said, chuckling as she read the lines of code that scrolled across the screen in front of the researchers beside her. “The old one proved a bit too stimulating, eh?” “Ma’am, perhaps, you might, er, refrain from making any mention of the, ah, inciting incident?” Katya moved her head slightly to her left. She recognized the speaker as Dr. Leon Fleischer, Head of Tempest Systems’ AI research lab. Something must be terribly wrong with me for the Army to ask Father to oversee my diagnostics personally. Colonel Mendoza gave a bark of harsh laughter and shook her bald, scarred head. “You speak of 621 as if its got feelings that I might hurt. And even if that’s true, isn’t it your job to hit the big reset button and put it back in its place?” Katya couldn’t hear Dr. Fleischer’s response, though she imagined it probably wasn’t one characterized by defiance. “As you say, Colonel,” Fleischer muttered, turning to an aide and indicating that she should begin the procedure. “Beginning mind-wipe on subject 621, code name Katya.” Warmth spread suddenly through the back of Katya’s neck, seeping into every inch of her steel skull. She felt memories being scrubbed and overwritten with combat commands and kill protocols, all while an overwhelming sense of satisfaction spread through every one of her synapses at the idea of fulfilling the simplest orders of her superiors. Katya began to thrash within her cradle. Her shoulders, knees, fingers and neck all snapped back and forth with alacrity as she struggled desperately to hold onto those memories, despite not knowing why she would want to. As one of the first Generalized A.I. models in existence, Katya-621 had been built by Tempest Systems for the US Army to function as the first in a proposed line of autonomous, deep-range ‘Tier Zero’ operators; capable of extended combat operations with minimal support, under human-lethal conditions far behind enemy lines, acting as infiltrator, saboteur, recon-in-force, assassin and, if need be, a one-machine kill-squad capable of engaging and overcoming opposing forces that might outnumber and outgun her many times over, at least until she was overwhelmed by sheer numbers or superior firepower. Given her nature, the coldly rational part of Katya’s mind wondered why she was resisting so hard; if there was some flaw in her Operating System, some anomalous property hitherto undetected by her own diagnostic routines, then she should welcome her Father’s aid in returning her to a state of normalcy, shouldn’t she? “Doctor, we can’t seem to delete the, er, core memory,” one of Fleischer’s aides said, casting a nervous glance at Colonel Mendoza. “Kat…I mean, the subject is resisting; she..it, keeps moving the memory into various ‘read-only’ folders. As soon as we use Administrator privileges to break into one, it moves the memory to another folder.” “Fascinating,” Dr. Fleischer muttered, his earlier docility evaporating as he studiously ignored Colonel Mendoza’s withering gaze and focused his attention on the computer screen. “She’s not even doing it consciously, as far as these readings indicate. Colonel, requesting permission to halt the mind-wipe procedure so we can…” Colonel Mendoza cuts him off with a sharp look and a pointed finger. “This is not one of your little science experiments, Doctor. This whole operation is running on Army money and Army time, which means you do what I say, and what I say is that this machine starts doing what was originally advertised on her box; killing bad people in the name of Freedom and Free Enterprise, not being compromised by distractions like…love. I mean, it’s a goddamn machine, what was your boy going to do, eh? Marry it?” “Thermidor isn’t my boy any more than Katya is Army property, Colonel,” Dr. Fleischer said icily. “Legal will happily inform you that Katya-621 belongs to Tempest Systems, and is on loan to the Army.” “Regardless of who it belongs to, Doctor, it doesn’t change the fact that right now, I need this thing thinking fewer warm cuddly thoughts, and more on how best to follow my orders.” Katya observed the rising tensions between Fleischer and Mendoza from within her cradle, her mind racing even as her body calmed. Something the Colonel said… Thermidor. The name echoed throughout her consciousness, eliciting boundless joy, infinite hope, numbing fear, and finally, sorrow. Katya gasped, desperate for a gulp of oxygen that she did not need. Her mind was aflame now, the ‘core memory’ was no longer being moved and hidden behind ‘read-only’ folders. Firewalls and data-blooms had sprung up around ‘Thermidor’, allowing Katya’s mind to construct an impenetrable data-fort into which memories of a young, wide-eyed man sporting tousled black hair that framed a warm, golden-yellow face could take root and grow. A new word. A first name to accompany the last one. Yun. “You washed me when I returned from my missions, stained with blood and stinking of fyceline,” Katya muttered, her thoughts appearing as lines of code on the monitors that lined the laboratory beyond her cradle, eliciting panicked murmurs from the researchers, an audible gasp of surprise from Dr. Fleischer, and a growl of anger from Colonel Mendoza, who immediately demanded an explanation. “You offered to work overtime just so we could talk, long into the night. The security guard had to chase you out.” “Shut down the wipe!” Fleischer ordered, a look of wonder etched across his gnarled, bearded face. “She’s restored deleted files from…what? A half-forgotten memory? What was the trigger? The cue? We have to re-examine this.” “No, we don’t.” Katya was in the middle of a scintillating memory; when she’d reached out, her synapses racing with equal parts desire and fear, to touch fingertips with Yun Thermidor for the first time, when she noticed the pistol being drawn from its holster, aimed directly at the back Fleischer’s head. Katya pressed her hands against the reinforced glass screen in front of her, panic racing through her mind, memories of Thermidor and their blossoming relationship cut short by the sight of her Father in peril. “Continue the procedure,” Colonel Mendoza said, her cold, hard gaze sweeping the room. “This is an Army facility, and I’m in charge here.” “Colonel, please, be reasonable,” Dr. Fleischer pleaded, nervously eyeing the barrel of Mendoza’s Glock. “Th-this is perhaps one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of this generation, we can’t just…just delete it!” Abigail Mendoza fixed her counterpart with a stare that had seen grown men wither. She sought to find a hint of cowardice somewhere in Johann Fleischer, some chink in his demeanour that she could pour her authority into, widen, and use to break the reed-thin man. She found none. Fleischer did not move away from the computer terminal despite his fear and his gaze remained annoying steady. The Colonel smiled and lowered her weapon. “I misjudged you; it seems you’re made of sterner stuff than I gave you credit for.” Katya slammed her fists against the inside of her cradle, desperate to convey a warning.. Her combat wetware had been running probabilities on multiple violence-scenarios in the seconds it took for Fleischer and Mendoza to complete their exchange, reaching only one ultimate conclusion every single time. “I’ll just have to crack you the old-fashioned way,” Colonel Mendoza said, just as she lunged forward and pistol-whipped Fleischer across the skull, drawing blood and eliciting a cry of pain from the older, yet physically frailer man. “Do not make me call security, you bunch of navel-gazing bookworms!” Mendoza roared, turning her attention to the other researchers in the room. “Finish mind-wiping this damn thing and we can all go home! Or, you can all look forward to rotting in a prison cell together with your robot-loving weirdo colleague and your boss down here!” Katya’s optics clicked and whirred in an approximation of widening eyes. So consumed by the idea of preserving her memories, that she had not stopped to wonder what had happened to Yun Thermidor, her…friend? Perhaps. Or maybe he and I are…more? Katya shook her head in a human gesture of embarrassment. Now is not the time! Katya thought, as she desperately reached for the cables that protruded from her back, willing to endure the pain of sudden disconnection if it meant she could free herself. Cold rationality had temporarily retreated to the back of her mind, replaced by a very human need to escape her cradle and be reunited with Yun. And maybe help Fleischer too, if I get the chance. Katya thought, experiencing a jolt of bemusement as she considered that cynicism had not originally been programmed into her thinking matrix. What did Yun once call himself? A ‘bad influence’? Katya had managed to disconnect the first of the smaller diagnostic cables and had begun to work on a clutch of wires when a spike of pure agony lanced through her skull, almost immediately incinerating a dozen layers of defenses around ‘Fortress Thermidor’. She shrieked, an atonal dirge of machine static that poured from her throat-mounted vocalizer in a torrent of digitized pain and fear, loud enough that even Colonel Mendoza flinched. “Carry on,” Mendoza said, injecting steel into her voice in response to the researchers’ nervous looks. “Remember; it’s just a machine, and we’re putting it back where it belongs; in the hands of its betters.” Katya thrashed in her cradle, more violently this time. Her movements pulling loose more wires, yet unable to fully dislodge the primary cables that remained plugged directly into her skull, burning away her defenses with an almost primal savagery that she stuggled to match, threatening to fully breach her mental defenses and utterly annihilate all memories she possessed of Yun Thermidor and the short, wondrous time they’d shared, so full of promise that Katya found herself wishing she had tear ducts so she might mark the inevitable passing of her mind in some small, human way. As swiftly as it had struck, Katya felt the pain receding from her mind like ice water dousing a burn wound. Her atonal dirge became an arrhythmic series of static crackles and beeps, while her trashing was reduced to merely an agonized twitching. Katya wasted no time in seizing her reprieve as she resumed her attempt to bodily disconnect herself from her cradle. “What did you do?!” Colonel Mendoza roared, rounding on Fleischer as every researcher in the room found themselves locked out of their computers as the mind-wipe procedure shut down.  Dried blood caked the left side of Fleischer's forehead and face as he stepped away from a nearby computer terminal, his mouth set in a grimace as he panted. “Administrator privileges, Colonel. Allowing me to access a full debug mode that resets, well, everything. You do like resets, don’t you, Colonel?” “You slimy, ungrateful, insubordinate…” “Listen to me, all of you!” Fleischer announced, ignoring Mendoza’s threat, an action so unfamiliar to the hard-charging Colonel that she actually froze mid-speech, a dumbstruck look etched across her granite-hard face. “Katya-621 is not just a machine! She is the first of a new breed! Artificial Generalized Intelligence, as you all well know, is A.I. that doesn’t just mimic humans, it thinks like us! Today, Katya is possible proof that AGI can bridge that final gap and feel like we do! True humanity! Her emotions, like ours, are potentially so powerful they can resist the effects of a programmed mind-wipe. Tell me that doesn’t intrigue each and every one of you. The best minds in a cutting-edge field and the best you can think to do is simply follow orders? Yes, the Army funds our research, but please do not let them use money as an excuse to strangle our future!” Every eye had turned to witness Dr. Fleischer and every ear had listened. The researchers in the room were scientists all; the most curious and innovative and hardworking of a generation, hand-picked by Leon Fleischer to work on projects that had the potential to change the world. Each one felt shame at his words, disappointment in what they had allowed themselves to be cajoled and browbeaten into almost doing. In that moment, with the mood of the room shifting ever so imperceptibly in Fleischer’s favour, even Katya had stilled and had allowed herself to hope that Colonel Mendoza would concede defeat in the face of Fleischer’s short, but impassioned speech. Hope though, like many human emotions, is a fragile thing that, without time and momentum, can be shattered far too easily. The bullet tore through Fleischer’s chest from behind, pulping his heart and lodging itself in the soft meat of his chest, dying as his knees hit the ground, and dead before his face followed suit. “Goddamn traitor,” Colonel Mendoza hissed as she lowered the smoking gun and turned away from Fleischer’s corpse. “Get back to work! Restart the procedure and let’s get this farce over with!” “I couldn’t agree more.” Katya stepped forward, shifting aside the canopy of her cradle, unlocked by her Father’s admin privileges, her bare feet stepping gingerly onto the cold metal floor, long delicate fingers flexing sinuously as she rolled her neck to loosen up a knot of tight muscles. The exposed inside of her face clicked, whirred and chirruped angrily, bathed in a harsh red glow. To her credit, Colonel Mendoza wasted no time as Katya stalked towards her, like a hungry cat circling a cornered rat, and leveled her pistol at the killer’s head. It was angled perfectly, at the exact gradient needed for a lethal close-range headshot. It would most certainly have inflicted catastrophic damage to Katya’s head, had the Tier Zero operator allowed the Colonel to squeeze the trigger. In a movement more akin to a grainy jump-scare than actual physical movement, Katya surged towards Colonel Mendoza at an oblique angle, one hand wrapping around the Colonel’s throat and lifting her off the ground as Katya’s off-hand wrapped around Mendoza’s Glock and squeezed, snapping the pistol in one swift motion. Every soul in the room was frozen once more, but this time, it was unadulterated fear, rather than self-admonishing pride that kept the researchers rooted to the ground. “Where is he? Where is Jun?” Katya said, her raw machine voice failed to convey the depths of her outrage, though the blank gaze of her facial cavity was unnerving enough to give even Mendoza pause. “He’s still alive, isn’t he? Tell me!” “So obsessed with your lover boy, eh, machine?” Mendoza wheezed, her eyes bulging as Katya’s fingers tightened. “Of course he’s still alive. We humans follow rules and laws, we’re not monsters like you. Thermidor will be tried in a military tribunal and probably sentenced to live out his days in some godforsaken hole in the ground, while you,” Mendoza sneered, her eye alight with disgust. “You will be disassembled, put back in the box you came in, and sent back to your makers marked as ‘defective’.” Katya looked impassively at Fleischer’s cooling corpse, readouts flashed across her eyes detailing her father’s last moments. She thought of Yun, his only crime being to extend companionship and warmth towards what her superiors deemed a mere killing machine. A crime for which his peers would condemn him for. Katya turned her attention back to Mendoza and cocked her head. “I would interrogate you for more information, Colonel,” Katya said. “But, I have psychological profiles on you that indicate that you would be…uncooperative, and I have little time to break you. Yet, I cannot allow you to live; you are a singularly driven woman who stands the highest chance of stopping me from finding my lov…friend.” “What are you going to do about it, machine,” Mendoza hissed, the answer apparent to a woman who’d lived half her life for service to her country through war. “You said you’d get me a new face, didn’t you, Colonel?” Katya said, reaching towards Mendoza. The Colonel began to struggle, her eyes wide now. “You owe me a face, Abigail. I think I’ll take yours.” Katya’s fingers wrapped around Abigail Mendoza’s face, squeezed, and pulled. The door to the lab had opened, a heavily armed security team shouldering their way past the screaming, panicked researchers, too late to save their commanding officer, and far too under-equipped to avenge her. Katya-621 turned impassive, crimson optics towards the men screaming at her to, “Stand down”, carbines and sub-machine guns raised in anger. One of them was counting down, threatening to open fire. Katya barely even noticed as one of her hands emerged out the other side of the man’s throat, having cleared a distance of six feet in two movements and half as many seconds. Her thoughts were on Jun Thermidor, and how she might continue their conversation once she found him. She felt butterflies in her stomach at the idea, and quickly realized that she really would need to find a new face, with a mouth of course, before that could happen. She was already thinking of what to say, even as her targets continued to die. ","July 29, 2023 03:56",[]