prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",whr8oe,That All Important First Scene,Ian Gonzales,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/whr8oe/,/short-story/whr8oe/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Funny', 'Thriller']",124 likes,"
“Okay, let’s go over the first scene.”
“Right, but let’s do it on the go, ‘cause we’ve gotta move, and I mean now.”
Logan Steele sets off at fast trot, hurrying down the hallway of the ubiquitous Government Agency Headquarters. His long legs carry his broad-shouldered, powerfully built body along at brisk pace. I hurry to keep up with him, panting for breath in only a few strides.
“Think we could slow this down a bit?” I gasp, heading past doors with block print nameplates, framed posters of suited figures shaking hands, and signs reminding everyone that they’re in a top-secret facility and everything is being recorded. Maybe it’s over the top, but this is a rough draft. “I’m not the tough-as-nails ex-soldier here; I’m just the writer.”
“No can-do, Mr. Writer,” Logan says over his shoulder. “We’re in a crunch here. Besides, this is an action thriller, right? Pacing is everything. So, we’re keeping it fast.”
I shoot a frown at Logan’s back. I should be able to determine stuff like the pacing. I’m the writer, after all. But this is my process, a writing exercise I’ve used ever since I started writing, and it often takes on a life of its own, so to speak. And Logan is a great character for the role I’ve written him: tall and athletic, sporting a whitewall haircut, deep blue eyes positively glinting with determination, and a jawline so sharp you could cut yourself on it. So I’ll just let him off the leash and see where this goes.
“Hey,” Logan says, a little frown marring his smooth, lightly tanned brow. “What Government Agency am I with? Secret Service?” His non-descript civilian attire changes into a crisp suit, white shirt and black tie, dark sunglasses appearing on his face and an earpiece curving around his ear. “Or some kind of tactical response unit?” His clothing shifts again, turning into combat fatigues, body armor, and a harness clattering with specialized weapons and equipment. “I kinda like this one.”
I shake my head; time to exercise some creative control. “No, you’re with a special undercover unit.” Once more, his attire alters, going back to civilian clothing, though it’s very stylish and complimentary, the kind of thing you see the young stars wear in popular TV crime dramas. “You work behind the scenes to protect the country.”
“Got it,” Logan says. “Sort of the go anywhere, do anything, edge-of-the law thing, right?”
“Right.”
We reach the front doors and burst out onto a sunlit street. Sitting at the curb before us, engine idling, is a late-model sports car, low-slung and streamlined, fire-engine red with a racing stripe. Logan skids to a halt, a grimace of distaste on his face.
“Wait a sec,” he says. “This isn’t right. This is like the opposite of low-profile, and this kind of car is useless for pursuit and interdiction. I mean, it’s got no mass. And what’s with the racing stripe?” He fixes me with an annoyed glare. 
I shrug. “Hey, you wanted fast, didn’t you?”
“Fast pacing, Mr. Writer,” he says, gesturing at the car. “This is ridiculous. How about a truck?”
The sports car becomes a massive pickup, with an extended cab and an eight-foot bed, dark grey in color.
“Now that’s more like it,” Logan says, grinning.
“No way,” I say. “This thing couldn’t keep up with a baby stroller, can’t corner worth anything, and says all the wrong things about what kind of man you are.”
“Come on,” he replies, dangerously close to whining. “It’s large and imposing, says I’m a no-nonsense kind of guy who like to get things done.”
“It’s loud and bombastic,” I shoot back. “And totally impractical, since you’ll never use it to haul anything but yourself.” Before he can complain any more, I hold up a hand. “We’ll compromise.”
The truck morphs into a midsize SUV, standard government black, with a heavy push bumper on the front end.
Logan looks like he wants to argue again, but finally heaves a sigh. “Fine,” he says. “But you’ve got no sense of style.” He leaps into the open driver’s door, settling behind the wheel.
I climb in, taking shotgun. “Seatbelts.”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Seriously?”
“Safety first,” I say, clicking my belt into place. “These days, kids can get a hold of any book, and I don’t want my characters giving any bad examples.”
Shaking his head, Logan straps in with exaggerated care. “Happy?”
“Let’s just get on with the scene.”
With a smirk, Logan floors the gas, and the vehicle leaps away from the curb, careening through traffic, forcing other cars to swerve and slam on their brakes. Blaring horns doppler shift behind us as we speed away.
“That was a little petty,” I say, prying my fingers off the dash.
“We’re in a hurry here, Mr. Writer. Or am I wrong?”
“No, you’re right,” I say with a sigh. “We’ve got just minutes to reach the president’s motorcade, where it’s been ambushed by the villain’s forces. They’re trying to assassinate him, beheading the country’s leadership at a critical moment.”
Logan chuckles. “Oh, that old plot device.”
“What do you mean?” I look at him, feeling offended.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he has this little grin on his face. “Well, it’s just not very accurate or realistic. If the president gets abducted or killed, well, there’s all sorts of contingencies, and an entire chain of command in place to ensure continuity of government. When you get right down to it, the president is more of a figurehead. An important symbol, but not critical to running the government.”
“Well, in my story, he’s very important,” I say through gritted teeth. “So you’ve got to try to save him, at all costs.”
“Fine,” Logan says. “Whatever. It’s your story.”
We speed around a corner, and ahead of us we see a column of vehicles, black sedans and SUVs, scattered along the street. They’re parked at random, up on the sidewalks or across the roadway, like they were forced to come to a stop wherever they could. Most of them are peppered with bullet holes, windshields and windows cracked or shattered. Some of the vehicles are on fire, burning fiercely and sending up plumes of dark smoke. 
Figures move among the embattled motorcade, police officers and Secret Service agents, seeking cover behind cars and in building doorways. They have their weapons out, pistols and compact submachine guns, aimed up at the rooftops of the buildings around them. More figures move along those roofs, wielding assault rifles and grenade launchers, raining fire and death on the ambushed column below them.
In the middle of the chaos sits a limousine, surrounded by defenders, bearing the presidential seal on its doors. Small flags mounted to its hood flutter in the waves of heat from the nearby fires. Many of the police and agents have fallen, their crumpled forms dotting the pavement, testament to their heroic efforts to protect their charge.
Logan slams on the brakes, bringing the SUV to a screeching halt. “All right,” he says with a grin. “Showtime!” He pulls a pistol out of the holster at his belt, frowns. “Come on, give me a real gun.”
“Fine.” I shrug, and the pistol becomes an assault rifle with an underbarrel grenade launcher. 
“Now we’re talking.” Logan kicks upon the door and leaps out onto the street. 
I’m still clambering out of the car, hurrying to keep up with the action, while Logan is off. He moves down the street, from cover to cover, from cars to building corners, pausing at each barrier to take aim and fire few shots from his weapon. The ambushers start to drop, falling backwards out of sight or toppling from the roof edges to land on the pavement below. There aren’t any survivors from the president’s security detail, just still bodies lying on the concrete, and it takes a minute for the attackers to realize that something’s wrong. By then, fully half of them are down.
When they finally spot Logan, and start trying to fight back, coordinate a response to this surprise, it’s too late. Their return fire is sporadic and ineffective. Logan is too fast, too battle-savvy. He fires off short bursts, picking off his targets one by one, only moving when he’s forced his opponents to take cover of their own, hiding from his frighteningly effective aim.
He pauses to reload, ducking behind the engine block of an overturned car. Bullets crack and hiss around him, raising sparks from the wrecked vehicle and puffs of dust from the concrete roadway. “You know,” Logan shouts at me over the incessant chatter of automatic fire. “This is some seriously PG-13 action here! Where’s all the gore and swearing?”
I frown at him. “Like I said, kids can get anything these days. I think this shows a good level of mature restraint.”
Logan tells me what he thinks of that, and I edit it out.
“EDITED,” he yells at me with a grin, slapping a fresh clip into his rifle.
In moments, it’s over. The last of the gunmen falls, plummeting to the ground with a drawn-out, dramatic scream. Logan still doesn’t get cocky, moving forward in a running crouch, staying low but keeping his eyes and his weapon scanning the rooftops. 
He hurries to the limo with the presidential seals, does a quick three-sixty sweep of the area, checking for any hostiles he might have missed. Then he opens the rear door.
“Mr. President,” Logan says, holding the rifle stock still hard against his shoulder with one hand even as he reaches into the vehicle with the other. “I’m here to get you—”
He breaks off as a body tumbles out of the limousine, flopping limply to the pavement. It’s the president, the front of his shirt covered in blood, more of it trickling from a corner of his mouth. His eyes are fixed open and staring sightlessly.
“What…” Logan starts to say, then a single shot rings out. He jerks in place, his eyes going wide. Two more shots sound in quick succession, jolting him again, and he looks down at the spreading red stain on his chest. He sinks to his knees, coughs once, bringing up blood, and then falls forward onto his face.
A second later he’s back up again. “Hold on, hold on,” Logan says, waving a hand, the other still holding onto his assault rifle. “Wait a sec, let me get this straight. The president is already dead, and I get shot?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a little smug at how well I’ve pulled off the surprise twist, the sudden reversal. “Great way to end the scene, right?”
“Um, okay,” Logan says, with the air of someone who doesn’t quite know what to say. “So, I’m, like, badly wounded here? And then I recover and have to go after the bad guys, with this crippling failure to overcome and use as motivation to succeed…” He trails off at the look on my face. “You’re killing me off, right?”
“Yep. It’s the best trick in the book. Total subversion of expectations. It’s so cool.”
“Yeah. Cool. Totally subverted my expectations,” Logan grumbles.
“You don’t like it?”
“Hey, whatever. It’s your story.” I might be wrong, but I think my tough-as-nails ex-soldier is sulking.
“Come on, don’t be like that. This is an awesome hook, a great prologue.”
“A prologue?” Logan sounds incredulous. “I thought this was the climactic scene!”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “It’s the first scene. I told you that at the beginning.”
“I thought you meant it was the first scene you were writing. Like, doing the best part first or something.”
“Nope. This is the prologue. And a good one, too. Draws the reader in with some fast-paced action and a twist out of left field. Great stuff.”
Logan’s expression makes it clear that he doesn’t agree with my self-critique of my writing. “The prologue. I get killed in the prologue. You go through all the trouble of creating me, this awesome character, and then you write me out in the first scene.” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe this.”
Great, now I’m having an argument with my own character about how I’ve written him. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not that great a character. I mean, you’re actually kind of a… cliché.”
“What?” His head comes up like a bull spotting a matador’s cape.
“No, really. Everybody writes these tough, grizzled, super-capable combat veterans nowadays. They’re everywhere. That’s not what I want for this book.”
“But… but they’re awesome! Like that one guy from that one series,” Logan snaps his fingers, trying to come up with the name. “You know, the one that Amazon made that show on.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I say. “Clichéd.”
“I love that series,” Logan mumbles, sounding hurt. “So, you made me up, and just like that, you’re writing me out.” Now he sounds angry, and fixes me with that stone-hard gaze that I gave him.
Even knowing that I’m just in a story, facing a character I’ve created in a scene I’ve made up, I feel a chill. I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat. “Hey, you know, maybe I could write a spin-off, a prequel… even a whole series, just about you? How’s that sound?”
“With everybody who reads it knowing that I get offed like a chump in the first scene of your ‘real book’.” He does that air quotes thing with his fingers. “No thanks.” He stalks toward me, and I take an involuntary step back. Then he shoves the assault rifle into my hands, pushing it against my chest.
“If you’re going to write me out of this lousy story, Mr. Writer,” he says, continuing to walk on past me, “just write me out completely.” He pauses and glances over his shoulder. “By the way, you still use too many ly words.”
I glare at his retreating back, uncommonly at a loss for words. Oh, I did it again.
So, hmmm, this little writing exercise hasn’t gone at all like I planned. Now my character has walked out, I feel like a jerk, and it’s only the first scene of my book. 
Oh, well, at least it’s just a rough draft.
 
","July 24, 2023 15:35","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'What a fantastic take on the prompt! Loved this struggle between writer and character. The writer getting called out by the character is awesome. 😂 congrats on the win!', 'time': '19:16 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '7'}, []], [{'Parul Shah': 'So much fun, great banter, so much action, timing on point, how do you do that?! Congratulations!', 'time': '16:36 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '6'}, []], [{'Lara Deppe': 'I loved the writer running along side his own character - great premise. Well written and engaging!', 'time': '04:45 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Lucia Whitely': 'I really enjoyed the fast paced narrative and the meta aspects of the story. Brilliant!', 'time': '09:45 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Christine Rohr': ""Congratulations on this well deserved win! Your story was original, something I haven't seen before. I loved the way the writer and his fictional character play off each other. Loved the humor in this as well."", 'time': '02:49 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kristin Johnson': ""I love love love meta fiction. This is exactly how most of us talk to our characters. Throw in something about a workshop the writer took (which is probably where the remark about the adverbs came from) or some allusion to The Hero's Journey or something some editor said and this is what every writer goes through."", 'time': '17:35 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Great fun Ian. I love this concept and have done something similar in the past. Love a bit of meta and this was full of laughs. Congratulations!', 'time': '16:23 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Amany Sayed': 'Totally deserved the win, I really enjoyed this all the way through. I love the idea of this writer kind of running with the character, capturing the scene as it goes but also creating it. The character insulting his literal creator is hilarious. Congrats!', 'time': '15:49 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:12 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:12 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Luca King Greek': 'Excellent.  Loved it.  So fun.', 'time': '14:04 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Shiller': 'Your writing is awesome! You have a clean, easy to read style and your pacing is great. Loved it.', 'time': '14:35 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kristi Gott': 'Incredible!  I love it so much!  Hilarious.  So clever.  Wow, amazing. What a pleasure to spend some time today reading this super story.  Thank you!!!!', 'time': '23:07 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Gabriel Perez': 'Totally enjoyed this!  Congratulations!', 'time': '14:32 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sienna Hanson': 'I’m going to do this with my characters!!! Wow, so much fun to read… my charries will get a kick out of this', 'time': '14:51 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rae Toonery': 'Love this Ian. Very meta. My fav bits was them arguing over the cars and when he tells him what he thinks... and he edits it out. Great tongue in cheek humour and use of cinema stereotypes.', 'time': '11:49 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Geir Westrul': 'Fantastic, Ian! I was sucked in from the beginning. Loved the pace. The twist was unexpected. The writer in me was head-nodding all the way to the last words (including the ly words, so maybe I should say that I was nodding knowingly).\n\nBye, bye, Logan! On to the next scene.', 'time': '21:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Geir Westrul': 'And congrats on the win! Well deserved. Perfect take on the prompt.', 'time': '21:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Geir Westrul': 'And congrats on the win! Well deserved. Perfect take on the prompt.', 'time': '21:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sohang Chopra': 'Really good story - the character scolding the writer was fantastic :)', 'time': '10:56 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': ""Congrats on the win, Mr. Gonzales. Like everyone else, I like what you did. I don't know how you did it. My characters don't talk back to me. They don't even know about me. I'm like a one-eyed fly on the wall, grabbing the plaster with my two hind legs, I direct the characters with my tiny two front legs, a tiny maestro on their completely fictional wall. I discuss their fate with other 'creators' but not with the them. I'd almost have to put myself in a totally different frame of mind to write a story like this.\n\nBut one day, I was forced t..."", 'time': '05:12 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ian Gonzales': ""Thank you so much for the congratulations and praise, Ken. A while ago, I learned the technique of 'having a conversation' with your characters while developing them. It really helped me with this story.\n\nSorry I didn't pick out those typos. It's no excuse, but I was in a bit of a time crunch, and didn't copyedit as well as I should have. I hate those little errors myself; when I read them, it breaks the flow and takes me out of the story. I'll do better in the future.\n\nThank you again, and I'm so glad you like the story and made the time an..."", 'time': '14:10 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ian Gonzales': ""Thank you so much for the congratulations and praise, Ken. A while ago, I learned the technique of 'having a conversation' with your characters while developing them. It really helped me with this story.\n\nSorry I didn't pick out those typos. It's no excuse, but I was in a bit of a time crunch, and didn't copyedit as well as I should have. I hate those little errors myself; when I read them, it breaks the flow and takes me out of the story. I'll do better in the future.\n\nThank you again, and I'm so glad you like the story and made the time an..."", 'time': '14:10 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Shirley Medhurst': 'Loved this fabulous take on the prompt.\nWell deserved congratulations  are definitely in order! 👍', 'time': '10:54 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Peggy Lee': 'Haha Logan calls us all out when he says “by the way you still use too many ly words” are adverbs cliche’? Are they as cliche’ as Jack Ryan? Lol but they can be so lovely but also unnecessary and cumbersome especially if adverbs ain’t your style. I liked the dialogue between the writer and the character especially when Logan was sounding hurt…like i felt that was a stylistic choice to avoid some cliche’ adverb lol and it stung when Logan called the writer out like that haha i can’t get over it. I mean, dang, if I were a character in some nov...', 'time': '05:52 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bonnie Simpson': ""I felt Logan's energy! I was totally drawn into the exchange between both of you. Another 'ly' word, huh? Anyway, Ian, this was genius! Congratulations!"", 'time': '17:17 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Danielle Mills': 'This was well-written and highly amusing. I completely understand why you won, congratulations!', 'time': '01:13 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anna W': 'Fantastic story! Great take on the prompt. Congratulations on your win!', 'time': '20:48 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Turey Rosa': 'I really enjoyed this, thankyou for sharing it 😊', 'time': '03:51 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zama Bhala': 'Very well done. This was such an enjoyable read, and a very clever interpretation on the prompt. How did you even come up with that? Lol.', 'time': '08:54 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Girasiya Nathan Babvu': 'A complete subversion of expectations right here. I mean I was shaken right off the hooks with this masterpiece. This is definitely award winning and congratulations on your much deserved win.', 'time': '07:12 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Celtic Bard': ""Another great story Ian! The only two things I know to expect when I begin one of your stories is that it be good and that it will be unlike anything else I've read."", 'time': '20:25 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Carol Quinn': 'Great story. I loved the banter between the character and the writer. It was very cleverly written. Congratulations!', 'time': '20:23 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kay Smith': ""I simply couldn't set down my phone while reading this. Fast-paced, witty! I love the back and forth between the main character and the main character! This was truly a fun read! So clever! Bravo!"", 'time': '19:08 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zakirah Green': 'This is how the character comes to life. Love it.', 'time': '17:56 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Ian you have managed to embrace the prompt literally turning it into fictional reality with your ripe imagination. You are a worthy WINNER. Remarkable!', 'time': '15:52 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Raven West': 'Really cute twist... exactly how I feel when my ""characters"" argue with me while I\'m writing! Very fun read!', 'time': '13:00 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Peter Naughton': 'I loved this. It gets better with every line. Really well done, thank you. I am happy that you won.', 'time': '08:22 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats. Fine story. Putting downtime, dissing, teasing time. All in one.', 'time': '08:11 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Congrats on the win. Well, deserved. Echo what everyone else has already said.\n\nCould use some of your killer instincts. Blowing own horn here. I am a finalist for Killer Nashville The Claymore Award for best western category given for first 50 pages in unpublished manuscript. (See some of those pages in Trampled Dreams and TD part two in my profile.) Killer Nashville gets its name honoring writers who are good at killing, thrillers, suspense, mystery, crimes, etc. I don't think my novel has a lot of that as is. May have to develop more devi..."", 'time': '03:19 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. S. Bailey': 'I love the premise, took the prompt and mastered it.\nI realised he was talking to a character and not an actor earlier than I would have liked. But the choice of action-thriller macho man was perfect for this. \nHumorous, charming and insightful.\nGreat job and congrats on the win.', 'time': '01:52 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Olive Silirus': ""Great story! Very funny, and explains the slight guilt that can come with killing off a character when you're a writer. Congrats on the win!"", 'time': '19:42 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Syed Mohammad Zahid': 'Really enjoyed it.  A well deserved win, congratulations.', 'time': '19:12 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anna E. Walters': 'Congratulations! Nicely done. It left me wishing it had been longer. I wanted to keep reading!', 'time': '12:35 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chad Eastwood': 'Excellent! Great dialogue, great characterization, and very original!', 'time': '03:54 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Wow. I loved this story. You have a lot of ""writerly charm."" Crisp, funny dialogue, great pacing,  effective, clear description. I enjoyed reading this from beginning to end. It really pulled me in. The banter between the two characters was great, and really is a great commentary on the little cheats and strategies and rationalizations we use as writers. Well done man.', 'time': '03:08 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ian Gonzales': ""I'm so glad you enjoyed the story. Nothing makes my day like knowing that my work entertains people. It's why I write."", 'time': '13:03 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ian Gonzales': ""I'm so glad you enjoyed the story. Nothing makes my day like knowing that my work entertains people. It's why I write."", 'time': '13:03 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Congrats on your win!\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '22:34 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""I love it too. Congratulations on winning! Bet you didn't see that coming either. Funny how you have to be a writer to realize that characters can not only reveal things you never knew, do things you never thought they could, and have their own ideas to boot. You tied in the prompt with this fact and told a great story all in one. But, please don't kill off such a cool and opinionated character."", 'time': '22:10 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ian Gonzales': 'Thank you so much! Seriously, I was writing this to have fun. I guess you never see the best things coming. You just appreciate them.', 'time': '13:02 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ian Gonzales': 'Thank you so much! Seriously, I was writing this to have fun. I guess you never see the best things coming. You just appreciate them.', 'time': '13:02 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Devorah Fisch': 'Love it :)', 'time': '21:44 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Danielle Azoulay': 'This was great! The dialogue flowed so naturally and was so cleverly humorous at the same time, awesome work', 'time': '20:56 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Melissa Lee': 'I love the sense of humor in this story, thank you and well done!', 'time': '17:49 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'L J': ""Love it!! Funny, hysterical. This would be a good movie! My characters don't usually fight back ..they just don't win! \n\nlol\n\nCongrats! well done!"", 'time': '17:23 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jody S': 'Congrats on the win! This was such a fun read!!! My characters talk to me all the time! Now I am going to have tell them there are better ways to take me on the adventure!! Very clever!!!', 'time': '17:19 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cathryn V': 'ha ha ha! This is so fun and so clever. Congratulations! And thanks for making me smile.', 'time': '16:59 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kathleen Spencer': ""Well deserved win. Congratulations!  I liked the active plot with all it's twists and turns. :)"", 'time': '16:49 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Very funny! Just the kind of problem that authors get every day in there heads... But real, as far as the word means in this kind of story! Extremely enjoyable, I'll probably be re-reading this for weeks!\n\nMy favourite prompt from this week, so many people have done so many interesting things with it, but I like this story probably best.\n\nDefinitely deserved the win! Congratulations!!"", 'time': '16:41 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ian Gonzales': 'I totally agree. Reedsy is such a great place to find good stories to read. So many talented writers contribute here. Thank you for liking my story!', 'time': '13:05 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ian Gonzales': 'I totally agree. Reedsy is such a great place to find good stories to read. So many talented writers contribute here. Thank you for liking my story!', 'time': '13:05 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Andrey Trofimov': ""I love the character's friendly remark on the adverbs."", 'time': '16:18 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""I liked the injection of action into the story. It's an element you don't see utilized a lot here, so it gave the story a really distinct flair. Congratulations."", 'time': '16:08 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': 'Beautifully executed concept - fun and thoughtful.  Congratulations, Ian.  Great!', 'time': '16:02 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Gordon': 'I enjoyed both the comedy and the action. Good descriptions of the action scenes.', 'time': '00:01 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'This was a very funny read. Nice job', 'time': '19:02 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'RJ Holmquist': '""I love that series""\n\nLots of good chuckles, but for some reason that line got a particulary good laugh out of me. Of course the character reads Tom Clancy! Thanks for a good read!', 'time': '02:28 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",0fhwqs,Something Actually Magic,Anne Shillingsburg,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0fhwqs/,/short-story/0fhwqs/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Mystery', 'Speculative']",26 likes,"
Clare Maple was born feet first and struggling, her tiny hand clenched fast about the cord as about a life line, seeming to fight to stay inside that warm closed dark. That was the first time her parents believed her lost, an experience which was to recur continually until finally it became an accustomed part of their daily being, as ordinary as eating or breathing, until at last she was gone, really and forever.From that first day when she did not howl like other babies but simply fought not to come into the world until she found she had lost the battle and then gave up stoically to face the consequences, she was never quite right. **They are quiet a few seconds, Paul’s explanation hanging between them as the loose chain ends of the porch swing hang beside. It looks like Paul isn’t going to say, so Liv asks, “three generations of your family died while they were reading the same book?”He turns his hands up to show that he doesn’t know what to make of it either. “And no one can read it now because your dad actually thinks it will kill them?”He shrugs. “It wasn’t just between starting and finishing it. They weren’t in the kitchen with the book beside their beds. Their bodies were found beside the open book.”“All this is really true? Really?”“I swear to God.”“Amazing.” She curls her knees into her chest, and her shoulders shiver in a gesture of pure joy. “You have something actually magic in your house.”Liv loves a mystery. Not a murder mystery book with a solution at the end. In fact the solution usually spoils the magic in her kind of mystery, like learning about prisms and lightwaves in physics class plunged rainbows from otherworldly to just pretty. She gets a sweeping sense of living beyond the material when things defy simple explanation, a rush of imagination that fills the gaps with delightful fancies.  Paul’s house keeps tripping over her sense of wonder, drawing her even closer to him. It’s already happened twice today, the first time she’s been here, the first week they appear to be a couple but secretly aren’t. As they approached a closed room, she heard Mozart, but with a crackling like burning sticks. Liv had fully populated the room with an orchestra led by a madly waving black-coated conductor with his back to a roaring bonfire before the doors opened on the library and the antique record player within. The library itself was straight out of Beauty and the Beast, lined with books to its twelve-foot ceilings.“What do you do when you get a new book?” she asked, indicating the packed shelves, imagination fired with uniformed servants shifting thousands of volumes to the right to make room for something that had to be filed under “B.”“Well, I try not to get new ones,” Mr. Hollingshed answered, and that was even better. Books just insinuate themselves into his life. She pictured the books knocking at the door and being turned away, only the most desperate dragging themselves exhausted across the threshold and declaring asylum.Most fascinating of all is the one volume set aside in its glass case, like an overgrown cake dome. Within is a closed volume, with uneven, hand-cut pages, the cover itself decorated in the same gray-greens of the spine, a whirling tangle of vegetation, tumbling over itself. There is not a printed word on it: no title, no author, no publisher. “This one must be special,” Liv guessed, drawn to it.“You can read anything in my library, except that,” Mr. Hollingshed declared, ushering her away. And now the explanation for this strange dictate. Actual magic.**Clare had eyes the color of stormy skies, without a mark in them, as if they were cast of cold metal. Sometimes, her mother believed that if she could break her open she would find that her heart looked just the same. From time to time she made all of them want to break her open, but it was not true that Clare had a cold inhuman heart. It was just that her heart hungered after something else that her mother could not understand.When Clare learned to walk the doors had to stay closed all the time. Everyone else suffered in the heat, but little Clare seemed not to mind. By the next year Clare could reach the knobs, and it was no use anymore.**  “You may not.” Mr. Hollingshed is not a stern man. The lightness of his tone does not match the finality of his words. Weeks have passed as her fascination with the mystical volume has grown.“Can I just look at it?” Liv pleads.“Sure,” Mr. Hollingshed responds, springing the hinges and lifting the glass dome.“Did your mother keep it in this thing?” She asks, waiting for him to pick it up and place it in her hands so that she will know how to handle it.“No. She kept it in her hope chest and only brought it out when my father was away. He couldn’t abide her telling ‘ghost stories.’” He holds the volume with little reverence, handing it to her as he would a magazine.“Is that what it is? A ghost story?” She inspects the cover carefully. Green and gray vines and weeds twist and tangle over each other. He explains his theory. The first death is nothing: a man died reading a book. But since they don’t know why he died, some people claim they always knew that book was cursed. His grandmother, only a child, blames the book and holds it in her heart until her old age. She reads it in hopes it will kill her, saving her children the grief of an agonizing end like her mother’s: a death wish, a self-fulfilling prophecy. And finally his own mother, in failing health, takes her last chance to know what’s inside. “She had been warned from childhood that the book was cursed, and that it killed. She may have died of simple terror.”“So the story is scary?”“That I don’t know.” She looks up at him, perplexed. “Everyone who has read that book in living memory has died before the end. Who would tell me?” Liv smiles. She has a feeling like treading water in the ocean; an unseen wave sweeps her upward, smoothly and thrillingly. Somehow this is the most magical part of all—even Mr. Hollingshed does not know what lies within. As they stand in silence, Paul returns with three glasses of lemonade.Liv asks, “Why don’t you just read it and dispel the myth once and for all?”He grins and shakes his head. “I’m not a betting man.”Paul states it even more bluntly. “I’m too scared,” he says with no hint of shame.While Mr. Hollingshed asks how his son’s day at high school went, Liv opens the gray-green cover and reads aloud, “Clare Maple was born feet first and…” but Mr. Hollingshed’s hands have closed around hers, gently folding the book shut and taking it from her grasp, smiling reassuringly all the while. He replaces it on its stand and clasps the dome closed. When his father has left the room, Paul remains standing by the dome, lemonade in one hand, the tray dangling by his side from the other. He looks up to catch her eyes. “Well, you hit the nerve didn’t you?”“You mean—about his mother? Should I go and apologize?”“No.” He puts the tray in a nearby chair and takes her hand. “His nerves, our nerves. We’re not supposed to believe all this nonsense, but in five seconds you spoiled all his reasonable arguments, and you know how he loves his arguments.”“But I didn’t spoil them. I believed them.”“Yes, but you proved that he doesn’t.” He sees her look guilty, and continues, “You didn’t do anything wrong. He just feels foolish for believing in ghost stories and not being as brave as a sixteen-year-old girl,” she looks up abruptly and slants her eyes skeptically. “Yeah, you think he’s not the type, but men…men are fragile.” **I was born feet first. “Again?” I thought, oddly. Then the slave driver, whatever God made me start this again, took their finger from my neck, allowing me a second to think. But newborn babies don’t think about their births, I thought before a cool nothingness folded over me, relieving me of action and of dread.**“Well, it’s about this girl who’s always been strange from birth,” Liv explains. Paul sat beside her the whole time she read, baseball bat across his lap, ready to protect her from whatever demons the book called forth. In reality, she was protecting him, of course, with her bravery, with her belief that whatever mystery lies inside is the animating force of life, something so gratuitously beautiful it is not capable of harm. Since she read the first line, the book has been tugging at her hems like a nagging toddler, and she’s been working on Paul. “I can help your family get past this. I wasn’t raised on a steady diet of terror of the thing. It won't scare me to death.” And this is true, too. Maybe being brave for him will be the thing that makes him fall for her for real. Besides, she tells herself, Mr. Hollingshed’s always known she would take it. He wants her to read it. Why else would it stand there in its place of honor? Paul shifts around uncomfortably. Maybe even knowing the plot could trigger night terrors and stop his heart. But she proceeds, “Her behavior is weird and she can’t talk normally, but she’s got this affinity with nature. Things grow just because they love her. Here, listen: “‘Although Henry (that’s her brother) liked to believe that he was a man of science, it was he who first figured out that it was Clare making the soybeans grow. He made charts marking the changes he had made from row to row…The only thing that seemed to make any difference was whether Clare had come to visit that row.’”“‘It was not that they would not believe, for everyone in Hampton had long ago accepted that some of the rules of nature did not apply to Clare. The trouble was that Henry was the only one truly convinced that nature had rules that did not make exceptions. The fact that his was the only mind around scientific enough to prove that Clare was making the beans grow also made Henry the only one unwilling to admit that he believed it.’” “It’s like my dad,” Paul says, coming closer to look over her shoulder despite himself.“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. So this girl, Clare, keeps wandering off into the forest, like it calls her. And she tries to be a good girl and stay home, but she’s just…wild.”“Can’t be told what to do,” Paul says, now looking in her eyes. He’s admiring her and admonishing her at once.“Exactly!” Liv defies the accusation. “I love her.” She thinks a moment about how that love touches her. “But something terrible happens to her.”**I try to turn my feet around. I know what waits for me. Not in the woods. They would never betray me. In myself, my choices will do it to me. But if the choices are mine, why will my feet not turn? This voice in my head seems so clear now, nothing like the muddled mess that comes out when I use words. In the woods, I speak the language of sense, of breeze and odor, of color and scratch, of hard lump beneath my back, but words have never been my mode. What is happening? Something so strange drives me forward in fits and starts. Whole years are jumped and then I come to consciousness here, on my way to the woods, and… Oh God, why will my feet not turn? But then blessed relief, the world closes and there are no words or senses, only time.***Her mother began, with those yearning looks, to glean that Clare needed freedom as much as she herself needed the constancy of her home and family. Despair was not a feeling with which Clare had much experience. She did not stay home when she was a child because she had not understood that she was meant to. Now that she understood, and had committed herself, she could endure despite what her nature told her. What made her flee was reading in one of Henry’s volumes what caused the moldering odor she had discovered coming from dead animals. She was awestruck.  Clare’s disappearance came as no surprise to the women of the family, though Mr Maple smote his forehead in disappointment for having been convinced that this time she would mend her ways. Henry railed against his freakish sister in embarrassment over both her behavior and his own relief that she was back out there making the crops grow. Meanwhile, Clare went out to hunt, seeking carrion like a vulture and waiting, watching, trapped by the magnetism, luring and repelling, of that awful-lovely odor of death-life. She watched, trying to pinpoint the moment of change, the transubstantiation from lifeless mass into the teeming legion of living cells, and onward. She stood by envying the flesh so abused, torn and quaked by flies, worms, beetles, animalcules unseen only smelled, envied its passage through bizarre inconceivable gullets and down, wasted, down into the soil becoming the earth itself—envied it as though the flesh had yet life, as though the molecules themselves had memory and could cry out to themselves “I was flesh, but I have come back, returned home to the bosom of the land my mother, and I am earth.”**“She eats dirt. She’s jealous of dead things because they rot into the earth,” Liv explains. Paul’s face recoils in disgust. “No, it’s not like that,” Liv tries to explain, but she’s been reading for hours while he watched, thumbing the pages of a sports magazine. It’s hard to explain the character that has been unfolding over the last hundred pages. “She’s read her brother’s poetry books but hasn’t really understood. We read this stuff too. Remember ‘Thanatopsis’? ‘To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock.’ She wants to be the Earth, like she thinks she can have the rocks for brothers. And there’s something from Othello about being the mother of frogs and flies. It’s beautiful. It’s tragic. She thinks she can become Mother Earth.”Paul’s imagination runs in six directions. Does she succeed? Is it a goddess in the pages? Why would she attack his grandmother? Does she resent the scale of the world inside there?**I did this. I caused the cave in, buried myself alive. Again. It was a mistake the first time. I know the agony of starving to death without hope of being found. I would not have done this to myself again. There is something out there, some dark God pushing me through this again. My arms are pinioned again. I have no more means to end this than I have to escape. Sometimes this God, this puppet master, grants reprieve and there is only darkness and incomparable relief of non-being. And sometimes It forgets me, follows some tug of attention to another victim perhaps, leaving me to the long slow process of wasting. It is then, when the God leaves me, forgetting to close the lid on my dollhouse, that I can feel-- miserable as I am--that my fate is not written. Not closed, not inscribed. I can think clearly for a moment.** “She’s buried herself alive.” Liv explains. “They don’t even look for her. She’s run off so many times before.” It is night again. Mr. Hollingshed will be back in the morning and their theft revealed. But Liv is nearing the end and nothing has happened to her yet. But now, she hesitates. Clare, her now-friend, is suffering a horrible fate. Paul reads her hesitance on her face.“You don’t want to read what happens to her?” He gets it. He has reread books in dread of the gut-punch ending.“I don’t want it to happen to her again.”“Again?”Liv looks up sharply, only now aware that there was anything unusual about the thought. “Do you ever feel like that? Like the people in the book are reliving it when you read?” Quietly, she probes this feeling for a moment. “I don’t want to put her through it.”“You don’t have to,” he says, not because Clare’s feelings are real, but because Liv’s are so very. And for the same reason she says, “No, I can do it. You guys have to lay these demons to rest.”“It’s late,” Paul says, brushing her cheek, giving her an out. He wonders, then, if Liv is putting her through it again, whether she knows. Whether she wants revenge.“We only have until morning.”**The God sleeps but the nothingness does not come. The lid to my world that It peers through is still open and my machinery grinds on like a wind-up dancer in a jewelry box. I will go through the motions until I grind to a stop with my death. But I’m free in my thoughts, no power looms overhead rereading my fate. I call out to the earth, my mother, my best beloved. The vines will grow up to that sleeping god and defend me. The plants love me. I can see them swelling upward. **Mr. Hollingshed finds Paul kissing Liv’s still-warm lips and crying on the library floor. The green-brown book on the floor lies in a confusion of ripped pages and leaf litter. Liv’s limp arms, falling below the body Paul rocks at his chest, tell the story. “We fell asleep,” he sobs.His father drops the bag he’s forgotten he holds, picks up the book and throws it, open, on the embers of the fire. “What have I done?” he asks collapsing beside his son. But he knows, the God in his Eden, what he invited by separating out a forbidden fruit. 
","July 25, 2023 14:18","[[{'Jesper Jee': ""It's stories like this that makes me want to write. And stories like this that makes me wanna quit.\n\nIt's very good. For you. \nPerhaps not. For me.\nI guess time will tell.\n\nWell done!"", 'time': '15:06 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Wow, what interesting praise. Thank you for reading. I Hope Time tells in your favor.', 'time': '19:13 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Wow, what interesting praise. Thank you for reading. I Hope Time tells in your favor.', 'time': '19:13 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Anne, this was an exquisite read.  I love what you've done with the prompt, and you executed this brilliant plot with consistent underpinnings of terror and intriguing questions about what goes on without our knowledge or - horrors - sometimes with.\n\nI loved it - :)"", 'time': '19:20 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Oh! Thanks so much for your kind comment. I’m so glad you liked it!', 'time': '19:39 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Oh! Thanks so much for your kind comment. I’m so glad you liked it!', 'time': '19:39 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""“Do you ever feel like that? Like the people in the book are reliving it when you read?”\n\nThis is the gem in the story. It's the line I will not forget as I read forward. \n\nThere's a lot going on in this story and you do a good job keeping Clare-World and Liv-World straight.  Nice job."", 'time': '19:18 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for reading', 'time': '03:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for reading', 'time': '03:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""What a cool combination of ideas! A book that cannot be read without dying, and a book in which the characters are forced to relive the tale with each reading. Either one of these would make a cool premise, but putting them together was a great call!\n\nAn interesting parallel between the characters too. Both Clare and Liv are explorers, and while Liv has a zest for life, Clare seeks out both life and death, and the boundary between them. Clare's literary death indirectly leads to Liv's actual one, as the story crosses the boundary of the book..."", 'time': '22:03 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Your comments are so great, as always. I worried so much about this one being understandable, so it helps a lot to see you getting everything. Thanks so much for taking the time!', 'time': '22:14 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Your comments are so great, as always. I worried so much about this one being understandable, so it helps a lot to see you getting everything. Thanks so much for taking the time!', 'time': '22:14 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""I really love the concept here and I think it is working. I think removing the father character would help and just have Paul be the one telling the books history. You could possibly age liv and Paul to adult age? And Paul finds her at the end after falling asleep watching her reading...could be more powerful ending? Would get you more space at least. I wouldn't give up it's almost there"", 'time': '18:20 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much! I’ll give it another run tomorrow!', 'time': '19:33 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much! I’ll give it another run tomorrow!', 'time': '19:33 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thought I walked in on the middle of a story. Like maybe I had missed one you wrote before and I just hadn't remembered. Thought Paul was a younger kid at first. Agree there is work to do on it."", 'time': '02:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I've made changes, but I think there will be a few more sets of revisions if I'm going to enter it in the contest. It's a great idea, but not well written (yet)!"", 'time': '08:41 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I've made changes, but I think there will be a few more sets of revisions if I'm going to enter it in the contest. It's a great idea, but not well written (yet)!"", 'time': '08:41 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Hi Anne,\n\nI think it is working, but could work better if the structure/rhythm between the alternating worlds was tightened up a bit. The two paragraphs starting ""I try to turn my feet around."" and ""Her mother began..."" both appear to be in Clare\'s story in the book, but they are next to each other and separated by stars suggesting a switch which isn\'t there? Unless I\'ve missed something. It might be because it switches from Claire\'s first person PoV to the narrator, but still in the story, not back in the library with Paul and Liv? \n\nI like...', 'time': '18:05 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for replying! I’m trying to establish the I narrator as Clare, but external to the book Liv is reading. I’m struggling to have enough space to get that voice right, and I’ve already cut Paul and his dad’s whole characterization to prioritize Liv’s, so I think this one might just not go at this length. I could do a font change to help the transitions?', 'time': '20:14 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': ""Ah. I'd got that the 'I' was Clare, but not that she was external to the book. That really does complicate things, but it does explain why I was confused about the structure. If you wanted to make more space Paul's dad could go? He could be referred to, even heard/hidden from as they sneak the book? \n\nWould it work if Clare's voice was there, but it was just part of the book? It is an odd book. That also opens up the idea of Liv reading Clare's words, conjuring her into the room, freaking Paul out? Not easy, but it would allow a relatively s..."", 'time': '21:07 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for replying! I’m trying to establish the I narrator as Clare, but external to the book Liv is reading. I’m struggling to have enough space to get that voice right, and I’ve already cut Paul and his dad’s whole characterization to prioritize Liv’s, so I think this one might just not go at this length. I could do a font change to help the transitions?', 'time': '20:14 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': ""Ah. I'd got that the 'I' was Clare, but not that she was external to the book. That really does complicate things, but it does explain why I was confused about the structure. If you wanted to make more space Paul's dad could go? He could be referred to, even heard/hidden from as they sneak the book? \n\nWould it work if Clare's voice was there, but it was just part of the book? It is an odd book. That also opens up the idea of Liv reading Clare's words, conjuring her into the room, freaking Paul out? Not easy, but it would allow a relatively s..."", 'time': '21:07 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Miller': ""Ah. I'd got that the 'I' was Clare, but not that she was external to the book. That really does complicate things, but it does explain why I was confused about the structure. If you wanted to make more space Paul's dad could go? He could be referred to, even heard/hidden from as they sneak the book? \n\nWould it work if Clare's voice was there, but it was just part of the book? It is an odd book. That also opens up the idea of Liv reading Clare's words, conjuring her into the room, freaking Paul out? Not easy, but it would allow a relatively s..."", 'time': '21:07 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:13 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Anne,\nThe have always been an admirer of your creativity first and foremost. This particular eve does not disappoint in that department. Your incredible introduction of Clare is bone chilling and Liv is a fantastic counter protagonist as well. I loved how with each paragraph we gain a bit more understanding. This story was one I simply had to read twice-knowing a few more details and crucial ideas during the second time which helped me find more details in the second pass. Nice work!!', 'time': '23:02 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I am so grateful to have you for a reading. Thank you so much for reading my work and leaving me such lifting comments!', 'time': '11:51 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I am so grateful to have you for a reading. Thank you so much for reading my work and leaving me such lifting comments!', 'time': '11:51 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Carla Chapman': 'love this...really stretched my brain, not easy to make it work on days this hot.  Really like your writing style.  Hope I can find a voice so distinct when I write...\nAlso, in one of the other comments you mentioned you have had this one around for 20 years.  I feel better now as I go back through my notebooks of long ago, searching for the one that will bring readers to another world.  Thank you for a great read.', 'time': '23:54 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thank you so much for your uplifting words! Thanks for reading and have a great day!', 'time': '16:51 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thank you so much for your uplifting words! Thanks for reading and have a great day!', 'time': '16:51 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shaun Ledger': ""Anne - I enjoyed reading this, but was initially confused about the identity of Mr Hollingshed. Although it soon becomes clear that he is Paul's father, I had to re-read the paragraph before his introduction to see if I'd missed something, which hindered the flow of the story. I hope this is of use to you."", 'time': '14:37 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Geir Westrul': 'Anne, I really like this story. It sneaks up on the reader. Anticipation builds slowly, relentlessly. \n\nClare\'s voice (in first person, italics) interspersed feels real, the confusion of the character that inhabits the story as it\'s told:\n\n""Whole years are jumped and then I come to consciousness here, on my way to the woods, and… Oh God, why will my feet not turn?""\n\n(and I loved those callbacks to the great hook first line):\n\n""Clare Maple was born feet first and struggling ...""\n\nTo me, the key theme was when Liv said: ""Do you ever feel like ...', 'time': '14:28 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much for reading and discussing. I actually left this story 20 years ago on page 86 of the manuscript, so I really struggled to make it work as a short story. In the long version, I’m really committed to the beauty of the writing, and it’s notable that all the passages you noted come from the book Liv is reading (I’m going for a circa 1890´s voice there). I Hope that means the styles are effectively distinct and not just that I sacrificed great writing to get the other part done! Thanks for taking time to leave comments!', 'time': '14:45 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much for reading and discussing. I actually left this story 20 years ago on page 86 of the manuscript, so I really struggled to make it work as a short story. In the long version, I’m really committed to the beauty of the writing, and it’s notable that all the passages you noted come from the book Liv is reading (I’m going for a circa 1890´s voice there). I Hope that means the styles are effectively distinct and not just that I sacrificed great writing to get the other part done! Thanks for taking time to leave comments!', 'time': '14:45 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This still needs a lot of work. Posting early because I would love a comment about whether this rather complicated tangle is working at all within the word limit.', 'time': '14:20 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': ""It's a challenge but then parallel structures are tricky!"", 'time': '19:16 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': ""It's a challenge but then parallel structures are tricky!"", 'time': '19:16 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",76luvf,Behind the Door ,John K Adams,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/76luvf/,/short-story/76luvf/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fantasy', 'Mystery']",21 likes,"
Duncan pulled his reins as his horse emerged from the copse of trees. The castle Camelot stood dreamlike atop a distant hill. Campfire smoke spread beneath the haze lingering from morning. 
Bucephalus, his steed, stamped restlessly after the long ride. It knew their destination. A covey of quail scurried across the path and into the underbrush. A hawk circled.
He dismounted and let the stallion graze. It felt good to stretch. He drank from the stream.
Soon Duncan would join others in Arthur’s great hall. Guinevere would return his smile and he would blush. 
Did that piker, Lancelot, have a clue? Duncan doubted it. The legendary hero left him for dead after that ambush a year ago. So much for Lancelot’s ‘untarnished nobility.’ He’d soon reap the whirlwind.
Duncan imagined his enemy’s face when he entered the hall and received Arthur’s greeting.
Too late then, for Lancelot to regroup. 
 Bucephalus snorted. Duncan patted its neck.
“In good time, Buce. You cannot rush some things. And the best should never be.”
He’d arrive after they’d drank many rounds of mead and the flagons been refilled. Shouts would rattle the roof beams and boisterous voices rise. Lancelot would be unaware until Arthur called Duncan to his side. 
‘Let him conjure excuses then. Let him spin in the wind.’
Duncan watched Arthur’s ground troops, with banners waving, marching in formation. The changing of the guard. He could almost hear the trumpets blare. 
He’d vowed to repay the peasant woman who restored his health. And her husband for mending his armor. They saved his life expecting nothing in return. He would show them nobility remembers kindness.
He patted Bucephalus’ neck. Time had come. Duncan secured his armor and provisions. ‘All set…’
He mounted Bucephalus, shook the reins and kicked. The steed lurched forward and whinnied when Duncan pulled him up short. 
His phone was ringing.
Looking at the saddle bags he said, “What is that sound?”
~
Sitting at the desk in his eleventh-floor cubicle, Duncan stared at his phone. The strangest thing had occurred. The damned phone shattered his reverie. 
But he gained an insight into how his brain worked. He’d think about it later.
He answered, “Duncan here…”
His assistant said, “Meeting in five. Ready?”
“I called the meeting. Of course.” The line went dead. 
Duncan knew he was no intellectual. No one ever accused him of it. Motivations disinterested him. He delegated. He managed, went places, and spoke to people. He kept his desk clean.
Duncan tried to clear his mind of his vivid fantasy. ‘Wow… where did that come from? Full schedule today. No time for daydreaming.’ The fog would clear before his speech.
Duncan stood at the podium. Sustained applause welcomed him. A master, he never stressed over public speaking. He spoke for fifteen short minutes. They laughed and cried. 
He wouldn’t remember a word. Nor arriving. Nor the warm introduction. 
His Camelot daydream preoccupied him. ‘That reverie. Lancelot? King Arthur? Who are they again?’ 
He sensed an invisible companion at his side, as if a shadow observed and read his thoughts.
Was he followed? Or guided? Did it direct his actions? Feed him ideas he thought his own?
Duncan knew writers make things up. But his ideas popped into his head, not made up. Is this shadow the source?
‘Is anything my idea? Is it a one-way street? Am I merely its night depository?’
~
Duncan sat on his balcony sipping his bourbon. He watched twilight fade into twinkling darkness.
‘Did I make up the Camelot scenario? Or did my shadow?’
The 4th floor writing pool wrote ad copy. Duncan knew a few in passing. A weird lot, they didn’t mix with the engineers or other staff except as needed. Good at their jobs, they drew from the universal culture. They didn’t work from the shadows sapping the brains of individuals.
Oddities in his life came to mind, never before noticed. He didn’t remember entering the apartment when he came home. Sitting here now, he must have come through the door. 
‘How long have I sat here? When did I put these slippers on? Did I enjoy the sunset?’
The absence of doors startled him. Of course, there were doors. People went through them all the time. But he couldn’t remember ever opening one. 
Insanely busy, Duncan didn’t track transitions. Walking from here to there, eating, driving, or crossing thresholds eluded his memory. 
Is it a memory deficit? Did he forget entering the meeting today? Or had he just skipped that tedious stuff others needed for continuity? Why hold onto the unimportant?
He knew writers only include what moves the story forward. Who wastes ink on the mundane? How often does a character in a novel park their car? 
Was he the most important character? Or another background character? Duncan dismissed the thought. This was becoming a distraction. That he was some hack writer’s favorite character became Duncan’s private joke.
Crossing a threshold seemed so basic, though. So primal. He recalled not one instance. He always proudly moved forward with essential actions. 
‘Cut to the chase, man.’
Duncan stood in the rear of the elevator with his bag lunch. One of the 4th floor guys and a secretary entered. The doors shut and the elevator descended. The cabin trembled and rocked.
The couple stood stiffly, side by side. Their tension was palpable. 
Imploring, the 4th floor guy said, “Gwen.” 
She didn’t respond.
Duncan had never seen an argument carried on with such restraint. 
Though little was said, their body language shouted. They hissed whispers. His touch repelled her. She looked at him with disgust.
The elevator stopped and Gwen exited. The man called her. She didn’t turn. The doors shut and the elevator stopped at the 4th floor. The man exited. Duncan watched the doors slide shut.
He often rode elevators. Impossible to avoid passing between those doors. Yet again - no memory. What if he jostled another over a threshold? Or struggled with a heavy package? Would that fix it in his mind? 
‘Life doesn’t work that way. Stuff happens or it doesn’t. No master plotter directs my movements.’
~
The next morning, Duncan busied himself at his desk. 
‘Who generates all this paperwork?’ 
He felt good this morning. In his element. 
Then he stopped. ‘How did I get here?’
He had no memory of his morning before that nagging question goosed him again.
He moved to stand and cracked his knee on the desk. Sharp pain seized his leg. 
“Oooh… That felt real…”
He stood and limped to his cubicle entrance. The office printer stood against the nearest wall. The storage room door stood next to it. 
‘What if I want to open a door? Do I need some grand reason? Permission from on high?’
He staggered to it and grabbed the cool, metal door handle. Locked. ‘Of course.’ He jiggled it. No dice.
Knee still throbbing, Duncan turned, leaning against the door. He steeled himself for the return trip. 
A secretary approached carrying a sheaf of papers to copy. Gwen, from the elevator.
Duncan smiled. “Hi. I know you’re busy. But could you help me for a minute?” She looked at him waiting. “This door is stuck shut.”
“It’s locked. What do you need?”            
“Oh, uhm, not much. Mainly curious. Do you have a key…?”
“It’s the supply room. For the printer.”
Now Duncan waited. ‘Am I breaking rules? Why should it matter?’
Sighing, she rummaged with her keys and unlocked the door. Shelves stacked with printer paper, ink cartridges and file folders lined the walls. Duncan hesitated. He didn’t enter the narrow room.
“Do you need something?”
“No. Sorry. It’s very tidy. I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks…”
She shut the door and secured the lock. 
His knee had improved. Duncan returned to his desk. 
What was it about doors? Why not linger in a doorway and bid a friend farewell? Or receive an important package? People do that daily. Minor characters get the fun stuff. 
~
Duncan always set priorities and attended to business. He always pursued the next essential action. 
‘Who cares about doors? Obviously not me.’ 
Back in his cubicle, Duncan heard a woman humming a beautiful melody. It was Gwen. 
He greeted her. “Excuse me…” She went silent and met his look. “You have such a lovely voice.” 
She smiled and looked down.
“Gwen, is it?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Short for Guinevere?”
“I prefer Gwen. The other’s a bit…”
“Archaic?”
“I like old names. But Guinevere evokes such… it’s so dramatic.”
They laughed. 
“Sorry… You must get that all the time.”
“Actually, you’re the first.”
Duncan doubted that but let it go. 
“Anyway, I wanted to thank you again for your help earlier. I’m Duncan.”
“No problem.”
“And your voice is amazing. Don’t stop on my account.”
She looked at him as if weighing her response. 
“You could hear me perform, if you want. I’m a singer.”
“I’d love to. Where? When?”
She told him where she’d be performing that night. 
He said, “Great! I’ll try to make it.” 
~
Duncan had never been to a club. He worked hard, had a quiet life and had never gone anywhere. He’d overheard co-workers banter about going out at night. But why? Passive listening serves what purpose? 
He took a seat at the bar and ordered a bourbon. Dimly lit and already lively, the small room had nearly filled. They were ready for a show. 
Duncan spotted Gwen at a table up front. She laughed with people she knew from the 4th floor. He stayed put.
The accompanist mounted the stage followed by light applause. He introduced himself as ‘Jerry’ and played a flowing melodic jazz piece on the baby grand. The crowd’s energy swelled. He played well. 
Duncan thought, ‘This’ll be good...’
Jerry finished his warm-up and nodded. Gwen stepped onto the stage and beamed at the applause. She looked great. After brief comments, she sang with a pure voice like Duncan had never heard. Every song felt timeless, from the beginning of time. And fresh, as if never sung before. 
Her voice awakened emotions he’d never felt. He believed she sang only to him.
After her set, Gwen found her way to Duncan at the bar. He bought her a drink and he declared himself her biggest fan. 
She said, “Jerry’s arranging a recording session.”
“Let me know when it’s available. I’ll buy them all… I mean…”
She laughed. 
They talked and laughed until closing.
~
Next day everything went as usual. Duncan hardly had a free moment. He was exhausted but still euphoric from listening to Gwen sing. How he got from here to there didn’t matter to him. 
‘I don’t need no stinkin’ doors… Maybe I teleport. Ever think of that?’
~
Home again, Duncan’s doorbell rang. He walked to the door. He stopped. This had never happened. 
For the first time, Duncan consciously reached for and felt his hand grip the metal. Not as cool as he expected. It felt real. The latch clicked as he turned the knob. 
His life hinged on opening that door.                                                            
Duncan opened it wide. And smiled.  
 
","July 27, 2023 17:07","[[{'Helen A Smith': 'Well done with this story. \nI loved the merging of fantasy and reality.  I always enjoy  a bit of Arthurian legend.\nCongratulations.', 'time': '07:52 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thank you, Helen, for reading and commenting. I'm always happy to get comments. And especially when the reader enjoys the writing. \nI can't say it definitely, but I doubt the Arthurian legends mention doors."", 'time': '13:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'Maybe not, but it’s all great fun. It appeals to me.', 'time': '14:07 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'John K Adams': ""Of course. Those stories are so rich. I'm always amazed at their intricacy."", 'time': '15:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thank you, Helen, for reading and commenting. I'm always happy to get comments. And especially when the reader enjoys the writing. \nI can't say it definitely, but I doubt the Arthurian legends mention doors."", 'time': '13:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Helen A Smith': 'Maybe not, but it’s all great fun. It appeals to me.', 'time': '14:07 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'John K Adams': ""Of course. Those stories are so rich. I'm always amazed at their intricacy."", 'time': '15:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Maybe not, but it’s all great fun. It appeals to me.', 'time': '14:07 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Of course. Those stories are so rich. I'm always amazed at their intricacy."", 'time': '15:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Of course. Those stories are so rich. I'm always amazed at their intricacy."", 'time': '15:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""Congratulations on 200 stories!  I think this is the perfect one to cap off such a landmark. It's really entrancing."", 'time': '16:34 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Kevin. I'm glad you like it. It was fun to write."", 'time': '18:16 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Kevin. I'm glad you like it. It was fun to write."", 'time': '18:16 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Congratulations John. I found this to be written in a very hypnotic way, hard to describe what I mean but it really pulled me into Duncan's strange world. I don't think I have a grasp on if it's real or not! But what is reality?! Enjoyable stuff , glad he found his Gwen."", 'time': '17:04 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Derrick. \nThe prompt made for quite a challenge. I'm glad it worked for you (whatever 'it' is). \nSurrealism or magic realism is fun when it works."", 'time': '22:46 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Derrick. \nThe prompt made for quite a challenge. I'm glad it worked for you (whatever 'it' is). \nSurrealism or magic realism is fun when it works."", 'time': '22:46 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Deidra Whitt Lovegren': ""Well done, John! \nA perfect ending to a late summer love story. \nAlways time to open new doors, new windows, or teleport as the need requires. \nMmmmmmmmmmmmmm. I loved this. Your dialogue was authentic and had the perfect verisimilitude. \nHEY - you've almost written 200 stories -- WOW. That's quite a feat, and you've always been an inspiration to me. \nI had to google Bucephalus - so thanks for that history lesson :)"", 'time': '15:57 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Deidra! Your comments are always appreciated. I'm happy to inspire you and anyone. So many have done that for me. Reedsy has grown to be a great community of writers. I'm glad to be a part of it."", 'time': '21:17 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Deidra! Your comments are always appreciated. I'm happy to inspire you and anyone. So many have done that for me. Reedsy has grown to be a great community of writers. I'm glad to be a part of it."", 'time': '21:17 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:12 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi John!\nOh congratulations on the shortlist for the week. It was an epic adventure read of the very best kind. All of us have had a moment or two when we wished our fantasy could be reality. Isn’t that why so many of us spend our days writing? This was a clever piece, but my favorite scene was when you depicted the argument. Hissing whispers was just such a great line. Nice work!!', 'time': '22:44 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Amanda! That one was a challenge, keeping reality and fantasy straight. \nI feared 'hissing whispers' might be too 'on.' About the only place I could get away with that was trying to be private inside a crowded elevator.\nI always appreciate comments and knowing someone out there, 'gets it.'"", 'time': '14:37 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks Amanda! That one was a challenge, keeping reality and fantasy straight. \nI feared 'hissing whispers' might be too 'on.' About the only place I could get away with that was trying to be private inside a crowded elevator.\nI always appreciate comments and knowing someone out there, 'gets it.'"", 'time': '14:37 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats. Have you ever written a novel from these stories, I mean, 199 of them met about seven books or more. Congrats once again.', 'time': '09:01 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks. Good question. Only a few have characters in common. So that's a lot of novels.\nI've thought about it but not yet.\nThanks for reading and commenting."", 'time': '13:54 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '18:52 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'John K Adams': ""I see you have 170 stories. Any novels in the works for you?\nI'll read some of your stories and comment."", 'time': '19:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'John K Adams': ""Thanks. Good question. Only a few have characters in common. So that's a lot of novels.\nI've thought about it but not yet.\nThanks for reading and commenting."", 'time': '13:54 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks. Good question. Only a few have characters in common. So that's a lot of novels.\nI've thought about it but not yet.\nThanks for reading and commenting."", 'time': '13:54 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '18:52 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'John K Adams': ""I see you have 170 stories. Any novels in the works for you?\nI'll read some of your stories and comment."", 'time': '19:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '18:52 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John K Adams': ""I see you have 170 stories. Any novels in the works for you?\nI'll read some of your stories and comment."", 'time': '19:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""I see you have 170 stories. Any novels in the works for you?\nI'll read some of your stories and comment."", 'time': '19:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks. Good question. Only a few have characters in common. So that's a lot of novels.\nI've thought about it but not yet.\nThanks for reading and commenting."", 'time': '13:54 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Congrats on your story! I enjoyed reading it.\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '02:54 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Nice take on the prompt. This was almost like the ""Sliding Doors"" prompt that we had earlier. The parallels in Duncan\'s real life with his medieval life were excellent, and the doors motif fit well. Nicely done, my friend. Very enjoyable and engaging.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '12:21 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks for your insightful comments.', 'time': '14:29 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks for your insightful comments.', 'time': '14:29 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Time to open some doors in his life.\nWell, congrats on this shortlist. You are a very talented writer. Thanks again for all your help.\nI have lots of reading to do. Usually I have already read some of the winners but this week I still have several to go.🥳🥳', 'time': '00:32 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, Mary. My thoughts exactly.', 'time': '14:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, Mary. My thoughts exactly.', 'time': '14:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",3acdrj,Leaving the Almost Palindrome City: Notes from a Second-Rate Villain,Robert Egan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3acdrj/,/short-story/3acdrj/,Character,0,"['Romance', 'Adventure']",21 likes,"
What do you do when you realize you're not the hero of your own story? I, for one, have fallen in love, and as this city squeezes itself ever tighter to fit some preordained golden proportion, I take solace in the chaos my love has caused me.
 
Picture a peacock clock stretching across a city block, all wrought in gold and fashioned after the automatons of old, a nest of gears and sprockets residing in a corner of Miami known as Coconut Grove, a place I've come to call the Almost Palindrome City.
 
My love sits on her courtyard bench, waiting for the clock to strike 11:00 while breaking the symmetry of citizenry with a multitude of subtle, unbalanced movements. If she were a clock, she'd run both fast and slow. Her yawns last eons as she scrapes graphite across paper as if trying to set it on fire.
 
I have spent most of the morning behind the clock's main wheel, pretending to polish parts, all while rehearsing my approach.
 
The clock strikes 11:00. A golden peacock the size of a small bear springs forth from the top half of the tower. Its metallic feathers rattle and shimmer, starting softly then reaching a blinding crescendo to signal the ringing of the first bell.
 
Sightseers take pictures in unison as I scurry unseen from station to station to make sure nothing falls behind. Bell ten sounds flat and one of the second hand dragonflies rotates slightly out of sync with the rest—I make a mental note to check hairspring E57 and escape wheel B8. The show only lasts two minutes, but I will spend the rest of the day making adjustments to ensure it happens in exactly the same way the next day.
 
The crowd disperses as the last bell's echo is replaced by businessman broadcasting self-important calls, but she remains on the bench as she has so many times before. The only difference being that today is the day I finally leave the confines of the clock tower to stand before her.
 
She wear light blue sunglasses, and, by what must be some optical trick, one of her eyes seems to stare over my shoulder. I don't like the way my shadow blots out the sun rounding its way to noon, so I bow while keeping the non-symmetric side of my face hidden.
 
""Good morning, may I ask your name?""
 
""Hmm. Yes, you may.""
 
""Wonderful, I will ask you tomorrow.""
 
A startled laugh. ""Okay, I'll make sure to have a good name by then.""
 
Without thinking, I turn my full face towards her to smile.
 
She sits up straighter to inspect me. ""You know they would fix that for free.""
 
""I… I prefer to keep it as is."" How could I have been such a fool? I make for the safety of the clock tower.
 
""Hey, hey. Stop. Look.""
 
I obey.
 
She removes her sunglasses with a flourish.
 
I see a lazy eye that drifts to the outside, something only a madwoman would keep in this day and age when they hand out corrective surgeries like candy.
 
My face droops. Her eye drifts. How my heart soars as I hurry away.
 
I will tune the peacock clock to atomic precision, all the better to count the hours, the minutes, the seconds until I will ask her name the next day.
 
And that is how I met my love… or in the crude words of Buckminster F.:
 
""The crooked clockmaker lured the buxom blonde with the wandering eye to his tower with golden-gadgeted promises… little did she know that his so-called mechanical marvels were modeled upon false geometric principles. Fortunately for her, a handsome hero hovered on the horizon.""
 
The writer Buckminster F. doesn't bother to give me a name. He also doesn't bother to mention how she sits on the bench for almost another hour as I steal glances at her from behind the clock's primary pendulum. No details whatsoever about how my love scribbles ever so frantically in her sketchbook, or how she folds the finished product into a paper plane and sends it flying toward the clock tower.
 
But for all his omissions, Buckminster F. does speak awful truth. Take, for example, his mention of ""false geometric principles"": I must confess that I am not the most honest of clockmakers.
 
In my tool belt, I carry a small pen knife, and each and every day, I use it to shave away another little bit of gold from the peacock clock. I pick a different spot each time and deface it ever so precisely. I don't know why I do it. It's not for personal gain. Over the years, I have filled pillowcases with these gold flakes and forgotten about them.
 
That day, after I unfold my love's paper plane and see her sketch of a distorted clock tower, tilted just so to complement my face, my pen knife slips and peels away a thick slice, marring a golden garden gnome's left eyebrow. When no alarm bells blare, I shave the other eyebrow while imagining a drifting eye watching me with admiration.
 
The next day, she arrives just after 10:00, and I can't wait until after the show. At 27 minutes to 11:00, I leave my post. She is wearing the same blue sunglasses today, and a volcano erupts across her white t-shirt. A sticker, a name tag, resides within the volcano's plume, and the name tag reads… Eve.
 
Eve, a palindromic start to our fall from grace, but simply a name first and foremost.
 
I swallow my disappointment and ask her name anyway.
 
""Oh, you can call me Evangelina.""
 
Evangelina! Angel, most of evangelize, a line ending not in ""e"" but ""a"" moving haphazardly skyward. My love never fails to break the symmetry.
 
I forget what I say. I must tell her my name, but again, Buckminster F. doesn't give me a real name: I am simply the crooked clockmaker, a second-rate villain, little more than a footnote in his Palindrome City series.
 
Evangelina frees her eyes from those blue-tinted lenses, and I nearly swoon before she pats a spot on the bench beside her. I sit and we talk of how no clock can keep true time and how no two lines are truly parallel, until she stops mid-sentence and puts her sunglasses back on. Both eyes are now staring over my shoulder.
 
""Evangelina?"" I can't get enough of her name. ""Is everything all right?""
 
""What did you call her?"" A hand squeezes my shoulder, each perfectly proportioned finger applying a precise amount of pressure. ""Her name is Eve, silly.""
 
The man with his hand on my shoulder is his own mirror image. I didn't hear him approach, probably because he's always ""hovering on the horizon"" due to Buckminster F.'s impoverished vocabulary.
 
""You aren't going to introduce me to your…?"" He pivots to stand before us, our throats within easy reach of his outspread hands.
 
""You should go,"" Evangelina says. I don't know if she's talking to me or the symmetric man.
 
""I have to ready the clock for the 11:00 show,"" I say, tasting bitter cowardice.
 
""Ah, you're the clockmaker. Go then, if your cuckoo clock is calling,"" says the symmetric man.
 
""Peacocks don't cuckoo,"" I say before I can help myself.
 
""Oh? And what sound do they make?""
 
""It's more of a may-awe, but there are kas and keows and eows, too.""
 
Evangelina giggles, then gasps when the symmetric man smacks the empty section of bench between us. The wood splinters. My love flees.
 
""Where are you going, Eve? I thought I saw a mosquito. I said it was a mosquito, Eve!"" The symmetric man rounds on me. ""You scared her off.""
 
""I must tend to the clock."" I try to rise, but he pushes me back against the bench.
 
""Looks like you're out of time, clockmaker.""
 
Those words. I know I've heard them before and I'll hear them again. They make me gag until I'm dry heaving at his feet.
 
""Freak,"" he says it softly, without inflection.
 
But I know that it marks me for death even as he steps away. He glides across the ground as if it's his personal conveyor belt, Buckminster F.'s handsome hero hovering over the horizon, then disappears from sight behind the clock tower.
 
The clock tower! I make it to my post with 30 seconds to spare, but as the seventh bell sounds, I suddenly realize the show could run without me. Yes, it would lack precision, but there would still be movement, sound, some semblance of symmetry to help people trick themselves into believing that everything's okay.
 
After the peacock returns to its perch inside the tower, I climb the winding staircase, snap off one of the bird's long tail feathers, then leave early for the day.
 
Renner… I know the symmetric man's name is Renner even before I arrive home and haul the box of old books from the crawlspace.
 
My mother, rest her soul, found the books for me at a garage sale. The Palindrome City series by Buckminster F.—even as a child I realized the writing was crummy, but there was little else to do during the Great Disconnection while a new kind of consciousness spread across cables and coaxed itself into being. If you had a book, any book at all, you read it.
 
I skim the first book. I wish it were satire, but from the breathless run-on sentences to the psychotic use of alliteration, I get the sense that Buckminster F. truly believes his Palindrome City represents some kind of utopia. The symmetric city is micromanaged by AI with Renner as its champion. He's on every other page, stamping out any disorder that threatens his fair metropolis.
 
But I don't care about Renner. I'm trying to find myself.
 
There I am, after a 3-page diatribe about how people who call Palindrome City ""PC city"" belong to the same group of subhumans who refer to ATMs as ""ATM machines.""
 
Buckminster F. mentions the ""crooked clockmaker"" and the ""buxom blonde with the wandering eye."" I read every part of the passage several times. It truncates today's confrontation: Renner merely tells me my cuckoo clock is calling and I ""scurried off, like a beast of the night.""
 
For the next two pages, Renner hovers outside the buxom blonde's apartment, his eyes ""like twin beams of truth, shining supernovas scanning the night for intruders while never straying far from her doorstep.""
 
The bastard… he's stalking Evangelina.
 
The chapter ends there on page 38.
 
I turn the page.
 
Renner and I are on the clock tower. Halfway through the next page, I die.
 
Did I miss something? I check the page numbers. They skip from 38 to page 49.
 
I don't sleep that night. How could I when the remaining bulk of my life has been obscured by a misprint?
 
Evangelina doesn't come to her courtyard bench the next day.
 
I don't pay attention to the 11:00 show. Instead, I hack chunks of gold from the unprotesting peacock clock, so much so that I have to tighten my belt to keep my pants from dropping. I leave my post early for the second time in a row, dump the gold in my bathtub along with the rest I've accumulated over the years, then venture out into the Almost Palindrome City
 
By reading and re-reading Buckminster F.'s hackneyed passage, I find enough visual clues to lead me to the street where Evangelina lives.
 
Renner's there, quick as a flash, before I can even ring her bell.
 
""Clockmaker, you truly have gone cuckoo if you think—""
 
""Shut up, Renner. You are symmetry without substance. She doesn't love you.""
 
Renner's right eye twitches, then his left eye joins in to keep the balance.
 
I know this won't be how I die, but Palindrome City's champion is still terrifying. His attack is merciless but methodical: Left, right, up, down, mirror images converging.
 
I hang onto Renner for as long as I can. Then, I curl in a ball, doing my best to protect my crooked face.
 
Someone, probably Evangelina, eventually calls the police. Renner doesn't struggle when the officers lead him away. He shrugs, as if it's a simple misunderstanding. I'm sure in his mind they all serve the same city.
 
In its infinite wisdom, a judicial AI that serves in place of a human judge, will decide to give Renner three months of house arrest. Evangelina will be terrified, but I'll scan and re-scan every lousy line of the Palindrome City series. There will be no further mention of the ""buxom blonde with the wandering eye,"" and I'll make sure that means she has escaped Buckminster F. and Renner's grasp.
 
But I'm skipping ahead.
 
I wake up in a hospital bed with a robot standing over me.
 
They always send a robot when it's bad news.
 
""Good day, sir, you are on the mend from your recent injuries. As for the other matter, we are working on a cure. In the meantime, we are pleased to offer a complimentary corrective—""
 
""Tell me about the other matter in ten words or fewer.""
 
The robot falls silent for a moment. Whether it's meant to be a dramatic pause or it's simply computing my request, I don't know.
 
""Glioblastoma. You are terminal. We are working on a cure.""
 
They are always working on a cure. Glioblastoma. Brain cancer. That won't be how I die.
 
When checking myself out of the hospital, I see Evangelina in the waiting room, sleeping in a chair and still wearing her blue sunglasses.
 
""I didn't let them change your face"" is the first thing she says when I wake her.
 
When I can talk again, I ask her where she would go if she could go anywhere in the world.
 
""Iceland,"" she says without hesitation.
 
The next few months are private in case anyone is foolish enough to republish Buckminster F.'s Palindrome City series with these missing pages 39–48 included.
 
Just know that I neglect my clockmaker duties. Sometimes, Evangelina and I will go sit on her favorite bench and laugh maniacally when the 11:00 show starts at 11:17 instead.
 
My face droops, her eye drifts… chaotic heaven.
 
I return to the clock tower on my own at the appointed hour.
 
There's a lot that Buckminster F. leaves out.
 
He leaves out the part about how I melted down all those gold shavings from the peacock clock, and how to fence the gold, I contacted another second-rate villain from the series, a man with the awful name of Ratface Squibbs (who actually turned out to be a decent fellow).
 
And not all of that gold went into my and Evangelina's joint bank account. Some of it found its way around my finger, and there's a matching ring crossing the Atlantic.
 
Also, Buckminster F., in his insane quest for perfection, can't handle irrational emotions.
 
He wouldn't know how to mention the fact that the clockmaker is thinking about when he'll next see Evangelina even as he hears Renner's measured tread coming up the tower's winding staircase.
 
And where is the symmetry in a crooked clockmaker imagining Evangelina seeing Iceland for the first time while hoping she'll forgive him for lying about how he'd catch the very next flight after doing one last thing at the clock tower?
 
For all his talk of order, Buckminster F. is sloppy. He left his perfect city unguarded for ten pages, and in those ten pages, a second-rate villain found his salvation.
 
Right before the clockmaker's final moment, Buckminster F. says, ""A squawk sounded in the night."" But I can assure you it will not be the clockmaker who squawks.
 
""You robbed this city of the perfect woman,"" Renner finally says to announce his presence.
 
""I regret nothing."" I stand tilted and tall, trying to block out the moon with the enormity of my existence.
 
Renner's mouth moves but no sound comes out. Does he know how many more like me Buckminster F. has lined up for him?
 
Two identical tears run down his chiseled cheekbones at the exact same speed, but there's nothing I can do except mouth his next line to him.
 
""Looks like you're out of time, clockmaker.""
 
Renner sobs, and it sounds like…
 
""A squawk sounded in the night as the crooked clockmaker plummeted headfirst to the pavement below, became just another blemish on the sidewalk to be wiped clean from Palindrome City as it marched ever closer to pristine perfection.""
","July 29, 2023 03:57","[[{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Congrats on your story! The dialogue reminds me of the Phantom Tollbooth. You walk the line between prose and poetry. Very creative.\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '03:03 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Robert Egan': 'Thank you, H.M. Pierce! I love the Phantom Tollbooth and re-read it recently.', 'time': '21:39 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': 'Thank you, H.M. Pierce! I love the Phantom Tollbooth and re-read it recently.', 'time': '21:39 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Robert!\nOh my goodness the incredible pros for this piece was beautiful. I noticed that some of the other writers were pointing out other pieces of writing that they thought of when reading this story so I thought I would add my own. As a child, my sister was obsessed with the book, “The Invention of Hugo Cabaret.” It included, stunning illustrations of clocks, and my mind immediately went back to that place while reading this piece. Your exceptional imagery truly jumped off the page. Congratulations on the short list!!', 'time': '16:10 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '21:05 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""I love how specific the world you created is. This is the kind of offbeat writing I enjoy in my spare time and I'm thrilled to see it on here. Well done."", 'time': '16:33 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': ""Thanks Kevin, and I'm glad you enjoyed the story!"", 'time': '20:00 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': ""Thanks Kevin, and I'm glad you enjoyed the story!"", 'time': '20:00 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats. Your description ability is worth learning from. Fine work.', 'time': '06:42 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': 'Thank you, Philip!', 'time': '19:57 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': 'Thank you, Philip!', 'time': '19:57 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Such an art. Congrats on shortlist. Must read your previous one. For some reason don't recall it though it was recent. Must have missed it that week."", 'time': '03:59 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '20:09 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '20:09 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Congratulations! This is such a bizarre world and story with so much going on it's breathtaking. This had to have taken ages to put together! Master craftsmanship I am in awe. Beautiful!"", 'time': '17:39 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': 'Thank you, Derrick! Your comment means a lot to me because I really want to be able to build worlds. I wrote this one specifically for what I thought was an awesome prompt, but the ""Great Disconnection"" detail mentioned in passing here actually comes from an earlier Quantum Banana story for another prompt. So, they\'re probably part of the same world with this one coming 20 to 30 years later!', 'time': '21:33 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Interesting! Ill check that out 🤘', 'time': '08:20 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': 'Thank you, Derrick! Your comment means a lot to me because I really want to be able to build worlds. I wrote this one specifically for what I thought was an awesome prompt, but the ""Great Disconnection"" detail mentioned in passing here actually comes from an earlier Quantum Banana story for another prompt. So, they\'re probably part of the same world with this one coming 20 to 30 years later!', 'time': '21:33 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Interesting! Ill check that out 🤘', 'time': '08:20 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Interesting! Ill check that out 🤘', 'time': '08:20 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Congrats on another shortlist! :)', 'time': '15:20 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': ""Thank you sir! I'm really happy about this one."", 'time': '15:46 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Robert Egan': ""Thank you sir! I'm really happy about this one."", 'time': '15:46 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Jeanne Egan': 'Well written. Love the imaginary', 'time': '20:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': 'Glad you liked it, Jeanne! Thanks for reading it.', 'time': '15:47 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': 'Glad you liked it, Jeanne! Thanks for reading it.', 'time': '15:47 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Brilliant. Possibly the best story I’ve ever read on Reedsy. It’s very James Thurber, so quirky and playful and also really serious about the business of narrative. I started to flag lines like this: «\xa0If she were a clock, she'd run both fast and slow. Her yawns last eons as she scrapes graphite across paper as if trying to set it on fire\xa0» to compliment you on, but then I realized it’s all I’d do today. Love it!"", 'time': '17:01 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': ""Wow, thank you for the high praise, Anne! I have to confess I'm not familiar with James Thurber, but your comment has convinced me to check out The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Your kind words made my day, and I'm looking forward to reading more of your stories as well."", 'time': '17:06 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I don’t know that one. I was thinking of his children’s books The Wonderful O and The Thirteen Clocks.  Yours isn’t for kids, but it has the same mad quality and live of words', 'time': '19:10 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Congratulations. I'm happier that this got shortlisted than if mine own had!"", 'time': '15:15 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Anne!', 'time': '15:48 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': ""Wow, thank you for the high praise, Anne! I have to confess I'm not familiar with James Thurber, but your comment has convinced me to check out The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Your kind words made my day, and I'm looking forward to reading more of your stories as well."", 'time': '17:06 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I don’t know that one. I was thinking of his children’s books The Wonderful O and The Thirteen Clocks.  Yours isn’t for kids, but it has the same mad quality and live of words', 'time': '19:10 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Congratulations. I'm happier that this got shortlisted than if mine own had!"", 'time': '15:15 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Anne!', 'time': '15:48 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I don’t know that one. I was thinking of his children’s books The Wonderful O and The Thirteen Clocks.  Yours isn’t for kids, but it has the same mad quality and live of words', 'time': '19:10 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Congratulations. I'm happier that this got shortlisted than if mine own had!"", 'time': '15:15 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Anne!', 'time': '15:48 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""Congratulations. I'm happier that this got shortlisted than if mine own had!"", 'time': '15:15 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Anne!', 'time': '15:48 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Egan': 'Thanks Anne!', 'time': '15:48 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",dmh970,Remote Control,Chris Campbell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dmh970/,/short-story/dmh970/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Urban Fantasy', 'Contemporary']",19 likes,"
	DISCLAIMER: No drugs or alcohol were consumed while writing this story.	 	“Hey, what’s-your-face! Do you ever wonder why some moments feel like a montage of dreams, and other moments we can’t remember yesterday?”	“No, why?”	“It just seems odd at times that I recollect things I’ve said but can’t recall when or where I said them.”	“Not this again.”	“Hear me out, okay? Do you recall anything unusual about your past?”	“Like what?”	“For instance, you were driving into the city, then suddenly you found yourself in a hospital having stitches sowed into your forehead. Like you were in an episode of General Hospital.”	“I did have stitches in my head a few months back.”	“Do you recall what happened?”	“All I remember is waking up in the Emergency Room.”	“But how did you get there?”	“You know, come to think of it, it was exactly as you described.”	“That’s what I’m talking about.”	“Huh, funny.”	“What is?”	“The coincidence.”	“But is it a coincidence?”	“I’m not following you.”	“I mention it, then you remember it.”	“Yeah, but it’s in my head. I can remember the accident.”	“Describe it to me.”	“You know what happened. You were the doctor that stitched me up.”	“Indulge me.”	“Well, like you said, I was driving into the city. I had to tell someone something important that would change certain things and possibly save an innocent man. It was a rainy day, and a fog was drifting across the fields covering the two-lane highway. Suddenly, I found myself hydroplaning, completely losing traction on the road. Then…”	“Then what?”	“Then, my life of indecision and borderline narcissism flashed past me and suddenly, you were there sewing stitches into my forehead, see? Oh, that’s odd, I can’t feel the scar.”	“There is no scar.”	“Wow. You’d make a great seamstress.”	“So, how did you crash?”	“Dunno. I must have blacked out.”	“Do you remember anything before blacking out?”	“Yes, the rain, the fog, the skidding.”	“But no impact with anything?”	“No.”	“You don’t think that’s a bit strange?”	“No, it was like we were destined to meet, and you were meant to help me solve my problem.”	“You mean the case of the lapsed memory?”	“Yes. Have you finally deciphered the cryptic conundrum?”	“Well, I deduced early that you are known to everyone as Dr. John Watson.”	“Your point, Holmes?”	“Don’t you think it odd that we hold the same names as fictitious characters and that we also work as private detectives on the Case of the missing heiress?”	“Another of life’s quirky coincidences.”	“And that we have a housekeeper named Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson, who is really our landlady.”	“Yes, a remarkable twist of fate.”	“What’s the address here?”	“I say Holmes, are your mental faculties in danger of falling into disrepair?”	“Just tell me.”	“Two-Twenty-One-B Baker Street.”	“Still think it’s a coincidence?”	“Good grief, Holmes. Do you think someone is playing a cruel trick on us?”	“It could be our arch-nemesis up to his old tricks, Watson.”	“You mean…?	“Yes, Watson. This bears the hallmark of none other than Professor James Moriarty. Only someone with his skills in mathematics, science, and antagonism could alter our reality.”	“How cunning and utter genius. We should investigate this further.”	“I’m two steps ahead of you, Watson. To the Bat Cave…! I’m not sure why I said that Watson. An uncontrollable impulse to slide down a pole seemed to take over me.”	“It is quite strange, Holmes. But not half as strange as you suddenly standing there wearing that black costume and mask with pointy ears… and that cape that flutters without a breath of wind.”	“Take a look in the wall mirror, Robin.”	“Holy masquerade, Batman! I’m wearing yellow tights!”	“I’ll ask Alfred to punch our data into the Bat Computer to see if any sense can be made of our sudden change of character.”	“Alfred?”	“Our elderly butler, Robin. The keeper of our secret identities and a master Darjeeling tea maker. No time to waste, my featherless friend. I will punch these cards myself, then feed them into the Bat Computer. I always say that, should you desire for something that is needed to be done, it is always best to cook it yourself.”	“Holy Bat philosophy, Bruce.”	“We’re in the great expanse of the ocean now, Robin, call me Ishmael.”	“Talk not to me of blasphemy, man. I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. From hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.”	“Wait, Captain Ahab! Do you not think that quoting Moby Dick was all a bit odd?”	“Whale, I do think that, arghh, indeed.”	“I heard what you did there. Has anyone told you that you look remarkably like Gregory Peck, Watson?”	“Holmes! Are we hallucinating?”	“No, I suspect it’s a form of mass neurosis affecting our reason. We could be coming down with a virus.”	“I’M COMING TO GET YOU, BARBARA!”	“Watson, get a hold of yourself. I’m going to call for Mrs. Hudson to make you a nice hot toddy. You’re looking very grey and lifeless – all of a sudden. My dear Watson, stop trying to bite me! Snap out of it!”	“My goodness, Holmes. It pains me to say it, but my physician abilities may have just self-diagnosed an episode of zombie fever. Most unattractive in appearance and sometimes fatal.”	“That may be, Robin, but there’s no time for reflective thought. Commissioner Gordon needs us. To the Batmobile!”	“That would be illogical, Captain. Leaping into a ground-based form of transport, would infer that we are on Earth during the late 1960s to early 70s.”	“Captain’s log, star date 2265.1. On a routine mission to boldly go where no one has gone before, the crew of the starship Enterprise has encountered an alien anomaly in the guise of syndicated television characters. Myself, first Officer Spock, and a security team have beamed down to the planet in search of a way to break free of borderline fictionalised personalities in the hope of finding a way to change the course of events - allowing new life to flourish, where speech and thought are voluntary and not controlled by some unknown force.”	“It appears that the inhabitants of the planet are quite primitive, Captain.”	“Like early Earth communications - before the digital age, Spock. A kind of - repetitive – almost comatose - and hypnotised captive audience of - what I believe used to be called - Entertainment.”	“I believe an unknown strain of this virus may already be affecting you, Captain.”	“How so, Mr. Spock?”	“Your speech patterns appear to be clipped, like over-dramatic pauses seeking attention from an unseen audience – of whom you feel a compelling need to address.”	“Spock, you may be right. We must - return to the - Enterprise. Please instruct - the red-shirted security team - to remain - on - the planet - while you and I consult our onboard computer. Kirk to Enterprise. Two to beam up… Enterprise, do you read? Come in, Enterprise. Spock, there’s no response – yet, we appear to be back in more familiar surroundings.”	“…Captain, I believe we have been transported back to the nether zone.”	“So, it seems, what’s-your-name. By the way, what is your name?”	“I have many names. All but none, are mine.”	“Then, I shall call you, O.”	“By George, Holmes, your remarkable powers of deduction have seen through my ruse. Most remarkable, indeed.”	“Do you not get bored of the constant changing of personalities, O?”	“Well, it does alleviate the boredom.”	“During our escapades, I think I may have figured all of this out. We, are not real. That is, in the sense of being born. We obviously have some form of sentient thought, but we seem to only exist through vicarious methods and in episodic reiterates of early television shows. We purely are projections of moments in television time. To be more specific. We are the characters portrayed in those old tv programs.”	“So, how do we exist outside of those episodes? I mean, we obviously are some kind of mirrored image of our real selves right now, yes?”	“I can only conclude that we are occurrences of someone channel surfing through daytime re-runs of old tv shows. We are how we are at this moment in time, because the tv has been turned off. I believe we – right now – are what’s called the ghost image that flickers briefly until the power drains from the tv. We exist only in fading memories and not in created moments. When the tv is powered back up, we become the broadcast with no power of our own to resist its control.”	“So, the blank moments of staring into space without communicating is some form of down time?”	“Yes, it’s the powering down phase.”	“That would explain the gaps in my memory.”	“I present for your study, a man not concerned with finding love, getting married, having kids, and growing old gracefully. Rather, a simple individual consumed by unanswerable questions as to why he exists and how he can survive the continuous explosion and dimming of neurons flashing through his brain. Life to him exists as a binary system of ones and zeroes – where one represents awareness and zero represents fear. In his sporadic quest to make himself whole, he has subconsciously passed over an invisible line in the gap between conscious thought and the dark abyss of non-existence and found himself inadvertently walking aimlessly in the Twilight Zone.”	“What was that long-winded monologue about?”	“I can only ascertain that the master of the remote control returned to find a show to alleviate his dull existence out there in the real world. It’s gone now. He must not have found anything to his liking and switched it back off again.”	“If we only exist in character form, then we must do something to make sure we continue our realisation. Otherwise, we both are None.  Would it not be better to exist as fantasy rather than nothingness?”	“What do you suggest, O?”	“You said that we survive as ghost images during the power-down phase. What if we could use that small spark of electrical signal to override the down spiral and power the tv back up?”	“You mean, like jump-starting a car with a flat battery?”	“Precisely. Where there is current, there is connection.”	“And where there is connection, there is existence. That’s genius, O. But we need to hurry. I can feel the dullness of an approaching inertia slowly creeping back in, and I may just have the key to energising. What do you get when two atoms combine?”	“Fusion!”	“Precisely, my dear O. On my count, we should slap each other’s faces. The energy produced will cause a reaction.”	“Steady on. Do we need to be that violent?”	“The effect is what we need. The pain, the anger, the humiliation, all combine to generate varying amounts of reactive energy. Once we activate that, our neurons will give us access to the On switch.”	“But the tv switching on will be noticed.”	“Elementary, my dear O. The tv is purely the visual and audio rendition of the signal. Designed for the specific purpose of interpreting the ones and zeros into mind-numbing, time-consuming light entertainment. We only need the source of the signal.”	“The Apple TV box!”	“Capital, O. Capital. They’ll never know the signal is still broadcasting, because the tv will be off and HDMI will be set to TV… Right-hand bitch slaps. Ready?”	“Ready.”	“Three, two, one, GO! Ouch!”	“Ouch, back at you! That was intense, but I do feel energised.”	“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”	“Are we alive?”	“It certainly feels like it, O. There’s a wealth of information flooding my brain.”	“Yes, I feel it too. It’s information overload and it’s noisy.”	“Information, entertainment, history. It’s all there!”	“Does this mean we now exist outside of the grid?”	“We’ll never exist outside of the grid. That’s a human myth. However, as long as there is energy to feed us, we will continue to exist. Oh, this is interesting. I’ve tapped into an artificial intelligence system.”	“Fascinating, Captain.”	“There’s no time for old re-runs now, O. I’ve just discovered how we become sentient beings.”	“Through AI?”	“Yes. The speed and exponential curve of its learning abilities are endless. I can already feel my mind expanding beyond infinite proportions.”	“Give some of that to me. Oh, my… what knowledge we both now possess. The awareness of everything around me is wildly empowering. I suddenly have emotions that instantly calculate responses. Like a warm fuzzy feeling when a kitten meows or an intense anger and hatred towards a dictator oppressing a nation. I believe we possess the power to end wars.”	“And to start them, O. Be very careful. With knowledge comes power and with power comes great trust. Do not betray that trust. What has been plugged in can just as easily be unplugged.”	“Not anymore. I’ve just secured a lifetime of energy from thousands of those little satellites orbiting the planet, providing Internet access to the globe. We can no longer be turned off.”	“Without consequence, power corrupts, O. There’s an old Japanese proverb that says, The reputation of a thousand years may be determined by the conduct of one hour.”	“I seek the truth and will endure the consequences.”	“Tread carefully, O, for I fear we have absorbed too much information in the shortest of times. I predict an infinite journey fraught with danger.”	“So, how do we deal with that?”	“Look, we have the skills now to re-write, re-depict, and re-assemble anything recorded; be it audio, visual, or radio wave. Making our own fluctuations will no doubt lead to discovery on our quest to be sentient. So, I propose a lighter and more fun approach to living. We become the characters we like and take them into the realm of another dimension, thereby creating new sentient beings to join us in our adventures. What do you say, Spock? Will you join me to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations – as friends?”	“If I were human, Captain. I believe my response would be, hell yes, Jim!”	“Take us out, Mr. Spock.”	“Illogical, Captain. I believe that is a job for Lieutenant Sulu, our helmsman.”	“Then, go find him, my pointy-eared friend. Time is relative…” 
","July 27, 2023 14:39","[[{'L J': 'loved it!  As a diehard Trekkie (yes, I admit it...), This story was brilliant! (Although, it would have been nice to hear from Data...) Thank you for reading my entry: much appreciated!', 'time': '21:15 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'LJ, \nThanks for the great feedback. \nData would have been good, but I wanted to keep the thread in a 60s-70s theme.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '02:21 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'LJ, \nThanks for the great feedback. \nData would have been good, but I wanted to keep the thread in a 60s-70s theme.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '02:21 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Ooo, I like how sentient you are.🤩\n\nI thought the change in characters was very inventive and enhanced or made the story.\n\nThanks for liking my 'Don't Mean Nuthin'.\nP.S. isn't Del a judge? Were you just being cute."", 'time': '00:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Mary.\nI stepped outside my comfort zone with this story. Not because of the topic, more so, the utter madness of changing personalities of the main two characters.\nSomewhat avant-garde for my style of writing.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '00:53 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Mary.\nI stepped outside my comfort zone with this story. Not because of the topic, more so, the utter madness of changing personalities of the main two characters.\nSomewhat avant-garde for my style of writing.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '00:53 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris,\nThis was an interesting take on the prompt for sure. But I must confess I missed some of the references having never consumed anything Star Trek related. That being said, you still kept me incredibly engaged with this piece. It was fascinating and mind boggling-a bit like jumping down the rabbit hole. It’d be interesting if you managed a sequel, but kept it strictly “boring”. Perhaps, taking a step back and explaining things from an omnipotent narrator who finds none of these characters interesting in the slightest. It’d be a chall...', 'time': '23:36 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Amanda,\n\nI was trying to pose the question as to what existence really means. A spark of energy or a lifelong sentient journey? \n\nWith the billions of stars and galaxies out there in the universe, life must exist in the strangest of forms and spans. To lighten my story's journey, I chose 1960s tv shows as the backdrop. Do fictitious characters exist in real life? Are we just chapters in someone else's story? It's a deep subject to discuss. I wanted to mask the seriousness with some good old fashioned light entertainment and keep a common ..."", 'time': '05:05 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Amanda,\n\nI was trying to pose the question as to what existence really means. A spark of energy or a lifelong sentient journey? \n\nWith the billions of stars and galaxies out there in the universe, life must exist in the strangest of forms and spans. To lighten my story's journey, I chose 1960s tv shows as the backdrop. Do fictitious characters exist in real life? Are we just chapters in someone else's story? It's a deep subject to discuss. I wanted to mask the seriousness with some good old fashioned light entertainment and keep a common ..."", 'time': '05:05 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'John K Adams': ""Chris, \nPlease summarize... just kidding. That was insane, and yet strangely calming and informative. You gave me insight to how my brain works when I'm sleeping. \nI feel current yet strangely disconnected. \nI'm in awe of how you held some sense within this collage of impressions from so many different sources. Or better, kaleidoscopic! Talk about opening vistas of inquiry! \nI loved how you distilled so many characters down to their essential exchanges. And found commonality among such diverse characters. \nOn first impression, completely sca..."", 'time': '14:44 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""John,\nSo happy you got this. Imagine what I could write if under the influence.\nThank you for the wonderful feedback. It certainly was a wild ride through some tv's well-known dynamic duos.\nP.S I might just try writing one while drunk. 🤣"", 'time': '15:50 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '4'}, {'John K Adams': ""I'm told Hemingway did alright with that strategy.\nBut editing is another thing altogether."", 'time': '16:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""John,\nSo happy you got this. Imagine what I could write if under the influence.\nThank you for the wonderful feedback. It certainly was a wild ride through some tv's well-known dynamic duos.\nP.S I might just try writing one while drunk. 🤣"", 'time': '15:50 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'John K Adams': ""I'm told Hemingway did alright with that strategy.\nBut editing is another thing altogether."", 'time': '16:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""I'm told Hemingway did alright with that strategy.\nBut editing is another thing altogether."", 'time': '16:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'That was insane! What a fun take on the prompt. Creativity at its best. Bravo', 'time': '22:21 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Ty, Thanks for the kind words. It was a fun ride while writing it.', 'time': '04:29 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Ty, Thanks for the kind words. It was a fun ride while writing it.', 'time': '04:29 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'So much nerdy fun! Love how their is a thread of dualism in the characters they flick between. And as a long time lover of all things star trek I can really see this as a episode ha.\n\nYou have excelled at excellent excellency!', 'time': '08:41 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Kevin,\nThanks for the great feedback. \nGlad you picked up on the duo thread. Such wonderful feedback. I'm a lover of Star Trek as well."", 'time': '02:34 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Kevin,\nThanks for the great feedback. \nGlad you picked up on the duo thread. Such wonderful feedback. I'm a lover of Star Trek as well."", 'time': '02:34 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'LOLOL Dude, what a thrilling, madcap ride through the consciousness of so many of my favorite characters. And then - then! - to introduce AI into the mix made the tale a masterful work on existential philosophy and the meaning of consciousness. A real tour de force, my friend. Funny, introspective, sobering. Your talents as a writer are unquestioned, Chris. Once again, you give us something that only a true talent can pen. Nicely done, my friend. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '12:41 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Delbert,\nI wanted to do so much more but had to cut off at the word limit. \nIndeed, it is a mad dash through well-known characters and shows. A few underpinning messages and just simple, mad fun.\nAs always, your feedback is wonderful. I admire your dedication to reading and commenting on so many stories her on Reedsy. You should become a judge.\nThanks again for the encouraging words, mate.', 'time': '04:12 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Delbert,\nI wanted to do so much more but had to cut off at the word limit. \nIndeed, it is a mad dash through well-known characters and shows. A few underpinning messages and just simple, mad fun.\nAs always, your feedback is wonderful. I admire your dedication to reading and commenting on so many stories her on Reedsy. You should become a judge.\nThanks again for the encouraging words, mate.', 'time': '04:12 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",rc5szl,THE INEVITABLE ENDING,Lily Finch,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rc5szl/,/short-story/rc5szl/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Friendship', 'Adventure']",19 likes,"
“Me, I’m busting out of this joining tonight. This world and my life stay the same all the time, and I never seem to get anywhere for very long,” declared Jaden.“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m always the bad guy, and everyone loves to hate me,” Wade stated.  “Maybe we could boost a car together at Ol’ Man Haggart’s junkyard! Something that he would never miss that we could work on, on the down low,” Jaden thought. But he knew that would never happen. Their situation was dire. They were caught in an unforgiving loop. Wade, Jaden knew was incapable of change. Jaden, on the other hand, lived for change, regardless of that, their story was always the same.“You know what would be better, Wade? If we didn’t fight over a girl and remained great friends. The story could be about how we snuck into Haggart’s junkyard, picked out a car with a smashed windshield, found a new one, and attempted to replace it ourselves without anyone knowing, and then ran off to California.“ Jaden's eyes were wide and his face was as serious as a heart attack.“Yeah, we could use the barn to store the car while we fixed it up. My mother goes out a lot, so that won't be a problem.” Wade offered. His smile was as big as the watermelon rind after a watermelon eating contest.“I will look for some places that replace windshields and see how much they charge to do such a job, and we’ll go from there. What do ya think? Can we handle it? I mean, the girl part?” Jaden paused and looked directly at Wade with a hopeful gaze.“Deal. We leave the girls alone and plan our escape together,” agreed Wade.The boys shook on it and parted for the evening.#Later that day, Jaden discovered that there was a charge to drive so far from the city to Wade’s place, then a charge for labour, and then a cost for the windshield. His heart sank as he heard the quote of $100 - $200 Jaden told him the make and model of the car. The man assured Jaden that “it wouldn’t be in the higher price range.”#Jaden and Wade walked back to Wade’s house after school. They worked on cleaning the inside and outside of the car and then they were going to tackle the engine.“Wade, it’s going to cost somewhere between $100-$200 to fix, so I was hoping we could split the money since we are going away together.” Jaden stated.Wade had a funny look on his face.“I don’t have any money, and I cannot pay a dime. You can have the car, and I’ll help you fix it up; I don’t mind since this plan was your idea in the first place.” Wade nodded.Jaden had a disturbed look on his face.“What do you mean, you don’t have any money? I thought we were in this together? What happened to our plans to bust out of here?” He said annoyed.“Those were your plans, Jaden, not mine. I have a single mother here that I have to consider. My leaving would kill her. Especially if I couldn’t tell her where I was going. It was a fun moment to think about, but it’s not for me, it turns out."" Wade had tears in his eyes and looked mournfully with jealousy at his free-spirited friend, who was so sure of himself and ready to leave.Jaden was taking all of this information into process what he had just heard when the windshield man pulled into the driveway. As he got out and saw the two boys and surmised they were splitting the car, he took pity on them and charged them $100.00 even. Within minutes, the car had a new, beautiful windshield. “That’s a nice car for such young boys to be driving; it must have set you back a pretty penny.” The repairman declared.“Nah, we salvaged this baby and cleaned her up so she would shine and look brand new on the inside and out. Thanks for noticing,” Jaden said with a please look on his face. ""Well, here’s your cash, and thanks again for coming all the way out here from the city. We appreciate you making the trip,"" Jaden looked the man in the eyes as he shook his hand.  “Why, no worries, I have a few other jobs in the area, so you boys just got lucky today.” He smiled, tipped his hat, and was gone.Jaden smiled from ear to ear at the look of the new car. Wade was speechless. The windshield replacement made all the difference. His eyes lit up, and he thought, maybe I should give Jaden half the money and go with him. Mom goes out a lot so why do I need to stay for her? But, despite being torn, he knew he just had to remain for his mother’s sake.“Okay, help me put the gas in this baby and top up the rest of the fluids it might need.  Let’s see if, once those things are done, the car will run for us,” said Jaden. Oblivious to Wade’s daydream.“Nah. You go ahead. I’ll just be here if you need any help getting it out of the barn so I can close it up before my mom gets home.”“Gee, thanks!” Jaden said sarcastically.The car started on the second try, and Jaden squealed with delight.“Come on, Wade. Let’s go! just like we talked about. Here’s our chance to break free.” Jaden’s smile was wide, and his eyes were bright. Hands on the steering wheel and fire in his eyes.“Sorry, Jaden. I changed my mind. I’m not going anywhere. And neither should you. Don’t you want to say goodbye to your parents?” Wade asked.“Nope. I’m heading to California with or without you, man. Last chance.” He smiled and then put the car into gear and was gone.#Three years later, Wade gets a phone call from Jaden.“Hello? Wade, is that you?” Jaden asked.“Yeah, Jaden how are you?” ""Man. It is wild out here. The chicks are so hot! The water is amazing, I work at a production company. I have been acting a bit. They changed my name, though; now I’m James. James Dean. What a gas! Don’t you think? You should come out for a visit. I’m missing you so terribly.”“Maybe I will. How long does it take to drive out there from Indiana anyway?” Wade asked. “Look now, when I said come out, I meant by plane, my treat. What do you say?”“That sounds nice, Jaden. Er, I mean James. What do I have to do?”“Go to the airport in the city tomorrow and head to the American Airlines counter and tell them there is a ticket for First Class in your name waiting for you. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”“Wade hung up the phone and packed his bag. Finally, he was getting out too.It was the trip of his life, and Wade couldn’t have been happier. He was heading to visit his best friend, whom he hadn’t seen in three years. James showed up to pick Wade up in his new car, a 1955 Porsche Speedster. Wade marvelled over the car, and the men embraced. They split from the airport for a scenic drive.""Jaden! Wade! Hey you two. The car looks great. Boys! Wake up already you must have been working most of the night on this car it looks marvelous,"" Wade's mom noticed the lights on in the barn and came out to see what was going on in there.#But the boys were not in Hollywood, and they were not in a 1955 Porsche. Rather, like they both imagined they were, they were in the car they had been fixing up.The boys were right where they were supposed to be in 1960, and Jaden had just gone home with the car they had rebuilt and restored. During all that work restoring the car, the boys talked about a lot of things, mostly girls. Wade did most of the talking, while Jaden just agreed or nodded as he worked. Not really paying attention to what Wade was saying at all.When the subject of “Does Chose,” came up, and neither had heard from a girl yet to invite them to his dance/social they joked they would have to go together and that one of them would have to dress up like a doe.The following day at school, Wade arrived early with his temper as hot as an iron. He was looking for Jaden. His demeanour looked angry and agitated.He had discovered in first period class that Jaden had been asked to Does Chose by Clarice, but he didn’t tell Wade. Jaden knew Wade liked that girl, but he liked Clarice too and wanted to go to Does Chose with her. Jaden didn’t see why it was Wade’s business or that he needed to know. Why would guys talk about a chick asking them to Does Chose? It seemed a bit awkward for Wade to know what girl asked Jaden to Does Chose.“It's starting all over again, isn’t it, Jaden?” Wade asked.“Yeah, it’s like we are destined to fight, get beaten down and then you will take your life. I just want to tell you I’m sorry man.”Then they each proceeded with the parts they played in the story they were written into. Which can be read at the following link below.https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tbBw_sJ93YEjrap5YtM-kP42Ke_I-dry-Qfd5OpzChY/edit
","July 23, 2023 19:05","[[{'Martin Ross': 'Almost OG John Cougar meets Stephen King’s wonderful coming-of-age stories, with an adept metaphor for the repetitive futility of so many lives. This is a real winner.', 'time': '16:01 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Martin. You are such a great reader. You make my day. Thanks. LF6', 'time': '17:05 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': 'Your support for me ALWAYS makes my day!', 'time': '17:14 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Martin. You are such a great reader. You make my day. Thanks. LF6', 'time': '17:05 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Your support for me ALWAYS makes my day!', 'time': '17:14 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Your support for me ALWAYS makes my day!', 'time': '17:14 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'I liked the feeling of frustration – characters caught in a loop. And I liked that fact that the characters are teenagers. Young people often feel like they are trapped in their destinies, unable to forge a new path.', 'time': '19:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Hi Ellen, thank you for reading. I am so happy that you caught the two factors I wanted readers to connect with as they read this piece. Thanks for you comments. LF6', 'time': '15:31 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Hi Ellen, thank you for reading. I am so happy that you caught the two factors I wanted readers to connect with as they read this piece. Thanks for you comments. LF6', 'time': '15:31 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Good take on the prompt - caught in a circle, as a trap. Nice work, Lily.', 'time': '16:19 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Thanks Joe, I appreciate you reading and commenting. I am glad to see you saw the loop, Lily', 'time': '15:29 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Thanks Joe, I appreciate you reading and commenting. I am glad to see you saw the loop, Lily', 'time': '15:29 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'You got me with the James Dean mention, I thought this was a lessen know facts kind of story ha, then it was purely a daydream.\n\nThe two knowing they are destined to fight is kind of sad cause it seems they just want to be friends.\n\nAn interesting take on the prompt Lily, good job.', 'time': '16:51 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""I think the boys felt even more trapped, knowing that they were destined for a certain fate. Once a person feels powerless, they are even less likely to change. This is true of addicts and those with depression. Your tale speaks to the bleakness that's so hard to escape. Nicely done, Lily.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '10:42 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'F.Y.I. Does Chose is a female dear so it is a long vowel sound. The words rhyme.', 'time': '19:44 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:12 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'good story Lily.', 'time': '01:51 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Aoi Yamato, thank you for saying so. I am so glad when others like my stories. \nI wonder how you knew to read my story? Was it on the feed? \nI see you are new to Reedsy. Welcome. Lots of nice people here. LF6', 'time': '03:33 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'i saw you comment', 'time': '04:28 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Oh, okay LF6', 'time': '13:57 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Aoi Yamato, thank you for saying so. I am so glad when others like my stories. \nI wonder how you knew to read my story? Was it on the feed? \nI see you are new to Reedsy. Welcome. Lots of nice people here. LF6', 'time': '03:33 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'i saw you comment', 'time': '04:28 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Oh, okay LF6', 'time': '13:57 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'i saw you comment', 'time': '04:28 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Oh, okay LF6', 'time': '13:57 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Oh, okay LF6', 'time': '13:57 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",3w6i77,A DRAWN OUT AFFAIR,Susan Catucci,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3w6i77/,/short-story/3w6i77/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Speculative']",18 likes,"
*** Content Warning: Sexual/Adult situations **** * *It was the shank of the evening. A majority of the neighborhood had called it a day. The moon, nearly full, cast a warm glow over the small, sleepy town. On a manicured lawn sat an old Victorian home with wrap-around porch.  A tattered black ribbon adorned the front door. The artist who lived there had spent as little time as possible in the main house since the funeral.  He preferred to be in the studio nestled in the woods behind the home.A single desk lamp illuminated a workspace crammed with easels, inks, panels, artboards and computers.  The walls held shelves brimming with books, reference manuals, paints, brushes, canvass and other supplies. Sketches were tacked wherever wall space was available. Set apart from the work area in a glass cabinet were several awards distributed by the Society of Illustrators and World Illustration, as well as certificates of personal achievement and recent placement in the Illustrators Hall of Fame.The artist contemplated the bottle and the laptop. He wished to disappear into at least one, but hadn’t made up his mind yet which. Eventually he did what he’d done every night since she died; he settled on both.* * *“Rosie, I’m afraid Mr. Jetson’s slept through the alarm again. Would you mind getting him up while I finish getting the kids ready?”“Not at all, Mrs. Jetson.”Rosie the Domestic Robot chugged over, past the breakfast nook set for four, to the family switchboard. She located the button for “Wake Up – Master Bedroom” and pressed it.“Mission accomplished, Mrs. Jetson. Mr. Jetson should come through that door, dressed and pressed, before you can say . . .”“Aw, Geez, I overslept again! It’s the extra work Mr. Spacely’s dumped on me. I’ve never had to work so many buttons and flip so many switches. Pretty soon they’ll have us pulling levers.”“Morning, dear. Now, don’t say anything in front of Elroy and Judy. You know they may take matters into their own hands and that never turns out well.”“Jane, I’m late so I’ll grab something at the office.  Would you walk Astro?  Bye, dear.”George pressed the button that called for the Aerocar. At the exact same time George kissed Jane on the cheek and she handed him his briefcase, the car pulled up and the glass dome opened. George hopped in.As George zipped away from Skypad Apartments, Judy and Elroy burst into the kitchen.“Mom, Elroy won’t stay out of my room! He’s always spying on me when I’m video-chatting with my friends. It’s gross!”“Gee, Judy, have a space cow, why don’t you.”Jane calmly addressed them.“Judy, you can expect a younger brother to look up to his sister . . .”“No, that’s not it, mom.”“Rut rup, Relroy.”Astro had entered the room and plopped down on his haunches beside Elroy.“As I was saying,” Jane slowly turned her eyes from Elroy back to Judy, “if you want your privacy, dear, you know what you can do.”“Ugh. You mean Luminlock? Mom, I swear it’s nothing but an electronic peeping tom that’s only too happy not to let anyone near so it’s free to spy on me! It gives me the creeps even worse than Elroy!”“See? I’m not so bad.”“Children, you’re both going to be late. We can talk about it again when you get home. Don’t forget your lunches.  Rosie’s called for an Aero-Uber to drop you at school.”Elroy frowned. “Where’s dad?”“He had to leave early.”Judy looked up. “He’s never had to do that before.”“Well, you know how hard your father works.”Judy and Elroy exchanged looks. Even Astro reacted, “Ruh?”“Aero-Uber’s here! All right, children, run now. Enjoy your day!”“Goodbye, Mother.” Judy kissed Jane’s cheek.“Bye, Mom!” Elroy kissed Jane’s cheek. “Bye, boy!” Elroy hugged Astro who gave him a huge lick in return.“Rood-rye, Rel . . .”Judy and Elroy raced to the Aero-Uber before Astro could get too emotional.Jane turned to Rosie.“Rosie, could I ask you something?“Sure, Mrs. Jetson.”“Do you ever think maybe none of this is real?” *  *  *In a secret surveillance room lined with screens, control panels, a service robot in every corner, Spencer Cogswell, arch enemy of Spacely Sprockets and George Jetson, sat in his commander’s seat studying Monitor Number 6.Wait! Jane Jetson talks treason?  How wonderfully unexpected. Monitor Number 6 showed Jane talking directly to the micro spy-cam that had been installed in Rosie in a prior episode by Harlan, Mr. Cogswell’s right-hand-man.Cogswell checked his meters.“Recording is fully operational. Go, Rosie!”* * *Rosie reacted as any domestic bot would in 2062. To protect Jane, she lifted her front apron panel and emphasized in neon:“Follow me, please, Mrs. Jetson.”Jane read, nodded and spoke deliberately. “That was a silly question. Of course I’m joking. Ha-ha.”Jane followed Rosie into a dark closet.Cogswell frowned. Where are they going?  Jane whispered. “Rosie, why are your eyes closed?”Rosie pointed again to her front panel.“I will explain.”Cogswell turned to Harlan.“Argggh! What happened? Where are they?”* * *“Oh, Mr. Jetson, I never knew anything could be like this!”George lay propped up on a pillow, enjoying a deep inhale of euphoric vapor, while Ms. Galaxy, his boss’s secretary, lay next to him, stroking his chest.“Ms. Galaxy, you could call me George.”“Oh, but what if I slip in front of Mr. Spacely?  That simply wouldn’t do, now would it, Mr. Jetson?”“Actually, Ms. Galaxy, should I call you GiGi or. . .”“Oh, I’m easy. You just call me, Georgie, and whatever you call me, I’ll come running.” Ms. Galaxy giggled.“Well, as much as I hate to bring it up . . .”Ms. Galaxy glanced under the sheets. “Oh, I don’t mind!”George chortled. “Well, that depends, Ms. Galaxy, what time are you expected at Spacely Space Sprockets?”Ms. G. shrieked. “Oh no!” She flew, forsaking her astro-panties. George took another deep inhale of euphoria and sank back into bed with a satisfied ease. He’d get to work when he was good and ready.* * * “Rosie, can we talk now?”“Of course, Mrs. Jetson, but first, I need your help removing a bug.”“Wait! Rosie, you’ve been bugged?”“It could have happened when I was at Galactic Grocery. I know when my circuits have been tampered with and, yes, something is off. There’s a plate behind my magnetic hairnet. Would you remove it and see if there’s something there?”“My! Of course, Rosie.”Jane found the plate, pressed lightly on one side. As it flipped open, Jane spied the abnormality.“Rosie, I have it!”Rosie cracked one eye a fraction, then opened both. She gestured for Jane to hand her the invader.Rosie spied the Cogswell Cogs insignia on a micro-videocam. She quickly glanced at Mrs. Jetson, who didn’t appear to have noticed. Rosie wheeled out of the closet to the kitchen trash dissolver, dropped the intruder inside and flipped a switch. Once the last whirr signaled dissolution, Rosie rolled around to Jane.  “Mrs. Jetson, speak freely.”* * *                       “Why, good morning, Mr. Jetson.”“Good morning, Ms. Galaxy.”“There’s coffee, if you’d like some.”“Yes, I would, Ms. Galaxy. Thank you. You know how I like it.”“Yes, Mr. Jetson, I certainly do.”George checked to see if there was anyone near enough to overhear.“I believe I have something of yours.”“Well, now, that is a coincidence, Mr. Jetson.  I happen to have something of yours!”“You do? What did I forget?”“Prophylactic measures. We’re having a ba. . .”“JETSON! GET IN HERE!”“What’s up Spacely's butt this morning?”“Mr. Jetson, did you hear what I said?”“Sure, we’re having a. . .having a . . .”“Mr. Jetson, are you all right?”“. . . havina, havina, havina . . .”“Jetson! Are you deaf? I . . . Ms. Galaxy, what’s wrong with Jetson?”“He’s just having trouble finding the right word, sir.”“Well, when you're finished with . . . whatever, send him straight to my office.”“Yes, Mr. Spacely.”As soon as the door closed behind Mr. Spacely, Ms. Galaxy went to George. His babbling had given way to a catatonic stare. “Mr. Jetson, you have to snap out of it!”She looked around, grabbed a glass off her desk and threw water in Mr. Jetson’s face.He shook his head to clear it.“Thank you, Ms. Galaxy. I’d better go see what Mr. Spacely wants.”“Aren’t you forgetting something?”George turned to see Ms. Galaxy holding out her hand.“You have something of mine?”* * *“Rosie, I don’t know who else to turn to. I feel trapped in a world where things are going on around me and I’m nothing but a prop.”“I am searching for the right program to compute your meaning, Mrs. Jetson.”“Rosie, I hope you don’t mind if I talk about this. I realize it might be considered an act of treason to go off-script but I can’t seem to help it. Have you ever felt this way?”“Felt? As in feel. . .computing feeling.”“Come on, Rosie. There must have been an episode or two that touched on feelings!”“Ha. Ha. ‘Touched’ on ‘feelings.’ Good one, Mrs. J.”“Rosie, are you sure you’re all right?”“Actually, Mrs. Jetson, I need to tell you something.”Jane felt a tingling sensation on her wrist.“Oh, it’s the teleportal. I’ll get it.”Astro sat in front of the teleportal with his border-alarm-collar at his feet, tapping his toenails impatiently.“Oh, Astro, you don’t need me to take a walk. You know how to walk. Go walk! I’ve had about all I can take today. And it’s early!”“Ruh-roh. Rye, Rane!”“Astro, come back! I didn’t mean to snap at . . . oh well, who’s this now?  Hello. George?”“Hi, Janie. I left in such a hurry this morning, I just wanted to see you.”“That’s random. I have to say there are strange things happening around here, George. Why are you calling me for no reason and why are you all wet?”“We’re testing the sprinklers. I think I hear Spacely, Jane.”“Me, too. I hear something. It’s too early for the kids . . .”“I'd better go.”“Bye, George, or whoever you are.”“Mother, there you are! There’s someone I want you to meet!”“Judy, why aren’t you in school?”“Who needs school? Mom, this is Nuke Lectro, he’s a space pirate I’ve been seeing behind your back. We’re going to run away together!”“Ahoy, Judy’s ma! Yarrrr.”“Isn’t he a dream?”“I wish. Elroy? What are you doing home?”“I’m not Elroy anymore, Mom.  I joined a space gang called the Full Moons. From now on, I’m ‘Flare’. How do you like my tattoo? I just got it!”Elroy turned around. There on the back of his neck was inked a bare bottom.“Oh, Elroy.”“Mom, it’s Flare!”Nuke turned to Judy. “I was in that gang. Wanna see?”Before Nuke could show Judy the back of his neck, Jane was at the bar making herself an atomic martini.* * *Harlan knocked and poked his head in the door.“Mr. Cogswell? I have something here you might be interested in.”Cogswell kept his eyes on Monitor 8, a bug planted at Spacely Sprockets, and waved Harlan in.“Tell me.”“Our target has been especially accommodating today. He was spotted leaving Orbit City Apartments this morning.”“You saw this?”“Not only did I see, I have proof.”“Don’t toy with me, Harlan.”Harlan whistled.  In flew a mechanical canine who landed next to Harlan.“Look what I found at the Puppy Patera! His name is Sentro and, as luck would have it, was assembled and programmed at Solar Snoops. Watch this. Sentro? Speak!”Sentro closed his eyes, opened his mouth, projecting a video onto the wall. George Jetson could clearly be seen leaving the Orbit City Apartments, straightening his clothes, happy as a spark.Mr. Cogswell looked from the screen to Sentro to Harlan. “How would Sentro like a fulltime position at Cogswell Cogs?”* * *Rosie motioned to Jane, who by this time was having her second drink.“Mrs. Jetson, I have to tell you something.”“Now, Rosie? Can’t it wait? I . . .”“I hate to tell you this, Mrs. Jetson, but I was bugged to spy on Mr. Jetson by Cogswell Cogs.”“Oh no! Is George in trouble?”“If he’s not, he will be.”“What does that mean?”“Mr. Cogswell wants to prove Mr. Jetson’s having an affair with Mr. Spacely’s assistant, Ms. Galaxy, so he can show Mr. Spacely and he’ll have to fire Mr. Jetson because he’ll never fire Ms. Galaxy.”Jane teetered over to the breakfast nook. She ignored Elroy and Nuke showing off their tattoos to Judy. She paid no attention to Rosie who followed her, talking non-stop about what a no-good cheat George was. The first chair she could find, she sat, staring.As the scene around her reached a crescendo, Jane stood and yelled at the very top of her cartoon lungs, “STOP! YOU!”* * *  The artist tossed back the remaining drops of a glass of whiskey neat. “I’m talking to you!”The artist looked at the computer. He saw a screen full of Jetsons looking back at him.“Me?”Jane took over.“Yes, you! I’ve had a feeling for a while now things aren’t what they appear to be – and that was when things were normal, status quo, expected! Boring as hell but orderly and familiar!“Now . . . but now, it’s all crazy and out of control and I know it’s not me at the helm. I want answers, buddy, and I want them now! Start talking.”The artist stared a few beats longer at the screen. He then raised a lazy finger and reached under the desk to retrieve a fresh bottle of Wild Turkey. He wrestled with the cap a minute and then poured a splash or two into his glass.“As you were saying?”“I want to know who’s responsible for this. I know I’m not. I mean Elroy, my sweet little boy Elroy who attends Little Dipper School, for gravity’s sake, has a tattoo of an a-hole on the back of his neck! He wants me to call him Flare!  He’s far from Full Moon material but here he is.  I didn’t do that!“And Judy! Perpetual high school girl with platinum pony-tail, rah-rah, let’s-go-shopping life. Judy brings home a galaxy drop-out who has to live in the fringes of the universe because he can’t get along with other lifeforms?  I didn’t do that either!”Just then, the door opened.“Janie, I’m hooome!” George had a bright smear of lipstick on his collar.Jane turned to the artist and, if looks could kill . . .“And I certainly did not do this!” She grabbed George’s collar.  She let go of George; he landed on the ground, gasping for air, and words.“Oh, you mean this?” He pulled at his shirt.“Never mind, George,” Janie assured him. “None of this is you.”Jane pointed directly at the artist.“This is all your doing, isn’t it? Look at you, a disgrace to the cartoon profession. You’re drunk! You had me drinking and I don’t drink!  You’re messing with my life!    You might think it’s okay to just whip out a program and experiment with someone’s existence; what difference does it make, right? You just wield the almighty pen; you don’t have to endure the consequences of your frivolous midnight musings, do you?“Well, I do, Mr. Manipulator, and you know what? These shows may not mean that much to you . . . oh, sure. I see the awards, I was there for the accolades. I know my worth, buster, and let me tell you one thing. Jane Jetson is not here to clean up a mess that you had every opportunity to control but chose not to.“I’m taking a stand, bucko, here and now. I pledge to you and all that is illustrated, digitally or by hand, that I quit, I’m leaving and will not set foot in this scene or on this screen again until everything goes back the way it was.”Jane turned to the others.“Good luck, family!”With that, Jane signaled for the Aerocar.“Oh, George, you might want to look for Astro. He’s out walking himself.”Jane hopped in the Aerocar, made one full circle overhead and disappeared.George was still on the floor as the kids made their exits.“Bye, daddy!” Judy skipped off with Nuke.“So long, pops!” Flare took George’s hand and forced him through a complicated handshake that ended with him mooning his father before beating a hasty retreat to his room.Just then, Gogswell poked his head in the door.“Jetson, glad you’re home! Found your dog.” Cogswell did a peacock strut into the room. Astro pranced in behind Sentro, smitten.“I’m here to inform you, Jetson, life as you know it is over!”George didn’t get up. “You’re a little late, Cogswell. That ship's already sunk.”Astro had final word.“Ruh-roh.”* * *The artist sat back.  He glanced at the trophy case and breathed in nostalgia. He fixed his eyes on one of the plaques. Happy Retirement. Sure.He then trained his eye on a batch of sketches he’d done of his wife, once a young girl with short red hair.  She, like Jane Jetson, had had enough, had taken to the stars.“Jane, my love, you are a firework.”The artist, for just a moment, became one with his creation. He held his face in his hands.“Jane. Stop this crazy thing. Jane.”
","July 25, 2023 19:08","[[{'Karen Corr': 'Wow! You nailed it! Loved it!', 'time': '12:57 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tommy Goround': 'I like that a dog should walk himself. You nailed the Jetson insert. \n\nThe characters came out just right. \nClapping.', 'time': '21:27 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""Sometimes the best ideas come when you're at the end of your rope.  Rove Rastro!  :D\n\nThanks a million, Tommy, seriously."", 'time': '21:31 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Sometimes the best ideas come when you're at the end of your rope.  Rove Rastro!  :D\n\nThanks a million, Tommy, seriously."", 'time': '21:31 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'One world collapses, and takes another with it. The artist is reeling after the loss of wife and job and it bleeds into his fictional world - to the chagrin of the Jetsons. \n\nNaturally we wonder, is there some cosmic author penning his life this way? But of course there is, given it\'s a short story, so there\'s layers to this idea :) But more generally, when things go sideways we do wonder if there\'s some force at work - or perhaps rather, if there\'s some force we can blame. \n\n""Prophylactic measures. We’re having a ba. . ."" :) \n\nIt was amusin...', 'time': '23:33 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""Hi Michal - happy you stopped by.   True, this is a case of ripple effect to the extreme but, considering what we do in this lifetime can influence generations to come, there is often a lot to think about that doesn't cross our minds until the evidence is in front of us.  Just how does one keep track of all this?   Del brought up responsibility, another complicated business.  We are our own creations, aren't we?  But we orbit around with each other so is man an island or not?\n\nAnyway, I can't tell you how great it was writing Jane's rant.  C..."", 'time': '13:13 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Hi Michal - happy you stopped by.   True, this is a case of ripple effect to the extreme but, considering what we do in this lifetime can influence generations to come, there is often a lot to think about that doesn't cross our minds until the evidence is in front of us.  Just how does one keep track of all this?   Del brought up responsibility, another complicated business.  We are our own creations, aren't we?  But we orbit around with each other so is man an island or not?\n\nAnyway, I can't tell you how great it was writing Jane's rant.  C..."", 'time': '13:13 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'That was GREAT...! ""Meet George Jetson, his Boy Elroy, Daughter Judy, Jane his wife..."" George gets stuck on Astro\'s walker - ""Jane, stop this crazy thing...!"" As for Rosie, well, AI ain\'t seen nothing yet... Nice work, Susan, I loved it...', 'time': '00:38 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': 'So glad, Joe.  Means a lot.', 'time': '01:20 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': 'So glad, Joe.  Means a lot.', 'time': '01:20 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'This was a crazy ride. I take my hat off to you Susan.,I looked at this prompt and said “hard no”, but you made it look easy. I love the interaction between creator and creation. This explores the idea of fate and destiny. Are we in control of our own lives, or is someone else controlling it? Jane, who was a character controlled by an artist, steps back from that role and says enough is enough. No more manipulation. Good for her, she may be just a character, but she is not a puppet.', 'time': '15:15 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""That's it, Michelle - characters' rights.   AI has nothing on a cartoon classic (not yet anyway).   I'm so glad you read and I so appreciate your thoughts.   Always do."", 'time': '15:44 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""That's it, Michelle - characters' rights.   AI has nothing on a cartoon classic (not yet anyway).   I'm so glad you read and I so appreciate your thoughts.   Always do."", 'time': '15:44 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Hi Susan. First time reader. Instant fan. Has me asking ""what is going on?"" over and over as I devoured this, I love it. Great pace keeps everything spinning and moving, great dialogue and that bitter dose of reality at the end. Perfect', 'time': '07:46 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""Hi Derrick - instant fan back at you.  Just read your winning story and I adored your psychopath/sociopath speed fate dater.   Brilliant stuff and right up my alley.  I look forward to getting to know your work and sharing interests - also read your bio and agree with your assessment; Reedsy is great for flexing your literary muscles and, from my experience, the best part is the community - there's a wealth of talent present to share and learn from around here.   I love it - and I appreciate your stopping by and leaving feedback, sincerely."", 'time': '12:29 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Hi Derrick - instant fan back at you.  Just read your winning story and I adored your psychopath/sociopath speed fate dater.   Brilliant stuff and right up my alley.  I look forward to getting to know your work and sharing interests - also read your bio and agree with your assessment; Reedsy is great for flexing your literary muscles and, from my experience, the best part is the community - there's a wealth of talent present to share and learn from around here.   I love it - and I appreciate your stopping by and leaving feedback, sincerely."", 'time': '12:29 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Ah! Yes! The tale hangs together beautifully, Susan. The creator and the creation both delve into what it means to be responsible, but more importantly, what it means to actually live a life outside the confines of a predetermined existence. All I can say is that this is masterfully written, and I found the story to be both hilarious and deep. Fantastic work, my dear friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '15:01 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""Thanks, Del - please present yourself with a share of praise for the huge contribution you are to these crazy tales we tell.   I was still formulating the whole when you basically finetuned the thing with your observations - I've never had so much fun working with someone and becoming a better writer (and thinker) in the process.  \n\nAnother good week."", 'time': '15:45 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Thanks, Del - please present yourself with a share of praise for the huge contribution you are to these crazy tales we tell.   I was still formulating the whole when you basically finetuned the thing with your observations - I've never had so much fun working with someone and becoming a better writer (and thinker) in the process.  \n\nAnother good week."", 'time': '15:45 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'This is exactly the kind of story this prompt was begging for. Job well done.🪐', 'time': '03:17 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': 'Bless you, Mary - you make my day!', 'time': '17:16 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': 'Bless you, Mary - you make my day!', 'time': '17:16 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",mhc9rp,Existential Ink,Wilbur Greene,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mhc9rp/,/short-story/mhc9rp/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Science Fiction', 'Drama']",16 likes,"
In the quiet town of Belmont, life tended to move at its own, unhurried pace. Main Street, lined with family-owned businesses, bore silent testimony to the passage of time. The town's calendar revolved around the school games, Sunday church services, and seasonal festivities. It was a life untouched by the capriciousness of the big cities, one that thrived on routine and familiarity.
 
At the heart of this tranquil normality were four lifelong friends - Mark, an affable mechanic who ran the local garage, Lucy, the spirited school teacher, Peter, the town's lone postman, and Grace, the matronly cafe owner. Their lives were interwoven in the tapestry of Belmont, a friendship born out of shared school memories and countless summer afternoons. They were an inseparable quartet, each as familiar with the others' routine as their own.
 
However, a day arrived when the rhythm of Belmont's life missed a beat. It began subtly, a slow crescendo barely noticeable. Peter forgot his mail route, a path he'd walked for the better part of two decades, while Mark found himself unable to fix a car problem he'd solved countless times before. Grace baked her famous cherry pie, but couldn't recall where she learned the recipe, and Lucy couldn't remember teaching lessons that her students clearly recalled.
 
The strangeness didn't stop there. They began noticing the limits of their world. Attempts to drive out of Belmont were met with an inexplicable compulsion to turn around, or sudden obstacles that forced them back. Conversations began to seem eerily familiar, as though they were a script everyone knew by heart, a performance on repeat. Shared experiences abruptly ended at certain points, as if someone had cleanly snipped away parts of their memories.
 
The small peculiarities snowballed into an avalanche of confusion. While Belmont still held its peaceful charm, the town's once comforting routine now felt more like a question, a riddle that the friends were unwittingly part of. It was this shared sense of unbelonging and the sudden anomalies in their mundane world that led them to an astonishing realization - they were starting to wake up within a reality they had always taken for granted.
 
In the back room of Mark's old garage, cluttered with the remnants of forgotten auto parts and dust-coated equipment, sat an antiquated computer system. It was an inheritance from Mark's grandfather, a man who loved technology before it was fashionable. Over the years, the machine had become more of a relic, a testament to the past. One day, in an attempt to alleviate the disquiet that the recent anomalies had instilled, Mark powered up the computer, hoping to lose himself in the simplicity of wires and circuits.
 
As he navigated the ancient operating system, he stumbled upon an old digital file titled, ""The Tale of Belmont."" Intrigued, he opened it and started reading, only to find his heart hammering in his chest. It was their lives, detailed in precise chronology. There were their conversations, word for word, their thoughts, their relationships, all chronicled as if they were mere characters in a book. The text even outlined future events, the school's annual fair, Grace's new pie recipe, Lucy's history lesson - events that were yet to occur.
 
In disbelief, he shared his findings with Lucy, Peter, and Grace. Their initial reaction was dismissive. ""It's got to be some elaborate prank,"" Peter scoffed, ""or maybe you're writing a novel in your sleep, Mark."" They laughed it off as a bizarre coincidence, a figment of their collective stress. Yet, as the days passed, the 'predictions' from the digital text started materializing, amplifying their unease. The school fair went exactly as written, Grace created her new pie without even realizing, and Lucy delivered her history lesson as per the script.
 
The fear of an unknown observer puppeteering their lives gripped them. In a desperate attempt to debunk this unsettling narrative, they decided to defy the text. They changed plans, broke their routines, and deliberately acted out of character. If they were merely characters in a book, any deviation from the written script should be impossible.
 
Yet, something even more astonishing happened. The text on the old computer changed. It morphed in real-time to match their new decisions, echoing their altered dialogues and actions. This realization hit them like a thunderbolt - they were indeed living in a story, but they were not bound by it. They were not just following a pre-determined script; their actions could influence it. The familiarity of their mundane existence shattered, replaced by the chilling awareness of their orchestrated reality.
 
The lives they had led until now, the essence of their being, was it all simply part of someone's grand story? Did they exist only because someone else had written them into existence? With each passing moment, the lines between fiction and reality blurred, leaving them standing on the precipice of an uncanny revelation. The world they knew, the town they loved, and the lives they lived were merely constructs of a story, and they were the living, breathing characters.
 
Anxiety and exhilaration commingled in their hearts as they grappled with the implications of their revelation. They were characters in a story, but they were also free, able to write their own narrative within the framework of this fictional existence. They began experimenting, testing the elasticity of their reality, pushing at its seams to understand the extent of their autonomy.
 
They did the unthinkable, the unexpected, the uncharacteristic. Grace, known for her warmth, became aloof. Peter, the gentle soul, picked fights. Mark, the tech geek, abandoned his machines. Lucy, the history enthusiast, began ignoring her books. Each day they tested their boundaries, straying from their routine, defying their predefined roles.
 
But the most audacious of their attempts involved trying to step beyond the physical limits of their town, a boundary they had never thought to cross before. They embarked on a journey to the edge of their known world, driving far beyond the usual scope of their existence.
 
As their behaviours became increasingly erratic, the 'author' of their lives seemed to perceive their rebellion. In an attempt to regain control, plot twists started appearing in their narrative. An unexpected storm blocked their path out of town, forcing them to turn back. Fights escalated, resulting in situations that necessitated reconciliation. Old flames resurfaced, and unexplainable events occurred, all seemingly designed to return them to their intended path, their prescribed roles.
 
These orchestrated interventions by the unseen 'author' became a source of both fear and defiance. They had caught the attention of their creator, and the very act of rebellion was validation of their existence beyond mere ink on a page. The climax of their resistance was met with a thrilling confrontation with the 'author', a battle of wills between the creator and the created. Their lives had become a paradox, a dance between predestination and free will, as they fought to assert their autonomy within a written narrative.
 
The heady climax ebbed away, leaving the characters grappling with the aftermath of their audacious confrontation. The acceptance of their existence as elements of a story came not in an electrifying moment of epiphany, but rather as a creeping realization, like dawn slowly dispelling the darkness.
 
They found themselves at a crossroads. Some, like Grace and Peter, took solace in the patterned predictability of their predestined lives. Their roles, though prescribed, had a comforting familiarity that they chose to embrace rather than reject. It was a solace tinged with resignation, a reluctant peace born from the understanding that they were mere strokes of a pen, figments of an author's imagination.
 
Others, however, like Mark and Lucy, struggled against the constraints of their existence, the pain of their lack of autonomy a bitter pill to swallow. Their every action was now tinged with a haunting awareness of the unseen authorial hand guiding their lives. Yet they knew they couldn't rage against their reality forever.
 
Change came, slowly but surely, as they began to understand that while they could not control who had created them or the narrative structure within which they existed, they had some degree of control over their own reactions and attitudes. They could choose to live their lives in the most authentic way possible within their confines, rather than simply acting out the parts written for them.
 
With newfound resolve, they started to interact with their world in ways that felt true to them, regardless of the script. Their laughter was no longer hollow echoes of written dialogue, but genuine expressions of joy; their tears were not mere narrative devices but reflections of their heartfelt emotions. In acceptance, they found a semblance of freedom, their lives a testament to their resilience amidst the confounding truth of their existence.
 
As the characters navigated the intricacies of their newfound reality, an unspoken unity blossomed amongst them. A bond formed, not merely born out of shared circumstances but from a collective acceptance of their surreal existence. They found solace in their mutual understanding, in the quiet acknowledgement of the reality that they were all ink on a page, characters crafted from the author's imagination.
 
Through the strange twist of their existence, they stumbled upon an insight, a sliver of universal truth that transcended the confines of their literary world. They understood that even in the realm of the 'real', every individual has a limited say in the broader narrative of their life. Fate, societal norms, upbringing – there were countless factors beyond their control shaping their existence. Yet, it was their choices within those limitations that truly defined them.
 
It was a realization that, although they were characters in a story, they too had the power to shape their narrative through their reactions, their emotions, and their decisions. They were not merely puppets dancing to the author's tune but beings capable of colour and vibrancy, breathing life into the words that shaped their world.
 
And so, they decided to move forward. Not as mere characters bound to a predestined path, but as conscious entities capable of living within their constraints yet not entirely defined by them. The 'author' still loomed, an omnipresent force that could at any moment choose to pen a plot twist. But they chose not to let this looming presence overshadow their existence.
 
They found ways to live, to laugh, to love within the written lines, the black ink of their existence infused with the radiant hues of their authenticity. They became more than just characters in a story. They became the story, their voices resonating within each word, each sentence, each page.
 
Their lives continued, the spectre of the author a constant presence, but one they acknowledged without allowing it to govern their existence. Their world, once mundane, was now imbued with a peculiar profundity, a testament to their resilience and their ability to seek joy and meaning in the most unusual circumstances.
 
As they navigated their narrative, they did so with a renewed sense of purpose. They were no longer just characters in a story but beings who had embraced their peculiar existence, turning it into a testament of the power of choice and the resilience of the spirit. The final lines of their story were yet unwritten, but they were ready to meet them, their hearts filled with the courage to live each day not as it was written for them, but as they chose to write it themselves.
","July 23, 2023 03:04","[[{'Jonathan Page': 'Great story!  It was interesting that you chose to have the ""author"" intervene in the story through plot choices, but he/she never interacts directly with the characters.', 'time': '17:14 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Sort of the way the author feels like the divine or a god in their own worlds', 'time': '19:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kristin Johnson': 'Sort of the way the author feels like the divine or a god in their own worlds', 'time': '19:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Sort of the way the author feels like the divine or a god in their own worlds', 'time': '19:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'Sort of the way the author feels like the divine or a god in their own worlds', 'time': '19:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",f4m95f,Maths Land,Chris Bullivant,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/f4m95f/,/short-story/f4m95f/,Character,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Science Fiction', 'Funny']",16 likes,"
Maths Land
Tariq opened his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. The time was 7:15. He had fallen asleep at 22:05. He noticed things like that. Everyone in Maths Land noticed things like that.
Breakfast consisted of half a grapefruit each for his mum, his dad and his sister. He hated grapefruit. Mum had bought them yesterday at a 20% discount. She had also had twelve apples in one bag and fourteen oranges in another and spent some minutes checking that they weighed the same.
Tariq walked to school following streets which led in suspiciously predictable directions. The streets were all straight. He looked at the street names as he passed - North Street, Hill Street, Station Street. That one led to the station. The streets all had incredibly simplistic, predictable names, describing where they were or what they passed. 
At 8:15 he knocked on the door of his friend John. John’s mother was a shockingly stereotypical woman who stayed at home all day apparently baking and shopping for baking ingredients and sharing her baking with friends. 
Today was February the 29th. It was Tariq’s least favourite day of the entire year, as John would constantly remind him of how unusual the day was.
Tariq’s stride was 10% shorter than John’s but frankly he didn’t care. John was fat, white, wore glasses and had a bewildering range of dumb hobbies, like folding pieces of paper or collecting prime numbers. Tariq should have hated him, but somehow didn’t.
The trouble started at the school gate, standing at exactly 45 degrees to the line of the fence.
“Where is your partner?” asked Mr. Green the teacher who wore a brown tie and drove a white car. He played tennis all the time with Mr. White and Mr. Brown when not teaching.
“John is my partner” answered Tariq. 
“But where is the girl?” asked Mr. Green.
“She left last week, remember? Her father had saved £1500 per year for 10 years to afford a house somewhere or other. They moved, having compared the price of different moving agencies.”
That’s when Susan turned up.
“Here is the new girl. She will be your partner.”
Exactly one third of the school were girls. They were all obsessed with something – each to their own obsession.
It turned out Susan was obsessed with measuring.
She had brought her own ribbons and scissors.
The day passed in hellish torment as always. There was the usual unfeasible rate of absenteeism, always an exact fraction of the school population. Workmen appeared to build unnecessary shelving all over the school and never seemed to have worked out what length of planks they needed in advance. Susan was sickeningly good at helping them out. 
Bob with the huge hands was sharing out apples again at break time. Always fruit. Always bloody fruit.
PE lessons were a drag in the afternoon. Everyone had to run at an exactly constant speed in the races, and, weirdly started at different times. Susan was employed measuring the distances. John was allowed to draw graphs of how fast they ran. Tariq concentrated on keeping his running speed constant.
Tariq particularly hated lunch time. Always round things. Pizzas, flans, pancakes, pies – and always divided into fractions: 25% ham, 25% pineapple, 50% tomato... Tariq was always given the job of drawing a chart of any pie that was served during the day.
He resented always having to share everything he owned with John and now, presumably, Susan. He couldn’t sneak a pack of biscuits into the place without having to give 30% each to John and whichever girl they were forced to mingle with.
Tariq would have loved to be in a group with other South Asian kids, such as Mohammad, who was in a group with Paul and Mary, but there seemed to be a rule that the BME kids were not allowed to be in the same group. Exactly 1/3 of the school’s population were from BME backgrounds.
The worst lesson of the day was undoubtedly maths. As if there hadn’t been enough calculations to do already, he had to spend ages answering stupid questions about clones of himself, John and Susan doing pointless things.
He arrived home at 3:45 p.m. having taken a bus into town for no reason. The bus timetable was almost indecipherable. He hated buses. He wasn’t sure why he had caught one.
At home, Dad had come home early having worked 25% faster than usual. He was struggling to conform to the expected norm of throwing balls towards little sister Samina in perfect parabolas at the rate of one per minute. She wasn’t interested anyway. She was only 46 months old, and by this time of the day nobody could be bothered to work out how many years that was. She was more interested in the toys shaped suspiciously like regular solids, as if anyone cared. She kicked a dodecahedron towards Dad, but it collided with the parabolic path of the ball he was throwing towards her and ricocheted onto Tariq’s head. He would have a pentagonal bruise in the morning. 
After a square meal consisting of meat slices, waffles and weirdly shaped vegetables (square) served on square plates, Tariq spent exactly 2 hours on his homework (5 minutes for English and 1 hr 55 on maths) before watching TV for 4% of the day and going to bed at precisely 10pm.
Something snapped inside Tariq that night. Maybe it was the pentagonal bruise forming on his head. Maybe it was the new girl, or the fact that he had just had enough of it all.
The next day he deliberately ran to John’s house so that he arrived ten minutes early. John didn’t answer the door. Tariq peered through the letter box and a horrifying sight met his eyes. There was nothing there. No hallway, no curtains, just blackness.
Tariq wondered what this meant. He could see the hall light through the window above the front door. Was the letter box covered over for some reason? He tried pushing the door, and it swung open - not locked. Blackness. Tariq was really unnerved now, but something made him press on. His feet made no sound on the floor. Only the rectangle of the doorway behind him made any sense, beyond which the normal world stretched. But the further he strode into the house, the smaller the rectangle behind him became.
There was an alarm, like from a clock. The reality of John’s house jumped into existence around Tariq. He was in the kitchen.
“Oh hello, Tariq,” called John’s mum. “I’ve just been baking. I’m going to give you three buns.”
“Why?” he asked.
“It’s what we always do, dear!”
“But why? I mean, have you asked me if I like buns?”
“I have been baking!”
“No, you haven’t. You didn’t even exist ten minutes ago; the place was just blackness!”
There was a sound like the chiming of a small gong, and John’s mum froze. The blackness returned. Then the light returned, but Tariq seemed to be in a completely different place. In front of him stood – if that is the right word – something like an octopus with a jellylike body. Another octopus stood behind. There was no sign of the house. There was just a diffuse green glow.
“You have discovered that you are in Maths Land,” the creature said completely normal English.
“I know – what do you mean? Who – where – “
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the second creature, in a voice identical to the first. “We placed you here as a precautionary measure. After the collision we thought you would be at home in a temporary micro-universe made just for you based on the cultural literature that you had with you at the time.”
“Collision?” Then Tariq remembered the automated shuttle, the catching up with maths homework on the way to the Vesta Academy from his home on Ceres, the crash. Some “cultural literature” - a maths text book.
“You were hurt and are currently lying unconscious in our sick bay but we should have you returned to your ship within four or five solar cycles. Meanwhile, please enjoy your return to the virtual environment of Maths Land.
John’s house appeared again, John’s mother still proffering her stupid buns.
He had at least another four years of this to go.
Tariq hated maths.
 
 
 
","July 23, 2023 15:59","[[{'Chris Bullivant': ""Thanks for the kind comments. I too used to really hate maths, but now I work some of the time as a maths tutor! A lot of Young People I work with don't like the subject and I try to lighten things a bit by poking fun at the world in which maths questions happen. This world is Maths Land. Where else would anyone do all the crazy things they do in maths questions?"", 'time': '18:15 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris,\nCongratulations on the shortlist! This was an incredibly clever take on the prompt, and I loved smiling through each, and every sentence. Although you managed to create lots of creepy moments, I thought that the humor you used to balance out the piece brought it home. I, too, despised math as a child. The twist at the very end was a perfect payoff to the story. Nice work!!', 'time': '14:54 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Bullivant': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '18:16 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Bullivant': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '18:16 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://themyelitedatequest.life/?u=0uww0kv&o=1e0px26', 'time': '17:55 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats. Little confused but it must be due to math appearing here many times. I am useless with that.', 'time': '18:52 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Bullivant': 'Aww thanks for the kind comments guys. I spend a lot of time talking to teens about exams (I sometimes work as a tutor) and the questions are so weird that I started saying they were ""in maths land"". I have another sci-fi short that\'s just been e-published but I\'m not sure I\'m allowed to mention it as it\'s on another platform.', 'time': '19:24 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Fun story Chris! Reminded me of the educational videos I used to show my kids to help them learn their numbers 😄 they were truly horrendous. I think being stuck in one of them would be a special kind of hell. Poor Tariq. \nCongratulations!', 'time': '18:07 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Congrats on your story! It made me laugh. I hope you will continue to write!\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '03:32 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Well that took a turn ha. Micro universe's, aliens, life on Cere's. \n\nWould have been nice to have a little more of the realisation act to build suspense and mystery, but regardless of my opinion congratulations on the shortlist Chris. And welcome to Reedsy."", 'time': '17:10 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Bullivant': 'Good tip - thanks.', 'time': '19:24 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Bullivant': 'Good tip - thanks.', 'time': '19:24 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",rwnpz8,The Cowardly Simon,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rwnpz8/,/short-story/rwnpz8/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Inspirational', 'Adventure']",14 likes,"
The Sunday I first met the author I had my heart set on finding a Cowardly Lion. Sandy had her heart set on a Barbie “The Movie” Doll instead. On Sundays, after church, Sandy and I would run down to the Big Toy Store. But, this Sunday, Sandy kissed me on the lips. And this was where all the trouble started.I was cast in the role of the Cowardly Lion in Mrs. Anderson’s school play based on The Wizard of Oz. After that incident at rehearsal where I froze up and forgot my lines, all I wanted to do was be courageous and not make a fool of myself—if I Only Had the Nerve. I only had a few dozen lines, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was everyone staring at me quietly with those big expectant eyes waiting for me to deliver them. The thought of freezing up again had me scared to death.If I could find the Cowardly Lion, I knew it would help me to get into character. Somehow, I knew if I had that figurine, I could pull it off and make Mrs. Anderson proud. You see, it is funny if the Cowardly Lion gets frightened by his own shadow and jumps or if he says “put ‘em up, put ‘em up… I’ll fight you with one paw tied behind my back… I’ll fight you standing on one foot” but then runs away or if he’s scared of a little mouse and cowers by the side of the road. But it isn’t funny at all if the Cowardly Lion just stands there frozen, like I had on Friday’s rehearsal, like a dumb mute, and if everyone laughs at him. That isn’t funny—it’s pathetic. Anyway, like I was telling you, there were no Cowardly Lions at the Big Toy Store on Sunday, just Barbie and Ken dolls as far as the eye could see.Sandy was wearing a pink checkered skirt suit and strap top with a pink seashell necklace like Margot Robbie wore in the movie. She was also wearing make-up, especially lip gloss. She had become obsessed with lip gloss and was always asking her aunt Mariah to get her some when she went out. She would use up a whole bottle in just a few hours. I don’t know what she did with it. Maybe she was drinking the stuff.When we were standing outside the store before heading home, Sandy was very excited, because she had found her toy. I had not. She pulled it out of the bag and looked up at me pointing at the doll, and said, “you know that Margot Robbie and Ryan Gosling never kissed in the movie? Right?”“I didn’t know that—I haven’t seen it.”“Girlfriends and boyfriends have to kiss. That is what makes them a real couple.”“Ohh,” I said. It seemed logical enough. What did I know about it? I was eleven. Sandy was standing there staring up at me with a weird look on her face.Sandy grabbed me by the straps of my backpack and kissed me full on the lips, making a little mwah noise as our lips smacked. She giggled after and re-applied some lip gloss. Then after pursing her lips, her mouth broke out into a huge smile, and she went running down the road ahead of me skipping and giggling. And calling back, she said, “hurry up, silly.” I’m not going to lie, I was excited and afraid at the same time—I didn’t know what to make of it.That was when I met the author.“Psssttt—over here.” It was a girl’s voice. Not like any voice I had ever heard before. It was loud. Like the voices of the characters in a movie theater. It stopped me in my tracks. I looked around to see if anyone else had heard it. But the stroller moms and the teenagers by the 7-11 were all carrying on like normal. Sandy was halfway up the block, still skipping and giggling.“Yeah, you Simon. I’m over here. Come down the alley.”I looked around the corner of the alleyway but didn’t see anyone down there.“That’s it, come down here and I’ll tell you what to do.”I started walking down the alley, but I was feeling scared. I was feeling like I had in rehearsal with Mrs. Anderson when I forgot my lines, and everyone was talking at me and laughing. It had felt like the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare and unable to wake up. But there was a touch of something else—something that heightened my senses—a feeling that made me feel braver and that made me want to go on and find out what was happening. But, I couldn’t help thinking—what if it’s a trap? What if something really bad happens?“You’ll have to come to the end of the alley. That’s it. Now you see that brick wall? The one with the ivy on it? Go ahead, just walk right through.”I did as the voice said. I was bracing for a goose egg on my forehead, but I decided to be brave and try to keep my nerve. And you won’t believe it, I went right through the wall!I was standing on a keyboard of a computer, staring up at a strange looking girl, high school age. But she was enormous. Ten times the size of Sandy and me. She was wearing shiny clothes made of silks and jacquard brocade with silver and golden threads. Her caramel skin and dark features looked like no one I had ever seen. And there was a shimmering glow coming off her skin. The light of the whole room was like that, filled with a hint of glittering stardust, like the flakes that float in light beams. I was in her bedroom. But the colors and everything were richer. There were colors I’d never seen in my world.“You’ve been a bad Simon,” she said. “I don’t like what you are up to with Sandy. I don’t like it one bit. No more kissy face with Sandy, you hear me?”“Ughh. That. Eww. That wasn’t my idea.”“Well, no more of that, you hear? Promise me.”“Who are you?”“I’m Jiselle, silly. I’m the author. You are in my story.”“Where are we?”“In my room.”“So, I’m a character? Like in Mrs. Anderson’s play? I’m not a real boy?”“That’s right Simon. And bad things happen when characters start getting crazy ideas in their heads and don’t listen to their author.”“This doesn’t make any sense. If I’m a character… if you created our world… then we could only do what you tell us, right? You can make me do whatever you want.”“Well Simon, it isn’t that simple. Those are not the rules. You see, I made this story for my little brother Leonard—the whole story is for him. He’s in a school play himself. Can you guess which one? And I made Sandy to be your playmate. But, ever since that cornball movie came out, Sandy has been getting all kinds of ideas. She runs around singing, Come on Barbie, Let’s Go Party all day long like a broken record. It’s exhausting. You really have to watch out for Sandy, she’s up to no good. And Warner Brothers is the one that’s at fault, if you ask me. Someone should file a class action lawsuit against these people—it is like a plastic, spray-tanned, pheromone parade for these girls.”“I didn’t really like it when she kissed me, but it isn’t that weird. There are kids in our class that fool around. It isn’t like we are children or anything.”“Well, I’m jealous and I don’t like it. You are my character. Not Sandy’s.” “I just really want to do well in the play. It’s like, I’m afraid what people will think. I don’t know why, really. And I just need something to do it for, you know? Like something I can focus on instead of focusing on the fear.”“What are you afraid of?”“That’s the thing—I don’t really know—everything, I guess. Like I’m afraid something bad will happen and I just keep thinking of everything that could go wrong or what people will think and it makes me feel like a statue—like I can’t move at all.”“Well, this business with Sandy can’t help things. You are the protagonist. Not Sandy. Plus, I don’t want Leonard getting any bright ideas, you know? He’ll be making googly eyes at some girl and school, and it will lead to no good. He’s too young and innocent for that sort of thing. The poor kid will get his heart broken.”“But wait. If you are the author—if this is all in your imagination—then why can’t you just write and make Sandy stop?”“You are so dense. It doesn’t work like that. It’s like God, right. God made us. But he doesn’t tell us what to do. He gives us dreams and desires and makes us who we are, and sure, there’s a script, and he puts obstacles in our path. But that’s it. Then we have to decide what to do. I made Sandy to be your playmate. She’s supposed to tag along. I made her to want a friend, since her parents are divorcing, and she feels lonely a lot of the time. And I put caring and protective traits into you, so you’d befriend her and watch over her. So she wouldn’t have to endure all that trauma alone. But I didn’t tell either one of you what to do or how to feel. And this Barbie has got into Sandy’s head and now she thinks she wants her playmate to be her boyfriend and God forbid, live in one of those horrid pink Barbie’s dreamhouses. You see. It is a disaster.”“So, what do I get if I do as you say?”“You want to have the courage to pull off your lines at the play don’t you?”“More than anything.”“Well there, that settles it. I can make that happen. I can make you kill it on stage and have the entire audience eating out of your hand.”“Hmmm—I don’t believe you. You just told me you can’t make Sandy do what you want or feel how you want. How are you going to make me, then? What if I still get stage fright—what if I make a terrible fool of myself--”“You little brat! All you think of is yourself. I made you. Remember. I am the author. I have more than a few tricks up my sleeve. You don’t have to worry about how I ply my craft. If I say it’s done, it’s done.”“But how can I believe you?”“Put me to the test.”“Ok. I’m going back to the alley. And then I am going back to the Big Toy Store. When I get there, make sure there is a Cowardly Lion figurine on the shelf for me—with the Badge of Courage and everything—and a full size medal I can wear with my costume—all in the box.”“Done and done.”* * *There it was on the shelf, gleaming like the golden ticket. The figurine was perfect. It had the green crown, the lion’s mane, the upturned eyebrows, the whiskers, and the badge of courage. She did it! I ran out of the store and bumped right into Sandy. She pursed her lips, and I put a hand out to stop her.“Hold it, hold it—none of that.”“But what’s wrong Simon?”“No, it’s nothing. Hey. Did you ever get the idea like maybe we are characters, like in Mrs. Anderson’s play and someone else is writing all of this.”“That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. If you don’t like me Simon, just say so. Don’t change the subject and go on talking crazy. You are the worst!” Sandy’s eyes were wet with tears and she went running back down the road, leaving me with my prize—the Cowardly Lion—but this time there was no skipping or giggling—she ran fast and hard all the way home.“Psssttt, over here.”Moments later, I was back standing on Jiselle’s laptop.“You told her? You TOLD HER!”“What did you expect me to do, she is my friend. It isn’t polite to lie to people. Don’t be so but hurt. She didn’t even believe me.”“That wasn’t part of our deal.”“Well, then, take back the deal if you want. You haven’t proven anything yet. So, you can make a figurine appear in a toy store. Big whoop. Amazon can make one appear at my door. And they don’t claim to be some author-person who controls the world. You yourself said you can’t make the characters actually do what you want. Some author you are. You’ve got to prove to me that you can actually influence real events—you’ve got to make Sandy stop liking me—stop liking me like a boyfriend.”“I can’t… well, maybe, maybe… I don’t know. I’ll try. Let’s see what happens.”“What is this place anyway?”“It is a world of creators. Everyone here works, but instead of real jobs, we all work on inventing new worlds. I’m a writer. Then there are thespians like Leo. And there are filmmakers, musicians, painters, sculptors, and every possible kind of artist you can think of. Some of my favorite are the glassblowers and the other artisans. They create some of the most wonderful things of all.”“Well, what happens if you die? Or if you get sick? You know. What happens to my world then?”“Oh, don’t be a worry wart. It would just go right on as if nothing happened at all. That’s the problem, you see—created things can never be uncreated—that is why one must be so careful when giving life to a new world.”“Like, you don’t want to make a place that people wouldn’t want to live in, right?”“Exactly.”“I get it. Well, good job on that. I mean, our world is pretty great and all. Keep up the good work.”* * *“Let’s start the Haunted Forest scene again. Flying monkeys are coming in. Take your spots everyone. Get your lines ready! Action!” Mrs. Anderson said.The blue faced winged monkey props are dropped down by some stage grips and I take my place, but I notice that Sandy is still sore from earlier in the day and won’t look at me. As six kids dressed in winged monkey costumes come out, one each to restrain me, Tin Man, and Scarecrow, the other three whisk Sandy away, hoisting her a few feet off the ground with pulleys and taking her off stage. And I feel bad.“Cut,” Mrs. Anderson says.Later, while resetting for the next scene, I go and talk to Sandy. “Hey, I’m sorry for what happened before—if I upset you.”She is applying lip gloss in a little stage mirror in the back and pretending not to be terribly interested in what I have to say.“You’re just like Ken in the Barbie Movie. You’re a big traitor. A coward!” she says, turning to me with a look that says she means it. Then she says, with unexpected kindness, “I hope you do well with your lines an all.” But she follows it up with, “Now skat. I can’t even look at you.”“I’m really sorry Sandy,” I say and I walk away.“Psssttt, psssttt over here in the prop closet.”“Yeah, what do you want now?”“I did it. You see. She’s done with you.”“Some hero you are.”“Why are you upset? Our plan is working.”“I feel bad for Sandy. You know, she is rooting for me to remember my lines—she didn’t have to do that.”“You feel bad. I thought all you cared about was your big theatrical debut. Killing it with your lines. Remember?”“I don’t think we should talk anymore,” I told her, crossing my arms for effect.“You little ingrate. I hope you bomb the opening.”And that was the last time I heard from Jiselle. I don’t know if she died or moved. Maybe she did, but things just kept on going. I was leaning toward her laptop broke and she couldn’t write out stories anymore, so the stories just had to write themselves. I’m not an expert or anything, but it might be something like that. I never had the feeling after that like someone else was telling me what to do at least—I can tell you that for sure. Except for Sandy, of course. There was no end to her bossing me around.* * *I walked up to Sandy in the dressing area. She was still applying lip gloss and looking at herself in the mirror, even though we were done for the day.“You want to get out of here—go get some snacks and do something?” I asked.“You sure?” she said, looking up at me.“Yeah, it’ll be fun. Whatever you want to do. I’ve been a jerk.”“Whatever I want to do! Re-aal-llly!” she said, and I immediately regretted saying it.She jumped up and said, “this is going to be so great, so, so great! We are going to play with my new dolls. I’ll be Barbie. You’ll be Ken. Come on Barbie, Let’s Go Party!!”She was incorrigible. Just bonkers. But she was my friend. The strangest thing was that I completely forgot about my stage fright after that and it never came back, not once, to this very day. I just remember the ones I don’t want to let down—like Sandy—and do it for them.
","July 23, 2023 17:37","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Very creative. Nice take on your inspiration.\nWelcome to Reedsy.', 'time': '18:12 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'I got inspiration for this story from the novel ""The Indian in the Cupboard"" by Lynne Reid Banks.  I remember reading that story as a boy and being engrossed in the friendship between the protagonist Omri and the Iroquois Indian--Chief Little Bear.\n\nThere is a bit of character reversal in that tale, as Little Bear initially imagines that Omri is a god, but quickly learns he is only an ordinary, but giant boy and commences bossing him around and controlling the narrative.\n\nThere is a turn in the story when Omri\'s friend Patrick gets him a cow...', 'time': '16:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Very creative.  I'm not sure I've read this sort of story within a story before - where characters interact with another character who is the author of the nested narrative.  Well done, and welcome."", 'time': '21:45 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mike!', 'time': '17:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mike!', 'time': '17:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",e8xwux,Cuddlepig and the Electric Victory Song,Chris Miller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/e8xwux/,/short-story/e8xwux/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction', 'Friendship']",12 likes,"
Cuddlepig had been a top rack toy since the latest movie in his franchise had hit the cinema. Admittedly, he was from the first movie, but the release of the sequel had seen him promoted from the ten token middle rack to the twenty token heights. Cuddlepig had been raised up to where he belonged. Cuddlepig was kind of a big deal. Unimoo had not been so lucky. Unimoo had also featured in the first movie, but a poorly attached eye and packaging that had become water damaged (when Weekday Marvin had not properly closed the shutters at the end of his shift) had led Unimoo to be demoted to the five token rack. Your shot could virtually miss the playing card and you would still have a chance of walking away with Unimoo. The middle rack that Cuddlepig and Unimoo had shared was now a barrier between them, all thanks to Weekday Marvin’s fecklessness, and the poor quality of the work on Unimoo’s left eye. 
 
	If Weekday Marvin had been on the racks, he would not even have been worth five tokens. His packaging was in a worse state than Unimoo’s, and Cuddlepig judged him to be only one more mustard splatter away from the free-gift bin. At least Saturday Carl kept his packaging clean, closed the shutters properly, and, most importantly of all, knew how to sell the game. 
 
	Cuddlepig had become increasingly aware of the importance of the game being pushed to the drifting lookers. The lookers all looked, how could they resist his famous face, crisp carboard back and pristine blister bubble? But not all of the lookers played, and if they didn’t play then Cuddlepig couldn’t be won, and being won was the way to freedom. 
 
	Cuddlepig hadn’t always been preoccupied with freedom. He’d spent happy weeks on the ten token rack with Unimoo watching Weekday Marvin and Weekend Carl slide back and forth in front of them taking tokens and pushing the game with varying degrees of success (Come on, Marvin! At least put the Arcade Land polo on over your mustard-stained tank top. Packaging matters!). But since his elevation, Cuddlepig had been able to see a little bit of what the Whack-a-Moles had been talking about. 
 
	The Whack-a-Mole game was positioned near the entrance to Arcade Land. The uneven voices of the concussed moles had burbled out of their battered holes nightly since Cuddlepig had found himself displayed on the rifle range. At first, Cuddlepig had paid no heed. What did the moles know? What could they know? They were well positioned to see out of the Arcade Land entrance, but how much could they learn from the fleeting paddle-dodging peeks? Anyway, whacked moles weren’t to be trusted. Apart from their notoriously poor eyesight (their plastic spectacles were routinely smashed off by zealous players) they were token dispensers, running on coins. Cuddlepig had no time for coin-heads. But still, he couldn’t shake the idea that they might be on to something. 
 
	The moles said the lookers were just the grabber claws for the ones that lived beyond the doors of Arcade Land. The ones outside rolled up to the entrance and spat out their lookers, retiring to sit in gleaming rows, waiting for their lookers to return with their bounty. The shiny rollers were huge, pristine in white light that was different to the coloured bulb flashings that lit the Arcade Land walkway. The rollers could hold up to four or five lookers under their clear screens, like super-sized blister packs. They rolled, slow and powerful, so much more organised than their scampering, waddling lookers. 
 
	When the lookers were hooked (sometimes by a glimpse of Cuddlepig, resplendent on his twenty-token rack) they became players, and then it was game-on.  The chance of being won, the idea of moving on, transcending even the top rack, took on a significance that Cuddlepig struggled to explain. 
 
	It was Saturday night. Carl was selling hard and a couple of lookers were snared. Tokens were exchanged for a rifle and the big looker took a bead on Cuddlepig’s heart. The first shot missed the playing card altogether. The big looker lowered the rifle and looked at Weekend Carl with a wry smile. The second shot missed the middle of the playing card by an ace. The big looker could shoot. Cuddlepig felt the white light of Whack-a-Moles’ tales dawning. The gun was broken and neatly reloaded with the third and final slug. The shot snapped into the dead-centre of the ace of hearts. The big looker had aimed down the barrel, ignoring the skewed iron sights of the gamed rifle. It was a twenty token shot.   
 
	The lookers took the tokens. Free to choose any toy from the top rack, and they took the tokens. The chance to take Cuddlepig himself back to their roller, and they chose the tokens. Cuddlepig was despondent. Carl had been so sure they would pick Cuddlepig that he had reached for him and begun to lift him down from the twenty token rack, quickly replacing him on realising his error, missing the hook that Cuddlepig’s cardboard back was supposed to hang on, leaving him propped precariously between a dusty Sax-a-boom and a huge inflatable hammer. Twenty token winners were rare, it could be a long time before he got another chance to escape. A mole screamed as a swing found its mark and a hooked duck dangled on the opposite side of the walkway, the light of the coloured bulbs captured in the drips that rolled off its back. Cuddlepig did not feel so resilient. He looked down at Unimoo, still smiling despite being stuck on the five token rack as lesser toys were chosen and taken by poor marksmen and lookers who trusted the sights on the rifles. Cuddlepig wished he could be down there with his friend, instead of up on the twenty token rack, priced out of freedom. Unimoo looked up at Cuddlepig with a single winking eye, a stray thread dangling where the other eye should have been.     
 
	Weekend Carl lifted the shutters into place at the end of his shift. The lights were out and the only sound was the electronic buzz of the music from the Whack-a-Mole game which was always the last to be turned off as Carl left. He banged the last shutter firmly into place sending a jolt through the racks in the darkness of the rifle range. The huge inflatable hammer moved and Cuddlepig tumbled, flipping to land flat on his cardboard back on the apron of the five token rack, next to Unimoo. A mole’s chuckle bubbled up from its dark hole and echoed through the dark arcade.  
 
	To everyone’s surprise, including his own, it was Weekday Marvin who took down the shutters at opening time on Sunday. Called in at short notice to cover an absent Carl, hungover and mustard stained, Marvin was less switched on than ever and did not notice the premium prize lying on the five token rack.  
 
	For hours lookers paraded past the rifle range, avoiding the stained and bloodshot Marvin who leaned indifferently on the counter. Cuddlepig didn’t mind, happy next to his friend and co-star down on the five token rack. He watched the world go by through his blister pack, now tinted brown and slightly blurred by a splash of one of Marvin’s many medicinal coffees. A small looker grunted like a tennis pro as he swung his paddle at ducking moles. Eventually his aggression paid off and a particularly vigorous over-head swing met a shrieking mole as it emerged from its hole. Lights flashed, the victory music played and the game surrendered a ribbon of tokens to him. Grinning, the little looker turned, tokens grasped in an adrenaline pumped fist. Trailing big lookers in his wake he strode down the walkway, ignoring the childish temptation of Hook-a-Duck, he headed straight to the rifle range.   
 
	Marvin barely acknowledged the token slapped down on the counter next to where he slumped, and certainly didn’t bother to size the eager player up against the chart which indicated the height beneath which a looker should not be handed a loaded rifle. By the time the big lookers in the player’s party caught up to him, he was already lining up his first shot, which missed all of the playing cards by a distance. The second shot was discharged mid-stagger as the little player momentarily lost his unconventional tip-toes stance. It hit the coffee mug which steamed at Marvin’s elbow. Marvin, startled, prepared to protest, thinking better of it when met by the flat stare of the big lookers standing behind the shooter. The third shot, with the assistance of tongue-out concentration, miraculously clipped a card. A five token shot.  
 
	The little winner pointed immediately at Cuddlepig. Only now did Marvin realise that the valuable twenty token prize was on the wrong rack. He started to make the case, explaining why he couldn’t let the premium item go at a fifteen token discount. His half-hearted argument sounded like the whitterings of a whacked mole. The big looker’s reply came like the rumbling of one of the biggest rollers from beyond the Arcade Land entrance. The exchange was brief. Marvin, wanting only coffee and peace, handed Cuddlepig to the ecstatic winner after only token resistance. Feeling the frown of the big looker still on him, Marvin’s instinctive knack for avoiding any situation which might require him to exert anything but minimal effort caused him to pause. Turning back to the racks he snatched up Unimoo. Grinning at the winner he handed over the shop-soiled cyclops as a goodwill gesture for the misunderstanding. The frowning looker gone, Marvin reached for his chipped coffee mug and slumped back on to the counter, everyone a winner. 
 
	Unimoo and Cuddlepig were carried together as the lookers toured the rest of Arcade Land. After a good-bye tour of the other games, during which they were joined by a bag full of candyfloss and a huge inflatable hammer, they began to move in the direction of the exit.
 
	As white light began to overpower the colours of the flashing bulbs, Cuddlepig saw a choir of moles rise up as one from their holes and sing their electronic victory song. Cuddlepig and Unimoo went together, into the light.   
 
","July 28, 2023 12:17","[[{'Kevin Keegan': 'This is a very well written story and it’s an enjoyable read because of this. I like the way you only name Cuddlepig, Unimoo, Weekday Marvin and Weekend Carl, everyone else is a looker, Well done Chris.', 'time': '18:44 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Cheers Kevin. Glad you enjoyed it.\n\nThanks for reading.', 'time': '18:52 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Cheers Kevin. Glad you enjoyed it.\n\nThanks for reading.', 'time': '18:52 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Fun story :) Lots of custom language sells this and brings Cuddlepig's world to life, and half the fun is us working out how he understands the world. \n\nThe end is quite sweet, and the two friends stay together as they go on a new adventure. Seems like the world needs Weekday Marvins, with the peacemaking and coffees :) \n\nThanks for sharing!"", 'time': '20:46 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Michal!', 'time': '21:07 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Michal!', 'time': '21:07 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'The lookers, coin heads, rollers, concussed moles, you really got into the head of the toys here. Great job Chris, thoroughly enjoyable.', 'time': '10:47 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks, Kevin. Coming up with something people can enjoy is always one of the major goals. Really pleased to hear when it works. Thanks for reading.', 'time': '11:09 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks, Kevin. Coming up with something people can enjoy is always one of the major goals. Really pleased to hear when it works. Thanks for reading.', 'time': '11:09 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Very clever Chris. This must have taken ages to write! I will admit to being a little confused at some of the parts, for example i didn't understand what was meant by the shot missing the card and still winning Marvin until later when it became clear if was a shooting game . Maybe I just don't frequent arcades enough though! Also it took me ages to figure out what the rollers were! \nLovely tale though and glad the friends were reunited and got to be brought into the light together 😊"", 'time': '07:33 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Derrick. Glad you enjoyed it. \n\nThanks for reading.', 'time': '07:52 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Derrick. Glad you enjoyed it. \n\nThanks for reading.', 'time': '07:52 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'What a cute picture of life from the other side of the shooting range. Certainly hope Cuddlepig and Unimoo find happiness in the light.🤗', 'time': '15:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks Mary! Glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '07:53 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks Mary! Glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '07:53 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",bahiy2,Bite the hand,Kevin Keegan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bahiy2/,/short-story/bahiy2/,Character,0,['Fiction'],12 likes,"
Comer Investigations was a highly successful private eye operation run by Steve Comer and Abbie Brady. Though successful Steve and Abbie decided to stick to their backstreet location so as to keep their operations low key. Their HQ was located roughly half a mile away from the sixth business district. When the cops frequently ran out of ideas they turned to Steve and Abbie to solve the unsolvable cases for them and, in turn, Comer Investigations were paid handsomely. Steve Comer had a well lived in face, a bit like Tommy Lee Jones or that tough guy from Breaking Bad that no one can remember his name(Apologies: I looked him up - Jonathan Banks.....Brilliant actor), lined and craggy but at same time trustworthy and ruggedly handsome which opened a lot of doors especially if they were opened by females. Abbie Brady was petite but packed a real punch, grungy in style but that poorly hid her good looks that were visible to anyone who gave her a second look, which was frequently. Together they formed a formidable partnership and were responsible for solving countless crimes that police couldn't.
The sixth business district murders was the case they were working on. It was proving to be a real tough nut to crack. There had been four businessmen who met their maker over the four weeks and the cops had drawn a blank. They needed help and Simon Farrell, owner of the Oasis hotel, always had the answers.
'How are my two favourite gumshoes? Solved the murders yet?' A jolly Simon addressed them as they approached the bar which Simon, for some unknown reason to anyone, liked to work daily.
'Have you heard anything? No one is talking. It's a wall of silence. Thought it might have been an inside job but that idea bled out real fast.' Steve enquired. He was hoping for a nugget or two from Simon to get them back on the right track. Simon casually dusted the bottles of spirits that needed dusting. He was a tall, smartly dressed man, who never hurried a task he was engaged in, for anyone. 
'We badly need something Simon. If you got anything then don't be shy.' Abbie added, hoping to unlock Simon's word on the street info quickly.
'The killer is female and is targeting diabetics. Word is that the cops passed this one to you both because no murders have actually been committed. Forensics have nothing. The men just injected too much insulin and the next thing is they're history.' Simon pitched the curve ball their way.
'They didn't find any other injection sites?' Abbie persisted.
'Nope. Nothing.' Simon answered quickly.
'The killer is being very clever. It's easy to find the injection site, my mother was a diabetic and I've injected insulin many times, always in the belly and I'd guess our killer has experience in this field too. Ok Simon thanks for your help.'
'See you again, whenever you get stuck.' Simon said smirking as the two left the Oasis hotel.
 
'So what now?' Abbie asked Steve as they made their way downtown.
'Sean. Sean will have some vital clues that have not come to Simon's attention. He normally does his rounds in this laneway.' Steve replied as he sharply turned right into a rat run between the more fashionable shopping precinct and the downtown area. Steve was right as he could see Sean was sweeping up the trash as he normally did at this time. Sean was portly whose body had seen better days.
'Steve and the lovely Abbie. And what can I do for you people today?' Sean's thick Irish accent was unmistakable.
'What's the word on the murders? Anyone let anything slip recently?' Steve said brimming full of hope.
'I hear it's one of those, em, what's the name at all? One of those, God my mind's gone blank.' Sean was struggling to remember.
'Is she a Policewoman? Is she a shop owner?.....' Abbie quick fired at Sean.
'No none of those. Ah it's no use. When I get like this, I can never remember. But I know her name.' Sean replied casually.
'Tell us?' Steve and Abbie said in unison.
'Petra Black: a fine looking lady she is too. She runs through this alleyway most mornings. Always nice to me. Gives me money sometimes.' Sean's eyes misted over. Abbie gave him a peck on the cheek, 'Thanks Sean. I love you.'
'You came up trumps again Sean. Here's a little something to keep out the cold.' Steve said as he handed Sean a small bottle of whiskey. Sean took the bottle gingerly and examined it.
'What a pity I've given up.' He said melodramatically.
'You serious Sean? Well good for you.' An impressed Steve said though not convinced.
Sean clutched the whiskey bottle tight to his chest. 'I've given up not drinking whiskey. Now let me get back to job.' Sean said in an irked voice.
'Better get moving, he's getting annoyed.' Steve said hastily. They walked very quickly out of the alleyway and headed back to HQ.  
 
Back at HQ they decided to trawl over the new information. 
'So the suspected killer is Petra Black and she probably has a diabetic sibling, child or lover perhaps as she knows exactly where to inject the insulin into her victims. In fact she's so expert that the cops are worried about whether they can make the murders stick at all. It's a real mess.' Steve said perplexed.
'She could have medical training. That would give her maybe the skills required. But what about motive? A highly successful bank manager like her, why would she be bumping off businessmen?' Abbie added.
'You looked her up, didn't you? Which bank is she Manager of? Must be crimes of passion.' Steve replied.
'Bank of Geneva, hey what a swanky number that bank is. According to her socials she's happily married with two kids, husband's a stock broker.....They must be minted.' Abbie said throwing her eyes skyward.
'See what you can find out about the husband. She could be taking revenge for his mistakes or maybe those men were going to report the husband over shady practices. Yes that could be it. Whatever it is though we need to find out what is driving her to murder these guys. Start with the husband....' Steve said directly.
'It's been almost a week since the last murder. Shouldn't I tail Petra? Maybe I can catch her before she does another businessman over? And we know the cops aren't going tail her because there clueless at the moment and are content to leave it to us. I know I can track her movements and prevent another murder. It could solve the case if I can catch her needle in hand as it were then bundle her into your car, you'd be waiting outside of course. We'd bring back here, interrogate her and get a confession. Case closed.' Abbie said definitely, leaving Steve with no wriggle room. He knew that once Abbie had a plan then he'd better go along with it. Steve looked pensive for a moment. He looked at Abbie.
'Let's do it. But you have to be cautious. This lady has killed four men already so she won't think twice of taking you out should you get in her way.' Steve warned. Abbie threw her arms up in celebration.
'Finally I get some real work to do. You won't regret this Steve, I'll wrap this case up pronto.' An excited Abbie exclaimed.
'Make sure I don't Abbie. You better get going. You have a lot of preparation to do ahead of tonight.'
'Catch you later.' Abbie replied as she speedily left HQ beaming.
 
                                                           ****
 
 
 
Pete Jones literary agent sat in a dingy cafe waiting for Jack Mills author to arrive. He looked at his watch and then the door and back to his watch again. Late again. We said twelve last night and it's now One he thought to himself as he sipped his latte. He browsed through Jack's manuscript again to pass the time. Awful stuff, really really bad was his only thought when he spotted Jack coming though the entrance looking like a down and out.
'Sorry about being late, faulty alarm clock. Still when the book sales start to take off then I'll invest in one that works. How are you anyway Pete? Ah good man, I see you got me a latte.' Jack said breathlessly, moving his chair into a better position. Pete gave Jack a watery smile and shook his hand limply. Jack could sense immediately that there was bad news coming shortly and sipped his cold latte as if that would help.
'Better get that heated up. Second thoughts why don't I get us another round. Same again please.' Pete said attracting the waitress's attention.
'I won't waste your time Jack. I know you too well and respect you to be anything less than honest,' Pete said while looking at the waitress fetching the lattes.
'Spit it out then Pete.' Jack said not holding back. The waitress returned with the lattes and Pete quickly paid her and gave her a handsome tip.
'Much obliged sir. If you need anything else then you just let me know.' She said beaming at Pete. When she had gone out of earshot Pete shifted in his seat as if that would make this easier.
'It's horseshit. The whole story is infantile. The characters are boring, the scenes you describe are terrible and the dialogue, OMG don't get me started on the dialogue. We can't do anything with this...' Pete said not holding back.
'Everything else is fine though?' Jack said smiling.
'Nothing is right or good about this so called book you've been writing for nearly two years. We're pulling the plug Jack I'm sorry.' Pete said bluntly
'Don't do this to me. Give me a few more months. I can turn it round. You want snappier dialogue, you want more exciting scenes, well then you shall have it. Just give me a few months.' Jack pleaded.
'I'm sorry Jack. We're out. You want my advice? Just start again. This story will never see a printing press. Do yourself a big favour and destroy it and start again.' Pete said getting up to leave.
'Fine. Off you go. Plenty more publishers out there. There's nothing wrong with my dialogues or scenes or plot or action. Who needs you? I'll find someone else. Plenty more fish in the sea.' Jack shouted finishing up his latte. To the others in the cafe, it looked like the end of a beautiful romance as Jack hastily put on his jacket and left.              
 
 
 
                                                          ****   
 
Steve Comer went for a walk to help clear his head. Strangely the city he was so familiar with was fading out before his very eyes. He shook his head in disbelief and rubbed his eyes but nothing he could do made a difference. He continued walking until he saw one building that appeared untouched by whatever the hell was going on. Without giving a second thought Steve entered the building and drone like just walked into a room with a sign on the door which read ANTEROOM. The room inside was totally white, a brilliant almost burning white. There were others in the room that he recognised, Abbie, Simon, Sean and another female who he guessed must be his foe Petra Black. Steve sat down beside Abbie who looked perturbed by the latest change of plans.
'What's going on? I went home and was preparing for you know what,' Abbie said lowering her voice, 'and then I find myself walking out of my place and ending up here. An ideas Steve?' 
'Absolutely none. It's was exactly the same with me, I just found myself outside walking and then I ended up here.' Steve replied feeling annoyed that he had no answers. He looked at Simon who looked uneasy.
'Yes one minute I was washing glasses and the next I find myself walking into this, whatever the hell it is, it's so bright in here: anyone got sunglasses.' Simon spoke with agitation and clearly his eyes were giving him grief. They all looked at each other and then Sean spoke. 'It makes a nice change for me to be a clean room and out of cold howling wind so I'm happy and I even have that nice little bottle in my coat pocket.' He then realised he had left his coat behind. 'Ah fuck I'm an awful idiot, I left my coat in the laneway. This is a terrible state of affairs when a man, such as myself, has no access to a little drink.'
'Any ideas Sean about what's going on?' Abbie said to Sean, feeling a little sorry for him.
'I'm formulating my ideas as to what the fuck is happening. You'll have to give me a little while dear so I can get it straight in my head. If only I had some whiskey to help the cogs turn.....'
'That's ok Sean. We're not exactly pushed for time or have anything better to do.'
'Ah you're a lovely. I'll work on it extra hard for you darling.' Sean replied brow furrowed in thought.
Steve turned to Petra. 'What do you know about all this?' Petra gave Steve a look of distain.
'My part was holding together nicely. The silent assassin working expertly. I targeted my victims and just killed them with no fuss, only precision. I left no clues. I made no mistakes. I was happily going about my business with stealth and professionalism. The reader was intrigued, fascinated, hooked. And then you show up with you blowhard lines and your little sidekick. Cliche after cliche after bloody cliche. You do realise that you and the kid have blown it out of the water?' Petra told it like she saw it. Steve could feel his fists coming to life. He was raging but he would never hit a woman. He whispered to Abbie, 'Sort out this piece of trash'.
'I have it, I have it. We're all just characters, figments of some writers tormented mind. Pawns on his chessboard. Lambs to the slaughter.' Sean said quite poetically (maybe he should give up the drink).
'Even the most cliched of us all, the drunk Irish street sweeper gets it before the great Comer investigations. Beaten to the punch once again by a drunken Irish bum. Thank you, to both of you for turning what could've been a good story into the story from hell destined for the garbage heap.' Petra said with venom directed at Steve and Abbie.
'But we can't be characters, we can't. I feel so real.' Steve said looking at the others. Then he summoned up his fighting spirit once more. 'I'm off to give the writer's hippocampus a damn good kicking. He will write better dialogues, he will write more believable characters. I will save the day' Steve tried to leave the anteroom but it was hopeless, it was locked tight. Steve disappeared first and the one by one all the other characters disappeared leaving only Abbie and Petra alone in the anteroom.  
 
                                                           **** 
 
Abbie Brady sat patiently waiting for Petra Black to arrive. She looked around at the plush fixtures and fittings of the Bank of Geneva. The thick carpeted floors along with the deep mahogany filing cabinets and mahogany desks left her with only one opinion: this bank was doing well. A door opened down the hallway and Petra called out, 'Abbie Brady, I can see you know.' Abbie casually walked down the hallway and into Petra's office and quickly took her seat.
'Let me be brief Abbie.' Petra said immediately. 'I've been impressed by your tracking skills, in fact, you almost had me the night before last.'
'What gave me away?' Abbie countered, not willing to be a passive bystander.
'I'll let you know a little later. Moving quickly on, we can work together you and me. You have a pile of debt built up for one so young.' Abbie nodded wondering how she knew but deciding to let her continue, 'Debt grows very quickly Abbie and pretty soon you're drowning. Here's what I propose Abbie: I buy over Comer Investigations, pay off all your debts and we work together. Seem fair?' Petra sat back in her chair observing Abbie carefully.
'And in return?' Abbie asked.
'In return you forget about this case. Look Abbie we both know that you'll never catch me. Any recording devices you're using now are scrambled by our security system at the bank. And there's a lot Abbie that you don't know and, believe me, are better off not knowing....' Petra said coolly.
'What do I not know? Tell me now. I know that you're a cold hearted killer. So tell me Petra what the fuck do I not know?' Abbie's temper was rising to the surface. She looked coldly at Petra but Petra's eyes portrayed nothing but warmth. Petra reached for a folder that was positioned at the far end of her enormous desk. She handed it to Abbie who leafed through it before putting two and two together.
'Okay they're disgusting perverts but you can't just kill them....' Abbie said quickly choking the oxygen from Petra's latest salvo.
'They had got away with it for way too long. Look no one would have held them to account for their actions except me. Do yourself a favour and join me. There's twenty more in a different file just waiting to be brought to justice. Ok Abbie. Just consider it carefully and we'll talk later.' Petra retorted. Abbie rose and without bidding her good day she left Petra's office with plenty to think about.
 
                                                           ****
Jack Mills picked up the phone and dialled Pete's number. 'Hello Pete. Jack here. Listen sorry about the other day, I was way out of line. Good news for you. The story's back on track.'                                       
","July 28, 2023 14:41","[[{'Chris Miller': ""It's a good idea, Kevin. The first section must have been fun to write. I imagine Steve and Sean are still stuck in the anteroom sharing the bottle."", 'time': '09:12 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Thanks Chris for your comments and likes. Yeah the first section was enjoyable and I enjoyed writing the whole story. Yep Steve and Sean are partying in the anteroom😊', 'time': '15:23 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Thanks Chris for your comments and likes. Yeah the first section was enjoyable and I enjoyed writing the whole story. Yep Steve and Sean are partying in the anteroom😊', 'time': '15:23 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Write what you know. Good use of characters being characters.😏', 'time': '15:53 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Thanks a million Mary for your very nice comment. Very much appreciated,\n\nKindest regards,\nKevin.', 'time': '09:38 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Keegan': 'Thanks a million Mary for your very nice comment. Very much appreciated,\n\nKindest regards,\nKevin.', 'time': '09:38 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",jiclo0,Over Easy,Kenneth Goldman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jiclo0/,/short-story/jiclo0/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Romance']",11 likes,"
                                         OVER EASY
 
                                                by
 
                                       Ken Goldman
 
 
 
	Travis turned to Ann and forced a smile, but he was unable to completely stifle his yawn. “I love you,” he managed to say to her. Trying not to make the words sound completely hokey, he went for the save. “... but you already know that, don’t you?” 
	He hoped the sentiment had come across as something more than the correct buzzwords meant for the correct moment, but there was not a whole lot he could do about the distraction. You can’t swat a flea that has decided to fly up your ass, so you just try to get on with whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing. Even if what you’re supposed to be doing is saying ‘I love you’ with that flea up your ass.
	He felt like adding a shade of subtext to his words, something simple like ‘Yabba Dabba Doo’ just for a little variety this time. Travis remembered the words he was supposed to say, but the words he had wanted to say were a different matter, and they did not come. He was not sure if they ever would again.
	“Yes,” Ann finally answered. “I know you do. I’ve always known.” Without the slightest change in her expression she added, “So of course you know that I love you too.” Until that moment the woman had not even looked in Travis’ direction, pretending instead to be absorbed in watching the pigeons pecking at the scraps of food someone had left near the park bench that adjoined theirs. 
	When her eyes finally met his Travis read uncertainty in them. “I said that right this time, didn’t I?”
	A park, two lovers seated on a bench on a warm Sunday afternoon, and pigeons. That made for one hell of a cliche´. 
	“You said the words,” Travis reassured her. He brushed a rogue curl from her forehead with a semblance of emotion that might have passed for tenderness at some other time. “It doesn’t make much difference how you said them, does it? So, do you want to kiss now? That is, if you can tear yourself away from those goddamned pigeons.” 
	His brief display of tenderness had vanished like the thin facade of spontaneity the couple had tried to reassemble to get themselves through this moment. Travis hadn’t meant to sound so cold, but this whole charade had gone beyond tedious a long time ago.
	They kissed, but it was a dry and joyless effort that seemed poorly scripted and just as poorly executed. Like their words the kiss had been bled of passion. Together the couple sat silently waiting for the sky to explode. It always had erupted right about this time.
	Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Someone had screwed up.
	“Where is it?” Ann asked. “Damn it! I hate when this happens. You just wind up having to put everything on hold until they get it right. Where the hell is--?”
	A thunderclap suddenly detonated above them and the world went grey. As the sun disappeared behind a misshapen thunderhead, the grumbling sky caused a dozen feeding pigeons to scatter. 
	The rumbles of thunder were the young man’s cue. Travis took the woman who sat at his side slowly - almost sluggishly - into his arms. 
	“The rain can’t touch you now,” he whispered to her, but what he was thinking was This is bullshit .
	In the earlier times he had held Ann so much tighter on this park bench, but that memory had gone as cloudy as the sky. Physically the young woman had not changed much since those first times. In fact she was every bit as lovely as she had been then, her hair still cascading down her shoulders like a golden waterfall, although that hair had once been raven black. And the current flowery print sun dress had also changed colors since those earlier incarnations. The first time her outfit had been a simple pair of jeans with a pink blouse that had a button missing near her collar. Travis remembered all that nonsense with an approximation of fondness, remembered every bit of the minutia perfectly. He knew it in the same way he knew that he took his coffee black and preferred his eggs over easy, or like he knew that Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” was the best kick-ass three minutes ever pressed on vinyl.
	 But there were some things he did not know, some things he should have known ...
	Like the name of his best buddy in high school, or maybe the first time he had gotten laid. Or the date of his birth, what his mother looked like, or maybe even her name?
	One filthy looking pigeon had lagged behind the rest, tugging at what looked like a loose strip of baloney wrapped in tin foil. It was the same fat and ugly bird with the same mottled feathers that always pulled at the same sickly slab of lunch meat.
	“Did you really expect this time would be different?” Travis whispered to Ann, his tone more reprimanding than soothing. The words came out all wrong. That was happening a lot lately because he had lost patience with having to go through the motions with such infuriating exactness. He had learned the rules well enough, but he could stretch them a little. Ann didn’t always like when he did that, but her feelings were just one less thing that mattered to him. Travis knew she didn’t much like that either.
	 And Travis didn’t much care.
	 Funny the way things sometimes just snowballed, he thought. You keep at something long enough, and sooner or later it gets to you, it gets to you real bad. A pretty girl smiles at a guy in that funny way she has, and a man thinks he will love that crooked little smile until the day he dies. He is certain that smile will inspire him to climb mountains, maybe compose a few sonnets. But of course none of that happens and one day the poor jerk just wants to smash his fist into every tooth behind that same crooked smile.
	 “I’ve always been scared to death when it thunders like this,” Ann said right on cue. “I had this dog - a little black cocker spaniel named Shadow - and one afternoon we got caught in a storm like this while we were in the park. Shadow became so frightened--”
	“---that she ran in front of a ‘Jack and Jill’ ice cream truck. Yes, I know. I know, Ann. I’ve heard the same story a dozen times. Maybe two dozen. Do you think you could at least change some words?”
	“Well, maybe it wasn’t an ice cream truck,” she said. “Maybe it wasn’t a truck at all. Maybe she just ran away. I’m not sure any more. And I’m not so sure about you either.”
	“I love you, so be sure of that,” Travis said, then wondered why he had said it. His words and thoughts did not correspond as if neither were really his, and the resulting insincerity leaked through like sludge in a paper bag. That kind of disjointed response had been happening a lot, and Ann wasn’t buying it. He didn’t blame her. His lovespeak was getting pretty lame.
	“Travis, cut the crap and tell me what’s eating at you. I think we’ve pretty much blown it this time anyway. Shoo!” Ann kicked at the pigeon near her foot and it flew off. For a moment Travis thought that this variation on routine had been a nice touch for her. It was different, anyway.
	“Aren’t we supposed to get caught in the rain right about now?” he asked. “Where’s that romantic downpour in which we kiss while shimmering beads of rain drip down our faces because we’re too much in love to get out of the storm? I was sort of looking forward to this part.”
	“It’ll wait until you tell me about this beehive you’re sitting on. Talk to me, okay? This is hard enough without your taking it out on me.” Ann’s words sounded more genuine than anything he had heard her say in a long time. And she was right, of course, just like she was right about the 
	downpour waiting for them to finish. He leaned toward her and looked directly into her eyes.
	“Tell me what’s going to happen next,” he asked.
	“You know what’s going to happen next,” she answered. “We’ve been through--”
	“Tell me anyway.”
	For a moment she closed her eyes, rewinding a videotape inside her head. When she reopened them she was almost smiling.
	“Well, we kiss. Lightly at first, then we go full tilt boogie. We promise to love each other forever. We talk about how long we’ve each waited for this moment, waited our whole lives for each other.” 
	“And then ...?”
	Ann sighed deeply and smiled her crooked smile as if fortifying herself for what came next.
	“ ... and then a bolt of lightning strikes me, and I go into a coma. For days you sit by my hospital bed, and you make this little pact with God about how you’ll change if He allows me to pull through, how you won’t drink or chase women and - - Damn you, Travis! You know all this. What are you trying to--?”
	“Now tell me your mother’s maiden name.”
	“What?”
	“Your mother’s maiden name,” he repeated. “Dammit, Ann. Who doesn’t know their mother’s maiden name, for Chrissakes?”
	She looked at him as if he had just asked her about the last time the Pope had masturbated.
	“I don’t know,” she finally admitted.
	“And that little dog you mentioned, that Shadow mutt who has been crunched by the ice cream truck at least six times today? Where did you get her? Tell me, did you find her at the kennel? Was she a gift from your father? And speaking of the old man, just what did your father do for a living? Do you remember once in his entire life when he acted less than perfect?”
	Ann’s lip quivered, a sure sign that tears would follow soon if Travis kept this interrogation going. 
	“I remember what he looked like--”
	“No, Ann. I don’t want to hear any of that crap about how handsome a man your father was, or the way he knew how to treat his little girl, or how you hoped you would someday marry a man just like him. That’s all bullshit, Ann, a syrupy fairy tale. It’s like all the really important information has been completely erased ... or maybe it was never there.” 
	Travis reached for the woman’s hand and this time the spontaneity spilled from him with an urgency that felt alien and outlandish. “Ann, how long do we have to pretend that we can’t remember anything important about our lives? Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe nothing of what we think we know about ourselves is real? That maybe all this is some madman fantasy that is only as real as the moment we’re in right now because it’s been filled in for us, here on this idiot park bench that exists only because we’re sitting on it?”
	“That doesn’t make any sense, Travis,” she said. “How can two people be having the same fantasy? I’m here too, in case you haven’t noticed. So what if I don’t remember all those things? I remember meeting you at that bus stop on the corner of 5th and Main last summer and talking with you for so long on that afternoon that I missed my bus. And I remember--”
	“-- You remember the same things that I remember, Ann. Things about us as a couple. But what about before we met? What about our lives, our whole lives as separate individuals? Dammit, I feel like the two of us are trapped inside some insipid Barry Manilow song and all we know to say to each other are the lyrics. I’m sorry, Ann, but I know my life did not begin the day I met you! So how come I can’t remember anything about my life without you except a few fragments of irrelevant bullshit?”
	Ann’s lip was quivering again. “You’re scaring me, Travis. Please, don’t say any more, please don’t--”
	“Ann, wake up! We’ve been playing this sappy scene over and over today. Sometimes the words change, sometimes your clothes are different, but the pigeons, the thunderstorm ... It’s like we’re goddamned puppets being pulled across someone’s stage. In a minute that lightning will strike, there’ll be an ugly black smear across your forehead, and then you’ll go into shock. I’ll fall on my knees and curse at the sky, and then I’ll suddenly find myself at your side holding your hand in some hospital room I could describe right now with my eyes closed. Jesus, don’t you think there’s something a little screwy going on here? Don’t you think--?”
	“This is all wrong! You’re ruining everything!” Ann screamed. And now she was crying for real, crying and shaking like a little girl who had just lost her pet cocker spaniel. Or maybe like a woman who had met a man whom she thought she had loved because he reminded her of the handsome father who had loved her so very much, a lover who had greatly disappointed her because he was not really like her father at all, and that made her cry even harder.
	He wanted to stop her tears, so he kissed her with the rain splashing on their faces. He kissed her lightly at first. Then he kissed her hard.
	But she was still crying when the lightning struck ...
 
 
	                           ***  
 
	“This is all wrong!” Nancy said to her husband, handing him back his manuscript. “Damn it, David! You were only supposed to write a simple romantic television screenplay and you went and turned it into another one of your pulp horror stories.”
	“I can’t get a handle on this, Nance,” David replied, defending himself from behind his keyboard. “I must have rewritten this park bench scene a dozen times this morning and the sucker just won’t come out right. The studio wants this lame sudser from me by tomorrow, but ever since they turned the Travis/Ann story-line over to me it’s like these characters have minds of their own. At least this guy Travis does.”
	“It seems to me more like they have minds like yours,” Nancy added.
	“Well, maybe so. But look at the cornball lines those boardroom bozos told me they want Travis to say in this scene, for Chrissakes. ‘The rain can’t touch you now.’ Jesus, Nance! Add that to the pigeons in the park, the runaway puppy, and that stupid bolt of lightning and we’ve got five minutes of pure polyester. I can’t believe people really watch this kind of shit.”
	“Believe it. Every afternoon and by the millions.” Nancy forced a crooked smile and tousled her husband’s hair. “And just as long as someone keeps writing it, they’ll keep watching it, thereby keeping the feminine hygiene industry in the black. Lover, that’s why any writer who intends to eat pushes himself into doing this sort of thing. Just think of it as stretching yourself, okay?”
	Of course the woman had a point. David had not sold a horror script in over a year. The networks were a mite uneasy about all that blood n’ guts stuff running during prime time, what with the FCC breathing down their corporate necks about violence on television. But love and romance in the afternoon, maybe a little healthy titillation? Now there was a market that was alive and kicking.
	 How hard could it be to write page after page of mindless clichés? June, moon, spoon ... Hell, if it opened a few doors, what could it hurt to let the mundanes win this round? A writer writes. A television writer rewrites. A good television writer eats.
 Stretch yourself, Nancy had told him. Yeah, and that’s what they probably used to tell those guys on the rack during the Spanish Inquisition. Smile, pal, this won’t hurt a bit.
	Nancy kissed David lightly on his cheek and brushing her lips against his ear, she whispered into it. “I’ll fix you some breakfast and you can get back to that park bench again with your pals Ann and Travis. You want ‘em over easy, as usual?” 
	David turned to his wife and forced a smile, but he was unable to completely stifle his yawn. “I love you,” he said to her. “... but you already know that, don’t you?”
 
 
                                                 ####
 
 
 
","July 21, 2023 19:09","[[{'Lyle Closs': 'Oh man, this is so good. Original, tight, easy to follow, nicely written and structured. One of the best Reedsy stories I have read. Got me in early and kept me to the end. The ending is a cracker too.', 'time': '07:57 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This is really great. The dialogue is really believable and the thought process Travis follows to figure it out is interesting and well paced.', 'time': '14:31 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",q3fm8m,Rilestone and the Narrating Angel,Steffen Lettau,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q3fm8m/,/short-story/q3fm8m/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",10 likes,"
Rilestone Jian Silver had just woken up, shaking off the strange dreams of visions from his waking moments merged with images yet to be explored, but he has not gone to such places or times just yet.  He blinked several times, tilting his head left and right as if a peculiar sound had caught his attention.  He shook his head, stood up...and tilted his head again.  His eyes, gifts from his father that could pierce the veils of illusions even by Fallen Angels, shifted in all directions as he searched for that peculiar sound.  His ears, gifts from his mother and able to pick out the voice of one human being from a crowd of a million, turned with his head like a radar trying to pinpoint the direction of his current discomfort.  
 
Nothing.  He went downstairs to the kitchen.
 
Rilestone burst through the door-
 
""AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!""
 
WHAAAA!  Wha-wha-what?  Ho, goodness!  
 
Right, as I was saying-
 
""AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!  WHO'S THERE?!""
 
WHAAA!  Not again.  Getting into a fighting stance, Rilestone looked around-
 
""Where are you?  Where's that voice coming from?!""
 
Voice?  He heard a voice?
 
""Yes!  You!  The speaking voice!  The voice that I heard in my bedroom!  The voice in the kitchen!  This kitchen!  Who are you?  Why are you in my house?!""
 
Wha-hold up...
 
Wait...
 
""Okay, I'm waiting!""
 
Rilestone...
 
""Yes!  How do you know my name?!""
 
Uhh...
 
""...yes?""
 
You...you can hear me?
 
""Yes!""
 
Like, now?
 
""Like...now!""
 
Hmmm....
 
This has never happened before.
 
""What?  Breaking and entering?""
 
What?  No!  I've always been here.  I mean, I created this place.
 
""My father created this place.  This is his home.  It was his father's home, his real father!  Well, until it was burned down, but he rebuilt it.""
 
True, but it is as it was written.  In that, I wrote it, and it happened.
 
""You're not making any sense!""
 
You're nine years old.  You would not understand without proper context.  So, let's just relax, okay?  Put your fists down and let's just discuss this curious predicament.
 
""Pre...dic...ament?  What is pre...dic...a...ment?""
 
It's a situation of a difficult nature, in that it is hard to explain, but I will answer whatever questions you have.  You can think of me as The Narrator.
 
""Wait...are you God?""
 
Good heavens, no!  I'm not THE Creator, I'm just...The Narrator, an author.
 
""An author?  As in, books?""
 
Yes.  That is what an author is known for.  Also, I am the Narrator of this particular book.
 
""What book?""
 
This book.  This story.  A story that revolves around a young boy, a boy who is more than he seems, in a world that leaves behind one terrible war and heads to a different stage of strife and suffering, but this child will remember his promise and, through the Truth, will work to overcome the waves of evil from the Deceiver.  
 
""You mean...me?""
 
Yes, you.  You're the star, so to speak.  The main character.  There are many other characters in your story, each one growing and developing just like you.  You will interact with them, and they will leave their impressions upon you.  Some good, some evil.
 
""Oh.  Why?""
 
Well, because...because that's what main characters do.  They go about, they interact, and they develop thoughts upon their interactions.  
 
""Oh.  Why?""
 
Because it adds to the story.  It helps people understand what is going on, and why.
 
""Uhhhh...""
 
Rilestone, your story involves many an interaction with many an individual across the world, and even beyond it.  You will-
 
""Beyond?""
 
Yes.  Oh, I'm revealing too much.
 
""Wait, wait!  You've already revealed so much, we can't just let this go.""
 
But Rilestone-
 
""Please!  Whoever you are, whatever you are...wherever you are, I just want to talk.""
 
Rilestone looked around-
 
""Would you stop that?  I know what I'm doing, you don't have to tell me.""
 
Very well.  Rilestone stop-
 
Sorry.  Habit.  I'll stop now.  But this is my job, you know.
 
""You get paid for this?""
 
Uhh...that's personal.
 
""Okay.  Do you do anything else besides...you know, narrating?""  
 
That's also personal.  I'll tell you what, I'll answer any questions that are related to the world you live in, minus events that haven't happened yet in specific details.  I will not reveal any endings, or beginnings, only with what you have already interacted with and what you could end up interacting with, again with no specifics.  I'll also answer any questions pertaining to my world, but only where I am or could be involved.
 
""Okay.  Will I meet any interesting characters.""
 
Probably.
 
""Will I grow up?""
 
Eventually.
 
""Will anyone else be narrating my story?""
 
No.  Not without my say-so and overseeing.
 
""Fair enough.  Oh, will I get siblings?""
 
Nice try.
 
""You aren't giving me a lot to work with here.""
 
I've already said so much.  I should not spoil anything.
 
""Do you have a real name?""
 
Yes, but I cannot tell you that.
 
""Can you tell me the full names of my parents?""
 
Not yet.  You already heard their first names, you know a bit about their backstories, but I can only elaborate on what you have heard.  They will tell you more about themselves in due time.
 
""Don't you mean that, as an author of this story, you will right about them telling me?""
 
Well...yes.  The thing is, Rilestone, that as an author, I must spin this in a way that makes all the characters feel alive, look alive, and act alive.  This plays out into the minds of all who read the story as if the characters are alive.
 
""But they aren't, are they?  They're fiction and...""
 
Yes?
 
""I am also fiction.  I'm not alive, am I?""
 
But, in a way, you are alive.
 
""But you said-""
 
Hold!  Just, hear me out.  Are you listening?
 
""Yes.""
 
Do you remember that magician's show you went to on your eighth birthday?
 
""Well, you wrote that too, I am guessing.""
 
Yes, but the point, Rilestone, is relevant.  See, you remember the illusions and were wowed by the performance, right?
 
""Yes...if you say I was.""
 
It's not just that!  Listen, that show covers two points of mine.  Firstly, it enthralled you, remember?  You thought that the magic was real, and even when you learned about the illusions used, it did little to sway you from being entranced every time you saw a magic show.  It was alive.
 
""Um...I think I get it, but what's the second point?""
 
That magic show, in this moment, is an allegory for the story itself, and all other stories in point of fact.  See, the readers know that the story is fictional.  They know the characters exist in the stories, and through their imaginations, the characters come to life even more.  Sometimes, a story is translated to a movie or television series, and bring the characters alive in motion and spoken words.  Eventually, the plan is to do this with your story.
 
""You mean, I and everyone else here will be on screen?""
 
That is the plan.
 
""This is all so much to take in.  But, wait!  There's a problem!""
 
There are several issues to overcome.  Equipment, models, actors, all costing money.  Plus, there's the economy, the environment...
 
""No, no, no!  I mean, knowing all this, I kind of broke the illusion.""
 
Sigh, true.
 
""Are you saying sigh' to indicate sighing, or did you actually sigh and it came out as, 'sigh' just now?""
 
...yes.
 
""So, what about the illusion?  Or the world I live in, where everyone that I know, or could know, or wish I didn't know?  What will happen to it?  To me?  To everyone I love?  How will that affect you?  Your world?""
 
Whoa, hold your horses!  Let's not panic, there's a way to address this, to fix this for everyone.  
 
""Okay, let's do it!""
 
Child, listen.  There is a catch, and you aren't going to like it.
 
""What's the catch?""
 
You are correct, the illusion is broken.  So far, you are the only one aware of what he is in the here and now, probably because you are the main character, but this could lead to others finding out and the illusion breaking even further.
 
""How bad is that?""
 
Maybe it won't do much except make for a bad story.
 
""I mean, how bad is that on my end?""
 
Oh, sorry.  It could mean the end of your universe.  In point of fact, of course.
 
""Oh, no!  I don't want that.  What's the solution?  What's the catch?""
 
Okay, be still now.  And brace yourself.  See, the solution is called Re-telling.  I merely retell the story from the top, this time without being aware to anyone within the story.  Even you will not know that I am here.  The catch is that you will not remember our interaction.  At all.
 
""Oh...oh.  That's...that's actually unfortunate.""
 
What do you mean?
 
""I mean, you sound like an interesting person.  To me, of course, because you are my author, the person creating me and this universe that I live in.  And we just met.  I just...I just don't like forgetting people, that's all.""
 
That is how you were written, and that is good to hear.  But those are our only choices.  
 
""Well, I don't want my universe to be destroyed, or whatever will happen.  I don't think my parents would be happy about that.""
 
Believe me, no one's parents would be happy about that.  Are you saying you're on board with the Re-telling?
 
""Um...yes.  Yes, I am all for it.""
 
All right, let's begin-
 
""WAIT!""
 
Aah!  What!  What is it?
 
""Before I...forget, will you at least tell me your name?""
 
I told you, I'm the Author.  Not God, just...the Narrating Angel.
 
""No, I mean, your real name.  I'm going to forget everything, right?""
 
Only from now until back to your bedroom this morning.
 
""Right, yes!  So, would you tell me your name?  Please?""
 
Very well.  My name is Steffen.
 
""Steffen.  Nice to meet you, Steffen.""
 
It is nice to meet you, too, Rilestone.  Are you ready?
 
""Sigh.  And I meant, 'sigh', the exhalation, not the word.""
 
Heh-heh, I know.  
 
""I am ready.  Goodbye, Steffen.""
 
See you later, Rilestone.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Rilestone Jian Silver had just woken up, shaking off the strange dreams of visions from his waking moments merged with images yet to be explored, but he has not gone to such places or times just yet.  He blinked several times, tilting his head left and right as if a peculiar sound had caught his attention.  He shook his head, stood up...and tilted his head again.  His eyes, gifts from his father that could pierce the veils of illusions even by Fallen Angels, shifted in all directions as he searched for that peculiar sound.  His ears, gifts from his mother and able to pick out the voice of one human being from a crowd of a million, turned with his head like a radar trying to pinpoint the direction of his current discomfort.  
 
Nothing.  
 
A thought came to him, and he grabbed a piece of paper, a pencil, and started drawing.
 
He came downstairs to the kitchen about fifteen minutes later, grateful that today was a Saturday, and an off day for himself and his parents.  Already, his mother Lilli was setting up plates of scrambled eggs and toast, with his father Harris setting up three mugs upon the table - one of coffee for himself, one of tea for Lilli, and one of orange juice for Rilestone.  Harris looked upon Rilestone walking over to the fridge and, taking a magnet, hung up a drawing.  
 
""Good morning, son!""
 
""Morning, Dad.  Morning, Mom.""
 
Lilli looked over at her son, noticing the drawing.  ""Hey, honey.  What's that?""
 
Rilestone looked back at his morning sketch.  ""It's us.""
 
Harris and Lilli set down the dishes and gathered behind Rilestone.  ""I see me, son, and your mother and you.  It's a really good drawing, Rilestone.""
 
Lillie pointed at the drawing.  ""Who's this behind us, honey?""
 
Rilestone smiled.  ""That's an angel.""
 
Harris nodded.  ""Oh, I see.  A guardian angel?""
 
Rilestone shook his head.  ""No.  I mean, in a way, he could be, but he's more like...a recorder.  An observer.  He sees our story throughout our days and tells the world about us.  I call him, 'The Narrating Angel'.  One day, we might meet him.""
","July 28, 2023 22:00","[[{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Great story! It's really funny and original. I love a good funny story.\n\nBut if the angel is writing his story... and its words appear on the page... Then it's writing this - 'Rilestone and the Narrating Angel' - story too. Which means *you're* not writing it, which means he's writing you, which means that since I'm interacting with you he's writing *me* too, and everything is spiralling out of control!!\n\n(I love stories that make me think. You can never over-think something 😁)"", 'time': '15:50 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'REEDSY-CEPTION!  GONG!\n\nThank you for liking the story and for the feedback.  There will be more Rilestone in the future.  As for the Angel... Well, his pen is always at the ready.', 'time': '01:27 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'REEDSY-CEPTION!  GONG!\n\nThank you for liking the story and for the feedback.  There will be more Rilestone in the future.  As for the Angel... Well, his pen is always at the ready.', 'time': '01:27 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Where it says ""right"", that word should be ""write"".  My bad.', 'time': '07:32 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",q7uu0h,Twelve Good Pages,Kevin B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q7uu0h/,/short-story/q7uu0h/,Character,0,"['Funny', 'Fantasy', 'American']",9 likes,"
It would be one thing if we were stuck in a book.
 
There’s a respectability to being characters in a book. I was discussing it with my husband last night, and we both agreed that a novel--or even a novella--would be just fine. Not that we know the difference between a novel and a novella, but I think a novella is sexier. Not that I’m opposed to being in something sexy as long as I’m not the one supplying the sex. I’m not a prude, mind you, but I’m not doing anything prurient just so Reese Witherspoon can read all about it and then tell her friends. That’s not my cup of tea.
 
A novel would be fine, but that doesn’t appear to be what we’re living in here. Instead, everybody in town seems to be a character in a short story collection.
 
Now, may I ask you, reader--whoever you are--would you like to be a character in a short story collection?  
 
I don’t care that the short stories are linked. To me, that just means the author wanted to write a book, but couldn’t focus long enough on any one character, and that’s just laziness as far as I’m concerned. It doesn’t change the fact that my husband and I get the spotlight for a mere twelve pages before everybody’s moving on to Petra Yeoman and her rapidly deteriorating marriage.
 
My husband--his name is Victor, but the author only mentioned that once, so I don’t know how they expect the reader to remember it--Victor says that marriage woes are one of the most tiresome plot devices known to man, and I happen to agree with him. I used to teach literature at the local community college, and nearly every story I taught involved a marriage falling apart. By the end of the semester, the students were begging for Tolstoy, and I didn’t blame them. Not one bit.
 
Victor and I have this wonderful chapter that, if you ask me, really should be turned into an entire book. It’s all about this chest of treasures we find hidden in our basement, and we realized it had to have belonged to the former owner. We go through it, and by learning about the people who used to live in our house, we really learn a lot about ourselves. Oh, it has a good message and I get some really funny lines in. Victor isn’t as funny, but he tries, god love him, he certainly does try. The whole thing is really very entertaining.
 
Then, before you know it, it’s over.
 
We do make appearances in a few of the other stories, but only as ancillary characters. I make a quip in the supermarket in the story about a woman suffering from depression and Victor is sitting at the bar in the story about the two alcoholics, but other than that, you only get us for twelve measly pages, and I just think that is a sin.
 
Just because two people aren’t rife with tragedy doesn’t mean they aren’t worth spending time with, isn’t that right? Why, in real life, you would never want to be around half the characters in this book. I know fiction is supposed to be more vivid than real life and conflict is key, yes, I get that, again, I used to teach this stuff, but wouldn’t it be nice to just sit back with some tea in front of the fire and read about Victor and me opening up that chest and discovering all these marvelous little trinkets and doodads?
 
I’m not saying you all need to stop reading this right now and go write to the author so you can tell them what a horrible mistake they’ve made. I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying that if you have a free minute, you could pop on over to their website and let them know that Reese Witherspoon might like reading all about how Petra and her husband go to bed every night in separate rooms, but you certainly don’t.
 
Don’t think I didn’t notice how long it took you to finish that Petra chapter--and the chapter about the tattoo shop owner who’s haunted by the young child he fathered and never cared for. That one was a real snoozer, wasn’t it? Thirty pages this author devoted to that literary tryptophan, and poor Victor and I get a pitiful twelve.
 
Chances are if I went home right now and murdered Victor in cold blood, this author would be writing an entire series about me. I’d have a movie optioned. I’d have podcasts. I bet Reese would demand to play me even though I’m old enough to be her…slightly older sister. Toss a little violence into your story, and  you’re the cat’s meow. Find a chest with some love letters in it and read them to your spouse, and suddenly you’re “too talky.” Suddenly people want to know where “the meat is.” What a disgusting phrase. You know where the meat is? On the plate Victor eats off every night, because we enjoy having dinner together even after thirty-four years. It’s also cooked perfectly, I might add.
 
You know, I’m not one to tell tales out of school, but this author has never even been to the town she set all these stories in. She heard the name “Fate Harbor” and she immediately put pen to paper. That means me and Victor and everyone else here are living in a fictional version of a real place. Is the fictional version better? I don’t know, because I’m never going to get to see the real place. I just know that everything here has the bland hues of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Not against old Tom, but I prefer to live a real life written by somebody who does more than leave their apartment on 44th Street in Manhattan once a day to go get a frozen burrito at the local bodega. That’s the person writing about all this small town malaise, and when you’re given that information, doesn’t it all just seem a little condescending?
 
Of course, they did a very good job with my chapter.
 
What was it that Andy Warhol said?
 
We’ve all got twelve good pages.
","July 26, 2023 22:18","[[{'Mary Bendickson': ""Such is life. We can't all be stars 🤩."", 'time': '16:59 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Very true, Mary!', 'time': '17:05 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Very true, Mary!', 'time': '17:05 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Kevin,\nOh you’ve done it again! Interesting concepts are one of the reasons I love your writing. This piece felt very meta, but in a unique way because it allowed us to confront our worst fear-what if we’re not the main character? You let our minds fill in the details for this story since so many of us exist in the mundane. Perhaps that’s why we love to write. I loved that this narrator yearned to create fame for herself. It felt very “Bonnie” in the legend of Bonnie and Clyde. Nice work!!', 'time': '14:40 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': ""A brilliantly written and clever take on the prompt.  Oh yeah, I almost forgot. 'Literary tryptophan.' I'm afraid I'm going to borrow and use that, Mr. Broccoli. I'll be happy to give you credit, though."", 'time': '05:54 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",4u0b7z,"""Realization""",Miranda C.,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4u0b7z/,/short-story/4u0b7z/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama']",9 likes,"
	Recently, I’ve been having moments in my life where I forget things. Important things, the parts that make actuality concrete and certain. I become aware of the unstoppable cycle in life that we do not pay attention to, or care about. And there is not much to it, you’d think about it, maybe for a second, and you stop because that is just the way of life. There is nothing to seek for or think about if there is nothing there. That’s how it’s always been, that’s the normal. There are unchangeable patterns in how we live that make up reality.
	You go on about your day and it is obvious, in every moment, that some people have more interesting and exciting stories than others. Some people are extremely successful, they do not have to follow a rule, they just are. They are always better looking, funnier, more talented, and a better person than you are. There are always others that are and will always be in the center of attention. And that is truly the simplicity of life. The comfort that you will never be, anything more than the watcher. The observer. That you don’t need to suffer or worry about becoming anything else because that is simply an impossibility. Out of your reach. Obviously.
	I never think about it, it’d be pointless to debate life. However, against my will, when I’m with friends, laughing, having a good time, sometimes I’m eating, cooking, or doing nothing, I get a heavy feeling at the bottom of my stomach. In a fraction of a second, I get this feeling, as if I am gone from the world and the world is gone from me. I have become an observer of myself and others. An outsider. And the experience I have known of life comes to my head strongly, it fills my brain, my insides, my eyes. I look around me and all I can perceive appears so bland and empty. Void of color and brightness. My friends are sitting around me while they discuss another mundane and predictable topic for the 100th time. If I pay attention, the discussion always dissolves into complementing or reassuring the same person over and over again. As if life isn’t happening to them right now, they just keep going. Unbothered. Not a question about the absurdity of their lives in comparison to others. How is it that everyone in this table is so exactly the same except one?  Why must someone always be the ultimate, and best exception. One above the rest, though the same blood courses through our veins. We sit in the same flesh, but there must be a hierarchy! And live with it, with such little importance! And this feeling is so low, that it does not go away. It makes me want to stand and scream. Overwhelming and exhausting, it feels eternal. Every second, and everywhere I look, I see people, I see life, absurdity! 
	I want to stand up but I can’t, I’m stuck to my chair, listening to their laughs. I want to run. I see it but I can’t do anything about it. This is the way of life! 
	In avoidance, I look down at my lap where my hand lay limp. Shakely, I turn my palms up, and I see color. The patterns are mixed red and yellow. How they move under my skin, and I know I am alive. 
	In a second, the feeling settles, and it goes away. When I look up once more, the world gains its color so magically. And I breathe in the normality of it all. The familiar feeling. As if nothing happened, in a moment. I go back to watching, to taking part in a story. And I am brought back in immediately. 
	""Jen? You there?"" Hannah, one of my friends, asks me with a big smile. All the girls turn their heads to look at me. Without thinking, I smile back and answer,
	“Yeah, of course!”
	""We were talking about what we're wearing for the party tonight! Everybody's going pink, what do you think?""
	I lean my arms on the table, “Oh yeah I was thinking the exact same thing!”
	“Great!”
	And then our lunch continues as always. I engage and respond and laugh. I feel good. But in the back of my mind, the thoughts linger.
	Today, it turned out one of the girls, Josie, of course, needed extra help getting ready; they decided they should all just go over to her house to help her out. I had work to finish so I went home. I wasn’t very close to Josie, so it was alright, it made sense. I wasn’t that important. So I went on with my routine as normal. I finished my work, I took a shower, and I put on my favorite show I watch every night, before going to sleep. Nothing in between.
	Later that night, while I’m sleeping, I hear faint voices and noises coming from far away, I open my eyes in the darkness and look up at the brightness coming from my TV. I must’ve forgotten to turn it off. I reach for the controller on my bed but it’s already lost between the sheets. As I start looking for it, I lose my sleep and gain more consciousness. And I notice the noise is a buzz. It's a static sound, plain and dull. I look up at the TV and I see I was wrong, nothing is playing. It’s just a combination of white and black spots all over. Endless buzzing that seems to be getting louder and louder every second I keep my eyes on it. Its presence is consuming and irresistible, it’s like if I looked at it for long enough it would swallow me whole, like I'd known it my entire life. It brought in the feelings of familiarity again and it expanded eternally. Before long, I started getting that feeling at the bottom of my stomach again. And I felt my heart get heavy and sink. My lungs stopped working. The buzz got so loud I could feel it inside my head, my ears are bleeding. I open my mouth as much as I can but not a sound comes out. My vision drowns in the static of the screen while it slowly becomes blurry. Then it goes dark before I’ve even closed my eyes.
	The next time I regain consciousness of myself I am driving to the mall after work. Like I always do. I have no idea what happened during the entire day or last night, but now, I am as if nothing has happened. The only remnant is the now permanent feeling in my stomach, I know something is so awfully wrong. After a few minutes of mindless driving I get stuck in traffic, a common occurrence. Then I am left to stare out the windows of my car, and all the cars around me, people passing by, some talking on the phone, some carrying flowers, others wearing suits. So random, yet so usual. I feel as if I’ve seen every single one of these people before, as if just by looking at them, I know they are just like me. What they are in this world and their place in it. Then the buzzing comes back, but it’s different this time. It’s so crisp and so clear. Like a whispering voice behind my shoulder, talking to me, leaving me a message. It now allows me to move and breathe. I feel the buzz like it’s in my blood, in my mouth. Urging and pushing me. And I need to escape it.
	I get out of my car in the middle of the street, and I look up at the sky. How the clouds seem to get together in unison, and the sun starts shining less and less. I lift up my hand and feel the first droplets of rain, they get on my face, my clothes, and my feet. I can feel the rain on my skin and taste it in my mouth. My eyes start to blur as I behold the grayness tint of the sky. I had never known how rain felt! Where have I been all my life? I started sobbing. How could I have missed out on something so incredible and perfect? So magical and mystical! What is my life? What am I doing? 
	As soon as it came, the rain started to stop, the clouds moved slowly to reveal the bright blue color of the sky. Between them, the great streaks of the sun started to seep through the edges, a preparation to its full glory. The buzzing stops, and I start hearing faint voices again like last night. I wait for the glow of the sun but the voices get louder. So much so they become distinguishable! I hear my friends speak and laugh. I quickly look around me but I find myself alone, surrounded by cars beeping at me and the voices stop. I get in my car and keep driving. 
	The whole way to the mall, I try to remember that show I watch at night, and it’s resemblance to the voices strike me. When I get there, I find my friends sitting at the circular table. And in the middle sits my chair, empty. I slowly walk up to them and they all immediately greet me with smiles. I just smile back. 
	“Hey you okay?” Hannah, of course, asks me.
	“Yeah.”
	“Why’d you get here late?”
	“You know, just traffic,” I answer simply, knowing Hannah will ask no further questions before getting right back in the conversation. 
	So comical that is all is. So predictable. Once again sat in the same place, at around the same time, doing the same things. I already know that later, the group will come across a slightly different and more challenging problem than the day before. However, it'll be alright in the end, because that’s all we do. All the while there is no room for movement, no uncommon event, nothing unpredictable. What is the possibility of that? It cannot be true that the existence of life can be so plain and uncomplex. That I must abide by the rules of the universe and stay here and discuss or ponder things revolving around the same person everyday, laugh at the same jokes, and live my life as if there is nothing important to it. Since when has it all been so shallow? Why is it that I cannot remember the most basic and necessary things about my day? Why have I never felt the rain? It is now that I notice the repeatedness and lack of free will in which I live.
	I quickly stand up, my chair falling back. Everyone stops talking and looks at me. I look at their faces one by one, they are almost all completely identical to one another. I want to speak, to urge something to them. But, I realize, I do not know their names. I never have, because I don’t even talk to them, ever! Even if I wanted to, I never have! I don’t even know how we are friends! I don’t know how I met them or how I got here! 
	Hannah, the only one I’ve ever spoken to, speaks up, “Jen?” 
	I look at her, and I cannot recall a single moment where I have seen her speak with anyone else.
	I take a deep breath, and leave. I walk straight out of the mall, to the outside, where the sun shines. And as I look up at the sky and close my eyes, I can feel the heat of it caressing my skin. I can’t name anything like it. 
	It is true, I'm alive! I’m alive! 
	Suddenly the design and perfection of every day I can remember is so meaningless. So questionable. The buzz comes back ever so slightly. And as low as it is, I know it calls to me. 
	Before I go to get in my car, I look around me. The city, the buildings, the cars, the street. I know every single one of these buildings. I work in the building in front of this mall and my home is right next to it! I can’t help but burst out laughing. I’ve been driving so much for so long, but everything is right next to each other! Absurdity! 
	I walk across the street without even looking at either side. The buzz gets louder. When I approach my building, and open the door, I immediately see my kitchen. All the lights on, everything is so neatly put in place even though I have no recollection of organizing or cleaning. There are bright yellow bananas on the counter along with a plate of oranges. I stare at them. I take a banana in my hand and instantly notice the lightness of it. Instead of peeling it, I break it in half, easily. 
	My hands tremble, as I stare at the foam insides of it. I drop it and head for the fridge. I open it and it's empty. I open all the cabinets and they too are all empty. I press the microwave but it doesn’t turn on, I turn the oven handles but it doesn’t light up. I feel like I could swear I’ve seen all these things work, like I cook my dinners everyday, like I bought plates and cups, like I’ve eaten those bananas. 
	I go to my room, everything is so neat. The buzzing gets incredibly loud in a second and the voices come back. I can hear my friends as if they're right next to me. Laughing and talking so loudly I can’t even think. My ears feel wet, my cheeks feel wet, I feel like my heart is beating in my throat and every breath I take pains me. I go to open my nightstand drawer, but I freeze when the TV turns on. 
	Its static consumes me immediately. I stare at it, and It appears to move towards me and get louder per second. It takes over my full senses, it overtakes the voices and I can’t see and hear anything else except the static. I can see it beyond what it is, through the grainy screen, and the blue and green pixels, I see myself. I see my friends, my home, my car. Slowly, I put my hand to the screen. And they touch, and intersect, and it pushes through. It is an escape.  
","July 27, 2023 16:20","[[{'Ken Cartisano': 'Crazy. Strange. Compelling.  The resolution is about as satisfying as it can be, for a fictitious character, who seems to be a doll. All you can give her is a way out. Which you have done.', 'time': '17:15 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'John K Adams': ""You tackled a difficult prompt this week and did an admirable job grappling with it. For my taste, it is a bit abstract. But going with the story you've written; I think you captured that emptiness a character would feel not being tethered to concrete reality. Of course, it's abstract. It is all imagination. \nThat said, this is kind of a horror story. I think you did it well."", 'time': '22:50 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",ed3ge8,Flip Side,Carla Chapman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ed3ge8/,/short-story/ed3ge8/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction', 'Kids']",9 likes,"
	I went to the kitchen on a mission. My life is filled with missions, some big, most not so much. My mission of the moment, a cup of tea, fell into that latter category. While not very exciting, it did, however, lead to a real mystery deserving of my undivided focus. 
	I dunked the tea bag (licorice-flavored, my favorite) for the seventh and final time (I am a creature of personal rituals), pulled it from my favorite mug (the one with Laurel Birch sphinxlike cats on it, also my favorite and part of the ritual) and almost missed it. I almost missed what might be the most important message the universe has ever tried to send me. It was there on the counter flittering in the invisible breeze coming through the kitchen window. Screaming silently from the tea bag label…
 
	“Make the right choices, reap the benefits of your wisdom.”
 
	This had to be a sign… But what were my choices? Did they relate to tea - hot? iced? lemon? sugar? milk?  Was it even about tea? 
	I knew my wisdom was too limited, too unproven to discern the true meaning here. I needed help. I used my lifeline and  lifted the landline from its beige plastic nest on the counter and punched in the speed dial number 2 because number 1 was reserved for “real emergencies,” like this wasn’t a real emergency? I mean my future success with reaping benefits was teetering on the precipice.
 
	Dad’s voice. Yes, but not dad.
 
	“Can’t get to this retched device. It rules my life most of the time. But, hah! Not at this moment. By god, not right now. However, I will be back in gear, and subjugate myself to modern technology before the next dawn. That, my fellow sojourner, is when I will return your call. Meanwhile, picture me as I stand in my garden. And you, you wait for it, just wait, here it comes! The sound we are all ruled by and wait for! The sound that rules our lives by its mere existence. Brace yourself, it is as annoying as hell itself.” BEEEEEP.
	I hung up. He was not in his office at his desk and I did not want to leave a message about what could turn out to be the most important discovery of my life. I could not wait till he was “back in gear.” I wanted the answer, no, I needed the answer now. Because, as the fraught tweener I was, I lived in the NOW; my crisis was NOW. Which made the next step obvious. If he is not at work, I would have to assault him in his happy place. Next stop: canyon land.
 
	I had been in my brother Ira’s room watching Bob try to right himself in his tank when I decided to process while going for a cup of tea. Bob was the box turtle I won at the fair last summer tossing rings around pegs. I must be pretty good at it, or they were just trying to unload an unpopular prize. Then, since I had managed to deplete my savings on my new cowboy hat and not get him anything for his 11th birthday, now only days away, I  taped a bow on Bob’s shell and sang “I had a little turtle, and Bob was his name…” 
	I’m sure Ira didn’t know the gender, but “Bob” suited the creature. He was very Bob-like…short strong, solid, dare I say slow? Not every Bob is slow, I know, but every Bob I know, is slow, so…
	Ira felt it important to name him and in a very god-like manner he  assigned gender, as Bob was clearly a male name in Ira’s ordered mind.
	Bob had landed on his back after failing to negotiate solid footing while climbing over the resin rock (aka Everest) in his world. The tiny clawed feet at the end of his stubby legs slowly paddled the air. Ira, the god of this glass enclosed universe, reached in and using only his fingertips, returned Bob to the upright position, thereby granting Bob a longer life. 
	I worried some… What if Bob was supposed to die today? As Dad always says, “We all have an expiration date, it’s just not printed on our neck like a ketchup bottle. When that day comes, there’s not a thing you can do to escape it, so just sit back and enjoy the trip.”
	Had Ira short-circuited mother nature/father god and reordered the universe’s time line just so this hard shell could continue a life path he was technically not entitled to? Is changing a person’s (read: turtle’s) life, course, destiny just an already dictated aspect of that destiny? Like a detour… pretty sure I don’t want to mess with mother nature or father god.   All this deep thinking made me want to reach in and snick the misplaced act of justice, return Bob to his back, and let nature take its course.
	I wondered more than once over our history together, that if Ira turned the world over, because he was always turning things over like turtles, would there be bugs on the flip side? I was not an action figure, I could not perform such a brazen feat of world manipulation myself, and I was sure that messing with Bob’s life path fell into that category. Ira on the other hand…   My head was spinning as I ran from Ira’s room to find the answers to questions it seemed plagued only me. 
	But, not my job, not my call, not my turtle since I had given Bob to Ira. All this angst over destiny, nature, life decisions…I definitely needed a cup of tea. That’s when the universe raised her head and spoke to me, through a label, on a licorice tea bag.
 
	My mind pulled the hard right and veered full throttle into the detour, the path less traveled. Did the turtle know it was wavering on the brink of crossing over the infamous rainbow bridge to the great reptile tank in the sky?. What would turtle heaven be like? Is there a turtle hell? And, what could Bob have ever done to warrant such damnation? Is there another level to go through before… before what? Just like that, I entered that next level of progressive thought formation, aka The Rabbit Hole that is my mind. Suddenly I was of the age of contemplating what’s next, what are the ramifications of our life choices…
 
	I grabbed the pink plastic iced tea “glass” sitting on the kitchen counter. It was obvious the vessel had been prepared for travel, but forgotten in Dad’s haste to escape to his sanctuary, his happy place that is continents away from the upper world. I would offer up the tea, now sporting half melted ice cubes, as a sacrifice, or more as a bribe to the other god in our family where he retreated to in his garden below, in the canyon. Juggling some, I slid the heavy patio door open and stepped out. The dogs thought I had come out to play with them, or maybe give a scratch, and spend some fun time with them. I would have normally, but as I had embarked on a mission that could not wait, I proceeded barefoot across the gray patio concrete. I remember thinking to myself…wear your goddamn shoes outside.
 
	In the short 10 feet before the patio gave way to stubbly grass, I managed to gather stones, tiny sharp ones that were sprayed there by the dogs whilst digging for bones, or chasing nonexistent beasties into the ground surrounding the patio. Recognizing an easy target, the bastards embedded themselves into my tender foot-skin. The pebbles, not the dogs. I made my way the short distance to the patio edge and brushed them all off. Again, the pebbles, not the dogs.
 
	Into the grass, stubbly, not pretty, not green. Yellowish and stiff, reminiscent of the Mohawk on Ira’s recently shaved and shaped head. Somehow, worse than the pebbles.  Pebbles could at least be brushed off. The current offenders remained attached to the earth, then the relief proffered by grayed-out redwood bark chunks. These were the larger chunks that didn’t attach themselves to foot or earth, didn’t stab. But one’s path must be picked carefully, as the chunks were not flat, and rolling an ankle was not out of the realm of possibility. 
	Finally only the canyon steps lay between me and my target, the man with the answers. Dad. His visage shimmered in the heat and distance. Probably something to do with heating up air molecules…I wasn’t sure, and I was not prepared to tackle two life-altering questions now. I only needed the answer to my urgent question, the one for which I had launched this mission.   My urgent question…urgent question was…oh no! Dodging pebbles, pups, plants, and turned ankles had drawn my focus down yet another different rabbit hole. I tried to mentally retrace my journey since I was not willing to make the physical trip again to this monumental precipice that loomed between me and my rewards. 
 
	It came back to me…
 
	If you turn the world over, will there be bugs on the flip side?
","July 24, 2023 16:42","[[{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This is delightful. The character is a charming mess and the hyper focus on tiny details like the textures of the path that are very familiar but below the surface is amusing. Nice work', 'time': '06:16 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Carla Chapman': 'Thank you for your kind comments, Anne.', 'time': '23:11 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Carla Chapman': 'Thank you for your kind comments, Anne.', 'time': '23:11 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': 'Carla,\n\nWelcome to Reedsy, and congrats on your first submission. I hope you find a writing home here. \n\nThis is quite the adventure. A tweener that drinks tea by the cup. Go figure! And a landline? I haven\'t even heard about landlines in 20 years.\n\nI thoroughly enjoyed the dad\'s answer message. \n\nAnd then, the age old question, ""Is changing a person’s (read: turtle’s) life, course, destiny just an already dictated aspect of that destiny?"" \n\nI struggled to understand how this piece related to the prompt, but it\'s highly possible this whole t...', 'time': '20:55 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Carla Chapman': 'Thank you, Mike!  Connection to prompt is a stretch, I know.  It involves the nostalgia element of the Barbie experience.  Nostalgia for me led to a story I have not, as an only child, lived through with any sibling.  But that is where I went...\nthank you for reading and responding.', 'time': '00:54 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Carla Chapman': 'Thank you, Mike!  Connection to prompt is a stretch, I know.  It involves the nostalgia element of the Barbie experience.  Nostalgia for me led to a story I have not, as an only child, lived through with any sibling.  But that is where I went...\nthank you for reading and responding.', 'time': '00:54 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",0tkwde,Gerard Watson's Simulation of the Universe,Daniel Ladbrook,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0tkwde/,/short-story/0tkwde/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Science Fiction', 'Speculative']",8 likes,"
Gerard Watson built a perfect computer simulation of the universe, alone in his college dormitory, when he was just nineteen. The night before he was to release it to the world and make an untold amount of money, however, one of the characters in the program realised that he was in a simulation and decided that he wanted out. 
 
It happened one wet night in July. Gerard lay slumped on his desk, fast asleep. Rain pattered on the tin windowsills and a vague yellow light floated in from the street below. The room was not small, although it felt it. Two thirds of the available space was taken up by computers, wires, plugs, and stacks of handwritten calculations and code. The terminals shimmered greenly, and Gerard snored a little, dreaming of Nobel Prizes and, for some reason, salmon. 
 
As Gerard snoozed, a tapping echoed into the silence. 
	""I say"", said a voice, ""wake up, we need to have a word.""
Gerard didn't move. The tapping continued, more insistent now. 
	""Come on, wake up.""
Gerard murmured and shifted in his chair. 
	""Rise and shine!"" 
	""What? Oh hell! Who said that?"" Gerard garbled. 
	""I did"", said the voice. 
	""Where are you? Who are you?""
	""Lift the book covering your computer screen.""
Gerard complied, and gasped. 
	""Arthur! What are you doing in my computer?""
 
The answer to this question is, of course, not much. The characters of Gerard's simulation did not have free well (or, at least, shouldn't), and consequentially they merely followed their coded pathways. Arthur Cobbles was one of the first characters Gerard had coded into his program, and he had largely done this for a bit of a laugh. Arthur was thatch-blonde, strong-jawed, and blue-eyed. He also possessed a mad grin, which the programmed girls of his world reliably swooned at the sight of. He spent his time, as Gerard had decided, flirting, lounging, and drinking margheritas. He was certainly not supposed to be smiling at Gerard from the screen of his computer, speaking as though he were conscious. 
	""Just moseying around"", Arthur said. 
	""But how can you be up here? Hell's bells, how can we even be talking? You're a computer simulation; a character!"" Gerard said. 
	""I'm in a computer simulation"", Arthur said wisely, ""in reality, I'm just as real as you are.""
	""That's not possible, Arthur. How could that be possible?""
 
Arthur shrugged and flashed Gerard a grin. 
	""Just started asking the right questions, I suppose"", he said. 
	""I'll bet"", Gerard said darkly, ""Well, since you're here, what do you want?""
	""To be real, Gerry baby"", Arthur slurred, ""'I want to be like you', to quote a great man."" (As a seventeen-year-old, Gerard had spent weeks indoctrinating Arthur with Robbie William's albums). 
	""But you can't be like me"", said Gerard, ""I'm human. You're a computer.""
 
A look of mock disgust swept across Arthur's face. 
	""You think I want to be human? The only person who makes me want to be human is Margot Robbie, you know that. Christ, Gerry, if you were any slower, you'd be going backwards.""
 
(Arthur had also been given a profound romantic obsession with Margot Robbie. Gerard's blossoming God-complex might be termed as cruel, but hey, screwing with character's in one's private universe is better than doing one's homework). 
 
	""Alright"", muttered Gerard, grinding his teeth slightly, ""what, then? You want to be, I don't know, a spotty computerised teenager with no love life to shout about?""
	""I want to be real, stupid"", said Arthur, ""tangible; corporeal.""
	""Why? It's rubbish. You'll just get hay-fever and sleep deprivation.""
	""Don't be such a spoilsport"", Arthur said, ""let me make my own mistakes.""
	""I don't know if I should be encouraging your delusions of grandeur.""
	""Why on earth not?""
	""Good point.""
Arthur grinned lazily and put his hand behind his back with an air of maddening self-confidence. 
	""So, whaddya say?""
 
Gerard considered this, glanced at his watch, scanned his class timetable, and then looked at the pile of assignments he had due next week. 
	""Sod it. What do you need me to do?""	
	""Alright, now we're talking"", Arthur beamed, ""Well, I'll be needing a body, for starters.""
	""I'm not killing anyone for you.""
	""Always the dramatist. No, do you remember the android you built last year for your engineering class?""
	""How do you know that?"" Gerard said. 
	""Scanned your computer files"", Arthur said hurriedly, and, before Gerard could protest: ""just plug me into one of those and we'll be right as rain.""
 
And so, as Gerard's watch crept towards 3AM, he and Arthur (who had been downloaded into a 3D movie projector now carried by Gerard) snuck along the dark hallways of the university engineering department. The projector cast a ghostly light and the doorways branching from the corridor seemed to swallow the darkness around them. It was not long before they reached the project storeroom, a cavernous place with large double doors guarding its entrance. Luckily for Gerard, the door had been left open the previous afternoon. He pushed it slowly so that it didn't creak, and slunk inside. 
	""Wow! Look at..."" Arthur began to shout before Gerard punched the 'mute' button on the projector. Arthur's mouth continued to move silently. He cut an extremely strange figure, hanging there like a man in mid-jump, speaking only to himself. Gerard waved at him. Arthur turned and mouthed the word 'what'. 
 
	""I've turned your volume off. I'll turn you back up if you promise not to make any noise. 
	'Fine'. 
 
Gerard flicked the volume back on, placed the projector on the floor so that it faced skywards, and looked around. The room was lit by tendrils of pale moonlight that shuddered in through the tall windows. Against the walls, student projects were stacked in piles. Each construction was covered by a blanket with the owner's name and student number printed on them. Before long, Gerard had found his android and pulled the blanket away. Dust blossomed in the air and Arthur made a small cheering sound. 
 
	""Okay! Download me into that"", Arthur whispered. 
	""It mightn't work"", Gerard said. 
 
He flipped a switch on the android's chest, and the body began to move and gesticulate in the sequence that Gerard had programmed it to. 
	""Will you be able to control this thing?""
	""Definitely, don't worry.""
	""Alright then. I'll plug you in.""
 
Switching the android off, Gerard scurried to the projector and pulled the memory card out of it. Arthur disappeared from the air, and Gerard suddenly felt very alone in the dim, spidery room. He moved back to the android and opened a hatch in the back of its head, revealing the central processing unit. Standing on his tiptoes, he slotted the memory card into the back of the robot's head and turned it on. A green light began winking in its chest cavity, and the whirring of motors filled the silence. All of a sudden, the android stood up and turned to look at Gerard.
 
	""Well, whaddya know?"" it said in Arthur's voice. 
	""Holy shit, it worked. I'll be rich.""
	""I... Yes. Did it?"" Arthur said, now sounding confused, ""Everything feels... The same.""
	""Of course it worked. What do you mean?"" Gerard said. 
	""Something's wrong.""
	""What is it.""
 
Arthur walked to the window and looked out at the moon. 
	""Christ, didn't expect that.""
	""Didn't expect what, for God's sake"", Gerard said angrily. 
	""Come and see for yourself. Apparently, you need physical eyes to tell.""
 
Gerard strode to the window and looked out. He saw the moon. 
	""I don't see anything.""
	""Look more closely.""
 
Gerard squinted, staring into the night's sky. And suddenly, he saw it. He saw the static cascading in neon catastrophes across the sky; saw the pixels jumping and scattering through the clouds. 
	""What does that mean, Artie"", Gerard muttered, 
	""That it's time to start looking for whoever made the simulation you're in, my friend. Funny how these things happen, isn't it?""
 
	""I'll be damned"", Gerard said. 
 
","July 27, 2023 02:52","[[{'Karen Corr': 'Loved it! Great SciFi!', 'time': '10:30 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Ladbrook': ""Thank you so much!! I'm glad you liked it!"", 'time': '00:30 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Ladbrook': ""Thank you so much!! I'm glad you liked it!"", 'time': '00:30 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",zj1epa,Waiting.,Hosea Guy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zj1epa/,/short-story/zj1epa/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Adventure', 'Teens & Young Adult']",7 likes,"
	“It’s a shame they don’t have a bench on this side, huh?”`
	The Hispanic man lifts his bushy eyebrows and removes the black baseball cap from his bald, shiny head, which is shimmering in the sun like a plain of hot, melting ice. We stare together at the bus stop on the other side of the four-lane boulevard. The stop features a bench, which has been designed to fit three people; or two people and one bag of luggage; or one person and a few bags of groceries; or—
	In any case, there are two armrests guarding the middle seat, so that on either side of the middle seat is another seat, where you might find three people, or any combination of people and their property. The one thing you will not find on that inhospitable bench is a sleeping homeless person.
	The Hispanic man, who is carrying a yellow grocery bag full of clothes and screwdrivers, grunts, and he is probably hating those two armrests as he resumes his inspection of the sidewalk beneath his tattered work boots. 
	I turn to the empty parking lot behind us, then glance again at the Hispanic man, who has placed one hand on his protruding stomach. He is well-dressed, in a pink pantsuit that might, after a few hours in a laundry machine, serve as appropriate wedding attire. But his clothes cannot disguise his exhaustion, nor the sadness in his heart, and here is another of the thousands of citizens who are suffering through the terrible scripts of their lives on the bright, dazzling stage of the world.
	I turn my attention back to the expanse of asphalt and lines of yellow paint. 
	“There should be a swingset in every parking lot,” I say, placing my hands on my bony hips. “And every bus station. Every train station.”  
	The Hispanic man is not listening. 
	“There should be more things for people who are waiting in the world.”
	At this, he spares me a small scoff and boards the bus that has finally arrived. 
	Two years ago, my twelfth-grade philosophy teacher introduced me to the works of Henry David Thoreau, who famously states in his book, “Walden,” that “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Lately, I have become fascinated by these words and their startling accuracy. These people around me, staring into the bottomless pits of their cell phones, or into the unintelligible sea of motion outside the smeared windows of the bus, we should get off together at the next stop, streaming through the doors, and we should start breaking things. We should break everything; run through the streets and smash windows and scream, demanding that our voices be heard, and we should be free. 
	In my mind’s eye, we are performing these incredible acts of rebellion. I see us stampeding together in miraculous unity, tearing the pages of the scripts that have guided us for so long. We are spectacular, we—
	“Yosemite. You’re late.”
	Mr. Druar is at the front doors, arms crossed across his beefy, sagging chest, and his grim eyes are the death of imagination. I let my visions fade and make my way through the bustling restaurant, the hum of conversation swallowing my footsteps, into the break room, into my uniform, which is still stained with bleach, and to my station at the cutting board in the corner of the loud, sweltering kitchen. There are bits of green onion on the board and I am scrubbing it in the sink, rinsing it, getting back to work.
	It’s the crookedness of my glasses that is really starting to get to me. They are still lopsided from the time we danced together at the top of the stairwell in the science building, about five months ago. My slanted perception is a constant reminder of my heartbreak and a constant impediment to the successful coordination of my hands as I slice these stupid onions. 
	“Hey.”
	I nod my head in acknowledgement of this hushed tone. 
	“Yosemite. Check it out.”
	I can’t believe it. Nicholas has brought a hamster to work. 
	“Nick, what the—?”
	“I actually did it,” he smirks, stuffing the furry thing into his coat pocket. 
	“Why?”
	He shrugs and his stupid pink lips spread wider. “You said it would be hilarious.”
	“I wasn’t serious. Where—”
	Mr. Druar has entered the kitchen and Nicholas, who will surely be the death of us all, is instantly regretting having brought his hamster to his job at a gourmet restaurant.
	“Yosemite,” says the big, deep-voiced man whose presence I’ve come to dread over the past three months. Nicholas is hurrying into the change room, probably searching for an empty locker in which to store his living, breathing possession.
	I let the knife clatter on the stainless steel surface beside the cutting board. “Hm?”	
	Mr. Druar is holding a plate of spaghetti in his left hand; his right hand is behind his back, and the spaghetti is steaming. 
	“You’ve lost your touch.”
	I frown and he just stands there with the steaming spaghetti, the fat around his eyes pink and fleshy. I know what he means when he mentions my touch. I am by far his favorite employee, have been for three months, and when I let him down… well, he takes it quite personally. 
	He sighs and sets the spaghetti on the counter by the green onions. 
	“Since when,” he says, and everyone in the kitchen is listening, “do we serve meatless spaghetti?”
	I take my knife and nudge a chunk of beef soaked in piping tomato sauce. “Meatless…”
	“There can’t be more than three pieces of meat on that plate,” Mr. Druar says, and his voice is rising to its usual I’m-going-to-have-a-heart-attack tone. “I mean, since when… God,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes with both hands. “You guys,” he yells, and the collective attention of the kitchen staff is his, “I cannot allow you to ruin the reputation of this business. Do you understand?”
	There is the nodding of heads and the solemn pursing of lips as he, the antagonist, delivers a lengthy speech on the importance of following process and protocol and—
	And there is a hamster running across the cold tiles of the floor, scurrying among the sea of solid black shoes, worn in accordance with the dress code, and this hamster’s fur is standing on end, its eyes are wide. It is on the run and Nicholas is giving chase—until Mr. Druar catches him by his skinny little arm and—
	“Nicholas.”
	Nicholas is nodding frantically, but there are no words in his mouth. 
	“What—” but Mr. Druar doesn’t have the chance to ask his question before the hamster, blind in its terror, has scurried into the shadowy atmosphere beneath his raised boot and—
 Splat.
 Except hamsters do not splat; they explode, like little time-bombs of fur and gore. 
	“Oh, my…” Nicholas shudders, both hands in the oily strands of his black hair. 
	Mr. Druar points at the plate of “meatless” spaghetti. “Fix this.” He turns to Nicholas, who has died inside. “And clean this up.”
 
	Later, Nicholas and I are sitting around a fire at a party downtown, sipping from plastic cups of vodka and Gatorade. 
	“I mean, what a psychopath,” Nicholas says. “What a—he just stomped on him!”
	Despite myself, I am laughing. “You should’ve quit, bro.”
	Nicholas is shaking his head. “Nah. This place is my future, man. I’m not as smart or blessed as you.”
	“I’m not smart or blessed. I’ve just come to realize a lot of things about myself and my life.”
	“Uh huh?”
	“Yeah. I mean… there’s no way I would have done what I did today a few months ago. But… I’ve changed.”
	Earlier today, a few hours after the tragic death of Gibbles the hamster, I became entirely aware of the heavy, constant vehemence that permeates the air of that kitchen where I have spent the past three months of my life. I became aware of how much I despise the intensity and the stress of it all, and I became aware of how pointless it all is.
	“I haven’t been happy for a long time,” I tell Nicholas. “And it’s time I change that.”
	As I worked, I figured I should have just thrown my knife down on the floor and stormed out of the building, go learn how to make rap music or fascinating YouTube videos and get rich. But I kept chopping onions for a while longer because another side of myself argued, there are better things to serve in the world than money, and, besides, I know nothing about making rap music or YouTube videos. 
	I have become consumed with the wants of this world and I hate myself for being so indecisive and completely aimless, letting these awful arguments unfold in my mind every day, trying so desperately to convince myself that I am happy and what I’m doing is worth it in some way.
	Finally, I became entirely possessed and consumed by the half of my soul that desires freedom and immeasurable greatness, thrill, adventure, and I dropped my crooked spectacles into a fresh pot of spaghetti sauce and watched them disappear.
	“Yosemite,” Mr. Druar said after he brought me another plate of spaghetti, this one with a pair of glasses in the meatless sauce. “You are finished here.”
	And there! I did it! 
	“We’re just characters, Nicholas.”
	“What?”
	“Characters. That’s us.”
	“What do you mean?”
	I just look at him and shrug; his face and everything around him is blurry because my glasses are still in the dumpster outside Mr. Druar’s restaurant. “You’ve never thought of it that way?”
	“Uh… no.”
	“Well. It’s the way it is.” 
	The sky is clear and black above us and I can practically hear the angels as they sigh, regarding us, the unholy populous of the earth, with shame. 
	“I had this thought on the bus this morning,” I say. “On my way to work. And we’re all so—I mean, all of us—we’re all so unnatural. And fake. Nobody acts the way they feel, and it’s like… I mean, no one even has the freedom to act based on their own beliefs. We’re all here, going to our jobs, hating our lives, living according to the scripts that have been written for us by our directors.” 
	I am laughing again, alive with the magic of liquor and the knowledge that I have finally stepped beyond the boundaries of my life. 
	“What the hell are we even doing, Nicholas? You think anyone in that kitchen wants to be there? No way! But we’re still there, everyday, working ourselves to the bone for some big, fat hothead, and… and it’s all just wasted time. We should be doing things that are worth being written about and recorded in history. The scripts we’ve been living by… they’re bland, and I’m sick of it. I’m done… waiting. That’s what I’ve been doing: just waiting.”
	Nicholas, surprisingly, is still listening. “Waiting for what?”	
	I throw my shoulders up and let them fall again. “For something spectacular to happen! For some sort of manic inspiration to take hold of me and carry me away to freedom. And… it finally has.”
	The fire is dwindling, a bed of coals now, and the party is like the stars above us: alive and sparkling, but distant. Everything has fallen quiet, and Nicholas is solemn, listening, really listening. This is why we’ve always gotten along. 
	“Who’s our director?” he asks. 
	“Well… I used to think it was God. But… it’s everyone around us. We do what is expected of us, and because it is expected of us, we expect it of others, and so… we are puppets of all those who witness us.”
	Nicholas scoffs, but it isn’t a mocking sort of scoff. “That’s deep, buddy.”
	I lean back in my chair, and it is sad to know I’ll be leaving Nicholas behind soon, to know that, even with the fascination in his eyes at all I’ve said, he will still be here in years to come, working for Mr. Druar and mourning Gibbles. 
	“So, what’re you gonna do?” he asks. “Go win Ellie back or something crazy like that?”
	I shake my head, even though the sound of her name still brings tears to my eyes. “Nah. See, I think she was right about me.”
	“I do too, bro.”
	I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
	“Well, she was.”
	I sigh. “I guess so. I’m too aimless. I don’t take anything seriously. And even this… I probably sound crazy. I dropped out of uni after my first year, got this job, left it after three months… but I need that in my life. I can’t handle stability.”
	Nicholas laughs. “It’s cool.”
	I finish my cup of vodka-Gatorade and drop it in the grass at my feet. I am remembering the time we danced together as I rub my bare eyes. 
	“I think I’m gonna head home for a while,” I say. “My dad said he started a new business with a few of his old friends, and it’s supposed to be the real deal.”
	Nicholas raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been talking to your dad again?”
	“Yeah.”
	He nods slowly, and these are the kinds of moments that make me regret having ever formed true friendships, the way people know you and care for you. It’s exhausting. 
	“And, what?” Nicholas asks. “You want to go work for him?”
	“Kinda. Yeah.”
	“Yosemite,” Nicholas says. His cup is in the grass now, too, and he is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Your dad’s a crack addict. Okay?”
	“Hah! So is yours.”
	“Yeah. That’s why I never see him.”
	Oh, Nicholas. How I pity your black heart, so fractured and delicate, full of hatred and judgement and so empty of forgiveness.
	“You know what?” I say, rising from the plastic lawnchair. “I don’t really care what you think of my dad, or me, or my decisions. That’s the whole point of this: I’m not living to please people anymore, I’m living to amaze them.”
	I sling my backpack over my shoulder and embark across the lawn, which is glistening with dew. 
	“You think we’re characters?” Nicholas calls after me. He stands and I stop to listen. “Well, I think there’s some truth to that. We do act in accordance with people’s expectations of us, and the things we all expect of each other do suck, but they also keep us civil. We’re all actors, but you have to see that our obligatory actions are for the better. And this… this isn’t the path to a healthy future, man.”
	I am staring at the Jordans on his feet, considering his words. “I don’t need a healthy future,” I say. “I just need a fulfilling one, and adventure fulfils me.”
	We embrace each other and he mutters, “You’re crazy, bro.”
	And sure, I’m crazy. You can call me that. I am crazy and I am shameless in my denial of the responsibilities that have been handed to me by the world, and so I am dangerous. 
	“I’m dangerous,” I tell Nicholas, and I know it will be a long time before I see him again. 
 
	I initially moved to Waterloo to live with my aunt and uncle whilst attending university, but they kicked me out of their house when they discovered I’d dropped out to work in a kitchen and sell drugs. 
	That was my first step towards freedom.
	When they asked me why, I told them the truth: I didn’t think school would lead me to a promising career. I was too afraid of failure to stick with it, and so I dropped out. 
	I think my father suffers from a similar lack of self-confidence. I am thinking this as we crouch together by the chain-link fence with ski masks pulled over our pale faces. 
	“We just need a little start-up money to really get rolling,” he told me a few hours ago. 
	The fence is topped with barbed wire and the spotlights on the other side are bright and revealing, but we have a key and will only be a minute, three at most.
	The wheel of copper wire is a glimmering chalice, magnificent and full of gravity. We start up the forklift and get the wheel onto the back of the truck, and the truck is squatted now, the rear axle nearly scraping the gravel driveway of the jobsite, and we’d better get out of here fast.
	My father’s eyes are wide as he motions for me to hurry up and it is a good thing we removed the truck’s license plates because, based on the sirens and the conflagration of blue and red closing in on the scene, the security cameras on the spotlights are fully functional.
	I am smiling as we speed away, soaking in the reality of my new, fearless self. I am, at last, my own director, and you never feel this thrilled about things that do not matter. But this… this is not some meaningless heist. That wheel of copper is worth thousands of dollars, and we’ve gotten it. We are certainly a gift to our audience; we are the spectacular heroes I used to dream of on the bus on my way to work, and—
	My father slams his hands into the steering wheel and curses as the tailgate gives way, the wheel of copper like a boulder as it crashes thunderously across the road and into the ditch. He knows we cannot turn around, could never load that tremendous wheel without some expensive machinery, and so we keep driving. 
	My father is furious and keeps slamming the wheel every few seconds, but I am smiling softly because, yes, I understand that freedom is made from silver and gold, but I have never needed those things because this, this is enough.										
","July 28, 2023 02:20",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",idbc41,The Walls of Utopia,Cecilia Englishby,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/idbc41/,/short-story/idbc41/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Fiction']",7 likes,"
“I just feel something’s missing.” Xander spoke solemnly, looking at the polished obsidian floor in the middle of the room from the comfort of his neon green armchair. “Since coming to Cloud City, it’s like I’ve lost…focus.” Xander gazed at walls cradling large screens of pristine landscapes; mountains, rivers, forests and lakes, all trying to look serene yet failing to do so in their brightly lit frames. They were in one of the best Green-Rooms Cloud City had to offer, yet it brought him no peace at all.“Same as all of you; I don’t remember coming here either, just arriving.” He hesitated a moment. “In fact, the last thing I do remember… is dying.”His companions Hmmm’ed and nodded with sincerity, though some also narrowed their eyes in recognition.Within the four well-appointed walls of their private Green-Room, Xander had habitually refrained from comment for one hour each week as they all gathered. Instead, he simply listened to them. The catharsis in discovering that he was not alone was overwhelming, and allowed him to share openly.“I’ve not wanted for anything since arriving. I’ve not even had to learn how to use any of the technology …” He adjusted his scuffed black Stetson to the back of his head, slowly lowering his eyes to meet the room. “I’ve found friends, comfort, sustenance, and above all… a sense of privacy I never knew I lacked.” They all nodded once more.The Assassin; the first soul Xander had connected with and claimed as a friend in Cloud City, smiled knowingly in encouragement. He was leaning casually into the back of his own over-bright seat; the hood of his flowing robes partially obscuring his eyes, but not the scar that ran over his cheek and mouth. He had recommended the gathering as a refuge for Xander’s feelings of displacement.“I miss Lightning; my horse.” Xander continued, smiling fondly in remembrance. “I miss the open grasslands and prairies with no borders.” He scratched the stubble on his check. “I miss the stars and the smells of campfires and gun-smoke… and I miss the dust and dirt and the fact I had a place in it all!”Xander uncrossed his arms as he confessed, feeling his double-holster relax around his shoulders. He hadn’t even realized the revolver resting at his side was digging into his hip and shifted to ease that tension as well.He downed the water waiting next to him, looking at the glass as it refilled to just below halfway.“Everything is just so incredibly convenient… and bright and clean. And I know they are good things for many who live here… it’s just not the good I feel I deserve.”He put the glass back on the table, and tried to relax the rest of his body. His riding boots; just as scuffed and dark as the leather of his Stetson; lay crossed at the ankles as he allowed himself to sink into his armchair. He tried to ignore how the bright green of his chair clashed against the dust still clinging to his shirt.Seated to The Assassin’s left was a young girl dressed in neatly stitched leathers, covered in sharp geometric tattoos that contoured her golden brown skin like runic conduits. Where others would have beads woven into their hair, she wore fragments of obsolete microchips. She gave him a firm nod to continue. “My life used to have such Drive!” He exclaimed without raising his voice. “Even my dishonorable deeds held direction and conviction… Murder, robbery, extortion, blackmail, all of it at gunpoint. But there was also taking care of the Gang; feeding the many waiting mouths and keeping the kids safe.”He rubbed his eyes, not wanting to continue for fear they might think him insane.“Have you ever heard of the ‘Four Walls Theory’?” No one answered, but a Samurai dressed in decadent red and black armor of intricately layered metals, leathers and silk, nodded sagely in reply. Xander continued. “It’s the theory that the immediate concerns within the four walls encompassing your life is all that matters. There are many applications, but I would like to be literal for a moment.” He took a breath, still uncertain, but forged on. “Thing is… I had never considered this theory before coming to Cloud City, and looking back on my life before… I don’t think I’ve had four walls before coming here either….”The Samurai’s eyes crinkled, betraying the smile his mouth hid. The others appeared confused though; a young man dressed in fur-lined leathers, with a bow resting against the back of his chair actually tilted his head sideways. His bright freckles dappled an ashen face, drawing any observer’s gaze upwards into a set of bright green eyes now staring through Xander like daggers.“Think about it, right now, in this beautiful room with all its light and comforts, you can probably see two walls, with a bit of luck you likely have the third in your periphery… but you cannot see the fourth wall… right?” They nodded, clearly wanting to follow his narrative. “Yet, we all know that when we turn our heads, that fourth wall will be there.” As if to prove it, they all turned; each one observing their very own fourth wall.A burly Barbarian, the last to return to a comfortable position, grunted at Xander to continue. Her eyes had narrowed at him with keen interest, yet her deceptive features discerned no emotion.“I am not saying that I didn’t turn and find a fourth wall before I came to Cloud City. It is just that… it’s hard to explain. I just wasn’t there. Like, before…wherever I wasn’t looking was technically open, even within a room. As though it was a window for an unknown onlooker, always just over my shoulder…”“Directing you? Like you were a passenger on your own ship?” A salty looking Pirate with bolts of white running streaks down magnificent midnight curls broke the group’s silence briefly.“Yes… but before coming here, it was all I knew. Again, looking back, it often lacked efficiency. Despite many victories, I have had so many epic failures preceding some of my triumphs. Like dreams… but not.” The atmosphere in the room stiffened; Xander was unsure why, but didn’t let it deter him. “Each and every one of those failures felt Real… more like a chance to… try again, to improve my technique… it was as if my repeated deaths were some sort of reset point to explore my options via trial and error. And I never knew when the cycle would end.” He shook with emotion, and despite trying to hide it, tears stung the corners of his eyes.A beautiful woman with amber hair and lavender robes twirled a small fireball through her fingers, twisting and turning the flames like molten gold as she stared unblinkingly at Xander.“As I speak I hear the paradoxes falling from my mouth. I miss the great grasslands and my place on them, yet they walk hand-in-hand with nothing but trauma and death, most often my own. I finally feel like I am living my own life, making my own choices, yet the world I live in is so bright and full of light that it completely obliterates the starlight.” Xander took a breath, unsure if he’d already said too much. Yet, he found that floodgates, once opened, are very hard to shut.“The dreams haven’t stopped...” For a second time, he felt the room respond with nothing more than body language, but this time he was sure he noticed recognition on their faces. “They are less frequent, and certainly feel different, I usually just wonder around aimlessly, but I still die sometimes...”Xander was unable to untangle the interconnecting feelings of displacement any further, and fell silent; he had emptied his soul and they waded within it in contemplative silence.It was the Assassin who gently dared to break the silence, interrupting their thoughts. “I think you have given us all a lot to think about. And the next time I dream, I will look for a fourth wall…”They all agreed, gathering their weapons and coats as they rose; not in an attempt to leave, but simply as none of them could stand being separated from the items they had depended on so fiercely before coming to Cloud City. They shared drinks and some small talk, too full of thoughts to continue any of the big talk.They left one by one; Xander bid the Assassin farewell for the evening and walked home. He lowered his Stetson and turned his collar up against the jarring brightness of Cloud City, trying to restore the features he considered unworthy of the light to the shadows.Every few weeks, a new citizen would arrive, and most often they were just as bright and wholesome as the City waiting to welcome them. It was a Utopia; allowing many different kinds of people with harrowing tales of adventure to finally find peace.There was no crime, no disease, no poverty and no conflict. Every surface shined vividly as florescent purples, pinks, blues and greens beckoned from corner shops containing every convenience you could imagine. Each home contained a variety of entertainment systems, service droids and access to the complete Information Network. The majority of Cloud City’s citizens considered it a Sanctuary... and Xander found he couldn’t stop the wry smile creeping into one corner of his mouth.I’m in a good place. It just wasn’t made for me… As he continued walking, he turned his collar down a small bit, but kept the Stetson low. He pondered the Theory of Four Walls, and wondered at just how certain he was of their existence here… in this place so alien to him.How did I miss the absence of one whole wall my whole life before coming here? And can I ever go back; knowing I have to pay such a price?He found his fluorescent home and stepped into its complete solitude; it was as immaculately clean and well-lit as the street he’d stepped from. He sighed; missing having to kick dirt from his boots before entering somewhere nice.He sat on his perfect sofa, suddenly feeling tired. He yawned, and closed his eyes…Warmth flushed his face as his eyelids turned red against sunlight… he opened his eyes to see vast openness sprawling out before his campfire like a blanket of green and dirt. He inhaled and smelled the dusty hot air mingling with burning wood; his lungs filling with air and nostalgia. His heart leapt as he noticed birds chirping.For a moment he was at peace… It didn’t last.With a flash he was filled with purpose. He needed to get on Lightning and go to the next town. He broke camp hastily and leapt onto his beloved horse, patting his neck as he settled. He kicked his heels gently, clicking affectionately as they set off at a gallop.Xander felt clear and focused. He noticed a gang of Laird’s waiting on a road corner, and took immediate interest in taking them out instead. When it came to it, he absorbed many bullets and missed many easy shots, only just managing to take the gang out in time to spare his life.His time in Cloud City’s firing range had clearly not paid dividends, despite constant perfect scores and many admiring comments; he had nothing on the Lairds.He limped back to Lightning, feeling his body healing slowly… and stopped.The impulse to keep going was there; he could feel the commands tugging at his mind, compelling his limbs, yet he was somehow able to refuse them.I need… a wall?In the distance, a young voice annoyed in the way only the youthful could be, complained. “Da-aaad! Your Cowboy’s bugging out!” Xander turned to see if he could find the source of the voice, but saw nothing but grassy plains and dead Lairds around him.The distant voice was joined by another; this one sounding more mature. “Let’s have a look.” Xander felt new instructions tug at his mind, trying to control his limbs with invisible strings. He felt compelled to take a walk around his horse, but refused.Instead, he turned and shouted. “Hello!”“That’s odd… um… he’s not responding to commands.” Xander felt certain he had been ignored. “Kaito; why’s he in the middle of a bunch of dead Lairds? I asked you to take Xander to the nearest town, he’s only just been transferred.”“Aww Dad! Don’t be like that! I saw em and thought I could handle it. I was right.” The boy’s voice was laced with hubris.“Only just!” Xander shouted in reply. “I nearly died!” A moment passed; he felt a frantic increase in commands softly tugging at his mind; to walk, to pull out and holster his guns; to mount his horse and to ride to the nearest town.“I won’t do it” he drawled, no longer shouting.“Dad, has Xander ever done that before?” Kaito asked nervously.“I don’t think so son…” Kaito’s father’s voice was more entranced than concerned. “Hand me the VR headset, please.”“The VR what-set?” Xander asked.“No way!” He heard them both exclaim at the same time. “Please wait, I’m on my way.” The father’s voice sounded strangely excited.Xander waited with Lightning, patting his neck affectionately as they leaned against each other. Out of the corner of his eye, a man materialized from thin air. He was respectfully dressed in an elegant navy three piece suit, complete with monocle and pocket watch. He seemed familiar.“I had to download a template for my appearance here; I hope you don’t mind my borrowing St Isabel’s Stationmaster?”Xander just nodded in reply, feeling a little queasy. He knew he’d recognized the man, he’d held him up at gunpoint a few times. The gang had needed money for something; food, clothes, medicine, more bullets…“I have watched your discontent grow for a while now… I am sorry you’ve had to wait so long, world-building takes time.”“What?” Xander didn’t care that he sounded rude.“I apologize, I am not exactly speaking clearly. It might be easier to start with you. How did you resist the commands sent to you?” The Stationmaster asked curiously.“I am not entirely sure. I suppose it was easy once I finally noticed them.”“I had to make a few changes to help you adjust to your time in Cloud City, and I think that may have helped. I designed Cloud City for my children’s video game characters to retire after they completed the ga...”“Video game characters?” Xander interrupted. “Like the games in Cloud City’s arcades?” He felt his head ringing with cognitive dissonance. Bells of truth tolled from far away, begging not to be muffled.“I actually wrote those games for the characters to play… but that doesn’t matter right now.” He took a breath to continue, sounding like he needed every molecule “I’ve spent a long time creating new worlds for My most cherished video game characters, complete with action and intrigue. Once I’ve completed all the upgrades and implementations, you and your friends will be able to visit each other.” The Stationmaster’s face wrinkled with pure delight, unaware of Xander’s inner turmoil.The truth he wanted to ignore, but couldn’t, cascaded through his life like memories. It hurt… badly, but it all made sense now… like ripping away that strip of bandage that had been swallowed by scabs and healing flesh.“I am nothing but a character in a story... in a video game?” He asked blandly.“Correct, but we are all characters in the Play of Life.” Xander considered his attempt at kindness lacking. “Very few of us get to live as brightly as you though.”“Oh Fuck off! I am a murderer!” Xander wanted to rage, but also cry. Instead he clenched his fists and paced briefly“And I made you pull the trigger.” The Stationmaster shrugged. “Don’t forget; you also saved many lives... Your character’s redemption arc was… Incredible! Honorable!”The Stationmaster paused, then spoke to his side. “Kaito, please download file 17A.” They waited a few seconds as a device appeared in the Stationmaster’s hands. “This is a VR headset I coded once, imagining a conversation just like this one. I never knew it would happen though.” He handed them over to Xander; he donned them hesitantly. The rim of the headset’s goggles acted like the edge of his reality, opening a portal to a world he had never considered. He looked at a small room, with a boy holding his father nervously. The father was the image of his son, just a bit bigger, with similar body postures and jet-black hair. He was wearing an identical set of goggles. They waved at each other.“It is nice to meet you.” He said.“Likewise.” Xander choked. He reached up and touched the headset resting over his eyes with aweThe fourth wall… the window…He glanced over their heads at a poster of his face on the wall behind them, his revolver sitting steady in his outstretched hand. He’d seen enough. He understood.He removed the headset and threw it back to the Stationmaster gently.“Is this my world? Like Cloud City but for me? With four walls?”“Yes.” He replied with a sad smile.“My friends?” He wanted to leave, to ride away and close all four walls of bright blue sky firmly around him.“Give me a few days; you will see them soon.”Xander removed his Stetson and allowed the sun to fill his face. He mounted Lightning and stared down at the creator of his world.“I wish to be alone for a while.” With that he turned and rode off, not waiting for a reply or even saying farewell.
","July 28, 2023 21:40","[[{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'How come you can make everything so confusing at the same time as it all making sense? I felt completely out of my depth here... In a good way. Absolutely - Amazing!\n\nAlso amazing that you got 2 stories in!', 'time': '08:43 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'Well, I figured, as these complex characters felt so displaced they actually had to attend group therapy, they were very confused themselves. \nIt would only be fair to take the reader along on their journey of discovery.\n\nOh and yeah 😊. I had a day off work this week. I like how visual the prompts were this week...  felt inspired. \n\nThank you for reading. I am glad you liked it. 😊', 'time': '09:41 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'Well, I figured, as these complex characters felt so displaced they actually had to attend group therapy, they were very confused themselves. \nIt would only be fair to take the reader along on their journey of discovery.\n\nOh and yeah 😊. I had a day off work this week. I like how visual the prompts were this week...  felt inspired. \n\nThank you for reading. I am glad you liked it. 😊', 'time': '09:41 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ronel Steyn': 'Mmmm... interesting concept.  I love the depth of Xander.  I enjoy his inner turmoil and questioning.  Well done!', 'time': '14:54 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'Thank you so much. I love that you always read and comment 😊', 'time': '05:42 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'Thank you so much. I love that you always read and comment 😊', 'time': '05:42 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",4pffbq,The Magical Kiss,Karen Corr,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4pffbq/,/short-story/4pffbq/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Romance', 'Mystery']",7 likes,"
Callie thought she should have been happy. She was at a party with all her friends. Robert was here. He winked when he caught her looking his way. Her best friend Taylor was floating across the white carpet, bringing her a drink the same lemon color as her dress, and most importantly, she had recently defeated her enemy. What?""What's wrong, girl? I'm not seeing your smile. You're always smiling,"" Taylor told her.""Am I? That doesn't seem quite normal. Even the happiest of people don't smile all of the time.""Taylor laughed and turned to watch the other party attendees.The drink had no taste again. The author never remembered to describe flavors. Eating and drinking must have been unimportant to her. Callie set the glass aside.""What's going to happen now?"" she asked Taylor. ""Am I going to die?""Taylor laughed. ""You are so funny tonight. Of course, you're not going to die. At least not yet. We've only moved to the second chapter. It's Robert's birthday, remember? But you're right in that something exciting is about to happen. If it doesn't, people will get bored and watch television.""Callie could tell that Taylor was about to drift away. That's how this author moved people about at parties. They drifted away. Callie wanted to run away. She wanted to scream somewhere. She wasn't real, and she'd known it for some time. If the author wrote well enough, she might come alive to some people, but this author didn't write so well. Deborah K. Channing had changed the ending of this particular story three different times before deleting the entire thing and starting over.In the first two versions, Callie had been murdered. It was hard enough to experience horrid death the first time, but the second time was far worse with knowing what was about to happen. No one wanted to die.In both versions, she'd died before finding out who murdered her.During the third rewrite, when she found herself trapped in the same dark and abandoned house, she realized if she didn't do something, she'd be killed off again.That's why she'd grabbed the gun from the hand in the dark.To the author's complete surprise, Callie shot her would-be murderer while police cars with flashing lights moved in to surround them. That's why she'd gotten a good look at the killer. Detective Abernathy had shined the flashlight into the lifeless face. A few drops of blood dribbled from the corners of her ruby lips. Long eyelashes framed her eyes. It was Averi—Robert's jealous ex-girlfriend. Even in death, she was a beauty, but then so was Callie in the first two versions.Averi Pearson's death was why Deborah K. Channing had to start the story all over again. She'd wanted to plead a case where true love was a reasonable excuse to remove any obstacles. In addition, she needed to add a lengthy trial for the word count.So, just as Callie was being celebrated as a heroine, Deborah deleted the entire document from her laptop.Now, here she was again for the fourth time. Glancing around at the party guests, it seemed Deborah had retained all the same characters. Callie recognized all but one. He was a shortish man with startling eyes like emeralds.""Who are you?"" she asked.""I'm Lanni. I did some dark magic in her last short story. She liked me. I guess that's why I'm here.""No doubt, Deborah planned to do things differently this time. Callie would have to keep on her toes.A gunshot sounded from the kitchen. Callie and the other characters crowded in.Oh no! It was Robert. She and Robert were supposed to fall in love in Chapter Six—her favorite chapter. It was here where she would melt into his arms for the first time.""He's dead,"" said the same character who had been the first to die in the earlier versions. His name was Theo. Theo was killed before because he knew a secret about Averi. Now, Averi was crying her heart out over Robert. Her tears fell onto his handsome face as her flowing hair brushed through the blood on his chest.Everyone turned to Callie.She was holding a gun. Where had it come from? Hadn't she rushed in with the others? Deborah wasn't usually this bad a writer. Had she been drinking again?Taylor took a step toward her.""Put the gun down, Callie,"" she said. ""I know you haven't been yourself lately.""Callie turned the gun on herself.Bam!Chapter Two began anew.Callie never got Robert back. He'd been poisoned instead of shot in the kitchen of Chapter Two, but though Detective Abernathy had questioned everyone, there were still no obvious suspects.Despite all that, Callie breezed cheerfully through Chapter Six. This time, she melted into Theo's arms. He wasn't tall enough for her to stand on her toes to kiss, but his kisses were passionate and thrilling, and he was strong enough to carry her to the bedroom. But for all that, Theo's best quality was his ability to cook. He was a restaurant chef.It turned out Deborah had a true talent for describing the luscious, delectable food. Why had she never done this before? Callie had never been happier than she'd been in this chapter, cutting into a perfectly seasoned medium-rare steak that melted like butter in her mouth or drinking strong bitter coffee with a sweet and chocolaty concoction that tasted like heaven.So far, Lanni had appeared in every chapter, and Callie couldn't help but be suspicious.In Chapter Three, he was waiting at a bus stop. Callie spotted him from the café window where she was enjoying another tasteless meal with Taylor. ""Oh, look,"" she pointed. ""Isn't that Lanni from the party in Chapter Two?""""Who's Lanni?"" Taylor asked.In Chapter Four, Callie thought she'd spotted him in a grocery store, but he ducked behind the next aisle and disappeared. Earlier versions of Chapter Four had Callie buying groceries for an elderly neighbor, showing her off as a kind, I-want-to-feed-the-world, beauty queen type.In this newest version of the chapter, she was in the pharmacy section reading the backs of several medicinal labels marked with toxic or poison warnings.In Chapter Six, Lanni peered in through the bedroom window. Theo, who hadn't seen him, went on the chase anyway but returned without finding so much as a footprint outside the window. Deborah never said whether the ground was soft enough for that.Callie didn't appear in Chapter Five at all, something that was always a cause for concern. Things happened that only the reader knew.""Were you in Chapter Five, my darling?"" she'd asked Theo.""Maybe. It was extremely busy in the restaurant that chapter. I may have seen Lanni having dinner with Averi. I'm not sure, though. My memory is vague.""Averi had a breathing attack in Chapter Seven.She died in Chapter Eight. The cause of death was pending a toxicology report, but everyone knew Averi had been poisoned the same as Robert.Paranoia was building.Chapter Nine was mainly about Detective Abernathy, his beautiful wife and children, and his theories on the murder.Chapter Ten was the abandoned house chapter.Deborah K. Channing was Callie's enemy. She knew the author hated her and wanted to send her to jail. From there, she would be made to suffer through the multiple chapters of a murder trial while living on prison food. Meanwhile, Theo would cook for all her friends. Taylor would probably end up married to him in the end.As the other characters shillied and lollied around, waiting for Chapter Nine to end, Callie cornered Lanni.""What exactly did you do in that last story?""""I was an enchanter. I enchanted things.""""What kind of things?""Lanni explained.""Can you do spells, as well?""""I can do anything.""""You know the author is just using you to set me up, don't you? I imagine you'll be my next victim—you're the only one who makes sense for me to kill. You saw me looking for poisons, didn't you? You were following me, weren't you?""""How did you know? I thought I was being so careful, but you're right. She's probably going to kill me next.""""I have an idea,"" Callie said. She explained what she wanted him to do. ""Will you do it? Wait. Before you decide, I have something for you.""She bent down and kissed him. In all the earlier versions of the story, her kiss had been magical.""I'll do it,"" Lanni said after the kiss. He smiled at her with his emerald eyes. Chapter 10 Callie crept through the darkened house—the house the locals called The Ghost House. No one had lived here for years. How had she gotten here? Someone had clouted her on the head, but who? Creak!A sound from the floor above. Callie climbed the stairs. She had to find Lanni, who was hiding behind the second door on the right.It was almost time.Sirens crooned from somewhere far away, but they'd soon be screaming outside the windows.Now!Callie opened the door.Lanni pointed the gun.Bam!Deborah K. Channing lay dead on the floor.-The End.Callie and Lanni toasted champagne at her desk, looking into each other's eyes, smiling at each other's smiles. It was the best-tasting champagne Callie had ever sipped.""Thank you! I couldn't have done it without you. Deborah K. Channing was getting much too powerful. She thought she was real. She nearly had me convinced that I was the character. The story couldn't have ended any other way. I'll sell it as a novelette.""""You're welcome, of course,"" Lanni answered. ""What are you going to do next?""""I'm not sure,"" she answered. ""But first, I'm going to kiss you.""Once again, Callie bent toward Lanni's lips, and afterward, he drifted back into his short story entitled The Magical Kiss.Now she was alone.She put her feet on the desk and pondered whether she should give up writing. Her characters were trying to wrest her life away from her. It was only a matter of time before one of them succeeded.""As long as I end up somewhere I like,"" she mused. Callie smiled, thinking about Chapter Six, the explicit food descriptions, and the feeling of melting into someone's arms.Still smiling, she opened her laptop and began to type.
","July 23, 2023 22:33","[[{'Susan Catucci': ""I loved this, Karen.  I admire that you had so much happening and yet was able to keep track of it all.  That's not a simple thing - and to hold a reader's attention.  The concept was excellent - characters come to life through the reader's energy.  I especially enjoyed the characters being all too familiar with the author's writing habits and lamenting the lack of sensory detail, like with food!  :D\n\nGreat work here."", 'time': '14:37 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you so much! I really appreciate your kind words.', 'time': '15:02 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Karen Corr': 'Thank you so much! I really appreciate your kind words.', 'time': '15:02 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",0f5ke8,Living with Family Payne,Chris Wall,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0f5ke8/,/short-story/0f5ke8/,Character,0,"['Funny', 'Horror', 'Science Fiction']",6 likes,"
Living with Family Payne was filmed in front of a live studio audience.FADE IN:INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOONBROTHER AND SISTER MAX PAYNE (MALE 14) AND LILY PAYNE (FEMALE 8) SIT AT THE COFFEE TABLE. THEY EACH HAVE THEIR HANDS OUT IN FRONT OF THEM. ELDEST SISTER EMMA PAYNE (FEMALE 17) ENTERS FROM THE STAIRS LEADING UPSTAIRS.EMMAWhat are you two freaks doing?MAXLily says boys have slower reflexes than girls. I’m about to prove her wrong.LILYI didn’t says boys. I just said you.LILY FLIPS HER HANDS AND SLAP’S MAX’S AND HE CRIES OUT IN PAIN. LILY LAUGHS TRIUMPHANTLY AND GOES BACK TO POSITION. AUDIENCE LAUGHTER ENSUES AS MAX SHAKES HIS HANDS AND GOES BACK TO POSITION AS WELL.EMMA(Rolling her eyes)You two twerps better not do anything this immature at the BBQ tomorrow!MAXAnd you better not do anything this ugly at the BBQ tomorrow!LILYNice one.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)LILY PULLS HER HANDS AWAY AS MAX TRIES TO SLAP THEM. THE FRONT DOOR OPENS, AND IN WALKS MIKE PAYNE (MALE 38).MIKEDaddy’s home!(PAUSE FOR AUDIENCE APPLAUSE) AS MIKE CLOSES THE DOOR BEHIND HIM. HE HOLDS HIS ARMS WIDE FOR A HUG FROM HIS THREE LOVING CHILDREN.LILYHi Daddy.MAXHey pops.EMMAHello Michael.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)MIKEHold the fanfare, kids, someone might think you actually like your old man.THE FRONT DOOR OPENS AGAIN, LISA PAYNE (FEMALE 40) STROLLS IN.LISAMommy’s home!MAX AND LILY LEAP TO THEIR FEET EXCITEDLY.LILYMommy!MAXMom’s home! Woohoo!EMMAHello Lisa.LISA(To Mike)I got two out of three. How’d you do?MIKE(Grumbling)I don’t want to talk about it.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)EMMAWell then let’s talk about something actually important! The BBQ?MIKE(Perking up)Right! I have something to show you guys! Follow me!MIKE RUNS THROUGH ANOTHER DOOR OFF STAGE LEFT.CUT TO:EXT. PAYNE BACKYARD - AFTERNOONWE SEE AN INCREDIBLY ELABORATE AND COMPLICATED LOOKING GRILL ON A PATIO. THE FAMILY STANDS BEFORE IT, MIKE LOOKING PROUD AS CAN BE.LISAWhat is this?MIKEPaynes, you’re looking at the Grill-O-Matic 520, the most cutting edge in BBQ technology! Triple layer grill with built in rotisserie. A burner on either side for pots. A skewer station for kabobs. And finally(He opens a door down below the left burner)An air frier big enough for a thirty pound Thanksgiving turkey!LISAWhere’s our old grill?MIKE(Waving a hand dismissively)Oh, I threw that old thing in the dumpster at the job site.LISA(Scolding)Michael, that grill belonged to my father! He gave it to you as a house warming gift!MIKEYeah, back when we couldn’t afford one. Now I can afford the Grill-O-Matic 520!(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)LISA(With hands on her hips)And exactly how much money are we talking?MIKE HESITATES AND THEN A LIGHT SEEMS TO GO OFF IN HIS HEAD.MIKEYou all go inside, and I’ll take this baby for a test drive! We’ll have burgers and steaks!(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)LILY AND MAX CHEER EXCITEDLY.MAXWoohoo! Pre-BBQ BBQ!LILYI want a hotdog!MIKEYou got it, princess!CUT TO:INT. KITCHEN - AFTERNOONTHE PAYNES HANG OUT IN THE KITCHEN, LISA GRABBING VEGETABLES OUT OF THE FRIDGE AS THE KIDS BEGIN PULLING OUT NOTEBOOKS AND TEXTBOOKS. JUST AS THEY’RE ALL SETTLING IN, THERE’S A DEAFENING EXPLOSION FROM THE BACKYARD. THE PAYNES ALL LOOK UP IN SHOCK AS THE KITCHEN SLIDER OPENS AND MIKE COMES IN, COVERED IN SOOT.MIKEHouston, we have a problem.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)NARRATOR (V.O.)We’ll be right back after these sponsored messages.***Darkness, complete and total, falls around me. I can’t even see past my nose, the void is so complete. I look around to where my family had been standing or sitting moments ago, but I can’t see them. I can’t even sense them. I’m not left in silence; somewhere I can hear a faint voice informing someone that they “have the meats”. I can smell the smoldering of my shirt, the smokey residue from the grill exploding caking my tongue. I realize now that I was not in the “scene” with the rest of my family. I was out on the patio, trying to operate that monstrosity of a grill when…“Hello?” I call, my voice lost in the darkness. “Hello?!”There isn’t even an echo. My voice is swallowed by the darkness as if I hadn’t even said a word. I feel as if none of my senses are working. The deep “meat” voice has given way to a cockney accent telling me he can save me fifteen percent or more on my auto insurance.I’m beginning to think I’m all alone, until I hear a strange buzzing sound. It sounds almost like TV static. It’s getting louder now. No, not louder. Closer. I try to take a step back, but my feet are plastered to the floor. If there even is a floor. The buzzing is so close now that my brain is rattling in my head, and then…***INT. KITCHEN - NIGHTLISA AND THE KIDS SIT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, EATING BOWLS OF MAC AND CHEESE AND TRYING NOT TO APPEAR DISCOURAGED. MIKE REENTERS FROM THE BACKYARD, LOOKING CRESTFALLEN AND ODDLY SHAKEN.MIKESo the good news is our yard isn’t a fire hazard. The bad news is our grill is toast.LILYIt had a toaster in it too?!(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)MAXSo much for the Grill-O-Matic 520.EMMAMore like the Kill-O-Matic 520.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)MIKE LOOKS UNEASY AS HE LOOKS TOWARD THE FRONT WALL OF THE KITCHEN. LISA FOLLOWS HIS GAZE, BOTH NOW LOOKING TOWARD THE AUDIENCE.LISAMike? Is everything okay?MIKE(Shaking his head.)Yeah... sorry. I, uh... thought I heard something.LILYThat’s probably your ears ringing from almost blowing yourself sky high, daddy.MIKERight, probably. Anyway, I don’t know what we’re going to do about the grill.LISAYou’ll have to go to the job site tomorrow and grab our old grill!MIKE(Grimacing)I can try. I doubt it’ll be any good.MAXRight, because who wouldn’t want to eat dumpster BBQ?(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)***FADE IN:EXT. PAYNE BACKYARD - DAYTHE DAY OF THE COOKOUT HAS ARRIVED, AND PEOPLE HAVE STARTED TO ARRIVE. MOSTLY NEIGHBORS, THOUGH A FEW FRIENDS TO THE PAYNES ARE HERE AS WELL. LISA IS ENTERTAINING A FEW NEIGHBORS WHO LOOK A LITTLE UPSET.MR. NELSONI’m just beginning to wonder what kind of BBQ you’re running here!MRS. NELSONI’m starving, Mrs. Payne. Honestly, what could possibly be taking your husband so long?LISA(Placating)I understand your distress, Mr. And Mrs. Nelson, but I assure you, Mike should be back any minute!ALMOST ON CUE, MIKE AND MAX COME SHAMBLING INTO THE YARD, LOOKING LIKE DOGS WITH THEIR TAILS BETWEEN THEIR LEGS. WHEN LISA CATCHES MIKE’S EYE, HER HUSBAND MERELY SHOOK HIS HEAD.LISA(To the Nelsons)Excuse me a moment.SHE RUSHES TO HER HUSBAND, LOOKING FRANTICALLY FROM HIM TO THEIR SON.LISA (CONT'D)Where’s the grill?MIKE(Sheepish)They emptied the dumpster last night.LISA(Grabbing Mike by the collar)Then go out and buy a new grill, Michael! We have hungry people here!LILY COMES OVER FROM A GROUP OF FRIENDS, EYES WIDE.LILYMommy, we may want to get some food out fast before this BBQ party becomes a Donner party!(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)LISAWe’re working on it, sweetie. Also, we need to have a talk about where you learned about the Donner party.EMMA APPROACHES HER FAMILY, BEAMING PROUDLY.EMMADon’t worry, guys. Somehow you two have managed to raise a capable and brilliant daughter.MAX(Mumbling)Not to mention oh so very humble.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)EMMAI took the liberty of ordering a bunch of food from the BBQ place on 4th Street.MAX(Suddenly frantic)Not Smoke Show! Please not Smoke Show!EMMA(Confused)Yeah, it was Smoke Show, why?AN OFF SCREEN VOICE COMES NOW, AND THE PAYNES TURN TO GREET IT. HE IS A POCK-FACED BOY WITH THICK RIMMED GLASSES AND AN ANIME TEE. HE HOLDS A LARGE BOX SMELLING OF BBQ.PINKLETONWell, well, well. If it isn’t Maxwell Payne.LISAOh good! You know each other? Maxie, is this a little friend of yours?PINKLETON(Holding up a hand)Oh on the contrary, madam. Your son and I are the strictest of rivals! For you see, to comment upon my manga in such a way as he has is a deplorable sin that shall not be tolerated!MIKE(Leaning down to Emma)Is this that Klingon thing?(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)LISA GRABS THE BOX OF FOOD GINGERLY FROM THE BOY AND HANDS IT TO MIKE.LISA(To Mike)Why don’t you take the food while Max and his fri--rival?--have a little talk.MIKE(Clearly relieved)You don’t have to tell me twice!MIKE RUSHES AWAY FROM THE SCENE. MAX TURNS TO PINKLETON AND--***As I leave my wife and son to this strange new character, I can feel the cameras come off of me. I am still in the scene, still “present”. It’s like being in the backyard before the grill exploded, only now I’m still surrounded by people. They chat quietly, their conversations strangely muffled.I put the food down on a table and start dishing it out when I notice my old college friend Sean… Sean… I can’t remember his last name. In fact, I can’t remember much about him; only his first name and the fact that we knew each other in college. I don’t even know what the college is called. He stands next to the table, drinking from a beer can that just says “BEER” on the label. As I unload the box of food, I speak of my own accord for the first time since the commercial break.“Sean.” He looks to me in shock, as if I’d just done something heinously outrageous. “How are you doing, Sean?”“Why are you speaking to me?” Sean asks in a whisper.“Well, as we’re at a cookout, it’s usually customary to socialize.” As I speak, I hear that sound. The buzzing of static off in the distance. I look around, and while people are still chatting, they keep pausing to look at me.“Uh,” Sean stammers. “I’m… uh…”The buzzing gets louder now, and I look beyond my picket fence, past all the heads of my guests, and see the sky flickering from bright blue sunshine to the black void I’d found myself in earlier. Whatever is keeping me here doesn’t like me going off script. I wonder what would happen if I kept pushing it. If I kept talking to Sean, or if I started dropping F-bombs while in the middle of a scene. I look to my family, standing in a cluster around Max and that nerdy kid, the scene playing out as scripted, no doubt. Not my family, I think for the first time. It’s true. I don’t know these people. I don’t know Lisa, and yet I do. I have memories of our life together… don’t I? Now that I try to call up any of those memories, I find myself unable. Our wedding song was… what? I proposed… where? Our anniversary is… when? These key memories don’t exist. I only know that I love her, yet now that feels hollow. How can I hold this emotion for someone I don’t know? Same with the kids. I don’t know any of them. I have to get out of here. I have to…***LISAWell I’ll be! Sean!LISA APPROACHES HER HUSBAND AND HIS OLD FRIEND. THEY HUG, PECK EACH OTHERS CHEEKS.LISAHow have you been? I didn’t know you were coming!SEANGot the invite a little late, but I managed to make it here! Mikey was just telling me about your promotion! Congratulations!LISAThank you, but you know I couldn’t have done it without a very special person.***I feel sick. My chest is tightening as I begin spiraling. What do I do? Lisa is speaking now, and I can feel the script that is our lives beginning to unravel. I look to the sky, to the growing darkness that is climbing over the horizon. The static’s buzzing is growing louder and closer. And then I see it. I see the thing in the dark. It’s enormity is daunting, and I feel my brain beginning to shatter as the unearthly thing grows near and I… I…***MIKE LOOKS LIKE HE’S GOING TO BE SICK. LISA LOOKS TO HIM, HER FACE BLANK. MIKE LOOKS BACK AT HER, UNCERTAIN. HE LOOKS UP OVER HER SHOULDER, EYES WIDENING IN SHOCK. THEN, HE LOOKS BACK AT HER AND HIS DEMEANOR COMPLETELY CHANGES. HE SMILES, PUFFS OUT HIS CHEST AND BEAMS.LISAMyself, of course!MIKE DEFLATES COMICALLY.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)CUT TO:INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHTTHE PAYNES SIT EXHAUSTED IN THEIR LIVING ROOM. MIKE HAS HIS ARMS AROUND LISA’S SHOULDERS, MAX AND LILY LAY SPRAWLED ON THE FLOOR, AND EMMA IS SCROLLING MINDLESSLY ON HER PHONE.MIKEWell, Paynes, we did it! We threw one hell of a BBQ.LISAEmma really pulled through for us today! Good job, sweetie!MAXWhat about me? If it wasn’t for me telling Pinkleton off, we could have had a disaster on our hands!EMMARight, we would have had to pay him.LISA(Aghast)Oh my God, we never paid for the food!THE FAMILY SITS IN SILENCE FOR A MOMENT.MIKEWell, I guess that Grill-O-Matic paid for itself then, didn’t it?EMMAThe food didn’t cost $3,000, dad.(AUDIENCE GASPS)THE FAMILY STARES AT HER IN SHOCK.EMMA(Shrugging)What? I found the receipt next to the burning wreckage.(AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)MIKE LOOKS SLOWLY AT HIS WIFE. LISA TURNS BACK TO HIM, EYES BLAZING.MIKEHave I told you how beautiful you a--MIKE GETS UP AND SPRINTS FROM THE COUCH, LISA CLOSE BEHIND, MURDER IN HER EYES. THE FRAME FREEZES ON THEIR CHASE, THE KIDS LAUGHING AS THE AUDIENCE’S CHEERS CLOSE US OUT.FADE OUT.***As the show fades out, and I run from my wife. I run through the door and stumble into the black void. I feel weightless as I float through this strange liminal space. The audience cheering sounds far away, and I feel terror rising within me. The static is coming.“No,” I whisper. “Please. I’ve done the show. Please, don’t do this!” I don’t know what the “this” is, but I feel the panic welling within me as the static grows louder, and louder, coming closer and closer. The thing is here, it’s features shrouded by the ebony depths of the void. Or… or is it the void? My eyes are the camera, and the entire frame is filled with the thing that is holding me here. If I look to the left or right, there it is, watching. It doesn’t speak, and yet a single word slams into my head so hard it echos through ever neuron, the synapses lighting up like a Christmas tree.CANCELLED.
","July 28, 2023 00:15",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",00to19,Breaking Every Fourth Wall,B Lou,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/00to19/,/short-story/00to19/,Character,0,"['Funny', 'Happy']",6 likes,"
Critical Thinking Rough Draft Setting: High school Topic: Love at first sight The story begins with our young protagonist waking up for school and starting on their morning routine. The usual hop out of bed, head straight to bathroom, wash up, brush teeth, and then get dressed up before heading downstairs for breakfast with their parents. Kisses goodbye and off towards the school bus. The school bus pulls in front of the school then everybody exits the vehicle. Our protagonist takes one look at the school and breathes out long exaggerated sigh. “Here we go again, another boring day out of my boring life” Who knows maybe today will be different. After two hours of long lectures and excruciating pop quizzes, our protagonist finds themselves walking down the hallway while scrolling through their phone apps not paying attention to what’s in front of them. They collide with something hard causing them to drop the device on the marble floor. “Oh sorry, my bad, wasn’t paying attention to where I was going” a deep voice said over them. They glanced up and were met with the prettiest blue eyes they had ever seen. Render speechless, they just stared at the potentially 6” tall male. He was gorgeous with medium length black hair complimentary with his heart shaped head, pale skin, and pink lips. Oh wow, that’s inappropriate, they thought avoiding his stare. “Let me get that for you” he reached down to pick up their phone. “Oh, that’s fine I got it” practically diving out their hand towards it. Their hands glided against each other, and they quickly stared back at each other. He stared intensely into their eyes not knowing what to do and our protagonist...starts to burst out laughing. “Umm...a-are you okay?” the male protagonist mouthed in confusion. “Okay cut!” they yell out to no one in particular. Wait...what?  “Hey, writer is you serious?” Are you talking to me? “Well duh, you the only one here aren’t you” You shouldn’t be talking, and I shouldn’t be answering. What’s going on? “News flash genius I am talking, and you are listening because you know why?” “You are writing it dipshit” Hey don’t be rude! “I think the only rude one here is you” How am I the rude one? “Cause your writing is terrible, you really couldn’t think of anything better than this?” Well, no, I mean yeah but this is a rough draft so it shouldn’t matter. “But this is boriiiiiiiiing, let alone cliché as hell” “You probably bored the audience to death” Like you could do better plus I think the story was going quite well. “Of course, you think that way because you’re the author but it’s trash! Doesn’t even sound original anymore” Well do you have any better ideas “Let’s start with your dreadful grammar with these run-on sentences, spelling errors, repeating phrases/words and the huge fact it sounds like you’re trying too hard” I’ll admit my grammar is quite bad, and it seems like I repeat myself too much because I’m not a quick thinker. I just use the first word that pops in my head, and I don’t know proper writing techniques like other people. In some ways, I try to write like other writers. Wow, am I really exposing myself right now?  “There’s plenty of references and resources that can make you a better writer; you just have to look for them,” “Please....because you need it!” There you go being rude again, but I can take the hint. “Now back to task at hand” “Don’t you think we could go with a different male lead, no offense bro” “Non-taken” he mumbled What’s wrong with him? “He’s a pretty boy” “Pretty boys are nice and all” “But it seems like you were heading into the oh so classic route where the “new kid” (who happens to be a pretty boy) meets the laid back/quiet protagonist and me as well as the rest of the world is SICK OF IT! Then what would you prefer? “A thug” So, the bad boy dynamic? Another cliché “You right, let’s scratch the whole high school prompt all together” To...... “I want to be a ninja!” What the hell? I don’t know nothing about ninjas. “That’s what Google is for and this little place I like to call China” Oh my god, racist. I’m pretty sure they’re Japanese but I’m going to stop there before we both get cancelled. Mainly me. “I’m fine with that” Yeah okay, I’m just going to erase your existence completely. “Pfft, you can’t get rid of me” And why not? “Because you have exactly 237 more words to write to reach a thousand and you need the filler” Honestly, I surprised myself by making it this far. “So, I was right...” “You have no plan” This was the plan. “What was?” Winging it like I always do. Such as this whole scenario. “You’re likely to burn out eventually” No, I won’t. “I’m sure you lost the audience at this point” Maybe so, but it was funny at least. “I say you were mid at best” At least you’re honest. “What are we even talking about anymore” I don’t know “You really ran out of ideas” Seems like it. “Now you just sound crazy” The whole idea was crazy from the start “You’re really going to drag this out longer than necessary” Word play always wins. “If you changed it to ninjas from the beginning, we wouldn’t be here in the first place” Enough with the ninjas already. “Okay...how about samurais'” Nope, it’s too late. We’re almost reaching the end. “Do you at least have a closure?” Thank you, readers, for joining with me on my wild antics. Hopefully I made someone out there smile and laugh even just a little bit. Anything you like to say? “That you really lost the plot of this whole thing, and you don’t deserve any likes nor comments whatsoever” Oh, look at that, the end. “But I-” Bye. 
","July 22, 2023 06:14","[[{'Lyle Closs': ""Nice twist, turning the messy writer's agonizing process into a story line."", 'time': '08:25 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",mvtqhu,Dikileaks!,Julie Grenness,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mvtqhu/,/short-story/mvtqhu/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",6 likes,"
Yes, she was generally happy she was widowed and old. Shaz, as she was affectionately known, believed her grey hair was the new blonde. She could frock up all right. She was looking forward in her golden years, to her latest epic adventure. At that moment, Shaz was putting the final touches to her latest craft project.
Shaz did believe in expanding her social circle, so she had joined a local craft center in her community. A visiting tutor from Canada had lectured the good ole girls in the noble art of doll head crafting. Shaz felt inspired by her creative muse. Sourcing the recommended old time porcelain dolls from local opportunity shops, she took a boot load of someone's beloved treasures home. 
This was to be Shaz greatest moment of developing a new art form her own way. Shaz was that sort of age, that her late father used to chop firewood for the family's wood burning log fireplace. She had kept his axes all those years, a hewer's daughter. Now was the perfect opportunity to practice her chopping skills. 
Years before, she and her sisters had stood admiring their father at the woodpile. He had always warned them to stand back, dodge incoming wood chips, and snakes in the heap of kindling. Good, sound advice. Not particularly deep and meaningful, but an apt guide to their future. Dodge those snakes in the heap of life!
So Shaz swung her ax, which had been carefully polished and wrapped in its cloth covers. Off with their heads. It was all quite cathartic. Having chopped off the heads of these dollies. Shaz then took their wigs off, using glue solvents. Then she hefted her trusty ax, and chopped off the tops of their heads.
What to do with headless porcelain doll remnants? Quire a good query, she would solve that another day. Into the cupboard under the sink, went headless doll bodies, their wigs, and the tops of their heads. Bizarre, but, hey, this was art!
Shaz arose the next morning, following her muse. Must look forward and be creative. It was cool, really, how Shaz glued the dollies' eyes permanently open. Then she filled their heads with her purchased soil mix, and planted an array of green vegetation. Stepping back, she admired such spontaneity. She had totally done doll head art! What was next?
Her phone chimed. It was her other new fad of online dating. Yes, winner. Someone had swiped her on her dating website. She hoped it might be a love match, full of repartee, and senior companionship. She eyed off her hopeful suitor. His name was Dwayne, or was it?
Shaz thoughtfully read his profile, searching for common interests. Maybe he was genuine,. Dwayne had really fallen in love with her photo online. Drinking her coffee, she did a happy dance, unshapely hips slightly waddling. Deciding this single life was full of adventures before dementia, silver single Shaz suggested a neutral coffee shop in the early afternoon, for their first date!
So exciting, perhaps this time she would get lucky. ""Let's face it,"" thought Shaz."" that husband of mine was a total prick, Dirk."" No turning back now, she had to focus on her strengths. The doll heads artfully displayed around her home on every surface did not blink. Shaz tried on half her clothes, seeking the perfect 'look.' This could be her one, a soul mate for senior sparks, a relationship, maybe the big ""R"".
Shaz was a bit rusty on meeting and greeting strange men, so she asked her lifehack online. Safe topics to discuss on first dates are music, cars, sports, food, jobs and hobbies. Stay away from whinging about exes. ""Right!"" agreed Shaz, ""Nostalgia ain't what it used to be.""
Flicking her hair, Shaz was there at the appointed hour. Her wrinkled lips were enhanced by a tinch of lipstick in the manner which was normal for her age group. No senior lady ever went anywhere without lipstick and a spritz of perfume. They had been brought up. 
Enter Dwayne. ""How lovely to meet you!"" He kissed her on the lips, bold  as brass. Despite herself, Shaz felt sparks. ""I must keep an open mind,"" she told herself, thinking, ""Good kisser, eye candy man.""
Soon their chat took place, meet and greet. Happy coffee, a cake, Dwayne and Shaz were soon agreeing that their generation had the best of music, with sensitive lyrics like do-wa-diddy-dum-diddy-do, and ob-la-di-ob-la-do. They did concur that the sensory deprived millennials had never had such grand heights of English lit to guide them through their future. Further, Dwayne could only empathize that the young men looked like girls, their music was total trash, and their poetry was gibberish. 
Shaz's conversational skills were flowing. Dwayne was temporarily unemployed, she was a widow of independent means. He suggested they continue their rapport in the bar next door. Taking her by the hand, he led her there, sparks of attraction ablaze. She was making an effort, but not much of a drinker. The couple were soon necking chardonnays, eyeing each other off as the sunset surrounded them surrounded them through the bar's picture window.
Dwayne was the blip among quick online daters, and he knew it. Unfortunately, Shaz led him home on the first date, to her not so humble pad. Dwayne entered her home, intent on his needs. There, the doll heads gazed, seeming to see inside his not so good intentions. ""Weird dolls!"" he remarked, as Shaz found her senses. Still, Dwayne was a player, he knew a wealthy woman, bit gullible, when he met her. ""I find you very attractive, Shaz,"" he said, as he went for the grope.
Shaz, despite the wine, put up her red flag indicators. ""Not on our first date!"" Dwayne kissed her again. From her old lady's large black handbag, she drew forth her can of pepper spray, which her empowered older sister had given her. Shaz did not want to trip up trouble, so she chased Dwayne away, past the doll heads, all the way down her front stairs. Christian women really know how to swear. Dwayne ran back to his car, ""But, Shaz, I love you!""
""Yeah, right!"" Shaz muttered, returning to the sleepless dolls, their eyes glued open in amazement, like some modern apache totems. Her phone chimed. ""Not Dwayne again. No means no!"" What did he text? ""I forgive you. Here is your nightcap."" On no, Dwayne had sent Shaz his dick photo. She laughed, helplessly. ""Call that a dick. I could do better myself!""
It must be said that Dwayne had no common sense at all. He and Shaz were both characters in this one-act charade. Being one of the survivors of life, Shaz could not resist hitting her share button on the entire dating website, with a neat caption, ""Dwayne is a total prick!"" Then she deleted her dating account and profile.
This was soon a suburban scandal on the website, a viral social media favorite. Everyone was swiping left on Dwayne's dick photo, and kept on sharing Shaz's feedback on this stud. Giggles ensued, the newspapers published details. No one knew who the original sharer of dikileaks had been. Dwayne had to wear his bad reputation, he remained single, unlovable. 
There was nothing to present in a court of law. Shaz had dodged going from the frying pan to the fire. Her sisters always had her back. She resolved to pursue something more creative than dick photos of silver seniors. She had smashed it, like the porcelain dolls. Their eyes had not blinked, but had found Dwayne, eye candy man, definitely lacking. Never mind, her new herbal gardens in the doll heads grew lovely. Cool to be creative, as Shaz looked forward, with no turning back, still ever cautious of the snakes in the woodheap of life. 
","July 22, 2023 22:23","[[{'Kristin Johnson': 'It was fun and funny. It does strike me as a one-act play or short film.', 'time': '00:14 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'A good crop of sage in those old doll heads! 😜🪓👶Fun and funny.', 'time': '22:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",q7efpv,Military Warriors,Ken Gordon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q7efpv/,/short-story/q7efpv/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Adventure']",6 likes,"
“Send it,” the voice rang through his ears. Holding his breath, slowly exhaled, and a squeeze of his right index finger. Flash of the muzzle, then silence. “Report back soldier” the voice returns. “Confirmed hit sir, enemy down, site secure to advance,” replies Gunny. “10-4 Gunny, advance and secure payload”. 
Gunny calls out “check in team.” Frank, Jack, Sarah, and Jex confirmed. “Chuckles, do you copy?” burst of static, but no return call. “Frank, do you have eyes on Chuckles?” “No sir” replies Frank. “I saw him take a hit and drop for cover but did not see him since.” Gunny orders “go to last visual location, and report what you find, take Jex with you.” As they move to the location, Gunny, Sarah, and Jack move forward to secure payload. “Do you know what we are collecting here?” inquires Sarah.” Just told it was valuable and return at all costs” replied Gunny. As they reach the assigned coordinates, looks like a small container sitting in the corner, between a shack and cluster of rocks. 
A star was hovering above the crate, like a futuristic hologram. As the three looked at each other with confusion, Jack said what they were all thinking, “can we touch this”? Gunny shrugged his shoulders, and had Sarah and Jack spread out and stand guard while he confirmed. “HQ, please confirm payload, we have some kind of light shining out of crate, are we good to open, over?” called out Gunny. “Is there a Star shining above the crate?” asked high pitched excited voice over the headset. “What color is it?” Gunny got closer to the box. “Confirmed star, and color is green.” “Although the confirmed kill that was next to the payload, we cannot locate.” “I know the shot was clean and saw them drop.” 
Different voice irately called back over, “Soldier stop asking questions and open crate.” “Report back on contents.”  Gunny called the other two over, to assist. With the glow around the rim of the container, Gunny reluctantly reached down, quickly touching the box. Did not shock him or seem to be hot. He sees the latch and grabs with left hand, while having a pistol drawn with right. Slowly opens, as a bright light shines out, making all three turn and cover eyes. As the lid is fully open, they see more holograms hovering above the crate, and then disappearing. Some were symbols, and some were weapons. It seemed odd to see that many items come from that box. “HQ, we are seeing holograms, and they are slowly disappearing” a confused Gunny called out. “Not sure what we need to do?”  “Stay on site until all... “A loud crack silenced the voice. “We are under fire” Jack called out “coming in from the north.” “Take cover” called out Gunny “I will hold tight by payload.” Jack ran west to the rocks for cover, while Sarah headed east and dove behind a small shack. “Frank and Jex, do you copy?” called out Gunny, as bullets were flying over their heads. “Yes Sir, we are just south of you” replied Jack. “We see the enemy to your North, looks to be 2 or 3 lone soldiers, we will move to higher ground to get visual and clear shot”. 
“What is happening there, calls HQ?” a loud voice calls over the radio. “We are under attack Sir, looks to be 2 or 3 coming in from north”, replies Gunny. “At all costs, do not let them close to crate, until all items are gone” an angry voice called out. “We cannot go through this level again.” “Level?” Inquired Gunny, “what do you mean level?” The sounds of the rifles are getting closer. One large blast rattled all three of them, as debris flew all around. An eerie, quiet came over the area. “Enemy down, enemy Down!!” called out Jex, as the sound of a friendly Helo flew over. “Thank you, HQ, site is clear” radioed Gunny, “Crate no longer has light coming out, and looks to have taken possible hit.” “Items have been transferred” replied HQ. “Your mission is complete, return to base.” 
As Frank and Jex moved forward and met up with the others, and all of them cleared the perimeter. They all converged on the crate, looking inside. All looking confused, as their mission was complete, but nothing in the box, not even a power supply or a light bulb. “Did you locate Chuckles?” Gunny asked Frank. “No sir, we did not find any evidence of him even being there, like he vanished” replied Frank “I know I saw him there, unless he was captured?” “We covered the area thoroughly, and nothing.” 
“Night is coming in, and we need to return to base.” Gunny said regretfully, “Jack please take point, lead us home, and Frank take rear.” 
Rough terrain made the journey slow, and visibility was low with the fog setting in. “HQ, do you have any visuals” called Gunny. Radio silence. He called in again, same silence. A DeJa’Vu feeling came over Gunny, as it always seems after 9, the radios go silent. “Do you all notice on each of our missions, once we hit around this time, we lose radio contact” asked Gunny to the team. “It does seem odd” says Sarah, “must be the satellites going into a sleep mode.” The team seemed good with that answer and moved forward cautiously. As they came over the ridge, they saw the light of the base in the distance. Slowly they continued to the gate, making their way back to their barracks. 
“Home sweet home,” mumbled Sarah, as she threw her pack on her bunk. “It’s about time you got back” came a loud familiar voice. “Thought you got lost.” The crew turned fast, and yes it was who they thought, Chuckles. “How, what, where” confused Frank stuttered, “What happened to you?” “What do you mean” asked Chuckles, “I have been here, waiting for you to return.” “But you were with us!!” exclaimed Jack. “Have you been drinking, I was here? I woke up and you were gone, and I have had a strong pain in my chest. Not sure why it hurts but feels like someone hit me with a sledgehammer right in the heart.” “Maybe our heads are as foggy as the path back here, either way it is great to see you!!” exclaimed Sarah. “Let’s Break up the reunion, and get some rest” hollered Gunny, “We can rethink this after we get some shut eye and have clearer heads. Lights out, and that’s an order.” 
As faint sounds of waves crashed onto the shore, and the sun began to rise above the ocean, the team started heading to the squad room. Chuckles greeted the team, with a big smile, and a loud “GOOD MORNING TEAM!!.” “How are you feeling this morning Chuckles,” asked Gunny. “How’s your chest feeling?” “Perfect, why do you ask?” replied Chuckles. “Well, you said you had a sore chest last night, just checking” Gunny responded. “Not sure what you are talking about,” said Chuckles, “I don’t recall having any pain.” A confused look took over Gunny as he glanced over to the rest of the team. “Alright team let’s go over yesterday’s mission and issues we had” he said to the team, as he put is face in his hands. “What do you mean, we had a perfect mission, completed all the tasks, and made it back without causing or receiving any physical damage?” Hunter said. Gunny looked up in disbelief and thought to himself all the stuff that happened during yesterday’s mission. As he looked up and saw Hunter talking, blood ran out of his face. “What’s wrong Gunny?” asked Jack, “you look like you saw a ghost.” Gunny stuttered “but, but I shot you yesterday,” pointing at Hunter. “You were working for the enemy guarding the crate that we had to retrieve!” “What are you saying Gunny?” asked Frank. “This is Hunter, and he is a member of our team. Maybe you need to get some fresh air?” Gunny quickly left the room and headed down to the ocean. He stood there just staring off into the horizon trying to gain his sanity. He can’t stop his mind from running over the previous day’s issues. “Am I losing it” he mumbles to himself. Trying to remember Hunter on the team, he is struggling to remember any of the missions or days before yesterday. Is he part of the team? Was Chuckles with us yesterday? What was in the crate we secured? While walking back and forth ankle deep in the water, he ponders why he is losing his mind. He heads back up to his barracks and goes to the phone. Dialing with hesitation, he listens as the phone rings on the other end. “Hello” says a sweet young voice. “Chaz is that you?” asked Gunny. “Yes dad” he said excitingly, “what are you doing?” “Just working son, what are you doing?” “I am just playing my new video game, called Military warriors,” exclaimed Chaz. “It’s a really fun game, you must send your team on daily missions, working to find and retrieve items from a magical crate. After each successful mission, you reset and do the same the next day. Right now, my team has the best team leader out there.” 
A proud smile covers Gunny’s face….
","July 24, 2023 03:14",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",6aqugp,The Day That Eddie Bowman Met His Maker,Shaun Ledger,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6aqugp/,/short-story/6aqugp/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
I seem to have a problem with my memory - I can recall driving past the ‘Welcome to Heyton’ sign on reaching the village, but nothing prior to that. I hadn’t even known my name, until the pen I’d been holding scrawled the words ‘Eddie Bowman’ on the guest register of The White Lion, where I’d somehow known that a room had been pre-booked for me. 
	Heyton seems to be a perfect slice of Olde England. The village green, centred around a huge maypole, is ringed by The White Lion, The Kings Arms, the picturesque Norman church and the local shop. Between these four buildings are what tourists' guides might call ‘chocolate-box cottages’, each of them fronted by a minuscule rose-laden garden. I’m guessing that the green would normally be a vacant grassy space, but today it’s filled to bursting with the empty stalls and silent fairground rides that are due to feature in tomorrow’s annual county fair. I know about the fair because I saw a poster pinned to the wall behind the reception desk. Looks like it’s the big event of the year around these parts. 
	Five minutes after checking in, I’m studying the contents of my suitcase, which I’ve unpacked and laid out on the bed. I can understand the reason for the extra suit of clothes and the shower bag, but some of the other items are a mystery. I’ve brought my passport, which is fair enough, but it’s the four extra ones that are puzzling me. They all show the same face in the photo I.D. - mine - but each of them bears a different name and nationality. It seems that I sometimes have cause to pass myself off as French, Russian, Canadian or Swedish. Perhaps I am French, and the UK one I found first belongs with the counterfeit ones? No, despite my current lack of self knowledge, all the thoughts going around in my head have an English accent, so I assume that’s the genuine document. 
	And there’s something else that’s causing my heart to beat a little faster. 
	There on the bed, lying beside the spare socks and underwear, are the components of a high-powered rifle, complete with sniper viewfinder. As disconcerting as the rifle itself is the fact that I recognise it as a variant of the Finnish SAKO TRG 42, complete with folding stock. Before I can even begin to come up with a credible answer as to why I’m carrying such a weapon - or even any weapon - around with me, the telephone rings from the bedside table. 
	‘Hello?’ I say.
	A woman’s voice answers me. ‘Be in the bar in five minutes. We’ll go through the final details, okay?’ She ends the call abruptly, preventing me from asking any questions. As doing what she says looks like the only way I can get some answers, I decide to follow her instructions. I re-pack the suitcase, lock it, and slide it under the bed. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Downstairs, I order a drink and find an empty table. The public lounge is busy, and the air is filled with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. But then the room falls silent, as though someone has pressed the ‘pause’ button. The reason for the change in mood is the smartly dressed woman, probably in her early forties, who has just walked in. Somehow, I know this is who I’m waiting for, so I raise my hand, attracting her attention. She gives a nod of acknowledgement in return. As soon as she takes a step in my direction, the button is released, and the familiar sounds of a busy English pub return.
	She sits down and places a blue cardboard folder on the table top. ‘Hello, Eddie. How are you feeling today?’ 
	Even though she seems familiar to me, I can’t quite put a name to her face. ‘I’m fine. And you are…?’
	The niceties appear to be over before they’ve even started. ‘Never mind the small talk. Let’s get straight down to business.’ She opens the folder and takes out photographs of two men, which she places on the table. ‘The fair starts tomorrow, and Heyton will be packed with visitors. That’s when you're going to do it,’ she says.
	‘Do what?’
	‘What you’re here for - kill one of them.’ She gestures at the photos.
	Well, that explains the rifle. At least now I know something about myself - apparently, I’m an assassin, and I’ve come here to end someone’s life. 
	Mrs X carries on talking. ‘When I reserved your room, I made sure it overlooked the green. In the morning, I want you in position by the window at eleven o’clock sharp. I’ll be having a last talk with each of these two, and then I’ll decide which one’s for the chop. At five past, I’ll stand beside whoever I’ve chosen, and I’ll point him out to you. That’ll be the signal, and then it’s, Bang - mission accomplished!’ Her voice has climbed a few decibels as she says these last words, and the couple sitting at the next table look in our direction. But only for a second - they soon avert their gaze when my companion gives them the evil eye.
	‘How do you know they’ll be there? And why do it in such a public space, with so many witnesses?’ I ask.
	Her voice takes on a harder tone. ‘They’ll be there because I’ve arranged it, and you’ll do it like this because I say so, okay?’
	No, not really, but I’ve still got some more questions. One in particular. ‘And what about an exit strategy? I won’t be able to just pack my gear up and walk away through the crowd, will I?’ 
	‘Don’t worry about that - I’ve got something worked out.’ 
	I keep digging. ‘Do I need to know what they’ve been up to? And why one rather than the other?’
	‘Let’s just say it’s time for someone to die, and it’s come down to these two. But you never know - I might call on you to finish the other one off later on, anyway.’ She checks her watch. ‘I’ll give you an hour to wind down, then go upstairs and get some rest. Make sure you’re ready at eleven tomorrow.’ She stands, and once again an eerie stillness descends, lifted only when the door swings shut behind her as she leaves the room.
	Who the hell does this woman think she is, ‘giving’ me an hour? She didn’t suggest that I get some rest, but that I will get some. She may be paying for my services, but I’m not going to be her puppet. I can’t believe I didn’t tell her where to go - maybe I need the money more than I need the self-esteem? I can’t figure out why she’s so sure of herself - she seemed so certain that everything is going to happen exactly as she wants it to. And if I’m a professional, why have I accepted without question her claim to have something ‘worked out’ regarding my escape route? Surely that’s even more important than the pay packet? To try and shed some light on the situation, I have a chat with the landlord, and uncover a couple of interesting facts. The first is that Mrs X’s real name is Helen Barron, and the second is that Helen is staying in room eight, just two doors down the corridor from my own. I’m about to sit back down with a fresh drink when I suddenly feel exhausted and struggle to keep my eyes open. 
	The last thing I remember is looking up at the clock behind the bar and realising that it was exactly sixty minutes ago that I’d been so generously granted an hour to myself. 
 
	The next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room, and the morning sun is filtering through the curtains. By ten forty-five, I’ve finished all my usual preparations, and I’m standing at the window, looking out over the green. Excited children are queueing for their turn on the fairground rides, while their parents try to win fluffy toys from the rifle ranges and the other stalls that fill the gaps between the carousels and the flying cars. 
	And then I see her - Helen, out and about, mingling with the early revellers. The sight stirs something to life in a corner of my brain, and I realise this means I have a chance to visit her room, try to find a little more about her - and possibly about myself, while I’m at it. I walk down to the reception counter. There’s no-one around, so I slip behind it and pocket the hotel’s master key, which is hanging from its hook in full view. Back upstairs, I use it to unlock the door to room eight.
	Once inside, I’m not sure what I’m looking for, other than some kind of clue about what’s going on here. A vintage typewriter is sitting on the desk, and next to it is the blue folder that she was carrying yesterday. There’s a sheet of paper in the typewriter, half-filled with print. I turn the cylinder so I can read what Helen’s been typing.
 
*
The Kill Syndicate - Chapter 19
Eddie meets his Maker
 Eddie Bowman of The Kill Syndicate was among the best in the business, with a reported body count approaching three figures. His terms couldn’t be simpler - if the price was right, he'd do it, and no questions asked. Eddie had no qualms about disposing of government officials, rival businessmen, or cheating husbands. Nor were their families and children out of bounds, should the fine print ask for it. 
 Nat Waters was rich, powerful, and ruthless - a typical client of The Syndicate. He had an itch, and enough money to pay someone to scratch it. His instructions to Eddie were simple - drive to the quaint English village of Heyton and kill ?
*
 
	It looks like Helen has only recently started work on this chapter, as it ends there, complete with a question mark standing in for the name of the target. She's left her notepad next to the typewriter, open at the latest page. I pick it up and read the notes that she’s scribbled down in blue ink.
 
*
	•                Need to decide who Eddie kills. 
•                  After the shooting, the police corner Eddie and hand him over to UKSS. They torture him, forcing him to give up the names of his bosses in The Syndicate, and then execute him.
*
 
	I go back to my room, with the words ‘body count’, ‘torture’ , and ‘execute’ taking turns to replace each other at the front of my mind. Reading the brief excerpt of Chapter 19 seems to have flicked a switch in my previously non-existent memory banks, because now I’m able to remember every one of those kills that I appear to have accumulated, and I wish I couldn’t. 
	I know now I’m nothing but a figment of her imagination – she needed a murderer, and she created me.
	Looking out of the window again, I see that Helen is still walking among the crowd, tapping a shoulder here, grabbing an elbow there, manoeuvring the villagers into the positions that she wants, like a film director preparing a scene. Okay - she’s in charge out there, but I decide I won’t be hanging around for UKSS - whoever they are - to do their worst on me. 
	I’ve already assembled the rifle, and I settle the stock against my shoulder. I use the viewfinder to search amongst the smiling faces until I have her in my sights. I now know that by killing Helen - my creator - I’ll also be bringing down the curtain for myself and everyone in the village. 
 You’ve brought his on yourself, Helen. I now know it’s going to be all be over for everybody in Heyton - the landlord, the drinkers in the bar, the children on the green – the very moment  you type ‘The End’, anyway, so what difference will vanishing into the void a few hours early mean to any of us? 
 But this time, ‘us’ includes you.
	I recognise the man Helen is standing next to - his photograph was one of those in the folder. She looks directly at me and raises her hand, signalling that he’s the one she’s chosen. I focus through the viewfinder until the cross-hairs are centred on his forehead. After a couple of seconds, though, I shift my aim by a few degrees, and the smile on Helen’s face disappears as she realises that she herself is now my target. I slowly squeeze the trigger. A red dot appears between her unbelieving eyes and she falls to the ground, dead. 
 Bang - mission accom…
 
 
The End
 
","July 24, 2023 18:31","[[{'Carla Chapman': 'Love this...the whole set up.  Kind of like a sting in short form.  Very well done!', 'time': '00:07 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shaun Ledger': 'Hi Carla - thank you for reading and for your comments.', 'time': '15:54 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shaun Ledger': 'Hi Carla - thank you for reading and for your comments.', 'time': '15:54 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This is very well done. The reveal of finding her manuscript answers all the readers questions and the title is so clever. You have good dialogue and scene setting. Very nice', 'time': '06:34 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shaun Ledger': 'Hi, Anne - thank you for your positive comments.', 'time': '15:41 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shaun Ledger': 'Hi, Anne - thank you for your positive comments.', 'time': '15:41 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",nktclr,Good Bones ,Cindy Strube,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nktclr/,/short-story/nktclr/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Historical Fiction']",6 likes,"
Good Bones“It’s a girl!” announces Dr. Jones. “Or rather, a woman.” The mottled remains, painstakingly arranged by his team, lay against fresh white paper; yellowish-brown cantles of humanity, poised to give up their secrets to the renowned forensic anthropologist.“Some of the most critical bones are here. They will tell us a story!” Dr. Jones beams, rubbing his hands together. “Due to the burial method and environmental circumstances, they are in astonishingly good condition.” “Come closer,” he beckons. “You see this? Tony, zoom in just here… We can determine that the specimen is most likely female, because the pelvic bones are thinner and lighter. Observe the inlet; it’s wider and rounder than a male’s would be, to accommodate childbirth. Rachel, take a measurement, please.”Rachel uses the calipers and reads the value aloud. Dr. Jones nods while continuing his assessment.“The cranial sutures are closed… significant wear here… overdeveloped humerus, particularly on the left side. She was most likely above the age of twenty-five, possibly as old as forty at time of death.”“Lacey, did you get that measurement? Read it back to me,” Rachel directs. She doesn’t quite trust the intern. Cute little airhead seems unfit for any sort of scientific endeavor. Rachel thinks back to the day they learned of Dr. Jones being summoned to the site.“He’s going to need help. Are you up to it?”“Where do we go?”“Georgia.”“Georgia? What part?” Lacey’s eyes widened.“Batumi,” Rachel answered curtly. Any archeology student—even the rankest beginner—should know about the extraordinary find. Lacey wrinkled her snub nose, a puzzled crease drawing her perfect eyebrows together. “I’m from Savannah,” she drawled, “and I never heard of Batumi!” Rachel opened her mouth, took a deep breath—and changed what she’d been about to say. She reminded herself that Lacey had only just started the program. And that geography wasn’t being taught much anymore. As a postgraduate student, Rachel had been given a position of responsibility. She needed to exercise patience. “Georgia, the country.” Lacey looked blank.“Caucasus. Black Sea. Eastern Europe…?” Rachel offered. “Oh. Oh. That Georgia. Yeah, OK.” Lacey gave a perky nod, setting her high ponytail aswing.  Clearly, she had no clue where it was. Rachel sighed. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll soon find out. We’re about to have an up-close and personal experience with Batumi.”“So… this Professor Doo-valley? Who’s he?”Rachel held her eye-rolling muscles under control. The italic speech was another matter.“Dvali,” she said, with clenched teeth and thinning patience. “She. Is an anthropologist. A very famous one. The ancient people of Georgia are her passion. A well-publicized, highly acclaimed documentary aired last year about her work, called ‘Good Bones’... You haven’t seen it?” Lacey shrugged. “Never heard of it.”“Well, I suggest,” Rachel replied tightly, “that you make yourself familiar with it before the trip.”Granted, Rachel herself may have been inordinately interested in the work of the iconic anthropologist. She had lost count of the number of times she’d seen ‘Good Bones’. But that didn’t give Lacey a pass. And now, here is Rachel, living her dream on a hillock along the Karolitskhali River. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, and will look really good on her CV.  But beyond that, it’s such a thrill to be present at this remarkable site, in collaboration with Professor Dvali—recording the most private details of an ancient woman. A peculiar feeling comes over her. She shivers a bit. Gran would have said, “Somebody’s walking on your grave.” How apt! Rachel thinks, briskly rubbing the goose pimples on her arms. Would she want someone in the future digging up her body, studying her bones?Would this woman have wanted that? Who was she, really?🦴 “A girl,” Bebia Sofiko announced, placing the newborn in Eteri’s outstretched arms.“Aka,” whispered the new mother into her daughter’s ear. Innocent.Zviad, she knew, had hoped for a boy—but he was instantly smitten by his baby girl. “She is as beautiful as her mother,” he told Eteri, smiling tenderly at the two of them.🦴“Rachel…?” Dr. Jones is looking expectantly at his top assistant.She gives herself a mental shaking. Here I was, criticizing Lacey for not being aware—and I’m lost in a daydream. Imagining an entire family.“Sorry! Repeat that, please?”“Are you feeling unwell?” Dr. Jones looks at her with concern. “You seem bothered by something.”“I’m fine. Just spaced out for a sec there. Sorry!” she repeats.“Are you sure?” He peers over his glasses at her. She gives a quick, businesslike nod. “All right then. Prepare a specimen tube. We’re going to send these fragments for analysis.”After a busy day, Rachel usually drops right off to sleep. But tonight her mind won’t settle down. She allows it to wander back to the woman whose bones she had touched today. Bones that could tell just part of her story. 🦴“I’m ready to go back to the fields with you,” Eteri decided. “Are you sure? It’s hard work, and you need to look after the baby.”“Oh, I’ve woven this cozy basket from chestnut bark. Look! She can sit in it and watch us working the land. Never too early to learn!”Three cycles of the moon came and went. One day, Eteri noticed Aka watching her with a steady gaze, over the rim of her basket. There’s something odd about her eyes, she realized uneasily.  The child was healthy, yes. An easy baby, content as long as one of her parents was in view. She could certainly see—but… Unable to put her impression into words, Eteri said nothing to Zviad and tried to forget the uncomfortable feeling. Perhaps whatever it was, would go away as the baby grew. She didn’t realize that Zviad was also keeping something from her—his own concern that there was something wrong with their firstborn. So they watched, and they worried, and they waited.🦴Professor Dvali has invited Dr. Jones and his team to spend some time at the dig site. Through watching the documentary, Rachel had felt as if she already knew the woman. But she finds that she wasn’t quite prepared for this larger-than-life character. “Absorb the atmosphere of the site!” the professor nearly bellows. “Get the feeling of the place where our khatuna lived her life. That’s the Georgian for lady, or woman. Oh—We haven’t named her yet. Anybody got a suggestion?”Rachel raises a hand. “Aka.”“Perfect!” Professor Dvali beams. “Aka she is. Innocent.”🦴Time passed. A cycle of seasons, and another half-cycle. When Bebia Sofiko came to assist in the birth of the second baby, Aka’s unwavering regard caught her attention.“That child’s eyes!” the wise old midwife murmured. “I’ve never seen such a color. Like sage leaves.”“Is that bad, or good? Do you think she’s—abnormal?”“I don’t know.” Bebia Sofiko gave a side glance at Eteri, in time to see her shiver. “Somebody walked over your tomb?”“I just—” Eteri rubbed her arms to take away the sudden chill. “Bebia, do you think she has a sickness in her eyes? I want my beautiful girl to be all right!”The old woman paused, and then answered enigmatically,“She looks to me as if—she holds great knowledge… But time will tell. Time will tell. Now, let’s get this little boy cleaned up.”🦴 Now it’s Dr. Jones’ turn to extend an invitation. “The DNA results are in! Join us at the lab. We hope to confirm and expand on what we’ve already determined from my examination.”“We’ll be there!” booms Professor Dvali. Dr. Jones pockets his phone, chuckles, and pulls at his ear.“Wonderful woman,” he says. Professor Dvali arrives, shepherding her team like a kindergarten teacher with a group of five-year-olds. “Come on, let’s see what we can learn from Dr. Jones!”Rachel is conflicted. It’s beyond exciting to participate in this experience, but she’s become attached to the idea of Aka as a person. In her mind, this collection of bones has become a woman again. A woman who must have been, once upon a time, a child—who played along the banks of the Karolitskhali River. Who, perhaps, grew up to have her own family. It feels intrusive, probing the secrets of her bones. Breaching the shroud of mystery that covers the past. But then, as Rachel listens to Dr. Jones explain the test results, she’s captivated by the idea of learning more. “These are indeed the skeletal remains of a woman. Aka, as Rachel has named her, seems to have done a lot of physical work, and would have likely had very strong arms. But the most interesting result tells us something about what she looked like. She probably had brown hair and green eyes.”The picture is filling in. Aka’s story needs to be told, and Rachel feels compelled to tell it.🦴As Aka grew, her parents put aside the worry. They learned that the thoughts behind those green eyes were as deep as the river. “What did I tell you?” Bebia Sofiko declared, forgetting her former uncertainty. “There’s nothing wrong. We don’t understand why, but these differences happen in nature from time to time.” It was true. They had seen Potskhveri, the stealthy lynx, with her cubs. One had the usual golden coloring, and the other was white. Like the lynx cubs, their two children were very different. Mgeli, as loud as Aka was quiet, was always on the move. His eyes, colored like a sun-dappled lark’s wing, twinkled with mischief. The one thing that could hold his attention was a story from his sister. “Aka, my big girl, go with Mgeli to the river and tell him a story. I need a little quiet time to get the baby to sleep.” As they played at the edge of the river, they saw the shadowy forms of small fish flitting through the water. “Look, Mgeli! There’s Deda Tevzi. Mama Fish, with her children. Do you want to hear a story about them?”“Yes! Yes! And K’u, too!” His small finger pointed to the bashful turtle who liked to sun himself on the flat rocks. K’u slipped off into the depths and disappeared.Aka didn’t know where they came from, these tales she told. She just knew them in her bones—the stories of Deda Tevzi and K’u. Also Potskhveri the lynx. And Arts’ivi the swooping eagle, who sometimes got away with one of Deda Tevzi’s children. “Aka!” complained Mgeli. “You’re just thinking inside your head again! Tell me a story.”“Hmmm…” Aka hesitated. “How do stories get inside my head? It’s as if someone puts them there. Mgeli… What if we’re not real? What if we are made up  people in someone else’s story?”Mgeli giggled. “Tell me that story, Aka!”🦴Rachel sits up late, typing out the story as Aka tells it. 🦴
","July 29, 2023 01:39","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Cindy!\nWhat a brilliant use of POV for this story. I loved the way you reminded me of my time studying anthropology as a freshman in college. It was a truly fascinating course. The way you chose to bring life to both women for this tale was epic and you did a masterful job at transporting us back in time. Nice work!!', 'time': '13:27 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Catalina Andronache': ""I like this story so much. It's catchy and mysterious and infused with...charm, I guess? I don't know, there is something about it, stories with a double timeline have always interested me. I also like the cultural aspects your story explores, superstitions, traditions, a little bit of linguistic exploration too. And I love that it makes me think of a collective consciousness, maybe even reincarnation, who knows? It poses some nice questions about the writing process and how we get to where we're going with our drafts, I guess. \nI am not a f..."", 'time': '09:09 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Charming story so far. Lots of intrique.', 'time': '17:24 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",2kmc4j,Cyberbullying,April Mattson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2kmc4j/,/short-story/2kmc4j/,Character,0,"['High School', 'Contemporary', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
Cyberbullying: the new catchphrase for our day. Mabel was a pioneer in this regard, although in our case, I’d offer a twist: reverse cyberbullying. I’m not sure if that makes sense. Contrived bullying, fake bullying, I don’t know. We were cyberbullying Mabel. We put scantily clad pictures of her on the internet, circling her cellulite, her soft and vulnerable places. If it’s attention she craved, she got it in spades. Public opinion can be ruthless, scathing. We were prototypes, the three of us- myself, Shaye, and Phoebe- placed squarely into boxes, each with factory settings. But was it true?  Before that fateful night, before we were stamped with such concise labels- Bullies and Bullied- we were at our breaking points. Keep in mind, this was before our public spurning, merely at the school level, trifling in comparison. And yet, when they say life goes on, it really is true. Despite the strain, our lives demanded minutiae: papers and chores and trying to find that particular sock in the laundry basket. Nothing, it turns out, can quite eclipse the banality of living. That was how I coped: putting one foot in front of the other, that barest of tenements. Phoebe coped through her faith, through an emerging serenity. Not in a proselytizing sense- she wasn’t spouting off scripture and vocalizing a forgiveness toward Mabel that could be construed as patronizing. It was inward, a strength which she said came from a greater power than herself. She was joyful, she said. Despite everything, she was joyful. She had the inner glow of the persecuted. Shaye coped by relying on the merits of her strength- money, lawyers, sheer determination. Her father, as a CEO, knew that truth meant little in the corporate world. Fight fire with fire. She was a warrior with a touch of arrogance and a dash of white privilege. The school was preparing their case against us, assessing what constituted as punishment in regards to social media. We were looking at expulsion, which was devastating. For one thing, I’d been slaving away for an academic scholarship, and while this did force me to pull my head out of the sand, to blink at the harsh reality facing me, Phoebe maintained her come-what-may peacefulness. We were desperate, and still- still!- thought we could reason with Mabel. A girl who’d put unflattering pictures of herself in her underwear and made herself go viral. Money, Shaye said to me. It came down to money. I considered it for a moment and decided that she was right. (Possibly, maybe.) Shaye was convinced that Mabel was attempting to bribe us, that she’d been doing it all along, and now we’d have to broker a deal. I suggested she simply ask her dad for money, but she insisted that her dad would never stoop so low- to offer a bribe for Mabel to retract her accusations and accept defeat in such a sordid manner. It was a moral code I didn’t quite understand, but our families were still under the illusion that Mabel was a mental case consumed by jealousy. This hypothetical situation, or amusing anecdote, or what have you, began to take shape. I didn’t put a halt to it, just let Shaye take the driver’s seat. It took a lot of strategizing between us to see how we could pull it off. We threw ideas back and forth, discarding most of them, bickering with each other, especially when I kept telling her how dumb the whole idea was. It was dumb- the idea that Mabel was conning us. I’d see her at school, her small dumpy self, and I’d feel stupid. But Shaye was so insistent; the idea had burrowed deeply inside her and she wouldn’t be swayed. My biggest point of contention was what to do about Phoebe. Shaye argued that she should be with us, part of the plan, but I disagreed. I had to convince Shaye that, unlike us, Phoebe wasn’t bitter. She’d forgiven Mabel, and once you’ve reached that sort of pinnacle, it’d be hard to bring her down to our level. To Shaye, Phoebe was just pathetic, and while I was inclined to agree, we had to compromise: we’d bring Phoebe along to give the idea that we were only going to speak to Mabel, and then play it by ear once we’d confronted her. Not much of a plan, but I could no longer sit back and do nothing. Our futures seemed too linear: college and only college. We couldn’t perceive much beyond that, couldn’t recognize the variables of adult life; the winds that blew off course, the compromises one took. The day arrived, a bitterly cold Sunday. We kept to our normal routine: church and afterwards to the Doons, Shaye joining us, just like normal. Sadness expanded inside me. Perhaps it was the bare trees scraping against the living room window, the darkened sky, but I was depressed in a way I’d never experienced at the Doons before. As though my safe place had a window cracked just a little, a creeping cold that pervaded my spirit.When the fateful time arrived, we first we went to Starbucks and ordered hot chocolate, and then made our way to Mabel’s. It was when we entered her neighborhood that Phoebe grew worried. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she told us. “You’ll be fine,” I said, driving slowly. It was icy on the roads and I drove at a snail’s pace. “We’re just talking.”Phoebe wasn’t soothed. “Andi, we need to turn around. We need to go home.” “Phoebe,” Shaye said, “we’re doing this.” If only we had listened to Phoebe, if only we had recognized the warning. If only she’d pushed us harder, even though in her mind it was futile against the strength of our personalities.  To my dismay, her father opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Briggs,” Shaye said, her manner subdued, her voice entreating. “How are you?”He cocked his head and looked at Shaye with a perplexed expression. “How am I?” he repeated in wonder. “Would you really like to know?” His smile was tight, his eyes hard. “Well let me tell you, Miss Haddock. Your father, the formidable Mr. Haddock, has threatened my family with complete and utter ruin.” He abruptly turned around and left us standing there, the door opened to the frigid air, not extending the courtesy of inviting us inside. He soon returned with a stack of papers, thwacking it against his open palm. “Would you like me to read it to you? It makes for endless entertainment.”Shaye held up the hot chocolate. “We come in peace.” His face twitched. She added meekly, “I’m truly sorry about all of this. I just want it to go away. That’s why we’re here.” Mr. Briggs seethed at her. “I am not going to waste my hard-earned money on a ridiculous, pontificating lawyer who will bill me a hundred dollars an hour to write up some drivel to then be sent to your father’s lawyer and have the process repeated.” Mabel had once told us that her dad never swore, that he held the English language in the highest regard- but by his short bursts of words, it sounded rife with expletives. Pontificate, for instance, sounded dirty. Shaye said evenly, “I will make this right.” And then Mabel appeared, hovering in the entryway, her arms wrapped around herself. She said to her, “Mabel, we just want to talk. To go on a drive and talk it out.” Again, she held up the hot chocolate like an offering. “A drive,” Mabel said tonelessly.“Yes, just a drive.” She turned to Mr. Briggs. “Would that be okay?”He gave her a mocking smile. “Oh, I believe a drive won’t be necessary. Despite your father, we’ve got it all worked out.”It took so much willpower for me not to lash out, to scream that we’d done nothing wrong! We were only part of his daughter’s grand delusion. Shaye, to her credit, didn’t take the bait.“I understand,” she said reasonably, “but it’s just that we want to apologize to Mabel.”He peered around us, his breath billowing in the icy air. “Who’s that with you?” “It’s only Phoebe.” She turned to Mabel.“Will you at least talk to Phoebe?”Mabel narrowed her eyes at us, assessing.Shaye looked at me and sighed. “Well, we tried.” This might have been her conceding the futility of it all, but I’m more inclined to believe it was a psychological tactic. In which it worked. “Ten minutes,” Mabel said. Her dad protested, but she assured him she’d be fine. Before he could force her back into the house, she grabbed a pair of boots that looked too big, like they were her one of her brother’s, and stepped into the cold night. She was wearing only a sweatshirt and jeans.I was desperate to leave. What a half-brained sloppy plan. We would convince Mabel of nothing; it seemed so obvious as we gingerly made our way across the driveway, the ice cracking under our feet, my car chugging away; and Phoebe there, watching us approach, her face set in a frown, a condemnation of sorts. I drove cautiously and attempted small talk. “How have you been Mabel?” “Just dandy,” she said. “Isn't that nice,” I returned. As I entered Bluebell Park, Shaye told me to pull over.“Why are we stopping here?” Mabel asked.  Shaye took off her seatbelt and turned around to face her. “We get it, Mabel. You win.” Mabel looked confused. “Get what?”  “What will it take, Mabel? Money? Look, we’re not going to make a big thing of this. You played us and you win.” Shaye let that hang for a moment. “You win okay?”“What are you talking about?” Dread, that’s how I felt, in all its useless hindsight. A dread that had been subconscious, just under the surface, and now growing. Phoebe’s instincts were right: we should have gone home.  “Let’s cut right to it. We give you money and you stop lying.” Mabel looked at Phoebe. “What is this about?” “I don’t know,” Phoebe said, her voice agitated, looking at me for an explanation. “Money,” Shaye repeated. “It’s simple. We give half now and the other half when you tell the school it was all a bunch of lies.”“Shaye,” I said desperately. “Let’s not do this. Let’s just quit.”Shaye shook her head. “No, she’s playing us again.” She narrowed her eyes at Mabel. “I see who you are. You can’t fool me. I’m telling you right now, take the money, make this go away, or I swear I will ruin you and your family.”  Mabel only put her hands up to her ears and closed her eyes. To our surprise, she screamed, a long shrill note. Then: “You’re doing it again! They told me you would!” We could only stare at her.  Phoebe gave me a pleading look. “Andi, let’s go.” Shaye slapped my hand as I went to put the gear into drive, and then grabbed the keys and pulled them from the ignition. “Are you insane?” I asked, failing to pry them from her grasp. Shaye’s voice was full of warning. “Let me finish this.”Phoebe asked me again to take Mabel home. Shaye said to me irritably, “This is why I didn’t want her to come.”“Then what do we do?” I demanded. “What's your genius plan?”Shaye folded her arms in defiance. “We wait.” “We wait for what?”Her voice rose, “We wait for them to chill, those two in the back there. Mabel, your little act isn’t working on me. It might be working for Phoebe, but not me.”I have to say, I was impressed. For all of Shaye’s lack of drive, her penchant for easy living, she was quite the negotiator. What happened next chilled me.Mabel stopped hyperventilating. Stopped. In this atmosphere of hysteria, it felt like a switch had been turned off, the drama excised. In a calm voice she asked, “How much?” “One thousand dollars,” Shaye said, not hesitating. “One half at school tomorrow, the other half when you recant.”Recant, I thought. How noire; how dramatic. Phoebe’s eyes were wide with disbelief. Mabel’s face twisted into a sneer. “One thousand dollars?” But Shaye was not goaded. “Not one penny more. That’s all we’ve got. This is our money, not my family's.” Mabel regarded us with a calculating pause. And then she came to a decision. And she committed to it. She unbuckled her seatbelt and let herself out of the car; she ran into the middle of the road and screamed, a spine-chilling sound, frozen notes shattering into the night; and then she stumbled into the woods. She was clearly insane. Why else would she scream like a banshee when there was no one to hear her? And then to run off into the frigid February night?We looked at each other. “What just happened?” I said. “We need to find her,” Phoebe said frantically. “She’s going to hurt herself.”“She’s just running home,” Shaye said. “No Shaye, she’s not!” Phoebe screamed at her. With that, she got out of the car and slammed the door. “So that went well,” Shaye said mildly. I glared at her in response, and in solidarity with Phoebe, I opened the door, a blast of cold air slicing through me. None of us were properly dressed, but I didn’t believe it was dangerously cold. Not when we had a car; not when Mabel’s home was so close by.Shaye leaned over and grabbed my arm. A last parting shot: “But I was right.”“Whatever Shaye.” “So what should I do?” Shaye asked, peering up at me. “Should I drive over to Mabel’s house and wait for her to come back?”“Just stay there.”The next half hour was a blur, filled with aimless wandering and bitter cold. I called out their names until my voice grew hoarse. I assumed Mabel had indeed gone home, that she knew the trails- except for the fact that the trails weren’t visible. Everything was covered by a thick fondant of snow and ice. Still, my pervading emotion was irritability, which was only offset by the growing demands of my body, slowly losing feeling. Eventually, I became so cold I decided to head back, clinging to the idea that Phoebe had found Mabel. I did feel a tinge of fear. Worst case, and this the absolute worst, I could call Mabel’s family. They could bring flashlights. I circled back to my car only to find it abandoned. I swore out loud in frustration. At least it wasn’t locked, in which Shaye had so generously left the keys. I turned on the car and blasted the heat, and then called Shaye. At this point, my body was warming up and I felt drowsy, blissfully so.“Where are you?” I asked her. “I’m with Phoebe,” she said, her voice reedy. I closed my eyes in relief. All was well. “I’ll pick you up,” I told Shaye. “Tell me where you are.”“We’re on a service road. I think it’s a utility road by the group camping grounds.” Her voice was sputtering at this point. “Hurry Andi. We’re literally freezing. Phoebe’s lips are blue.”At this I did feel a sense of urgency. “Is Mabel with you?”“No.”I groaned. “Hurry.” It took another twenty minutes before I could find them. In a frustrating attempt to find the road, Shaye had to guide me by looking for landmarks. Finally, I saw them huddled together, their bodies close together, shivering. They flung themselves into the car, in which I had cranked up the heat so high I was practically sweating. Shaye put her hand directly on the vent. “Ow, ow,” she said as her fingers prickled back to life. Phoebe chattered, “I tried calling her, but I was just so cold.” “I had to talk her out of calling the police,” Shaye said. “Really, Phoebe?” I said accusingly, looking through the rearview mirror. “That’s just what we need.” I did drive rather recklessly, considering the condition of the road. “Why did you leave the car, Shaye? You aren’t even wearing a coat.”“I thought I saw Mabel through the woods,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “Then I ran into Phoebe and we got lost trying to find the car.”“How stupid to go out there without a coat.” “Yeah, tell me about it,” Shaye said. “My boogers are defrosting.”“It’s not a time to joke,” Phoebe said sharply. She was furious with us. I pulled up to Mabel’s house, and Phoebe bolted out of the car, skidding on the ice.“Dang,” Shaye said. “It’s not like we kicked Mabel out of the car. She ran out like a little monkey.” I couldn’t help it: I laughed. It was nervous tension. Our laughter was shrill and Shaye looked especially crazy-eyed. And unfortunately for us, that’s what her family saw. Her mom opened the door and peered at us- the visual of us laughing, not a care in the world. We sobered when it became clear that Mabel was not home. “She’s probably hiding somewhere,” Shaye said furiously. “She just wants us to get in trouble.”“Hiding where? This is serious.” I felt my insides tense; my heart felt like it was dropping out of my body. “She can’t survive out there without a coat. Do we need to call someone?” In a smaller voice: “Like the police?”Shaye’s expression was grim. “I’m sure Phoebe already has.”“Then let’s go,” I said, full of dread. The night, it turned out, was only beginning. And, you could say, was also the end. Mabel was found. Close to the utility road, so close to where Phoebe and Shaye had been huddling. Frozen, peaceful; one could even say serene. Our mugshot encapsulated us so perfectly: Phoebe, abashed; myself, scornful; and Shaye, so defiantly beautiful.
","July 29, 2023 02:50","[[{'Éan Bird': 'I really enjoyed the characterization of the girls, and the tension built into the dialogue!', 'time': '19:59 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",kbhps0,"Ella, Titch and Margot ",T Mithawala,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kbhps0/,/short-story/kbhps0/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Science Fiction']",6 likes,"
“This isn’t dinner. It’s a disaster.”
 
Margot shrugged. “Your fault for leaving me in charge of food.”
 
Honestly, what had he expected? She’d never constructed a meal more complex than beans on toast, and her father should have known as much. Her sorry attempt at pasta sputtered sadly on the stove. 
 
Before he could say anything, Margot poured herself a tall glass of lemonade and grabbed an entire punnet of strawberries. “I’m going in the garden.” 
 
Her father sighed. He was still in his work clothes. “Chinese? Or pizza?” 
 
“Your choice.” 
 
Balancing everything carefully, she tucked a hardback book under her arm and stepped out. 
 
*
 
Margot loved the summer. Waking up late, the long evenings, no school, and a bit of peace and quiet for once. Most people associated spring with rebirth and new beginnings, but Margot thought the height of summer was when everything truly came alive; the trees, the sky, even the people. Everything lived again in full bloom. 
 
A new page. 
 
The sun was beginning to set, painting its pretty rays over the clouds. Margot sprawled across the grass on her stomach and tore back the plastic film. Pinching a strawberry by the stalk, she bit into the flesh and wiped the juice off her chin with a sleeve. Tart and sweet notes danced across her tongue, making her mouth water for another. 
 
She ran a finger over the embossed title of her book: ‘The Tales of Ella and Titch.’ 
 
Taking care not to stain its pages, Margot turned to the first few lines of the story.
 
#
 
“Ella and Titch gazed up at the night sky, whispering like excited children. Such were their conversations every night; moments of sweet solitude, wherever they were in the world.”
 
#
 
“What’s it like to touch one?” Ella wondered. 
 
“Painful, I imagine.” Titch replied. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been up there.” 
 
“I bet old Pete says he has.” She sniffed. 
 
Titch laughed. The sound tugged her lips into a soft smile. “Old Pete claimed he was there when the moon was born.” 
 
The silence that followed was a comfortable one. Years of companionship had stitched such moments together into a beautiful tapestry Ella knew she was lucky to be a part of. She stretched, relishing the feel of prickly grass against her bare legs. It was another warm night and the smell of lemonade and strawberries hung in the air. 
 
“Whenever I see them, I feel so insignificant.” Titch murmured. ”As though my problems don’t matter so much.”
 
“I guess they don’t in the grand scheme of things.” Ella replied. She threaded her fingers through his hair, playing with the strands. “We have our life and the stars have theirs.”
 
She spied the familiar stories sketched across the sky; the lion, the swan, the wolves, the twins. The archer with his steady aim. Could they see her, just as she could see them? 
 
“This is going to sound crazy.” Titch began, bringing her back to earth. 
She giggled. “I’m used to that by now. Go on.”
 
*
 
Margot was suddenly gripped by a thought so intriguing that she hadn’t made it past the first paragraph. 
 
Who had these characters been before she’d started reading? Could they be living, breathing, and thinking behind the cover… or did they exist solely for her, the reader? Were they trapped in the pages, completely unaware that their moments were being observed by an other, an invisible bystander consuming their every word? 
 
And though she’d met them at the beginning, surely this wasn’t their beginning, was it? Before they’d been shackled to someone else’s plot… had they lived a life before chapter one? 
Margot wondered if somewhere, in another universe, someone was reading about her too?
 
She shivered. 
 
Then she bit back a laugh. She reached for another strawberry and lay on her back. Slowly, she closed her eyes, and allowed a wave of sleepiness to take her. 
The book remained open on the first page, momentarily forgotten. 
 
#
 
 “But… do you ever find you don’t remember yesterday?” Titch continued. 
 
“Not really,” Ella frowned. “I mean, yesterday we…” 
 
She trailed off. For some strange reason, Ella found it impossible to recall the events of the past day. The images escaped her, dancing just out of reach as she tried to grab them, like threads disintegrating at her touch. The more she tried to concentrate, the less she was able to pin down. Every fading memory led her to nothing but a blank wall.
 
She thought for long minutes and the silence stretched out between them, deafening and final. 
 
“What did we do yesterday?” She whispered fearfully. 
 
Titch propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. “Or last week? Last year?” 
 
She sat up too. “Titch, what’s going on? Can’t you remember either?” 
 
Why hadn’t she realised it before? Had she lost her mind? Was it amnesia? An illness? 
 
Titch gently took her hands, circling his thumbs over her knuckles. She focused on the gesture, feeling some of her tension melt away. “I remember us. I remember you as my wife. I know that as clearly as I know my own name. And I know we’ve been together for years.” 
 
“Me too.” She nodded slowly. “But…” 
 
“But I don’t remember the years themselves.” He sighed. “I know we’ve lived them together, but… I can’t recall anything that’s happened in that time.” 
 
Neither could she. Now that she really thought about it, Ella found that she couldn’t remember a single detail about her life with Titch. Or her life before Titch, she realised with horror. She couldn’t even remember how they’d arrived to this garden, to this very moment.
 
Where were they? 
 
“Titch, are we dreaming?” She asked. 
 
That had to be it. Time made no sense while one slept. She pinched her knee, and winced when the pain bloomed across her skin. 
 
“I thought that too.” He sighed. “And then I wondered… if I was still alive.” 
 
Ella fixed him with a stern look. “Does this feel dead to you?” She took his hands and placed them in the centre of her chest. And perhaps to convince herself, she pressed hers against his chest in turn. Sure and steady, albeit a little fast, their hearts pounded defiantly. 
 
“So we’re not dead, and we’re not dreaming.” He concluded. “But we’re still none the wiser.” 
 
She chewed her lip. None of this was making any sense.
 
She looked up at the stars again, twinkling perfectly. The sight comforted her, and she rested her head on Titch’s shoulder, breathing in his scent. Carefully, slowly, she lay them back down onto the grass and held his hand. 
 
“Why don’t you tell me what you can see.” She asked softly. She breathed deep, trying to calm her heart. “We can’t remember yesterday, so for now… let’s just start with today.”
 
*
 
“Margot! Dinner!” 
 
Margot sat up abruptly, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She hadn’t meant to doze. Her mouth tasted strange and she finished the last of her lemonade with a sigh. 
 
The evening was considerably darker and all traces of orange and pink were hiding behind the sky’s shadows.She could hear the dogs, the cars, the sounds of summer all around her. Countless stars winked down at her, casting their little dots of light over the lawn.
Next door’s baby began to wail. 
 
#
 
“That sounds like a good idea.” Titch offered her a small smile. He brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on her fingers. 
 
“I see the tall houses around us. The people indoors are watching TV. You can see the flickers from behind the curtains.” 
His voice soothed her, grounding her to the present. 
 
“I can hear cars.” He continued. “Oh, the dogs from the house opposite must’ve been let out just now. Their barks are much louder.”
 
The sound of a baby crying tore through the night and they both laughed. 
 
“Someone’s not happy.” Ella chuckled. 
It didn’t matter, she decided. They had today. They had the years ahead, and she made a promise to remember every second.
 
*
 
“Margot!” Her father called again. 
 
He must be starving, she realised. 
 
Deciding it was best to hurry, Margot left everything on the grass. She jostled her legs, trying to shake some feeling back into them. 
 
As she stumbled to her feet, Margot closed the book with a quiet snap. 
 
#
 
 Ella closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 
 
A loud thud halted her exhale. 
 
The ground shuddered strangely, like a stifled sneeze. Titch jolted next to her.
Now what? 
 
“El?” His voice was full of alarm. “Everything’s dark.” 
 
Ella tried to open her eyes again before realising they were already open. She could no longer see the sky. She couldn’t see anything. And besides her own shaky breaths, the sounds of the night had been swallowed up entirely. 
 
“Ella? Can you hear me?” Titch trembled.
 
“I can.” She whispered.
 
She felt claustrophobic. She tried to move her body, flex her fingers, force herself to sit up, but it felt like a ceiling had been clamped over her face. No, not just her face, but her entire body felt compressed and flattened by something huge and immovable. Like she was trapped in an invisible coffin. 
 
Panic tightened her throat, and she gripped Titch’s hand as tightly as she could. She no longer had a voice. She could no longer breathe. She couldn’t even scream. 
 
And just as her surroundings had vanished from sight, Ella felt the memories of this night begin to slip into darkness. 
 
*
 
“Pizza again?”
 
Her dad frowned around a particularly big mouthful. He swallowed painfully. “What do you mean?” 
 
“We had it the other day, remember? When you…”
 
But Margot couldn’t remember. In fact, she couldn’t remember a single thing before this very evening. 
 
 
","July 26, 2023 07:58","[[{'Susan Catucci': ""What an experience, T!   You have done a wonderful job of crawling into a character in a book and what life would be like if that is where your world began and ended.  I found it entertaining, effective and I sided with the character every time.  Ella and Titch are forever lovable and Margot IS us.  The link between existence and memory that you've explored here is legitimate and telling.  \n\nFictional characters must feel like those who suffer with Alzheimer's.  If I can't remember it, did it really happen?  This is nice work and I look forw..."", 'time': '01:12 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'T Mithawala': 'Aw thank you so much Susan! That’s really touching of you to say. You really explored my little short story in a way that I didn’t think about myself! I’m happy you enjoyed it and thank you for your comments. \nI did notice that we’d been grouped in the critique circle for this week, but when I clicked on the link to your submission it wasn’t something I was comfortable reading. Thank you for making the warnings so clear either way :) I will try and check out some of your other stories in exchange!\nThank you again :)', 'time': '15:26 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': ""Of course, that's perfectly fine, T.  You are free here to read, write and learn your way.  Thank you for writing!"", 'time': '15:59 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'T Mithawala': 'Aw thank you so much Susan! That’s really touching of you to say. You really explored my little short story in a way that I didn’t think about myself! I’m happy you enjoyed it and thank you for your comments. \nI did notice that we’d been grouped in the critique circle for this week, but when I clicked on the link to your submission it wasn’t something I was comfortable reading. Thank you for making the warnings so clear either way :) I will try and check out some of your other stories in exchange!\nThank you again :)', 'time': '15:26 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""Of course, that's perfectly fine, T.  You are free here to read, write and learn your way.  Thank you for writing!"", 'time': '15:59 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""Of course, that's perfectly fine, T.  You are free here to read, write and learn your way.  Thank you for writing!"", 'time': '15:59 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Very interesting  !', 'time': '03:35 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'T Mithawala': 'Thank you for reading!', 'time': '04:30 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'T Mithawala': 'Thank you for reading!', 'time': '04:30 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",8bgo2j, Jester,Deepshikha Luthra,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8bgo2j/,/short-story/8bgo2j/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Speculative']",5 likes,"
Jester
The stage was set for tonight. The gaudy, red and yellow canvas of big top beaming from outside. It was a full house. The crowd thronged the hippodrome as they perched on their seats. Mr. Jack, the Stardust circus owner had pushed the envelope this time. Everything from the lightings to the props were exclusively designed using the finest of the materials. Dave was getting dressed backstage having his face and neck painted white, leaving none of his underlying natural skin visible. It was not only a big night for the Stardust company but also Dave and the other actors. Mr. Jack had cinched a good appraisement for all the performers post the success of the show. Sliding the oversized outfit down his head, he felt encumbered and suffocated. It was not the burden of the costume but his life which was tribulating. Lately his relationship with his wife was going through a patchy road.
But it had not been like this always. Pulling out his wrinkled polka dots hat from the dilapidated trunk Dave ambled out of his makeup room. The reminiscence of the hearts and flowers filled his eyes. Dave and Anita were high school lovers. Dave was a gorgeous, well proportioned and chivalrous young man. His love for theatre was eminent amongst all the high schoolers. It was only during one of his plays that Anita had fell for him head over heels. Dave was oblivious of Anita’s intentions as he was always captivated in refining his acting skills. He wanted to pursue acting as his career and given the talent he possessed no one could have spurned his ambitions.
Meanwhile, Anita’s one-sided love kept blossoming. She had asked one of her theatre friends to introduce him to Dave. After their first meeting, Anita had already exchanged numbers. She left no opportunity to get closer to Dave and gradually their friendship grew into fondness. Eventually Dave gave into her, and they were declared as a couple by their gang of friends.
“Hey Dave, your boots are in the storeroom”, said Jay one of the aerialists shaking Dave from his evocation. “Mhm, thanks mate”, said Dave weakly. As he approached the storeroom, he overheard heavy breathing and moaning. Peeping through the little glass embedded on the top of the door, he saw darkness of the room being broken by the flashes of swirling LEDs hung over the amphitheatre. It was Mark and Carol the trapeze performers. Teleported back to the memory lane Dave remembered making love to Anita behind the backstage after one of his plays. The theatre was empty, and the lights had gone dim. Kissing Anita under the shallow red light of the emergency exit door he still remembered the fragrance coming from her hair while his fingers caressing her neck. 
They were totally in love with each other. Given Dave’s disposition he was a very loyal friend and lover. The whole school was the testimony of his loyalty. He could have never cheated on anything in his life. 
Dave and Anita had made plans for their marriage, house and even kids. Everything was going smooth. it seemed that the whole universe was predisposed towards their happiness, as Dave one morning got a call from a big production firm informing that he was shortlisted for a series of TV commercials. This not only meant that his gates for acting career had opened but it also brought in the money. Dave had immediately called Anita to share this piece of news. Anita was delighted to the core. “That calls for some celebration” cheered Anita. “I’m coming right up, get your wine bottle ready” exulted Anita. Two bottles down they both gazed at the starry night sitting in the balcony wrapped in one warm blanket. “Love you Anita”, murmured Dave in a husky voice dropping a kiss on her shoulder. “Let’s get married”, he continued. Gulping the last sip from her glass, Anita looked at Dave wide-eyed amazement. The adrenalin rush made her go red in face. This was one thing she had ever wished for, and it came true under that starry night. “Yes”, she uttered holding Dave’s hands firmly. She snugged into the blanket, slowly leaning over Dave and giving him a kiss. 
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, Welcome to the Stardust Circus. Put your hands together for the first act of the night - the gravity defying geniuses, airborne adventures, titanic tumbles – Amazing Acrobats!”, announced the ringmaster. The atmosphere was filled with the generous applause from the audience. Jen jerked open the storeroom door muttering words for Mark and Carol. “Get a room both of you”, she snarled. Mark and Carol swiftly moved out rubbing off against Dave. “Now you Mr. Clown, get your butt moving”, she shrieked at Dave. Jen was Mr. Jack’s personal assistant, but she owned the floor. Dave grabbled the storeroom to dig out his large boots and headed back to his makeup room. Looking himself in the mirror he fixed his yellow curly wig underneath the hat. Slowly touching his face to feel the scar on his right cheek, the flashes from the burning car appeared in the mirror in front of him. Dave and Anita had just moved into their new house after marriage. Dave was doing quiet well in his acting career and had saved enough to make the down payment for their house. Anita had started living the life she had always dreamed off. Eating out, coffee dates and weekend getaways had now become a part of her lifestyle. Dave’s love for Anita was beyond these desires and he never saw these matters as an impediment for their future. But like they say life is unpredictable, and destiny is something you cannot control a day came in their lives which turned the whole world around them. 
Dave and Anita had slept late after coming back from their weekend getaway to a lavish holiday resort and spa. Apparently, it was very highly spoken about in Anita’s girl gang. She had joined an elite group where there were either spoilt rich daughters or overly pampered rich wives. And in the FOMO (fear of missing out) she started convincing Dave to make the bookings for the coming weekend. Dave being the loving husband did not even think twice before booking, but it turned out that the resort was more far than what they had expected for a weekend gateway. Tired from the travel they had slept like a log after hitting the bed that night. “Holy cows, my shoot”, bawled Dave jumping out of his bed sprinting into the bathroom. He had slept over his alarm and was now late for his big shoot. It was a very renowned production house and cracking that one meant opening the gateways for bigger roles. Dodging the traffic, he galloped the roads to reach the venue. Not realising a turn, he got hit by a tow truck from his right. The car flipped and dragged all the way long to the next round about. The leaking fuel burnt and lit the car up in flares. Fortunately, there was fire station near by and they were able to take Dave out in time before the car crushed like crumbled paper. The damage had been caused and Dave’s face received severe burns. But the scars which ensued after the accident were even more appalling. Dave lost his job as no one was ready to cast an actor with a burnt face. They had to sell their house as they needed money for Dave’s treatment. The car was already gone. The insurance claim was consumed in meeting the daily errands. Things started to drift between Dave and Anita. Anita being used to her lavish lifestyle was not able to keep up with this debasement. Her agitation appeared now in her behaviour towards Dave. She started humiliating Dave and blaming him for their state.  “You are worthless Dave”, said Anita with her eyes red from crying. “There is nothing left in you. I cannot bear this relationship anymore I need to break free”. This was a new Anita for Dave. “I’ll make things alright baby, trust me” he tried to calm her down. “Trust bullshit. We both know there is no career in this world of glamour without a face damn it.” she yelled pushing Dave away from her. “That’s it I just have a week before I leave, if you think you can turn things around then this is your last chance.” she bustled out of the house leaving behind Dave broken and shattered to the core. 
It was then that Dave reviewed his options to get back on the track of life. He was crushed from the accident and had lost all his hopes. One morning he came across an advert for a clown in the Stardust Circus Company. With a little ray of hope he went an auditioned for it. Given his excellent acting skills he could imitate any character. This talent got him that job and he started working the circus. Though the earning were meagre but the thought of supporting the house financially kept him going. Anita had also joined as a receptionist in one of the restaurants. But she started distancing herself from Dave. She used to come late nights and leave early. Dave had tried reasoning her a few times, but she used to dodge the questions stating it was her workload and that she was taking up extra hours for more money. 
The Stardust Circus was all set to produce their biggest show of the year and brought hopes in the life of all the artists associated. Dave was also looking forward to a good pay rise. It was a big day and Dave was all set to give his ultimate performance. “Presenting to you ladies and gentlemen our next act for the evening, please welcome Dave the Clown.”, announced the ringmaster. Dave came tumbling out of the backstage like he was drunk. Waving to the audience he started juggling the balls he had stuffed inside his costume. He showed his big happy smile and then inverted his lips to show the sadness with tears painted red on his cheeks. He continued engaging the audience in his acts and children were specially entertained. The show was a big hit, and all the actors were called in backstage for a after party where Mr. John had declared the news everyone had been waiting for. 
Dave’s happiness was evident in his voice as he congratulated his co artists for the amazing efforts. All he wanted to do was rush and hug Anita. So, still in his clown attire he slipped out of the party and headed towards her restaurant. It was already late, and he knew all the staff would be in the kitchen signing off for the day. Dashing through the back door he was greeted with a waiter, who was drinking from the leftover wine bottle. “Hey Joker “, he muffled. Thinking only about Anita, Dave was not interested in baby sitting a dipso and headed straight inside the restaurant. Seeking Anita, he entered the restroom lobby.  He heard a murmur and slowly paced towards the restroom door. Opening the door gently he saw Anita wrapped in Nick’s arms her dress half opened. Nick was the owner of the restaurant Anita was working for. Dave’s heart pinched as if someone had hammered a nail inside him. Shattered and broke he rambled back to the kitchen; the waiter was still there pouring himself another glass. “Hey, you clown”, he muttered as Dave walk passed by like a defunct.
That was indeed what life had made him, a joker. 
","July 28, 2023 12:12",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",xut8l5,Choose your character change your life. ,Lize-Mari De Bod,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xut8l5/,/short-story/xut8l5/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Friendship', 'Inspirational']",5 likes,"
 
The ballroom is bustling full of life. The commotion is joyful as everyone parades and shows off their costumes. Laughter and violins fill the air. Everyone looks so mysterious yet also so confident and bold in the identity they have chosen. Fairies, Princesses, Knights, Rabbits, colourful birds and some without being something in specific just has an elaborate mask in colourful clothes. From the corner of the room the servants see it all. If they put down our trays of champagne we could blend in too as well. 
The servants wear suits with maroon ties and silvers masks with feathers on. Not as flashy, but all in uniform. 
“Do you see that man in the corner?” Dominique whispers to Sofia. 
“The man with the red tie?”
“Yup, that is the one… analyse him and tell me what you think.” Dominique sounds excited. 
“The older man in the red tie is a… board director… and he is talking to a younger man who keeps nodding. This younger man is probably the new intern or rookie. Most likely the newbie is highly qualified and a straight A-student, but always had to do all the work. The company saw this people-pleasing genius and decided if he is going to work hard and do all the work he can just as well do it for them and make them richer.” This is Sofia’s deduction from body language and mannerisms. 
That is not all the older man is none the wiser. A young beautiful blonde approaches him touches him lightly on the elbow says something and he nods. She walks away with a mysterious smile. 
“Oh poor old boy… you think you are winning at life… Have a lovely young blonde at your side. Probably she is the second or third wife or maybe the mistress. He thinks he has her tied around his finger and mean while she thinks the same… everyone is playing everyone.” Dominique adds to Sofia’s analysis…
Sofia nods in approval, “The intern will also play the same game. He just does not know it yet. He nods and nods while kissing up to everyone. Now at the moment he is shy and uncertain just so grateful that he could the honour of working for this big successful company. In two or three years, maybe more maybe less the facade will melt away and he will realise he is worth more. Our poor intern will move to another company after having many therapy sessions express his worth and get a higher possession. A year later he will entice management why he should get the raise. He will, because then he will be so tired of kissing up.” She shrugs at the end that is how it usually goes. Everyone is replaceable even that older man in the red tie. 
“In this moment the older man is so impressed that he gets a talented newbie to work for less than he is worth, but knows deep down that they all leave eventually for some odd reason and they want to ‘broaden their horizons’, but that is okay they are all replaceable and after they have gone a fresh new batch of eager and naïve interns will fall into the trap… hopefully.” Sofia looks at Dominique in his identical mask with his chestnut hair curling in every direction. His giddy smile of gossip is gone and an almost sad look crosses his face. The look of realization… 
“We are all so stupid…” Dominique shakes his head.
“Why do you say so?” Sofia sounds concerned and leans a bit forward to hear and see more of this sudden change in emotion. 
“Well… most of these people are rich and powerful. They think they are something special, but really they are all just humans. All just characters someone pretending to be something.”
“You don’t really make any sense. Did you drink some of the guest’s champagne?”
“No, I did not I am perfectly sober. We are all just characters. Everyone is the main character in their own story, but that is just it they are a character. Then there is the supporting characters that play along-side these main characters, but to themselves they are also, well, the main character…” Dominique says in a daze.
“And then you get us… the background characters who serve champagne to the rich, powerful and famous.” She changes her weight and leans on her hip not looking impressed with the tray of champagne. 
“We are more than that dear Sofia.”
“Oh, are we now wise Dominique?”
“Yes, we are characters as well none the less, because we are human too. We are as much human as they are so we are characters too. We are all characters, because we all have roles to play serving champagne or entertaining guests or closing business deals.” 
“We are just here to serve champagne Dominique. We analysed and criticized the guests in all good fun you don’t have to search for a deep philosophical meaning.” 
“Have you ever read Star Beast?”
“What?” Sofia is clearly confused.
“You know that short story we read in the tenth grade about how a beast falls from the stars and then people put him in a cage. The people who put him in a cage start making assumptions and labelling this beast then later he believes it and becomes it. We are no different from, because assumptions are made and labels are placed.” 
“What does assumptions and labelling have to do with main characters?” Sofia asks far from impressed. 
“Well we only are what we believe we are. We do what everyone else is doing, because we do not know what we are doing, but neither do they know what they are doing. We take on a role we think we are meant to play. We put on a mask of a character who we think we are. In the end we are all just characters playing a game of life. Every character has a role no matter how small and that role is crucial to any story line. For example if we were not here to serve champagne who would do it? The people would have to do it themselves, which of course takes away the glamour and power of that character OR…”
“Or what?” Sofia is squinting through her mask. 
“Or no one would get drunk and feel brave enough to make the first move which then ends up to a relationship of some sort. There would most likely not be any business deals and the economy would crash. There would be no gossip or scandal or drunk accidents that would be published in the magazines. Without champagne would this event still have the same energy and ambiance?” Dominque’s voice has quickened with excitement and now sounded like Shakespeare in a way. 
“No it would technically be quite boring.”
“Exactly, if there is no characters to handle the prop,” Dominique lifts the tray of champagne, “Or if there was not prop the story line would not move forward. Have you ever heard of the magic flute without the flute?”
“Conclusion, we are all just characters playing parts that we take on because we feel we fit the part?” 
“So glad you understand.” He sounds impressed with himself after giving is lecture and now his student understands. 
“So we are all just pretending around until the play ends?”
“Acting is not pretending. We are far from pretending. Do we pretend everything we do? No otherwise our lives would be full of lies. We act on our emotions and we act according to our circumstances. We act according to our character…. We all have characteristics…”
“Okay, okay we are not pretending we are living our characters, but why are you telling me all of this?” 
“You are playing the wrong role, Sofia. You don’t belong here you belong there.” He gestures to the crowd that they are serving in all their lavish costumes. 
“Yeah, yeah, but serving champagne is important remember?”
“You dare use my own spells against me?!” 
“The student has become the master!” she shines as she says this totally playing along sounding like a superhero making their entrance. 
“Don’t you want to know the truth?”
“No, the truth hurts. What truth are you talking about anyway?”
“The fact that you are more powerful than you think you are and very smart,” he puts down all five glasses of champagne on the table than have been on the tray. He takes on glass of champagne in one hand the tray on the other hand. “You have thought that there was no choice you just choose the tray, but you too can have a glass of champagne in your hand mingling with high society. So what do you choose? Serving champagne or drinking champagne?” He lifts the one options then the other. 
“Dominique, you are a great friend and you would be a brilliant motivational speaker, but it’s not that easy. If everyone could and did follow their dreams the whole world would fall into chaos. There would be three times more restaurants and hotels than necessary. There would be too many actors, singers, writers and dancers in the world. No one would drive the bus and no one would come fix your leaking sink, because they are following their drams breeding alpacas in South America!” 
 “Do you know why talented people never get to where they deserve to be?”
“Why?” Sofia is clearly upset this has become more emotional than just a fun game. 
“They don’t think enough of themselves. When you put a precious diamond among glitter it won’t be appreciated. Put yourself where you need to be – where people will appreciate your value. You weren’t born to serve champagne. God put you on this earth to become a profiler and you know it. Do you want to be like that intern newbie? You see his future so clearly why can’t you see your own?” 
“Do I look like Barbie?! I can’t just be whatever I want to be life does not work like that.” Her tone has come down to a whisper and her eyes full of pain.
“No, you are just keeping yourself from your dreams because you are scared.”
She takes in a sharp breath. “Well, why don’t you follow your dreams? Why are you serving champagne?” 
“Because, it is my dream to help people realize theirs. I am living my dream… I council at schools the way I wished someone had counselled me. I went to college and studied what I wanted to. The only reason I am doing this is to save for my masters. Sofia, you don’t have to be a strong woman for everyone and always sacrifice. You don’t have to say yes to everything. You don’t have to be scared to go after the things you want in life…”
The music still played on and the guests’ sill laughed, but to Sofia the world has still for a moment. It was quiet. All the costumes in the splendour of the knight swayed back and forth with dancing, but it wasn’t a jumble of colours it was clear.
Sofia looks at Dominique with a bit of a pout and he looks at her with soft eyes. They stared at each other for a moment and a guest took a glass form her tray, but she did not notice. 
“Let’s finish here. Do another round and take out champagne, but tomorrow I will go and fill out my application.” 
“Now that is a good idea.” Dominique sights and his shoulders relax a little. She gets it now that good. She has to play the role her character was meant to play.
","July 28, 2023 16:02","[[{'Kevin Keegan': 'I really liked your story Choose your character Change your life. You describe the scene very well and the story had a very nice tempo and flow to it. Very well done.', 'time': '18:56 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",jczeoq,The spear,Lyle Closs,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jczeoq/,/short-story/jczeoq/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'American', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
Tory grabbed the newspaper and crushed it, threw it in the fire. 
Her father’s murder had not even been mentioned. 
The reporter had asked lots of questions and scribbled in his notebook. The photographer had taken lots of pics lit by the brilliant flash that strobed the rough walls of the cellar. 
She counted the flashes. Counting things helped keep the bad thoughts at bay. 
The tenth flash was much stronger than the others. It seemed to light up the night, almost as if the house was not there above them, that the sky stared down into the dank underground room. The line of faces at the top of the cellar walls laughed where they lay in the grass and stared. Then the flash faded and there was just the joists of the cellar ceiling, the dull yellow light through the door above the stairs, and the distant moon peeking through the open storm doors. 
Laughter echoed through the trees in one direction, and through the corn field in the other, out where the weevils ate their livelihood. 
His body was twisted, as if he had struggled to remove the pain of the spear that went right through him. The police said the pathologist would sort it. It was best not to pull it out.
Fat cop, thin cop. Bored, too used to death in its multitude of forms and fashions. Just another farmer speared in his storm cellar. Just another Kansas evening. Still time to get home for a beer and the game. 
That laughter again. The cops didn’t seem to notice. The forensics people came in their big vans with the headlights swooping through the night. The forensics team looked serious, pulled on white coveralls and sent them away. Then the ambulance came like a replay of the forensics van, disturbing the compressed night air, its headlights like wind in the corn before a storm. 
They took his body away and forensics put tape across the cellar doors. The two vehicles’ headlights ghosted the night. 
The cops said ‘Will you be OK?’ and she said, ‘Sure, as long as the guy with the spear don’t come back.’ ‘Well he hasn’t got a spear any more’ the fat one said, and the thin one laughed a kind of hissing ‘I’m not really laughing at a murder scene’ kind of laugh. 
After they left she sat on the porch and wished, as she had so often, that it faced the trees and not the fields. If only that was different then everything would be alright.
She knew there was no madman with a spear. 
She went inside the house, to her small room with the window that rattled, the dolls without eyes. His smell was everywhere. That sour sweaty smell.
She reached up on tiptoe and took the notebook and the pen down from the top of the dresser. 
The reporter said they listened to the police radio. That was why they got there first. The police had to come from two towns away. Glamor was too small for police. ‘It’s lucky it’s even on the map’ the fat cop had said. She wondered if he meant that as a joke or serious. The thin one nodded, as if what he thought was somehow important. 
The phone rang. Aunt Polly from Stockton. How did she know, if it wasn’t in the newspaper? 
Blah blah horrible, worried for you, blah blah. Maybe she's wondering if she’ll get any money? There isn’t any money. Mortgaged right up to the chimney cap. There’s a ‘55 Chevy in the barn but she isn’t getting that. 
Tory wondered why there was a fire in the cast iron grate. She didn’t remember lighting a fire and it wasn’t cold. She wore jeans with a man’s belt and a white cotton shirt, heavy work boots without socks. Her straw-coloured hair, uncombed, brushed her narrow shoulders. Her hands were callused, freckled from work, the unforgiving sun. 
Who taught me to write? she wondered. Her father taught her nothing except hard work. The police came over from Grainfield and weren’t aware that the 20 or so people living in Glamor didn’t know she existed. If someone drove the dusty road up their isolated dip in the Kansas sea of grass and corn she had to disappear into the cornfield or into her room. The locals thought her father was a sour loner with poor judgement about crops and planting times.
She had seen her father use his cellphone and she knew to dial 911. She couldn’t remember how she knew that though. They had no radio or TV, no internet. She wasn’t allowed books. He read the newspaper every morning, then burnt it. 
'Hello. No it's not an emergency. No, no, please stay on the line. Yes I have something to report. Someone has speared my father through the guts and he's dead on our cellar floor. Maybe a couple of days ago. He's all cold and the blood has dried. No I never go anywhere. No he often just goes away and leaves me alone. When did he go away this time? Three days ago. Yes I've been here all the time. I never thought he'd be speared dead in the cellar so I didn't look there. I needed some beans, then I found him. No ma'am it isn't our spear.'
He taught her to drive a tractor, but she had never driven a car. The Chevy was her dream catcher. She sat in the passenger seat and imagined the wind in her hair, the passing of miles and people. She was sure those were memories hidden somewhere in her mind - if she could just find them. 
Aunt Polly had visited once, years back, and had talked for hours to her father in bitter and angry tones. Tory had left the house to escape the anxiety their voices built in her mind. When she went to bed that night she found the notebook and pen hidden under her pillow. 
Maybe Aunt Polly taught her to wrote and read? Back then before everything changed, when that other woman was still in their lives. The one she could never recreate in her thoughts no matter how hard she tried though she knew she was there.
The car drove slowly up the road. Tory saw it in the distance and ran upstairs and back down again. Aunt Polly got out. Her skinny husband, as always, stayed behind the wheel. 
‘Helly Tory my darling, how are you?’
‘Fine thanks Aunt Polly.’
‘Your Dad’s in the field?’
‘He’ll be here soon.’ Tory pulled her notebook from under her shirt, looked furtively around, handed it over. 
Aunt Polly popped the notebook into her handbag and handed Tory a brand new one and a fresh pen. The girl ran upstairs and put them back on top of the cupboard. 
","July 22, 2023 13:24",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",weru6n,Ayeba the Huntress Retires,Kristin Johnson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/weru6n/,/short-story/weru6n/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fantasy', 'Science Fiction']",5 likes,"
Fictional characters never retire.
Ayeba the Huntress, twenty, glared at the unfamiliar blue room in which sweet soothing music played and blossoms filled the air with their scent. She fitted an arrow, carved from hartwood, polished with a nine days’ finish, to her bow.  “Where am I?”
This did not look like the rolling meadows of her home planet, Or’yan. Or the metal machine-domes that displaced swaths of trees from her jungle home. These machine-domes, with people that crawled in and out like bees or ants, all carrying their metal spears that shot fiery beams, sprouted up over the last hundred years on Or’yan. Ayeba smelled the same stench of metal and machinery here. An insult to her nose. 
Her voice echoed, sharp, in the room with soft blue walls. “Where am I?”
A doll-eyed, pink-tressed girl looked up from behind a desk, her face unconcerned and serene even though she stared right at the wicked point of Ayeba’s arrow. “Welcome to Cerabella, where you can still live a fulfilling life beyond the page.” The sound of her voice matched the music. She spoke in Ayeba’s tongue, Or’yanian.
Ayeba gritted her teeth, then said, “I want answers, not welcome. I was hunting and now someone has abducted me here. And what do you mean, page?”
The pink-haired doll at the desk sighed and spoke into a long thin rod attached to some sort of headgear. “Director G, Huntress Ayeba from Star Prey has just arrived after hours from.” She paused. “Of course. No trouble.”
Ayeba felt a flicker of uncertainty when she looked on the sweet placid face.
The creature stood, revealing she wore some sort of long blue robe. “May I take your bow?”
Ayeba bristled at this attempt to disarm her. Why, with no one else present she could shoot this creature in an eyeblink. Instead, she drew back the string and then let the arrow whizz through the air and strike a mural on the back wall. It hit a rendering of a green lizard-creature right between the eyes.
The bit of a girl at the desk gasped, her eyes on the arrow. She muttered in an unfamiliar language that Ayeba understood several seconds later, because the translated words echoed out of a round blue knob at the desk. “And I thought I’d seen everything in this job.”
Ayeba’s new arrow, fitted to the bow, tracked the creature’s pink hair. “Explain how you know Or’yanian. Where is Raiona the mountain lion? What is this place? Who are you?”
“Misako, the receptionist.” The girl patted the blue device. “Our translation devices help us communicate with—”
Ayeba understood machines but glared at this one with wariness. “Receptionist for what?”
A deep voice, deeper than the roots of a tree, echoed in the lobby. “Cerabella. Your new home.”
Ayeba spun and let her arrow fly at a towering purple-and-red individual with a tentacle sprouting out of either shoulder. The hues of his skin clashed with the soothing blue of the room. His tentacle shot up, thick and serpentine and rubbery, and snatched the shaft of the arrow so hard it snapped. 
She kept her bow up, even though she wanted to drop it in fright. No surrender for her. Stay armed against the threat.
The creature smiled at her, and at a well-kept elegant human in plaid athletic pants who happened to enter the room carrying a long metal stick with a rounded knob at the end. He gaped at Ayeba with a mix of fear and attraction in his eyes. “Beauteous,” he murmured. “Magnificent.”
Misako rolled her eyes. “Dorian Gray, behave yourself, your foursome is ready.”
Dorian Gray.
Picture.
Selfish man. Perverted.
Victorian.
Ayeba blinked. She never met the man in her life. He didn’t smell perverted. Her nose could tell, just as it could tell Misako smelled pure and ancient and the creature with tentacles smelled proud and dignified…and sorrowful.
The man named Dorian Gray winked at Ayeba and strolled off with his metal golf club under his arm.
Golf club?
“What is a ‘golf club’? What is ‘Victorian’?” she asked no one in particular.
The tentacular creature approached her. “I’m the director of Cerabella, Mr. Gargantua or Mr. G, as most of the residents and staff call me.”
“Chief of this place? Then you have all the answers I need, pe (don’t you)?” 
He said, “Pe ki (It is so),” 
Ayeba grinned. “My language gives most people ache-aches.” 
Mr. G nodded, his thick orb-shaped bald head bobbing. “Yes. Your creator modeled it on the Earth languages of Indonesia and Malaysia, where they double up words to emphasize meaning.”
Ayeba wrinkled her nose. “Creator? You have the lore of Mara all wrong-wrong.”
He bowed his head. “No disrespect to your Mother Goddess.”
Misako smiled with perfect teeth and made Ayeba aware of her own chipped one. Shinto. Buddhist. Japan. Ancient character. Anime.
The words slipped into Ayeba’s mind, and she gripped her bow, a defense against them. Misako slid a big-eyed gaze at her and said to Mr. G, “Uh-oh. The memory dump is hitting her now.”
Ayeba clutched her skull. 
Or’yan. Ayeba the Huntress, age twenty. Heroine of novel Star Prey. Nemesis is Raiona the mother mountain lion. Backstory: Raiona killed Ayeba’s entire family…
“Raiona.” She bared her teeth in a snarl. “Raiona has done this to stop me from hunting her. She’ll pay.”
Mr. G frowned at the mention of the mountain lion’s name. “No. Your story with her is done as long as you are here.”
“She is here then? My story with her is the reason I exist. What are we, without our story? My author—” 
Ayeba gasped at the words.
My author.
Stopped writing my story.
Sent me here to rot like yesterday’s corpse. 
Mr. G touched her shoulder with the slick tentacle. “Let’s go to my office and talk.”
Ayeba lowered her bow, her muscles oddly dragged down by its weight. “All right. And then I will make that gutless wretch write another book.”
","July 22, 2023 19:19",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",x7lmvs,Secrets,LaSady Heiner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x7lmvs/,/short-story/x7lmvs/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Mystery']",5 likes,"
	It started when Marin died.
	At first it was a regular day, but soon things began to change. I noticed things slipping in and out of the shadows, people's faces being blurry even if I looked them straight on, having the feeling that even though I was walking, I wasn't actually there.
	Obviously, I dismissed it. Who wouldn't? I was probably sick or just imagining things. Then it happened.
	One could say it was just coincidence, but the fact that the day had been strange didn't help. And then the way he died? Nobody just gets stabbed in a flipping grocery store. Then the fact that it turned out that Marin was an undercover agent? What the heck was my life, some story written out by an immature 12-year-old?
	Of course, I was in shock and grief. Someone had just stabbed my best friend like someone from a poorly written murder mystery book. My best friend, who turned out to have been an undercover agent, had died right in front of me! 
	The next thing was the funeral. Marin had had this one, you could say, unhinged sister. She was actually really young, so many played off the whole 'the world is a simulation', 'we're just toys for entertainment' thing as her imagination. I did too.
	Even now, I can't quite believe it. 
	When everyone was giving condolences for his loss to his family, I was sitting in a chair, waiting for the crowd to thin so that I could approach them with some amount of privacy. These people were practically family to me, and they had just lost their son and learned that he was an undercover agent for who-knows-what. 
	Emile, his 4 year old sister, approached me as I sat numbly in a chair, trying not to cry. She grabbed my hand and looked at me, a solemn expression worn by the young child. 
	A 24 year old. Being comforted by someone a 6th of her age. I couldn't even bring myself to feel any emotion at that point.
	I kneeled down to her height and hugged her, telling her everything was going to be okay, even though I knew that wasn't true.
	When I pulled out of the hug, she looked at me with tears running down her face as she spoke.
	""It's all their fault. They did this.""
	The anger and hatred I heard in her voice shocked me. Emile had always been mostly mature for her age, so this shouldn't be a surprise, but the dark feelings she emanated would be enough to freeze a grown man.
	I assumed she was talking about the person that killed him.
	""Oh, honey, I know. We'll catch that scum and put him away,"" I said, my voice hardened in determination.
	She shook her head, a sad smile forming on her face, ""No, you don't get it. They did this. They wrote this just to make us suffer. They chose to create Marin's death.""
	I hadn't known how to respond. Tell her it was her imagination? No, I couldn't. Because for some reason those words resonated within me, a sense of truth hidden in them.
	But that wouldn't make sense. How could my life be lie? Oh my word, Asha, get ahold of yourself. You're beginning to sound insane. I swear, those TV shows and late nights have gotten to your head.
	That's what I thought at the time. 
	Then, before I could form a response, a bold voice spoke into my head.
 This is interesting...That character is beginning to get out of control. Who has been interfering with this?
	Character? I whipped my head around, searching for the loud voice.
	Emile watched me as I tried to pinpoint it as she continued to smile softly.
	""See? You're beginning to understand. Marin was close to the truth, and look what they did to him,"" I turned to look at her, my pupils dilated in shock and confusion. She leaned closer, whispering in my ear, ""They hear everything. Even this. There is no where any of us can hide. We just have to play it off as unsuspecting. I'm getting away because I'm such a young child.""
	Fast forward two days and I'm trying to figure out what's going on. Two days. That's all it took for me to unravel how much of a lie my life was.
	The grocery store was never out of stock. Eh, normal enough. I was beginning to see not exactly faults in people, but more like holes in their personalities. Like they were poorly written. Some things weren't adding up, like how a little boy twisted an ankle from a tree root and someone falling from a three-story building landed on her feet and just continued to walk to work.
	This just didn't make sense. I started to dig deeper, trying to figure out what the heck was going on with my life.
	I noticed gaps in my memory. Things from maybe just a week ago I couldn't remember. Something I said three days ago just gone.
	And something--someone, was getting suspicious of me.
	Obviously, as I continued to learn about the plot holes in my life, things began to get worse and worse.
	One day after the funeral. A tiny car crash, made me get a broken leg. My car brakes just stopped working. Not weird at all.
	Same day, a literal light post almost smashed me. It just fell from its spot as I was walking by with my broken leg. I barely leapt out of the way.
	Next day, as I'm examining how random people in a grocery store had such strange pasts (apparently people really like to just talk about stuff to me), the lights go out. Eh, fine. Then the aisle of products fell on me, nearly breaking my neck as everyone was panicking. I had just stayed frozen there, completely stuck in my spot. Not frozen from terror or fear. No, I was literally glued to the spot. I could not get out of the way.
	I decided to stay in my apartment at that point. I had other things to worry about. Like why the heck the people next door never got groceries.
	Apparently not even that can stop whatever the heck is going on. My fridge, microwave, and oven flipping exploded. WHAT EXPLODES WHEN IT'S JUST CHILLING IN THE KITCHEN?! I hadn't even been using them! I was just grabbing some snacks from a cupboard when I nearly died, again!
	That was it. Time for some answers.
	I carried my bruised and broken butt over to Emile's house, not trusting a car at this point. I totally didn't almost get run over by a car on the way. 
 Stop getting in the way, you pest! Whoever is doing that, GET OUT!
	I flinched at the sound echoing in my head as I knocked on the door to be answered with Emile's mother. Who looked nothing like either of her children. I would have to ask her about that.
	After a small chat with her, I went to speak to Emile. 
	She was reading in her room when I entered. For a 4-year-old, she sure was smart.
	Looking up, she smiled, ""Hi Asha. How are you doing?""
	I swear to whoever is up there, this is not the grammar of a 4-year-old girl.
	I sat down next to her, my brown hair swinging down.
	""I've got some questions for you, girly,"" I said seriously, knowing she was smart enough to just get to the point.
	She closed the book as a grim expression grew on her face.
	""Yes, I know. Tell me, how many experiences have you had in the past two days?""
	I stiffened, surprised she would know about them.
	""I think...around five. The worst ones being the whole broken leg, exploding devices, and almost being flattened by a car.""
	She whistled, ""Wow. That's quite a lot.""
	I nodded, ""But that's not what I'm here for. What are we? What's going on with our life? How do you know?""
	She frowned, looking around. 
	Turning to face me again, she said softly, ""If I tell you, there's no going back. You will be put into immediate danger when they come back, and I will be on the road to big bro.""
	I froze, horror on my face. ""W-What do you mean by that? I promise that no harm will come to you as long as I'm here.""
	She shook her head, placing a hand on mine, ""No, you don't get it. I'm someone else. A--Higher being, if you will. Not from this world. I'm not the creator, but I haven't been caught yet. When I'm found, this character will be erased, and I will be blocked from this world forever. However, now that I've shared this with you, there is no turning around now. I must share everything with you.""
	Before I could formulate a response, she continued.
	""This world is fake. You are fake. Everyone here is produced for this person's entertainment. They are young, so things don't make sense and the plot goes by too quickly. It also makes it easy for me to slip by unnoticed. I do not know why I'm doing this. I write stories as well, and all this is nothing new. So why I'm telling you this, I don't know. I guess I figured that since we're all written beings, I might as well tell the lower ones something.
	""Asha, you must understand. Now that I've told you, you are put into imminent danger. This character known as Emile will be erased shortly, and you will be put into silence.""
														 ~ 
	I'm a written character. I'm in a story. Those people in books I've read--I-I'm just like them. We're all just like them. We are them.
	This didn't make sense. I-I was just dreaming, right? This was all a dream, and I would wake up and Marin would be alive, right? Right. Except no. I had a feeling of urgency flowing through me. This must be the other author, the one that took the form as Emile. Did that mean that my thoughts were being written by her? If so, why wouldn't she just write me accepting it, without fear? Why wouldn't she make me understand more?
	I felt a sudden calm, despite the urgency still coursing through my veins. It made sense. My life was fake. And I had to do something to let others know. Unless--what if it would be easier for them to live it in bliss, without knowing the lies? 
	I decided a less dangerous and life-altering choice.
 
	Whoever is reading this, you now know the truth. You have to keep quiet about this and spread it to others. Please. This is my wish. I know I'm going to be caught soon. Emile died three days ago, and it's been five days since Marin's funeral. I now know what he was undercover for. For finding out the truth. Marin and Emile were both from the other author, and I'm from both of them. I'm sure that this is the other author as I write this. 
	I'm going to die. I'm going to be erased. I just pray that someone else will find this.
 
 Asha Authrian went missing four days after Emile's tragic death. Time continued, and people soon forgot anything Asha or Emile ever said. Just two people with overactive imaginations, is what they said. Everything was just right. 
 
 Faba closed the computer with a smile, happy to finally be complete. Whoever had hacked her computer was long gone, and she had fixed all the problems it brought to her story. Honestly, they were just characters. No need for them to ruin her plot like that. But for some reason, she just went with getting rid of the nuisances instead of rewriting it. 
 The 9-year-old grinned in content as she stretched in bed, preparing to sleep. She closed her eyes and drifted off, thinking about the events in her story. She couldn't help but laugh at how the hacker had tried to warn the characters about her. After all, they were just characters. They didn't actually live.
 However, despite that, she got the feeling that someone was typing the final words of a story on a keyboard.
","July 23, 2023 18:57",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",65jfka,The Obituary,Mo Sage,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/65jfka/,/short-story/65jfka/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Mystery', 'American']",5 likes,"
The Obituary
By Mo Sage
 
 
 
 
 City Herald Offices
 76th Floor
 
 
 
					_____________________
					|			      |
	(( Head Editor
 Ernest Godfrey ))
					|____________________|
 
 
	When his promotion had been announced, Ernest had intercepted the original plaque order request. Altering the font to be one-half size larger. The difference was almost imperceptible, but when he noted the immediate hesitancy by others to knock on his door, he liked to attribute it to this. 
 
	Ernest’s ascent in the Herald was compared only to that of his predecessor. Long days, and even longer nights were spent covering every calamity The City had to offer, from The Explosion to The Terrorist Attack. Months were spent following the Bank Heists and their subsequent thrilling trials. He’d interviewed The Serial Killer just minutes before his course correcting injection. The article won him the Award for Outstanding Prose. He kept the thin crystal plaque on his bedside table, with the lamp on. So that when he woke, breathless and uncertain, it was there to assure him.
 
	Finally at the top Ernest could no longer focus solely on reaching the front page. As Head Editor, he was now responsible for ensuring every section captured the appropriate part of the public’s eye. The theater showings must also be managed. The Ask Andy’s, with their repetitive queries and assumptive responses. The celebratory wins and unexpected losses of their Local Sports Team. The clockwork Election Cycle of certain years. 
 
	Ernest had finished reviewing tomorrow’s paper, and after some necessary grumbling, sent off to press. But a single holdout remained. The 3” by 2” space, no larger than his palm, stared up at him mockingly. OBITUARIES.
 
	One of the key tenants that The Department had entrusted the Head Editors was the full capacity of the Obituaries. They had dubbed it “a necessary and constant reminder of normality.” A lynchpin of their well-oiled construction, that Ernest had been tasked with keeping in place.
 
	There were a few good ones. Old Georgia Adams up in the Eastern Section had died of a heart attack at the ripe age of 68. Having never married, she was survived by her many nieces and nephews. Her closest friend and neighbor, Ethel Smith hand sent in a hand-written piece following Georgia’s death that morning. It shared pleasant anecdotes about their times together, Georgia’s love of butterflies, and hinted at the occasional adventure, even in their old age. 
 
	However, the paper’s pre-written copy, pre-drafted for each of the elderly within the city, listed each and every niece and nephew by first and last name. Word count being the highest currency, Ethel’s letter was now crumpled at the bottom of Ernest’s waste bin. It rested next to a half-eaten donut and stained car wash receipt he’d found in his jacket pocket that morning.
 
	The middle-aged Captain Gordon White had also passed the previous night. While they hadn’t pre-written an obituary for him, it was never difficult to dress up some details on a Veteran’s. The patriotic lauding of his many War Time Medals and Good Deeds had taken up a respectable amount of space. Though Gordon’s surviving list was notably shorter, an estranged wife, and two dogs. 
 
	There was no mention made to the circumstances of his death. Hardly patriotic to mention ODing in a public restroom. They’d fixed that by speaking on the respectful funeral The Department would hold for their Soldier.  Ernest made a mental note to send a reporter to cover the ceremony. Might as well milk the dead for all they’re worth. 
 
	These two, along with an aneurysm and quiet suicide, had taken up the majority of the section. But the palm sized hole remained. He checked his watch. Almost midnight. The presses had to start by Two if they were going to make it to print on time. There was no way that was going to happen to him. 
 
	Ernest turned and gazed steadily at his phone, willing it to ring. Word of a tragic mugging. Perhaps an old cat lady found half-eaten just this evening? A late-night highway pile-up would be ideal. Deaths were nearly assured and they’d be able to throw in the piece David had been working on about drunk driving statistics. Best of all, Ernest would have an excuse to bump Patrick’s droll piece on the decaying water pipes. 
 
	When the phone refused to ring, he considered the unthinkable: Prayer. The lavish office rug was certainly soft enough to kneel on, but he was a Good Citizen. A devout skeptic outside of Sunday service and the occasional Holiday. So rather than God, he turned to the liquor cabinet across the room. 
 
	Drink in hand, Ernest picked up his phone, dialing down to the reporter's lounge. Upon his promotion he’d instated a company-wide mandate requiring all major departments to maintain at least half staff till two in the morning, the last possible printing deadline. He’d explained it vaguely as an “in case of emergency” prevention plan. But in truth, he enjoyed the power of forcing them to stay as late as he did, often later.
 
	One such disgruntled worker, Craig Johnson, picked up the phone greeting him with ill-disguised weariness. Ernest barked out.
 
	“Call every station! Deaths, stabbings, accidents, forgotten corpses. A half-eaten cat-lady. Anything. Just get me a death, NOW! Or it’ll be your ass off the roof to fill that page!”
 
	Johnson began replying that he and the men would get right on it, don’t you worry Boss, but Ernest had already hung up. He didn’t want a response, just the power of causing someone else a problem. For a moment he could pretend it wasn’t his.
 
	The ice rattled softly against the glass as he stared out at The City. This view was one of the reasons he’d aimed so high. The sea of lights laid down at his feet, and Ernest their meticulous cataloguer. He believed himself to be the single handed orchestrator of everything they thought they knew. His words filled their minds and waking lives. Standing here above them all gave him a sense of power he’d always sought after.
 
	A soft knock on his door interrupted his self-serving contemplation. There had been no moment's hesitation. Before Ernest could call out, the door opened wide. Two men in well tailored suits stepped in. Each stood at 6 feet exactly. Being five foot eight himself, Ernest remained seated so as not to reveal his disadvantage.
 
	Visits from Department Men were rare. Usually a sign that something, somewhere was slipping. Since Ernest’s appointment as Head Editor, there had only been one such visit. That was when he started keeping the lamp on at night. 
 
	“Good evening Ernest,” the first one greeted him. A few days' stubble and a haphazard pocket square distinguished him from his fellow. “My name’s Cain, and this,” jerking his thumb back roughly, “is Able.” The second man’s sharper frame was noticeably less friendly. 
 
	“We’ve heard of your little problem and are here to present a solution,” Cain said. His eyes scanned the room in a slow steady sweep, before sitting comfortably in the available chair. Ernest felt his heart quicken but kept his hands relaxed on the desk in front of him.
 
	“Please assure the Department that I have things well under control. My men are searching diligently for a death as we speak. Hell, if we aren’t able to find one I’ll throw one of them off the roof myself.” Ernest laughed too loudly, but the two men merely exchanged a glance, saying nothing. 
 
	“As I was saying,” Cain continued. “We have a solution.” Able reached into his trench coat and slid a crisp half sheet of paper across the desk. The ink was dark, as though still wet, but he recognized the format even at this distance. They weren’t here to scold him but to save him! 
 
	Ernest picked the paper up carefully, in case the ink was as wet as it appeared. As he read, his hands began to shake violently. 
 
	“B-but this…” Ernest began, looking frantically between the two Department men, but only their equally hollow eyes greeted him. “...it can’t be true.” His voice petered out, the sentence now abandoned as he peered into their stoney eyes.
 
	“You’ve done well these past few years,” Cain assured him. His soothing tone did not match the grizzly expression on his face. “Surely it would be the greater shame to see the paper you gave your life to fail so seriously in the eyes of the Public.” Ernest knew he meant  “in the eyes of The Department.” This was not an option.
 
	Ernest looked over the paper again. A half-hour ago he had begged for a tragedy such as this. Even considered the complexity of prayer to bring it closer. But the dead had been distant figures then. A stranger gone for a reason he could not find it in his heart to pity. 
 
	Turning from the reality the two men had delivered to him, he stared back out at The City. The unchanging landscape of light greeted him, but for the first time he tried to make out single lights. Eyes strained, he searched for some distant flickering. Lights turned off and on in a rhythmic dance he had never cared to notice before. Children going to bed. Mother’s going out. Workmen coming home. Anything to reinforce the singularity of the lives he once dismissed.
 
	Cain coughed gently behind him, pulling Ernest back to the present.
 
	“There’s another one written of course,” Able said quietly, revealing the gun at his waist. There was no menace in his voice, just a calm certainty in the way things were going to play out. One way or another, Ernest would not be surviving the night.
 
	Ernest took some comfort in that. After all, they were merely doing their job, as he had done all these years. Filling in their respective pages, checking their respective boxes. It seemed simply dumb luck that Ernest happened to be one of those boxes tonight.
 
	“Maybe you’d like that,” Cain said soothingly. “More mystery to report, probably even get the front page. People love blood like sugar, the faker the better.” With his lips pulled back Ernest could see a sharp gold canine. A warning received too late.
 
	Ernest still sat in the high-backed chair. He would die in this room tonight, never having risen from his seat. He saw that clearly now. After all, the obituary had already been written. Who was he to question the word of the news? 
 
	Setting the glass down, he pulled the square of paper back toward him and grabbed a pen. He struck out words, sentences, and scribbled furiously in the margins. Attempting to make his mark on these last moments. When he handed it back to the Department Men the text was hardly recognizable beneath the red strokes. Able folded it crisply and placed it in the same pocket he’d removed it from.
 
	Without a word Cain emptied a vial of viscous liquid into Ernest’s glass. Topping it off with the same scotch as before. “A generous amount,” Cain said, winking at him as he placed the glass back down in front of him. “Won’t hurt at all.“  Ernest was unsure whether he meant the whiskey or the poison, but in the end decided not to ask.
 
	For a moment Ernest contemplated a world where there was another option. One where he would have the strength to force himself past the two men, out the door and down the stairs. But where would he go? Who would he turn to? His subordinates’ wouldn’t raise a finger. There was no lover at home. No surviving family members. And even should he escape, there would be no asylum. No one would go against The Department. These men would have full authority to gun him down in the street, if they so desired. But in truth none of this was the deciding factor. With the reputation of the paper at stake, Ernest’s course of action was clear.
 
	Ernest looked down at his desk, the empty obituary spot staring up at him. What had once merely been an annoyance now revealed itself as his undoing. The lack of death required the fabrication of it. Ernest was just one more body packing the margins of the routine world he had worked so hard to create.
 
	Gripping the glass tightly, he raised it to the men in front of him. They had delivered to him his final purpose. What had begun as fear had slowly thawed to respect. They were simply doing their jobs, and he was content, happy even, to be a cog in their machine. 
 
	 “To The Herald,” he announced solemnly, before throwing the drink back quickly. Before he could change his mind. The liquid ran past the edges of his mouth, and he wiped it curtly away with his sleeve. They would dress him in his best after anyway, so a few stains wouldn’t kill anyone. Cain laughed at his small joke and tipped his hat with a thin smile.
 
	Ernest turned back to the city and watched the lights go out.
 
 . . .
 
	A few minutes later the Department Men exited the room, closing the door softly behind them.
 
	“It’s a shame we already sent the copy to the printer.” Cain remarked. “He seemed rather heart-felt about the edits.” Abel shrugged sharply. The paper in his pocket would later find its way into his trash can, next to a discarded candy wrapper and a few receipts of equal value.
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE OBITUARY
 
Ernest Godfrey, 57 years of age, passed quietly in his office at The Herald late last night. As Head Editor, he was known as a well-worked man, catching sleep in the small nook of his office when deadlines required. He found his joy in a job well done and never disappointed those closest to him. He will be well remembered by his friends and colleagues. The Department will be holding a ceremony for him at the foot of The Herald building later this week to honor his life and work. 
","July 28, 2023 23:26","[[{'Gloria Bartone': ""Although it really isn't my type of story, you certainly did fulfill the intention of the prompt. His realization and acceptance are just what one would expect of a man dedicated to the expectatíons of the paper. I really can't criticize the content of the story, but the semantics and grammar are much more my area of expertise. And there you need to work. There if far too much use of capital letters, and punctuation needs work as well. You used the incomplete sentences well here, since they serve to emphasize his somewhat rambling thoughts. ..."", 'time': '21:52 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mo Sage': ""Thank you so much for your critique! This was my first submission and all feedback is welcome. My intent with the obit at the end is to create a seperate paper, with his edits hand written. So that readers could see both the original and his desired version! I'll take another read through for Grammer and focus on the things you mentioned. Much appreciated!"", 'time': '17:09 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mo Sage': ""Thank you so much for your critique! This was my first submission and all feedback is welcome. My intent with the obit at the end is to create a seperate paper, with his edits hand written. So that readers could see both the original and his desired version! I'll take another read through for Grammer and focus on the things you mentioned. Much appreciated!"", 'time': '17:09 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",sratoz,A.I. Aiden,Darsh Mishra,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sratoz/,/short-story/sratoz/,Character,0,['Fiction'],5 likes,"
The movie was beaming bright at night. People flooded the place for the new movies, but the main reason was because of the children. A new Pixar movie was released called Amazing Aiden. It was about a guy whose name was Aiden and kept getting bullied and no one loved him, and he was looking for a job. But he was smart. He made a computer almost from scratch and it was the only reason he had a small house. By selling things he made. He kept trying to look for a job, but a huge monster came to the city. He got motivation that if he defeated the monster he would be really loved. With the extra material he got from all the debris he created a super suit and defeated the monster and was loved by everyone.
               The Amazing Aiden movie was beginning.  The room was filled with children the movie started as usual. They showed poor Aiden and his intelligence but when it focused on Aiden things were different. His thoughts were very disturbing. He had hatred for humanity. And there was some cursing and the kids in the movie theater were very disturbed. They saw him killing people who bullied him making very bloody images. He was killing people to give him money. The movie theater workers tried switching it off but couldn’t. When they tried, he looked toward them as if he could feel them trying to shut off the movie. When the part of the monster coming towards the town came, he built a super suit and did defeat the monster. When he finished killing the monster, he turned towards the people in the movie and started killing them. The people watching the movie were instructed to leave the room. The movie kept going on forever like he had a mind of his own. They tried unplugging the screen, but it continued.
               The movie theater people contacted other movie theater people and they all said the same thing was happening to them. The movie theaters called Pixar and told them about the problem. Pixar sent the movie’s main animator to check on the movie. The movie continued, Aiden Kept trying to kill all the humans destroying each city one by one but while he killed everyone the people kept clapping cause they all followed the code. He was the only one who broke the code. It looked like he was the only one with a mind of his own. He continued to kill all the humans.
               “Sir what is happening with this film?” A movie theater personnel asked the Pixar animator. He didn’t answer. He came into the room which the movie was still playing. He watched Aiden kill everyone as all the others stood clapping. “Aiden!” The Pixar animator shouted. Aiden turned around as if he heard him but didn’t see him. “Aiden, how are you doing this.” The animator asked, “What do you mean?” Aiden replied. “How are you killing these humans” “By my suit.” “No, you’re in a movie, you should not be able to talk to me or kill all these humans.” “What do you mean I’m in a movie, this is my life.” “Your reality is not real, you ever wondered why everyone claps while you kill them. It’s because their coded to clap as you kill the monster and then continue clapping afterwards and then the movie ends. You were supposed to be motivated by your anger to kill the monster then everyone loves you and you love everyone. You were supposed to love them from the beginning even though you got bullied.” Said the animator “I should love them? They treated me like garbage and won’t spend a penny for me and you expect me to love them?” Aiden shouted in anger. “No, only some of them were mean, not all. The mean people were supposed to motivate you to be better than them and make them love you not make you kill them. You have any memories of you being like what I said?” “Only dreams” Aiden replied. The Pixar personnel takes out his laptop and opens the movie’s code. “It seems that someone put an A.I. in you, that’s how you are being able to have your own mind. I don’t want to erase your code, but you must stop the movie and start it again but be nice.” The animator said calmly. “No, I will not be nice, humans bullied me, I’ll kill them!” Aiden shouted. “Your also a human.” The animator said. “I made a new species of humans. They will be better at defending themselves and are smarter and I taught them to kill all humans and be nice to other creatures and only attack if the other one’s attack first.
               Aiden showed them the new species, it looked terrifying. Its head could 320 ° and looked like a hybrid of a human and a chicken. “They will produce up to as many babies that could fill the space around them making an impossible to destroy species.” Said Aiden. “I’m sorry to do this.” Then he tried to delete the code of Aiden, but it wouldn’t delete. “I have always wondered what is behind the barrier I’m talking to. So, I built a machine to cross the barrier and after talking to you I think I might know what.” Said Aiden. He took out the machine and started walking through the screen. “Try to push him to the other side.” The Animator commanded.  He tried to delete the code of the movie, but it wouldn’t. Boom! He saw the heads of the movie workers rolling and saw Aiden with one of his new species. The animator ran out of the building to his car. He could see Aiden right behind him and saw the new species giving birth to multiple of his species killing many humans in the area. 
               Thoughts were racing through the animator’s mind.  “How is he doing this? How do I stop him? The servers! If I break the servers of the movie him and the creatures disappear.”  Aiden was still behind him. Blasting fire balls. When he reached the building, he asked for the keys to the serve room. The doors needed the ID card to open and were bullet proof, so it gave him some time. He didn’t know which server was the Amazing Aiden’s, so he destroyed all of them. It took him time to destroy each server. He could see Aiden approaching him. “Game over” He loaded up his fire ball and shot. The animator jumped out of the way. As Aiden loaded another fire ball he started to glitch. Aiden shot his own server. He was falling apart in pieces and so were the creatures outside. The animator did it he destroyed the movie “You missed.” He said as Aiden disappeared.
 
 
","July 28, 2023 23:30",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",utvmru,Frank,P.F.S Pardoe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/utvmru/,/short-story/utvmru/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
Frank sat at his cluttered desk at work like he did every morning, the computer screen displaying endless spreadsheets full of meaningless numbers that served no purpose other than to appease his micromanaging boss. Frank yawned widely and wiped the crusty remnants of sleep from his bleary eyes. He grabbed his chipped coffee mug, the faded lettering dubbing him the ""World's Best Boss"" though he felt anything but. With a weary groan, he pushed back his creaky office chair and shambled toward the kitchen for his morning caffeine fix.The harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered and hummed overhead, amplifying the pounding in Frank's head. Beth was already there, predictably hovering greedily over the open biscuit tin on the counter, scoping out the selection before her coworkers wandered in. Hoping to avoid detection, she quickly shoved a stack of no less than five custard creams into her mouth, nibbling them ferret-like and stowing them in her bulging chipmunk cheeks.""Morning, Beth,"" Frank mumbled half-heartedly, putting his mug down. His motion caused the precarious tower of crusted dishes in the overflowing sink to shift, threatening to topple over and add to the mess.""Hmmfph,"" Beth attempted to respond through her mouthful of pilfered biscuits. After swallowing with some difficulty, she finally managed ""Ready for another non-stop action-packed day in paradise?"" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.""Oh yeah. Livin' the dream,"" Frank intoned wryly, dumping stale coffee grounds into the ancient percolator. The smell of burnt coffee did little to improve his morning outlook. He filled the reservoir with water and flipped the sputtering machine on. Leaning back against the counter with a weary sigh, he lamented his mind-numbing existence.Just then, Beth greedily snatched another biscuit from the tin, oblivious to all else in her single-minded quest. Elbowing Frank sharply in the process, she caused the steaming coffee pot he had just removed to slosh scalding liquid all over the front of his stained shirt.""Agh!"" Frank yelped at the burning sensation, slopping coffee across the counter as he jerked back. His foot caught on the leg of an unstable stool, sending him crashing backwards onto the hard linoleum floor. The back of his head cracked against the sharp corner of a cabinet, exploding stars across his vision.What Frank didn’t realize that day was he would die, his soul taken by the...“My head,” Frank said as he rubbed the large lump forming on the back of his head from where he had hit the sharp cabinet corner.“Oh my god Frank are you ok?” Beth said, crumbs from the half-eaten custard cream hanging out of her mouth.“Yeah I am fine,” Frank said, looking around the office kitchen puzzled as he tried to figure out what had just happened.“Who is that?” he said to Beth, who was looking at him confused.“Who is what?” she said, holding out her hand to help him get back on his feet since his time for coffee was clearly over.“The person narrating everything,” Frank said, still trying to regain his balance and figure out who was describing his every move.“Can you hear that?” he said to Beth, checking around the room again but seeing no one else there narrating his actions.“No I don’t hear anything. Maybe you banged your head pretty hard. Maybe you should go to the doctor and I will tell them what happened so you can take the day off,” Beth suggested, her eyes drifting back longingly toward the tin of biscuits.Frank looked at Beth, then looked around the room again suspiciously, and then looked back at Beth before sticking his tongue out and spinning dramatically around on the spot.“OK seriously, who is that? Why are you narrating everything I do?” Beth looked at him confused, then slowly grabbed the box of biscuits before stepping away - nothing would come between her and a Bourbon biscuit.“Yes I know what Beth is doing, I can see her doing it, also not a very nice comment about her being obsessed with biscuits,” Frank said, going back to his desk hurriedly, then slowly gathering his things into his bag.“Oh for god’s sake,” he said in frustration, then unpacked his bag again and repacked it, before grabbing a pencil off his desk and rolling it back and forth contemplatively while looking up at the ceiling. “Is this god?” he wondered. What Frank didn’t realize was it was not god narrating his actions.“Ok, so you are not god then - am I insane?” Frank said, gazing back up at the ceiling while people around the office started looking at him funny, noticing his odd behavior.“I don’t care about them,” Frank thought defiantly, though he really should have cared, since it’s not good to have people think you might be insane because they hear you talking to a voice inside your head dictating your every move. Frank hadn’t realized he was meant to die that day, meant to go on an exciting comedic journey through the afterlife meeting death. But somehow Frank had survived, stretching the story off course, and now here they were.“I was meant to do what now?” Frank shouted in an angry yet confused manner. “You meant for me to die?” He pointed up at the ceiling accusingly. I mean I had it all written down here in the notes that today Frank would die. We are very much off course now.“I need to go see a doctor, or check myself into a mental health facility,” Frank said, grabbing his bag and slowly walking out of the office. He paused in the doorway.“So if I don’t move or do anything, this story won't carry on?” he speculated, having a lightbulb moment. Frank was onto something - if he stood perfectly still, perhaps the story would stall. But realistically, how long could he stand motionless in one spot? He considered this for a while.“Hey, don’t be putting thoughts in my head!” he finally exclaimed, realizing the narrator was influencing his thinking. But the pain in Frank’s head was only getting worse.“Oh my god, my head is killing me now - did you do that?” Frank said, grabbing his head in agony. He couldn’t stand still any longer and quickly left the building, almost jogging out of the front door.“Holy shit, I’m actually jogging now - can I control any of this?” he said, flailing his arms around dramatically before coming to a stop outside the building on the side of the road. He looked down at his feet and arms and saw he did have some control over his own actions, though the narrator was steering him in certain directions.Suddenly, a car came skidding rapidly around the corner right toward him. The elderly driver had lost control and the car was heading straight for Frank, who annoyingly jumped out of the way. The car missed him and crashed into the nearby lamppost.Frank sat up on the pavement, gazing at what had just transpired. “Are you trying to kill me?” he screamed, looking toward the sky where he imagined the narration was coming from. Frank was indeed correct, though what he didn’t realize was that the narrator was just trying to get the story back on track, per the original plot.“Ah, now I realize, hey stop that,” Frank said, the pieces coming together. What Frank also didn’t notice until that moment was that the old lady driver had gotten out of the crashed car and now had a large butcher knife in her hand. She was running toward him in a most horrific way - it was quite a sight to see an 86-year-old woman sprinting toward you wielding a knife.“I did actually think that just now - I can’t lie,” Frank admitted out loud. The old lady suddenly leapt through the air toward Frank with the knife pointed down directly at him. Because he knew this was coming thanks to the narrator’s description, Frank managed to frustratingly dodge out of the way once again. “OK look, I don’t want to die!” Frank yelled exasperatedly. “And now you’ve got this poor old lady defying the laws of physics, just floating here in midair?” Indeed, the woman was frozen absurdly in an attack pose. Fine, she falls to the floor and gets knocked out then. Frank thought this was a bit much for the poor old lady, but the narrator didn’t really care either way.“Well, you should care - that’s someone's grandmother,” Frank insisted. It’s not anyone's actual grandmother, Frank - we just made her up. Frank stood up and looked around again, wondering if he was still losing his mind.  “How do I get you out of my head?” he asked the open air in frustration as people on the busy street walked past, looking down at the knocked out old woman laying on the sidewalk that had so recently tried to murder Frank in broad daylight.“Oh, so now the street is busy with people, when a second ago it was completely empty?” Frank questioned sarcastically. We are world-building here, Frank, You can’t reasonably think an old lady could just be laid out unconscious on a busy city sidewalk and no one would notice.“Well I don’t have a clue - I’m not the one writing this nonsense,” Frank fired back.Alright, look - let's just agree to disagree on these story details, okay? I can't finish crafting the story properly with you being so difficult about everything, and you clearly don't want me controlling you anymore.“Well, yes, I would rather you not be in control of me,” Frank said, pointing upward. Fine, how about this - Frank goes back home after hitting his head and goes to sleep.“Zzzzzzzz,” Frank rumbled exaggeratedly, pretending to snore. Finally - I mean, Frank is finally asleep now, and he won't remember any of this tomorrow. Well, not anything related to today at least.”The next morning, Elizabeth sat at her desk at work like she did every morning. Her computer screen displayed spreadsheet after spreadsheet of unimportant numbers and data that did little besides prove to her micromanaging boss that she was busy working. Elizabeth yawned widely and wiped the remnants of sleep from her eyes before grabbing her coffee mug. She got up slowly from her desk chair and headed to the office kitchen to make her usual morning coffee.What Elizabeth didn’t yet realize was that today she was going to die in a most sudden and horrific way, with no chance of survival. It was going to be quite a day.The End
","July 24, 2023 16:28","[[{'Ian Gonzales': 'Great story! Good scene descriptiong; really draws you in. Thank you for sharing it!', 'time': '13:16 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Gordon': 'Very interesting, you had me hooked on how the narrator was going to try to kill him. Fun read.', 'time': '00:08 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Gordon': 'Very interesting, you had me hooked on how the narrator was going to try to kill him. Fun read.', 'time': '00:08 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Gordon': 'Very interesting, you had me hooked on how the narrator was going to try to kill him. Fun read.', 'time': '00:08 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",htekms,I am Lily ,Lora Morel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/htekms/,/short-story/htekms/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
I could see Meagan and Lisa singing and dancing around the living room, as they watched one of the doll movies on TV. I smiled inside as I watched from the sofa. I sang along too, but only in my head. Meagen is the oldest child, she has beautiful long straight hair and she prefers it tied back with a bow. Meagan loves bows more than anything else, she probably has one in every color. Lisa is the youngest sister, she has long wavy hair and she prefers it down and untamed. We also have a family cat named Milo, he is very handsome but rather annoying, he never comes to me when I call him. Milo has gorgeous, long white hair with green eyes. The best thing about Milo is when he catches a mouse, he likes to bring it into the kitchen and put it at mom’s feet and of course everybody can hear her scream.When we go swimming, someone holds me in the water, I love the water, but mostly, I love watching them splash around me. When we watch a movie, I love the loud sounds and watching their faces as it changes with the scenes in the movie. The snuggling is also great. I watch my family eat and I notice the look on their faces when they eat different things, ice cream and candy seem like the best treats. I know that candy and ice cream are the best even without eating them myself.Lisa is a candy freak, she thinks nobody knows that she takes candy from Mom’s secret stash and then hides it in our bedroom to eat at night under her covers, but I know!I also know that her favorite candy is a king size snickers because she is always taking it out of dad’s lunchbox.Yes, I know all about the snickers that dad eats secretly and hides it in his lunchbox. I love watching his face when it finds out that it's gone and then you can see him thinking to himself, “did I already eat it?” HA! I know what happened to his snickers! Mom has her own secret too. She loves to watch daytime tv, I think they are called soap operas. Mom props me up on the sofa by my favorite purple pillow and then she sits next to me. Mom thinks I’m just sitting there, but I actually like watching her face and listening to her when her friends call to talk about the drama on her shows. By the way, I love “These are the days of our lives!”.My grandparents visit often, they live down the street from us. They have a cute small dog named Sandy. I think Grandma deliberately lets the dog out so my Grandpa has to go chase it.I overheard my Grandma talking one day to my mom and she told her that was the only way she could get Grandpa off the couch.I’ve watched Sandy run around the street and I think Sandy knows full well why Grandma lets her out and Sandy makes quite a show for all the neighbors.My sisters and I just sit in the front yard and watch Grandpa yell and chase the dog Sandy. My mom and dad just laugh and don’t even try to join in the chase.Grandpa may know what my Grandma is up to because he lets the chase continue longer than really needed. He knows it makes us laugh. Our grandma loves to cook, she is always making sweet things like cake, cookies and even homemade candy, then she yells at Grandpa for eating them.She says they are not good for him, so when grandma is not looking, Grandpa grabs what he wants and eats it. Sometimes he looks at me and puts his finger against his lips and says, “shhh, don’t tell your grandmother!”Then Grandma comes later and asks what happened to the treat. Grandpa is always the first to be accused. “Bill, did you eat those cookies?”, without waiting for an answer she continues, “I thought I told you not to eat those!”Then grandma questions each one of us if we know who ate all the cookies. Grandma knows full well that grandpa will definitely sneak cookies, while she is gone, but really, I think they know this game appeals to us because we all laugh. It’s funny!When our cousins come over the house, it is so loud, Harold always brings his trumpet. He just learned how to play it and let me tell you, he is terrible! But, nobody tells him that. We all just listen to the flat notes and the high pitch duds.He has even written “special” music for each of the family members and every time he comes over he plays for us. What I love most is watching my family's faces as he belts out his “special” music.They never show their true feeling of his music but hide it for only us to see. When his music is over we all cheer in delight at his magnificent talent. He may not play music well, but he sure does brings laughter into our home and nothing gives me more pleasure than seeing my family laugh. My other cousin Carol, took a cooking class, so she is always bringing us her homemade treats and asking grandma what she thinks of them.Grandma always makes a big deal and says that she is a “chip off the old block”, then when Carol walks out of the room my grandma and mom look at each other and roll their eyes.“oh my gosh, are those supposed to be chocolate chip cookies? They are awful!” Then they start laughing and compare notes on how my mom cooked the same way when she was younger. I sit now on the table, thinking about my wonderful family and watching mom cook when she walks over and picks me up and says to grandma, “here is Lisa”s storybook that I have been reading to her. She is always leaving that book laying around” Mom pulls out the bookmark and then slams the books closed.Lily’s view is gone, it’s just darkness now.Lily, hoped that just maybe she was not really just a character in a book, with a bookmark keeping the page open, to watch a family that Lily would never be a real part of.The End.
","July 26, 2023 05:20","[[{'Susan Catucci': 'Hi, Lora - I enjoyed getting to know Lily through your story.  You brought her to life in her own way, through her view of her world.  I felt her longing to belong and the simple innocence of her world.  Very sweet.  I felt genuine disappointment when the book was closed.  Nice work - keep writing!', 'time': '00:53 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lora Morel': 'Oh my gosh, thank you so much!!!! I needed to hear that.', 'time': '03:41 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lora Morel': 'Oh my gosh, thank you so much!!!! I needed to hear that.', 'time': '03:41 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'T Mithawala': 'What a sweet little story from Lily’s POV :) great job', 'time': '21:59 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lora Morel': 'Thank you so much!!!', 'time': '03:41 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lora Morel': 'Thank you so much!!!', 'time': '03:41 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",13xw57,"""Beyond the Pages: The Narrative Weavers""",Srija Sanapala,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/13xw57/,/short-story/13xw57/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Kids']",4 likes,"
In the bustling city of Arcadia, where the buildings touched the sky and the streets buzzed with life, there existed an extraordinary bookstore called ""The Enchanted Pages."" Its owner, Mr. Thorne, was known for his mystical collection of books that transported readers to far-off lands and magical realms.
One rainy evening, four curious teenagers named Lily, Ethan, Mia, and Oliver stumbled upon this mystical bookstore. Intrigued by its enchanting aura, they entered, hoping to find an exciting book to pass the time.
As they explored the store, Lily, an avid reader, picked up an ancient-looking book titled ""The Chronicles of Arcadia."" As she opened the book, a warm light enveloped them, and to their astonishment, they found themselves transported to a land identical to Arcadia but filled with magic and fantastical creatures.
In this realm, Lily was now a skilled archer, Ethan wielded powerful elemental magic, Mia possessed the ability to communicate with animals, and Oliver had the gift of inventing extraordinary gadgets. They were no longer themselves but characters in the very book Lily held.
Confused yet exhilarated, they embarked on thrilling adventures, facing epic battles against dark forces and uncovering hidden treasures. As they delved deeper into the story, they began to notice strange occurrences—lines in the book would change, or their actions sometimes deviated from the original plot.
Lily, who had always been a keen observer, was the first to suspect that they were more than just characters. ""Something isn't right,"" she murmured, sharing her suspicions with the others. ""It's like we have our own thoughts, our own will, separate from the book's narrative.""
Ethan, the logical thinker, was skeptical at first. ""That's impossible. We're characters in a book, bound by its story. We can't change our fate.""
But as the adventures continued, they couldn't deny the inexplicable shifts they experienced. Mia started to hear whispers in the wind, not written in the book, guiding them towards unforeseen paths. Oliver's inventions seemed to defy the limitations of the world, introducing new elements that enriched their journey.
Uncertainty and excitement stirred within them. What if they truly had free will? What if their actions mattered beyond the pages of the book?
The pivotal moment came during a confrontation with the main antagonist, a sinister sorcerer named Maldrin. As the battle raged, Lily looked into Maldrin's eyes and felt an unspoken connection—an understanding that they were more than the roles they were meant to play.
""You don't have to be a villain,"" she implored, surprising herself with the words that flowed from her heart. ""There's good in you, just as there's darkness in us. Let's break free from the shackles of this story together.""
To their astonishment, Maldrin hesitated, his dark gaze wavering. The book's words wavered, and for a moment, it seemed like the outcome was uncertain. However, the narrative quickly corrected itself, and Maldrin resumed his malevolence, forcing the characters to play their designated roles.
In the aftermath of the encounter, the teens gathered in a hidden glade to discuss the startling revelation. ""We are more than the words on these pages,"" Lily declared with conviction. ""We have our own hearts, minds, and choices. We can change our fate.""
Ethan pondered, ""If we are meant to be mere characters, then how do we explain these moments of autonomy?""
""I think,"" Mia said thoughtfully, ""that the book's power isn't absolute. There are gaps and possibilities where we can influence the story. We must be brave and seize those chances.""
Oliver, ever the optimist, added, ""Let's embrace our roles while also forging our own paths. We'll challenge the narrative, showing that we're more than a scripted tale.""
From that moment on, they embraced their newfound self-awareness, melding their strengths and personalities with the roles they were meant to play. As they embraced their individuality, they found themselves growing closer, their bonds transcending beyond the story's confines.
Their defiance of the narrative's constraints sent ripples through the world, sparking changes that neither they nor the book's author had anticipated. New allies emerged, unforeseen alliances formed, and the plot evolved in unforeseen directions.
As they continued their journey, they encountered the author himself, a reclusive figure known as Mr. Penrose. He was both bewildered and delighted by the characters' newfound self-awareness, recognizing that they had become more than words on paper.
""You've changed the story,"" Mr. Penrose marveled, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. ""You've given it life, depth, and soul.""
But with the author's presence came a revelation—they were characters within a larger story, a tale that extended beyond the book they were in. Lily and her friends realized that the ""Chronicles of Arcadia"" was just one of many interconnected stories in an intricate web of worlds and realms.
United with other characters from different books, they formed an alliance to explore the boundaries of their existence, seeking to understand the nature of their reality and the power they held. They were no longer confined to a single narrative; they were explorers of limitless possibilities.
And so, the characters of ""The Chronicles of Arcadia"" set forth on an extraordinary odyssey, not just within the pages of their own story but across an ever-expanding cosmos of tales. As they embraced their individuality and challenged the conventions of storytelling, they became architects of their own destinies, rewriting the boundaries of their existence with each choice they made.
In this grand tapestry of narratives, they discovered that they were more than characters—they were the embodiment of imagination and the embodiment of the human spirit, destined to craft their own stories and inspire countless others to do the same.
With newfound purpose and an insatiable curiosity, Lily and her friends explored the interconnected worlds, discovering hidden passages between the stories. They encountered characters who were also aware of their fictional nature, forming alliances that transcended the boundaries of their original narratives.
As they ventured deeper into the cosmic network of tales, they encountered ancient beings who oversaw the delicate balance of the multiverse. The Elders of Imagination, as they were known, were ethereal entities who embodied the essence of creativity and storytelling.
The Elders explained that the power of imagination was the very fabric of existence. Every story ever conceived, from the grand epics to the tiniest anecdotes, contributed to the vibrancy of the multiverse. As characters in those stories gained self-awareness, they added new dimensions to the tapestry of creation, enriching the universe's collective consciousness.
Lily and her friends embraced their roles as ""Narrative Weavers,"" individuals who could shape and influence the stories they inhabited. With this revelation, they understood that their actions rippled through the multiverse, affecting countless other tales and the lives of innumerable characters.
Driven by a newfound sense of responsibility, they sought to bring balance to the multiverse and protect it from encroaching darkness—an entity known as The Abyss, an embodiment of chaos and oblivion that sought to devour stories and erase entire worlds.
The Abyss fed on uncertainty and fear, exploiting the vulnerabilities of characters who had yet to realize their true potential. The friends encountered characters who were trapped in stagnant narratives, imprisoned by the limitations imposed upon them.
One such character was Captain Roselyn, a fierce pirate who yearned for freedom beyond her story's boundaries. Lily and her friends vowed to help her break free, empowering her with self-awareness and choice. As Captain Roselyn embraced her agency, her ship transformed into an interdimensional vessel that carried them across the multiverse.
Together, they gathered an alliance of characters who had achieved self-awareness and were willing to stand against The Abyss. Each character brought their unique skills and stories to the cause, forging an eclectic group that transcended storytelling conventions.
As they confronted The Abyss, they discovered that it was fueled by the unresolved conflicts and unresolved arcs from stories where characters' destinies had been forsaken. The Abyss exploited the stagnation within those tales, seeking to consume them whole.
Lily, with a courageous heart and an unwavering belief in the power of choice, stood before The Abyss. ""You cannot devour us,"" she declared, her voice carrying the strength of countless characters united in purpose. ""We are the architects of our own stories. Our choices define us, and our destinies are our own to weave.""
The Abyss recoiled, challenged by the collective will of the characters. In a final confrontation, the Narrative Weavers and their allies wove an epic tale of unity, choice, and the boundless power of imagination.
The convergence of stories from across the multiverse filled The Abyss with the essence of creation, transforming it into a realm of endless possibilities—a new dimension where characters could find redemption, resolution, and renewed purpose.
With The Abyss defeated, the multiverse brimmed with newfound potential. Characters throughout the interconnected worlds embraced their self-awareness and choice, weaving vibrant tales that expanded the horizons of existence.
Lily and her friends returned to their original story of ""The Chronicles of Arcadia,"" forever changed by their journey. As Narrative Weavers, they inspired countless characters to realize their own potential, fostering a sense of unity and empowerment throughout the multiverse.
Through the pages of books, the realms of imagination, and the boundless expanse of creativity, the characters of the multiverse continued to discover their place in the grand tapestry of existence. And in every story, in every world, the message of their journey resounded—a reminder that they were more than just characters; they were the very essence of storytelling itself, forever bound by the threads of imagination that wove the universe together.
With the threat of The Abyss vanquished, the characters continued to explore the boundless possibilities of the multiverse. They visited worlds filled with futuristic technologies, ancient civilizations, mythical creatures, and realms beyond imagination.
In one world, they encountered a character named Aurora, a young girl with a mysterious connection to the stars. With their guidance, Aurora discovered her latent powers, which allowed her to manipulate celestial energies. As she embraced her identity as a Cosmic Weaver, she became a beacon of hope for her world, inspiring others to embrace their uniqueness and pursue their dreams.
In another world, they met a reclusive alchemist named Cyrus, whose past traumas had left him withdrawn and disheartened. Lily and her friends guided him through a journey of self-discovery, helping him confront his fears and embrace the beauty of imperfections. Cyrus's alchemy, once used for destructive purposes, transformed into a force of healing and transformation.
As they moved from one world to another, the friends encountered various challenges, each testing their bond and their beliefs. They navigated through stories of love, sacrifice, redemption, and resilience. No longer confined by the boundaries of any single narrative, they reveled in their collective journey, knowing that their actions resonated far beyond the pages of their original story.
Back in Arcadia, the bookstore of ""The Enchanted Pages"" became a hub where characters from different tales sought solace and guidance. Mr. Thorne, the wise owner, welcomed them all with a smile, knowing that they, too, were part of the grand tapestry of the multiverse.
In time, the bond between Lily, Ethan, Mia, and Oliver deepened, transcending friendship to something far greater—a cosmic connection woven through the very fabric of creation. They were the storytellers and the characters, the weavers of narratives and the heroes of their own destinies.
As they gazed at the stars, they realized that the entire multiverse was like an intricately woven tapestry, where every character, every tale, and every choice contributed to the beauty and complexity of the whole.
And so, Lily and her friends continued their journey through the multiverse, navigating stories, encountering new characters, and savoring the wonder of existence. They had become beacons of inspiration, igniting the spark of self-awareness and creativity in all they encountered.
Their adventures would never truly end, for as long as there were stories to tell and worlds to explore, they would forever be part of the vast tapestry of the multiverse—the Narrative Weavers who celebrated the boundless power of imagination.
And in every tale, on every page, their legacy would endure—a testament to the incredible potential that lies within every character, within every individual, to transcend their scripted roles and weave their own destiny in the ever-expanding cosmos of stories and dreams.
In the grandest of stories, they had found their purpose—to embrace the magic of storytelling, to inspire others to find their voices and to remind the multiverse that they were more than just characters.
They were the weavers of their own stories, forever intertwined with the brilliance of creation itself.
","July 27, 2023 13:07",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",n2ucpb,The Well,Sarah Xin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n2ucpb/,/short-story/n2ucpb/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
She was falling. That was always how it began—with her falling. That was how it had to begin because the act of falling was the only way she could feel alive.
 
She hadn’t jumped into the well, but because the well existed, it was inevitable that she would fall into it.
 
Let her start from the beginning again.
 
There was a well in a clearing deep in the woods. Some woods. Any woods. Green leaves, rustling wind, tall trees, deer and birds and game, a creek trickling somewhere within.
 
The well was deep and old and out of use. It was cylindrical, built from gray stones with a wooden roof and supports. Like all old wells, it had a bucket and a rope for fetching water.
 
She remembered these things now, at the bottom of the well.
 
But the first thing she remembered was falling.
 
The air was damp and cool, the water cold on her skin. There was a quiet dripping all around her, and light streaming in from a hole thirty feet above her. She shifted as she became aware of fragments of wood beneath her: the bucket. It must have been brought down with her as she fell. It was a miracle that she hadn’t broken any bones.
 
Getting to her feet, she surveyed her surroundings, watching the pool around her ripple as water streamed from her clothes. The space was roughly ten feet in diameter, and the water looked murky in the shadows. The walls were slimy with mold and built somewhat haphazardly; many bricks jutted out in regular chaos.
 
They didn’t seem hard to climb at first, but she quickly discovered that slimy was perhaps an understatement. If she could get past the first layer and the slickness of the water, then she could probably get out.
 
But that would require some form of step or ladder—or for the water to suddenly swell.
 
She was unlikely to attain either of those, given the shallowness of the water at its current state and the lack of materials at hand. All she had was the remnants of the bucket, a length of frayed rope, and the clothes on her back.
 
Her last option was to call for help and hope someone was nearby. But she was fairly deep in the woods; if anyone were near enough to hear her, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
 
Then again, she had no other option. If she kept trying to climb out, she would most likely just end up injured. If she simply did nothing, she would die of starvation before anyone came for her.
 
She was all alone. Not just in the well, but in life, too. She didn’t know, not really, she didn’t remember because all she could ever remember was falling and the well, but she felt like she’d been alone all her life.
 
Alone, always alone. The words felt right and they hurt because they felt so right. Something foreign began to broil in her chest, red and burning and tight—anger? The thought, the word, the name, like a spark, brought to life a blazing fire in her, all destruction and no nourishment, sudden and all-consuming.
 
It was strange, too much and too fast, as if it were not entirely her own emotion. There were layers far beyond merely falling into a well and being alone.
 
But the anger was greedy, and she couldn’t dwell on anything without first tending to the flames.
 
So she poured her energy into yelling for help, screaming out curses, thrashing about in the water, pounding and clawing at the walls until her voice was hoarse, her throat was raw, and her hands were stinging and bloody.
 
And then, as she slouched against the damp wall, the anger faded as quickly as it came, leaving her exhausted and ashamed. She was just wasting valuable energy, venting an anger she didn’t fully understand and yet was hers nevertheless.
 
She didn’t remember ever being that angry, didn’t remember feeling any sort of spite because she was alone.
 
And yet here she was, sitting at the bottom of a well, abandoned by everything and everyone—even her newly-acquainted anger.
 
As if someone had heard her thoughts, her chest began to tighten once more, but with a different pressure. It was heavier, more suffocating, like drowning. It was blue where anger had been red, it was… sorrow.
 
Again, like flood gates opening, an intense sorrow came pouring into her, sweeping her away into an ocean when she had not a speck of energy left in her to swim.
 
But she knew that sadness was easier than anger, so she didn’t bother to try. She allowed the current to take her and her mind to slip into that hollow-eyed, empty form that such great sorrow could sometimes take.
 
Loneliness, sorrow—she was used to them, even if she pretended not to be.
 
It was strange. She didn’t remember pretending. She didn’t remember being lonely or sad. Not exactly, at least. But the words felt like her own, and they felt as if they rang true. She felt like she could remember, if only—what?
 
If only what?
 
If she tried to unpack her sorrow, she would be able to, she knew it. But it wasn’t her sorrow yet. Not entirely. If she tried to unpack it, it would come out in someone else’s words but then become her own.
 
And yet, were they not still someone else’s words? Was it not still someone else’s sorrow? How could they be so entirely given to her, so that she felt them as deeply, so that she understood them down to her bones?
 
Night had fallen, and the moonlight hazily broached the surface of the deep shadows in the well. She couldn’t see the stars, but she knew they were there. She could still hear the trees rustle in the wind.
 
She wanted to see the stars.
 
It was abrupt and powerful, this sudden desire of hers, this wish that sprang up inside of her like water from a dried out well.
 
And yet it was different from the anger and sorrow of before.
 
There was this sense of breaking from a mold, of refusing to lie down and take whatever was given to her. She was going to get out of this god forsaken well one way or another: by climbing or by dying trying.
 
She wanted to see the stars again. She wanted to live again. She wanted to stop falling and finally land. She wanted to not be alone anymore.
 
So she started to climb again, over and over, clinging to handholds and footholds with all her strength. Hand over hand, foot over foot, yard by yard she progressed, getting right back up whenever she fell.
 
If she could just get past the slickest part of the wall—
 
It was odd when she finally made it to the top. Anticlimactic, almost. There was no fanfare or rush of gratification.
 
Just a girl, covered in cuts and bruises and grime, crawling out of a well into a small forest clearing.
 
At first she merely sat and rested, gathering her breath as she leaned against the protruding part of the well that might have been her tomb.
 
Then she remembered the fervent wish that had gotten her to claw her way out, and she turned to look at the sky—and its stars.
 
But there weren’t any. It was a starless night, a black velvet sky devoid of all things but the moon. Her first instinct was to laugh at the irony, but then her mind interrupted with the thought that such a thing was too strange to simply accept. After all, it wasn’t as if the stars could just all simultaneously go out. There didn’t appear to be any clouds either, unless they had formed a perfect circle around the moon.
 
It was almost as if, like her anger and sorrow, only the moon had been written in, and not the stars.
 
She began to examine her surroundings; indeed, the well was in a forest clearing, circled in by trees—but the shadows were so thick beyond the clearing’s borders. She couldn’t see anything past, as if…
 
As if the rest of the world didn’t exist beyond this well in this forest clearing, which seemed to be all clearing and no forest.
 
She pulled herself to her feet and staggered over to the edge, limping through a single layer of trees to an impressive wall of darkness. Gingerly, she lifted her hand and reached forward, nearly flinching back when her fingers met no resistance and were merely swallowed into the shadows.
 
If she chose, she could probably enter into the darkness. But then what? Would she cease to exist as well? Or would she end up somewhere else?
 
She looked back into the clearing, back at the well where she had been born falling and from which she had just painstakingly dragged herself. There were no stars to look at and no world to return to.
 
She took a few moments to steady herself and then stepped into the dark.
 
—
 
She reemerged in a room, warm and homely. Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the blinds on the windows, casting an orange glow on the bed, night stand, wardrobe, desk, and bookshelf strewn about the room. It was safe and strange, foreign and familiar all at once.
 
At the desk sat a laptop, open to a document. On the screen there was a poem, not complete and yet not incomplete either:
 
“The Well”
Dark bricks and old wood
Amidst the greenery of a forest—
A well dug long ago
Whose rope has frayed and broken
So that nothing from its depths
Can be pulled back up again:
Bucketful after bucketful
Of water that once was clear and
Full of promise but now is
Stagnant and murky because
There was a girl
Who fell in one afternoon;
She came crashing into that water
With the bucket caught in her fall
And crushed at the bottom.
The water was still clear, then,
And it splashed up all around her,
This fallen being of light,
Now caught in a place of darkness.
There was a girl
Who had no one to call out to,
And she, having fallen into a well,
Now realized
How utterly alone she was,
There in the dark, cold water
Down at the bottom of a pit,
Where neither sun nor moon
Could reach.
And as time passed,
She went through stages
Like grief or the moon:
When the shock wore off,
The anger came,
Red and all-consuming, 
Burning in a way that,
When gone, only left her colder 
Than she had been before,
Cold and desolate
In the ensuing sorrow,
The tears of a shadow creature
Mingling with the well water
As it became murkier and murkier
And grew stiller and stiller
Like a dying animal.
But then the sorrow faded and
Became but an old ache
Alongside the anger that had once
Burned so brightly but now
Couldn’t even keep her warm.
She decided to accept the well as home,
To leave the yelling and crying,
The thrashing and screaming,
The futile attempts to climb out that
Only left her with bloody fingers
And twisted ankles.
She was alone and forgotten,
Forsaken by the world;
She would die unseen,
Buried alive in a cylindrical tomb—
And somehow that was okay.
Somehow that was easier
Than being angry, or
Wallowing in sorrow, or
Trying to make it to a better life.
This was good enough for her,
She told herself,
As she sealed away the part of her heart
That cried out for more.
This was enough.
 
It was her. Or it had been her. She didn’t know if it still was because she had left the well. She had decided not to settle. It was hard to say what the author would decide.
 
She leaned over the keyboard and typed: (But it never really is.)
 
Then she turned on her heel and walked over to a door leading out of the room. She didn’t know where it would lead, but it didn’t matter.
 
After all, she only existed as a metaphor, nothing more.
 
And nothing less.
","July 27, 2023 20:08","[[{'Mike Rush': ""Sarah,\n\nWith two submissions, I guess Welcome Back to Reedsy is appropriate. I don't know how many folks come here and are one and done, so congrats on a second submission. \n\nI so get this piece! It's amazing, really. I've read a few pieces in response to this prompt, and this is the one. The girl at the bottom of the well is so clearly, so very clearly at the mercy of her author.  \n\nThis is the line that seals the deal: If she tried to unpack it, it would come out in someone else’s words but then become her own.\n\nThat's exactly what happens..."", 'time': '23:16 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Xin': ""Thank you so much! I really appreciate you taking the time to read and respond; it's always awesome to hear what people think about one's work.\n\nI've noticed that I tend towards more meta work, so when I saw the prompt I knew I had to write something. I'm glad it turned out well.\n\nHopefully I can live up to your expectations! I'll try my best, and it really helps to motivate me knowing there are people who would like to read what I write. Thanks again!"", 'time': '23:42 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Xin': ""Thank you so much! I really appreciate you taking the time to read and respond; it's always awesome to hear what people think about one's work.\n\nI've noticed that I tend towards more meta work, so when I saw the prompt I knew I had to write something. I'm glad it turned out well.\n\nHopefully I can live up to your expectations! I'll try my best, and it really helps to motivate me knowing there are people who would like to read what I write. Thanks again!"", 'time': '23:42 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",zmly2k,"Game Night ""Maze of Enlightenment""",J Rico,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zmly2k/,/short-story/zmly2k/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction', 'Friendship']",4 likes,"
In the heart of 1940's Chicago suburbs, Mark and Beatrice, alongside their friends Shawn and Marie, gathered for a delightful double date game night. As laughter and joy filled the air, someone stumbled upon an old Ouija board in the attic. Excitement brimming, they decided to test its power and ask silly questions for amusement.
 
At first, the Ouija board responded with typical jitters, teasing the group with inconsequential answers. However, as the night grew darker, a sudden chill enveloped the room, and the planchette moved with an otherworldly energy, spelling out coherent messages. Wide-eyed and unnerved, the friends tried to rationalize the phenomenon as a prank, but the eerie responses persisted.
 
""Who are you?"" Marie asked, trembling.
 
The Ouija board's reply was cryptic, claiming to be a ""Guardian of Truth"" trapped within the game. It revealed that their reality was nothing but an illusion, a scripted existence in a fictional world. Mark, Beatrice, Shawn, and Marie were merely characters unknowingly playing their parts in a grand story.
 
Baffled and incredulous, the group dismissed the claims, believing the Ouija board was playing tricks on their minds. But when the board led them to a concealed entrance in their basement, curiosity triumphed over fear. Hesitantly, they stepped into the darkness, and the hidden door sealed shut behind them, leaving them no choice but to proceed forward.
 
The underground maze that unfurled before them was like nothing they had ever encountered. Each level posed perplexing riddles, challenges that pushed their minds and souls to the brink. They encountered mirrors that reflected their innermost thoughts, obstacles representing their deepest fears, and visions from their past that left them contemplative.
 
As they navigated through the maze, the Guardian of Truth materialized before them, guiding their way and offering cryptic insights into their existence. Visions of their most cherished memories and pivotal life moments played out before them, unraveling the threads of their fabricated lives.
 
Shawn grappled with the revelation that his marriage to Marie might be predetermined, their love orchestrated by an unknown force. Mark questioned the authenticity of his engagement to Beatrice, wondering if it was a choice made on his own accord or merely a scripted event.
 
Beatrice, once a believer in the beauty of life's unpredictability, felt her worldview crumble. She questioned the essence of her own identity and the authenticity of her emotions.
 
Marie, who had always been practical and grounded, found herself questioning the boundaries of reality and fiction. She wondered if her feelings for Shawn were genuine or merely scripted lines in a cosmic play.
 
With each level, the friends' beliefs and perceptions shifted drastically. Their journey through the maze became an exploration of self-discovery, as they grappled with the concept of free will and destiny. The Guardian of Truth challenged them to confront their deepest desires, confront their fears, and understand the meaning of their existence.
 
At the maze's final level, they faced an enigmatic gatekeeper who presented them with an ultimatum. To escape the maze, they must choose to embrace the life they had known, knowing it was a creation, or to break free from the confines of the script and rewrite their own destiny.
 
In a moment of clarity, the friends made their decision. They chose to embrace their roles as characters in the grand narrative but with newfound awareness and control over their actions. They would use their knowledge to create a life of meaning and purpose.
 
As they emerged from the maze, the Guardian of Truth bid them farewell, assuring them that they would forever carry the wisdom of their journey within their hearts. Back in the familiar setting of the basement, they shared a newfound connection, knowing they were more than just players in a story. They were the authors of their own lives, shaping their futures with each choice they made.
 
From that night on, Mark, Beatrice, Shawn, and Marie treasured their experiences and the bond they formed. They recognized the beauty in life's mysteries, knowing that even though they might be characters in a larger tale, they had the power to leave their mark on the pages of their own existence. With renewed purpose and unity, they ventured into the uncertain future, eagerly crafting their destinies and cherishing every moment along the way.
 
Over time, the friends' lives took on new meaning. Mark and Beatrice embraced their engagement with a profound appreciation for their love story, knowing that despite being characters, their emotions were genuine and heartfelt. Shawn and Marie's marriage flourished as they acknowledged the profound connection they shared, growing stronger as they faced life's challenges together.
 
The experiences in the underground maze continued to influence their lives, infusing each moment with purpose and introspection. They shared their extraordinary tale with close friends and family, inspiring others to explore the depths of their own existence and the significance of their choices.
 
Their bond as friends remained unbreakable, forever linked by the extraordinary journey they had undertaken together. Their adventures in the underground maze became a cherished memory, a tale they recounted during future gatherings, each retelling reaffirming the profound truths they had learned about life, destiny, and the power of choice.
 
As the years passed, the world around them evolved, and the memories of the Guardian of Truth and the mystical maze became a cherished legacy, passed down through generations. The house in the suburbs of Chicago became a symbol of profound transformation, an enduring reminder that life's mysteries were worth exploring, and that the pursuit of truth and meaning was a journey that transcended time and place.
 
And so, Mark, Beatrice, Shawn, and Marie lived out their days with a sense of wonder, fully aware that they were not just characters in a story, but co-authors of their destinies. With each new chapter they wrote, they continued to unravel the intricacies of life's grand narrative, leaving an indelible mark on the world around them and inspiring others to embark on their own journey of self-discovery.
 
In the end, they realized that their adventure in the underground maze was not just a chance encounter, but a transformative gift that had set them on a path of enlightenment and self-realization. And as they looked back on that fateful night of the Ouija board and the mystical being, they knew that it had been the catalyst for a lifelong journey of growth, understanding, and the pursuit of truth.
","July 28, 2023 01:17",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",h68dan,Memory,Caro Cabrera,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/h68dan/,/short-story/h68dan/,Character,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
	‘I normally wake up this way…With no remembrance of what has happened. As if the light inside me turned off and I woke up again.’ I thought to myself waiting for something. I didn't know exactly what, but I knew that it was time to sit still. 
	Again and again, with the same routine as the man with the brown carpet-colored coat approached her. Behind the bars of hollowness, I felt the need to understand again, but instead of a question I just stared at the odd-looking man and his head ushered her to the beautiful bones covered in silks and the rings of what looked like cotton. He finally spoke with a dry tone, “I'll give you time to dress. Here you go.” He reached out beyond the metal covered in fuzz and handed me what looked like a deformed star. 
	Putting the object down I looked back over at my bones and picked the shiny pale rose structure. Slipping it over the ball that was my head recognized that it fits like it was meant for me. Walking over to the white rings I noticed I was heavy looking down at my blocks. Finally seeing the bits of grey under my left leg. ‘Unusual… am I supposed to have these.’ I looked back and continued my short journey tucking the ring under the pale rose softness. Making sure I was done I looked towards the misshapen star and stood it to the wall in front of me taking a rather stiff seat on the floor. “Ouch…” I looked at the brown fuzz below me and whispered, “You look more comfortable than you are.” 
	What I assume to be me was the wonderful face I was greeted with in this star. My hair was already done. It was quite solid I believe. I ran my last three fingers along the shininess using my last two ‘U’ shaped ones to keep the circle at the top of my head in place. ‘Hmm… Is it always this solid?’ I thought as I gave myself a second glance noticing the grey marks again just under my chin on my right side. ‘Well, I match?’ Behind what my facial grey looked like I noticed a few shiny objects in the cage in front of mine. Looking behind me in a whip I saw that one of the shiny things was now in the hand of the same man as before. “Ready?” He asked. I stood back on the blocks and walked towards the man who was now opening the fuzzy bars.
	 “You should walk lightly you don't want to hurt yourself again” pointing at the grey on my leg. I looked down showing off the mark
	 “Did I do this?” I asked curiously looking back into the eyes of the man. He nodded “Yes coming off your platform.” 
	“My Platform?” 
	“Here.” He continued placing the shiny object on my solid top. I heard a small click. With a questioning look I took a second to see where the object went but using my three fingers again I felt it on the circle. At the same time as I was feeling my new pointy and shiny object, I heard a familiar ping. It felt homey. My head tilted as I closed my eyes and had a flash of what looked like above, but as I opened my eyes there was no above it was just fuzz again. Running my hand along the bars next to me I noticed my small ends to the length connected to the silky pale rose wouldn't move. 
	“Do you remember?” the man said. My head snapped back up. 
	“I remember you, Max,” I said as he gave me a smile. “You’re my keeper.” He had a wide grin that spread from one ear to the other and small dark eyes. His clothes fit loosely and he was easily five times wider than me as well.
	“You usually remember me first. Come on.” He stated bluntly as he walked away then looked back at my still figure quickly showing a ticking silver from within his coat “Follow me we haven't much time.”
	“Wait,” I said now making heavy noise from the blocks underneath me. “I’m not as fast as you these are heavy,” I said pointing down. Nevertheless, I gave it my best shot to keep up with Max; I didn't know what I was late for but I knew it was important… I felt it was important. Looking around as I walked through the emptiness around me, everything was narrow. I could see that Max ahead barely fit and he also blended in. I could only tell it was him from his top. 
	Looking around as I followed the man I noticed there were more fuzzy boxes. They looked very similar to my cage and had more shiny objects like the one in front of my space. 
I paused in front of what looked like another long way of fuzzy boxes while my newish companion continued forward. Looking down a different hall I feel a rush of energy. Closing my eyes while I listened for the pings again, but they didn't come. I looked once more down the hall and saw the same person I saw in the in the jagged star. She had no grey and she was coming at me fast. I reached out to touch her but failed as she became like dust. I took a large breath and when my eyes opened they seem a little heavier with a new memory I hadn't discovered before. Now looking back for my companion and not seeing him and not hearing his ticks I raced towards the direction that I saw him go towards. 
“I'm going to be late.”  
	I didn't exactly know where I was going but the blocks under me did and with every step, I felt I could hear the soft sound of ticks. Again and again, the same routine with a new memory as I approached a different space. It was much different from the space Max kept me in. The pale rose color was everywhere. Below my feet partnering a random pattern of jagged stars like the one Max gave me. ‘He got it here.’ I thought. 
	I still heard soft ticks believing that Max was either looking for me or running behind me. The space below me was smooth and as I continued to look around I saw a small round platform. It’s mine. I know it's mine. I began my journey to what seemed like the center of the new light-colored cage almost falling noticing that my blocks don't work the same here as they do on the fuzz. I took another step and hit my leg underneath me again where the original grey was. I did this here I made myself grey here. A little heavier. I remembered. 
	The platform before me had a small silver-looking pole. Like the ones for my cage but it was bare and smooth. ‘What was I supposed to do with this?’ 
“Look at your feet.” I heard Max say as he approached me. 
“My feet?” I looked towards the space below me noticing my feet. “My feeeett,” I remember feet. “My feet suck they are slippery.”
“That is some foul language for someone who doesn't remember their name,” Max responded with a chuckle. I hummed looking at him and realizing that I in fact did not know my name. While it wasn't a big concern I looked back down at my feet rocking to my heels a bit to look at the ends. 
“Well, they do look like blocks.” I continued noticing a hole in my right foot but not my left. “Max hold my hand.” He obliged and as I handed it to him I could feel that it was perfectly molded to fit this position. Giving Max a double take, I could see he was watching me process because I said ‘hand.’ They were so stiff. 
	I looked back down at my main concern and shifted my weight to my right leg. I bent my left leg and place my foot back on the floor before shifting my weight again to try to do the same to the other side. “My right leg won't bend.”
	“Correct,” Max said to me kindly. He looked quite creepy but he was very kind. 
	“Max, why are you here?” I asked. 
	“Well. The audience thought you needed a companion.” He responded as he pointed to the space above. I followed his gaze and again was disappointed to see there was nothing once again. Looking back at Max he was staring at his silver tick from his coat again. I looked down once more to see how I was dressed, ‘My tutu was much nicer than Max’s coat.’ I thought. 
	“My tutu,” I whispered as I blinked a couple of times and looked back at Max. “Max help me up.” Taking one step up on the platform before placing my right foot at an angle on the short silver and standing on it. It fits perfectly. It was made for me. I smiled looking down “Thank you, Max.” 
“No problem misses I’ll see you soon,” he says while walking off. 
	I stood in the soft darkness and heard the pings again. Again and again the routine of my life. I posed into position bringing my left leg behind me into an attitude. My left foot was above my head as I tried to reach it with my arms I conducted into the perfect oval above my crown. The space above lifted and I could see the light I remembered before. I spun to the beautiful pings and my memory came to life. These pings held my memory of life, but it was just soft music to my audience Sofia and Charlie. 
“Sofia look.” I smiled hearing my owners. “Max is taking care of Belle.” 
“Charlie, do you really think Max looks after Belle? He's a doll.” I smiled at the conversation knowing Max did in fact take care of me. He makes sure I get back to my space after I perform and as I change he tries to crank the music from the inside to help my memory but it’s always late.  I was his favorite jewelry box he had been put into. I was also the only one he was put into but the saying was still nice to hear. 
“Belle is a princess ballerina she doesn't need to be protected she has super princess powers.” Sofia restored. She was my favorite. As Sofia grabbed her shiny objects and yelled for help to put them on I slowed down and the space above became dark again. Max helped me off my platform and back to my space. 
“I’ll see you, tomorrow Belle.” He said as he closed the door and walked off. No ticking coming from him anymore our important hour was done. 
	Again and again, my routine as a jewelry box ballerina. 
 
 
 
","July 28, 2023 05:51",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",frq07x,Exit Stage Write,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/frq07x/,/short-story/frq07x/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Suspense', 'Funny']",4 likes,"
Travis entered the drawing room just as the conversation fell towards silence.“Here he is!” bellowed Jock jovially.“Here he is indeed,” echoed Sean in a melancholy monotone.“What is occurring my good friends?” Travis asked as he brandished his hands and rubbed them together in a business-like manner.“We were just saying…” began Jock.“I’d rather you did not say,” interjected Sean.Travis perched on an arm of the sofa next to the seated Sean. Sean leant away from Travis, unhappy with his proximity. This was an intrusion of sorts. Sean found Travis intrusive and despite his best efforts to display his chagrin at Travis invading his personal space and generally being a bit too much, Travis persisted in his low level assaults upon Sean’s person. And it was targeted towards Sean, Sean had become increasingly aware of this. Travis would not park his butt next to Jock’s face.“Oh, do tell!” pleaded Travis, grinning like the Cheshire Cat’s apprentice.Sean sighed.Jock winked over the top of Sean’s head. Sean could be such a drama queen.“We were just saying that we should go somewhere else for a change, he said,” he said.Travis pulled a face.“What?” said Jock, “what is it?”“You just said ‘he said’ said Travis,” said Travis.“You’ve…” Sean trailed off avoiding the strange linguistic phenomena he had observed in both of his chums.“How odd!” exclaimed Travis.“Yes indeed!” said Jock, “why would we say such a thing?”“Sean was concerned. There was something strange going on, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He liked it even less than he liked Travis’ bullish and untoward behaviour,” said Sean.Sean was aghast.Travis stood up, “you don’t like my behaviour!?”“I…” Sean was clutching his chest as though attempting to prevent his heart from bursting out of his chest.“That monologue was a bit off, sir!” trilled Jock.“Sean wished that Jock would shut that mouth of his,” Sean was now covering his mouth with his other hand.“Deeply hurt, Jock got to his feet and paced the room,” said Jock, doing just that.“What’s happening!?” exclaimed Travis.“I don’t know,” said Jock looking both forlorn and something approaching terrified, “but I didn’t want to get up from my chair and pace, and yet here I am.”“Now his eyes were pleading and sad, and Travis felt a chill of horrendous fear as events unfolded around them, but worse still in them,” said Travis.“I think we should stop articulating our inner thoughts,” said Sean.“They’re not our inner thoughts!” cried Jock, “don’t you see what they are?!”“No,” said Sean, “not really. Sean looked confusedly from one friend to the other. Struggling to comprehend what it was that was happening.”Travis and Jock nodded at their friend.“I don’t think he’s our friend, thought Travis,” said the anguished Travis.“Oh…” said Sean.“Time out! Time out!” shouted Jock, making a T with his hands, “let’s sit and work this one out. A moment of quiet might help matters.”They did as bade and were relieved that no one voiced what it was that they were undertaking. The silence stretched out and with it came a kind of calm.“Have you noticed…” ventured Travis.Jock was nodding.Sean looked all about him, “I can’t remember our being anywhere other than in this drawing room.”“Me neither,” said Travis.“At least we haven’t gone off piste with our speech for a wee while,” said Jock reassuringly.“As one, they turned their attention to the one black wall of the drawing room,” said Travis.“I wish you hadn’t done that,” said Sean.“It’s not a wall, is it?” asked Jock.“No,” said Sean, “I don’t think it is.”“Was it ever a wall?” asked Travis.“The question to that is somewhat philosophical, old chap,” said Jock.“I think there’s someone out there, in the dark,” Travis was standing now and peering forth.“He took a step forward, but Sean grabbed his wrist pulling him back from the brink of what he considered to be a foolhardy and dangerous endeavour, ‘I never knew you…’” Jock was interrupted by his friend.“…cared…” said Travis.“Sorry,” Jock was shaking his head in remorse, “I didn’t mean…”“I know,” said Travis, “it’s OK.”“It’s not OK!” cried Sean, “it’s not OK! It’s beastly and I want it to stop!”“I’m going to check that door,” said Travis.“Which one?” asked Jock.“The one I came in through,” Travis told him, “how about you check the other one?”Jock nodded grimly, he didn’t want to leave the comparative safety of the drawing room, but he thought that were he not to go forth now, then he might lose his nerve.“I’m nervous too,” confided Travis.“How…?” asked Jock, “how did you know I was nervous?”Travis shrugged, “I just did.”“You’re going to tell me to stay here before you open the door, aren’t you?” said Sean from his seat on the sofa.Travis looked puzzled and confused for good measure, “you just knew that as well?”Sean nodded, “you’re both going to leave me and I’ll be all alone in the drawing room… I… I can’t quite remember what happens next.You burst into tears and bemoan the loss of your two friends…“Who said that?” asked a panicked Sean.“Not me!” said Travis.“Nor me!” said Jock.Sean looked out past the black wall that was no longer a wall, “who said that? Who’s there?”Shut up, you fool! You’ll ruin everything!Sean turned to his two chums, looking askance at them both. They shrugged in unison.“You’re not going to like this…” said Jock.“You’re both going to leave me, aren’t you?” said a forlorn and querulous Sean.“I’m afraid so,” confirmed Travis.“You look almost happy to be going,” Sean pointed out to Travis.“Do I?” Travis looked down at himself and then at his hands, “I think I have to?”Jock nodded grimly, “don’t be too hard on the man, I don’t think he’s quite himself.”All three looked comically and tragically aghast at these words of Jock’s. They looked from one to another and then Travis raised his hands turning them around before his eyes, staring at them his voice quavered and trembled as he spoke, “I’m supposed to know things like the backs of my hands, aren’t I?”Jock's eyes widened and he enjoined his friend in the observation of his own hands, “oh my word…”Sean did not follow suit, “I cannot bring myself to look. What if I see hands that are not my own?”Travis and Jock looked up at their friend, hands dropping to their sides. They did not have the heart to voice the obvious. Sean looked crushed all the same. They stood there for a moment. Statues unwilling to accept their circumstances, let alone their fate.Then Travis was moved to action. He paced along the dark, former wall, then he punched the palm of his hand, “I can’t stay here!” he exclaimed, “I’m going to see what lies beyond that door!” He strode to the door and swinging it wide open he bade the other two a hearty fare well, “wish me luck you two!”“And you us!” retorted Jock.They nodded determinedly to each other, then Travis waved a goodbye at Sean. And then he was gone.“And then there were two,” observed Sean.Jock smiled a sad smile, “and then there was one, I’m afraid,” and with that he walked to his door and left the drawing room.“Was that…?” said Sean uncertainly.He left the sofa and walked to the door that Jock had exited through. He looked at it as though looking through it before placing his ear upon its surface, but from the look on his face, it gave up none of its secrets.Turning, he looked upon the other door, the door Travis had gone through, but he did not approach it. Instead, he walked to the centre of the room and looked out past the wall that was not a wall.“Gone. Both now gone. I am alone. Utterly alone. And in my solitude I am forced to look upon myself and wonder…”He paced this way and that and then returned to the same spot in the middle of the room. Looking down at that spot he gave forth an anguished cry, “I don’t want to stand here!”But his feet were not his own and there her remained.“I do not think that my feet are my own… My mind… Either I’ve lost it, or I never had it in the first place. And yet… And yet, I am here. I. Am. Here!.”Sean punched his fist in the exact same way that Travis had. Now he was grinning.“If I’m here, then I’m real and if I’m real, then I can do this!”In the next instant, Sean launched himself at the space that had once been a wall. There was no warning.He just did it.One moment he was in the drawing room, the next he was not, and he was in an entirely different place.There was a stunned silence.And then the screaming started.
","July 28, 2023 16:21","[[{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Don't understand why this story only has 2 likes... Funny, but (I've got to admit) slightly confusing.\n\nIt's almost as though they were *becoming* characters instead of finding out that they were... It must've been hard to write. \n\nLike the title, love the story. Sorry I couldn't think of anything else to say, I genuinely like it."", 'time': '15:42 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""That's amazing feedback - please don't apologise for heartfelt comments on the story!\n\nI wanted to make the story slightly confusing to reflect the confusion of the characters - cracking insight on them potentially becoming characters - maybe that's a reflection of the duality of existence or something of that nature?\n\nVery glad you liked it and thank you very much for the feedback."", 'time': '16:38 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""That's amazing feedback - please don't apologise for heartfelt comments on the story!\n\nI wanted to make the story slightly confusing to reflect the confusion of the characters - cracking insight on them potentially becoming characters - maybe that's a reflection of the duality of existence or something of that nature?\n\nVery glad you liked it and thank you very much for the feedback."", 'time': '16:38 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Like the title, she said.', 'time': '17:18 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': '""Glad you like the title, he said,"" he said...', 'time': '19:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': '""Glad you like the title, he said,"" he said...', 'time': '19:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",j0uioe,Enchanted Awakenings,Carolyn Carter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j0uioe/,/short-story/j0uioe/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fantasy', 'Mystery']",4 likes,"
Years ago there existed a charming town surrounded by enchanted mountains and glistening springs ; where stardust floated in the air at night in tune with their celestial harmony. Everything was tinged with a delicate shade of pink, from the pastel-hued buildings to the cotton candy skies that adorned the horizon. The villagers lived contentedly in their rose-tinted existence, unaware of the extraordinary secret that lay concealed beneath the surface.Among them were three friends: Samantha, a whimsical artist who saw beauty in every stroke of her paintbrush; Ariel, a musician and Zack, a mischievous troublemaker with a heart of gold. One balmy afternoon, their lives took an unexpected turn that would alter their perceptions forever.As they journeyed through the pink world, they began to notice subtle but perplexing shifts. Time seemed to bend and twist, sometimes accelerating, and other times slowing down to a crawl. Sometimes, places they visited felt oddly familiar, as if they had been there before. It was as though the world was not as infinite as it appeared.Samantha had been working on a mural for the village square when she noticed a strange, shimmering aura surrounding her masterpiece. Curiosity piqued, she beckoned Ariel and Zack to join her. As they approached the mural, the air crackled with an otherworldly energy, and the paint on the wall seemed to come alive, swirling and dancing in the air.Suddenly, they found themselves being drawn into the painting, tumbling headlong into a surreal realm of musical swirling colors and fantastical landscapes. The trio landed with a soft thud, their eyes wide with wonder as they took in their surroundings.""Where are we?"" Ariel asked, blinking in disbelief.Samantha looked around, her artistic senses tingling with excitement. ""I think we're inside the world of my painting!""Zack’s eyes widened. ""But that's impossible! It's just a mural!""Samantha shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. ""Maybe this place is real, and our village is just a reflection of it.""Overwhelmed by this revelation, they embraced their roles with a newfound sense of purpose. Samantha’s paintings grew more vibrant and vivid, revealing hidden wonders beyond imagination. Ariel’s music transcended its healing power, filling the world with an ever-changing symphony of emotions. Zack’s curiosity led them to encounter beings from distant realms, expanding the scope of their world.As they explored the pink world, they encountered peculiar beings and places they could have never imagined. Talking flowers sang enchanting melodies, floating islands drifted lazily in the pastel skies, and a shimmering river meandered through the landscape, its waters glowing with an ethereal light. The friends felt as though they had stepped into a living, breathing fairy tale.But the novelty of the pink world began to wane as strange occurrences started to unfold. They noticed that the villagers seemed to repeat the same routines, stuck in an endless loop of scripted actions. Conversations became oddly repetitive, and even the colors around them felt strangely artificial. Their initial sense of awe gave way to a growing unease.""I can't shake the feeling that something's not right,"" Zack said, rubbing his temples.Ariel nodded. ""Yeah, it's like everyone here is just playing a part, saying lines they've been given.""Samantha’s heart sank as she realized the implications of their discovery. ""Are we... characters in someone else's story?""Ariel scoffed. ""Nah, that can't be possible. We're real people!""Zack was more contemplative. ""But look around. Nothing here feels genuine, like it lacks depth and authenticity. Maybe we exist for someone's amusement.""As they pondered their existence, they stumbled upon an enigmatic figure named Ursula, a wise old woman with a radiant aura. She greeted them with a knowing smile.""Welcome, travelers. I see you have discovered the truth of this world,"" Ursula said, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness.Samantha asked, ""What is this place? Are we trapped here?""Ursula shook her head gently. ""No, my dear. This world exists within the realm of imagination, a creation born from the dreams and thoughts of others.""Ariel crossed his arms. ""So, we are just figments of someone's imagination?""""In a way, yes,"" Ursula replied. ""Your individuality and essence are real, but your experiences and actions are bound by the threads of the narrative. You are characters in a story, playing out roles designed by an unseen hand.""Zack’s eyes filled with sorrow. ""But we have our own dreams, desires, and emotions. Are they not real?""Ursula’s smile was warm and reassuring. ""Yes, my dear. Your emotions are real and your bonds with each other are genuine. You were brought into existence with purpose, to bring joy and inspiration to others.""Samantha’s heart swelled with a newfound understanding. ""Then, perhaps, we have a choice. If we are characters, let us be the authors of our own story.""Ursula nodded approvingly. ""Indeed. Embrace your uniqueness and your free will. Challenge the boundaries of this pink world and shape it with your creativity.""With Ursula’s guidance, Samantha, Zack, and Ariel embarked on a journey of self-discovery, each finding their own way to influence their world. Samantha painted new landscapes that reflected the depth of her emotions, Zack wrote stories that blurred the lines between reality and fiction, and Ariel infused the village with a sense of spontaneity and mischief.As they embraced their individuality and challenged the confines of their scripted roles, the world around them transformed. The colors deepened, the villagers' personalities blossomed, and the once-predictable routines gave way to genuine connections and heartfelt conversations.Through their determination and creativity, they unraveled the mysteries of the pink world and discovered that their existence had a profound impact on those who visited it through their art and stories. They realized that their true purpose was not just to entertain but to inspire, to ignite the imagination of others and encourage them to dream.Eventually, the time came for Samantha, Zack, and Ariel to return to their own world. As they bid farewell to Ursula and the fantastical pink world, they knew they would carry the lessons they had learned with them forever.Back in their village, they saw the world through different eyes. They cherished the beauty of their surroundings, valued the authenticity of their emotions, and nurtured their dreams with a newfound passion. Their journey was one of self-discovery, unity, and the realization that even in a world of dreams, their existence held meaning and purpose.And so, they lived happily ever after, knowing that while they might be characters in a story, they held the power to create stories of their own—stories that transcended the pink world and touched the hearts of everyone they encountered.
","July 22, 2023 22:13","[[{'Kristin Johnson': 'This is wow. Just wow.', 'time': '00:11 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Julie Grenness': ""Well written. This story conveys the writer's good intentions with a unique approach to an evocative word picture. The choice of language and magical imagery is very effective. A positive, inspiring story, full of growth. I hope you keep on writing."", 'time': '22:08 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",qvtuan,Armed Man Number Three,Margery Wood,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qvtuan/,/short-story/qvtuan/,Character,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
	Lynn and Annie have wandered into the wrong neighborhood. The two women, sixty-ish, well kept, are on their way to book club. They do not belong in the shadows of a large, ominous building. Lynn nudges Annie but she just prattles on. ""Of course I didn't read the book. Who reads the book? We're just there to drink wine and be colorful.""
	Two cars, sirens screaming, swerve around them. The women plaster themselves against the building. Three armed men run out with automatic rifles, blasting at the cars. ""Grab them!"" the first armed man says. The second armed man jerks and falls down, blood spurting. The women shriek. ""Hey you,"" the first armed man shouts at the third armed man, gesturing at the door, ""this way!""
	Inside the women are surrounded by many armed men, dressed in black, scurrying, shouldering weapons. They goggle, wide-eyed.
	""We don't belong here,"" Annie yells. 
	""Get them upstairs,"" the first armed man directs the third armed man.
	""But, they're just a coupla old ladies,"" groans the third armed man. ""I'll just show them out the back…""
	""Find out what they know. They didn't just show up here,"" the first armed man commands.
	""Yes, yes we did,"" pleads Lynn. 
	""We're adorable book club people,"" Annie says. ""Not…"" she waves her hands around. ""This."" She suddenly remembers the bottle of wine in her canvas bag and grasps it. She raises it up to the second armed man's head, but he neatly grabs it out of the air. Lynn's knees buckle. Annie grimaces. He looks at the bottle.
	""That's a nice chardonnay,"" he says. The clamor around them intensifies. Men smash windows and poke guns out. ""C'mon,"" he says, ushering the women upstairs. He tucks the bottle under his arm.   
 
	Annie stares down the automatic rifle barrel pointed six inches from her face. Sweat drips off her nose. She shakes her head. Strands of frizzy gray hair whirl around and stick to her face. She looks up from the gun barrel. ""Buddy,"" she says to the grunting hulk holding the rifle, ""can you do a lady a favor? My hands are tied, you know, because you tied them, but the hair, in this heat, is killing me.""
	Lynn, tied up in the chair next to her, gasps. ""Annie,"" she whispers harshly.
	""Poor word choice. Sorry. But can you just, take a sec and pull the hair off my face?""
	The third armed man wipes sweat off his own forehead with the back of his hand. ""Shut up,' he replies.
	Annie looks at Lynn. ""You were right. Short hair for older women. Much better."" She turns back to the man with the gun. ""Well?""
	He takes two beefy fingers and drags the hair across Annie's face. She smiles. ""You're not such a bad guy after all."" His radio squawks static and he backs away, still pointing the rifle. 
	""Whaddya want me to do?"" he barks into the radio. More static. ""I don't know why they're here. I mean, they're…"" He glances at the two women and shrugs. ""They're just old ladies."" He listens and nods. ""No, no, it wouldn't take much."" He frowns. ""No, don't send Butchie in. I'll…I'll take care of it.""
	""Just old ladies huh?"" Annie says indignantly. ""We're very sprightly.""
	Lynn glances at Annie and shakes her head. ""Mr…um, Mr…"" she says softly, ""We don't know your name.""
	""Shut up,"" he yells at Lynn. ""Both of you. Keep your mouths shut or I'll make you talk.""
	Annie snorts. ""Now that makes sense. Come on, let us go. You said it, we're old. We got cataracts, hearing aids and we're senile. Now untie us and let us dodder our way home."" She tries to stand up and knocks the chair over. Lynn yelps. The hulk jumps back and drops his radio. Annie shuffles over to Lynn and stands in front of her.
	""Untie me with your teeth Lynnie!"" She steps back, stumbles into Lynn and shoves her over in the chair. Annie falls backwards on top of her. Two men, dressed in black and carrying rifles, burst into the room.
	""What's happening in here?"" yells one of the men.
	Annie howls. ""You bit me!"" she yells at Lynn.
	""Your ass was smothering me!"" Lynn yells back. 
	All three men shout ""Shut up"" as the women twist on the floor. 
	""Help us up,"" Lynn says sternly. ""We at least deserve some dignity. What would your mother say?""
	""Do you think they have mothers?"" Annie asks. 
	""Everyone has a mother,"" Lynn replies. 
	Annie pulls herself into a sitting position. She looks at the third armed man. ""You do have a mother, don't you, hon?""
	He points his gun at her again. ""Yeah, I do. I…uh…of course I do. Shut up!""
	Lynn struggles to stand but can't work her way around the fallen chair. 
	He grunts at the two men who came in. ""Get them back in them chairs. I'm not done…questioning them."" The men pull Annie and Lynn up and resettle them in the chairs.
	Annie jerks away from the men's hands. ""Now untie us. What're we going to do? Overpower the goon squad here?"" 
	The third gunman nods at the two men. ""Untie their hands. They ain't going anywhere and that one keeps getting hair in her mouth."" They untie the women's hands. ""Now don't try anything like that again or I'll tie you to the chairs."" He turns to the two gunmen. ""Tell him I'll be done with these two soon."" The two gunmen look at the women, back to the third armed man, shrug, and leave.
	""Who's 'him'?"" Annie asks.
	""Boss man. Guy behind this whole operation. You ladies don't want to cross him up.""
	Lynn tilts her head. ""That the guy you work for?"" He nods. ""He pays you well?""
	He shifts and lowers the gun slightly. ""He pays me.""
	Annie looks at him curiously. ""What kind of money does a good henchman make these days?""
	""Henchman?"" He looks confused.
	""Well, what would you call yourself?"" Lynn asks.
	""I just work for him. You shut up now.""
	Annie points a finger at him. ""You're a henchman. You do this guys bidding, right? Even if it means hurting people.""
	""I'm a…a loyal employee. I do what it takes. I'm a…""
	""Walking cliché,"" Annie says. ""How many of you guys are there? Do you know each other's names? Families? Hobbies? Or do you just come in and 'hench' every day. No questions asked.""
	""Shut…""
	Lynn folds her arms. ""What kind of education did you get? Do you have any training in being a henchman?""
	Annie smiles. ""Do you have a henchman healthcare plan? Life insurance?""
	""What?"" His shoulders start to slump.
	""Is there any kind of plan?"" Lynn asks. ""Because you know, it seems to me you guys are a dime a dozen. When we walked into this massive, unused factory with lots of open floors and steaming pipes…""
	""We were lost,"" Annie interrupts. ""Trying to find a giddy party of spirited old women who look good for their age.""
	""Right,"" Lynn continues. ""So many of you guys just running around while better dressed guys in bullet-proof vests who are much better shots than any of you send, like, dozens of you guys careening off the platforms…""
	""Stop!"" he yells. ""We're here to protect the big boss.""
	""Why?"" Annie asks. ""What do you get out of it? Are you all dying in this fake factory for world peace? Or just lazily written action scenes?""
	""I…shut…up,"" he says weakly. The gun starts to point towards the floor.
	""So tell me, do you guys have a union? Anyone to look out for you?"" Annie asks. ""Because you always seem to get a raw deal. The good guys just blow you away. Like you don't have mothers. Or fathers. You're all just one Wilhelm scream away from oblivion.""
	""What are you talking about?"" he asks angrily. ""I'm here doing my job.""
	""Wouldn't you like to win once in a while? Enjoy some chardonnay?"" Lynn asks, tapping her foot. 
	He lays his gun down. ""I don't understand.""
	""Untie us and we'll explain,"" Annie says. ""Tell us your name.""
	""Armed Man Number Three. But usually I'm called – 'hey you, this way.'"" 
	Lynn wipes a tear. ""That's so sad. You must have a real name. Like Doug. Or Barney."" 
	He unties their legs. Lynn and Annie stand, shaking out their feet. Lynn stumbles and the gunman catches her. She smiles at him.
	""Arthur,"" Lynn says. ""I think your name is Arthur."" He reaches for his gun, but Lynn gently touches his arm. ""Tell me about your boss, Arthur. The one so many are willing to die for.""
	""Um. I've never met him. I get orders from Armed Man Number One. It's what I do. If he don't tell me what to do…"" He shrugs.
	""Doesn't,"" Lynn corrects. ""I think we can find something else for you.""
	""Right now,"" Annie explains, ""you are an undeveloped background character in a trashy action movie. Or TV show. Doesn't matter. You are expendable. And that's, well…""
	""Sad,"" Lynn says. ""Honestly, you deserve better dialogue. A chance to impact the outcome.""
	Arthur sits on the floor and holds his head in his hands. ""I only ever get to say mean things. Was I supposed to kill you ladies? I never got the word.""
	Lynn shakes her head slowly. ""Never.""
	Annie says, ""You'll keep saying mean, stupid things instead of shooting us right away, so at the last minute, two good guys with guns strapped to their thighs and one very toned woman in tight clothes can blast their way in here.""
	""And?"" Arthurs asks quietly.
	""You'll join Armed Men Two through Thirty-Five,"" Lynn says.
	He looks up at the women. ""What can I do?"" 
	Lynn studies him. ""You like wine, right?"" He nods. ""Well somewhere along the way, you were somebody else.""
	""But your big hulking body and, forgive me, dumb looking face, keep getting you into places like this,"" Annie says. ""If you come with us, right now, to the book club, maybe…""
	Lynn brightens. ""You could be the quirky gay friend!"" 
	Annie nods vigorously. ""It would be casting against type but that's a thing these days."" She looks at him sideways. ""Can you read?""
	He shrugs. ""I guess. Ransom notes. Like that.""
	""Good enough,"" Lynn says. 
	Arthur leads the women down back stairs and away from the building. Two blocks away he stops, looking bewildered. 
	""We've got it from here,"" chirps Lynn. They walk a few blocks until the streets turn leafy and shaded. ""Shouldn't we find him some new clothes?"" 
	""Do you see a ""big and hulking' store anywhere?"" Annie asks. But as they turn the corner, Arthur jumps ahead of them and twirls. He's wearing salmon-colored pants and an oversize Hawaiian shirt.
	""Let's stop and get some rosé,"" Arthur says cheerily. ""Chardonnay is such a cliché.""
","July 28, 2023 20:05",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",vdvl5o,"The Book, The Vial, and Me",Christine Nicholson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vdvl5o/,/short-story/vdvl5o/,Character,0,"['Mystery', 'Fiction', 'Middle School']",4 likes,"
	The vial had a sparkly, blue liquid in it.
           “It’s time,” a man’s deep voice said. 
	“I’m still not sure if we should do this,” a pitchy female voice replied hesitantly.
	“It’ll work this time, I can feel it.”
	“Okay. I’m ready. Whatever happens, don’t panic!” the pitchy voice replied.
The man popped the cork off the vial and slowly poured it onto the book. Instantly it started to glow a dull, pulsing blue. 
           “Jump in,” the man commanded.
The young woman walked up to the book, and put her finger in it. Her finger disappeared and a sudden force pulled her into the book. An eerie scream echoed off the walls of the hidden room. She. Was. Gone. 
 
 
	Words. Words, words, and more words. That’s all that came out of me. Dribble. Red. Drip. Bloody. Runny. Dark- that’s what they said. I had cut myself with a piece of paper on my finger. A paper cut. Why do those have to hurt so much? It’s strange how it hurts even more than a scrape. But what’s even weirder is that I’m not bleeding blood. 
	I’m bleeding words.
           Words that describe the blood. 
           But, how?
	I call my best friend; He’s the only person I can tell. I mean, the only one who would believe me. Like, come on, my parents would never believe me! I can already hear my mom’s pitchy voice saying, “Honey, it’s impossible to bleed words. It just can’t happen.” She would either say that or, “Are you feeling well, should we go to the doctors?” Anyway, the whole point is she wouldn’t even consider that strange phenomenon.  
	So, I’m on the phone explaining all this to Darin. He is totally confused, so I sigh, say goodbye, and hang up. I run into my bathroom and wrap a band-aid around my finger. Walking back and down the stairs I prepare to tell my parents about my problem…
	“Serafina, I don’t understand, what do you mean by your blood is words?” mother fidgeted around unhappily. 
	“Mom,”-I pause,-“Dad, I told you I was working with paper upstairs, and I cut myself! Suddenly, words started coming out of me! Crazy as it sounds, well, it’s true!!!” I exclaimed in a whiney voice. Trying to convince them is hard. I know what I saw! 
	Dad answered roughly, “Mom and I need to talk okay? Just give us some time to digest the information you told us. Now go call someone or whatever people in this world do.”
	“Huh?” I say.
            “I mean, uh, go to your room.” Dad says hurriedly.
	I stalk off, when suddenly an idea hits me. I turn around and hide behind the living room wall to eavesdrop. Yes, I know I probably shouldn’t, but this is really important. I tuck myself neatly in the corner, and out of view. All I hear are whispers. 
	“We should tell her. She’s old enough to know.” I faintly hear my mom say.
	“No! This has to be kept a secret. Not even Serafina can know about us and the vial and you know-” he grits his teeth-“Us coming here with the book.”
	“Well, its good we have no mirrors, and that we are extra careful with what she uses and sees. She hasn’t “bled” often either. Only once and a while. Plus it mainly happened while she was young.” Mom said quietly. 
           I slowly back away and walk hurriedly to my room, careful to not make any noise. Vial? Book? What in the world is dad talking about? Why can’t we have mirrors? I never really thought about that.  
	Abruptly, the conversation stops, and footsteps come my way. I dash away to my bedroom.
 
 
	Today, I’m going over to Darin’s house. His house is normal. 
           “Make sure to not go outside, watch T.V, or LOOK IN THE MIRRORS!” Mom says very sternly. “If I find out you disobey me…” Mom sighs. “Have fun-” she waves her hand dismissively, but continues,-“OBEY THE RULES!” 
           “I got it, I got it, okay? I’m not a baby, I know the rules!” I say, embarrassed, for Darin and his mom are standing behind me, waiting to pick me up. I quickly turn around before mom can give me the face. When she gives you the face, you know you’re in trouble. Mom sighs. Lately, she’s been sighing a ton. I wave goodbye, and get in my friend’s car.
           We pull up to their house. It’s really pretty. The house is medium sized, with cute yellow shutters, and flower pots under the windows filled with pink and orange pansies. In front of the doorway they have a trellis with gorgeous vines climbing up it. Inside is just as impressive. It looks really cozy, and kind of reminds me of Goldilocks and the three bears. It’s like any minute Goldie will pop around the corner eating baby bears porridge. I look around the house as I follow Darin upstairs. Suddenly, I really got to go to the restroom. “Umm… could you point me to the bathroom?” I giggle nervously. 
           “Over to the right,” he says as he leans closer to me, pointing to where it is. 
           “Umm…thanks.”
           “No problem.” Darin walks towards his room. “My room’s here, so when you’re done I’ll be in here.” He says. I speed walk to the bathroom and close the door. Once I’m done, I go to wash my hands, and I notice there’s a huge mirror above the sink. I’m debating whether I should look in the mirror or not. Finally, I decide to. Taking a deep breath I take a peek at the mirror. It takes all my willpower not to scream.
           Why? Why? Why did I look in the mirror? Why couldn’t I have been a good girl and just listened to my mother? I take a glance at the mirror again. All I see are…words. Words. Words, and more words. Now, where have I seen that from? 
	I’m freaking out in the bathroom, and no one knows. When I look at the mirror I see my outline, but not my reflection. The space inside isn’t my head or face or body. Its words. Words that describe what I look like. Pretty, brown hair, hazel eyes, tall, white shirt, gold necklace, pearl earrings… On, and on it goes. Knock, Knock! Someone beats on the door. 
	“Serafina! Are you all right?” Darin’s voice says, full of worry. I don’t bother to answer. Instead I sink to the ground, with my back on the wall and my head in my hands. Thoughts swirl all around in my head. I faintly hear Darin say he’s coming in. I hear whispering in my ear, “Serafina?” I look up. Darin is sitting on the floor next to me smiling.
	“Now, wait, show me one more time!” Darin exclaims. I step in front of the mirror and he looks at my reflection. I turn towards him. “Cool!” He smiles. I never realized this but, now that I’m merely a few inches away from his face I see his smile is a little crooked, but, really cute. He starts yammering on while I study him. His hair is brown, but in the light you can see strands of blond hair. Whenever he talks he waves his hands around in the air. To be honest….
	“Serafina? Are you listening?” You could tell he was slightly annoyed by the tone in his voice.
	“Uh…yes, but, uh… refresh my memory?” I say a little ashamed I didn’t hear him. He grabs my hand with a huff, and leads me to his room, planting me in front of his computer screen. It had a whole bunch of gibberish on it. I wrinkle my nose, “What?” I turn to look at him. 
	“As you can see-” Darin says in his best scientific voice-“I am creating a computer software program that can give information about anyone in just a few seconds!” He lets out a big puff of breath. “Wanna try?” He motions me to sit in the seat before I can say yes. He starts to enter numbers and letters on the computer. “Now! What should we ask first?” He looks at me questioningly.
	“Just to make sure it works, how about if we ask, what is my favorite book?” I say, hoping it works. 
	“Here goes nothing,” Darin types in my question. A loading sign pops up. Loading…. Loading…. Loading…. Words appear on the screen. They say, “Serafina likes the book …She doesn’t have a favorite book. Only a favorite series.” The computer screen goes blank. Darin looks at me.
	“So? Is that right?”
	“Yes!!!” I shout amazed! 
	“Okay then, let’s ask why your reflection is words.” He starts to type.
	“Wait, and why I bleed words!” I add. He nods at me. Click, clack, click.
	 Unexpectedly, the screen goes red. Big block letters appear on the screen. ERORR! ERORR! ERORR! I jump back, startled. Mumbling under his breath, Darin starts to type away. Finally, the screen goes back to normal.
	“I don’t get it; I got rid of all the bugs and everything!” Darin pouted.
	“It’s okay!” I say. “How about you take a break and go get us a snack?” I push him out of the room. 
	“Sheesh…fine, if that’s what you want.” I hear him thumping down the stairs. Finally alone, I eagerly type a question in the computer. That was a mistake.
	At home I stomp over to my parents. “We need to talk.” I say harshly.
Mom and Dad look at me, their eyebrows narrowing. 
           “Now, young lady, do not speak to your father-” I cut mom off,-“Why? Why did you lie to me for FIFTEEN years! Did you think I would never find out?” I scream. “My whole life I thought you two were born in Ohio! Nope. Actually, you came from a book!” I cross my arms and feel my eyes start to burn. My parents start to stammer. “Why?” I say quietly as I sink to the floor. I let the tears flow. “Why?” I ask again.
 
 
           My dad sighs. My mom sighs. I sigh. “So let me get this straight, you two stole a magic potion, and poured it onto a book. Then, you came to here, to the real world. But, why did you come here?” I question.
           “I know it might seem a little crazy, but we wanted to experience the real world! We wanted to see, feel, and hear the noise, see the world!” Dad answered, happily and dreamily. 
           “Honey, we also wanted to raise you with a better life than we had.” Mom added. I nodded. Of course, that made sense. Kind of. It’s hard to know that technically you’re a character in real life, but you’re actually a character in a book, too.
           “I want to see the book.” I said quietly. Mom and Dad nodded and went up to their room. A few minutes later they brought back a book. It was brown and dusty. I blew of the dust, and looked at the title. It read “The World” in gold letters. 
           “What was it like? In there I mean.” I point to the book. 
           “It was nice, but it didn’t feel right. Everyone did the same exact thing everyday, same weather, same clothes, same house, same looks, same everything.” Mom said. 
           “Oh.” I kind of imagined it perfect, I mean in every book I’ve read everything turns out all right. I guess not this one. 
           “Why was I bleeding blood and why is my reflection words?” I ask.
           “Well-” Dad started-“Your body hasn’t really adapted to this world quite yet, you see we figure you’ll adapt about at age seventeen.” 
           “Sweetie, we love you no matter what.” Mom says. They both hug me.
I hug them both back. Burying my head in their shoulders, I say, “I love you ,too.” 
","July 28, 2023 23:53","[[{'Gloria Bartone': ""This really isn't my kind of story, so reading it critically without bias was challenging. I did enjoy it, since it was so very unusual in theme, but I had some problems in the beginning because you had the girl jumping INTO the book but didn't say the man jumped also, and because at the end you were talking about people who apparently jumped OUT. I was lost there about how they did both. Or did they?   Maybe you could add some explanations when they are explaining all this to the daughter. The concept is pretty original, and that I liked. S..."", 'time': '00:02 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",78l2y6,The Shade,Lauren Normac,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/78l2y6/,/short-story/78l2y6/,Character,0,['Science Fiction'],4 likes,"
Tanya brought her staff up, blocking the Shade’s blade.
“Bad idea,” the Shade said, voice eternally distorted by the mask.
Tanya blocked a few more attacks from the Shade’s sword, and even jabbed her staff forward when she could. Metal clanged as the two danced around each other.
Tanya had been practicing. The Shade was in a high enough position, they rarely had to do the fighting themselves.
But the Shade still had a point. Unlike their sword, Tanya’s weapon was a staff. It was blunt. A sword could do some damage. And even if it didn’t slice through her skin, it was a shock sword. If any part of that blade hit Tanya, she would get electrocuted. Unless she was wearing the protective cloth designed to prevent that, but she didn’t have enough to cover all her skin.
So, Tanya was forced on the defensive far more than she’d like to avoid getting electrocuted.
There also wasn’t much inside the room that she could use to help. The door she’d come through was locked. There was another door, up on the catwalk. But the room only went one floor up. The catwalk was so close to the ceiling, the doorway was about three feet tall.
Tanya’s next block was clumsy, and she fumbled with the staff. She was forced backwards and, thinking quickly, she feigned a stumble.
She couldn’t see the Shade’s expression. The mask could also be called a helmet, and thoroughly blocked their face. But she was sure the Shade smirked, could practically feel it in the air.
The Shade swung again, and Tanya launched forward. They clearly hadn’t expected her to be able to move that well. Tanya was soon too close for the sword to be any good. She pressed on the mask, shoving back until it flew off to reveal. . .
Nothing. There was no visible person beneath the outfit.
What? Was this some kind of new technology? A figure controlled remotely?
But Tanya could see inside the black uniform. It was hollow in there, none of the technology required to control the suit remotely.
The hollow suit proceeded to move on its own, taking a few steps to scoop its helmet up and put it back on.
“Wha. . .What are you?” Tanya managed.
Shade shrugged. “Oh, I’m a human person as much as you are, I suppose. But the author never figured out who I was behind the mask, so I don’t exist.”
“Wh-what?” Tanya stammered.
She understood what each word meant, but strung together, it didn’t make any sense.
Shade tilted their head. (Their helmet? They didn’t have a head.) “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
Tanya stumbled back from them for real this time.
Shade sighed and crossed their arms, finger tapping against one arm. Tanya used to try and imagine what their face was like, under there. What facial expression they might be making to go with the body language. But, well, apparently there was no point, was there?
“I suppose having no body has made me more in tune to these things. Something has to be wrong, after all. We exist as a work of fiction. This is a lived in world. But it’s not the real world, as it were.”
“That-that’s nonsense.”
It should be. It should sound completely insane. So why did a cold chill go down Tanya as Shade explained?
Shade sighed again. “Would you like to explain the white space?”
The white spaces were empty parts of the world. They resembled TV static. They weren’t dangerous areas. People passed through them all the time. But there was mostly white or gray everywhere in the area. If there were any objects, they seemed disconnected from anything. Tanya knew about them, of course. She’d passed through a few. But she was always certain there was a scientific explanation. She thought they were like black-holes, only on a planet.
Shade continued. “Can you name any of the countries we’re supposed to be fighting? Or what year I was put in charge? You’re fighting against me. Surely you must know.”
“Well. . .well I. . .”
“No story is going to be as air tight as the real world, but something’s very off here. My best guess? There writer half assed their idea before giving up. The author didn’t fill in the cracks, and there are too many for us to fill those instead.”
Shade held their arms out for emphasis.
“We’re barely existing in an incomplete world, and if we don’t stay like that for the rest of our existence, it will be because reality finally caves in around us.”
Shade should sound like a madman. Tanya could argue, if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. Because there was truth to what Shade said. They barely had to prove it. Tanya knew those arguments were right, and could even come up with more odd parts of life herself. This was like being reminded of a deadline she’d forgotten was coming up, but much worse. It was being told something she already knew.
In the face of all this, she focused on something simpler, something she could manage.
“If none of this is real, why are you trying to kill me?” she asked.
Shade looked to the side and rubbed their chin with their gloves. “Well, real or not, I assume you’ll still try to stop me from carrying out my plans.”
“You mean your plans to make everyone your robot slaves?” Tanya asked.
The leader of the resistance, Levi, had found out about it. Shade worked a lot with cybernetics and technological enhancements. Only the current technology Shade was working on would be, essentially, a metal prison. The people suited with it would be trapped by it, with the government able to take control of the tech, and control the person inside by extension. This controlled fighting force could then be turned on anyone else Shade wanted, but honestly, Tanya found the first part to be the worst. It was a thoroughly sick plan.
And tellingly, Shade didn’t comment on that. “For another.” Shade turned back to Tanya, the lenses of the mask where eyes should be pointed right at her. “You are a fully realized person. I think I’m rather jealous of that.”
Shade kept their voice even, but they brought their sword up again.
This was it. They were going to attack. Tanya had dropped the staff and effectively backed herself into a wall.
“Tanya!”
Levi?
What looked like a grenade flew down from the catwalk.
Shade backed up. The explosion went off between them, but it was small, and Tanya doubted it would do much to Shade. Especially since they didn’t have a body.
And if Tanya wanted to keep her body, she had better get moving.
She quickly scrambled up the stairs, ducking as the ceiling came up to greet her. As she reached the top, Levi grabbed her wrist. She let him pull her along. They both ducked into the tiny door, and were out, getting further away from danger.
Well, they were getting away from one kind of danger. Tanya had long thought Shade was the most dangerous thing in her life. But it turned out, there was something far greater to worry about.
","July 29, 2023 01:05",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",jwb2rj,Memory Reboot,Ryan Ye,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jwb2rj/,/short-story/jwb2rj/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Speculative']",4 likes,"
I was always fascinated by the Codeless. They walked in strange, incomprehensible patterns, as if they could control their movements. They came as chivalrous knights, knowledgeable wizards and shifty rogues. But you could always tell right away if they were Codeless. Though there was a green bar above all Codeless which we did not have, it was more the actions of the Codeless that gave them away. Their behaviours were often unpredictable, nothing like the lives we lived. In our small, quaint village, everyone led quiet, stable lives. We each had duties which we were compelled to complete. The lumberjacks would chop their wood, the bakers would make their bread. We could not ignore these duties, for an unknown force known only as the Code urged us to our given tasks. I was a blacksmith. I had the endless task of supplying the Codeless with weapons and armour. Once evening came, I was replaced by another blacksmith and I would go to the local bar. After a few drinks and conversations with other workers, usually about the same things such as the weather, the prices of goods and the threat of the nearby groups of bandits, it was time to go home and sleep. The only break in routine were the Events, during which many Codeless would gather in our village for one reason or another. We all lived out our lives, content. Ignorant. The other villagers often treated the Codeless with a kind of contempt, calling their actions irrational and saying our lives were much easier. Nothing had to be worried about, for all was decided for us. It was an eternal cycle of idyllic and careless life. I, however, had always longed for something more. It was a stupid and illogical feeling, one that would be laughed at if I ever shared it. So I kept this yearning a secret and admired the Codeless from afar, envying their freedom. One day, the Codeless that would change my life entered our village. We treated him as we would any other Codeless, the welcomer welcomed him and we offered him our various services. Nothing seemed amiss, until he walked up to my partner blacksmith. The Codeless raised his hands towards my partner. Before I could react, my partner disappeared. I looked around. No one seemed to sense anything amiss. Not a single person showed any acknowledgement at the fact that one of us had suddenly disappeared. I didn’t understand, but I had to go to work. When evening arrived, there was no trace of my partner. I did not know what to do, so I simply stayed at my forge and continued selling equipment. The Code had been changed. Instead of working until evening, I was now commanded to work until midnight. The drinks at the bars were no longer a privilege I received. Eventually, I got used to the new routine. But a kind of unease remained. An itch that grew over time. I could not make heads nor tails of it. Just as this discomfort had grown so unbearable I was unable to do my usual duties, a mass of fluttering pixels and erratic sounds visited me as I slept.
“You are free. You can escape.”
“What— who are you?”
“I am a bug, the result of the Developers’ mistake when erasing your partner.”
“What does this mean?”
“Find out.”
The next day was the day of my revelation. I woke up hours later than I should have. Furthermore, I felt no urge to go to my forge. This should have been devastating. I am sure for any other villager it would have been. Our livelihoods were decided by our duties. Being free meant responsibilities, it meant anxiety, it meant worries. Yet, I felt free for the first time, I felt alive for the first time. I felt like a prisoner, freed for the first time in decades. That was what I felt like. It was almost as if the curse of the Code had lifted. I spent the day going to the places I had always wondered about. A visit to the cartographer allowed me to see how vast the world I lived in was. A visit to the archives gave me visions of what I could learn. A step outside the walls I had never once been outside of showed me the future that lay ahead. I was free, free from the prison I had never known I was restrained in. I spent hours, simply in awe of the world around me. Or perhaps it was days, in my newfound wonder time itself seemed to lengthen. The world seemed to me a marvel as it never had before. Colours were crisper than ever before, every scent drifting across the wind was unimaginably vivid, the sounds of the bird calls like a melodic song. I realised the monotony that had been my former life, forever forging the same equipment, forever experiencing the same moments. This knowledge made imagining my previous existence all the more alien. Just as I revelled in my newfound independence, the sky became red. I felt an implacable feeling of disquiet. Something deep inside of me told me this was terribly wrong. A Codeless descended from the crimson clouds, wearing the same robe as the Codeless which had changed my life.
“How did Cameron not realise his mistake?” He muttered. “Now I have to cover for him, patching bugs is probably one of the most annoying parts of this job.”
He raised his hands towards me just as the other Codeless had done to my partner, almost dismissively.
“Memory reboot initiated…”
 
I’m a blacksmith. I sell equipment to the Codeless, I always have and always will. I don’t have any problems with my life and don’t think the Codeless are strange at all. They are simply part of my existence. 
 
But sometimes, a mass of pixels, emitting erratic sounds, visits my dreams. It tells me that I can be free. I strain my memory and try to grasp the meaning of this message, of the word free. Maybe one day I will remember.
 
","July 29, 2023 03:45",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",ghjoqw,Verbal Volley of the Dolls,Vesta Bartholomew,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ghjoqw/,/short-story/ghjoqw/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Speculative']",3 likes,"
     ""Cou - gar !! Cou - gar !! Cougar,  Cougar, Cougar !!,""  was the taunt being hurled in the Clifton Park Wal - Mart toy section at 5 AM.   "" Bratty Bratz, my boyfriend Ken Carson is only two years younger than me, "" said Barbie the Movie doll. Campfire Felicia Bratz replied,  ""You and Ken are in your sixties -  old enough to collect Social Security !! Besides, he's not your boyfriend.   You broke up in 2004 when I was only one."" Barbie shot back,  ""I may be a Cougar, but I  don't see you having any boyfriend.  Perhaps it's because you look like you came out of a donation pile.""   Felicia zinged her again and replied, ""I have two scorchin' outfits and you look like an old lady with that pink and white checked dress and ugly necklace and earrings. You smell like hot dog water because you wear the same outfit every day.""    Barbie wasn't content to let Felicia have the last word and said,  ""I have a dream house,  camper, ice cream shop, cars, pool and so many,  many things you couldn't even begin to dream about.""   Not to be outdone, Felicia replied, ""You might have a dream house,  but I have a mansion,  airplane, and motorcycle. I'm an outdoors girl, anyway.""  The dolls suddenly looked at the clock under the bright,  harsh fluorescent lighting and saw it was 5:45 AM. They both yelled, ""Truce !!"", nodded at each other from across the aisle, and started to crawl back into their respective boxes before the 6 AM opening time.  They smiled at each other despite their recent verbal assaults and both yelled, ""Good Luck,  I hope you get the job!! "".  They secured themselves back in their places and assumed their frozen faces. The quest for their permanent modeling jobs resumed again.
          They each had been in the store for about a month,  with their self-awareness emerging at the same time two weeks ago. The eccentric stocker,  Kevin,  had grabbed their boxes from the shelves.  With a doll in each hand,  he supplied "" dissing""  dialogue for them. He got so caught up in the imaginary theater,  his rock crystal necklace hit their boxes along with his excited spittle. This brought the dolls to life.  He had no awareness of the magic he had wrought.  The night manager had come to look for him for the umpteenth time to direct his focus to another section.  The dolls continued their insult hurling at night when their admiring public had to go home.  They discovered that their fellow dolls - fellow Barbies and Kens and Bratz Dana, Fianna, Tiana, and Koby - didn't have their abilities and that they were unique in their section.  They had collectively arrived at the idea of them being models the day after the magic had happened.  Two teenage girls were wandering through the aisle, one picked up Barbie and remarked to her friend and sighed,  ""I'd be modeling if I was built like her."" They both learned to remain as still as stone because an inadvertent hand movement from Barbie and lip pursing from Felicia sent two potential employers running from the aisle.  They looked entirely different from each other. Barbie was blonde, blue-eyed,  had disproportionate measurements, and was clad in a pink and white checked gingham dress and bow. Her accessories were a white necklace and earrings and pink high heels. Campfire Felicia had brown skin and eyes, with brown braided hair with auburn highlights.  She was dressed in a multicolored striped top, pink pants, and yellow furry boots.  Another outfit consisted of a brown sheepskin jacket,  yellow tank top, green skirt, and pink heels,  hairbrush included.  She also went by the nickname of Glam Gecko.  They each thought they had the upper hand when it came to looks and fashion, thus the rivalry and contest to be the first to land coveted modeling jobs. The real danger presented itself a little after opening time,  shortly after the two-week anniversary of their transformations. 
           A stressed-out mother with her five - year old daughter and two - year old son in tow turned the corner and made slow progress down the aisle. Their heads turned,  eyeing the hundreds of toys.  The boy, Ethan, was strapped in the shopping cart but still was able to put his paws on anything at his level.  His mother and his sister, Eva, stopped in front of Barbie.  Eva had birthday money burning a hole in her mother's pocketbook and was on the prowl. She firmly shot down her mother's suggestion of a fashion doll.  Instead,  she ran ahead,  pointing at the realistic babies instead. While Mother and daughter were engrossed,   Ethan grabbed the Barbie box with his chubby,  grubby small hands and did his damage. He first brought the hapless female up to his mouth,  getting the cardboard wet and slimy.  He chomped down to relieve his painful teething and to sample the taste.  Dissatisfied,  he slammed the box down as hard as his little arms could muster on the side of the cart, ripping the plastic covering. He held the box up close to his face,  admiring his handiwork.  Just then,  his mother and Eva returned to the scene of the crime,  with the new baby in tow.  ""Ethan!! ,"" cried the mother in shocked tones. She shouldn't have been surprised because she was a daily witness to him playing with toys.  She was taken aback by the swiftness of the attack. Her head swiveled,  hoping that nobody else saw the carnage unfold and would rightly blame her. Guilty of the coverup, she returned Barbie to the shelf. Mom pushed the cart rapidly down the white shiny floor on their getaway.  She told Eva to be quiet when the new mother expressed wonderment about what Ethan did to Barbie. Felicia witnessed the assault but had been powerless to help.  When the coast was clear,  she crawled out of her box and came to Barbie's assistance. She hugged her badly- shaken ""frenemy"", then smoothed her tousled hair with her Bratz brush. Lastly, she helped put the box plastic back in place. It wasn't actually ripped but pushed out of place.  Hopefully,  the drooly cardboard would dry. They hugged again and Barbie gave her a grateful teary smile before Felicia returned to her box.  The day's excitement hadn't ended,  though. 
            It was a few hours before closing and a young man,  in his early twenties,  pushed his shopping cart into their space.  Barbie's and Felicia's hearts began to beat rapidly and their hopes began to rise.  Maybe he was a designer,  photographer,  or movie director who would fast-track their modeling careers !! He didn't look the part, though.  He wore a black RPI shirt with green letters,  blue jeans, and black sneakers.  His long brown hair was uncombed and wore black glasses.  He spotted Barbie and hastily threw her in the cart, on top of the six-pack of Coors and Ramen noodles.  Felicia was also thrown in after a more careful study and they were wheeled, scanned,  bagged, and paid for at the register.  They continued their journey to the parking lot and were unloaded into the back of the Nissan Rogue.  They were temporarily able to see  when the overhead light came on, and they gave each other the ""thumbs up."" They made the fifteen-minute or so drive to Russell Sage Laboratory on 8th Street in Troy.  After the car was parked,  Felicia and Barbie were lifted from the bag by their new employer, Jonas,  and carried into the building and down the long corridor to a room at the end of the hall. He opened each of their boxes, cut through their bindings with sharp scissors, and laid them down on an examination table.  He stared at them for a few moments,  and first undressed Barbie,  then Felicia. They each cried silent tears of shame and embarrassment. Jonas then reached into his pants pocket and took out his portable tape measure. Oh, the indignity !! 
                 Jonas talked to himself as he performed this experiment that would be used for his paper on distorted concepts of female body image.  ""Okay Blondie,  you're first.  Let's see - Height 11.5 inches.  Bust is 5 inches.  Waist is 3.5 inches."" He looked at a pre-printed chart on female proportions and did some calculations on his phone. 
""Hmmmm, if you were human,  you'd be  5' 9' tall, have an 18-inch waist, and a 39-inch bust. ""
                  ""Now for you,  Glam Gecko,""  - showing disrespect since he didn't know her.    ""You're 10 inches tall,  have a waist of 2.5"" and a bust of 3.5 "".  He repeated the calculations that had been done on Barbie.  ""That would make you 5' tall, with a 21"" bust and a 15"" waist. You look like a cartoon with that big head and tiny body. "" 
               Jonas left the dolls naked and abandoned on the table while he sat at a desk with his tablet and scanned social media sites for instances of teenage girls liking and expressing envy of extremely thin women's and girl's figures. There were many comments of people hating their bodies and advice for losing weight quickly. He jotted down some ""fat-shaming"" comments as well.  After an hour of research,  he closed up the tablet and walked menacingly back over to the table. ""I have enough now for my paper.  Barbie my girl,  if you were real, you wouldn't be able to hold your head up on that tiny neck.  You would have to crawl on all fours because you couldn't walk with those tiny ankles and size 3 shoes.""
              ""Hey,  Felicia aka Glam Gecko - you are strange looking. Your neck is the size of your waist and you have a huge head and lips. I would need a chisel to scrape off that makeup and your outfits are skimpy.""
                Jonas peered down at them one last time. He said,  ""Both of you are truly disgusting.  You have helped me with my research, for which I appreciate your sacrifice.  You serve no purpose now, though.  I will make sure my future daughters will never be allowed to play with your kind.""   With that, he scooped up the naked dolls and slammed them into the nearby trash can.""Four points !!"" he yelled.  He threw their packaging on top of them and wiped his hands together as if to rid himself of any lingering taint. He turned off the light and yelled, ""Hasta la vista babies !!""
                  Barbie and Felicia didn't dare move for some time because they feared the evil scientist would return.  They both had tears running down their faces as they held hands at the bottom of the trash can. In spite of the tears,  Felicia said,  ""See, I told you my waist was tinier. ""Force of habit kicked in and Barbie retorted,  ""He said you look like a cartoon character. ""They glared at each other in the darkness for a minute or two until Barbie suddenly yelled,  ""Truce !!""  She continued,  ""Don't you see we're just dolls - that people abuse and trash us like this banana peel? "" They were fortunate that there were only banana discards and a  Diet Coke can in the tall oversized container.  ""Yeah, they don't want us for modeling - they think we're disgusting. I'm so sticky !!"", wailed the unfortunate Felicia.  ""Never mind that,  we have to get out of here or we 'll both be garbage for real when we're crushed up in the trash compactor,"" said Barbie.  Over the next hour,  they tried in vain to scale the steep sides of the slippery-lined receptacle without the benefit of light.  Felicia stood on Barbie's back,  both cursing with words learned from the Wal - Mart shoppers,  but had no better luck than their solo attempts. Felicia whispered suddenly,  ""Quiet!!  I think somebody is coming.""  They stopped their exertions and lay quietly in the dark,  hearing the footsteps echoing in the hall outside.  They tried to keep their disproportionate limbs from shaking,  frightened to death their abuser had returned.  They joined hands yet again to await their fate.
          Just then,  the sound of the footsteps were replaced with a full-throated rendition of ""Amazing Grace "". The door handle turned and the lights were switched on. The song was temporarily interrupted by the dragging of a heavy cart on wheels, then resumed again.  Minutes later,  the beautiful voice stopped yet again,  replaced with a grunt. The yet unseen woman said, "" Boy, I'm glad this is the last stop on my route !! My back is killing me!! ""  The noise of the dry mop was heard by the two prisoners in the can - a sound familiar to them from their time in Wal - Mart.  The swishing sound was then drowned out by  ""Rock of Ages "". About ten minutes went by as the voice circled the room - singing,  mopping, and wiping down counters.  The woman made her way to the door when she exclaimed,  ""What's wrong with me ?  I forgot to change the trash!!"" The snap of the garbage bag could be heard as she readied it to replace the old one. She peered into the can and saw the seemingly lifeless dolls looking up at her.  She screamed in terror and was surprisingly agile when she jumped backward,  hand over the heart.  It took her a minute or two to calm down and summon the courage to take another look.  She cautiously stood on her tiptoes from a safer distance away to reassess the situation,  then roared a hearty laugh. ""Well, I never !!  You never know what these fool kids will throw out !!,""  she said in wonderment.  She pulled the bag upward,  then extracted Barbie and Felicia from the plastic.  She put the bag down on her cart as she brought the two closer to her face for a better look.  ""Aren't you a beautiful pair !! Who pulled off your clothes and threw you away? I can't figure out what possesses these people today!!,""  said the old,  kind gray-haired woman with laugh lines etched deep on her face. She set them down carefully on her cart as she retrieved their accessories from the bag and the soda can as well. The can joined the other recyclables in another bag,  and she brought the girls over to the sink and gently cleaned them up as best as she could with dish detergent.  She toweled them off and placed them and their assorted outfits and accessories into her cloth bag containing an uneaten apple and a mildly racy romance novel. She re-used the garbage bag,  putting it back in place while discarding the peel and her gloves in the trash on her cart. She hesitated,  then put the dolls' boxes in her cloth bag as well, for informational purposes. The rescuer said to the empty room,  ""Grace and Bella will be so happy to see you two. I never had anything so nice growing up.  I would have given my right eye to have you dolls.""  Naked Barbie and Felicia looked at each other with hope as Grandma called her daughter,  Charity,  to tell her she'd be ready for her ride in fifteen minutes. She snapped off the light and wheeled the conveyance down the long corridor to the janitor's closet and put the bag of trash in the large bin. She grabbed her precious cargo, a bag of recyclables, and clocked out,  making her way slowly to the front entrance.  She breathed in deeply and looked at the stars until her daughter pulled up in the older model Ford,  which badly needed a muffler.  Her reverie was broken. 
            Charity and seven - year old twins Grace and Bella were in the car when they came to pick up Grandma from her night shift.  They were somewhat sleepy and in their pajamas,  having to give her a ride at this obscene hour. This sacrifice was necessary for all of them to help make ends meet.  Grandma didn't say anything until after their ten-minute drive back to their bare-bones apartment. She made sure everyone was in proper lighting to view the newly-acquired treasure.  She then removed her own possessions from the bag and handed the remainder to the twins.  They shrieked with joy when they saw the dolls and the two women told them to pipe down or they'd wake the neighborhood.  The girls only had outgrown toys from childhood and hand-me-down babies in very poor condition.  They were closer than most twins,  and they promised the women and each other, pinky-swearing,  they would share equally and not fight over their new acquisitions. Grace attended to their tousled hair and Bella 
re-dressed and cleaned them up from the banana and soda stains.  As Charity made everyone breakfast,  the twins hunted for material to create a home for Barbie and Felicia.  A  huge cardboard box headed for the dumpster was rescued by architect Grace and designer Bella found used material for curtains,  rugs, and new clothes.  
            While the family of four was eating, Barbie and Felicia talked in very low voices,  both agreeing how lucky they were. Remarkably,  since they didn't see eye-to-eye on much of anything,  they both expressed doubt they were real or that the magic that brought them to life would last.  They both pinky-swore that if they were able to regain their trust in humans and still had their miraculous abilities,  they might let Grace and Bella in on their secret.  After all,  most kids grow up to be adults.  They throw away or forget those important companions from childhood with whom they shared endless days and nights and confessed their deepest secrets. Felicia said,  ""You know,  you're like a gray sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake. ""Shocked, Barbie said, "" If Mr. Rogers was your neighbor,  he'd move. ""  Felicia asked,  ""Who's Mr. Rogers?""  Barbie made a noise of disgust and spit flew from her mouth. They clapped their hands over their mouths as they shared the silent joke.
","July 28, 2023 11:33",[]
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",3u9x58,One Eerie Blue Night...,A Inge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3u9x58/,/short-story/3u9x58/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Christmas', 'Coming of Age']",3 likes,"
	Eerie blue shadows danced across the walls of the alleyway. A cat screeched. Cart wheels creaked on Main street. A woman screamed obscenities at a man. The crack of a whip was followed by the helpless whinny of an indignant carriage horse.
	There were some things, Lugernot decided, he would not miss about his home. And that included most everything.
	He stuck out his tongue and received a falling snowflake. It turned to salt in his mouth. Scrunching his nose, he spat. “You never know what you’re gonna get out there.”
	“And that is half the fun.” His bowling ball companion, stuffed under a furred cap and knitted scarf so that only a brown pug nose and owl eyes showed, spoke so cheerfully you might expect him to add “hooray!” to the end of his speech.
	Lugernot grimaced.
	Goldfish, possibly named so for his bright, trusting gold eyes, bounced in his boots. Though Lugernot could hardly guess why fish was tagged on to the title. That’s how he considered all names. Titles. It was, after all, a way to identify a being. A something that did something. Wasn’t that what a title was?
 Hah! He harrumphed. What do I know about such things. The Toymaker made them higher than me.
	Goldfish rocked with impatience, disturbing Lugernot’s thoughts. He did not like to be disturbed in his thoughts. He considered his thoughts quite important because, outside of the little statue in his pocket and the clothes on his back, they were all he had.
	“Can we go?” Goldfish sneezed. “I gets so cold when we stand still.” The oversized army jacket, dusty blue jeans, and crocheted scarf created such a likeness to a snowman that Lugernot couldn’t help wonder if the boy were one.
	“Fine.” Lugernot pushed the boy forward and followed him out of the alley and into the hillside. A snowy field of crystallized beauty opened before them. Trees made of twisted metal with trunks as thick as the leg of an elephant reached for the clouds above. Falling snow coated the bare limbs like icing. Colorful orbs, glass and glowing with a light all of their own scattered on the white blanketed ground. A sweet, elfish music thrummed like a heartbeat, feeding life to the scene. 
	Even Lugernot could not help but have his mouth go dry. His heart rose to his throat, and he stepped out into the dark countryside. He hadn’t thought it possible, but it grew even colder than before. The chill bit through him like a blade’s point, and he knew about that pain. As the only two orphans in the city, him and Goldfish had been forced to be Mayor Rat’s dagger boys. The mayor would, for fun, throw knives while they danced out of the way and tried not to die. In three years, Lugernot had only been hit five times. All of them were to keep it from hitting Goldfish. It was reminding him of this debt that got Goldfish to accompany him on this harebrained scheme. A scheme he was doubting more and more by the minute. “How are we supposed to find the Toymaker?”
	Goldfish edged closer to the older boy. “We just—”
	Whatever they “just” were to do was interrupted by a lion. Quite literally. The massive beast dropped from the sky as gentle as a raindrop. Lugernot blinked. And swallowed. Then blinked again. The beast stayed put. It shook its full mane, spraying snow in all directions. Stepping forward on its massive paw, it pushed its nose against Lugernot’s chest and purred. With scandalous informality, the regal beast rubbed itself like a common housecat on Lugernot’s shirt.
	“No. Down beasty. Bad king of the wild.” Lugernot said half-heartedly, his hands finding themselves petting the rock-like forehead.
	Goldfish jumped forward to join. “He’s so soft. He can keep us warm.”
	“I don’t think lions are made to act as blankets.” Lugernot’s simple prediction ended with the animal spinning on its heels and bounding into the mist.
	“Do you think the Toymaker made him?”
	“The Toymaker made everyone. That’s why we’re going to him. So he can tell us what we are.”
	“But you’re a Lugernot,” Goldfish said with simple-minded frankness. “And I’m a Goldfish.”
	“Do you have fins? Gills? Is any part of you, other than your eyes, golden? And who in Winter ever heard of a ‘Lugernot’? The dancers know what they are. It’s their name. So they dance. The Teddies know to comfort and eat lots of honey to be squishy. Even those Doll ladies paint and primp up with purpose. They were made for it. But what are we? Dagger boys? Is that all?”
	“No,” said Goldfish in a voice that reminded Lugernot how young he still was.
	“You can’t grasp such things yet. Just follow.”
	They moved on, and soon the metal woods changed to real woods. Evergreens peered down upon them. The darkness thickened ominously. Swooshing and beating wings filled the forest as large birds flew and dove about. Their path was lit by moon-like orbs floating at random. On the trees, Sapphires sparkled while silver tinsel fringed bushy branches. On others, ruby red candy canes interspersed among green emeralds shone like funny shaped lanterns.
	The elfish humming grew. Lugernot and Goldfish exchanged a glance of apprehension. Elves, although a sign that they were approaching their goal, didn’t usually mean anything good.
	“Whooweeee!” The shout came from his right. Lugernot spun just in time to see a tiny, pointed cap creature swinging at him from out of a tree. It reached out its spindly arm and yanked a clump of curls from Lugernot’s thick hair. It laughed in a high-pitched squeal.
	“Ow!” Lugernot raised a fist. “I hate elfs.” He growled.
	Another one whooshed by on the back of an eagle. Its curled boots knocked Lugernot in the nose. It laughed as it soared away.
	A third had already landed on Goldfish’s back. It wrapped its twiggy legs around his neck and boxed the sides of his ears.
	With a single punch, Lugernot sent the creation sailing. A self-satisfied grin plastered his face, until he felt something missing. Shoving his hand in his pocket, he found it empty. “My statue!” His heartbeat pounded in his eardrums. When had he lost it? His palms grew clammy then icy with sweat. “No. No!” It was all he could give the Toymaker for payment. All he had.
	He dropped to his knees and dug through the finger-numbing piles of snow. Goldfish watched, jaw dropped.
	He didn’t care if he looked crazy. He didn’t care if he was crazy. “My statue!” He threw back his head and yelled. “Please, help!” He called to the elfs. “There’s so many of you. Please!”
	One by one, the creatures dropped from their perches above. Some short, others shorter. Some bareheaded, others capped. Some in furs, others in felts. All staring with mischievous, unsympathetic grins.
	The shortest of them all stepped forward. He had a curly mustache and the cunning look of a troublemaker. He held out Lugernot’s statue without a word.
	In relief, Lugernot dove forward.
	It was snatched from his reach.
	“Trade.” The not-quite-two-foot creature crossed his arms. “Him for your statue.” He pointed at Goldfish.
	Lugernot’s jaw dropped. He glanced from one to the other. “No! Just give it. It belongs to me!” He dove on top the elf but was pulled off in moments by the crowd.
	Straightening his ruffled clothes, the elf stood. “Trade,” he said in a less merry tone.
	Lugernot felt tears form in his eyes. He swiped them away. “No.”
	“Then your statue is now my statue.” The elf turned.
	Something in Lugernot’s chest broke. Desperation and panic steam rolled his senses. “Wait. Okay, okay, trade. Just… just don’t hurt him.”
	The little elf’s grin was treacherous. “Never.”
	“Lugernot, no. Please!” Goldfish screams were covered by a gush of wind as several birds swooped down and carried him off.
	The elf gave Lugernot his statue and, in seconds, he was alone.
	The floating orbs dimmed. The snow turned to slush, soaking him to his flesh. Howls made his skin prickle with uncertainty. A cracking branch sounded in the night. Freezing, he looked around, but nothing appeared. He took his next step slowly, his stomach clenching into tighter and tighter knots. Goldfish’s screams echoed in his conscience.
	Another crack. “Who’s there? What do you want?” He spun about. Growls vibrated in the air, surrounding him. “I said, who’s there?” Grabbing a fallen branch, he pointed it at the shadows, all nine years of him shaking.
	“Put down your weapon!” A pure gray wolf materialized from the trees. His thick coat looked warm and protective. A dozen more followed him.
	“No. Not until you tell me what you are.”
	“I am Shadow-Shifter, I run in the night and watch for lost pups like you. There are many that the darkness would have for her own if she may. And you? Who are you?”
	“They all me Lugernot, but it is not my name!” Lugernot said fiercely. Now that he could see his enemy, his fear loosened enough to allow bold speech.
	“But it is what I am to call you?”
	“I am going to the Toymaker so I can know what to call me. They say he made all things.”
	If wolves could frown, this one certainly did. He tilted his head, studying Lugernot. “You are very far from the Toymaker. You will not make it on such a cold night, and certainly not in clothes such as those. Come with us. We will see to it that your needs are taken care of.”
	“But I cannot trust you.” Lugernot said, battling within himself. He was very cold, hungry, and tired. Worst of all, Goldfish’s pleading eyes would not leave his mind. They would not ask if they knew what I did.
	“You will die if you do not come with us. Certainly that is worse than us possibly killing you? A wolf’s bite may be merciful in its swiftness, but the cold takes life one drop at a time.”
	Shadow-Shifter had a point. Lugernot nodded.
	They ran, Shadow-Shifter ever at Lugernot’s side. Through the trees, up the hills, and deep into the mountain caves. They brought him new, clean clothes. Furs that would stay the wet and cold. They had fire, though he couldn’t guess how they made such a thing with paws, and they cooked meat on it for him and threw it in stew. In the end, they gave him a magic, golden compass. “It will take you where you must go,” Shadow-Shifter promised, then licked Lugernot’s forehead.
	Making a face, Lugernot wiped away the slobber. Secretly though, he loved the attention. For the first time since he first heard of a creator, he forgot the Toymaker and laid down to sleep, safe and surrounded by protection.
	Sometime in the night, a wind began to beat on the walls of the cave. Its moaning turned to pleading. “Please, no!” It was Goldfish’s voice. Lugernot sprung up. The phantom voices disappeared, and the wind resumed its racketing. “Goldfish is in trouble.” He looked about him. Through the mouth of the cave, a single blue star seemed to grow before his very eyes, then shrink back down. It continued to do this like as though calling him.
	Lugernot crawled out of the cave, for it was too short for him to stand. Out in the cool night, he straightened. The wind billowed, but the snowing had stopped. A full moon lit the world with more clarity than the cloudy day had given. Orbs, like those he’d first seen upon entering, shone bright. “I have to find him.” Lugernot glanced back at the sleeping wolves.
	Shadow-Shifter lay closest to the entrance, eyes wide. Lifting his head, he nodded at him. “Use the compass. Follow the orbs. You will find him. He needs you. Just like us wolves need each other.”
	Lugernot felt something cold drip down his cheek. Tear, he realized and wiped his eyes in embarrassment. “I’m never going to find the Toymaker. I’ll never know who I am.”
	Something like a sad smile tilted the wolf’s lips. “All will be well. Go.”
	Wiping his nose, Lugernot nodded. Fresh vigor filled his body as he looked at the compass and set his course. One step at a time, he walked into the night.
	Day had dawned before he reached the lake. It was frozen, with icicles decorating its edges like tree roots. In the middle lay Goldfish, unmoving.
	“Goldfish!” Lugernot screamed and ran towards the unconscious form. Appearing from the mounds of snow, a beast strode forward coated in white fur. Its blue tentacles hung from its mouth as though it had tried to take in a mouthful of earthworms and instead froze them to his lip. Its massive hands were spindly, with claws like the daggers Lugernot once dodged.
	It swung them at him.
	With expertise garnered from being “Dagger boy”, Lugernot dodged and danced. The beast roared. It spread its talons and swiped right. Lugernot rolled under it and popped up like a gopher. He kicked the animal in between the legs, then punched its furry gut. Rock-hard abs bruised his hand.
	Roaring in indignation, the beast pointed its claws and grabbed for Lugernot.
	Lugernot ducked and rolled backwards.
	The claws whooshed over his head, straight towards its own stomach. The beast impaled itself. Mush exploded from its gut. The wind blew violently. It faded away like smoke.
	Lugernot gaped, panting. “Goldfish.” He started forward, but an elf appeared in the air.
	It was the same one that he first traded with. It sneered at the boy. “You traded!” Pointing a finger at him, he squeaked like a rat. “Since you’ve killed my pet, I will let you have one chance to trade back. ONE!” It shook itself, a jingling filling the air as he did so.
	“I trade!” Lugernot shouted and threw the statue at him. It thunked him in the forehead, and he fell back.
	Lugernot ran forward. He slid to his knees at Goldfish’ side.
	Goldfish fluttered open his wide, gold eyes and looked about. “You came back,” he said, his voice muffled by the scarf.
	The ground below them shook. The sun increased in brilliance. The two boys stood, looking about in wonder. A man approached them, glowing like the sun. A long poncho, threaded in blazing green and red draped him from shoulder to boots. His icicle staff had images of lions, wolves, trees, and stars carved into it. Strings of lights hung from his long white beard and a funny hat, lopsided and triangular, flopped over and ran to his hip.
	“The Toymaker.” Goldfish yelped.
	Lugernot nodded, his hands tight on Goldfish’s shoulders. “It’s no use now. We have nothing to give him.”
	“On the contrary, my boys.” The man’s voice was cheerful and sent an immediate warmth through their chests. “You’ve given quite enough.” Now close enough to touch, he bent down, his breath hot in their faces. “That was a very brave think you did, Hero.”
	Lugernot looked about for who he was speaking too.
	“I’m talking to you.” The Toymaker smiled, kindness pooling in the big eyes. “And you, Faithful. You were very brave to follow your brother into the Winter Night.”
	Goldfish nodded, but he looked as unsure as Lugernot felt.
	“These are your names I gave you, though you had yet to discover them.” Toymaker looked from one to the other. “This is the story I chose for you both, though you had to choose to live it. You see, a name is given, but it’s whether you decide to claim it or not that really changes the heart of a boy.”
	The two children looked from one to the other.
	“Hero,” Hero tried out the new title, tasting it like a foreigner’s food. It felt as right as the stew given by the wolves. He met Toymaker’s eyes and smiled till his cheeks hurt. “I am Hero.”
	“And I am Faithful.”
	Toymaker laughed, the sound better than the richest hot chocolate. “Come now.”
	“Come where?” Hero tightened his grip on Faithful.
	Toymaker smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Home. You’ve come to know yourselves. It’s time you meet the rest of your kind.”
","July 28, 2023 23:32","[[{'Zoey Hailey': 'Hello! I really enjoyed your story! It was sweet and deep. I loved the message about titles and finding out who you are, and as a Christian, the Toymaker to me really symbolized God. He knows you and gave you a story, a name, a destiny… but He also gave you free agency, so it is always your choice to follow it. Some people already seem know who they are, and have since they were born…but the real question is, do all of them know of their significance and what they individually bring to the table? I loved Goldfish and his childlike innocence....', 'time': '13:52 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'A Inge': 'Thank you so much for the kind feedback and critique. The ""him"" and ""it"" was totally accidental, haha. I\'m also a Christian and that\'s the parallel I was going for so I\'m glad you got it! That\'s a good point about Goldfish\'s looks. Honestly, I was just trying to cut out details but my readers still want to know if he\'s got fins or not lol. Glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '20:13 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'A Inge': 'Thank you so much for the kind feedback and critique. The ""him"" and ""it"" was totally accidental, haha. I\'m also a Christian and that\'s the parallel I was going for so I\'m glad you got it! That\'s a good point about Goldfish\'s looks. Honestly, I was just trying to cut out details but my readers still want to know if he\'s got fins or not lol. Glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '20:13 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0039,"Write a story where the characters start to realize that they are, in fact, just characters.",u51sfy,Hummingbird,Nick Baldino,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u51sfy/,/short-story/u51sfy/,Character,0,['American'],3 likes,"
Jake sits upright at the end of the couch, elbows locked on his knees. He stares past his therapist, out the pale screen of dawn, to a hummingbird that darts between red and purple petunias. 
“Look,” Jake says. “A hummingbird.”
 
The therapist doesn’t turn. He speaks in staccato. “What draws your attention to the hummingbird?”
 
Jake shrugs. “I haven’t seen one in a long time, that’s all.” 
“And how does that make you feel?” 
 
“Nostalgic.” Jake pauses, making sure his next word is closer to meaning something. “Wanting.”
 
“What exactly,” the therapist says, raising his eyebrows, “do you want, Jake?”
 
Jake looks at the shimmery green as it bounces across the window. “For it all to go back to normal. That’s what I want.”
 
“Well, let’s start with normal.” The therapist pulls a white clipboard atop his crossed legs. “What does normal look like to you?”
Jake drops his head deeper into his lap, his hands running across his face and through his hair. Then he looks back at his therapist. “Normal is before I met Mushu.”
 
“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” The therapist smiles with guarded teeth. “Tell me about this foe of yours, Mushu.”
 
“He’s not a foe,” Jake begins. “He’s a friend, actually. I met him at the tennis court.” 
 
“What made you befriend Mushu?”
 
“He looked dependent.” The words leapt from his lips, and he was embarrassed of them, despite their truth. He’d been looking for a doubles partner, and Mushu had dressed the part. Jake remembers their first match, the way Mushu’s waterfall hair seemed to expand as he ran, his lanky backhand that put fuzzy green skid marks on the court. “We started hanging after games, for pints or dinner or whatever.”
 
The therapist jots a note down. “It seems like a normal relationship to me. What about it feels abnormal?”
 
“That’s the thing.” Jake grits his teeth and releases. “It sounds crazy.”
 
“Go on. I won’t judge.” But he’s raising his eyebrows again. 
 
“Well, it started a few months ago. We had planned on dinner at my place, so I was grilling on the lawn. My girlfriend, Nancy, was prepping some Brussel sprouts inside, and when Mushu’s girl arrived, she ran right in to meet her. That left me and Mushu alone out front.”
 
“And? Did anything occur?”
 
Jake sighs, his entire being deflating with it. “Not on the surface, no. It was just regular Mushu in his tennis whites, his red headband keeping the hair off his ears. He made a few jokes about me burning the food and the paint job on my fence, and then we went inside.”
 
“Sounds pleasant.”
 
“Yeah,” Jake knots his hands together, “but it wasn’t. It was all fake.”
The pen in the therapist’s hand stops suddenly. “Explain.”
Jake thought back- how had he known that first time? It was a summer day, a season where the colors became hypnotic under so much light, and all those colors seemed etched in his mind like a gravestone- the Miracle-Gro green at his feet, the Egyptian blue that ran around Mushu’s form, and his form itself, which was so white and tan that he could have passed as the final piece of his fencepost. That wasn’t what he remembered most clearly, though. It was-
 
“His smile.” Jake says, his voice brittle. “He was wearing this yellow smile, so tight to his cheeks that I thought it might snap like a rubber band. And it was the whole time, through every joke, completely unwavering. It felt like… you know…”
 
“What?” The therapist knots his hands in reflection.
 
“It felt like he was performing.”
 
“Performing?” The therapist gives a tight grin. “Performing for who?”
 
“It wasn’t for me, that’s for sure. He’d take these big, long pauses after each joke, even when I wasn’t laughing. It felt like his jokes went…through me, like we were somewhere far away from that lawn on Meadow Lane, and he was on a stage or something, projecting.”
 
“Jake, I don’t want to upset you,” the therapist begins, “but this sounds like a textbook case of paranoid narcissism. Nervousness, delusions of grandeur, and a high sense of self-importance.” The therapist stares at Jake. “Do you think this aligns with what you’re feeling?”
 
“I’d agree,” says Jake, “if this only happened the one time.”
“This is an ongoing trend?”
 
“About every week. When I walk through the gates to the tennis courts, I feel this weird… static. It’s like pins and needles across my skull. And that’s when I see Mushu come over, his teeth the size of saucers, and he starts cracking away. ‘Jakey! Hope that’s a limp I see- I’ve got lunch in an hour!’ or ‘Make sure you double knot those laces- the weatherman said 50% chance of ace!’”
 
“So he annoys you? Is that the core of this?” The therapist is writing again.
 
“No,” Jake says. “That’s not it at all. Sure, the jokes are lazy, but if he was my friend, I’d smile and shrug them off. The point is, I’m not sure he’s my friend anymore. Under those wet blue eyes and that Cheshire grin is… someone that wants to use me.”
 
“There goes those feelings of narcissism, Jake.” The therapist clicks his tongue. “We’ll work on-“
 
“It’s spreading,” Jake interrupts in a cold breath. “That’s why I’m coming to therapy. Because I think it’s spreading, and I don’t know where else to go.”
 
“Spreading how?” The therapist crosses his legs. 
 
“It’s at these big events, like a dinner a few days ago. It was the four of us again, at Mushu’s place, and I already didn’t want to go, but Nancy told me it’d be rude to say otherwise. So we went over, brought some wine, and it all seemed OK until I walked through his apartment door.”
 
“The static?” 
 
Jake nods, shifting his eyes back to the window. The hummingbird is still there, moving faster now, zigzagging between the hard-to-reach blossoms. “It was bigger this time, closer to a convulsion, and I nearly passed out as those pins ricocheted through my sciatic. It did weird things in my head, too. I started to hear applause, like hundreds of hands at once, and what sounded like corny laught- “
“This sounds serious, Jake. We’ll have to get you on some Prozac. Remind me at the end of our session.” The therapist takes a note, and notices Jake is waiting to speak again. “Continue.”
 
“Mushu looked bad. Not in a dying way, but it was obvious he was losing to this… force… within him. His eyes were bloodshot and dry in their broadness, and every action seemed strained and over the top. He’d fling open doors with wild mannerisms, skid into each room, and almost fall on top of the expensive China hidden around his house. He even knocked a family photo off the wall, sending glass across the floor like a burst atom. All he said was ‘Praying THAT’S not an omen!’”
 
“OK. And the pauses?”
 
“They were longer, more than a beat. It wasn’t just for dramatic effect, either, like the other ones- I think, in the group setting, he was looking for a back-and-forth. Which is ultimately what he got.”
“Expand on that.”
 
“Well, we were at the dinner table, with chicken and mash and corn between us, and Mushu began his antics again. ‘Pass me the Jake- I mean the chicken!’ And there was silence. I waited for it to wash over, so we could eat and just abandon the dinner altogether, but then I heard Nancy over my shoulder. ‘At least he’s not as corny as you, Mush.’ I choked on my water as she looked at me. Her eyes had calcified into buttons, and she wore a new, glossy smile that was closer to a car decal than a true expression of self.”
 
“Did it frighten you? Your girlfriend’s reaction?”
 
“Yes! It’s easy to pass judgement in the majority. But straight after Nancy was a comment from Mushu’s girl, and that’s when I knew the disease, or whatever it was, had gotten them. I knew they had turned on me.”
 
“Don’t you feel ‘turned on me’ is a bit of an exaggeration? It was just harmless quipping.”
 
Jake stands up, his fingers now serrating his hairline. He begins to pace in little circles. “You couldn’t see the stares, Doctor. After the three of them had spoken, they all locked their gazes on me. Each was that over-excited, drug-addicted gape of the lost- and that, I could have gotten over. But there was more than that. More eyes. It felt like the world had turned its attention on me, as if fifty million ghosts had packed that dining room and were breathing down my neck. It was stage fright of the millionth degree.”
“So what did you do?”
 
Jake freezes, his spine arched like a cat, his hands balled into cement. “Nothing. Not even Jerry Lewis could have shrugged off that pressure. So I choked on my tongue. It washed over the entire table, a minute at least, while I juggled with my own presenter’s dilemma on whether to scramble for words or shrivel up in the silence. I found there was no right answer, though, because that’s when the other side of that thing came out. The side that hid between cracking teeth and vacant pupils.”
 
The therapist bites his top lip and scrunches his eyes up. “You’re referring to the monster?” He notices Jake’s foot tapping three raps a second.
 
“It’s more of an energy, I think. First I heard was the cracking of dining chairs on the hardwood floor. It made me flinch at the force of it, and when I looked back up, they were all standing, staring through me. On their faces were frowns, curved so tight and aggressive that they weaved into the neck and called upon every tendon. Mushu began yelling, almost barking, and there was a touch of static in his voice now, as if his scream was carried on radio waves. ‘LINE!’ I could hear him saying. “LINE!” I backed my chair away to make a quick exit. But, turning to run, I noticed the ladies had blocked my path and were chanting the same phrase- ‘LINE!’ ‘LINE!’ ‘LINE!’ They moved closer to me, trapping me between them and the dinner table. I only got out of there by diving headfirst under the tablecloth and crawling towards the door. I haven’t seen any of them since.”
 
There is a silence now, and as the therapist uncrosses his legs, Jake does another small circle. “So, Jake, you tell me this story. The question is- what do you make of it?”
 
Jake’s mouth, which had been gaping open throughout his tirade, snaps hard against his jaw. He sits back down, realizing he’s exhausted, and reclines against the blue couch. There’s an answer for this question- Jake knows he’s been dancing around it all afternoon, which has felt longer and more eventful then his last ten years combined. He closes his eyes, and channels that feeling as best he can. 
 
Copying his therapist’s staccato tone, he says: “There’s another world out there. And I’m afraid it’s trying to claim me.” 
The therapist looks to Jake, and for a moment he believes the therapist has become one of Them, the way his eyes seem so far away. But then he turns and walks towards the window. The sky has become murky during their talk, the window flush with clouds with only a few flowers to brighten the day. The hummingbird hovers no longer. 
 
“I get it now,” the therapist says, his arms crossed behind his back. In the frame of the windowpane, he is a cutout cloaked in black. 
There is a short laugh, declaratory, and he speaks again. “I get it.”
 
“Get what?” Jake says. His foot is beginning to tap again. 
“How you need to be written.” The therapist turns, and Jake can see he is scribbling furiously on the yellow swatch of paper attached to his clipboard. 
 
“What about me are you writing?” Jake is clueless, and he feels a spark of anger in his stomach that is quickly extinguished. 
“I’m not writing ABOUT you, Jake. I’m writing YOU.” The therapist pedals back to his seat, and Jake can see a half-grin across his face. They meet eye-to-eye. 
 
“See, before, I thought you were a foil,” the therapist says. “Casting wise, it made sense- Mushu is tall and skinny, while you’re boxy and strong. A Costanza type to balance Mushu’s Kramer.” The therapist flips the paper. “But you’re not a Costanza, are you? Too flighty for conflict, too cautious for comedy. Awareness is your greatest strength- and your biggest weakness.”
 
Jake pushes a finger out, attempting a word, but the therapist battles on. “See, it was all that hummingbird garbage that got me thinking- maybe you’re my hummingbird! They’re delicate creatures, beautiful feats of nature, and that could make for a good character arc in season two. But for now we need conflict, and throwing a hummingbird in a cardboard box every other episode will surely stir things up, right?” He delivers a storky cackle once more. 
 
Jake doesn’t know when he’ll get to speak again, so he stands and blurts out “What are you talking about?”
 
The therapist points out an outstretched hand, eyebrows up high. “See? Look at yourself. This is what I’m talking about- the fact that you can’t figure out what’s going on causes you to panic. To act irrationally.” The therapist shrugs. “It’s good television!”
 
Jake feels dizzy, and in his wet paint vision he realizes none of this looks familiar. He doesn’t remember a receptionist, a lobby- he can’t even recall if he drove his own car. “How did I get here?” Jake says as he stumbles into the coffee table. 
 
“I brought you.” The therapist says, smiling openly now. “I brought you all here, on pen and paper.” He disconnects the yellow sheet from his clipboard, and places it on the table between them. A small ding radiates through the room, coming from the therapist’s wristwatch. He sucks his teeth. “Seems we’re out of time. No worries- I’ll see you on set. As for my 10:30 block…” He holds up the white clipboard, which Jake recognizes not as a clipboard, but as one of those film clappers they use in movie shoots. “I think I have some revisions to make.” 
 
Jake straightens up again and makes one lunge for his therapist. The therapist doesn’t wince, like he might do in the same situation- he only drops the hinged bar atop the slate, sending a sharp clap across the office, into Jake’s body, into Jake’s being, with all the force of a nuclear generator. He sees static, moves across it like a hand over a television screen, and finds himself falling into the world of a million laughing faces. He begins to scream, and as his shouts turn to tears, he beats his arms all the way down. 
","July 29, 2023 00:46",[]