prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,7odaes,Dreams of the Father,Murray Burns,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7odaes/,/short-story/7odaes/,Character,0,"['High School', 'Sad']",18 likes,"
Dreams of the Father“It is a wise man who knows his own son.”                                 - William Shakespeare, Merchant of VeniceIt was one of the first things imprinted in Charlie’s mind as a child, an integral part of the foundation of his memory and a guidepost for the path to be followed…followed, not blazed. The picture that hung above the desk in his father’s study showed a handsome young man with long, wild dark brown hair, holding a football in one hand and a helmet in the other. The larger-than-considered-normal for residential use photo dominated the room and brought it closer to the realm of a shrine than a workplace environment. Charlie was allowed to play in that room when his Dad wasn’t working, pushing a toy truck on the rug along the circular logo of his parents’ college, or spinning himself around on the desk chair until he was dizzy. He was often with his parents when they watched football on TV, which was more often than not every fall weekend, and keying on his father’s passion for the game, he understood the players were the elite, chosen people of this world. When his Dad’s old college team was on the screen, it wasn’t like church; it was church.As Charlie grew older, he would study the man in the football uniform in the picture whenever he was in his Dad’s office. He was impressed by the vibrant colors and equipment, moved by the young man’s look of fierce determination, and proud that it was his Dad. He could see himself in that uniform, holding that football, unaware that the fruits of the seeds don’t always grow as intended.Rick’s high school friends dubbed a new phrase for him as he dominated all aspects of the teenage years, from the field of play and the classroom to the dance floor of the gym and all other elements of the world of romance. “All everything” became “You can’t think of anything he isn’t”. He had the body and brain to be anything. He chose football.All-state linebacker, visits from a number of nationally recognized coaches, and offers from thirteen schools, Rick was destined for fame and fortune. He was an All-Conference selection at linebacker and a fixture on many NFL draft boards. With a 6’4” 250 lb. frame, it seemed impossible that a few ounces of material could sink it all.The 15-yard penalty for the illegal chop block was little compensation for the devastating knee injury, the worst the orthopedic surgeon had ever seen. A year of rehab and perhaps an over-optimistic prognosis made him a late-round pick, but the knee blew out again and shredded the reconstructed ligaments in the first preseason game. It was over.----------“I don’t have a problem with it, Susan. Soccer is probably a good activity for little boys. And he’s too young for football right now anyway.”“You don’t have a problem with it, Rick? Like there could be something wrong with a little boy playing soccer on a team with his friends?”“No, of course not. It’s just that, well you know, it’s…soccer. It’s a great sport for girls, but I always looked at it like boys’ soccer is for guys who can’t do anything else…you know, not big enough, can’t jump, can’t hit a curve ball. And have you ever seen the stands at a varsity soccer game? There are barely enough people there to account for one parent per player. Susan, Charlie’s strong, athletic, and he can run like a freaking gazelle. He may not be big enough to be a linebacker, but he could be a great defensive back…or maybe a wide receiver. Of course, we could always bulk him up. Nope, he’s destined for Friday night lights.”“Have you ever watched a soccer game?”“Not really.”“The players are very talented.”“Sure, I suppose they have some ability to play the game.”“And do you know what else soccer is for him?”“What?”“Fun.”-----------Charlie was a man amongst boys at those early stages- taller, more skilled, and faster than any other kid, not just on his team, but in the entire league. It was flag football until the 7th Grade and then full pads and contact with the Junior Tigers program until high school. He didn’t need his Dad to be one of the coaches to get the extra attention, but Rick was there every night pushing him to try harder, to do better. Charlie always needed to do better if he wanted to play on Sundays.“Rick, I think you and the other coaches take this all a little too seriously. It’s like you're trying to whip these little guys into men out there. Call me naïve, but isn’t this just supposed to be fun at this stage, an activity for children?”“Susan, he’ll be on the high school team in a year, and they aren’t going to be babysitting these boys. The kids will be working their butts off to get some playing time and to win some games. Coach Larson isn’t going to be taking it easy on any of them.”Their backyard looked like a cross between the TV set of American Ninja Warrior and a Marine Corps obstacle course- tires to quick-step through, a 20’ climbing pole, platforms at ascending levels for standing jumps, a horizontal bar for pull-ups, a slab of concrete under a canopy for jump rope and free weights. Inspirational messages were everywhere- “Hard Work Pays Off”, “Don’t Ever Give Up”, “When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Going”, and so on.Charlie didn’t mind the workouts. Rick’s drills weren’t abusive, but they were disciplined and challenging, and Charlie felt good at the end of every session. The pain in his arms and legs, sweat seeping into his eyes, gave him a sense of accomplishment, and he was pleasing his Dad.Sometimes we do things in repetition without quite grasping the purpose. Habit, routine, and direction from outside forces take command, and the action is repeated over and over again without a particular purpose in mind. Charlie liked the regimen; he was just a little uneasy about the ultimate goal.----------Soccer, football…soccer, football. The two had a bit of a match going on in Charlie’s head. He loved playing soccer, and he loved his teammates, but he knew ever since those days of pushing that little truck around under the umbrella of his Dad’s picture that football was his destiny. Up until high school, he was able to do both. Now they would both be high school fall sports. Time to choose.“Charlie, if you like soccer, play soccer. Your dad can’t make you play football.”“He’s not going to make me play football, Joey. I just know that’s what he wants me to do. I want to please him, you can understand that.”“Charlie, whatever you do should please him.”That hit Charlie. Would his Dad support him, be proud of him, whatever path he chose? He could only hope so. He did know that running around in short pants kicking a ball would break Dad’s heart.“We need you, Charlie. You are a scoring machine. We could have a great team.”“I’ll miss it. I’ll miss you guys.”----------Moms have a way of knowing things that others cannot perceive, a special extra sense, especially for the thoughts and feelings of their boys.“Charlie, do you want to play football?”“What? Of course, I do, Mom.”“Charlie…”Moms also have a special way of saying things. One word, the tone in which his name was spoken, and Charlie knew immediately. She saw the problem, understood the conflict, and no matter what, she would support him, be a stalwart defender in his corner. She’d be the flak jacket he’d need should he walk into his Dad’s office carrying a soccer ball to announce his decision.“It’s ok, Mom, sure I like soccer, but I like football too.”“Charlie, I love your Dad too. I know he’d be disappointed, but you have to do what you want to do. It’s your life, Charlie. He’d understand it.”“It will be ok, Mom. Thanks.”----------“Rick, I’m not sure Charlie’s heart is in football. I think he might rather play soccer.”The subject had been floating around the periphery of their relationship for some time. Now it was crunch time. Susan felt Rick was pushing too hard; Rick thought he was providing support and encouragement. Susan thought football was too dangerous; Rick saw a college scholarship and a professional career.The first day of practice arrived, and Charlie, football in hand, left the house with his Dad.“It’ll be fine, Mom.”---------Rick’s name was inscribed on the “Wall of Fame” at the entrance to the gym at Lincoln High School. His feats on the high school and college gridirons were well known throughout the town, so his son’s arrival at his first football practice drew the immediate attention of all the coaches. Charlie’s own exploits with the Junior Tigers only wettened their appetites.“The kid is gifted, Rick, that’s for sure.”“Speed, size, great hands, he’d be a great wide receiver. But you guys don’t throw much, so maybe corner or safety. I know you don’t like playing guys on both offense and defense, Coach, but you might want to make an exception here.”Rick was at that first practice. Rick was at every practice. He had Coach Larson’s ear ever since those flag football days, and even if he didn’t want Rick’s input, Coach Larson got it.----------Charlie wasn’t the first, but he was certainly the best freshman to ever suit up for a Lincoln High varsity football game. Nothing in the high school experience matches the excitement of those Friday night games- the cool crisp air, the bright lights, the packed stadium, little kids tossing a football around behind the stands, the band, the cheerleaders, the feeling of community, as the players separated into groups for their pregame warmup. Rick was already in the stands employing an unusual twist to the popular game-prep technique of visualization. He knew all the routes, and he was imagining Charlie running an “Out-n-Go”, pulling in the long pass, and streaking into the end zone. He could see it, feel it, damn near be it.“Jesus Christ, Susan, our quarterback can’t throw for shit. Charlie was wide open.”“Watch your language, Rick! And his parents could be sitting close by.”Rick was right. The Lincoln QB couldn’t throw for shit, but Charlie could play defense like Dion Sanders. It was an out route, Charlie timed it perfectly, cut in front of the receiver, snatched the ball out of the air, and raced 65 yards for a touchdown. Rick was with him every step of the way.----------Due to his quarterback’s obvious limitations, and because of Charlie’s rare abilities, Coach Larson soon moved his talented freshman receiver to running back where he’d have the ball in his hands all night long. Charlie did not disappoint. He could run inside. He could run outside. Their quarterback was able to get a short pass to him and then watch him run wild. And in a league not known for its passing game, Charlie had seven interceptions that first season, including two pick-sixes. The kid was a stud.Rick saw his past and the future that wasn’t in every one of Charlie’s spectacular plays. He knew the game, the feel of the helmet, the pads, the hard hits on a ball carrier, the thrill of the cheering crowd. He wasn’t watching Charlie; he was Charlie. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; once in a while, the apple never even falls off the tree.----------The letters started coming during his sophomore year. By the time Charlie was a Junior, he was getting visits from coaches across the country, not just from the recruiting coordinators, but from the schools’ head coaches. Everyone wanted Charlie.“I told you, Susan. Our boy can write his own ticket.”Charlie’s stock went up after every game, and Rick’s sense of pride soared. In the grocery store, the barbershop, at the gas station, or in a parking lot, Rick sang the praises of his son’s exploits the previous weekend. He knew all of Charlie’s stats without writing them down, and he could do a mental replay of every play that his son was involved in. It was his second shot at stardom.Meals could no longer be served on the dining room table as it was covered with college recruitment letters and Rick’s notes on the various programs and coaches. Dad, advisor, agent, and secretary, Rick played all the roles. He was already beginning to regret the day they (“they”, not Charlie) would have to decide on a school. He was in the moment both at the games and at that dining room table.----------“Unbelievable game, Charlie. Your punt return was awesome.”“Thanks, Joey. How’s your team doing?”“We suck, but that’s ok. It’s fun. But we sure could have used you.”Fun, the word Charlie recalled from so long ago. He missed those guys. They weren’t as “cool” or as popular as the football players, but they lined up a little better with his own personality. He sometimes felt he didn’t quite fit in with the macho mentality that many of his teammates tried to exhibit. He couldn’t quite act as cool and tough as he was supposed to.   Susan sensed it.“Charlie, I ran into Joey’s mom at the grocery store the other day. She says our soccer team isn’t very good, but Joey loves it.”“That’s good.”“Charlie, there’s one more year left.”“What do you mean? One more year left for what?”“If you wanted to play soccer with Joey and your other friends.”“Are you serious? Everyone would think I was nuts, especially Dad. I’ve played football for three years. I can’t switch now.”“I understand. You’ve gone a long way down that road. But if you’re on the wrong road, Charlie, the sooner you get off, the better. It’s never too late.”“It’s too late, Mom.”----------“Rick, I’m sure this will sound crazy, but I think you should talk to Charlie about football this fall.”“What do you mean?”“Well, I think he might like to play soccer.”She might as well have said Charlie would like to take a quick trip to the moon that afternoon.“What?! Yeah, that is crazy. Why would you even say that?”“He misses it. He’s always missed it. I think he’s played football to please you, Rick. But I think he’d have more fun playing soccer.”“Fun? The kid is seventeen, Susan.”Rick pointed to the stacks of papers on the dining room table.“Look at these offers. Ohio State wants him. Notre Dame wants him. Southern Cal wants him. Everyone wants him. No, this is too important. His future is football.”A visibly perturbed Rick left the room as Susan continued to stare at the paperwork on the table.---------- Friday night lights, Rick was in his element. He didn’t need to feel the excitement; he was the excitement. It was Senior Night and with the team cruising at seven wins and no losses, it was an overflow crowd. Rick and Susan stood with the other parents along the 50-yard line at halftime waiting to be introduced. The crowd went wild when their names were called and Charlie handed a rose to his Mom. As they walked to midfield, Rick sucked in the applause. He was back in his glory, back on the field, shredding blockers and sacking a quarterback. He wasn’t remembering, he was there.The game continued. It was their toughest opponent of the season, and it was a back-and-forth struggle for the Tigers. Rick was into every play.It wasn’t a particularly hard hit, but the collision was in all the wrong places. When the play was over, the players got up and headed for their respective huddles, all save one. Charlie remained lying on the ground. He wasn’t moving.A parent’s heart dies at such moments. After the initial moments of shock, hoping and praying their son would rise to his feet, Rick and Susan raced out onto the field. They watched in horror as the paramedics worked on their boy, stabilized him, and put him into the ambulance.----------The hospital waiting room, the hallways, and the elevators were crowded with players, coaches, and parents. Half the school was downstairs in the lobby or out in the parking lot. Considering the number of people present, the silence was staggering.Rick couldn’t move. He sat in that same chair for hours, while Susan made frequent trips to the small chapel on the first floor. A palpable cloud of worry, hope, prayer, and tears hovered over the building.Rick and Susan were called to a small room. One of the team of doctors entered.“Your son is going to survive. He’s in serious but stable condition.”These were the words Rick and Susan wanted to hear, but there was no joy in the doctor’s voice, only sadness in his eyes.“But he suffered a fracture vertebrae. He will be paralyzed from the waist down.”----------Their home had the feel of a funeral home the next day. There were many things Susan could have said, but she didn’t. At one point, as she walked through the house, she saw Rick sitting at the dining room table staring at all those offers. He swept them all off the table with one hand, pounded the table with the other, and cried.Susan could only lower her head and walk away. She was again searching her mind, heart, and soul for the right words to say to Charlie on their next visit. She would be strong for her son.
","July 26, 2023 18:52","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, this is a powerful, chilling tale, Murray. I read about things like this happening, and it's as sad as anything. You wrote a terrific, although sad, tale that I can feel in my bones. Masterful work, my friend. Truly masterful.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '13:16 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': ""Thanks, Del. A bit of history behind the piece... My Dad played Big Ten football in the 1930's! I played college football and then some. My son played football. Then... the brother of a good friend of mine had a brief NFL career. His son was a superstar in high school until he suffered a serious brain injury in a game and almost died. The poor kid is partially crippled for life. I love the game, but I don't think I'd let a kid of mine play now. I go to a lot of high school games...the kids are so much bigger and faster than when I played, an..."", 'time': '13:46 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': ""I can attest to the fact that they're bigger, stronger, and faster than they were in my HS days. I taught a lot of those monsters in school, and they were indeed imposing.\n\nSorry to hear about your friend. That's a real tragedy, my friend."", 'time': '14:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Murray Burns': ""Thanks, Del. A bit of history behind the piece... My Dad played Big Ten football in the 1930's! I played college football and then some. My son played football. Then... the brother of a good friend of mine had a brief NFL career. His son was a superstar in high school until he suffered a serious brain injury in a game and almost died. The poor kid is partially crippled for life. I love the game, but I don't think I'd let a kid of mine play now. I go to a lot of high school games...the kids are so much bigger and faster than when I played, an..."", 'time': '13:46 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""I can attest to the fact that they're bigger, stronger, and faster than they were in my HS days. I taught a lot of those monsters in school, and they were indeed imposing.\n\nSorry to hear about your friend. That's a real tragedy, my friend."", 'time': '14:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""I can attest to the fact that they're bigger, stronger, and faster than they were in my HS days. I taught a lot of those monsters in school, and they were indeed imposing.\n\nSorry to hear about your friend. That's a real tragedy, my friend."", 'time': '14:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Excellent look at what can happen when pushed too far. Feel so bad for Charlie. Even worse when know this had roots on real life.', 'time': '16:23 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Murray, great story. Well told. Great pacing. Definitely held my attention.', 'time': '01:53 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'RJ Holmquist': ""I enjoyed this, I found myself invested in all three characters and concerned about how their situation would resolve. I suspected Charlie would be injured and cringed empathetically for all three characters when it happened. \n\nAs an idea, I might consider adding one more scene. For me, the story worked well in creating concern for the characters, so I wanted just a little bit more at the end. I wanted to see how Charlie himself reacted to the injury, and I wanted to see how what would happen to Rick and Charlie's relationship because of it...."", 'time': '01:39 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': 'I appreciate it. I thought about adding what you had suggested, but then decided to end it with Rick getting hit with the consequences of trying to live vicariously through his son...plus, I was pushing 3000 words. Sadly, the story has its genesis in the real world. The brother of a good friend of mine was the real-life Rick character...all conference D-1 player and a short NFL career. His super star son suffered a brain injury in a high school game and almost died. The poor kid is partially crippled for life. I guess I also wanted to say so...', 'time': '03:17 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'RJ Holmquist': ""It is a rich topic! Football is fascinating as a cultural artifact. People's lives and identities are totally wound up in it and it has such power to change lives--financially in some cases, physically, as in this case, and emotionally in the cases of many many who enjoy watching it. \n\nI like that this piece explores some of that, particularly the vicarious attachment the father has to it through his son. Sports have so much to say about the human condition."", 'time': '16:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Murray Burns': 'I appreciate it. I thought about adding what you had suggested, but then decided to end it with Rick getting hit with the consequences of trying to live vicariously through his son...plus, I was pushing 3000 words. Sadly, the story has its genesis in the real world. The brother of a good friend of mine was the real-life Rick character...all conference D-1 player and a short NFL career. His super star son suffered a brain injury in a high school game and almost died. The poor kid is partially crippled for life. I guess I also wanted to say so...', 'time': '03:17 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': ""It is a rich topic! Football is fascinating as a cultural artifact. People's lives and identities are totally wound up in it and it has such power to change lives--financially in some cases, physically, as in this case, and emotionally in the cases of many many who enjoy watching it. \n\nI like that this piece explores some of that, particularly the vicarious attachment the father has to it through his son. Sports have so much to say about the human condition."", 'time': '16:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': ""It is a rich topic! Football is fascinating as a cultural artifact. People's lives and identities are totally wound up in it and it has such power to change lives--financially in some cases, physically, as in this case, and emotionally in the cases of many many who enjoy watching it. \n\nI like that this piece explores some of that, particularly the vicarious attachment the father has to it through his son. Sports have so much to say about the human condition."", 'time': '16:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,du3p91,The Final Petition of the Beast,Harmonious Pierce,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/du3p91/,/short-story/du3p91/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'High School', 'Horror']",17 likes,"
I trust that your patience and historically-proven aptitude for distilling the truth of events from the muddled fog of contentious viewpoints will inhibit you from leaping to a firm and resolute condemnation of my actions until you hear me out to the full. Let us see if I cannot, in time, convince you of my benevolence by offering another perspective on the events which preceded my downfall and which led me to assume this sorrowful state in which you now observe me, a perspective which, I hasten to warn you, runs contrary on many points to those you have no doubt already encountered. In exchange for your borrowed time, I promise to inform you of what really happened regarding a topic we can agree truly matters, the well-being of none other than my human host.            The rumors you have heard are true. I am soldered, by mechanisms far beyond the understanding of the human sciences, in an intimate manner to the psychological tendencies of the human mind. I must again plead with you to discard your prescribed opinions regarding this arrangement of living. Any beast or person misunderstood will stand by me—and perhaps you also will join us?—in testifying that the misunderstood are always critiqued with unwarranted harshness. I have borne the most hideous names hurled at me by those who fear and misunderstand of my role. I have gone by many disparaging titles throughout history, and am only too aware of the multitude of unsavory images attached to the notion of a parasitic relationship. May I suggest as a substitute for this baseless hatred the fondness of a pet for its owner? After all, I do more than leech. Like your beloved animal companions, I am also capable of altering the mood of my host, as you shall soon see.            My host was a young boy when I transferred myself from his parents’ minds to his. His psychological foundations had been set years before, and I arrived to find a habitat much to my liking. Between the folds of his thoughts, I made myself a home. I had left a part of me behind, of course, in the minds of the parents. Their family had served me for generations, and it was a light task for one as skilled as I in the art of suggestion and in possession of such intimate knowledge of their inner workings to fan the mother’s insecurities just so so that, while remaining completely imperceptible to their untrained eye, my little whispers achieved nothing short of the legal separation of the boy’s parents. I then secured my spot in the boy’s mind by magnifying his sense of responsibility for his parents’ misery. Thenceforward, the slightest reminder that he was unlovable had him wriggling deliciously in my grasp. It was thus, with my claws sunk deep into his skull, that I ushered him into high school.            His emotional trajectory was the most promising of all his dear family members yet. Not a single friend he made the first month of school. The very weight of me crumpled his posture as he wandered, friendless, through the halls. I steered his mood between the Scylla of an overly morose disposition, certain to be noticed by peers and trigger the arrival of help in the form of a school counselor or therapist, and the Charybdis of an optimism that would grant him the strength to shrug me off. I would have achieved this ideal flawlessly were it not for that damned girl, who transferred to his school and was placed, catastrophically, in the seat across from my host. Were she my charge, I would have doubled down on her insecurities at the first sign of that cheerful, infectious laugh and blasphemously pristine, consistent mood, if not out of a sense of duty to myself then out of respect for my colleagues who work so hard to keep precisely her sort of energy away from the vicinity of our hosts. Before the week was out, the boy was going home smiling to himself at the memory of their last conversation. Thankfully, I had conditioned him in preparation for such catastrophes—the reminder of the tension that awaited him at home when he stepped off the bus was enough to lull his mind back to its usual state of a miserable hibernation—yet I knew this girl was no patch of sun or tasty treat. She was here to stay. It frightened me how deftly she slipped under my nose. After generations of thankless, uphill labor, I was faced with the prospect of relinquishing all in submission to her smile. The memory of the warm undertones that bubbled up from deep within the boy at the memory of her smile causes me still to shutter.            I irked him, I belittled him, I downright scolded him in my best imitation of his father’s voice for his cheek. You can imagine, then, my shock when he steeled his nerve and neglected to drink from the sweet stream of self-pity I offered him. He told me himself that this girl was worth the pain, a revelation that gave me a most unpleasant shock. For centuries, my strategy had been to capitalize on the self-pity of my hosts by maintaining their focus entirely and crushingly on themselves. The bitterness this tactic unfailingly produces kept his parents under my thumb until their separation. I expected the same trap would ensnare their child also, but my suggestions fell suddenly on deaf ears. He had a drive to know this girl, and his deep-set belief that he was, essentially, unloved and unlovable did nothing to curb his momentum. In all my carefully executed precautions, I had not foreseen his sexual drive would rear its head in this manner. I chastise myself for the mistake. Had I studied more carefully the behavioral patterns of his father, molded my contraptions to better accommodate the boy’s hereditary quirks, I might have prevented this disaster from transpiring. As it stands, the animal drive to reproduce is, like me, powerful and resilient and cannot be permanently subdued, only temporarily diminished.            He surprised even himself, I think, at his boldness and forwardness looking back on what he did next. During a break in class came the briefest of silences, pregnant with the potential for shadow-shattering community, and then he spoke; and at that moment I perceived within myself a distinct and piercing horror that stemmed from the sudden realization that my source of life had suddenly begun to slip away, like sand, no, like water between my sharpened claws. The boy and the girl talked on stools in the back of the classroom, opposite the wide windows, with the morning sun on their faces. His willingness to reveal his most intimate thoughts, including those I had pointedly enforced on him to be the cause of his unlovableness, to this girl—a near total stranger to him, unknown less than a week ago!—it frightened me. So I bit him, hard, on the tip of his ear. It was too risky, you see, to allow a conversation of that nature to continue. They might have begun to discuss me, the boy’s negative self-talk, and he might have let the cat out of the bag and deprived me of the strength that secrecy affords. He was still grimacing from the pinch of the memory of some past embarrassment when the teacher resumed class. But the girl looked worryingly at him, and I at her, for I knew the fight was far from won.            Before I continue, I feel compelled to address my apparent neglect of the rules. You must understand, taking into account the urgency of my case, why it was necessary for me to inflict more than merely psychological torment on my host. Consider the goal I had to achieve. If the result of my admittedly brash action was the immediate embarrassment, the later regret, and the plummeted social confidence of my host, three dimensions firmly underneath my jurisdiction, can the rules really be said to have been abandoned? Even so, I trust you to keep the details of my misstep within the sphere of your knowledge and mine only.            That afternoon, the boy flopped onto bed and I robotically conjured his usual evening diet of social comparison and self-loathing that bites so poignantly on the teenage psyche. I had just settled in for a mellow evening of brooding and isolation when the boy received a friend request from the girl. Soon they were volleying messages happily like two ducks in a pond. I spewed my most horrid concoction of degrading insults in his ear, but the boy took even my most clever and piercing threats and—and told them to her, verbatim, as I had whispered them to him! The stupid boy believed my work to be a product of his own imagination, but the untruth of his utterances was instantly checked by the girl, and the secret of my existence was out. I felt the shame and secrecy drain from his mind like the contents of a filthy toilet all at once unclogged. You would have screamed too if you had been there, your life’s work transformed in an instant to shining acceptance and relief.            She urged him to speak with the school counselor on Monday, and walked him down to the counseling office herself when I attempted to undermine the urgency of his plight. I found us face to face with my old host, whose emotions I could not comprehend nearly as well from this side of his face. The counselor did not return my fiery gaze, although he noticed me the moment we stepped into his office, but gave the boy a long, sad look.            “I see what’s happening here.”            “Do I need anti-depressants, sir?” asked my host.            “Oh, no. Just a daily dose of self-acceptance.”*            If I have revealed too much of myself and my motivations, so that you look down upon me as the villain of this tale, believe me now when I tell you I have done so for a special purpose. For do I not, also, possess those same heroic traits, of determination, bravery, creativity in my methods, and consistency in my effort, all in service to the biological imperative to survive and reproduce, for which you applaud and congratulate the boy? What does it matter, really, if my methods are unconventional, my form perhaps shocking to you, my feeding style “abnormal”? I would caution you against delivering judgments colored so heavily by dislike for the unfamiliar and the unknown. What is the difference between me, who seek to preserve my existence by any means, even the grossest, and him, who takes the opinion of his friend into account before making a decision to the same end and purpose? I assure you, it is a difference not in type but in degree only. He fought harder, more ruthlessly than I, and so he has won. I, who held the boy’s leash, now cower, packed away and forgotten, in a dark and lonely corner of his mind. He does not visit or feed me, except occasionally and by accident. My strength is waned, my spirit is dehydrated, my form considerably shrunken. With the addition of communal support—that loathsome girl had friends, and introduced them to him—I doubt I shall ever drink from the boy’s vitality again.            What pains me most is the thought that his (and her?) children will be reared without the guiding influence of my whispers on their young minds. I will be hard pressed to imitate to his children the voice of their father when they have not been primed for years with the backdrop of his incessant complaints.            The boy has abandoned me. I shiver, cold and alone. But you, you are still here, warm and receptive, believing in the truth of my whispers, attentive to my voice. You will let me in, won’t you?
","July 28, 2023 20:59","[[{'Kevin B': ""I was excited to see this highlighted on the shortlist. I think it's got an amazing command of language and innovation. Wonderful job."", 'time': '20:13 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you for the kind words! I look forward to reading your stories as well.\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '20:36 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you for the kind words! I look forward to reading your stories as well.\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '20:36 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""This is amazing and vital. Personifying negative self talk and doubt and insecurity...all those things that put us down and keep us there. In truth I've been battling this demon myself and it does help to think of it as a 'thing' that I can keep locked away inside a cage in my mind. It's a slippery bugger with a silver tongue and it gets out from time to time. But I'm getting better at catching it and locking it back up\nThank you for this HP"", 'time': '17:50 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you for the kind review, Derrick. I’m glad to hear my story was useful as well as entertaining. You might be interested to know that it was because of reading your short story “Speed Fate” that I decided to submit to Reedsy in the first place. Thank you for the inspiration and the positivity you give to this community!\n\nCheers,\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '01:27 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Wow . That's amazing. Glad I inspired you to jump in! You are a very welcome addition! Looking forward to reading more of your work!"", 'time': '08:18 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you for the kind review, Derrick. I’m glad to hear my story was useful as well as entertaining. You might be interested to know that it was because of reading your short story “Speed Fate” that I decided to submit to Reedsy in the first place. Thank you for the inspiration and the positivity you give to this community!\n\nCheers,\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '01:27 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Wow . That's amazing. Glad I inspired you to jump in! You are a very welcome addition! Looking forward to reading more of your work!"", 'time': '08:18 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Wow . That's amazing. Glad I inspired you to jump in! You are a very welcome addition! Looking forward to reading more of your work!"", 'time': '08:18 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Pauline Julien': 'This was so good! It was a no-brainer for me to shortlist it 😊 well done and I look forward to reading other stories by you in the future!', 'time': '16:48 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you Pauline for the kind review. You inspire me to continue to write!\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '18:23 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you Pauline for the kind review. You inspire me to continue to write!\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '18:23 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hello!\nOh my goodness, what an interesting idea! I thought that your narrator had such a stunning voice and the peace, while confusing in the beginning, ended up being a stunning work of art at the very end. I also thought that your choice to include the reader in that final portion of the story was brilliant, because we have all experienced those kinds of conversations with self doubt before. I’m so glad the story decided to have a happy ending and my final word is of congratulations!!', 'time': '14:58 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine entry work here. Congrats.', 'time': '07:06 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you!', 'time': '14:48 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'My pleasure.', 'time': '18:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Thank you!', 'time': '14:48 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'My pleasure.', 'time': '18:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'My pleasure.', 'time': '18:53 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': ""Interesting story. I must say the start was a bit slow. There was a lot of dense language that could be paired down very easily while maintaining the conceit and intellect of the protagonist. \n\nEx: I trust that your patience and historically-proven aptitude for distilling the truth of events from the muddled fog of contentious viewpoints will inhibit you from leaping to a firm and resolute condemnation of my actions until you hear me out to the full.\n\nThis is word soup. \n\nMy version: I trust that your species' patience and historical aptitud..."", 'time': '03:40 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Ben,\n\nYour criticism is invaluable toward developing my skills as a writer. I agree with your points and will incorporate your suggestions into my next submission. Thank you for taking the time to write a review. Best,\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '04:09 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Ben,\n\nYour criticism is invaluable toward developing my skills as a writer. I agree with your points and will incorporate your suggestions into my next submission. Thank you for taking the time to write a review. Best,\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '04:09 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Please help me sharpen my style by commenting on my vocabulary and sentence structure choices. I’m also interested to know your emotional reaction to the story. Thank you for your time,\n\n-H. M. Pierce', 'time': '19:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,pgon1h,Pretty Like Pimmy,Ashlynn Altman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pgon1h/,/short-story/pgon1h/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Coming of Age']",15 likes,"
Seven bright vanity bulbs nearly blind me as I stare into the mirror, Mom beginning to unravel the big curlers from my bangs. My age group is up in fifteen minutes and no matter how many times I do this, my mind still slips into a different world as soon as the opening music for the toddler’s evening wear category plays. I can feel the wisps of hair fall just right across my forehead. Feeling even a single hair out of place is the biggest OCD tick my lifestyle has given me, because even before I can remember: I did pageants. I would honestly bet that my first steps were taken in a sparkly, cupcakey dress. My mother would prefer that my last steps be taken in a similar fashion. I mean, how else would anyone expect the one and only Pimmy Marten's daughter to go out, if not in sparkly stilettos?From the early years I do remember, Mom started bleaching my hair when I was six. I was already a blonde, technically, but Mom's blonde was honey and mine was strawberry, and they needed to be the same if I was going to win nearly as many pageants as she did. My braces went on the moment they were able. Mom didn't want me wearing something called a flipper. She said I'd look like a horse on stage, between a flipper and my nose, and since I was too young for a nose job the only logical thing to do was get braces at nine. Mom didn't bully me though, she prepared me. That's what she always said, and honestly she didn't even prepare me enough. Those little girls were brutal.They still are. The difference is, we aren't little girls anymore. We're seventeen. We're young women now, but if you ask any of our mothers we're still those naive and bright eyed six year olds spinning in a salon chair.My mom was an absolute pageantry legend when she was younger. She wasn't raised on it like I was though, which is why I was. She didn't start until she was nine when she found out about the pageant world from some of the girls in her grade at school. She begged my Nana Jean to let her enter ""just one"", but after she won 'Little Miss Rocket-Pop' that July, it became very clear that she wouldn't really be stopping at one. She kept going, doing nearly thirty pageants a year and winning top prize at nearly every one. There was never a time in Pimmy Winslow's pageantry career that she did not place.But, of course. Every great performer has to have an eventual downfall, which is why I say Pimmy Winslow never lost; Pimmy Marten did.Once Mom turned eighteen, she pulled the classic move of taking off to New York and chasing after more in the modeling world, but she quickly recognized all the differences between herself as a pageant girl and all of the true models of the city. Even girls she passed on the street bore more of a resemblance to the type of women all the agents were scouting in New York. Due to this, it's safe to tell you that she didn't fall into the Vogue-esque career that she thought she would. Instead, she fell in love. Specifically, she fell in love with my father: Sean Marten. And while that part of her life was good, the city was simultaneously chewing her up and spitting her back out. She remembers being told verbatim at various casting calls that it meant absolutely nothing to be known in a town that nobody could even point out on a map. Holding titles in a small town in Louisiana wouldn't get her anywhere. Nobody really knew who she was, and the way things were going nobody ever would. That's when I think she changed.When she met Dad she had still been the same southern pageant girl, wearing her big, blonde curls and gaudy rhinestone earrings. They got married almost instantly, before she'd even really given her dream gig a shot. Dad supported her in what she wanted, but it wasn't enough. The whole of her New York stay proved to have just been a chaotic whirlwind, and when she eventually left Dad and New York after four months and came back to Farmerville, she was just a hollow shell of that girl. She still had her southern accent, but she wasn't using it to say the same types of things anymore. The pageant world itself had of course left its mark, but New York had done something way beyond that. Before, she'd just been a girl excited to have found and experienced something that made her a part of something and gave her a name. She'd followed girls--her own competitors--into bathroom stalls on numerous occasions to console them after their mothers and coaches berated them behind the sparkly curtains. Now, she was the one who pointed out flaws. ""It's better that I let you know than someone who doesn't care about you."", was her excuse for every insecurity she bestowed upon me in my more formative years.Mom chose the pageant life for herself, but in my case I could have never avoided becoming Mom's carbon copy in the pageant world. She’d gotten back from New York and tried her hardest to make a seamless return to her pageantry roots, but she soon found out that she was pregnant with none other than myself. Of course, she didn’t know I was a girl, but of course she prayed that I would be. It wasn't out of the question to think that the second she got back the genetic testing results, she called her dress designer about newborn gowns and my fate was sealed. My opinion was never even desired in order for her to make the ruling decision that at six months old I'd be entering my very first regional pageant. It was in the City Center downtown, and you could probably predict that I won Tiny Miss Cherry Pit. Mom said that it was my big, blue eyes that helped me win, but everyone else said that it was her being Pimmy Marten that helped me win. Regardless of what my winning factor was, I did win, and just like with her own first win Mom was hooked on me having the glitz and glam she did for a short time. She just wanted to make sure mine started even earlier and lasted even longer.It didn't take Mom long though, to realize that her pregnancy weight had melted off and she was once again the petite trophy winner she had always been. It also didn’t take her long to recognize that the opposite of what she’d been told in New York also applied. If she lived in the city, maybe it wouldn’t be significant for anyone in Farmerville to know her name; but we lived in Louisiana, not New York, and maybe having local celebrity status was all she really needed anyway. Just like how nobody knew her name in New York, nobody knew what had happened to her in New York either. Nobody knew she’d been shut down by company after company, but nobody had to. Everyone was awed to see their very own Pimmy resubmerge as a divorced mother to who they all considered a ‘breathtaking’ baby girl. Enter me: her little Madi-Jo Marten. Legally, I’m Madison Joelle, but I think we can all agree that Madi-Jo is a much cuter name for a toddler prancing across stage.With Mom back in the scene and me starting out, mother-daughter pageants quickly became a no-brainer for us. Doing those is actually one of the big reasons why we started dyeing my hair in the first place. Mom and I needed to look identical if we wanted to win any Mommy & Me competitions, and for a while we did. Until, of course, we didn’t… and it became obvious to Mom and the judges that while I’d gotten her features, I was actually becoming strikingly resemblant to my Grandmother Lucia up in Tarrytown.The problem was that Grandma Lucia was Dad’s mother, not Moms, which meant she wasn’t exactly the southern belle beauty standard. She was rougher around the edges, she was a New Yorker after all. She had darker hair and eyes, a broader nose than Mom’s, and smoked cigarettes. That's where the nose Mom grows less and less fond of by the day comes from, but I think it fits my face well. Even though I never had a relationship with that side of my family growing up, I couldn’t help but sense that my changing looks gave Mom a feeling she didn’t like. I’d only ever seen pictures of Grandma Lucia , so I didn’t understand what the threat to Mom was, but I quickly understood once I aged out of the Mommy & Me playing field. I started being entered into my own age category and Mom still competed where she could, but something had changed. I started winning solo and she started losing again. That’s when she started really digging in on me with the criticism. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was jealous. I do know better, though, because out of the fourteen boxes of tiaras and sashes we have up in the attic, Mom’s take up nine. I knew that because she always made sure to remind me how many more she won than me when I wasn’t in the mood to practice my routines. That’s when I started to learn that the thing about doing pageantry as the daughter of an esteemed pageant queen is the fact that the competition isn't really your competition. Your mother is. It’s so much worse that way because after a real pageant, you can go home and leave all of your competitors behind; when it’s your own mother you’re dealing with, there really is no leaving your competitor behind.After Mom realized she really had reached the end of her career, pushing mine forward escalated on her list of priorities. I’d been in dance and acro since I was a toddler, but now I was being told I would be taking up gymnastics once a week as well. My grades and social life started to struggle for the first time in my life and I immediately nixed that development. I was going into middle school at that time and I knew I didn’t need to continue slipping. I think that made Mom jealous too; the fact that at eleven I could distinguish between what was actually good for me when she still wasn’t fully able at eighteen. “Madi-Jo.”, Mom’s voice wipes all the thoughts from behind my brow bone. I spin suddenly out of my thoughts and into cognizance. Deluded by the possibility that maybe she’ll undo every bad thought I just had about her essentially forcing this lifestyle upon me by what she’s prepping to say to me, I hum in response. My eyes are still closed from the combination of the blinding vanity lights and Mom’s eyeshadow application a few moments ago. I wonder every time I compete in a pageant what is going through her mind as she curls my bleached locks and watches me float across the stage. Is she proud of me? Does she actually regret the life she gave me as much as I often found myself wishing she would? The music fades in for my age group’s line-up and I instinctively suck in a tight breath, the rhinestones on my purple bodice pricking my suddenly goosebump ridden skin. I stand up from the makeup chair, readjusting my mermaid gown in a waddle-like walk, still waiting for Mom to finish her statement; and then she does. She purses her lips together and leans in close for a whisper. The local outlets would flash the sneakily taken photo of this moment on their pages, captioned with something about how the great Pimmy Marten gave her daughter her greatest advice before showtime. Nobody but me would know the truth of what she said, as always.“Remember to suck in. Remember who you’re representing.""
","July 26, 2023 14:41","[[{'Kelly Sibley': ""Oh goodness, it's so sad because it's based on reality. You held my attention all the way through, really well written."", 'time': '01:20 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ashlynn Altman': 'Thank you so much for taking the time to read. I really appreciate it', 'time': '15:30 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ashlynn Altman': 'Thank you so much for taking the time to read. I really appreciate it', 'time': '15:30 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Very well written  !', 'time': '03:48 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ashlynn Altman': 'Thank you! I appreciate it ◡̈', 'time': '15:35 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ashlynn Altman': 'Thank you! I appreciate it ◡̈', 'time': '15:35 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,yg8rud,Miranda and Samantha,Alexandra Huron,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yg8rud/,/short-story/yg8rud/,Character,0,"['Friendship', 'Sad', 'Fiction']",12 likes,"
The disco lights were blinking in beat to the soundtrack of Michael
Jacksons’ “Beat It”. The large colorful space of the roller rink was
speckled with people sharing laughs, some wobbling back and forth
fighting the glide of their skates, and some passing by with speed and
skill that made one “ooh!” and “ahh!”. The room swirled into a shaded
rainbow for a couple of revolutions until the only sight to be seen was a
girl named Daisy, who was in hysterics from her whirlwind spins with
whoever was out of frame.
“ Oh my god! Did you see that Sam?” Daisy shouted.
Daisy lifted herself off the floor, grabbed onto something for balance,
and laughed into the camera of the iPhone 12 that was strapped onto
Miranda’s arm.
“I’m such a klutz!” she said as she laughed out of frame.
The frame seemed to fall down with control until Miranda filled the
camera with her wide-stretched smile. She held the camera in an
outstretched position showing three other friends keeping speed behind
her.
“That was hilarious, wasn’t it?” She gestures to the camera.
Across from the receiving iPhone seated on a tripod, sat Samantha.
Samantha sat comfortably upright in her electric wheelchair, one hand
wrapped around the Bluetooth device she used to take screenshots of the
night, and the other held up a half-curled peace sign. Her smile was
pulled halfway to the left, her right side unmatching due to the numbness
in her face.
“Did you get it?” Miranda asked.
Samantha slowly but largely nodded a ‘yes’.
“Okay, I’ll see you at home soon.”
Miranda smiled, brought the phone up close enough to show nothing but
her face, gave a quick kiss into the camera and then hung up the
facetime call. Sam released her Bluetooth device into the cupholder of
her chair and used the remote stick to reverse away from her standing
desk.
College algebra homework and tutor materials lined the desktop beyond
the tripod. An iMac sat on the corner of the desk. The largeness of the
computer screen hid the bottom corner of a bulletin board tacked upon
the wall which was collaged with Polaroid photos of friends and family.
Most of the photos bared a younger version of Sam and Miranda
standing in the pool, kicking a soccer ball back and forth, eating ice
cream in “’22”.
That summer was the last summer Samantha would stand in line for a
cone. It was a hot day in late July. The pool had been a cool drink, the
type of coolness that leaves a refreshing feeling in your spine after
beading from sweat on the way to the watering hole. The maintenance
staff was exceptional at keeping the neighborhood facilities squeaky
clean, allowing girls to marvel at the color of their immersed pedicures
in the aqua space under the warm sun. Sam and Miranda’s matching toes
were white. They spent every day at the pool that summer, never tiring
of the wet bathing suits and tanning heat. Twelve p.m. to three p.m. were
the magic hours. At 12 PM the ice cream truck could be heard entering
the neighborhood. At 12 PM, Troy’s lifeguarding shift began. Summer
fun started at 12PM. Had Samantha known that was going to be the last
summer she was going to experience “summer”, she’d have stayed six
hours every day.
Samantha rolled out of her room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen
where her mom, Lana, stood with a glass of wine in hand. Her mother
was a physically strong woman who fit snugly into a petite size. Her
biceps peaked no matter the position and her hips were curved perfectly
in the hourglass figure of someone who could deadlift 205 lbs. Samantha
appreciated her mother’s physicality because it mirrored what she might
look like in the future. Her father was just as strong of a burly man as
one could ask for, but there were many late nights at the hospital, so
Lana had to pick up much of the physical slack. Sam especially
appreciated her mother’s physicality because it’s what secured her
emotionally over the last 4 months. Her mother had always been a health
nut and a physically fit individual, but her personal bests hadn’t kicked
up until after Sam’s legs went.
“Hi baby girl,” her mother squeaked. “Is Miranda on her way home
yet?”
“Yeah, she’ll be home soon,” muttered Sam through the left side of her
mouth.
Instinctively, Lana opened the refrigerator, pulled out cold water, poured
it into a glass, dressed it in cucumber inserted a straw, and held it to her
daughter’s mouth.
“Thanks, I really needed that,” Samantha gratefully exclaimed.
Lana knew Sam wanted a drink of water every night before she started
her nightly routine. Lana knew what Sam’s nightly routine consisted of.
She knew Sam needed to hydrate at night and that Sam would need to
urinate in 40 minutes. She knew how to clean Sam’s ports, when her
next follow-up was, the feelings her daughter concealed from the
doctors, and she knew how much money she needed to set aside for the
upgraded foam seat Sam wanted for her birthday next month. What she
didn’t know was if things would ever be normal for her daughter again.
“So how was the roller rink,” Lana inquired.
“Daisy fell… I think they were holding hands spinning around and then
she lost her balance.”
“Did she hurt herself?”
“No, she landed right on her butt!”
“That girl manages to fall on her butt every time they go, doesn’t she?”
“She sure does. Remember last week, at the pool when she stepped on
that ball?”
“I thought she had twisted her ankle. Next thing I know, this crazy girl is
sprinting from the bottom of the hill into a cannonball!”
“She is so crazy,” they laughed in unison.
By the time Lana had changed Samantha into pajamas, assisted her in
her bathroom routine, and laid her down in bed, Miranda was walking
into the house, two gift bags in tow with her.
Miranda joined her sister and mother on Sam’s bed and proudly flaunted
the brightly colored pink bags.
“I think I’ve solved your problem sis,” Miranda began.
“I’m game!” Sam replied back.
Sam pulled out a portable charger pack, a 6-inch charger cord, and an
adhesive stick tripod made for the dashboard or window of a car.
“Ah, genius,” Lana whispered.
“And for you mom, a new bottle of Cabernet.”
“Thanks, baby! I’m going to go pour a glass of this now.”
Lana gave each of her daughters a kiss and waltzed out of the room.
“You know us so well Miranda, thanks!”
Samantha said this genuinely, which brought a lopsided smile to her
sister’s face. Miranda seldom knew how to make her sister happy these
days.
She was there the day her sister suddenly collapsed into the pool, from
what they thought was a seizure. She was laughing, shouting in the
direction of her sister who was walking wayside of the pool, two ice
creams in hand. She had made eye contact the very moment her sister
began to seizure. She lost her balance, and crumpled sideways into the
beautiful aqua water they had sat in all summer. Miranda’s instincts, as
good as her mother’s, had her underwater in a split second, breast
stroking across the pool towards the shallow end. She was wide-eyed the
entire time, taking in the subaquatic environment that enveloped her
sister in a dangerous way that she hadn’t recognized since they were
children. She was halfway when the blue liquid began to turn red. She
was halfway when the crystal clear vision in front of her became
muddled with bubbles, legs, and bodies, rushing to pull her sister’s
motionless body out of the water. She cried out once above water and
rushed to her sister’s side. All around her, people rushed to supply first
aid, hide their children from the emergency and hold others back
because they were simply in the way. It felt like such a long time before
the paramedics arrived, which she made very clear in a panicked voice
that sounded just like her mom's on a “bad day”. She sat in silence in the
ambulance and questioning herself softly, yet concisely, she knew the
answer. She was wet and cold but couldn’t think to care because there
was only one thing she knew: her sister’s life had changed.
Her life changed just as much.
In the initial months, her sister was in and out of consciousness. Sam
suffered a skull fracture from falling head-first into the 3-foot end. She
recovered after 3 months and by that time, Halloween had just passed. It
wasn’t much of a Halloween though. They spent it in the hospital,
dressed in their costumes, eating junk food, and playing scary movies on
the TV. Her parents had bought her custom bed sheets, socks, and a pair
of cat ears for the holiday. They took Polaroid pictures, made her a
spooky card, and spent the night hoping she’d wake up and they’d get to
enjoy Samantha’s favorite ‘the latest installments of the Halloween
franchise movies. Once November 1st hit the calendar, they figured each
of their holidays would be the same, but on Thanksgiving, they had been
given something to be truly thankful for. By Christmas, it had been
determined that a seizure, although the initial incident, had not been the
cause of the fall. Multiple Sclerosis was the official diagnosis and 2023
was going to look very different than 2022.
Miranda had walked in on her sister one night in late February, drenched
in tears, unable to completely wipe them away due to partial paralysis.
She approached her sister and listened intently with loving compassion
to the fear and disappointment of what her life might look like in her
condition. The loneliness Sam felt would loom over her ever more
present now that she was out of the hospital. She had expressed how
easy it had been to be alone in the hospital, with the company of those
she felt had the expertise to take on her wants and needs.
Being home and alone was different.
In the hospital, Samantha knew her life wasn’t the same- she wasn’t
around friends as often, and she didn’t have to think about school
assignments. But at home, in the presence of her personal belongings,
she never felt more out of place in her own life.
And that killed Miranda.
“I just feel like I’m not in your life anymore, much less my own. I can’t
go out, I can’t walk out of the house, I can’t swim anymore,” Sam
expressed.
As if we’re ever going to that pool again, Miranda thought.
“I just feel hopeless, and jealous of you. But more than that, I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Will it be like this forever?” Sam had never sounded more bleak than
when she asked this question.
A fire burned inside Miranda. She felt her gut harden with an intensity
that one only feels when one knows a change is on the horizon, like the
whisper of a higher call that hasn’t actually been heard yet.
“NO. It won’t be.”
The next day, and for a week straight, Miranda had taken Sam
everywhere she went. It wasn’t without a lot of resistance and complete
parental supervision the entire week. Miranda and her parents got on a
phone call with the doctors and received as many travel, food, and other
necessary recommendations as they could ask for. Miranda set up simple
dates with their group of friends. With every picnic, pop-up photoshoot,
shopping excursion, and pedicure they had, Miranda, could see life arise
back in her younger sister’s eyes. She saw the teary happiness that was
opposite the deep hopelessness in her sister’s eyes every night when they
returned home. The past few months had been the only chunk of time
that the two had been apart from each other since birth. Even in school,
they had nearly all the same electives and upper-level English classes.
Miranda hadn’t realized the actual impact she had on another’s life until
that week.
She repeated it again the following week: picnics, a pedicure, a movie in
the 1st row on the upper deck of the theatre, in the handicapped section.
Miranda was happy and Samantha was feeling herself again.
Two months had passed and while there was so much more fun, it began
to weigh on Sam. She felt exhausted from the mental energy it took to
stay engaged. She was beginning to feel slightly annoyed with the
amount of time it took to get her ready, the amount of time getting into
and out of the car, and annoyed with the inconveniences of being away
from the comfort of home. Her legs had cramped up during one of the
pedicure sessions, causing her to only get seven toes completely painted.
She had drunk too much water one day and they had to stop twice on the
way to the park so that she wouldn’t lose more control of her bladder
than she already had. There were times when she felt the weight of her
burden when she heard her sister sigh at the inconvenience of her food
dropping out of her hand.
“I really appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me, I didn’t think I
would be able to make more memories since waking up. But I don’t
think I can keep up with this all the time anymore,” muttered Samantha.
“I’ve made it worse, haven’t I?” Miranda couldn’t help but trail off…
“No. You’ve made life so much more colorful for me.. but I can’t do
much for myself right now, and I can’t help feeling like you’re only
living for me.”
“But isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
“Not at the expense of your happiness. Dragging me everywhere, having
to lug me around and worry about my issues-“
“Mom and Dad have to worry about your issues too,” Miranda cut in.
“Not like you do, not in the way a sister cares..”
“Hey. I am going to care no matter what. I care when you cry, I care
when you’re hurt, I care that you’re happy and socialized, and that your
life hardly changes, because our friends missed you. They miss you, just
like I miss you. I love you and I will always try to contribute to your
happiness!”
“I understand that. Thank you. But it’s just gotten harder for me to feel
100% comfortable when I can’t even feel 100% of my body.”
“So, what, then? You’re just going to stay inside all the time now?”
“Not always. I’ll want to go out sometimes. But, things have changed. I
feel weaker and weaker every day. I can’t go out as much. And that’s
completely okay with me.”
“It’s not with me.”
“But it’s my life. My life is different from yours. You have the ability to
walk and run, stand and leave, jump, and exercise. I have to get used to
not being able to live the way you can.”
Miranda begins to cry. The realization that she and her sister are
completely different settles in. She sobs into her sister’s lap almost as if
begging for forgiveness.
“Shhh, it’s okay Miranda. Just turn on your phone and you can take me
everywhere with you.”
“My phone? Why my phone,” Miranda sniffles.
“I don’t have to completely miss out on life. I just have to be
comfortable. I’m not doing much except healing and learning how to
live like this, I won’t be far from my phone really. You can just call me
anytime you go and do something fun that I can’t do…”
This conversation rang in the back of Miranda’s mind and she snapped
back into the present.
She opened the box containing the dashboard tripod and stuck it on the
wide armrest by the cupholder.
“Look, it even curls sideways so you can position it however you want,”
Miranda said encouragingly.
“As if people already think I’m a phone addict!” Samantha giggles.
That’s not what the reality was though. There were a few days in the past
couple of months when Samantha hardly looked at her phone. There
were days she didn’t answer her sister’s Facetime because she was in the
living room reading. Her sister opted to send videos.
Opening night movie screenings, first dates (that her friends spied on),
laser tag games and painting classes had been the latest things Samantha
could experience- through her sister’s eyes. She hardly missed out on
inside jokes, never missed a Saturday brunch, and always cheered her
sister on while she was at the gym. Most of the time Samantha was a
spectator, watching the world outside through the lens of her IOS 16.4.1,
in the comfort of her own home, as she wished.
","July 28, 2023 20:14","[[{'Eve Reim': ""I like the story, but what happens next?? You've got to keep writing! Great job."", 'time': '23:06 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,8p3ldo,Greener On the Other Side,Zyn Marlin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8p3ldo/,/short-story/8p3ldo/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction']",12 likes,"
Sensitive content warning: Self-harm/suicide, abuse, mental illness.
 
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Bea. Bea was rather a horrid girl, and all through middle school and high school, she and her friends picked on a very nice girl named Katie. Katie and Bea were as different as different could be. Where Bea was self-centered and vain, Katie was generous and humble - and Bea teased her for it. Where Bea was loud and fashionable, Katie was meek and wore outdated clothes - and Bea teased her for that, too. Bea dated all of the popular boys; Katie dated nobody, because Bea spread terrible rumors about her. Bea made Katie’s life miserable, and Katie bore it for all of those years in school together, never snitching or complaining, but becoming smaller and smaller in her own skin, taking up less and less of the space she was allotted in the world.
 
After graduation, the girls went their separate directions. Life happened and they got older inside of it. Bea dated a man who couldn’t stand her cattiness and left her. Katie got married. Bea got a job at a bank. Katie became a minor influencer. One of Bea’s old friends reached out with a link to Katie’s social media. Did you see this?? Bea ignored the itch for one day. The next day, she was following Katie on all of her platforms. Katie’s photos were gorgeous. She was married to a very handsome man. Bea thought he looked like a prince who had forgotten he was supposed to marry a princess. What was so wrong with her that her boyfriend had left instead of marrying her? She was the one who deserved a prince, not that skank. Katie was always dressed beautifully, her skin and hair flawless, her makeup on point. Bea thought she looked like an escort…but she still followed her makeup tutorials. And soon her coworkers started complimenting her. She started getting asked on dates.  
 
But none of the guys stuck around. After awhile, her coworkers got used to her new looks and stopped mentioning them. Bea spent more and more time scrolling through Katie’s Instagram, more and more energy feeling frustrated and angry and bitter and itchier and itchier. She lived all alone in an apartment she never had the time or energy to decorate, in a body that was getting older and uglier every day, while Katie lived in a gorgeous home with a gorgeous husband and a body that looked younger and prettier in every photo. One day, Bea scoured the internet until she found Katie’s address - she hadn’t moved far from their hometown, and Bea drove slowly past the house. It was as lovely on the outside as it looked in photos from the inside. Bea contemplated setting it on fire with Katie inside. She was a nothing; she didn’t deserve this life. Bea had done everything and had nothing.  
 
She made herself drive away.  
 
The itch turned into a burn.
 
A few weeks later, Katie announced that she would be at a local convention for influencers and artists. Bea bought a ticket. That weekend, she checked into a hotel for the convention. On Saturday, she wandered dozens of booths in the expo hall, but didn’t see Katie anywhere. On Sunday, she returned to look again.  
There was a show starting on one of the demonstration stages, and Bea was caught by the words, will change your life! She slowed as she came up to the stage area. A dark-haired, spritely woman was skipping around on the stage, waving bottles of something in the air. These aren’t just essential oils! These oils are essential! Put one drop in your drink, breathe in a few drops from your favorite diffuser, and watch your life transform! 
 
After the show, Bea jostled into the line forming to buy these essential oils, shoving past other people and outright shoving other people to be closest to the front. When she finally reached the table, leading a wake of shouts and complaints, the dark-haired woman smiled at her. There was a gleam in her deep green eyes, a glint to her perfectly white teeth. You need a new life? It can be yours! Bea nodded frantically. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of honey hair, a tinkling laugh that lived rent-free in her head after months of obsessively scrolling Katie’s TikToks. The dark-haired woman turned to follow Bea’s gaze. Her? Oh, honey, she’s a nobody who thinks she’s somebody. You deserve everything she has and more. I can help you get it. She put the bottle of oil into a bag with her business card. When you’re ready to go after what you’re owed, let me know.
 
The burn ignited into an inferno. Bea went home from the convention and lost hours to Katie’s social media, hours to the mirror, dressing and undressing herself, putting on and taking off makeup, refusing to eat, then purging it all when she ate too much, hours to running her fingers over the chiseled face of her prince, her man, her life. She took one drop of oil in her iced coffee every morning, waiting for her life to transform. Her boss offered her a promotion, and she rolled her eyes; she deserved it, but she had deserved it for years where he had ignored her or told her she wasn’t good enough, and, anyway, she had a whole life out there that had been stolen from her by this little nobody, and when she got that life, she would be at the top of the food chain. When one of her former dates asked for a repeat, she shot him down hard; didn’t he know he didn’t deserve a woman like her? She was made for a prince, and he was just a boy. 
 
There was no transformation. There was just more of the same, every day, and she was sick of waiting. She called the number on the business card.
 
Not enough for you? asked the dark-haired woman when she answered the phone. You want the life you see in the photos and the videos, that she struts all over the internet? You want to be her? I can make that happen. It will take a sacrifice. Are you ready to make a sacrifice for everything you deserve?
 
Bea babbled. Yes, yes, she would sacrifice everything. This life wasn’t enough, it wasn’t worth living this way, she had nothing and nobody and Katie had the entire world. Bea hadn’t bullied her for nothing back in school. Katie was worthless and somehow she made the world think she was valuable enough to follow, to mimic. Bea wasn’t going to mimic her. She was going to be her. The house, the limelight, the prince would all be hers.
 
Good, said the dark-haired woman. Because your life is what you will have to sacrifice in order to trade for hers. She explained what Bea would have to do. It will not be pretty, and it may not be pleasant, but it will get you everything you are owed after the life you have lived.
That night, Bea swallowed one bottle of pills and chased it with the remainder of the bottle of oil. She fell asleep and dreamed of falling and screaming and pain. She woke up in a hospital bed. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. There was a tube down her throat and she couldn’t feel her arms or legs.  Terror gripped her chest. Had she failed? Had she been discovered?  
 
A man’s face hovered into view and relief filled her. It was her prince! She must have done it - she must have taken over Katie’s body. But his face didn’t look quite like it did in the photos. His eyes were hard, his jaw set.
 
“You’ll never be able to leave me now, will you, Katie-bear? You’ll never be able to walk again, and you’ll never even be able to tell anyone it was me who threw you down the stairs. You’re mine, forever.”
 
Bea’s eyes widened and she tried to shake her head, but she couldn’t move a muscle. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen! She was supposed to get Katie’s charmed life - the dark-haired woman’s voice echoed in her head, everything you are owed…the life you deserve. A tear slipped down Bea’s cheek. She had thought Katie’s life was charmed. She had made Katie’s life hell in school. She had let go of a promotion, of a man who wanted to date her again, for this. For this nightmare. She stared up into the eyes of the prince who had become her villain.
 
In Bea’s house, on Bea’s bed, Katie blinked Bea’s eyes open. She felt a little groggy, but after a moment, she quickly shook out her arms and legs, wiggled her fingers and toes. She was intact. She sat up and looked around. It was quiet. Nobody was throwing things. Nobody was threatening her. She had taken a huge risk letting Miles see the suitcase in her car, letting him grab her and throw her down the stairs in his rage that she would try to leave him. Years and years of tip-toeing around, using her tutorials to cover up bruises and puffy eyes from crying, hiding her peril and monetizing the perfect life she was busy selling to everyone outside of her husband. Moira, who had launched her as an influencer and cheered her on and told her about Bea’s jealousy and bitterness; her only friend, who made oils that changed people’s lives and led them to the fates they deserved if they didn’t take accountability for their own part in changing their lives - she had been right that she could help Katie. And now Katie was safe. She was free. And Bea would rot.
 
Katie smiled, took Bea’s phone out of her pocket, and deleted all of her social media apps. And then she stood up and went to live the life she deserved.
","July 28, 2023 23:35","[[{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Zyn,\n\nThe writing is buttery smooth. The narrative reads like a modern-day fairy tale. \n\nYour strengths as a writer are the clarity of your prose and your insight into human behavior.\n\nGood luck in the contest!\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '14:59 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Zyn Marlin': ""Thank you so much for your lovely review! Apologies that I'm only just getting back to you now. I appreciate that you took the time to comment."", 'time': '03:50 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Zyn Marlin': ""Thank you so much for your lovely review! Apologies that I'm only just getting back to you now. I appreciate that you took the time to comment."", 'time': '03:50 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Careful what you wish for!', 'time': '18:49 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Zyn Marlin': 'Indeed! 😈', 'time': '03:51 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Zyn Marlin': 'Indeed! 😈', 'time': '03:51 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,uel2xj,Looking Toward Offspring,Christa Fletcher,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/uel2xj/,/short-story/uel2xj/,Character,0,['Fiction'],10 likes,"
As I sit at my computer, I await results. The cursor on my screen blinks like the numbers flitting by on the timer for my pregnancy test. Expectantly, I start to write. Who will she be? What will I name her? A lawyer, a teacher – will she want to be a mother just like me?
 
I begin to type. She awakens in my mind, with blue eyes, creative and confident, bolder than me. Unafraid to have a voice. She’ll never apologize out of habit. She will build a full life. Tap, tap, tap. I feel time tick by and an ache in my lower back as I type.
 
She is an artist, with a side hustle as a graphic designer that allows her to have an amazing apartment in the East Village that’s bigger than mine was at her age. She feels conflicted about her day job, but she can afford the space to breathe and create in this loft with lots of light and room for her canvases, thoughts, and friends. Her large windows look onto a historical cemetery. While it’s a haven of trees, there’s also a sadness to it. A reminder to live, to grow, and stretch despite the crowd of buildings around it. The trees make her think of home. The headstones remind her she’s alone.
 
How do you name a girl? Is she a lonely Laurel or a lost Penny? Like my list of baby names, I scroll through them. Nothing is quite right.
 
So, I continue to wait for her to tell me.
 
With a locked gate, there are no more funerals in the cemetery, but many squirrels scamper about. They climb over the stone wall that keeps the cemetery in peace, free from the city’s litter and tiny dog pellets. On days when she’s lonely and desperate to paint, but inspiration has hardened like the dollop on her palette, she puts some nuts on the fire escape. She loves feeding her tiny friends. Sometimes she sits out there and reads in the sun. Remembering the fairy tales her mother used to read to her, a modern-day Cinderella.
 
Is she a bold queen, a Jasmine, or an Aurora? Names like these don’t ring true for her, maybe just a baby Belle? Maybe I’ll get to read those tales to a little one. But I’ll change them, and my daughter will laugh and tackle me with a hug like a knight home from battle.
 
The timer goes off. I step away to check the test. Negative. Again. I throw it in the trash. I feel the tears come, a sting of failure in my eyes and gut. I take in a deep breath. Maybe next month.
 
Back to my desk, I go, back to my girl.
 
As the squirrel runs away, she grins and shuts the window, remembering what she wants to paint: A moment of joy, of love, and nature, maybe loss. She grabs her favorite paint brush, the one she got as an art student, and pulls back her chocolate brown hair. Her bright blue eyes stare at the blank canvas. Her focus and joy shine through her. Years of finger paint and messy clothes, sketch books and doodles, art classes, and a tattoo of a wren she designed when she turned 22.
 
This is the part she lives for, those first strokes of opportunity, before the insecurity sets in like sunset casting a dim in the room. With each stroke of her brush, she comes alive, like a dancer. Letting herself be free, be herself. Letting her imagination move her like a partner that can anticipate her every move, surprise her with a dip, a twirl, never stepping on her toes. She is growing with her craft, blossoming into everything she’s wanted to be. Her life takes shape with every stroke, stretching far beyond the page.
 
Yet her name still eludes me, like a secret in the garden. Is it Ivy? Sage? Or Fern? I bite into an apple, chewing on it all.
 
She is petite, but strong with a nervous laugh when men flirt with her, or when a potential customer asks what one of her paintings means to her. If she’s being honest, she hates dating just as much as she hates selling at art galleries. Having to explain herself or her art fills her with dread.  She doesn’t need a prince and can’t be reduced to a price. And if they don’t get her, they clearly don’t deserve her.
 
It reminds her of her day job, creating mood and vision boards for clients as she sells them a new look for their website, with fonts and colors that promise to build their brands into something more successful and saturated… with page views, products, and a paycheck. The clients get what they want, but she is left wanting more. She paints because she loves it, to see someone light up when they look upon her work.
 
So, she alleviates her angst in art museums and popcorn in the park. That’s what she needs, a partner who gets why MOMA is like going home to sit at the counter for a warm, homemade meal. Someone who enjoys the lightness of meandering through the park, just to be in the serene of it all.
 
Sometimes, she goes just to sit on a rock, imagining. If she sat there long enough, she’d become part of the landscape, legs coiled around, her feet rooted beneath her. Exhausted by the hustle, she reminds herself graphic design is not just a means for her apartment and the chocolate croissant she buys at the corner bakery on her way to work. It’s art, too. It’s beautiful, too.
 
Time in the park grounds her. The same way that playing outside as a kid kept her from fretting. She noticed the growing mountain of bills on the counter. She saw her mother eat less and work more. The bills were a steep hill for her mom to climb with two jobs, too many bad choices, and not enough time to laugh. She wanted to laugh with her again.
 
Was she a Prudence? No, she had a rhythm. Cadence? Stop. She’s not ready to tell. I think about the walks I used to take in that same park and the relief of coming home. Would the girl feel the same way?
 
After the park, she’d leave her shoes by the door and hang her jacket. Everything in its place. From her workspace to her kitchen, the lack of clutter meant her mind was clear and ready to paint again.
 
Someday she’d share this apartment with someone she loved. And maybe she’d be a mom. But for today she was just a young woman. The painting would sell when it was done, her graphic design business would bloom, and she’d have dinner parties with friends to celebrate.
 
She painted until dark. She preferred to paint in the daylight. Night was for reading novels. After she cleaned her brushes, she stepped back to look at her painting. She smiled. There was more to do, but she had begun, and that was enough.
 
She put the kettle on for tea. For now, she was happy to be alone. Grateful for it, even. She had time to just be herself.
 
I poured myself a cup of tea, too. As I opened the curtain by my desk, I sat back to look. I smiled, seeing her proudly on my screen, words outlined into someone more. There you are.
 
Was she Grace? Or Hope? She lit up a room… but it was more than that, she was the sun.
 
She was Soleil.
","July 28, 2023 06:06","[[{'Karen McDermott': 'Lovely imaginative piece. I hope Soleil will get to see the light of day.', 'time': '10:51 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christa Fletcher': ""Thanks, Karen! I'm glad you enjoyed the short story."", 'time': '15:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Christa Fletcher': ""Thanks, Karen! I'm glad you enjoyed the short story."", 'time': '15:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,pkp1j8,Life Takes Over When You Have Other Plans,Kaitlyn Wadsworth,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pkp1j8/,/short-story/pkp1j8/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Inspirational', 'Sad']",9 likes,"
(This story has an indirect mention of child abuse) 
 
Lynda had brought up three girls. One loved sport, running, art, and calligraphy; the middle daughter loved her friends, reading, sewing clothes, and staying at home; the youngest daughter loved to be at home but attended Art Classes with a lady just down their street.
 
Lynda, as a 6-year-old, attended Jazz-dancing once a week with the daughter of a family friend. Her father took her in the early evening each week. Not long after this, she changed to Ballet dancing which she preferred. Her father paid for it but couldn’t take her. He traveled away with his job and could be absent for a whole week or two. With two younger siblings and a pregnant Mum with no car, her father arranged for Lynda to go to another family after school and attend Ballet lessons with their daughter. It involved a short walk. The walk home took a lot longer. Initially, her father picked her up when he could. She loved Ballet, read books about it, and practiced her dance steps at home.
 
When she turned seven, she had no intention of stopping Ballet, but something awful happened. One day, as she walked home from school, her father drove past in his car. She waved frantically and felt disappointed that he hadn’t seen her. Imagining he would be at home waiting she tore home as fast as she could. When she arrived home, her father hadn’t.
“Hi, Mummy. Where’s Daddy?”
Her mother just looked at her, surprised, “Why?”
“I saw him on the way home. He’s back and I thought I’d see him. Will he be here soon?”
There was a silence, and Lynda’s face looked at her mother expectantly.
“Your father doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Then why did I see him? Isn’t he going to come in?”
“No, he isn’t. He doesn’t live here anymore.”
The bottom had dropped out of her world. She started to cry. “Wh..wh..when did it happen?”
“Your father packed up and left six weeks ago while you were at school.”
“You didn’t tell me! He hasn’t finished reading Gulliver’s Travels to me. Why did he go?”
“You didn’t notice. He was hardly ever home. We’ll be fine.”
Lynda didn’t feel fine. The tears rolled down her face as she walked away to her bedroom. She wanted to become very small so that the pain might diminish. She took off her jacket and crept into her bed. She wanted to feel a warm hug and being enclosed in her blankets felt safe. She sobbed as quietly as she could. Was she even supposed to cry? 
Her mother came in later to check on her. “Come on, Lynda, you’ll be fine. You’ve been fine all this time. Dry your eyes and get up.”
 
Her mother left the room, and Lynda had the strangest feeling that maybe her response about her father departing was wrong. Then why did she feel so much pain? She continued crying until there were no tears left. The pain turned to numbness. Numbness and anger, definitely anger at her father for not saying goodbye. Also, sadness that her pain had been dismissed as needless.
 
Lynda kept going to Ballet which she loved. Now she had to walk herself home every time. As the Summer turned into Autumn, then Winter, the night set in earlier and became colder. The long walk home became more tedious and uncomfortable. When arriving home, her dinner had been kept warm, and she ate alone. At times it rained on the way home. Finally, Lynda came to a decision and told her mother she didn’t want to go to Ballet anymore. But she still loved to tie on her Ballet shoes and practice her foot and arm positions. She also played at teaching Ballet to her younger sister . . . until her ballet shoes became too small.
 
Once she became an adult, she finally reasoned with her mother about the issues surrounding her parent’s divorce and how she felt. She had come to understand her mother better. 
“Mum. I know your father died when you were five. You had lovely memories of him even though you were sad and missed him. Your four oldest brothers took over as surrogate fathers. But if you think what happened to us is the same, it isn’t even nearly like what we went through.”
“How is that?” 
“Our father was still alive, he never said goodbye, he went to live with another woman and her daughter. He paid no child support, and we had a hard time surviving. He came into the house one night while we were away and robbed it. He even took the head of your bed so you couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking that maybe it wasn’t about us and that whatever happened to your fighting all the time must have got so bad, he decided to leave. You acted as if everything was so much better, and you were happy. You kept on telling me to be happy. I couldn’t be. I think if he had died, I could have felt happier. It wouldn’t have been his choice to leave. He chose to desert us. You wanted me to be happy about it which made me believe that if you had both pretended to be happy for the sake of us children, we could have been a happy family. I know now that it was more complicated. Back then I was a little child being told to forget the father I loved.”
“How could I have told you the truth. He had been in trouble with the police . . . I feared he may have done bad things to you and your sisters . . . he is a pervert.”
“When you eventually remarried, and he wanted to see us, you made me write a letter saying that we had to go out. My last chance to talk to him about it was gone. You made me write that we had gone out and didn’t want to see him anymore. After that, he got into so much trouble over all the child support money he had never paid. Dad, whom you married, offered to pay his debt on the condition that he be allowed to adopt us. Our father said yes. He sold us. Didn’t want us. 
“I wasn’t sure about being adopted and changing my name. I had already lost one father in a horrible way and didn’t want another father, but I also didn’t want to have a different name to my siblings. When your father died it was nothing compared to the pain we went through because our father lived. He didn’t love us, and when he thought he’d be better off, he sold us.”
“I’m so sorry. I never saw it as different from what I went through, but it is. At the very end when he wanted to have you adopted rather than pay his debt, I scarcely believed he could be so callous. You were better off without him.”
“Knowing that now is small comfort after all the pain I went through.”
“You should have told me.”
“Mum, how could I when you made it seem that my feelings were wrong.”
***
When Lynda’s family had become smaller, with the oldest son independent, three daughters married, two of them having produced grandchildren, and the youngest son being the only grown child still at home, the oldest daughter and her husband endured years of trauma. He eventually committed suicide. Shortly after that, her new marriage broke up after six months, and after no end of disastrous relationships, she gave birth to a tiny, malnourished infant in an emergency situation. Due to circumstances beyond her control, this little girl ended up in Lynda and her husband Tom’s care. They became her guardians. 
 
Lynda’s independent life turned into the life of a wife and mother with a baby again. Later, the little girl Louisa attended Playcentre and made friends with two other little girls, Layla and Daisy. Louisa hated wearing shoes and preferred to run around on her tiptoes. Lynda concluded she may be a born dancer, as she always danced when she heard music. She attempted tap dancing to faster music with a beat and danced slowly and gracefully to more classical music. One of the mums lived next door to a Ballet teacher. She wanted to start her three-year-old at dancing, and the three mums (one being a grandmother) thought keeping the three girls together at Ballet lessons would be lovely for them.
 
Lynda’s fondness for Ballet, and a little girl who was always on her toes, seemed great reasons to start the lessons. At the first end-of-the-year show, the girls danced as Sugar Plum Pansies. They looked so cute on stage. Lynda remembered what she had missed and glowed with pride at her little granddaughter doing something she had been deprived of, albeit her own decision at the time. The following year’s end show, they danced as little mermaids around a beautiful older dancer who played Ariel. The three girls continued to love Ballet. Once they turned 5 years, they attended different schools but remained friends due to their Ballet classes. 
 
Louisa, aged 5, went to a Podiatrist because it became clear that her feet had a problem. She had been born with flat feet and in-toed badly. Walking on her toes as a preschooler had been an action to enable her to walk without tripping over all the time. The Podiatrist concluded that she needed orthotics and special shoes to support and correct her walking. Ballet became recommended as sound therapy. She still loved her classes with Layla and Daisy. However, the teacher said she needed the slender feet of professional ballet dancers. Even at that age, it had become apparent that Louisa loved being on stage. She danced beautifully. Lynda had long concluded that Louisa had always gravitated towards more upbeat and dramatic forms of dance, so this did not worry her.
 
That year, the class of ballerinas played Sweets in the end-of-year show, dressed in pink and black. Two weeks before the show, the dance teacher got all the mothers together and said that she wanted the girls to wear large JoJo bows in their hair. She couldn’t afford to buy them and needed them made. She needed twelve. 
 
Lynda knew that two classes of girls from different centers needed them, so coordinating this task with mothers she didn’t know how to contact in such a short time would be a nightmare. How does one even make a Jo-Jo bow? Expecting everyone to make one each for their daughters could also be problematic as some would prefer to buy theirs, which ultimately wouldn’t match the others. As a sewer, Lynda concluded it would be much easier to volunteer and do them all herself. She did so.
 
Before the end of the two weeks, she had bought the pink satin, sewn it into wide double-sided strips, watched videos on how to fold them, folded them, attached them to either clips or hair ties, embellished them with ribbon and lace in their centers and presented them to each mother for their daughters. The icing on the cake. They looked great on stage. Lynda’s talent had been discovered by the teacher.
 
After that show, Lynda’s opportunity to watch her little darling on stage doing what they both loved, Ballet, became a gradually diminishing pastime.
 
The Ballet Teacher injured a shoulder and needed extra help to move and carry her boxes of costumes. Lynda ended up with boxes and boxes of costumes for the next show. Some in her spare room and some in the back of the car. That year, the girls also started Jazz-dancing, and among the dances they would present, one was danced to the Barbie song, “Come on Barbie, let’s go party.” A beautiful blond dancer with long hair would be the older Barbie at the front dancing with her partner. The whole stage would be filled with little dancing girls, mini-Barbies, some wearing red circular skirts and white leotards, the others in silver circular skirts and pink leotards. Their hair was done into two long pigtails with sparkly clips. The dance teacher already had silver skirts. As for the red-skirted mini-Barbies, theirs had to be provided on a shoestring. Lynda had meters and meters of red satin fabric at home, which she donated. The dance teacher asked her to make fourteen circular skirts. The teacher had enough red sparkly fabric on hand for two of them. A few more meters and all the elastic for the waists needed to be purchased. The three materials matched well enough. Fourteen skirts had been deftly cut out.
 
Her husband objected. She had no sewing room. The sewing machine became a permanent fixture on the dining room table. Cut-out skirts in various stages of being made were laying on the backs of chairs and on couches. Eight little old tutus were hanging up in multiple places awaiting magic fingers to mend and rejuvenate them for a dance where the three friends and their other classmates would pretend to be windup dolls. Tom, Lynda’s husband, demanded that others help her. Another grandmother, Florence, who brought her little granddaughter along, was recruited to sew four skirts. She was asked to leave each waistband open in one place in case the elastic needed shortening, and she had been told the length of each from waist to hem.
“Don’t worry, darling, I’ve delegated.”
Florence got the length wrong on two skirts and didn’t leave anywhere on the waistbands to retrieve the elastic and tighten them. In the end, not much time had been saved by assigning four skirts to be done by someone else.
 
Finally, the dance teacher decided that in the doll dance, the dolls would be bent over with throws over them until they were removed, and the dolls wound up by a fairy to start their dance. Lynda purchased meters and meters of strong vilene (fabric stabilizer) as it is very affordable, cut them, painted them with sparkly gold and silver paint, and then stuck glittery plastic gems on them. Eight of these lay all over the floor while they had paint applied. 
 
Her husband became more and more brassed off. He shook his head in disgust. “How much are you getting paid for all this?”
“I’m getting reimbursed for anything I buy. I don’t need to pay the $40 costume fee as I am making them. We will also get free tickets to the show except that I will be in the wings watching. I’m not doing it for the money. It’s for the girls and it saves the poor teacher so much money. The girls will look lovely.”
 
They absolutely did. Watching from the wings wasn’t so bad. The Barbie dance went off wonderfully. Finally, the girls chased the six young Ken’s off the stage, like fans running after their idols. The audience roared with laughter.
 
Lynda sighed as she remembered what she had visualized when Louisa started Ballet. Becoming a Wardrobe Mistress wasn’t in the dream. She wanted to sit in the audience, watch the dancers on stage, and pretend she had once been a dancer like them. Dreams are free.
 
Louisa is a natural-born dancer and has a presence on stage and in her dancing class. She will never be a prima ballerina. But Lynda wants her to have the opportunity to dance her heart out for as long as she wants.
 
At this stage, after seven years of Louisa’s dancing and Lynda becoming the Wardrobe Mistress for the entire dancing school, missing seeing the shows she works so hard to enable, with all the days and evenings before shows involving overwork, travel, and stress, she has decided to spend more time with her husband, in the audience, watching. Living vicariously had never been part of the plan. She will not remain in the dressing rooms or in the wings, fixing all the dancers’ unforeseen problems and all the wardrobe malfunctions. It has taken over her life. How did any of this happen?
 
The whole thing became a burden because Lynda made herself indispensable. Everyone else can watch their little darlings dance without interruption. She is in the background enabling it all to happen, being told it is what she loves doing. Ending up feeling used by everyone and missing what she really wants to do, which is to be in the audience. Not just seeing the show in a video afterward. Something has to change. Lynda knows she is one of a number who can do her job. There is no contract, and she isn’t being paid. Thank you cards and a small token of flowers don’t cut it anymore. She will make a stand. . .
 
 
","July 28, 2023 08:49","[[{'Ayesha Ahmed': ""Hi Kaitlyn. I was assigned your piece as part of the Critique Circle. It's a nice take on the prompt, and I especially liked how subtle the inclusion of it was in the story. Lynda's life was by no means all cupcakes and rainbows, but that didn't make her an entirely bad person. Yes, she was somewhat living vicariously through her daughter, but it wasn't really portrayed in a negative light. I also liked the very detached third-person perspective in this story, although the telling and not showing did feel very jarring at first. The only crit..."", 'time': '06:39 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Telling and not showing. Valid comment. The problem is to include enough within the 3000 word limit. Telling can help with the inclusion of more. The past is what made the present all the more sad for Lynda. I wanted it to be included.', 'time': '23:27 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Telling and not showing. Valid comment. The problem is to include enough within the 3000 word limit. Telling can help with the inclusion of more. The past is what made the present all the more sad for Lynda. I wanted it to be included.', 'time': '23:27 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Maybe Lynda believes she is one of a number who can do her job, but nobody could put their heart and soul into making her daughter Louisa's happiness manifest like her mom did. She lived unselfishly and understandably, yet somewhat vicariously through her daughter, which I thought was great. Regardless of her childhood being a bit deprived, she made sacrifices for her daughter. Some people go the other way and become hardened, but not Lynda. A very nice enjoyable story, Kaitlyn."", 'time': '23:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thanks for that, Joe. I also wanted to put in some examples of the sorts of things which go wrong in the wings and back stage, funny things, but a max of 3000 words made this impossible. So it is a story with a message, I think, rather than being entertaining.', 'time': '05:07 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thanks for that, Joe. I also wanted to put in some examples of the sorts of things which go wrong in the wings and back stage, funny things, but a max of 3000 words made this impossible. So it is a story with a message, I think, rather than being entertaining.', 'time': '05:07 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hope she dances off with a victory.', 'time': '14:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'I hope so too!', 'time': '05:07 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'I hope so too!', 'time': '05:07 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,ive4qk,Crunch Time,Gregg Voss,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ive4qk/,/short-story/ive4qk/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'High School', 'Sad']",7 likes,"
The god said, Here. – A man who hunts with care
May often find what other men will miss.
-Oedipus the King
 
There was a voice behind me, familiar, yet somehow suspended in the ether, drowning everything else, as if it were trying to break through some sort of protoplasm. I had heard the inflection before; the sloppy, pedestrian choice of words, usually in the most signature of moments. The disembodied voice would persist unless, or until, satisfaction was achieved. 
            To borrow a phrase, my failure was never an option to the voice. Because it was never my own failure.
            “This is our moment, Kyle,” the voice screamed. “Everything we’ve worked toward is on the line. This is where you make your money.”
            My forehead killed, a monstrous headache soaked in sweat, dripping onto my powder-blue uniform with red piping. I stared down at the parquet floor, the blond wood laid out horizontally here, vertically there, drops of sweat now settling next to my Nikes with the same powder-blue swoosh logo. 
            A soft chirp broke through the din, displacing the voice.
            “Kyle?” it said. “Kyle? Are you okay?”
            The truth? I had never experienced a migraine before and I wondered if this was the first time. Bile was churning in my gut, and my vision consisted of tiny colored orbs. For a moment, I had to think about where the garbage can was lest I puke on that perfectly symmetrical floor. 
            That would be gross. But maybe it would engender some compassion from the voice.
            That was doubtful.
            “Come on, Kyle!” it went on. “Get your ass up!”
            Those last few words reverberated before fading into the solar system in my eyes.
            “…ass up….ass up….ass…”
            The soft chirp returned.
            “Do you need to sit this one out?” it said in a soft, almost fatherly tone.
            No.
            I knew what I had to do.
            I rose and the packed gym whirled around me, faces and bright banners of titles won long ago and scoreboard lights, lilted by humidity, the scent of body odor and a hint of Ben Gay in the air. I didn’t stumble—wouldn’t stumble—because in one way, the voice was right. This was indeed our moment. 
            “All right, bay-beeeee!” it said. “It’s hammer time!”
            You never know what you might think about in situations like this. Some might worry about the breakdown of one’s physical constitution, others about displeasing the crowd. Are you not entertained?
            I thought of Sophocles.
            You have your sight, and yet you cannot see.
            Yeah, I whispered to the voice. You can see, but you really can’t.
            The horn blared, shaking me from my doldrums, and a raucous cheer from the bleachers on my left—the home fans—went up as they chanted:
            Let’s go North! Let’s go North!
            I looked up and reminded myself the stakes in order to escape what was happening to me.
            Class 4A super-sectional. Winner goes downstate to Peoria, for all that pomp and pageantry of the Illinois state high school basketball tournament. I’d never been. As a senior, it was my last chance, after three years of sectional-final disappointment, thwarting the voice’s expectations. He wouldn’t be denied this time. He told me.
            The time: 20.4 seconds.
            The score: Glenview South 50, Westchester North 48.
            We were down by two. We had the ball. Or rather, everyone knew I’d get the ball. I had motive and opportunity, not unlike a criminal looking to knock over an all-night gas station on Cermak Road. 
            The question: Would we—I—be successful? Risk and reward.
            The numbers were in my favor. I had averaged a cool twenty-seven points per game, and my success from three-point land was a ridiculous forty percent.
            No garbage, no questions, no doubts. I was getting the ball. 
            Everyone in the gym knew it. The voice crowed the fact, not conjecture.
            “Over here, son.” The ref, a stocky, bullet-headed man that I only knew as Jim pointed me away from the sideline. The voice returned.
            “Hey ref, don’t crowd the kid out,” it said. “Give him a fighting chance. Goddamn…”
            Our point guard, a kid named Daly that I didn’t really care for, and still don’t, stood at the outside the sideline, in front of the scorer’s table, awaiting the ball from Jim the ref.
            “Kyle—get the job done,” the voice said, “or so help me you’ll be shooting until a thousand shots a day until you go to college.”
            Daly inbounded the ball and I caught it on the opposite side of the center line. I passed it back to Daly and moved into position just left of the top of the key.
            You have your sight, and yet you cannot see.
            I had my sight. I could see the basket, some twenty-five feet away. 
            Twenty-five feet from either a tie or, preferably to the voice, and the North faithful, a trip to Peoria.
            Warm up the buses.
            No. Let’s not.
            The play was designed for me to take split-second advantage of a pick at the free throw line, step to my left, find an opening and shoot over the defenders that would attempt to double-team me. We code named the play Marquette.
            I caught the ball, yeah. There was the pick. The opposite defender left his feet in a vain attempt to disrupt my shot, a stupid move. Never, ever leave your feet on defense.
            There I was, dead to rights. I pivoted left to avoid him.
            The voice:
            “Shitcan this one, Kyle!”
            But this time, William Shakespeare spoke to me, in the form of Hamlet, and at that juncture I realized that the splitter, the migraine or whatever it was, had dissipated. No more orbs or urge to puke. With a clear head and eyes, I realized that the voice had a dream that wasn’t mine.
            A dream itself is but a shadow.
            Act II, Scene II. I knew it by heart.
            That was my dream. To find meaning in the masters, and perhaps by some quirk of fate become a master myself, or a merely a blue-collar stooge that had the audacity to want to become a writer and a teacher.
            I placed the ball under my right arm, walked to center court, and placed the ball on the logo, a bright red-horned devil that seemed to gape at me in delight. The lips moved.
            Now you’re going to get it, it whispered over the hushing voices.
            I turned, and by the time Jim blew the whistle—a travel, and thus a turnover at crunch time—I strode with purpose to the opposite baseline, turned left and entered the red doors that led to the hallway and eventually to the locker room. The voice reached a new level of agony.
            “What the fuck are you doing? Oh shit, shit…Get back over here. That’s an order!”
            I doubted I was his son anymore. Maybe I never really was.
 
            Dad had a ragged VHS tape of him playing for Kindle County Union High back in the mid-80s. I had seen the footage dozens of times…snowy, snowy and then he blurred onto the screen, a tiny figure with short shorts and a tight green uniform that made him look like a celery stalk. I would chuckle inwardly when his shots on our fifty-five-inch widescreen would fall short, lipping the front of the rim. Or in one famous (to me) sequence, he drove the lane and had his layup rejected by a dude at least four inches taller and forty pounds heavier. Bad decisions.
            “That was me,” he would say in a determined, no-nonsense tone. “That ain’t gonna be you. You’ve got what it takes to go a helluva lot further than I did. We can do this. We’ve got this.”
            We watched the tape yet again the morning of the super-sectional, before school, but after my exactly one hundred shots in the North gym, a routine that I had become accustomed to since I was a seventh grader. Dad would stand under the hoop, feeding me the ball, needling me when I would miss, which wasn’t often, and saying nothing when I made shots. I remember that particular morning I shot fifty-four percent, including seven three-pointers. Not bad, right?
            “You’ve gotta do better,” dad sniffed at the end of the session, holding his arms out, palms up.
            Yes sir. 
            But there was a gap between us, a quotient that I didn’t think would be resolved tonight.
            Hamlet spoke to me.
            Rest, rest perturbed spirit!
            Act I, Scene V. 
            I don’t know Hamlet by heart or anything, just like I don’t know Oedipus the King or Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales by heart, but I know more than nothing. I am beginning to understand the point of these stories, the theater, which to me isn’t much different than the theater of basketball. There are heroes in life, and there are villains, in constant conflict. 
            I suppose I am the hero of this tale. But do heroes do what I felt like I was compelled to do last night? Does a hero merely give up and walk away?
            Or is a hero a rebel?
            And who was the villain? It didn’t feel like Glenview South, though it was truly a goliath, a leviathan.
            Was dad the villain?
            He texted me throughout the day, almost on the hour, to check in on my mental state. He’d done this for years before big games, once during a major lit exam, when I had turned my phone off so I could concentrate. Satisfied with my performance on the test, which had to do with John Milton’s Paradise Lost, I turned my phone back on to at least twenty messages (I quit counting after a while), asking where I was, what I was doing, where my head was at, even a threat. What the hell is going on, boy?
            Everything’s fine, dad. I had an exam.
            You better not do that again. There’s too much on the line tonight.
            I rolled my eyes and thought of Milton, whom I somehow “knew” as a depressed old man writing by hand in a cottage under a bleak sky.
            Solitude sometimes is best society.
            Book IX.
            Yesterday, dad demanded that I take another hundred shots after school, eat something light, then rest until it was time to head to school and the bus that would take us to Chicago’s Grosvenor College, the sight of the super-sectional. 
            I told him I wanted to save my shots for the game, trying to make a joke out of the fact that it was too much. The whole thing. My coach, John Flaherty, is a kind man with a thatch of graying chestnut hair and horn-rimmed glasses, and he and I had had a number of discussions over the years about how deal with my overbearing parent. Even Flaherty and dad had had a few tete-a-tetes, usually about playing time. Flaherty had patiently explained that what I brought to the team, my skills, was a part of a greater whole. 
            Dad said he got that, but still, why couldn’t the offense run through me? Why couldn’t he guarantee at least twenty shots a game? That way, he won’t have to do pushups.
            Ah, yes. Pushups.
            The rule in my house was—is? Maybe.—that for every point under twenty I don’t score, I had to do twenty pushups. So, do the math: If I scored seventeen and we won big over a crummy opponent because I sat out most of the second half, then I’d be responsible for sixty pushups. Dad would stand next to me, tapping his foot, as if he had to be somewhere else, and I was holding him up.
            The voice of parents is the voice of gods.
            That’s Shakespeare, though I don’t recall chapter and verse.
            Let’s just say I didn’t do many post-game pushups this season.
            Score, or else.
            Don’t you want to play at the next level? You got a shot at the NBA. Follow my lead and you won’t blow it. 
            We can do this.
            We can.
            You will.
 
            Like I said, I didn’t sprint off the floor after I laid the ball down. My strides were graceful. I almost turned and blew a kiss toward dad, but I thought that might be a little excessive. Plus, I didn’t want to embarrass Flaherty any more than I had already. Like I said, he’s a good man.
            Talk about theater.
            I sat on the glossy one-piece wooden bench in front of my locker, at first wondering about the implications of my decision, especially on social media, and then, frankly, not caring. I thought I might finally be free. A roar ensued outside the locker room and I could hear the fans of the winning team, presumably Glenview South, storming the floor because they were on their way to Peoria just as much as their team was.
            I wondered as I sat there who would be the first to burst through the door—dad, Flaherty or my really pissed off teammates. Or maybe it would be a reporter from the Sun-Times, trying to get the story of the season for high school basketball. I could even see the headline in my mind:
            Star Player Leaves Floor; Team Loses
            Sure enough, it was dad, and it played out just as I expected it would.
            “What in blue blazes did you just do?” he spluttered. “Do you realize what you did? You screwed any chance for a scholarship. Nobody’s going to want a head case. You’re going to be playing at a community college somewhere. Unbelievable…”
            Yep. No compassion. Not a drop.
            I didn’t say anything, but my inner monologue spoke in Shakespeare.
            Obey thy parents, keep thy word justly.
            King Lear.
            Act III, Scene IV.
            How do I know all of this? How does a seventeen-year-old that’s had it rammed home his whole life that basketball is what matters?
            While other kids played video games, or drank at keggers, or scored with pretty girls, I was contemplating. I was, quite literally, sitting at home, trying to find my own words that would pacify me in my, let’s say, situation.
            Instead, I found them somewhere else. And I wanted to learn more. 
            I had already decided by then that college basketball wasn’t in my future. I wanted more literature, and even wanted to write some of my own. I kept this all to myself because there was no way pops was going to understand. I was going to tell him, eventually, but the right opportunity never presented itself. 
            Until last night.
            Flaherty poked his head through the door, and said, “Okay if I come in, Kyle?”
            “No,” dad said with finality. He never liked Flaherty. It was about my playing time, and my shots. Always that. Never about the team.
            But I cut him off.
            “Yeah,” I said, mustering a tone above a whisper.
            As dad gritted his teeth, Flaherty entered.
            “I bet you’re thinking about Sophocles,” he said. “None of us is radically free; none of us is the absolute master of all that he surveys.”
            Oedipus.
            I wasn’t thinking about Sophocles—Shakespeare instead—but point taken.
            Flaherty is one hell of an English teacher. He knew where I was, hat I was, and came to find me.
            “Don’t you get it, Flaherty?” dad said, this time in an even tone that shook as he spoke through still-gritted teeth. “You’ve ruined him, and me. You’re gonna pay for this.”
            Wow. Sounded like a B-movie.
            Flaherty ignored that and said, “Let the young man make his own decisions. He has the mind, and the heart, of a writer and poet. He has to find that part of himself.”
            “What’re you, crazy? After all these years of time and expense, now I find out that my kid is more interested in…Sophocles? Shakespeare? Who gives a shit?”
            I stood. I had to get out of there before my teammates entered. Like I said, I anticipated they’d be pretty torqued.
            “You’re going to suspend him, right?” dad said.
            Which didn’t seem to make sense because the season, and my high school career, were over.
            “I’m going to leave it up to Kyle.”
            “Why not leave it up to his teammates, who he failed?”
            “This is Kyle’s decision. That’s how this is going to be, sir. You may not like it, but Kyle does still have a chance to play at state. If he wants to.”
            Wait, what?
            “That’s right, Kyle,” he said. “We got a steal on an inbound and Daly buried an NBA three.
            “We won.”
            There was commotion outside and no wonder none of my teammates had entered. They were celebrating with our classmates.
            Dad stared me down with enough of a glare to clean glass.
            “You’re not my kid,” he said softly, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.
            As of now, state starts in two days. I had a hard talk with my teammates about what happened, and while they obviously didn’t approve of what I had done, there was a modicum of understanding. Despite what Flaherty said, they took a vote on whether they would be okay with me playing, and I got the green light.
            So, I’ve decided to play. I’ve got two more chances to show what I’ve got, and then it will be over. All the shooting, all the pushups, the early mornings, the late nights. All over.
            Dad won’t be there. He already told me. I went home and packed a bag and I’m staying at Flaherty’s until state’s over, and then I’ll decide what to do.
            It’s a step into the unknown I will be taking, and while I am forcing myself to look ahead, I can’t help but define the past.
            Shakespeare:
            I came, saw and overcame.
            Then Milton:
            All is not lost.
 
","July 27, 2023 22:51",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,b9fp29,Escaping to Another Place,David Fernandez,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b9fp29/,/short-story/b9fp29/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",7 likes,"
	If you had asked fourteen year old Hannah where she thought she’d be at twenty-five years old, you likely would have received a number of answers; each more idyllic than the last. 
 
	Of all the possible futures she had thought up for herself, she never would’ve imagined working an office job as her eventual destination.
 
	Her parents had always said what a bright imagination she had growing up. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if bright was another substitution for unrealistic. 
 
	A drone of corporate America, slaving away for a half-decent wage just to afford rent and her monthly student loan payment wasn’t exactly the thing of childhood fantasies. But it was her reality, and she wasn’t alone in that fact.
 
	But…it wasn’t all bad. For example, being stuck at a desk for hours at a time as she typed away on a computer allowed her to participate in her favorite pastime activity. 
 
	Everyday, Hannah would prop up her phone right above her keyboard and open up her favorite streaming app. Or, in cases when the stream wasn’t live she would resort to youtube videos. It was there that she found the thing that made her work, and to a greater extent, her life, a little bit more bearable. 
 
	She had her favorites, of course. Channels she would visit regularly and talk in the live chat. She had even made a few friends that she kept in contact with over the internet that way. They seemed to bond over their shared love for travel and their equally shared inability to pursue that dream.
 
	When she watched the live streams or videos it didn’t feel like she was a drone. For a period of time, whether it was one hour, two hours, or more; she was transported to somewhere else in the world. Sometimes it was traveling the streets of Shibuya at night. Other times it was riding along the canals in Amsterdam. Or navigating the historical ruins in Rome. Heck, even the livestreams of individuals walking around in Disneyland or Walt Disney World were some of her favorites to get lost in. Each stream made it feel like she was experiencing another city and culture without ever having been there herself.
 
	There were times at family gatherings when a cousin or uncle would mention their travel plans only for Hannah to spout off a series of must know facts or suggestions on sights to see. Her family members would look at her bewildered or, in the rare case, ask if she had ever been there. Her answer to both of those reactions was usually an embarrassed red-tinge that colored her cheeks as she tried to explain how she knew these things without seeming strange. 
 
	It was hard to explain the emotion that simply watching these videos brought. The content sensation that visiting these destinations, even if it was through a screen, gave her.
 
	The reality was, she likely wouldn’t ever travel to some of these locations. At least, not until she was older and her debt was paid off. Maybe if she was lucky she’d make it to some level of middle management. In essence she had traded her childhood dreams for a hope that maybe she’d get to backpack in retirement. 
 
	But…in a way, she felt like she had been to those places. 
 
	When she daydreamed at work and let her mind wander she could see herself walking the streets of the various cities. Encountering strangers as if it was herself talking to them. It was more than just a dream, it was a reality she had witnessed on screen. It was a bit sad, she supposed, but there were days where that escapism was the only thing to get her through her shift.
 
	In the end she would always have to come back to reality. To answer an e-mail or hear the reprimand of her boss. Or worse, attend a meeting talking about improving company profit margins. 
 
	She really hated those.
 
	With a sigh, Hannah glanced at her phone.
 
	Her go-to stream was currently playing, her wireless earbuds tucked neatly beneath her straightened auburn hair. Today’s destination was one of her favorites and also one she felt like she had the least likelihood of visiting: Tokyo, Japan. 
 
	Between the cost of travel, double digit flight hours, and language barrier; she always felt a bit of intimidation at the prospect. However, when she watched streams like the one she currently was, it made her feel like all of those were mere minor obstacles that anyone could get over. Thoughts like that really made her feel like she was a romantic at heart no matter how much her job tried to suck her soul and every creative cell out of her body with it. 
 
	She snorted to herself and briefly looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
 
	Satisfied everyone else was still lost in their own misery, she went back to watching the stream.
 
	“Gosh, I wish that was me right now,” she muttered.
 
	They had entered a restaurant and were currently being served fresh ramen with chashu pork, a boiled egg, fresh mushrooms, and beansprouts. Despite being viewed through a screen it was like she could smell the meal in front of her; so much so that her stomach gave a light rumble.
 
	Oh, to be able to travel and eat the various cuisines of the world. 
 
	Sometimes, she wondered if the man holding the camera knew the effect he had on people like herself. She was personally too self-aware to ever send a thoughtful message about the matter. Though, she had considered it on a few occasions. In the end, she was content simply being a passenger along for the ride. To get to experience sights and sounds she would otherwise never get to see for herself. 
 
	With a hint of a smile Hannah picked up her phone, quietly typing in a message into the chat.
 
	 “That looks delicious!”
 
	For now, this was enough to get her through her day.
 
","July 24, 2023 22:39","[[{'Theo Benson': 'I like this story! It’s very relatable  :)', 'time': '14:06 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,kn22qn,Hitchers,Janis Cannon-Bowers,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kn22qn/,/short-story/kn22qn/,Character,0,['Science Fiction'],7 likes,"
As she barreled down the harrowing slope hitched weightlessly to the back of her latest target—a virile young skier with a great ass--Jane realized how exhilarating it was to be dead.This was what was called a “temp hitch”; one where the Hitcher made only a very temporary connection with a target. Unlike a “full hitch”, the Hitcher attached to the target just enough to experience the world through the target’s eyes and body, but not enough to influence the target’s behavior or feel their emotions. Temp hitches were the way Hitchers blew off steam and had fun in between their missions.Of course, this was all still new to Jane--after all, she had only been dead a few months. She was just beginning to appreciate what it meant to be a Hitcher and what role Hitchers played in human existence. Indeed, she still sometimes had to remind herself that this wasn’t some sort of dream. But it couldn’t be a dream because she was dead. Of that she was sure—she was definitely “dead as a doornail”, as they say.The circumstances of her death were still burned clearly into her memory. Her father, Richard showed up just as it was all over.  After the blood rushed out of her and pooled on the kitchen floor. After the person who had once been her strongest advocate and protector had fled the scene. In fact, she wasn’t sure exactly how long she had laid there after gasping in her last breath—at that point, time had ceased to be a relevant part of her existence. She did remember the murder itself—the all-consuming pain she felt as he thrust the knife repeatedly into her chest. She remembered screaming, “NO!” and hearing the baby’s cries from the other room. And her last thought as a live human being was about that baby. “Oh God”, she had screamed silently, “please help my baby!”The next thing she was aware of was a sense of floating—up, over her body towards the ceiling. “How cliché”, she would think later as she recalled it. But that’s how it happened. What she did not see next was the oft cited white light. Instead, there was her father—her dead father--floating above her, looking into her face and extending his hand. “Janey,” he said excitedly, “it’s Dad!”“Dad?!” she yelled this, and it came out much louder than she had intended. “Yes, it’s me, baby,” he said with a huge smile. “Come on—we need to go.” He grasped her hand tightly and almost jerked her up. Then there was a sensation of—flying, no gliding--up and a second later, they were in a void. Just the two of them at first. Then out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an older woman and a second later, a young man. As she glanced around slowly, she realized they were actually floating among many people—but were they people? Not exactly. “What’s going on?”, she thought, her anxiety rising. “Dad, what’s going on here?”“You’re a Hitcher sweetheart.”“What the hell is a Hitcher?”“We help humans live better lives.” That sounded like an ad for some sort of new age bullshit. “What? Are we ghosts?” “Kind of—more like guardian angels I would say.” “You mean we watch over people?” “Not exactly. More like we join with them and fortify them.” He saw the look of confusion on her face. “Look honey, you just need to relax. It’ll make sense with tim…”Then it hit her all at once. “The baby—where’s my baby!?” she screamed.“Let’s go see,” he said. She stared at him in disbelief. “I can see him? Yes! I want to see him!” He took her hand (this time she noticed how cold his was). They floated for a while and then without warning, she was in a room. It was not the baby’s room, but it was familiar. It took a second to recognize her sister’s guest room. And there, in a crib, her beautiful boy. She started weeping and lunged instinctively for the baby. “No!” Richard yelled. “You can’t touch him!” Then he was between her and the baby. Her instinct was to fight him—to push him away so that she could hold her baby. But he put his hands on her shoulders. “You must be careful, honey. Kids—especially babies are very vulnerable, and hitching can hurt them—badly.” She cried some more. “You can’t hold him. The most you can do is stroke him—lightly,” he emphasized. “Besides, he’s family.”She would learn later that Hitchers were also prohibited from hitching to their family members. Too much emotion and intimacy, she had been told, that could lead to unintended and sometimes uncontrollable consequences. But she ignored this comment because, at the moment, her attention was riveted on her precious baby. “OK, I will be gentle.” Her father—realizing how difficult this would be—guided his daughter’s hand to the sleeping child’s head and ever so gently stroked the child’s fine golden hair. She pushed her hand closer and grazed his head, which caused a decided shiver in the child. “No honey, come on, you have to follow the rules.” “OK,” she wept as her father hugged her tightly to his chest as he did when she was little. They were both startled by voices from the other room. “Come. Let’s go see your sister.” They glided into kitchen—there was Jodi, her beloved older sister. She was at the table, her eyes red from crying. Across from her was her husband, Zach and on either side of him, their 10-year-old twin girls. “I still can’t believe we have a brother,” Sami, one of the twins, was saying. “He’s not our brother,"" Sara, her sister retorted. “Well, he kind of is, isn’t he Mom?” “Yes, darling, he is.” “See,” Sami taunted her sister. Zach turned to Sara. “He doesn’t have anyone else, Sar—we need to take care of him—all of us.” “We’ll love him like our own son,” Jodi added, a tear streaming down her cheek. “We owe that much to Janey.”Janey watched the scene unfold silently. Then the tears started again—this time in a torrent. “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he Dad?” “Yes, doll,” he said, “Jodi will make sure of it.” She drew in a long breath and felt better. “What happened to”—she couldn’t even say his name, but Richard knew. “It doesn’t matter honey. You know the baby will be fine. Now it’s time to move away from your past life. You have a mission now”. In a flash he pulled her up and they were back, floating among the Hitchers. “But I need to be sure he’ll be all right,” she protested. “It doesn’t work that way sweetheart."" “Well how does it fucking work then?” Richard sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you just need to be patient…”“Patient!? Am I dead?!” She was yelling now. “Yes,” his tone was calm. “But not a ghost?” Still yelling. “Not exactly,” he answered. “Not exactly,” she repeated back, shaking her head, “not exactly a ghost. So, what exactly, then, Dad?”“We are fortifiers.” another voice said coming from behind Richard. Then a person—well whatever they call themselves—appeared. “Who the hell are you?” she asked roughly. “Janey!” her father said, “there’s no need to be rude.” ”Please, lower your voice, Jane. There’s no need to use that tone of voice with me or your father.” Jane winced. The admonishment made her feel like a spoiled toddler.“Fine. I apologize for my tone of voice, but, I mean, didn’t you have a million questions when you first died, Dad?” The truth was—and she knew this—he didn’t. That wasn’t his style—he took life (and death apparently) as it came and made the best of it. In this respect, he was the opposite of Jane’s mother, which is where Jane got her control-freak-OCD-Type A-pick-your-pop-psychology-label personality. “Leave us please, Richard,” the woman said, “Jane and I need to talk,”“Are you in charge around here?” Jane asked.“More like I’ve been around a long time and take care of on-boarding the newly dead. My name is Lana by the way.”“Nice to meet you—sorry for being rude—I’m just…confused.” Jane sighed.“Not to worry--I know this is a lot to take in, but the truth is you are one of the chosen few who have a chance to pay it forward.” “Meaning what, exactly?” Jane asked. “Meaning that you get to use what you learned in life to help others.”She explained that Hitchers enter the bodies of selected “targets”—that’s what the humans were called—and experience the world through that target’s body and senses.“Do they know we’re in there--them?” Jane interrupted.“No, the target has no idea,” Lana replied. “The idea is to influence the target but not control them. We fortify them—that really is the best word for it--by helping them to make good decisions and choices, boosting their confidence, giving them strength…many great people in the past were targets. Abraham Lincoln, for example. His convictions were strong no doubt, but it was his Hitcher that fortified him with the courage to prevail.  In fact, lots of people famous for standing up in the face of tyranny, displaying inhuman strength or acting altruistically were actually targets being fortified by Hitchers. It took a moment for all this to sink in. “Let me get this straight. We enter the bodies of humans.”“Targets,” Lana corrected.  “OK targets, we enter their bodies and guide them.”“Fortify is a better word.”“OK fortify them so that they have better lives?”“Yes.”“And they don’t know we’re in there.” “Correct.” Jane shook her head. “This has to be a fucking dream.” “It’s not.”“So why is Dad here?” “Well, we are never exactly sure why Hitchers are chosen. But in your father’s case, it’s most likely because he was thwarted in life. Not by one big traumatic event, but by a set of circumstances that only allowed him to realize a fraction of his potential.” “Potential”, she thought, “Dad?” “Your father should have been a great artist.” That made some sense to Jane. He was a WWII vet who started working at 14 and didn’t stop for almost 60 years. Pursuing artistic endeavors was out of the question. So, he hadn’t started painting until he was in his 70s, but he was good—really good. He could look at any picture and render it accurately, and with no formal training was able to produce beautiful paintings. She delighted in hearing her high-brow lawyer friends and clients compliment her on the artwork in her office—“an obscure Manhattan artist” she’d say--knowing they’d never believe it was a little Italian guy painting at his kitchen table with cheap canvases from Walmart and brushes he got at yard sales.His “mission”, Lana continued, was to help people realize who they were and fortify them with the courage to realize their dreams. He was very successful at it, so successful in fact, that he earned lots of “time off”. “What, like vacation?""“More like unencumbered hitching—just hitching for the pure enjoyment of it.” “Your father loves to have sex.”“Oh my god, I can’t unhear that one,” she thought with a grimace. ”So when he’s not helping someone realize their full potential, he’s getting his rocks off. Lovely,” she thought.“So, why am I here?” she asked. “Oh I think you know why. And in any case, I can’t tell you--that’s something you’ll have to figure out for yourself.” Of course, Janey knew. A brilliant, beautiful, successful attorney taking regular beatings from a drunken loser. Yeah, that seemed like it. “So I’m supposed to help women get out of abusive relationships?”“You need to sort that out,” was all she would say. “But you have time. For now, there are a few rules. First and foremost, you are not supposed to control the target. That would violate free will. Your role is to fortify, not control. Second, if your target dies while you are hitched, your existence as a Hitcher will also cease. So, if you suspect that your target is about to die, you must unhitch, unless your goal is to cease to exist of course.” Jane found out later that the idea of unhitching just before a target dies apparently leads to lots of exciting games of “chicken” among seasoned Hitchers.  “The next is to avoid young children and babies—they need to develop on their own.” “Yes, Dad told me about that one.”“And you must stay away from family members and loved ones. It’s just too easy to lose control when hitched to them and there can be some regrettable consequences.”“I heard that one too…but I’m not sure I understand…”“Let’s just say it gets complicated. For example, Hitchers have uncovered lots of secrets by hitching to their live spouses and most of the time, the outcome hasn’t been good. I mean, imagine having access to all of the memories of a loved one—memories you were part of…you could end up discovering a lot of things that happened in the past that serve no purpose to you or the target now.”“But maybe those would be good things,” Jane said.“Possibly yes. But your mission is to improve the lives of your target, not relive your past. Besides, it went bad way more often than good, so over time, we have created the rule.”Jane realized that there wasn’t any point in arguing further, so she stayed quiet.“The final and perhaps most important rule is what I just said--that Hitchers improve the lives of targets. They never intentionally bring harm to the target and are careful to avoid harming those around them.”  “So I can’t go back and slice up that mother fucking husband of mine, huh?” “No. But you could have helped yourself defend against him.”“I could have helped myself defend against him? Sorry I’m lost.”“What I mean is that if you are hitched to a target who is being physically attacked, you can help them defend themselves against the attacker.”“Even if the attacker is harmed?” “Yes, in that case it’s self-defense.”“So if he does it again I could…”Lana cut her off. “Yes, technically, you could. But that’s not what this is about—getting revenge for your own personal past wrongs I mean. It’s about using what you learned in life to fortify others.” “So how do I find people who need help?” “We’ll do that for you in the beginning. After a while—if you’re good at it—you will begin choosing your own targets. But don’t worry about that now--this will all become clear with time as memories of your corporeal existence begin to fade.”“Corporeal existence,” Jane thought with a chuckle, “sounds like a sci-fi movie.”“In the meantime.” the woman continued, “enjoy yourself for a while and we’ll meet again when you are ready to begin your mission. We’ll talk soon. For now, have some fun.”“Have fun?” Jane thought, she wasn’t sure how to have fun. But that became apparent pretty fast. Temporary hitches—she quickly learned--were a freakin’ blast. It was like living vicariously through whomever she chose, and Jane was experiencing life in ways she never dreamed of when she was alive. The skier with the nice ass was one example—she’d never dare ski such a massive slope in her corporeal life but hitched to this guy, it was crazy fun. She loved the feeling of flying, the cold wind in her (his) face, the feelings of anticipation, exhilaration and terror all mixed into one. She sampled many aspects of life in the early days—encouraged by her dad and the other seasoned Hitchers. She often chose male targets—the sensation of having a penis was very…interesting, especially when said penis was getting a workout. Apparently, her dad wasn’t the only Hitcher who enjoyed a sexual encounter or two. But honestly, there were so many ways to have fun—""so many targets and so little time,"" she thought. This was too good to be true.But the non-stop, thrill-seeking temp hitching didn’t last long. And when she began preparing for her mission, she understood that all the fun Hitchers had in their “off” time was a well-earned respite from the suffering they endured while on missions.Jane’s first full hitch was with a girl of around 11. “I thought no kids,” she had asked, but apparently it was only small children who were off limits. And this particular 11-year-old was mature well beyond her years. She was being sexually abused by her uncle and had been for over 6 years. She was close to being able to stand up to him but hadn’t quite found the courage. And that’s what Jane was there to do—fortify her with the courage to tell her mother about the abuse.When it was time, Jane discovered that a full hitch was much more difficult than the temp hitches she had been used to.  She wasn’t only seeing and experiencing the physical world through the target’s eyes, she was also experiencing their emotions. Jane was not prepared for this and when she settled into this young girl, her first instinct was to get out. The rage, confusion, fear, and hopelessness this little girl was experiencing nearly overwhelmed Jane. They had warned her that this could happen—after all, there was no buffer between the target’s and Hitcher’s emotions. Despite the warnings, the intensity of what she felt from this target’s perspective was almost unbearable.Jane knew she had to do something for this girl (and for herself). And so her work began.
","July 26, 2023 01:32",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,g0u4o4,The dolls,Gennadii Seliverstov,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g0u4o4/,/short-story/g0u4o4/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Friendship', 'Kids']",6 likes,"
The dolls
 
Mr. Eddie Todd was a man of average intellect, a kind family man, one of those who married late because he had never shown the necessary determination in this matter. To be honest, he had never considered the institution of marriage to be something so significant as to invest time in. A diligent student in high school, one of the few who didn't try smoking weed in college, he quickly lost his drive for life and career ambitions, replacing them with leisurely lunches and hanging out with friends. In the last years of his family life, which caught up with him at the age of thirty-five, he lived in his parents' home, long in need of repair, realizing that the time for proving something to himself had long passed.
A provincial journalist, once filled with great ambitions and aspirations, now settled for more modest goals, making a meager living from short but well-crafted reports, which were beautiful yet monotonous. Alongside him, his whole family was affected: perpetually grumbling wife and two beautiful daughters, aged 4 and 6, who brought him solace.
The older daughter, a restless soul with light reddish hair and big gray-green eyes that burned with never-ending curiosity and concealed an unconscious cunning, had a face adorned with ever-present scrapes. Her name was Anna. She was madly fond of hugging the shaggy four-legged creatures around the area, which led her to constantly wear green ointment to soothe the bites and various annoyances that abounded in stray animals. Moreover, she loved to show off that she was smarter and older than her sister.
The younger daughter, Elsa, imitated Anna in everything, but often, she had enough prudence to wait and see what punishment her sister would receive for her actions before repeating them herself, as if to accompany her, so that Anna wouldn't feel hurt for being punished alone.
Elsa was completely different, both externally - with her brown eyes, slightly upturned nose, and dark russet hair - and internally. She was more thoughtful, and her cunning existed harmoniously and subtly, though she was not adept at keeping secrets because, for her, secrecy was a source of popularity, something to boast about in front of others.
One hot September evening, while Mrs. Todd claimed she was heading to her cousin's house, she actually embarked on yet another attempt to find a new husband. Mr. Todd locked himself in the small bathroom, deciding to sketch the outline of an upcoming article about the local farmer O'Neill, who had achieved an excellent corn harvest that season.
His workspace was not in an office; there simply wasn't one. All his stories were born in this little laboratory under the stairs on the ground floor. Such houses, with darkened and faded sidings, old and sometimes broken gutters, were still easily found in small towns across the USA, on the outskirts of major cities, and certainly in the state of Oklahoma if you drove off Route 44 and 40.
Currently, Mr. Todd sat in his bunker, continuously pressing the flush button to drown out the children's cries, which, at such moments, could distract him. He worked by making pencil marks on yellow pages of an old album, occasionally using the eraser stub on the other end of the pencil to erase unsuitable phrases and words, of which there seemed to be plenty today.
""You can sink deeper, Eddie,"" he told himself, ""or you can try to swim up.""
""But I'll only sink a little lower, just to push off from this damn bottom properly,"" someone else inside him said.
""Don't play with it, Eddie; you might simply run out of oxygen to reach the surface,"" the first voice seconded.
""You're not the hero of a novel; you might not get a second chance, and you must understand that, the sooner you do, the better things will go for you.""
""Curses!"" said the second voice, always the follower and never trying to be the leader. ""Curses!""
""Why are you upset?"" asked the first voice calmly, as if belonging to Eddie Todd, but one slightly over 20 years old.
""I'm upset because I haven't belonged to myself for a long time. I live in debt, with enormous obligations to the banks. My credit cards have long exceeded their limits, and I swear to myself I'll pay off all the fines for the toll roads each following month. I have an old unpaid car and a bunch of overdue bills. I depend on my wife's mood, on my children's whims, on a huge Saint Bernard who loves to spoil the air when you're eating. Have you seen his eyes when he farts?""
""Yes, I have,"" calmly replied the first voice, ""they look just like yours when you do it. And stop complaining about fate; it's what you make of it. We all depend on someone, live off someone. The main thing is to live your life in such a way that you won't be ashamed.""
""Well, I am ashamed!"" erupted the second voice. ""What if I am ashamed?""
""Get dressed if you're ashamed. Write a worthwhile novel if you're ashamed. Get your ass off the toilet lid you're sitting on if you're ashamed.""
 
""Darn that farmer and his freaking corn!"" Eddie cursed in his heart and began to erase another passage of his writing when suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
""Who's there?"" the man asked, pressing the flush button as an automatic response. Water rushed down the porcelain walls, and behind the door, a muffled laughter ensued – the kind that bursts out of a child when they play a harmless prank, seeking attention from an adult.
No one replied to him, but after a few seconds, the knock was heard again.
""Who's there?"" Mr. Todd repeated in the same unruffled voice, continuing to make notes in the album.
Now, along with the laughter from behind the door, there was also whispering. Two intruders were likely discussing their plan for further action, and judging by the fact that the knock came a third time, they didn't seem to come up with any new ideas.
""If it's my little dolls,"" said Mr. Todd, mentally noting and writing down, ""this year, O'Neill's farm was not bothered by butterfly parasites and locusts."" Out loud, he continued, ""if it's two brave pirates of the Northern Seas, then I surrender, you may come in.""
The door handle was lowered slowly, as if the pirates were cautiously trying to sneak into the captain's cabin to catch him off guard.
""And what are you doing here?"" asked the elder daughter, her head appearing in the tiny strip of the opening first.
""Working,"" answered the man without looking up from the paper.
""While sitting on the toilet?"" the younger one asked, her head poking out from the very bottom, as if she were on all fours – maybe she was.
""Yes, sitting on the toilet,"" Eddie said slowly, trying not to lose the thread of his narration, and added thoughtfully, ""I think better here.""
""Daddy, are you a writer?"" the older girl continued, standing on all fours.
""No, sweetheart, your daddy is a journalist,"" the man said and crossed out the last word he had written.
""But I tell everyone you're a writer,"" Anna said with a smile.
""Me too,"" Elsa chimed in.
""Because our daddy constantly writes stories for grown-ups, and they pay him big money for that,"" the elder daughter explained to the younger one, looking down at her with a hint of disdain. Then she continued, ""When I grow up, I'll be a writer like dad.""
""Me too,"" Elsa hastened to add to the previous statement.
""But you won't be a writer because you're dumb,"" Anna said angrily, ""and dumb kids can't become writers.""
""I'll still be a writer,"" the girl from below mocked, playing along.
""No, I say you won't!"" Anna stomped her foot behind the door, raising her voice, ""because you're dumb and stupid. And anyway, I'll tell dad what bad words you said today.""
""Alright, that's enough arguing,"" intervened the father, setting aside the album sheets and lifting both girls in his arms. ""Both of you will be great writers, just like Joanne Rowling or Ursula Le Guin. You'll write a tremendous number of bestsellers, make a lot of money, and live in a big, fancy house, and drive a beautiful car.""
""A pink one?"" Anna immediately asked, adjusting her hair in her usual way – tossing it back along with her head.
""Whichever you want,"" the man replied, catching her nose and planting a kiss on it.
""Then it'll be pink,"" Anna declared with an air of importance and snuggled against her father's neck.
""I'll have a pink car too,"" Elsa chimed in, and another argument erupted between them. Elsa was labeled as a repeat, a dummy, the one who couldn't come up with anything on her own. But Mr. Todd understood that the younger daughter was just teasing her sister this way, finding pleasure in seeing her getting angry, blushing, puffing up her cheeks, trying to swing at her. Afterward, Elsa would always go and complain to Anna, and after the second time when Anna got punished for it, she would enjoy watching the punishment process.
Eddie Todd knew about this and always tried to reconcile them.
""Daddy, why don't you want to be a writer?"" the elder daughter asked when they were already sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV.
""Because Dad needs to earn money and feed such voracious pirates like you. Unfortunately, writing doesn't bring in money, and Dad's stories are not needed by anyone.""
""Not even by Mom?""
And he wanted to answer, ""Especially by Mom,"" but instead, he bit his lip to stay silent.
""Daddy-dad! You know what? You know what? You know?"" The younger daughter hopped in place as if she were electrified. Her hair bounced in rhythm with her movements, and Anna hugged her, leaning her whole body to try and stop her, but understanding she wouldn't be able to, she jumped along with her.
""No, I don't know. Calm down and tell me what happened.""
 
Elsa stopped jumping and tried to free herself from her older sister's clingy embrace.
""I just wanted to say that I need your stories.""
Mr. Todd smiled at his daughter and felt tears welling up on the inside of his eyelids.
 
""Me too,"" Anna quickly added and stuck her tongue out at her sister, then immediately said, ""Write a story about Sam, Daddy.""
""And who is Sam?"" the father asked and guessed, ""Your little admirer?
He started tickling the elder daughter, and she squirmed, writhing in his attempts, and laughing at the same time. The younger daughter laughed along with her.
When the tickling subsided, Anna, still giggling at Elsa's laughter, pushed her sister's shoulder and spoke up, ""No, Daddy, Sam is my Hagi-Wagi toy. He's my protector, and I can only sleep with him because he guards me all night against evil wizards. You can't imagine how brave and strong Sam is. Well, not as strong as you or Mom, but Sam isn't afraid of anything, and he sees what adults can't.""
""Alright, and what does he see that adults can't?"" the father asked with curiosity.
""The unclean force,"" Anna replied, enunciating each syllable, her eyes wide open, showing her teeth. Elsa sat next to her, seemingly enchanted by her sister's tale, her mouth slightly agape in astonishment, glancing back and forth between her father and Anna.
""What on earth are you saying?!"" Mr. Todd played along. ""Unclean force?""
""Oh, yeees,"" Anna drawled out slowly, her eyes widening even further.
""When you and Mom are asleep, it comes into our bedroom and crawls under our beds,"" Anna continued, ""and you have to be careful not to accidentally let your hand down onto the floor while sleeping.""
""I'm scared, Daddy,"" Elsa said and began to crawl under the blanket covering the couch, trying to snuggle as close to her father as possible. However, the blanket was short, and she could only hide halfway, with her bottom sticking out, and her legs dangling in the air.
""Coward,"" Anna sneered contemptuously at her sister.
""So, what happened then?"" Mr. Todd asked. ""Did Sam lose his hand in a fight with the unclean force?""
""No,"" the elder daughter replied almost indifferently, ""the terrible monster bit his hand off.""
This terrible monster, a Saint Bernard breed, was lying by the entrance door on a mat, snoring deeply, pretending to be asleep.
""So, you want me to write a book about Sam's adventures,"" Mr. Todd said, still considering, and added, ""You know, there's already a story about Winnie-the-Pooh written by the British author A.A. Milne, where the main character was based on his little son Christopher.""
""Well, what of it?"" the elder daughter responded, playing the role of a professor, looking condescendingly from under her brows at her father, ""We'll have One-Handed Sam - the vanquisher of the unclean force.""
She stamped her foot.
""Alright, alright,"" the father raised his hands in surrender.
""And little Silvia,"" Elsa added, emerging from under the blanket and fixing the tangle of hair on her face, ""Silvia is Sam's bride. She's also fearless and can control time.""
""No, she can't,"" Anna protested, pursing her lips into a little tube.
""She can!"" Elsa shouted and stomped her foot too. ""She can very well! You know it yourself. Last time, Silvia did something, and we woke up at 10 AM, and when Mom called us for lunch, it was still 10 o'clock on the clock. She stopped time.""
""I moved the clock, you dummy. She didn't do anything!"" Anna retorted, making a face, and tears welled up in Elsa's eyes.
Mr. Todd hugged the almost-crying girl and wagged his finger at the elder one, who sat down next to them, frowning.
""I promise you, darling,"" he said to Elsa, ""that I will come up with a spell in the book about Silvia and Sam, and thanks to this spell, Silvia will be able to control time now and even when you grow up.""
""Really?"" Elsa asked with a smile.
""Absolutely true,"" Eddie Todd replied, kissing both daughters on the tops of their heads.
 
The same evening, Mrs. Todd announced that she was leaving him. She said all the things people say in such situations, something like: ""I'm so sorry. It hurts so much. Even more so knowing that I'm causing you pain. Please forgive me.""
And he said something like: ""I don't understand anything... Why are you doing this? Whose advice is this? What's behind all this...""
The children were in their room and could hear their parents' conversation through the gap under the door. Each of them tightly hugged their dolls - Silvia and Sam - and silently looked at each other, trying not to cry. They understood everything, even though they were still very young.
 
When the house emptied, just like Mr. Todd's soul did, the man wandered around the rooms for a long time, aimlessly going up to the second floor and coming back down to the first. He smoked a lot, drank a lot of whiskey left over from Independence Day, and cursed a lot. He cursed himself, cursed life, cursed the editor and his wife Emma, cursed farmer O'Neil, and especially cursed Mrs. Todd. He cursed the terrible monster that seemed to follow him everywhere, never for a moment leaving him alone. Finally, Eddie stopped in front of the children's room, leaned his forehead against the door, and tried to hear his daughters' voices, which he now missed so much. Then he turned the doorknob and entered. It was dark in the room, the outlines of the cabinets and beds pressing in on him, as if some unclean force indeed lived inside and under them. The man pressed the switch button, and the light on the ceiling flashed with an almost sunny yellow color. And then he saw two dolls lying on the floor, hugging each other - One-Handed Sam and Silvia.
Tears rolled down his hollow cheeks and disappeared into the thick forest of three-day-old stubble. Mr. Todd picked up Sam and Silvia, sat them on the bed, and they both looked at him - at a man who had sunk to the bottom of a deep and ancient lake, like a karst crevice, into darkness, into the unknown, into lifelessness. There, where no life existed, and even the most merciless aquatic predators avoided staying for too long. They stared at him with the buttons of their black eyes, as if assessing him and trying to connect with him, waiting.
The man opened the drawer of the bedside table, among the chaos inside, he eventually found a pair of markers and a half-empty notebook. ""Okay,"" Mr. Todd said with a lump in his throat and sat down opposite the dolls. He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to compose himself. When he looked at the toys again, it suddenly seemed to him that they were much closer to him than he had placed them before.
The writer, now holding his breath, stared at the faces of Silvia and Sam, not paying attention to the Saint Bernard that was lying beside him. And suddenly, for himself, Eddie Todd began:
""Once upon a time, many years ago, in a kingdom at the edge of the Earth, there lived a brave warrior named Sam and his beloved Silvia, who could control time...""
 
Flagstaff, AZ 
","July 26, 2023 21:15","[[{'Nicki Nance': ""This is a sweet and poignant story. My favorite scene is one sister jumping with the other because she couldn't hold her still."", 'time': '01:23 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Gennadii Seliverstov': 'Thank you very much! I am deeply touched that you were moved by the story!🙏🙏🙏', 'time': '03:03 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Gennadii Seliverstov': 'Thank you very much! I am deeply touched that you were moved by the story!🙏🙏🙏', 'time': '03:03 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,crncas,Aspirations of a Young Girl,Karin Eriksson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/crncas/,/short-story/crncas/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Inspirational']",6 likes,"
What had I done? Should I even be here? I sat down and clicked my metal seat belt clasp into place. From my economy class window seat aboard the Qatar Airways B77W aircraft, I saw ground personnel signaling with their bright orange batons for surrounding planes to reverse from the terminal. Their beacon wing and underbelly lights all aglow under the night sky. Each taxied down the tarmac, preparing for takeoff. My aircraft would eventually follow. Boarding had just commenced for my flight. We weren't airborne yet, but I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. My heart was racing with overwhelming internal fear. Each breath felt heavy and labored, and my legs shook uncontrollably. Rationally, I knew this was a full-blown panic attack. A fight or flight type response due to my fragile insecurities. I kept telling myself, ""Breathe....breathe.""  My eyes glanced up at the passengers descending the aisles. This added to my trepidation. None of them appeared to fit my ""profile."" None of them, I bet, were middle-aged women who had left their husbands and children at home temporarily seeking ""adventure"" and ""purpose"" so far away from home. Was I selfish to want this? Was I out of my mind? What kind of mother was I to leave her children at home for ten days? Internally, I felt like a fraud, a phony, and an imposter. Was this my mid-life crisis? I didn't know any women of my age group that would entertain the idea of traveling solo to the other side of the world. This was not a vacation to the sun but to the poorest country in South Asia, and the last thing I wanted was for anyone to think it was ""poverty tourism."" Exploiting the poor to grab some quick photos was not part of my agenda.  The flight was to Kathmandu, Nepal, via Qatar, departing from London Heathrow Airport. I caught a glimpse of my fellow passengers at the boarding gate, so it was no surprise who I would share my flight with. But now, they were cramming their belongings into the overhead luggage compartments around me, and it became all too real. These people were mountaineers making their way to Mt Everest Base Camp and the surrounding peaks of the Himalayas. They came with their duffel bags, parkas, hiking boots, crampons, helmets, and various climbing apparatus that couldn't be, for whatever reason, part of their checked luggage. These were the same people you would expect to see on a History Channel documentary. Or perhaps on the cover of the famous, yellow-bordered magazine National Geographic. The modern-day counterparts to Sir Edmund Hillary and his Sherpa guide, Tenzing Norgay. Minutes later, another wave of passengers filed passed, each scrutinizing the small aisle numbers and letters overhead to locate their assigned seats. Judging by their clothing and personal belongings with the all-telling, sewn-on embroidered logo patches, they appeared to be aid workers or volunteers from relief agencies. Perhaps non-governmental organizations (NGOs). Traveling to Nepal, they would assist with infrastructure, agriculture, and environmental issues, quality education, the right to food, healthcare, and helping to eradicate poverty. Nepal, one of the world's poorest and least developed countries, relies on international aid.   My fellow passengers were the people I had idolized since childhood. I had lived vicariously through them and romanticized the lives they led for as long as I could remember. Their sense of adventure, dedication, and selflessness was part of what I wanted to be when I ""grew up."" By purchasing my airfare, I was now face to face with the very same people I looked up to and was in awe of. I suddenly felt tiny in comparison. These were giants in my eyes. Royalty of sorts. Leaders. Risk-takers. Humanitarians. The elite. Those who had determination, perseverance, and discipline. They rejected convention and faced hardships. Before me, in this confined aircraft, were my heroes.  Desperate to leave my surroundings while growing up in small-town America, I knew, even as a pre-teen, I didn't belong. There had to be more to life beyond my front door. I fantasized about slipping effortlessly into exotic, colorful landscapes, speaking different languages, and discovering new foods. To Interact with people of all backgrounds and soak up their stories. The joys, accomplishments, pain, and sorrows. I was prepared to be taken out of my comfort zone. I wanted to hear, witness, and be part of the stories of the human race. I yearned to collect memories and be a storyteller myself. My daydreams took me out of my body to visit obscure destinations such as Morocco. I visualized myself rambling around the souks of Marrakesh, inhaling a plethora of alluring and curious spices, herbs, and delicate rose petals piled high in woven baskets; Snake charmers performing around me in the open-air market, hypnotizing not only their reptiles but mesmerizing the crowds there to watch. Seeing traders haggle with tourists over handmade Berber rugs, colorful slippers, and tanned leather goods. Dodging the donkeys, camels, and goats in the medina, I meander the narrow, complex labyrinth of backstreet alleyways to uncover men smoking hookahs. I smell saffron-infused tajin and other local delicacies as I sip traditional mint tea from miniature glass cups and savor delicious North African pastries at a cafe. Next stop, off to hear the beautifully eerie sounds of early morning calls to prayer that reverberated from the minarets of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Stepping inside, I am taken aback by the stunningly vibrant shades of blue ceramic tiles displaying intricate geometric patterns dating back to the Ottoman Empire. Leaning in, I see the details of the brush strokes left by the artisans so long ago.  Then perhaps, a trip to the Maasi Mara National Reserve in Kenya, where I would go on a photographic safari to witness the wildebeest migration, herds of elephants, zebras, hippos, and ferocious big cats as they roamed the grassy plains and approached the waterholes. I envisioned myself sitting amongst the Maasai tribesmen and women adorned in traditional red and plaid Shuka garments with spectacular beaded collar necklaces. The Warriors, in their ostrich feather headdresses and carrying their mighty shields, all summon me to join them in their dancing and jumping rituals as the sun set on the African plains.  I fully admit I identified as a young ""Walter Mitty"" character. I daydreamed of a spectacular existence that took me out of the boredom and monotony of my young life and allowed me to live fully. The wanderlust bug had bitten me by living through the stories and work of journalists, writers, artists, anthropologists, adventure seekers, scholars, and researchers. I became fascinated with cultures, languages, and belief systems different from my own. I wanted to observe Dian Fossey with the Silver Back Gorillas of Rwanda, learn the Haka ceremonial Maori dance of New Zealand, and visit the Amazon Rain Forest to witness the spectacular flora and fauna and indigenous peoples. The bedroom walls of my twelve-year-old self weren't plastered with posters of Donny Osmond or David Cassidy; they were adorned with travel posters. Ones displayed in travel agencies promoting tour operators and airlines and the destinations they flew to. Bookshelves and dressers proudly displayed the souvenirs and tchotchkes that family members had brought back from vacations.""Tiger Beat,"" the teenage magazine, was replaced by ""Let's Go"" travel guidebooks I had bought with pocket money earned through weekly chores and babysitting. Each paperback book in my collection became worn and dog-eared from pouring over each page. I'd highlight and note every detail about a specific region to memorize facts for future use. I was confident. I WOULD see those places. It wasn't a question of ""if"" but ""when."" I wouldn't rule out any travel opportunities or destinations. I would gladly welcome volunteering on a farm with an Israeli Kibbutz, looking after children as an au pair, trekking Machu Picchu, or re-tracing the footsteps of French artist, Paul Gaugin in Tahiti if it brought fascinating experiences with it. In junior high, I had it all planned out. Or so I thought. I wanted to join the Peace Corps or be put to work in a refugee camp in southeast Asia to assist the Vietnamese boat people fleeing the country after the war had ended. (My nightly tv viewing of the international news was inundated with stories of the refugee crisis then.) It didn't occur to me that I would need a technical degree, practical experience, or exceptional skills in disaster relief and humanitarian crises. I assumed I would figure that out when the time came, and if I was passionate about the work, I'd be a sure fit. Who wouldn't want someone like me? My school guidance counselor had a different take on things. When discussing my ambitions, he raised his eyebrows and delivered an extended, drawn-out response that neither ""career choice"" would ever pay any money. Feeling dejected at that response, I thought, ""So much for humanitarian efforts and saving the world.""; everything was all about money, and I was quickly told I needed to be more practical with my career choices. The disappointing reaction didn't deter me. Three years later, with my parents' unwavering support, I applied and was accepted as an exchange student in Japan for one year. I lived with a traditional host family in a small, rural village surrounded by rice fields at the base of the majestic Mt Fuji—a picture-perfect postcard setting. I attended a Japanese high school wearing the traditional school uniform required of all students and learned the language through total immersion and book study. Weekly, I participated in tea ceremony lessons with a local master. Just one of the many rare opportunities afforded to me that few Westerners have privy to. That year in Japan brought me what I had been searching for. It gave me the skill sets that have served me well throughout my life—self-reliance, trust, acceptance, patience, and maintaining humor when frustration sets in. It was one of my life's most challenging but significant years, and it was just the start, a taste of what would come. Upon returning to the US and finishing school, I started working full-time. I interspersed it with teaching South American migrant farm workers English as a second language, volunteering as a ""big sister"" to a Vietnamese refugee boy and befriending his grandmother, and tutoring a Japanese college student with her English. When my savings accumulated enough, I set my sights on traveling to Ireland, Scotland, and England. Great Britain wasn't such a cultural stretch from the US, but it had history and new territory to explore. Little did I know, it was also my destiny. I married a Brit years later, settled in London, and had two wonderful children. With its location, living in the UK provided cheap and accessible travel to the continent. When time and finances allowed, I found ways to explore new vistas with my family and saw the world's wonders through my children's eyes. My passion for learning about and participating in other cultures remained strong while living abroad as an expat. I became involved with a charity that built schools and brought education to the poorest regions of Sri Lanka and Nepal. I boldly decided to sponsor a school in the Himalayas with the spare pocket money I had each month. In doing so, I was beckoned to travel to Nepal. Holding fundraisers with all proceeds going directly to ""my"" school and the numerous other Nepali charities that caught my attention, I eventually scrimped and saved my own money to visit the Himalayan kingdom and ""get my hands dirty."" I packed my weight in school supplies, educational resources, toiletries, and over-the-counter medicines. All the ""wish list"" items sought after from the West. My itinerary meant making an arduous trek by vintage Army Jeep driven by a local driver through perilous mountain terrain. The air grew colder the higher we ascended, with breathtaking scenery throughout. The landscape was dotted by tea plantations and colorful Buddhist prayer flags strung up in the remotest of areas, torn and flapping in the wind. After several hours of maneuvering the twisty, dangerous cliffside dirt roads, I reached my destination and received an unexpected hero's welcome from the entire village. Men who were farmers, women carrying small babies in slings made from saris, and elderly grandparents all turned out to see this Western woman in one of the most remote places on Earth. Charity officials and teachers proudly showed me their school, introduced me to each child dressed in a tidy blue school uniform, and invited me to listen to them as they performed songs. Crowds of students gathered around me, all chatting and excited, as I unpacked my bag and presented each child with a canvas tote filled with pencils, pens, crayons, paper, sweets, and random small party favor type gifts such as balloons, bubble bottles, and puzzles. Far from being a wealthy woman, my gifts were a small gesture. But the tears of happiness, smiles, and pure joy that radiated from the students and their families rippled through me. Parting ways after nearly a week was highly emotional. Scores of children followed behind my Jeep, running as quickly as possible, some barefoot, waving and smiling from ear to ear to send me off.   Before leaving Kathmandu, I spent the last few days visiting and staying at orphanages and homes for trafficked youths. I witnessed an incredible Nepali soup kitchen feeding the homeless, including the city's vulnerable street children (often victims of child labor and exploitation), and providing essential medical services to them.  Most notably, I visited an end-of-life care ashram established by Mother Teresa at Pashupatinath Hindu Temple. There, my attention was drawn to hospice and palliative care being given and the open-air cremation ceremonies on the banks of the Bagmati River. It was a profound experience to observe. Deeply moving and powerful. It changed the trajectory of my life. Hospice work became my calling. After several excursions to Nepal, I returned home to become a caregiver to the dying- strangers and my own loved ones; qualified as a hospice death doula and made it my mission to hold workshops and do motivational speaking on the importance of living life to the full with our finite time left on Earth. Urging others to evaluate their lives, go ""outside the box,"" and DREAM. It is my deep belief that synchronicities occur for a reason. If I had not lived vicariously through others who inspired me and hadn't fantasized about visiting far-off distant lands and people, would I have ever known or experienced all that I have in my life? I owe everything to the incredible souls who sowed the seeds and encouraged me to daydream through their travels, work, research, artistic endeavors, and adventurous pursuits. Those who introduced me to cultures and people that helped me understand the world better. Who dreamt of something more, took chances, and embraced the opportunities, causes, and difficulties. Those who saw the beauty and meaning of life and shared it with me.
","July 27, 2023 15:41",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,uf6427,Sirénes,Ayesha Ahmed,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/uf6427/,/short-story/uf6427/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Contemporary', 'Drama']",6 likes,"
Hunger. She feels it thicken the air around her, pulse with anticipation, fix its gaze exactly where she stands. Tokyo salivates behind the curtain, ravenous and eager, a dog with wild appetite and wilder eyes. Behind her, a ghost tries its best to disappear.Yulia Sorensi. The star of tonight’s show. A famed pianist, born for nothing else, hailing from further up North to grant Japan the honour of being home to her Asian debut. And…her daughter.Olena fidgets, not for the first time this evening. Tonight’s show must be perfect. It cannot be anything else. Too many towers she has seen crumble in these storms, too many reputations tarnished to rot. Too many names, unable to rise to the full height of their potential, limited to their home countries or continents. Yulia cannot-will not­- be one amongst them. With her blood, with her gift, she is destined for more.She refuses to let this girl waste away like herself. She will be better.She still remembers when she first touched the piano, how eagerly Danylo had settled her on the stool and arranged her fingers on the keys. His daughter, his beautiful, wonderful daughter, who will learn to make the piano’s voice her own, who will continue the Sorensi legacy he had worked so hard to build.Olena learned two things that day: First, that there was nothing she could do that could make her father love her any less. And second, there was no taste so bitter, so vile as the acid burn of disappointment.Harder, still, was to rise on your feet afterwards, to continue with your life as if opportunity had not just gone cold in your arms, as if you had not just been deemed unworthy by the only god you’d ever worshipped.The piano did not love her the way it was supposed to. But it loved Yulia.The very Yulia in front of her now, who stands listlessly in front of a small, gold-framed painting mounted up on the wall. Olena squints at it; a woman lost at sea, russet hair alive in the wind whipping at her body, arms thrown out the heavens, cherry mouth open in song.Sirénes, read the inscription below the frame. An impression of the sound of Sorensi. Her breath catches. She reads the text again. Bores holes into the letters spelling out her name. Yulia’s. Danylo’s.Sirénes, a tribute to her father’s greatest feat. Sirénes, written as a movement to Debussy’s Nocturnes, music that danced between violins and flutes and vocal harmony. Music that had no place for the peals of a piano, for the fingers that danced over its keys. Until Danylo Sorensi. He had taken the piece by each individual thread and pulled and wound and beguiled it until it unravelled completely, spooling around the wedges between his fingers, his to remake. He’d played it again and again and again until the piano learned to weep in it, and he had played it all for her.Olena frowns at the painting. The impression is all wrong. To say that Sirénes was written to encapsulate the sea only is to say that water was made only to be drunk; incomplete, insubstantial, a fractal piece of a greater whole. A creature like Sirénes could not rest at the lap of a god that did not breathe. Debussy had written it for him, and he had fashioned it for her.He'd taken her once, to hear the Philharmonics play, in a concert hall that was dark and quiet and airily cold. She remembers the top-box still, the warmth of the air, the roasted smell of coffee, the way her father pointed out each of the instruments propped up on stage.And how, when the music began, she forgot all else. How the music floated out of the orchestra’s instruments, floated languidly in the air around them the way glowing ostracods drift in dark water, singing of the sea and of the sirens that wept in her waters. But it wasn’t the percussion or the strings or the woodwinds that charmed her so. It was the choir, the women in the gowns that frothed around their bodies the way the sea worshipped the shore, standing tall in the centre of the stage, swaying gently as their voices rose higher and higher into a crescendo so powerful it hurt to breathe. Sirens. These were the witches after whom this piece was christened, these vassals of monstrous harmony.She remembered turning to her father to voice her awe, only to find his attention already on her, a soft, mesmerized smile pulling at the stretch of his lips.“Make me a melody,” he’d winked. And her heart had stopped when he did.This was what he’d say to his every muse, his greatest inspirations. A whisper, so soft even the wind would strain to hear it, his way of dedication. Make me a melody. This one’s for you.Sorensi’s Sirénes was born many months later, and on her father’s piano, played by his fingers, its beauty was magnanimous. Powerful, ethereal, it was every turmoil in the waters of the sea, every alien thought that festered unbidden in the folds of the human mind. L’appel du vide. His love for her.His death had been devastating, a stab to the heart that bled and bled, that no known force was powerful enough to clot. At the funeral, they’d played a collection of his original compositions, Atlanta, Pearl of Anadyomene, all beautiful, born from his mind and his fingers alone. His magnum opus, the clergyman had said, to which all in attendance nodded tearfully. They were foolish, the whole lot of them, settling for flowers when there were diamonds deeper in the soil. Sirénes. There had been no Danylo Sorensi before it.Everything was meaningless. The sympathies that puddled where hatred once bled, the masses of mourners at his flower-laden grave, the murmured condolences, the too-long embraces. She couldn’t even bring herself to attend the concert the London Philharmonics held to pay him tribute. For where was the point? In her world, it had only been the two of them-father and daughter-and now that he was gone, it moved no longer.The family had insisted that she come. She couldn’t betray him so. That was his music they were parroting, she’d yelled at her mother. And the wounds were fresh still.Memory was crueller, doing as much damage as it did repair. Her father, crooning gently with the nightingale in its gilded cage. Her father, sitting in his favourite armchair by the fire, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers in time to some then-embryonic music, while she sat at his feet, chattering the way all daughters did. Her father at the piano, a fledgling Danylo Sorensi, playing Sirénes for her after supper. His piece-his piece. For her. Whom she had refused when he begged she do the same, who had wished to hear the music of his life before he passed. Her father, who was spared her shameful mediocrity in the hours before his death. Her father, her refusal of whom has haunted her ever since.For the longest time, she’d believed she’d died with him. That two hearts had been lowered into the earth that inclement morning, not one. Time did not move forward; a single hour, droning on, the unfaltering scream of a piano key subducted under the weight of a lifeless finger.When her daughter was born, she came into this world quietly. Looking at her, small, frail, and irreligiously red, tucked in her arms, only then did she hear the ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. Only then had she felt alive.This child had saved her, she decided. She could love her. She would love her.And she did. Raised her quietly, away from her father’s circle of artists and prodigies and vassals of unfathomable talent. Until that afternoon, when she stumbled back home from an outrageous grocery expedition, when she heard the ghost of Danylo Sorensi playing up in the attic. She remembers it all so well…how she dropped the packet of eggs and tripped up the staircase, how she burst through the door, mascara running down her cheeks. How the room smelled of citrus and wood polish and must, how the dust flashed brilliantly under the sun’s mellow gaze before vanishing entirely, so much like her father. How Yulia looked up from the piano, grinning as toothily as the gaps in her gums would allow her, and holding out her arms to her mother. Just like Papa did.It wasn’t even proper; a five-year-old child fiddling with the keys of a too-large piano, producing sound too cantankerous to be called music. But the smile she was smiling, the laugh she was laughing, none of that was hers. It was Danylo’s.The piano had breathed beneath her fingertips-it had sung. No longer was its music a product of string vibrations and wooden amplifications, it was a live voice, escaping from a throat of flesh and blood. All beneath the weight of her fingers. Her gaze dropped to Yulia’s fingers, stubby, chubby, and crooked nailed from her terrible habit of biting them. And she pictured them, dancing on the keys of a pearly-toothed piano, singing to her a song of the sea and all her children.“Make me a melody.” That was what he’d begged her, time and again, before he passed. She’d been too ashamed to answer, too disgusted by her own inferiority to fulfil his dying wish. She could do that now. Through Yulia, her life would be salvaged.It was difficult persuading Fedir to take on her family name, but he surrendered not soon after. Yulia Ivanko had died, the supernova necessary for Yulia Sorensi’s star to be born.After that, it was simply time for her to make art. The life cycle of a butterfly is, as is everything in theory, a simple process, but to replace the caterpillar with a classical prodigy, and the chrysalis with a virtuoso, such was a transition that required meticulous approach.Hours bled into days and days bled into months and the months bled into years as she kept Yulia hunched over a piano, be it in a concert hall competing for the nationals, a fancier opera house for those nail-biting international events, or the freshly polished upright piano in their own house, which had been moved from the attic to the guest bedroom for her ease.Others would call her a monster, call her love brutality. But Yulia was just as much to blame. It was she who had damned herself to this life of virtuosity the minute she was discovered with the piano. And if this was Hell, and she a Dante drowning deeper in its waters, did that make her Virgil? A Virgil with no wisdom to offer, no protection to give. How does Dante survive the waters if his Virgil is the storm?Chopin, Liszt, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Stravinsky, these were all introduced to her as if they were commands to be entered into a copier for it to replicate. And, like a machine, Yulia would produce them, with the technical precision of a surgical laser, sharp and with a finesse foreign even to the sculptors of Old Greece.She couldn’t bear to hear her father’s own compositions-it wasn’t yet time-but Sirénes would croon to her in every breathing moment, its phantom sea-spray peppering illusionary kisses on her skin, its sweeping waves tossing calamitously behind the lids of her eyes.“Make me a melody,” the sea would whisper.So, the scorebooks were retrieved. And Yulia awakened.And yet, every time Yulia played it, something would be lacking. It was as if two spirits were fighting within the wispy frame of her body, Danylo’s and her own. Fighting over a piece that belonged to one as much as it did the other.Last night replays in her head, so vividly it feels as if it is unfolding before her live on a screen. Yulia, done with playing Liszt’s Piano Concerto No. 1 for the umpteenth time, slumping in her seat. Herself, standing by her, hand on the keys.“Take a break,” she had said.Yulia’s eyes had snapped up, cold steel, the glare of a winter sky.“What will you have?”The mistake comes next-so obvious it is in hindsight, and still so easy to miss in the moment. Mistakes, regret, and opportunity, the mistresses that governed her life. What did they have in common?“Sirénes.” She pictures Yulia still-again, the memory so lifelike she reaches out to stop her. Her fingers graze coarse cloth.In her memory, Yulia plays. Her fingers falling on the keys with the polyphonic harmony of rain, her movements airy, genteel. Her jaw set, gaze arctic as she dances over the piano.Olena frowns. It is Sirénes, just as Olena knows it, but at the same time it is something else entirely. The tempo still quick, but now it’s clunky, each key struck with a maddened urgency. The crescendo still powerful but broiling with an unchecked rage. No longer a choir of sirens, of fantasy brought to life, no longer a confession from the angels to their god. No, it is an onslaught of wolves, howling at a blood-red moon, maws snapping at a wind that tears through their bodies like shards of jagged glass.This was her father’s love for her. What it had been since she let him die, depriving of the very thing that made him him. This bleeding, violent thing-this was no love at all. It was cataclysm. It was hatred. His hatred. For her. No. She remembers the world spinning, the piano howling. And, somewhere in the distance, she remembers the faint croak of Danylo pleading to hear her play.“Play for me. Olena. Please.”“Make me a melody.”Her arm had moved on its own. Cut through the air like a rapier, met Yulia’s cheek with a sharp smack! Olena’s eyes widened. She’d stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly, trembling uncontrollably. Yulia remained hunched over, face turned, fingers digging into the wood of the stool the way roots dig into soil. An apology burned in her throat. But words couldn’t save them now.“Weeks I have spent on you,” she had seethed instead, “years I have toiled with you, and this is what I get. A girl with no musicality. A girl with no gift.”Lies, of course. All of them. Before Yulia, she had never known a song so beautiful could invoke such terror.The answer was simple; Mistakes and opportunity, she never saw them till they were gone. She’d fled the room not long after, sought shelter at some no-name bar with a whiskey she did not care for.One thing was clear. Yulia did not love the piano. She would love it in her stead. Yulia did not care for their legacy or the weight of her name. She would bear it in her stead. For that, she reasoned, was her way-the only way-to love her the way she should. To honour her father the way she should. To apologize, to repent, to be saved.They stand now, in front of the painting,  the taste of sea foam and salt on their tongues. She wonders what Yulia sees as she stares at it. As her eyes drink in the strokes of acrylic blues and greens and greys, as her fingers trace over roughened waves of hardened paint, what does she hear? Does she hear the call of the sea’s fanged, mourning daughters; do they hum and croon and wail out for her fingers to etch their voices into the notes that reverberated in her blood? Does the mist pluming around the canvas come to her in the visage of a god? Does she see her grandfather at all, the one who put all that weight behind a name that had once been just a name?“Miss Sorensi.”The concert manager, a youngish girl with a squeaky, trembling voice, rouses them from their trance.“You’re up.”Yulia nods stiffly, then turns to face her mother. And when Olena looks into those eyes, she has the answers to her musings.Soulless. Like her music. Nothing to live for, nothing to raze with. The fire that had burned in them when she’d defiled Sirénes snuffed out entirely, no cinders, no embers. Only smoke, and that, too, dispersed by a phantom wind. I made this, Olena thinks. And now it’s too late for her to be anything else.Yulia Sorensi is nothing but a machine. Waiting to be switched on. For her mother’s soul to enter the cavity in her ribs. For her love for the piano to seep into her skin. A dormant terror, waiting to be brought to life.
","July 28, 2023 13:21","[[{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Beautifully written. I had a bit of a job sorting out who was who though. ""Olena learned two things that day: First, that there was nothing she could do that could make her father love her any less."" Olena is the Mum and Yulia the daughter. In the quoted sentence it could be that Olena is the \'she\'.(Yulia? Olena?) It reads ambiguously. The quote below, the use of \'cantankerous\' which is about a difficult child. Did you mean cacophonous? This is describing discordant sound. It puts a lot of pressure on children, expecting them to excel like a...', 'time': '03:44 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ayesha Ahmed': 'Oof! I did try my best to make the two as easily distinguishable as possible. And yes, that is Olena in the sentence you\'ve quoted. As for cantankerous, I did use the word intentionally. I wanted to capture how very young children don\'t really play instruments with the carefulness an older one would; with the piano, they\'re often just slamming fingers onto key after key, producing very loud, very angry and very discordant ""music"". I mean, I was an absolute beast with my first toy guitar (to the point where I\'m surprised the strings never sna...', 'time': '06:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thank you for your comments as well. Yes, I understand why you used the word. It fits well in the context which is why it was a query only. I can imagine a child doing this to a toy guitar. I guess you never took up playing the guitar. I gather that English is your second language?\ncarefulness - care\nAll the best.', 'time': '22:16 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ayesha Ahmed': ""I did actually end up getting a proper one in high school, and have some lessons lined up. Still very much a beginner. And yeah, English isn't my native language-curious to know what gave that away."", 'time': '06:35 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Carefulness instead of care.  English has words which are irregular or have a variety of endings and forms which don't always follow a set pattern. It is easy to get them wrong.\nAlso (She swears it's an accident) You typed this in present when what you are writing about is in the past. ('was an absolute beast', Passive 'was' is visualized in the past) English has 12 tenses if you are learning it. (Very confusing) Many languages have consistent end changes for the tenses and there are few tenses. Somehow, native speakers of English are natura..."", 'time': '23:07 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ayesha Ahmed': 'Oof! I did try my best to make the two as easily distinguishable as possible. And yes, that is Olena in the sentence you\'ve quoted. As for cantankerous, I did use the word intentionally. I wanted to capture how very young children don\'t really play instruments with the carefulness an older one would; with the piano, they\'re often just slamming fingers onto key after key, producing very loud, very angry and very discordant ""music"". I mean, I was an absolute beast with my first toy guitar (to the point where I\'m surprised the strings never sna...', 'time': '06:49 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thank you for your comments as well. Yes, I understand why you used the word. It fits well in the context which is why it was a query only. I can imagine a child doing this to a toy guitar. I guess you never took up playing the guitar. I gather that English is your second language?\ncarefulness - care\nAll the best.', 'time': '22:16 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ayesha Ahmed': ""I did actually end up getting a proper one in high school, and have some lessons lined up. Still very much a beginner. And yeah, English isn't my native language-curious to know what gave that away."", 'time': '06:35 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Carefulness instead of care.  English has words which are irregular or have a variety of endings and forms which don't always follow a set pattern. It is easy to get them wrong.\nAlso (She swears it's an accident) You typed this in present when what you are writing about is in the past. ('was an absolute beast', Passive 'was' is visualized in the past) English has 12 tenses if you are learning it. (Very confusing) Many languages have consistent end changes for the tenses and there are few tenses. Somehow, native speakers of English are natura..."", 'time': '23:07 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Thank you for your comments as well. Yes, I understand why you used the word. It fits well in the context which is why it was a query only. I can imagine a child doing this to a toy guitar. I guess you never took up playing the guitar. I gather that English is your second language?\ncarefulness - care\nAll the best.', 'time': '22:16 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ayesha Ahmed': ""I did actually end up getting a proper one in high school, and have some lessons lined up. Still very much a beginner. And yeah, English isn't my native language-curious to know what gave that away."", 'time': '06:35 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Carefulness instead of care.  English has words which are irregular or have a variety of endings and forms which don't always follow a set pattern. It is easy to get them wrong.\nAlso (She swears it's an accident) You typed this in present when what you are writing about is in the past. ('was an absolute beast', Passive 'was' is visualized in the past) English has 12 tenses if you are learning it. (Very confusing) Many languages have consistent end changes for the tenses and there are few tenses. Somehow, native speakers of English are natura..."", 'time': '23:07 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ayesha Ahmed': ""I did actually end up getting a proper one in high school, and have some lessons lined up. Still very much a beginner. And yeah, English isn't my native language-curious to know what gave that away."", 'time': '06:35 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Carefulness instead of care.  English has words which are irregular or have a variety of endings and forms which don't always follow a set pattern. It is easy to get them wrong.\nAlso (She swears it's an accident) You typed this in present when what you are writing about is in the past. ('was an absolute beast', Passive 'was' is visualized in the past) English has 12 tenses if you are learning it. (Very confusing) Many languages have consistent end changes for the tenses and there are few tenses. Somehow, native speakers of English are natura..."", 'time': '23:07 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Carefulness instead of care.  English has words which are irregular or have a variety of endings and forms which don't always follow a set pattern. It is easy to get them wrong.\nAlso (She swears it's an accident) You typed this in present when what you are writing about is in the past. ('was an absolute beast', Passive 'was' is visualized in the past) English has 12 tenses if you are learning it. (Very confusing) Many languages have consistent end changes for the tenses and there are few tenses. Somehow, native speakers of English are natura..."", 'time': '23:07 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emilie Ocean': 'Hi Ayesha! Beautiful story. Your writing style produces vivid descriptions that kept me on the edge of my seat. I.e. ""It wasn’t even proper; a five-year-old child fiddling with the keys of a too-large piano, producing sound too cantankerous to be called music."" I read this with a smile :) Thank you for taking the time to write Sirénes x', 'time': '16:59 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ayesha Ahmed': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '08:57 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ayesha Ahmed': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '08:57 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,tc0u6e,Across the Cove,Taylor Petska,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tc0u6e/,/short-story/tc0u6e/,Character,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],6 likes,"
Fear has always been too close a friend. Always lingering, gripping my hand tightly, whispering into my ear.
 
But there are moments in time where I must shove Fear away and make room for more welcomed friends--Inspiration and Courage.
 
And here is the moment.
Because across the cove, a party is happening.
 
I park my car as I always do and quickly step out into the early evening breeze. Instantly, a wave of noise crashes into me–one that sends my head turning and my eyes focused on the scene I have stumbled upon happening across the cove.
 
I knew I wanted to document this moment in time, for my memory often fails me and I lack the ability to conjure up the image again in my mind. I think of old memories with beloved friends--small moments shared with coworkers, summer evenings spent on the lake with your closest friends, a morning spent in the sun at the brand new coffee shop down the street...
I think back on these moments, and remorse feels heavy in my mind, knowing that I did not take the time to scribble the sights, sounds, scents, and feelings of these impeccable memories.
 
I knew this time would be different for me. I call myself a writer, but how can I truly be one if I never put my words to practice. How can I be one if I never attempt to remember--to jot down scenarios that are worth reading?
 
There he is again, Fear. Hovering in the corner, brooding. Snatching my words from the air, claiming them, convincing me I am not one to write stories.
 
I wish I could describe it and do it justice, but there are oftentimes when words alone do not suffice. But rather than try to come up with the perfect string of phrases to give your mind an image, I will tell you how I felt the instant I stepped out of my car.
I felt like I left my own world for a moment and stepped onto the set of a movie. I felt like I was twelve years old again, and I was sitting on the couch on a rainy Sunday with my mom as we started yet another rewatch of “Steel Magnolias” or “Father of the Bride.” I felt every warm and soft feeling that I have held deep within me rise to the surface–I felt them all rush to my heart and hold it there, comforting it, and I froze in time for a moment to appreciate what was happening.
 
As I hold my journal and pen tightly, I let Fear leave from where he is sulking and I watch as he flies away with the geese gliding over the lake. I let Courage and Inspiration take his place as I write the scenery from my dark green, rusty porch swing.
 
Across the cove, there are rows of white chairs overlooking a glimmering lake. Twinkling string lights are wrapped around tree trunks and dangling between limbs. They hang lazily with a slight droop–one that is orchestrated just right to match the row it is closest to.
 
There are backyard games. I hear the smack of a bag against wood, marking the sound of corn hole. I hear a symphony of voices gliding across the water and singing along with the breeze–a whisper that reaches all the way to my side of the cove. The sound is made up of every voice and age. The underlying drone of adult chatter with the occasional child’s voice that interjects through the crowd with a loud, high-pitched, “woah!” “mom!” “ha!” 
 
There is laughter. An abundance of laughter. I hear the booming laugh of an older gentleman that reminds me of my grandpa. I hear the youthful chuckle of a younger man that reminds me of my uncles. I hear a child’s laugh–one that reaches my ears a little louder than the rest. And as I sit outside my home, I feel nostalgic. I feel reminded of my family. I think of moments spent at my grandparents' house on the lake, of the backyard games my brothers and I used to play. I think of loud conversations at the dinner table, accompanied by the steam of hot soup on a cold, winter night. I think of snuggling on the couch as we all watch one of our favorite movies, of the warmth of the fire. I feel a swell of emotions rising up inside of me–starting from deep within my chest and ending at the smile that can’t help but stretch across my face. And that is when I know for certain that Courage has taken Fear's place. 
 
They are celebrating something. It could be anything. It could be a marriage, a retirement party, an engagement party, a birthday party. Whatever it is, it is joyous. I wish I could run across the cove and join them, or tell them to never cease celebrating. The scene looks too good to be true, too perfect to be real–it looks like one I’ve only ever seen through a screen, but now it is happening right in front of me. 
 
I love the sound of people celebrating, of people enjoying each other’s company, of children playing alongside one another.
It is the perfect evening for a party. It’s July, but there is a fall breeze in the air tonight. I hear the cicadas and crickets and frogs and birds. A sporadic glimmer of a firefly accompanies the yellow, soft string lights the party wears. The evening is simply perfect.
I feel odd admiring such a scene from a distance, but my heart feels full with happiness and gratitude. Happiness that these strangers across the cove captured the most beautiful, unforgettable moment; and gratitude that I get to experience a rare, second-hand type of joy from witnessing their jubilation all the way across the cove.
 
I hope they keep celebrating and laughing. I hope we all do. I hope we all find time to stop and capture beautiful moments–moments that make us feel like we’re in a movie, moments that make us feel like we’re really living rather than existing. 
 
Fear is too close a friend for all of us. I hope we learn to keep Inspiration and Courage close by-- that we all continue to find time and moments and occasions and most of all, people, that are so worth celebrating. 
 
 
","July 28, 2023 20:55","[[{'Harmonious Pierce': 'Taylor,\n\nThe imagery is detailed and imaginative. The plot was difficult to follow.\n\nGood luck in the contest!\n\n-H.M.Pierce', 'time': '15:04 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you! I had a hard time getting this plot to feel right, but I thought I would submit it anyway just to get my writing out there. Thank you for your comment!', 'time': '21:08 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you! I had a hard time getting this plot to feel right, but I thought I would submit it anyway just to get my writing out there. Thank you for your comment!', 'time': '21:08 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Such a relatable story for us writers starting out. I’m glad to see you found courage, and finally silenced that fear too.  It takes some of us far too long to get there, and sadly, many never get there. I hope you keep on writing! :)', 'time': '16:25 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '21:09 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Taylor Petska': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '21:09 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,3wvtsz,The Piano,Maggie Holman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3wvtsz/,/short-story/3wvtsz/,Character,0,['Teens & Young Adult'],6 likes,"
Just as twilight was turning to dark night, Catherine quietly slid open her bedroom window and climbed out onto the flat roof of the first-floor extension. She crept along the edge, to keep her weight on the strongest point, and then jumped down and landed neatly on the lawn. Her escape was accompanied by the faint sound of piano music coming from the open living room window. She could picture the scene; her mother sitting tidily in her favourite armchair, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes closed, as she listened to recordings of Chopin, Brahms, Beethoven and Prokofiev. Her mother loved her piano music so much, and would now be so enraptured in their melodies, that Catherine’s escape would go unnoticed. 
	Behind the garden wall, in the quiet back street, her chauffer was waiting. Bad boy Deano, who was four years Catherine’s senior, was sitting in his car with his two bad boy friends, Barry and Jack. Catherine waved to them as she hurried across the street. When she opened the back door and jumped inside, Deano revved the engine loudly and they sped away. 
	“Hey, Cat. How’s it going?” Deano called over his shoulder.
	“Same as ever, D. Same as ever.”
	“Well, the night’s young and now you can relax,” said Barry. “We found a new place to try out. Here, have a beer.”
	Catherine accepted the offered can and took a swig. The beer was warm and she felt it travel slowly through her. She leaned back, closed her eyes and felt the rhythm of the car as it drove through the night. Eventually, they arrived at a rundown neighbourhood, full of boarded-up houses and derelict, empty shops. Deano parked in front of one particular house. It was a large family house, made of stone, something which belonged to a previous time and place, with two bay windows on either side of a grand front door. The glass of the windows was long gone, and the front door had followed close behind, so that now, in the darkness, the house front looked like an ominous inviting face. The four friends jumped out of the car and went inside.         
	Using the torches from their mobile phones, they explored the empty space. The walls were covered in spraypainted graffiti. Broken glass crackled and splintered underfoot as they headed upstairs. Here they found four bedrooms, with broken bed frames and rancid mattresses. The bathroom had been stripped of its copper piping so that it no longer functioned, and the toilet, sink and bath lay smashed into pieces. Downstairs, a kitchen at the back had been emptied of its white goods. A first reception room contained a lonely sofa, old and torn. In a second room, they discovered a table and some chairs, and in the corner stood an upright piano. Everything, everywhere, was covered in a thick layer of dust. 
	Deano sat down at the table, stood his phone upright to use the torch as a light, and took his tobacco tin from his pocket. He threw the car keys to the other two boys, who disappeared and returned with more beer, while he made up a smoke which contained something more than tobacco. A few minutes later, they were all in chill mode, laughing and chatting, enjoying a moment together, comfortable here even though the space around them was hostile and stark. 
	In the early hours, Barry and Jack were asleep on the sofa. Deano and Catherine sat in silence. There was no need for talk. This was the best time; stress free, silent, cocooned in a bond of friendship which was held together by a mutual respect for each other and an absence of demands and expectations. They lived in the moment, just enjoying the hanging out together. During these bad boy nights, Catherine could be herself, for herself, leave all the trappings and traps behind, safe in the care of this strange group of knights in shining armour. 
	Suddenly Catherine got up and walked over to the piano. She pulled up a chair, brushed the dust away from the keys, spread her hands and began to play. The piano was in poor shape. It tinkled and pinged out of tune. Some of the keys produced only a dull thud, but Catherine pressed on regardless. Suddenly she was lost in the moment. Her fingers moved across the keyboard, fluid and flowing, playing a slow, sad piece which moved up and down in an arpeggio wave. Deano turned towards her. Gradually, a sleepy Barry and Jack appeared in the doorway. Nobody spoke. They just listened. When Catherine finished, she sat in silence and stared at the keys.  
	“Wow,” said Barry. “I didn’t know you could play. You never said.”   
	“What was that?” said Deano.
	“Mozart. Fantasia in C Minor.”
	“You really rocked it, Cat,” said Jack. “I’m impressed.”
	Catherine turned to look at the bad boys. She didn't want to talk about her other life, how her mother was there at her shoulder all the time, watching, waiting, expecting. 
	“I should go home,” she said. 
	They drove back in silence. Deano dropped Catherine off in the back lane again. She waved once and walked round to the front door. Her mother lifted one of the curtains, dropped it again and then was waiting to let her in. On the door step, they paused and stared at each other. Catherine stank of beer, cigarettes and dust. Her mother said nothing, and stepped back to let her inside.
	They drank tea together in the living room. Quiet piano music still played softly in the background on the radio. Catherine looked around the room at her success, at the photos of her school concerts, at the framed piano exam certificates and the newspaper cuttings, at her trophies and medals.  
	“You still have to be up early to practice,” said her mother, matter-of-factly. “You know you can’t miss it, even if you…”
	Her voice trailed off. She sat in her armchair with her hands neatly folded on her lap.
    “I know,” said Catherine, and there was nothing else to say.          
","July 28, 2023 21:32","[[{'Kevin Logue': 'Welcome to Reedsy Maggie.\n\nThis piece has potential, I just wish there was more from the mother though to show her being the one living through her daughter. Perhaps a mention that her mother forced the piano on her as she never made it big herself, or something of that matter.\n\nRegardless, your writing flows well and you set a scene nicely.\n\nLooking forward to seeing what else you come up with.', 'time': '12:06 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Maggie Holman': 'Thank you for your like and comments, Kevin. Much appreciated.', 'time': '12:50 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Maggie Holman': 'Thank you for your like and comments, Kevin. Much appreciated.', 'time': '12:50 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,zs2ib1,Eight Seconds of Revelations,Larry Litton,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zs2ib1/,/short-story/zs2ib1/,Character,0,"['Western', 'Adventure', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
“Do I have to do it?” Myles asks his father as they walk towards the arena, their spurs clink on the hard caliche leaving little clouds of dust in their wake.
 
“You ain’t got to do anything,” his father says. “Walk away now if you want. But there may come a day you’ll wonder ‘what if’.”
 
The west Texas sun begins to set and bloodred clouds reef out into the western horizon. An owl screeches from a nearby oak and it flies into the air with great wings silhouetted against the reddening sky and lightning flashes from distant black storm clouds set against the crimsoned sun like a scene from the apocalypse.  As they walk, Myles watches the sky slowly transform into a darkening violet that spreads like a bruise and he begins to mouth the lord’s prayer.
 
They come to a small paddock where a dozen horses mill about. A young vaquero is cleaning stalls and he sees Myles and his father and he nods.
 
“You remember your first time?” Myles asks.
 
“I do,” his father says. “I was probably more scared than you are. I was sixteen years old, just like you.”
 
“Did you make it eight?”
 
“No,” his father says. “I don’t think my father or even his father before him ever made it eight on their first ride.”
 
They turn near the stables and walk down a short path lined with dozens of round bails of hay and the smell is sweet and earthy.  A large, gray barn cat lies in the path licking his paws. Myles’ father stops and nudges the cat with his boot and when he does his right knee buckles and the man collapses to the ground, breaking his fall with his right arm.
 
“Goddammed leg,” he says. “I hate this thing.”
 
Myles kneels beside him, and he can see his father’s prosthetic leg is twisted at an odd angle, its straps had worked loose. He helps his father roll up his pant leg and reattach the straps that straighten the leg out. Then he helps him back to his feet.
 
“You ok?” Myles asks.
 
“Yeah,” his father says. “I’ll be even better after watching you ride.”
 
“You really want me to do this?”
 
“You were born for this,” his father says. “You’ll see.”
 
Myles nods and looks down at his boots.
 
His father brushes the dirt and dust from his jeans and they continue to walk down the path that leads to the arena. They come upon an old, abandoned barn made of cedar that has weathered into a sooty gray color, the gables are caved in places and the roof is threatening to fall at any moment. 
 
“That’s where we kept the bulls when I was your age,” his dad says. “My first one was named Rancid. He was about the biggest Plummer you ever saw. Seventeen hundred pounds of the rankest beast God ever created.”
 
They turn left by the barn and come to the arena that’s about a quarter the size of a football field. Half a dozen ranch hands sit atop a wood fence, with their hats low on their brows. Five of them are young men, lean and fit with hands as tough and weathered as rawhide.  One of them is older, about sixty with thick mustaches but as fit looking as the young bucks.  The lights are already on, lighting the dirt field arena so that it’s as bright as day. The hands jump off the fence when they see Myles and his father walking up. The older man’s name is Mitch. He is tall and bow legged and he walks towards them. He wears leather chaps over his jeans and his stride is like that of a warrior with his shoulders back and upright as if ready to go into battle. He wears a black hat that is stained with the toils of his work and he smiles as he reaches them.
He extends his hand to shake with Myles Father.
 
“Good to see ya Hank,” Mitch says. He then turns to Myles.
“You ready for this?” He says to the boy.
 
The boy nods nervously. Mitch looks at the boy’s father, eyebrow raised.
 
“He’s ready,” his father says. “You’ve seen how he handles those broncs. He’s ready to go.”
 
Myles eyes say something different.
 
They walk over to the gate leading to the chute where the bull will be let in from the pen. Two of the hands head over the pen where the bull is waiting. It’s a giant Charbray, his coat is a malicious combination of gray and black and he looks like he could be a guardian of hell itself. The bull stares at the boy, his eyes as black as coal. He lowers his head and charges the gate, ramming his head into the metal. Myles jumps back.
 
“Is that the bull I’m riding?”
 
“It is,” Mitch says. “His name is Revelation.”
 
“Like the bible?”
 
“The one and the same,” Mitch says. “I guess you can figure why he’s got that name.”
 
Myles eyes widen and his mouth falls open and again Mitch looks towards the boy’s father with an eyebrow raised. Hank ignores him.
Mitch looks at the boy. 
 
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Mitch asks. “This ain’t no bronc.”
“I told ya he’s ready,” Hank says. “I’m willing to bet he’ll make it eight too.  He’s got way more talent than I ever had.”
 
One of the ranch hands rolls a barrel into the arena while two others open a series of chutes to guide the bull into the main chute and gate where Myles will get onto the bull.  The Chute is barely big enough to contain the bull which limits the range of his bucking and thrashing in the confined space. Three hands work on attaching the bull rope and another attaches the flank strap. Revelation starts raising hell when the strap is attached and he’s banging the sides of the chute trying to squeeze his way out.
 
“You got this,” Hank says to Myles. “You got more talent than your Granddad or I ever had. Use your legs like I showed ya and you’ll be fine.”
Myles nods and gulps and Mitch calls him over to the main chute. 
 
“You sure about this?” Mitch asks in a whisper. “I’ll back your old man off if you want.”
 
“He’d fire you,” Myles says. “I think he’d disown me if I back out.”
 
One of the other ranch hands brings over a pair of chaps and helps Myles tie the straps and Myles climbs up the fence. Hank hands him a riding glove and Myles puts in on his left hand and he tries to slow his breath down. He can smell Revelation, a combination of musky sweat and heat mixed with the manure smell of the arena. He throws his right leg over the bull’s back and settles into the middle of the giant beast and he can feel his immense strength as Revelation’s muscles contort as he tries to buck and in the confines of the chute. He puts his gloved hand under the bull rope and the ranch hands wrap it tight and Revelation bucks again, slamming against the side of the chute. Mitch slaps the bull on the ass to move him off the side of the gate.
 
“I need you to nod your head when you’re ready,” Mitch says. “When you do that, we’ll open the gate.”
 
Two other cowboys have come into the arena on horseback. They’ll help Myles when he comes off and also help distract the bull and round him up when the ride is finished. Myles shifts from his perch on the bull and he presses his knees hard into the bull’s back. He closes his eyes, and he prays.
 
Mitch is beginning to think the boy is going to back out when he finally nods.
 
One of the ranch hands holds a rope and he pulls the gate open and Revelation flies like a shot out of the gate and Myles is immediately thrown back from the acceleration and he would have fallen within the first second had his knees not had a vice like grip on the beasts back. But as quickly as Revelation flew out the gate he stops and dips his massive head and Myles feels his body shifting forward and now he uses his hips and throws his shoulders back to maintain his center of gravity behind the bull’s shoulders and then Revelation  thrusts up with such power that the bull launches like a rocket into the air and Myle’s face nearly smashes the center of the bulls head but he manages to stay on. When the bull came back down, he starts to spin to the right while bucking and Myles anticipates the move and the centrifugal force is trying to push him to the left and he adjusts and then Revelation drops his head again and kicks out his rear legs and Myles can feel himself getting ready to fly up over the bulls head but again he manages to lean back just enough to counteract the forces while maintaining his perch on the center of the bull.
 
Revelation is angry and his bucking intensifies and now he spins to the left and Myles uses his free hand to balance himself but he’s in a rhythm now and to the amazement of the cowboys watching Myles looks like he’s in complete control.  But Revelation has one final trick. In the midst of a spin to the right the bull rears back on his hind legs then drops his head nearly to the ground while kicking straight up into the air and Myles butt actually comes up several inches from the bulls back and Myles is staring down at the ground and the only thing keeping his on is the grip from his knees but he holds on for dear life as the bull comes back down and somewhere in the back ground he hears a commotion from the cowboys watching and they’re clapping and the horsemen come to help him off the bull. He’s made it eight seconds. He dismounts with no problem and one of the riders is able to untie the flank strap and the bull immediately calms down and the riders guide him out of the arena.
 
Hank comes into the arena and he’s smiling and laughing and he grabs his son and embraces him in a huge hug.
 
“I knew you could do it,” Hank says. “I’m so proud of you. That was amazing.”
 
Myles says nothing.  He dusts himself off. All the other cowboys come into the arena and they’re high fiving each other and shaking Myles hand. Mitch approaches Hank while Myles is being congratulated.
 
“That was some kind of ride,” Mitch says. “But he don’t look too happy about it.”
 
Myles is silent while the other cowboys pat him on the back and his face is a blank.
 
“He’s just in shock he stayed on,” Hank says.
 
“You sure he was mentally ready for all that?” Mitch asked.
 
Hank grimaces.
 
“You should mind your own business,” Hank says, turning away from Mitch and walking towards Myles. The cowboys meander their way out of the arena leaving Hank and Myles alone.
 
“What’s the matter?” his father asks. “That ride would have won the national PBR last year.”
 
Myle’s just stares at his father and he has a little tear in the corner of his eye. Without saying a word, he turns and walks out of the arena.
","July 28, 2023 22:53","[[{'David Sweet': 'This story had a lot of great detail and rhe dialogue was very natural. Thanks for sharing. Good luck with all of your writing endeavors.', 'time': '03:39 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Larry Litton': 'David - thank you so much for the comment and feedback.  I really appreciate that:', 'time': '03:52 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Larry Litton': 'David - thank you so much for the comment and feedback.  I really appreciate that:', 'time': '03:52 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,1g0ujm,Red flows in both,Graham Lee,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1g0ujm/,/short-story/1g0ujm/,Character,0,"['Asian American', 'East Asian', 'Sad']",5 likes,"
Once there was a daughter of a mother and a mother of a daughter. 
As the daughter I was taught the same as she was. To live for my parents as my actions bear bigger consequences for them. To listen to her advice to become a proper woman, and to perform for the world to see and praise my mother for it.
One day my mother came home to my self-bleached hair. She hollered and yelled at me with the fury of desperation. By bleaching my hair I had just washed away all of her teachings and her worth. I did not understand at the time. I started crying for I was a child with no other goal than to impress and be loved by my mother.
Now I realize. Now I know what she meant exactly.
A stain on my grades, my achievements, and my appearance is a stain on her worth and value as a woman, a wife, and a mother. My body and self were an extension of hers and not fully mine. 
But she too was a daughter once. She too was a child who had ambitions and goals
All of her goals her ambitions were stunted for an unlabeled amount of time. Stuck in a purgatory of waiting. When will her life return?
What does my mother have after years of no work history, no personal life, or social life? She sacrificed her life to give to me. To live through me. All she does is for me and therefore all I do should be for her. She did the same to her mother and the same for generations past. She too had her own life. 
A life she had thrown away for me.
A symbiotic merge of the past generations of mothers and daughters form to create me. Her life fades as mine is formed and she lives through me. 
I am more than just a daughter of a mother. I am more than her accomplishment in life. I am more than just a trophy to her self-worth. I have my own thoughts and ambitions that counter what she wanted. 
And to that, she is also more than just a mother of a daughter. She too has her own life and can continue them in her own way. She should be able to live and continue the life that she had as a daughter.
She doesn’t get to achieve them though and neither do I. The shackles of womanhood and the invisible boot that constricts our necks, ready to crush our life if we were to budge even a little bit do not let us. So I budge I twist and kick and bite. I thrash wildly attempting to free myself and the next generations. I fight for the justice of previous generations. My mother can not help as she has more than just a boot to her neck. She has cuffs of marriages tying her hands down and the apathy of age. She is shackled down with the same resentment of all the million mothers who had thrown their life away unwillingly, being forced to live through their daughters. 
Once there was a mother of a daughter and a daughter of a mother.
As the mother I taught her what my mother taught me, for that is all I know. I teach her how to be a proper woman like I have become. I see through her eyes and soak in pride when she succeeds in her goals for I never got to and will never get to. 
One day I came home to see my daughter with splotchy self-bleached hair. I think of what her classmates would say. What her teacher would say, her friend’s mothers, fathers, and her father. 
What would my mother say? If she saw my daughter grow up into this. To disrespect her hair, her body, and me. She disrespected me. I saw red. The same red I saw when my mother gave birth to me and when I gave birth to her. The same red as the blood that flows in her and me. 
A stain on her grades, her achievements, and her appearance is a stain on me. A stain on the sacrifice I made, my womanhood, and my sense of being a mother. My entire career and life that I threw away to give to her. What do I have? Now that I’ve sacrificed my career, personal life, social life, and my name, what do I have to me other than her? I have my name erased from the family line through marriage. I am forced to suffer through the ridicule and rudeness of men. Even then I am pulled out of my career to care for her. Pregnancy has ruined my body in more ways than just beauty. My bowel muscles have collapsed and I am no longer even seen as a woman now that menopause greets me. I am no longer a woman of my own, but a woman of a man. I no longer have the name of my family that raised me. I am no longer even seen as a woman, but I am seen as a mother. A mother of a daughter.
I am done sitting in a purgatory of waiting for something that will never return. To live through her is my life now. 
But deep down, even through all of my regrets and sorrow, I too know what it is like to be a daughter. To have my own dreams and ambitions, to have a goal in life other than to care and nurture. I too know she is more than just a daughter of a mother and that I can be more than just a mother of a daughter. I was once a daughter. I was once my own being. I try to have my own goals and ambitions just like then, but it is now of no use for the invisible force of man pushes women down to submit and follow. 
I too wish to thrash wildly and fight alongside my daughter. But I am forced down with my resentment and apathy of age. I can do nothing to help her for I have nothing to me other than her. I sit still to watch my daughter fight just like I have before as a daughter. I too have fought before and know that it is time to pass the baton. I sit to watch my daughter fight for the generations to come and for the justice of generations before. 
","July 28, 2023 16:04","[[{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '21:07 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ayesha Ahmed': ""Hi Graham. I was assigned your piece as part of the Critique circle. Very interesting portrayal of generational trauma and societal pressure. As a South Asian, this all hit very close to home. It's definitely a topic that should be spoken out on more."", 'time': '07:01 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Interesting read. Two stories, two points of view. The simple way out is to embrace the choices we make. We may feel resentful but mothers don't have to marry, don't have to have children, and in this day and age, do hold down jobs. Even choices made while young and silly are still our choices. (Like the one to not study hard at school, not stay long enough to learn something that leads to employment, and marry straight out of school.) Resentment is a choice. Men don't get away with oppressing women so much these days either. It's a sad cycl..."", 'time': '03:20 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,kxubls,The Right Person,Dexter Diamond,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kxubls/,/short-story/kxubls/,Character,0,"['American', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",5 likes,"
	Why was it so hard to find a house? Well, it wouldn’t have been—if it had been up to him. But his wife was impossible. She didn’t like any of the dozens of houses they had seen, or rather there was always something she disliked too much. If it was spacious, she found fault with the layout; if it had a lot of land around it, then it would be too costly to landscape; if it were old, or even somewhat old, then, of course, there were too many expensive renovations to be made; or the kitchen was too narrow, or the living room was too dark, or it didn’t have a deck, or it had a deck but the deck faced the wrong way.… The young husband, Paul, had begun to think that his wife, Amy, was sabotaging herself because she really didn’t want to leave their apartment, though she constantly complained about it, especially about the traffic noise coming from the six-lane highway before their building and the constant thumping footfalls from the neighbors upstairs. He was surprised therefore when one day he came home from work and she announced:	“I found it! I found our house!”It was so unexpected that wasn’t sure what to say, even whether or not to be pleased. He feared that he wouldn’t like what she had found, but he temporized his uncertainty with:	“Really? Where?”	“It’s in Westbury.”	“Amy, that’s far out,” he said, shaking his head and thinking about how much more it would add to his commute into New York City where he was a junior partner in a law firm.	“It’s only the next station on the Long Island Railroad. It wouldn’t be more than another ten or fifteen minutes for you… And oh, Paulie, I swear … it is so nice! Wait till you see it!”	He was tired after work and in no mood to ask too many questions or offer too many cautions. Instead he smiled and said he would be happy to take a look at it after dinner; he was just too hungry and tired right now. As they sat at the dinner table he listened to his wife tell him how she had found it online. It had not been listed previously; or rather, it had been, but the seller had taken it off the market for a while before putting it back on. She spoke with a sense of urgency as though she feared it would be taken off again.	“Oh, you have to see it! It’s perfect! And the price is right, Paulie”—she always called him that endearment when she wanted to speak affectionately to him.After he had eaten she actually took him by the hand into the second bedroom which was his office and sat down at the computer there and went to the real estate web site to show him the house she had found. He was not impressed by it; if anything, he was a little confused. It was not a new house—and she had always said she wanted a new house—and it looked a little uncared for, what with the creeping vines spreading over a third of the stone façade and the wooden poles of the front porch looking paint-chipped in placed. It had small front yard, a larger back one, and in both instances the landscaping had been remiss. Photos of the inside showed large rooms but without the spacious “open design” he preferred, the living and dining rooms and kitchen being separated by arched partitions of the sort which were common in domestic American architecture in the 1950s when the house had been built. Over the last year they plenty of more attractive places.	“That’s the house you like?’ he asked, skepticism in his voice.	“Are you kidding me? Look at it. It has … charm.”	“I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” he murmured.	“Oh, we have to look at it. You can’t tell from pictures. I’m sure in person it’ll even look better.”	“Well,” he said, shrugging and conceding, “I’ll go out to look at it of you want. Make the appointment.”	And so that Saturday afternoon they were sitting in the back seat of the car of the real estate agent who was handling the property. Her name was Louise, a woman in her mid-fifties, who, as she drove her would-be clients along the road which led to the property, chatted about what a wonderful neighborhood it was in, clean, safe, friendly, convenient, with shopping nearby and, for Paul’s sake, close to the train. She said she had sold three houses here in the last year. She would have sold more—a lot more—but people here were reluctant to sell. Even when they passed away they handed down their properties to their children or relatives, who in turn moved in rather than sold.	“So how come this house didn’t sell?” Paul asked.	Louise glanced up into the rearview mirror at the couple as she spoke. “It’s the owner. He’s doesn’t leave it on the market long enough. He wants to sell it—at least he says he does—but then he says he has to find the right person, and when he doesn’t, he takes it off the market.”	“That’s weird,” Paul said.	“I agree. But it’s his house, so he does what he wants. I guess he doesn’t need the money otherwise he would have sold it.”	“Who’s the right person?” Amy asked, laughing a little.	“Heck if I know!” the realtor said.	—At which Paul turned to Amy and said, not without some satisfaction, “He sounds like a nut. So don’t get your hopes up.”When they arrived at the property the owner, Mr. Fischer, was there to greet them. He was in his late eighties, smaller than average in size, with a surprisingly full head of white hair and a ruddy heavily creased face and pale blue eyes. If he was “eccentric,” there was nothing to give this way on first meeting him, for he seemed cheerful and normal enough. He politely greeted Paul and Amy, shaking their hands and thanking them for coming. True, he seemed to concentrate most of his attention on Amy—he nearly always directed his conversation toward her—but that was understandable in light of the fact that wives so often had the biggest say in purchasing a house.	He and realtor led the potential buyers inside the house. The walls were freshly painted white and the wooden floors had been sanded and polyurethaned to a high gloss. The blinds against the windows were raised and sunlight flooded through the crystal-clear windowpanes. Everything was marvelously clean. The young husband and wife were encouraged by the owner and real estate agent to help themselves—to walk around freely. They did so, going from room to room, their footsteps echoey in the barren rooms, their confidential voices mentioning things to each other. It was all as Paul had expected from the online photographs, neither exciting nor repelling him; he told himself that it could be made into a nice place with the right interior design and maybe a few renovations here and there; for instance, knocking down some of the interior dividing walls. His wife on the other hand was constantly surprised and pleased by what she saw. Sometimes she held onto his arm from sheer pleasure or excitement, entering or standing in the center of a room, even if it were small, even if there were nothing particularly interesting about it, and letting out a long low, “How niiiiiice ….”  Just beyond the living room was a back porch, and beyond it the back yard. They went outside to look at it. It extended for half an acre and was covered in grass grown long for want of cutting.  A few dandelion flowers spotted it with circlets of yellow. To one side two trees stood sixty feet tall, and at far end three white while poles rose about six feet high and not far from a fence made weathered wooden slats and which separated the property from the neighbor’s behind. They went back inside and checked out the basement, finding it large, clean, with a cement floor, and containing a washer and dryer, both in good condition. Paul commented positively that there was lots of room for storage or even to make a separate livable area down here.  They went back upstairs to reunite with the realtor and homeowner, and all four of them went out of the house. Amy assured Mr. Fischer that she and her husband were “very interested.”	“Mind if I talk to your wife for a moment?” Mr. Fischer asked Paul.	“Not at all,” he said. 	Mr. Fischer said to Amy, “Let’s take a walk round the back, shall we?”	It was only after he had agreed to the request that Paul that it was a little odd. Why did he want to talk to his wife when the decision would be made by both of them? Paul watched them walk off, the homeowner leading the way along a verge of grass beside the house.	“So you really like the place?” Mr. Fischer asked her. He had taken on a friendly, confidential demeanor and tone of voice.	“I like it a lot. I love it.”	This seemed to please him and he smiled and said, “Do you?”	“I really do. We’ve been looking for a whole year and we haven’t found anything we like as much. I mean, anything I like as much.”	“What about your husband? Does he like it?”	“Oh, he likes it well enough. He never really gets too enthusiastic about things. Besides, with a house it’s all about what you do with it, isn’t it?”	“Hm. I guess so.”	“Did you live here a long time?”	“Yes. But I haven’t lived here for four years now. I live in Farmingdale now, next to my son and his family. But my wife and me lived here a long time. We raised our family here. She passed away some years ago.”	“I’m sorry.”	“Thanks. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”	“Twenty-nine.”	“Hm. That’s a good age. No kids?”	“No, not yet. But we want to have kids. We will, one day. I like kids.”	He smiled at her and said, “That’s nice. Kids are nice.”They had come to the back of the house. A few feet away from back porch were a few pieces lawn furniture—two single chairs and a loveseat, made of wrought iron and painted white. Mr. Fischer nodded to them and suggested, “Let’s sit down for a minute,” and they sat on the loveseat.	Amy sat beside him and looked out on the yard with a sense of satisfaction. The day was indeed beautiful, and, here, blessedly quiet—so different, so much better, from the bustle and noise of the city. She momentarily turned her face up to the sun: it was warm, yet temperate; and, as sometimes happened to her, she thought how good it was to be alive. She returned her eyes to the yard and asked about the poles sticking up at the end of it. What were they?	“They’re for laundry lines. You can take them out if you don’t want ’em.”At that moment it occurred to her that would like nothing better than to be able to hang up clothes to dry—out in the freshening air, out in the sanitizing sunlight.	“So,” Mr. Fischer said, “let me look at you.”And look at her he did, his manner casual and his face expressionless, yet within a few seconds becoming serious, if not imperious. For he did not look at her face in its entirety but rather, and with determination, into her eyes, into and even somehow through them, as though plunging through the black openings of her pupils into some deep and personal part of her soul. It was uncalled for, it was impolite, and, frankly, it was rude and aggressive. She wondered how someone who had been so normal and pleasant for the last twenty minutes could suddenly act in a way which really amounted to a creepy assault. She remembered the realtor telling her that he was “eccentric”—well, here was the proof of that! And she didn’t like eccentric people, the less so when their eccentricity made them unpredictable. Yet politeness compelled her to refrain from expressing her displeasure, which did not however mean that she was going to let him get away with it: she thought of retaliating by staring back at him just as hard, just as rudely, so that he would feel uncomfortable. Her lips tensed as she prepared to do so, but just then he looked away from her, turning his eyes to ground before them. She wondered what he was thinking. It occurred to her that he had seen something about her that he did not like and which jeopardized her chance of buying the house.  She managed a kindly:	“Everything alright?”	And suddenly he was his old normal polite self, smiled at her, and said:	“Sure. So what do you like best about the place?”	“It’s just nice,” she said. “It feels like … home.”	He seemed to approve of that more than of anything else she had said. “Anything else you want to know about the place?”	“No, I don’t think so. I mean … everything’s working, right? The plumbing, the electricity … the roof doesn’t’ have any leaks or anything?”	“The roof is fine. Everything works. The house is fine.”	She knew he was telling her the truth, and it was reassuring.They looked out on the yard for only another few minutes before he got up, running his hands down the front his thighs as though his muscles were sore. She also rose and they walked back to the front of the house where her husband and the realtor were waiting. After a few more minutes of chatting, the realtor told Mr. Fischer that her clients liked the house and would probably make him an offer. He nodded expressionlessly, saying only, “Alright. Let me know.”In the car ride back to her office Paul and Amy let the realtor know that they wanted to buy the house and were amenable to paying the offering price, which after all was fair. The realtor of course was pleased. “I’ll let Mr. Fischer know,” she said. “We’ll see what he says.”	The next day she had good news for Paul and Amy. Mr. Fischer would sell! “You must have made a good impression on him!” she said.The young couple were thrilled, Amy to have the house, Paul because he would not be required to do any more looking. Two months later the deal had been closed and it was time to move in. Paul took off five days, which comprised a weekend, for the move. It was exciting and enjoyable for them to place their furniture in the new rooms—discussing where this or that should go—speculating on what to buy to fill in this or that space—considering colors for blinds, for drapes, for carpets, all of which would have to be bought. A whole month of weekends would be spent like this, but it hardly took that long for Amy to feel at home. Every morning for the first week she told her husband “I just love it here! Thank you!” And he was happy because she was happy.	She had restrung lines for the laundry on the poles in the back yard.  Except for rainy days she hung the washed clothes there to dry. One afternoon as she was doing so she looked over the low wooden fence to see her neighbors pull into their driveway. She had not met them yet. They got out of their car, saw her, waved to her, then approached and introduced themselves. They were Joe and Flora Daniels, both in their seventies, a sweet old couple. They welcomed Amy to the neighborhood. They chatted with her for a few minutes, saying how nice it was to know the house had finally sold, that it was no longer empty as it had been for so many years. Then Mrs. Daniels wondered about her hanging clothes to dry, asking, “Don’t you use a dryer?”	“Oh, I do. We have one that works fine. It’s just that it’s kind of nice to hang them outside: they smell so fresh when you bring them in.”	Mrs. Daniels smiled and nodded, in agreement. She said that Alice, Mr. Fischer’s wife, also liked to hang the clothes outside to dry.	“Did she?” Amy asked.	“She was a wonderful woman. She loved living here.”	“How long ago did she die?”	“Oh”—the old woman widened her eyes and shook her head as though it were so long ago that she herself could hardly remember. “A long time. At least thirty years now.”	“Ah,” Amy said, only, shaking her head in sympathy.	They chatted a few more minutes before the Daniels took their leave, saying they hoped to see Amy again soon, and meet her husband, and walked off, into their house.Amy continued hanging the clothes. Despite the autumnal chill in the air it was a beautiful day. When she had finished hanging the clothes she picked up the blue plastic laundry bin in which she had taken them outside but did not return to the house immediately. She raised her face to the sun, squinting against its brilliance, feeling its warmth on her face. It was good to be alive. When you were young, healthy, and everything was working out so well for you—it was good be alive. 
","July 28, 2023 16:42",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,7q5rpq,Lilee,Robin M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7q5rpq/,/short-story/7q5rpq/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational']",5 likes,"
God damn she really can pull off those gold aviator glasses. I mean, who do you know that can pull off blue light gold aviator glasses without looking, I don’t know, strange?! A bit out of place?
I have to admit, it’s pretty badass. Like, I kind of want to be her friend. Not necessarily to know all about her but to have her listen to me. Is that odd?
 
Lilee is often the quietest one in the room. They say those are the ones you should look out for. It’s the talkative ones that leave it all out there, but the quiet ones… they observe and speak with caution. 
She claims she’s still figuring it out, but every time she’s in a pinch, the universe swoops in and saves her. I guess now that I’m writing it out, I think the key to her overall brilliance is that she listens; and despite the gold aviator frames, she emits regal. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s her sense of style. Not that she’s incredibly chic, but she’s incredibly calculated, measured. 
 
We’ve worked together for two years and she keeps impeccable records of our files, her car always seems spotless, and even when her hair is a mess she is still put together. She’s just one of those women. Perhaps it’s her consistency and reputation that exceed her exterior qualities. I would like to sit in her brain for a minute, a week, or a month, instead of just wondering wondering wondering—was she built that way? Is it hereditary? How does that beautiful mind work? (Ok, I guess I do actually want to know all about her.)
 
Anyways, back to the universe swooping in and saving her. I’m not even sure if it’s fair to put it that way. Though, she’s definitely worked hard and been through it. Maybe it’s good karma, or maybe it’s her prayers? 
She says she listens to her inner guidance–her intuition. I want one of those.
 
Let me explain a little more. 
I don’t want what she has, but I want to grow like she has. Lilee loves things like natural light, so she’ll open the blinds in the morning to watch the sunrise. She takes her dog on hikes. She loves her friends. No, actually, she loves everyone. And she’s always sharing her food. 
 
Lilee is rich. Not monetarily, or maybe a little (a lot), but more than that she values the true luxuries of life. She enriches her time by imbuing it with magical things. 
Yes—those simple things are magical. 
And sometimes I wish it would be as easy for me. I hope one day my heart will be filled by the pure existence of natural light flowing through my office window. Did you know that our office manager allowed Lilee to bring her dog to work?!? Yes, our grumpy, irritable, cold-to-the-core manager (sorry if you’re reading this). And to be honest, I kind of want a dog now too.
 
Lilee is known to peel oranges and offer slices to everyone before eating one herself. She radiates happiness when she shares, and, clearly, I don’t know what it is but I find it hard not to stare. Sometimes I think she’s going through phases, but nope, she’s consistent with her giving. 
 
I heard she met a man who mirrored her soft soul. He loves the world as much as she does. I imagine them so delicate yet so…robust, enthusiastic, brilliant, resilient. How can I find that? Maybe I will. No, not maybe. I know I will. Lilee says that words cast spells so I’m trying to watch what I think and say because she must be right considering how she radiates each day. (I’m not trying to rhyme here, it’s just happening.)
 
Lilee is building her dream home by the ocean. I overheard her on the phone with her builder a moment ago. They were contemplating color palettes and types of flooring. I think she’s going with walnut hardwood floors in a chevron pattern. Her front doors are tall arched mahogany double doors. The floorplan includes a dining room to the left of the entrance, a sunken living room with a fireplace, and a kitchen with a large island farther back, closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The exterior is white stucco. Ugh. I could go on with the details...
 
Imagine driving home to that—I could melt. I can see it now though. I would drive home in my shiny car, wearing those baby blue heels Lilee loves, and walk through the door to find my other half cooking dinner. He’d be making me something special. Lemon ricotta ravioli (vegan, of course), my favorite, with a glass of chilled white wine waiting for me on the island, but before I even reach the kitchen, he’s already swooped me up in his arms. We feel like we’ve known each other forever, like we were together in a past life and found each other again. 
 
You know, even on her worst days she’s...Lilee. I remember this one time she was depressed for two weeks. I heard her crying in her office from up the hall. I walked in and asked if she wanted to talk about it, she shook her head no and I left. I guess, now that I’m writing this out, she’s not that perfect—just incredibly kind. 
 
I do admire her and try to encourage her as much as she encourages others. She’s the type of person you want to succeed because it will be a win for you too. Isn’t it crazy how beautiful she is? Inside and out. I mean I know she’s human but it’s the love behind the giving that’s the magic about her. Like I said, she values sunshine and people. Sometimes she’ll even greet trees. She’s connected in a way I someday wish to be. Maybe I sound a bit zany, but she’s just free. 
 
They say people are like mirrors, so maybe all of those delightful things I see in her already exist in me too. God I hope so. 
 
I think I’ll go buy some oranges and peel them today. 
","July 28, 2023 18:54",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,o3pl3y,Epic Run,Shane Cooper,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o3pl3y/,/short-story/o3pl3y/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Adventure', 'Suspense']",5 likes,"
Chocking back tears, Aaron watched his little brother walk into the room. Through blurred vision he trailed his siblings silent saunter. Circumnavigating the bed, Clayton plopped into a leather chair, peaked his fingers together and cracked a grin. Straining to see his brothers cocky smirk, he blinked back the wetness wishing he could wipe before his little brother noticed. “Tell me everything!” He stammered.Clayton punched Aaron on his soft muscular shoulder that hand’t lifted from it’s silky prison in years. “Brah, it was epic.”Aaron’s eyes twitched back and forth signaling the right spot to mute as the television played Warren Miller on a constant loop. Several times a day, his infamous yellow parka would fly into view, chug down white powder until it disappeared over a cliff into deep snow. The videographer manning the controls somewhere unseen had a hard time keeping the drone on point.“Better’n Alaska or the Dolomites?”“Just freaking sick brah! Gnarlier than anything. Ever!” Clayton leaned onto forearms pressed against upper thighs so Aaron could see his beaming face. “I mean man, it was beyond-beyond, nothing like back in the day. Had to be there dude! Words cant describe.”Aaron scrunched his brow, snorted, cocked a grin so hard his cheek twitched against his eye socket. “I’d have given my right nut, you know?”“I know, I know. I’d give mine to see you back on sticks.”Aaron blinked upwards three times at the camera to reset the flat screen plastered against the ceiling. “What’s the link?”Pulling his phone from baggy shorts, Clayton flipped the screen, tapped twice and the image on the ceiling switched to a camera view. A wide angle lens looked down past chopper rails above dark mountain crags poking through a sea of white.“Russia man!” Clayton exclaimed. “Volcanoes, steam and Kamchatka! Those crags and chutes burnt my legs to twitching nubs.”Aaron starred at the image as the view careened sideways, the chopper swooped, circling, looking for the perfect spot.“There, see those dots, that’s Zeek and Punk, they’d already been dropped, we were next.”Aarons eyes widened as the view spiraled down. Powder flew in long flowing swirls, the camera eased upward as the chopper hovered, swayed and finally settled. In the cameras eye, endless mountain peaks stretched beyond the horizon. Aarons mouth breathed a long deep gasp. “Wow!”.“Told ya brah, it was leg-end-ary!”Willing a wishful nod at Clayton, his eyes barely able to shoot a glance towards his brother as today was a tough one. “Man, you are one lucky bastard. Did you get anything from your helmet?”“Brah! You think I’m flying six thousand miles and not filming that shit?”Aaron smiled. “Had to ask, figured the rush was more important than your big brother.”“You kidding?” Clayton lifted his frame, flipped his cap backwards and leaned into his brothers chest wrapping him up into a bear hug. Tears crept down his cheeks. “Brah, you are all I think about when I’m pulling hard G’s. You were the GOAT man, the… G.O.A to the T.”Pressing his chin against Clayton’s head was the closest Aaron could come to a hug. Grating his beard stubs against the truckers mesh, he whispered. “Come on man, let’s see this run. Scare the shit out of my mind.”Plopping back into the squeaking chair, he flipped the lever to drop backwards. Wiping his cheek, Clayton tapped the phone slid his finger to start and declared, “wicked first drop man, be ready to be blown back brah.”On screen the camera angle changed to quick shots checking equipment. Like a bird perched on a limb spotting his surroundings, the angle snapped back and forth, gloves tightened, pole straps secured, boots locked and then came the nod. Looking side to side, the camera flipped up and down, both companions stood on a knifes edge. Goggles sparkled bright sunbeams flickering at the edges, they responded in bright silence. Ready.Flying straight down, seconds flew as glistening dust churned at the lens edge. In a flash, the view changed to a wide expanse, the camera seemed to float. An ombre sky appeared, dark royal blue spread from the heavens to teal shimmering along snarling buttes lining the horizon.“That first drop! Dude, I had to check for skid marks. Then we straight-lined through narrows that nearly took my twins. Easily a hundred in places that we should have died. I thought I was toast man.”As the film progressed, Aarons eyes widened, narrowed and flinched as his brother tore down the steepest mountain, through the narrow chutes and jagged crags crazier than anything he could recall. A drone shot cut into view exposing the shear size, scope and difficulty. High altitude extreme skiing at levels he couldn’t recollect attempting back when his legs took commands from his brain. Flicking his eyes over towards his brother mesmerized by his own ability, Aaron drank in his little brothers smiling excitement. Cherishing this moment meant everything.When their father had first taken them to Copper Mountain deep in the Rockies, they’d both become hooked. Recalling their first huck, Clayton was fearless chasing his big brother all over gods white earth, through thick pines, down VW bug sized moguls and over heart stopping crags. Aaron missed it.“Dude! Dude! Check this bit out.” Clayton pointed at the screen.Aaron flicked his eyes upward catching an open pristine bowl. Faceshots, he loved deep powder, hero snow, as much as hucking over cliffs, burning chutes or carving an edge where others dared to tread.“This will blow your mind.” Clayton insisted.Aaron watched as the camera went bone white. Two seconds, four seconds, ten seconds then blue sky. Pines in the distance and a small clearing further down valley with a lone cabin, smoked curled from a rock chimney, beckoning to take a break and drink in the grandeur.“That powder was so deep, I looked up and couldn’t see sky, it was righteous!”Aaron couldn’t stop. “Wow, just, wow - dude, that’s some deep shit.”“Never have we ever had such white-out brah, I mean I thought I was a goner, but then we shot out, there it was the widest, calmest most serene valley you’d ever laid eyes. Magical!”Attempting to lean up, Aaron strained as far as his spines C7 would allow. “Is that Punk?”“Oh yeah, dude lost track and landed in a tree. Check this out.”Fast forwarding, the camera zoomed into a tight shot. A blue figure hung from a large pine bow, his jacket stretched upward under weight. Grinning from beneath his goggles, their old friend Punk waved at the camera shouting. “Get that on camera dude!”Aaron laughed, “Punk was always getting into it. Crazy times, just crazy before I…”Clayton interpreted. “We ripped his thousand dollar Arc’teryx getting his punk ass down. Man he was pissed.” Clayton covered his mouth as he chuckled.After the screen went blank, silence enveloped the room. Both starred into oblivion. Aarons eyeballs dried looking around at the the four walls squeezing inward. Clayton chewed on a hangnail inspecting the tiny bloody spike left by absent minded nibbling. A time bubble swelled as the room lost air.Clayton jumped and poked his brother in the chest. “Yo! Dude, I have an idea! Next trip, we strap your ass to the heli’s gurney upside down. Get a Birds Eye view from eleven thousand feet.”Puffing out his cheeks, Aaron blew upwards popping out his lips. “I wish!”“Nah, nah… dude, I think we can pull it off, the crew would sign waivers in a heart beat, you know man.” Clayton leaned back, crossed his hairless legs, checkered Vans twitching and his grin grew crater wide. “Seriously brah, let’s do it!”
","July 24, 2023 15:25",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,3qwv3t,No Jon,Becky Steele,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3qwv3t/,/short-story/3qwv3t/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Friendship']",5 likes,"
""Are you there?""
 
Nothing.
 
""Nick, if you'd like to discontinue our chat today, please let me know you're safe and we can end the session and follow up later.""
 
Nothing for a few more seconds, and then an ellipsis icon appeared in the thread. I exhaled with relief. At least he was still there.
 
""Jon is here. Gotta go. Thx for the chat.""
 
The chat window closed. Nick didn't opt to take the survey and in a way, I was glad. Nobody completes the surveys--well, almost nobody--and the few who do have nothing good to say. It wasn't favorable for callers and chatters to not opt into the survey, but it was always worse to have survey responses. Doug was my manager, and he enjoyed reviewing the survey responses. I was certain that the only thing Doug did behind his closed door was eat himself to death and read survey responses. He was always desperate for some way to make it look like he was earning his paycheck.
 
I looked up a the clock on the wall. My shift ended in seven minutes from now. I couldn't wait to be free from my cubicle prison and the fluorescent ceiling lamp that burned directly above me. I wanted out. Nick had wanted out too.
 
""Hi Nick. I am Jesse. Thank you for reaching out for help today. First, are you safe?""
 
""Ya""
 
""Thank you for confirming that you're safe. I want to listen and I want to help. Can you describe how you feel right now?""
 
""Like shit.""
 
""Thank you for sharing openly. I'm sorry that you feel awful. Your feelings make sense. It is okay to feel the way you do. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is reach out and ask for help, so I'm happy you did that. Your chat intake form shows you were feeling suicidal. Are you still feeling like you could harm yourself?""
 
""Thought about it. Thought about driving my car into the lake. Or into traffic. Just want out.""
 
""Are you in your car right now?""
 
""Ya""
 
""Is the car on?""
 
""No, turned it off.""
 
""Okay great. Are you able to leave your car right now?""
 
""No. They're still inside my house together. I'm in the driveway.""
 
""Who is inside the house? Are you safe around them?""
 
""I found her with the neighbor AGAIN. Got off work and found her fucking the neighbor. In my fucking house. That I bought. That I work for.""
 
""I'm sorry, Nick. That must have been really hard, and I understand why you are hurting. Can you go anywhere else on foot? Do you have any friends who can pick you up?""
 
""I have one guy""
 
""Great. What is their name?""
 
""Jon.""
 
""Do you feel like you will be safe with Jon?""
 
""Ya. Texting him now.""
 
""Good, I'm glad to hear it. How long have you and Jon been friends?""
 
""High school. Been close ever since.""
 
I checked the intake form again. At age 37, Nick found himself wanting to end his life. Here was a guy at his worst, and he had more friends than I did.
 
""OK, Jon is on the way""
 
""That is great. Thank you for reaching out to your friend. Looks like you've been friends for almost half of your life. I'm glad you have someone you can trust and feel safe with right now. How do you feel knowing that Jon is on the way?""
 
""Scared. Dunno what to tell him.""
 
""I understand that you're scared. What would you say you're scared of?""
 
""That he will think less of me. Can't deal with this anymore. I'm just not ok by myself tonite.""
 
""I'm hearing that you're scared he might think less of you if he knows how you really feel. I'm also hearing that what he thinks means a lot to you. Is that right?""
 
""Definitely""
 
""Your feelings are valid. Would you say that Jon handles tough situations well?""
 
""Oh ya, he's a rock""
 
""I'm glad to hear that! It's great to have support when a person feels the way you feel. Would you say that it's possible that Jon will accept the way you feel and will want to support you?""
 
""For sure.""
 
""That's great, Nick. It sounds like you have someone who cares about you today. Would you agree?""
 
""Ya, at least Jon does""
 
""That's a good thing. I'm sorry that you feel that others might not care, but I am glad you have Jon with you today.""
 
His buddy would be there soon. The scene started to unfold in my mind. I imagined Jon's car pulling behind Nick's car in the driveway. Nick would grab his lunch bag and whatever else he might need for the day he'd spend away from his own house. He'd make eye contact with Jon, walk to the passenger side of his friend's car, get in, close the door, set his things down, and start sobbing. He'd put his face in his hands and try to hide it for a few seconds, but he'd let his guard down. Jon would put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
 
""Sorry man. That's fucked up. Sorry,"" he'd say, as he consoled his friend.
 
A friend to cry with. In seven minutes I would get out, but there would be no Jon. Nobody to call either.
 
I grabbed my lunch bag, stood up, and slid my chair under the desk. I walked to the end of the row, and noticed that Doug's door was open. I looked at the floor and quickly walked passed the doorway. He didn't notice. I pressed the exterior door handlebar in, and made my escape into the hot, humid Alabama evening.
 
I opened the car door, pulled my phone out my pocket, placed it on the dash mount, and got in. When the door closed, I was alone in the silence. I reached for my phone, and turned it over. No notifications. No new texts, phone calls, or emails. No notifications on social media. Nothing. Nobody.
 
Nick was the lucky one today.
","July 24, 2023 23:41",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,4l9s5y,The Vicari-ers,Ryan Nixon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4l9s5y/,/short-story/4l9s5y/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'American', 'Mystery']",5 likes,"
""Press the red circle at the bottom of the screen and begin speaking clearly into… oh it’s on, uhm, alright, I guess this is my first log entry in service of Vicari… Vicariant #75139, dated Monday October 9th at 6:15 PM. I acknowledge that I am under no circumstances to contact Vicariant #75139 and furthermore I am to remain inconspicuous yet observant throughout the duration of my conscripted service. I further pledge to follow all instructions provided and complete all assigned tasks in support of Vicariant #75139’s success. Thus concludes the weirdest statement I have ever made.” Chester paused for a moment, thinking to himself while wearing his considerable nerves just below the surface.
 
Fifteen Minutes Earlier:
Chester Lakewood had just finished another predictable day at the office. He was waiting patiently for the elevator to make its achingly slow journey up to the 6th floor of the nondescript office building where he had spent each week plying his trade as a systems safety engineer.
 
For five years of workweeks, and sadly most weekends, Chester has taken position at his desk at 7:30AM each morning, repeating the same ritual in reverse later that evening, never earlier than 6:00PM. It has been five years of hard work, yes, and promotions too, but lots of banked vacation time and no life sums up Chester Lakewood very well.
 
Meanwhile, across the street in an empty parking garage, the driver’s side door of Chester’s no frills, white, four door sedan was quickly opened and closed. No alarms sounded. The only evidence of this brief intrusion was a plain manila envelope placed on the driver’s seat and the hushed beep accompanied by a short blink of lights signaling the unlocking and locking of a vehicle. Written on the envelope was ""Chester Lakewood, Open Immediately"". 
 
Moments later, Chester pressed the unlock button on his key fob as he drew close to his lonely sedan. In the distance, it beeped softly and blinked its lights for the third time in as many minutes. In one, well-practiced motion Chester swung the driver’s side door open, threw his messenger bag into the passenger seat, and descended into the vehicle.
 
In that instant, he caught sight of an unexpected object on the cloth seat beneath him. Worn ragged from a long day staring at a computer screen, Chester’s delayed reaction and failed attempt at an aborted landing resulted in a direct hit on the envelope. He quickly shifted his weight off the mystery package and pulled it out for inspection.
 
In moments like these, the brain has a funny way of connecting dots that aren’t there, all in a well-intentioned attempt to make sense out of a given situation. Accordingly, Chester’s first thought was that he left the item on the seat; he must have. But that thought quickly evaporated the second his eyes caught his printed name and the ominous note “Open Immediately”.    
 
Chester quickly upended the contents of the manila envelope onto the passenger seat revealing four items: a smart phone, bound daily planner, a document titled “Read me: Instructions for Proceeding”, and a pen with the name “Vicari-ers” laser-etched on the barrel.
“Okay, someone is playing a prank on me, right?” Chester asked himself. “They must be.” 
 
If this was a prank, he was intrigued and willing to play along with the mystery of it all, for now at least. Then a second thought crossed Chester’s mind, and he nervously scanned the back seat of the car and each of the windows.
 
 Alone, no signs of entry. Deep down, Chester didn’t actually believe this was a prank.
 
Eyes surveying the strange items now resting where no passenger had ridden for at least a year, Chester was immediately drawn to the smart phone whose screen was illuminated; the internal gyro had done its job. With a swipe of his finger, he found that the phone was not secured, gaining access to the home screen immediately. Only three applications were visible: Messaging, Phone, Voice Memo.
 
Navigating first to the contacts menu of the phone app, he found only a single entry; someone with the alias ""Concierge”. This eerily vague name saved in the phone made Chester increasingly uneasy. He dug into the contact details and found only a phone number and an email address composed of the same alias.
 
At that instant, the phone vibrated in Chester’s palm and a notification appeared at the top of the display. A text message had been received from Concierge. As soon as Chester remembered how to breathe again, he accessed the message.
 
Concierge: “Please stop what you are doing review the provided instructions immediately.”
 
Chester nearly dropped the phone as he snapped his head around looking for signs of a sender. Seeing no one in the well-lit garage, Chester locked the doors, jammed his key into the ignition, and started the engine.
 
Another text.
 
Concierge: “Please stop. Read your instructions.”
 
Chester’s unease shifted to a fight or flight response; play along and read the instructions or make a run for it. His analytical mind said run, but the mystery of it all got the better of him.
 
“Alright, let’s play.”
 
Chester gave one more nervous glance around, then picked up the paper titled “Read Me: Instructions for Proceeding” and started reading.
 
Dear Mr. Lakewood,
Apologies, but I am afraid brevity is a necessity.
 
Be assured you are in no danger and are free of bodily threat. That said, your service is required. No choice is given; you must comply. 
 
7-10-2010. Houston. 20342.
Text your Concierge if further motivation is required. 
 
Your tasks are itemized in the provided planner. You will find specific dates, times, and locations of interest. Do not misplace the planner. Do not disclose its contents to anyone. 
 
Notice of your absence for the remainder of the week was sent to your manager shortly after you left for the evening. “Your” request will be granted. Do not expect to return to work this week. 
 
Maintain an audio log of your progress via the notes app on the phone provided. Create your first log entry now by reading from the preprepared statement provided below. 
 
Kind Regards,
The Vicari-ers
 
Open the app, press the red circle at the bottom of the screen and begin speaking clearly into the microphone: ... ...
 
Present time:
In the morning he would text his manager to “confirm” that his leave request was real and was approved. He suspected both would be true.
 
The cryptic date and single word awkwardly placed in the instructions refer to a core memory he shared with his family while on vacation years ago. That memory would eventually inspire Chester to become an engineer.
 
The seemingly random number precisely matches the amount of money currently sitting in one of Chester’s savings accounts that he uses to set aside money for the express intent of taking chances and experiencing new things. He jokingly calls it his “If Only Fund” because he never takes chances and he never has new experiences. He goes to work. He goes home. He orders food. He eats alone. Wash, rinse, repeat. 
 
Chester required no further motivation. He would comply.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Chester said to himself, resigned to at least seeing where this was going. He opened the small, leather-bound planner. It was a daily planner with the first page corresponding to today’s date. There is a single entry made by what appears to be skilled calligraphers’ hand.
 
It reads:
7:00PM: Navigate to the Montclair restaurant at Fredricks Hotel downtown. Go to the front lobby outside of the restaurant and wait at the bar. At 7:15PM precisely, call the restaurant to cancel reservations found under the name Frederick Wilkens for tomorrow (Tuesday) night at 8:00PM. Stay in the lobby until 7:30PM. Report to your Concierge if you see anything unusual. 
 
Chester knew the location and set off immediately; 7:00PM would arrive very soon. During the drive Chester had ample time to think about the oddity of his current predicament. Not having time yet to look ahead in the planner, he could only guess that odd would be his new normal.
 
But also, Chester couldn’t help wondering who Frederick Wilkens was and why he would choose to miss out on the inventive foods and five-star experience that he had heard so much about around the proverbial water cooler.
 
“Probably some rich executive who can get a reservation at any time.” went Chester’s inner monologue. At least this Wilkens person made a reservation at some point. What was Chester’s excuse?
 
He pulled up to the luxury hotel at 6:58, valeted his car, and took up position at a table in the hotel lobby bar outside of the restaurant. He watched all the lovely, happy people going about their evenings and their lives, laughing and talking. At 7:15PM, Chester dialed the restaurant.
 
“Montclair, how may I help you this evening?” said a confident hostess. Affecting his most professional voice, Chester responded “Good evening. This is Fredrick Wilkens. I have a reservation for tomorrow evening at 8:00PM, but I’m afraid I have to cancel.”
 
“Mr. Wilkens, I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.” the hostess said sincerely. “We were looking forward to finally having you as our guest. Do you have another night in mind? We’ll make it work.”
Chester, feeling the strong desire to bogart this reservation instead held true to his instructions. “No, please cancel the reservation. Another time perhaps.”
 
Sounding slightly saddened, the hostess obliged and wished him good night. 
 
Step one complete. Next the instructions said to wait and watch the hostess stand until 7:30PM.
 
“Wait for what? And how will I know if anything 'unusual' happens?” he murmured under his breath. ""Let the people watching recommence, I guess.”
 
Chester moved from the bar, closer to the restaurant. For the next five minutes nothing of note took place. People came and went. Then at 7:20PM, a woman with brown hair wearing a suit dress walked briskly from the hotel entrance directly to the hostess stand, likely coming straight from her office.
 
From what Chester could hear of her conversation, the woman had decided on a whim to just see if there was a reservation available. She’d always wanted to go but had never made the time.
“Sounds familiar.” muttered Chester.
 
What would have been impossible just five minutes prior was now her lucky day thanks to Fredrick Wilkens.  
 
“Was that it? Was all of this seriously just so this woman could walk off the street and win the dining lottery?” he thought and as if in answer, the other cell received a text.
 
Concierge: “Task complete. Good night.”
 
Chester slid the phone back into his pocket without sending a reply.
 
Tired but also oddly energized knowing he was done with Concierge for the night, Chester stood up and headed for the lobby exit in the direction of the valet stand. When he stepped outside, the sun was setting, and it was like he was seeing downtown for the first time. So many people were moving in and out of restaurants, bars, and shops. Chester was starting to feel a little anxious. You wouldn’t call him outgoing, but he is not an incurable introvert either. Given the scare he had in the garage earlier and the ongoing strangeness of the evening, he only just realized how hungry he was and found himself staring at the restaurants across the street.
 
“You can’t go wrong with that one.” a voice said jump-scaring Chester from his daze. The valet attendant was standing right next to him, pointing at an Asian-Fusion restaurant across the street. ""I love their seared tuna.” and then he mimed a chef’s kiss. “They’re busy tonight because a conference nearby, but if you’re lucky you might get a seat at the bar.”
 
Taking a beat to recover from the start, Chester said “Thanks, I think I’ll give that a try.”
 
As Chester neared the busy little restaurant, he realized the name sounded very familiar. Searching his memory, it came to him. This place had been featured on the local news shortly after opening its doors a year or so ago. At that time Chester had really wanted to go, but in typical Chester fashion, he never did. Also in typical fashion, he heard fantastic things about the new place from his apartment neighbors and coworkers.
 
Stepping inside, he already knew what the hostess was going to say… no room at the inn.
 
“Do you have any tables available?” Chester’s introverted side asked hopefully knowing a spot at the bar would likely mean he’d have to talk.
 
“No and bar side seating is full up too.” the frazzled hostess said.
Just then a couple walked by with to-go boxes in hand. One of them talking excitedly into their cell phone, “No, we are on our way right now. Stall for 15 minutes. Do whatever you need to, just don’t let them leave before…”.
 
The rest of the conversation was cut off as the restaurant doors closed behind the hurried and harried former customers. The hostess looked at the seating map on the computer screen one more time and said with a smile ""Well, I guess it’s your lucky night. If you give us a minute, we’ll have your table ready.”
 
The next morning:
Chester woke at his usual time and found two texts waiting for him: one on his phone and one on the other phone. One from his manager and one from Concierge.
 
The text from his manager was a bit of a surprise because Chester hadn’t had a chance to check in with him yet. He couldn’t figure out how to casually confirm that he had asked for time off without looking either crazy or suspicious.
 
Thankfully, there was no need. His manager’s text was short and understanding. A quick confirmation that Chester should take the time he needs to feel better and that the flu is nothing to mess around with. 
 
""Well, that’s that. I guess I’ll be using sick time for this.” Chester thought.
 
Next, turning to the other phone, Chester read the text from Concierge.
 
Concierge: Review the planner. The mornings are yours, but your service is needed each afternoon until Sunday. Be on time. Follow all instructions.
 
Chester already knew the specifics of the planner backwards and forwards. He had acquainted himself with its details the night before while eating the best surf and turf of his life. It was better even than the News 5 morning show said it was. 
 
He also had time to reflect on the events of the past day. Vicariant #75139 must have been the woman at Montclair. What vicariant meant he had no idea but given that the unexpectedly nice pen and his instructions from the manila envelope both referenced something called ""Vicari-ers”. A play on the same word for sure, but Chester’s mind was blanking. Regardless he was going to see this through. It now felt like an adventure and if it somehow helped that woman, all the better.
 
Over the course of the next few days, Chester found things playing out just like Monday night had. A combination of random tasks performed for Vicariant #75139 and unexpected new experiences for him. For once he was not living vicariously through others. He was stumbling into his own experiences. Each day his audio log to the Concierge became more and more about his own experiences from the day. A bit of self-therapy maybe?
 
Here are some examples.
 
Tuesday afternoon Chester finally took the time to visit the art museum. Then he jogged three blocks north to the street corner specified in the planner, hailed a cab at 7:20PM, made an excuse not to take it, then walked away. Immediately a somewhat familiar looking woman ran for the taxicab and jumped in looking relieved.
 
“Montclair restaurant, please” is all Chester could hear before the door shut.
 
Friday morning while at nice coffee shop, Chester overheard someone talking about how much of a mental reset an afternoon at the park was for them. Later, Chester walked through a beautiful park, getting some much-needed vitamin D, and reading a great book underneath a shade tree. That evening he picked up two tickets from will call at the downtown theater for opening night of a new production. Per his instructions Chester was to stand on the front steps and give the tickets away at 6:45PM exactly.
 
He stood in position, holding the tickets aloft, when as if on que he saw a very recognizable woman walking down from the box office with a friend. Both looked dejected. Vicariant #75139 immediately locked her eyes on the tickets.
 
“Free tickets. Anyone interested?” he said. Seconds later, task complete.
 
By Sunday evening Chester had facilitated the woman’s experiences across ten random scenarios, staying unrecognized throughout. Also by Sunday evening Chester felt as though he had been helped through helping her. He had branched out, had new adventures, and had multiple chance opportunities just popped up. This was unprecedented in his life. He liked the new Chester. He liked that the ""If Only Fund” was down to $19,500. He was now committed to making a change and further committed to keep it once it arrives.
 
“This is my last log entry in service of Vicariant #75139, dated Sunday October 14th at 9:00PM. All tasks completed; you’re welcome. Oh, and I finally figured out the cute little word play there… Vicari-ers, Vicariant… it’s a play on vicarious, right…. (Long pause, no audio)… the Concierge needs better branding. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I have a reservation to make.”
 
Chester stopped the recording, switched over to the phone app and dialed Montclair restaurant.
 
“Hello this is Fredrick Wilkens…”
 
Somewhere else in the city, around the same time that Chester finished his last duties as a conscripted Vicari-er, another ""volunteer” was just finishing their final audio log in support of successfully closing out Vicariant #75140.
","July 29, 2023 03:39",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,azo7n2,The Witness,S. Gardford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/azo7n2/,/short-story/azo7n2/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad', 'Friendship']",5 likes,"
And so he takes center stage just as the lights dim throughout the theater. And the spotlight shines like the strange eye of some god, highlighting the strong bones in his face, leaving a ghastly impression. We all hold our collective breath as his eyes harden and he believes deep in his soul that he is Othello himself, in all righteous indignation and insecurity. ""IT IS THE CAUSE"" he bellows and goosebumps cascade across my neck and arms. The rest of the monologue ripples through the audience with similar fervor and power and we are left with a hollow emptiness for both Othello and Desdemona even as he snuffs her life out with the pillow. And even after the standing ovation, after meeting him backstage with a firm hug and congratulations, even after the drive home where Mom and Dad gush endlessly over his performance and the intricacy of his expression. Even after my teeth are brushed and my hair cleaned, and I climb into my bed to read before sleep forces my eyes shut. I am sure that I still see him, as I have always seen him, alone in that spotlight, unrivaled and unspoiled. He alone is blessed. That was seriously incredible Eric, like I had no idea you could act!And we’re sitting at our usual spot during lunch, trading jokes and anecdotes in between the steady wave of congratulations from enamored classmates. He tilts his head back and laughter gently spills from his eyes. Thank you so much, I was so nervous I'm just glad I didn’t screw everything up! Effortless humility, and you can tell from his expression and demeanor. There is not an ounce of conceit or self-congratulation in his words. And like so many times before, and so many times after, I watch as his earnest response and kind voice draws her in. Another soul will walk away from him with his smile in her mind and his words pulling at her heart. It is the way these things go, he does not try, he simply is. And I am simply there, blank and thoughtless, nodding with the faint trace of pleasantry as the whole exchange washes over me in pink and orange waves. She leaves.I think she’s got a crush on you, I say plainly while picking at my chicken and rice. She might, she might, he chuckles and seamlessly turns the conversation back towards games and comics and the same droll things we’ve been concerned with since elementary school. We’ve had this particular conversation probably a dozen times, yet the passion in his voice and conviction in his words bring my opinions to ire. He conjures a wittiness from me, a silver from my tongue that no one else can as we playfully dance through a rehearsed debate of superheroes and powers and bad writing. For a brief few moments, It is just us, as it always has been. Best friends. And then the bell rings like the shattering of glass and I remember all that I am and all that he is and I am numb again. And so it’s after school, and he takes to the soccer field in a storm of muscle and grace. His hair is pushed back in his headband to keep his vision clear and sweat from his brow. He is the picture of focus and beauty as the ball gives way to his powerful strike. It curves around the defending wall like a shooting star and spins rapidly into the back of the net. All are cheering, and all are jumping.God Eric is so hot, a girl says a little louder than she perhaps meant to. Her friends all giggle in agreement. My heart pretends to sputter and die as I realize whose eyes have settled on him. It was only a matter of time. More of an eventuality than anything. My tears still sting that night even if there is no sobbing. And so they go to prom together. Arm in arm they walk with the procession into the venue. Red fabric drapes the walls and tables as a sorry disco ball spins, casting brittle light fragments on awkward faces. Except for them. Together they are regal and holy. A painting of natural elegance, how youth should be. They laugh as they dance, her hair tossing lightly around her shoulders. Eventually, the music slows and the lights dim. They're now forehead to forehead and share a brief innocent kiss. And so I watch them as a pagan honors the shrine, a sense of brutal satisfaction in my stomach as they leave in his car. Just as with all of his blessings, I experienced the inception of this romance. Budding as innocently and naturally as the flowers that graced his feet after the play. All of his brightness, and all of his glory, I have seen it. I have ingested and drank deep from the golden fountain of his grace until I have been poisoned sick. It is in this way that I subsist from the water. I am tasked to bear witness. And so he’s leaving today, a car loaded with the fragments of our shared childhood. I set out on my own in two weeks. We’re going to different schools, to live different realities. Like a strand of DNA, we're being separated to start building our lives from a primordial scratch. I’ll miss you a lot man, but it’s not the end of the world! We’ll see each other for Thanksgiving and Christmas. He says with a mouth that believes this promise borne from his soul. And as I embrace him with a heart unsteady, a swirling current of perfect understanding swallows me. I realize he was gone before he ever left. And so I'm at home, lying on my bedroom floor where no magic or sorcery can wake my bones. No whisper or call from any far-off land to rouse me to adventure. The clock ticks and the evening dove coos its melancholy. The sun sets through my eyelids, and I strain to see nothing at all.
","July 26, 2023 12:04",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,faygw2,One day at a Time,Sam Lambe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/faygw2/,/short-story/faygw2/,Character,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
It was a Saturday, and a few weeks before his 40th birthday that Laurent Wilson stared out of the dirty window that overlooked his back garden. The weeds were overgrown, to the point that it was impossible to see the grass beneath. Dark grey clouds threatened to burst. He hadn’t been out in the garden in quite some time – always excusing himself from fixing the abomination which it had become by complaining about it being either too hot or too cold.
When Laurent and his wife Elizabeth had moved into the house on Partick Crescent the garden had been immaculate, and a major draw factor that made the property stand out among the 20 others that they knew would be easily attainable – due to their willingness to part with the pocket change that others would consider a significant amount of money.
“Is today the day that you finally give that garden a good old-fashioned tidy up?” Elizabeth asked as she entered the room and placed a hot mug of coffee in front of Laurent.
“I’m afraid the situation is beyond my current capabilities and would require a professional to clean the mess that we have created for ourselves, dear,” Laurent replied as he took a sip of coffee, whilst continuing to look out of the window.
“So, are you going to get on the phone with a professional, then?”
Laurent frowned when he looked at Elizabeth. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t know me at all,” he replied, not making any effort to hide his dissatisfaction with her question.
“But you just sa-” Elizabeth began before Laurent abruptly interrupted her.
“I know what I said!” He frowned at her. “I said that the garden would require a professional, and that is exactly what I intend to become in a few months!”
“A few months!?” Elizabeth exclaimed as she looked flabbergasted.
“All good things come to those who wait, dear!” Laurent replied as he returned to staring out of the window.
“Hmph,” was Elizabeth’s response as she walked out of the room.
Laurent sighed as he returned to his previous pastime of envisioning the day when they had bought the house, his father had been there that day. It was one of the last good days before his father had fallen ill. His health had dramatically declined, and in no time at all Laurent was saying a speech at his funeral.
Laurent hadn’t been the same since; the state of the garden reflected that. He hadn’t told Elizabeth just how much he had been thinking about his father lately, he was unsure whether she would understand. It had been years since the passing, after-all, but Laurent was not able to stop thinking about it as he reflected on each aspect of his life.
In every corner of his life there were fragments of his late father, constant reminders of him in the little details of every day – and it had become more frustrating as time went on.
His father had been his mentor and had taken it upon himself to guide Laurent in what he believed to be the right direction. A young Laurent was eager and willing to learn from an old hand who undoubtably had more experience than him in the game of life. Every step of the way Laurent’s father had paved the path forward, and in doing so had ensured that Laurent would end up with more money than he knew what to do with. He was on the property ladder before any of his friends had finished their courses at university. He climbed the corporate ladder and was rewarded handsomely for his willingness to do what was necessary to ensure that the company he worked for thrived. He had understood that telling a little white lie or two about his potential competitors for positions of higher rank was necessary at times and was successful in gaining promotion after promotion until he was right on top. People didn’t look him in the eye anymore, they didn’t call him by his name anymore. Every friend he ever had was gone. When they had discovered that he was doing well for himself they all wanted a piece of the pie, and he was more than willing to give – until his father had found out. He had called Laurent a fool and spoke about the importance of understanding that if you give someone money one time they will just keep coming back for more. He had been right about everything prior to that, so Laurent had listened to him – and that had resulted in many lost friendships as people didn’t see past the money. They labelled him as greedy, and selfish. His father reassured him that that was not the case, that Laurent had worked hard for his money, and he could spend it any way that he wanted. 
As Laurent stared out the window and thought about that it infuriated him.
“If I truly was able to spend my money the way I wanted maybe I wouldn’t be here looking out at this mess,” Laurent said to himself.
It was then that he saw Elizabeth open the door to the garden and walk into it. She had tied her long black hair into a neat ponytail and was holding a pair of large shearers. Laurent’s gaze was fixed on her as she began viciously cutting the bottom of the thorny weeds that had overtaken their garden. He observed her for hours as she worked without rest; the dark grey clouds had parted, and the sun seemed to shine directly on Elizabeth as the back of her neck glistened with sweat.
Laurent didn’t dare look away as he was hypnotized by her rhythmic movements as she cleared multiple years-worth of weeds in a day, methodically cutting and disposing of them in a mechanical-like fashion.
The sun began to set as Elizabeth chopped down the last of the tyrannical weeds. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and observed the fruits of her labour. The grass was visible again, and the difference it made was astonishing. She made her way inside and made dinner as Laurent still sat staring out the window, at the newly cleaned garden.
An hour later Laurent heard Elizabeth call for him, and he made his way downstairs. She had set the table; a steaming plate of chicken and rice, accompanied by a glass of orange juice, was placed in front of Laurent’s usual seat.
He sat down and immediately began to eat. He had spent the entire day observing every little detail of Elizabeth, and yet as he sat and ate dinner – a few feet away from her – he couldn’t look at her.
Knives and forks clattered against porcelain plates as the silence in the room magnified every little sound.
“I cleaned the garden,” Elizabeth finally said.
“I saw,” Laurent replied.
The silence resumed, and the longer it went on the more it suffocated both Laurent and Elizabeth as they both contemplated the best way to proceed.
After what felt like a lifetime, Elizabeth was the first to speak again. “I need to know what’s going on, Laurent,” she said, making a point of letting her cutlery drop onto the plate.
He didn’t look up at her; he couldn’t. He just carried on eating and didn’t dare to even glance in her direction.
“You blocking me out doesn’t help,” she continued.
He took a sip of orange juice and looked at the picture of them that rested inside a glass cabinet in the room.
“Why won’t you speak to me!?” She shouted.
Laurent looked at her; he had a pleading expression on his face.
“Just speak to me,” she whispered.
A tear glistened in Laurent’s right eye.
Elizabeth rushed to him and hugged him. Laurent nestled his face into her shoulder and let go of all the tears he had been storing. She didn’t care that her shirt was getting soaking wet from his tears; all she cared about was trying to help the man that she loved.
When he had finished crying, he gently pulled away from her and she let go of him.
She pulled a chair toward her and sat right in front of him.
“What’s going on?” she whispered as she took his face into her hands and stroked his cheeks with the ends of her thumbs.
“I can’t stop thinking, Elly,” Laurent whispered.
“I’m going to need more than that, Lou,” she let go of his face and rested her hand on his knee.
Laurent sighed. “I don’t know if you’ll understand,” he said as he looked at the picture again.
“Try me,” she gently encouraged.
Laurent looked at Elizabeth, straight in her eyes.
“I don’t know, it’s just that lately I don’t really know who I am. I don’t really feel like I have an identity, Elly. I am my father’s product. I listened to him at every turn and did whatever he told me to. I suppose I just liked seeing him proud of me, and that was nice – at the time. But now? He’s gone and I don’t have a clue what kind of a man I would be if he hadn’t told me what to do. I have pushed away every single person, and I’m sure that eventually you’ll get tired of me too. I don’t know what I like, or what I don’t. All I know is that we’re here, and I’m not even sure if I like here, or if I just liked here because of him – because he would want me to like here. We have all this money, and none of it can give me the answers to my questions – so what good is it then? This morning, I stared out into the garden, and I thought that maybe if he hadn’t been around then I would have been a landscaper. But I will never know, and it’s too late for me to even figure that out!”
Laurent dropped his head and looked down into his lap.
Elizabeth had listened without interruption, and without looking away from Laurent at any point. She maintained a calm demeaner all the way through his speech, until his last sentence.
“What do you mean it’s too late?” She asked as she furrowed her brow.
“I mean exactly that, Elly,” Laurent looked at her expression and a fresh wave of tears threatened to break free. Elizabeth noticed and her expression softened as she clasped his hands in hers.
“It is never too late to find your dream, Lou,” she whispered. “And I want that for you. I have seen you adapt to situations that nobody else would be able to adapt to. I have seen you work tirelessly towards a goal that wasn’t even yours, so imagine what you could do if you found something that you loved.”
Laurent looked up into Elizabeth’s eyes as she continued.
“You haven’t been the same man since he passed, and I can tell – I always could – but let me tell you something in case you didn’t already know. On the days that you feel like you only have 1 percent to give, I will give 99 – because I love you, and you’re never getting rid of me,” Elizabeth smiled at Laurent, before she leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss.
“But how, Elly? How do I do it when I feel like my limbs are made of lead; and it’s hard to breath sometimes; and everyone else has a massive head start in anything other than what I’m doing?” Laurent asked as he wiped his cheeks again.
“You can’t think about that! If you do, you’ll never start anything, because it’ll all feel like it’s hopeless, and too much for you to handle,” she whispered.
“How do I handle it then?”
“By taking it one day at a time.”
","July 27, 2023 16:58",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,qs0bhi,Take Me Out of This Ballgame,Michael Jefferson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qs0bhi/,/short-story/qs0bhi/,Character,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
	Three curious teenagers sit on a hill above the baseball field watching Jovanny “Jumbo” Rotelli lumber around the bases.
	“It’s ninety-eight degrees and he’s been running wind sprints for the past half hour,” Aiden Burke comments. “When we beat Jumbo’s team, Mr. Rotelli is going to wonder why his son was gassed after three innings.”
	Pushing her glasses up off the end of her nose, Polly Progreski gives Aiden a challenging look. “You’re so sure you’re going to win?” the gangly brunette asks. 
	“Two years ago, we beat the Bison’s 12-3 for the championship. Last year it was 14-2. It’s not a question of beating them, it’s by how much.”
	Aiden’s girlfriend, Crista, knocks his baseball cap off his head. The playful redhead gives him an alluring smile. “Be nice. You know Jumbo’s father is super competitive. Anything less than first place for Jumbo is a failure.”
	“Poor Jumbo’s already had a lifetime of it,” Aiden replies.
	“It doesn’t help that you guys keep calling him Jumbo,” Polly says.
	“Slim just doesn’t work,” Aiden replies.
	“I’ve never seen someone look so miserable. Someone should rescue him.”
	“Don’t look at me,” Aiden says. “It’s an advantage for us if he’s weak as a kitten for the biggest game of his life.”
	Polly starts down the hill. As Aiden and Crista cuddle together in the grass she yells out, “Sex before a game isn’t good for you either!”
 
 
	Bosco Rotelli eyes Polly as if she were a pitcher throwing a fastball at his head. Short and squat like his son, with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, Bosco is seen by the coaches and players as a bossy baseball savant intent on seeing his son play in the major leagues.
	“Saw you sitting up on the hill with Aiden Burke. He send you here to distract my boy?”
	“He wouldn’t do that,” Polly replies. “I’m here for a friendly visit.” 
	Bosco snorts. “That Burke is cocky. He knows he’s special, that he doesn’t have to bust his tail like my boy. He’s just like that kid Horace Blackburn I played against in the minors.”
	Polly’s peaceful expression becomes lined with worry when she sees Jumbo slow down, gasping for air as he trots toward them. “I didn’t know you played in the minor leagues, Mr. Rotelli.”
	“For the Detroit Tigers farm team. I relied too much on my natural talent. I goofed around during practice. I would have been their starting centerfielder if I hadn’t run into a wall and shattered my leg. It happened because I was out of shape, and I’d lost a few steps because I didn’t practice. So, I told myself if I ever got a second chance, I’d make sure I was in shape. I never got that chance, but Jovanny’s gonna be prepared.”
	“He’s always practicing, or exercising,” Polly says. “Everybody needs some downtime, some time to have fun.”
	“You know what fun spelled backward is, girly?”
	“Nuf?”
	“That’s right. Nuf is short for nothin’. And that’s what you get when you slack off. My boy’s not walkin’ away from baseball with nothin’.”
 
 
	Aiden steps up to the plate. The Roadrunner’s tall, thin, seventeen-year-old All-Star centerfielder is the only Black player in the Mount Kisco Baseball League.
	Jumbo glances at Aiden, pulling his catcher’s mask over his acne-filled features.
	“You don’t look like you’re getting much sleep, Jumbo.”
	“My dad’s had me working on my defense.”
	“How’s it going?” Aiden asks, as Rip Walls, the Bison’s pitcher, winds up.
	The ball bounces in the dirt in front of Jumbo, glancing off his shin guards.
	“I guess I’m still a work in progress,” Jumbo says.
	“C’mon, you’re the best catcher in the league.”
	“Not according to my father.”
	“Well, you won’t be getting any help from me today. We want that third championship trophy.”
	Aiden swings at the next pitch, lining a single up the middle.
	Taking his lead off first base, Aiden easily steals second base. Jumbo’s throw arrives too late to get him out.
	Bosco paces the sandy dugout floor. 
	“Nice throw Jovanny! He won’t run on your arm again!”
	Walls slows his windup, glancing at Aiden in the hope his determined look will keep him from stealing third.
	Walls releases the ball. Aiden takes off for third base.
	Aiden arrives at third standing up, smiling at Jumbo, who seems paralyzed, unable to make a throw.
	Bosco springs from the dugout. “Don’t worry, Jovanny. Burke is faster than everybody else because he’s got that extra vein in his legs!”
	An awkward silence deadens the chatter on the field. For a moment, the players on both teams remain motionless, their eyes bulging in disbelief.
	Rip Walls drops his glove, letting out a light chuckle that turns into uncontrollable laughter.
	Both teams erupt into giggling and hooting. The laughter softens Aiden’s anger, who realizes the absurdity of Bosco’s excuse and joins in the laughter.
	Everyone laughs - except Jumbo. Deeply embarrassed, he stands near home plate kicking at the dirt.
	Aiden scores on the next hit. Unable to look at Aiden as he passes by, Jumbo pretends to be watching the rest of the play develop.
	When the inning ends and the teams switch sides, Bosco scampers out of the dugout to meet Aiden.
	“You know I didn’t mean it, right, Burke?”
	“Sure.”
	“I had to say something to Jovanny. You were embarrassing him, and it just came out. You understand, don’t you?”
	“Yeah, as long as you understand the meaning of what you said, Mister Rotelli.”
 
 
	Polly sits down on the bench next to Jumbo.
	“Seventeen to nothing. The third time wasn’t a charm after all,” Jumbo says dejectedly.
	“You don’t sound surprised that your team lost, Jovanny.”
	“I’m not. The Roadrunners were better. I mean, I struck out three times and Aiden got three hits. Aiden is gonna be a star someday.”
	“What about you?”
	“Dad still thinks I can make it.” 
	“It shouldn’t be about what he wants. What do you want?”
	Jumbo turns to Polly, smiling at her freckled features for the first time since they’d met in junior high.
	“A house in the country by a lake, with a dock so I can fish. I love fishin’ more than baseball. And kids… I’ve always liked kids. I wanna be a therapist and help them get over their problems. I wanna be someone they can talk to.”
	“Is that because no one’s been there for you?”
	Polly watches Jumbo’s eyes gloss over with tears.
 
 
	Jumbo throws his shin guards, glove, and mask in his gym bag for what he thinks will be the last time. 
	“What do you think you’re doin’?” his father asks. 
	“Retiring.”
	“And do what? Install furnaces like me?”
	“I didn’t get any offers for scholarships like Aiden. I’m not good enough.”
	“You mean you’re not good enough yet. We’re not giving up. You’re going to the Hall of Fame someday.”
	Bosco notices the small trophy next to his son’s bag. “I didn’t know they gave out consolation prizes for gettin’ creamed.”
	“That’s a special trophy for being the most congenial player in the league.”
	Bosco picks up the trophy, studying it.  “Cheap. Not like the Most Valuable Player trophy they gave Burke.”
	A batter in a hitting stance tops the trophy. Bosco twists its head off, tossing the trophy back to his dewy-eyed son.
	“There are no congenial losers in the Hall of Fame, son.”
 
 
	While Aiden tears up the college baseball league on a full scholarship, Jumbo spends the next four years trying to hone his skills, toiling in remote, sparsely attended stadiums, playing for the Alaska Baseball League, The Pan American Association, and the Australian Baseball League. Bosco is alongside him the whole time, eating vegemite sandwiches, helping to clear snow from the field, or negotiating to rent sampans to take them to their next game.
	When Bosco’s former minor league teammate Logan Behan is named General Manager for the Houston Astros, Bosco calls him begging for a tryout for his son.
	Jumbo signs with the Astros for the minimum salary of $300,000. The following day, Aiden, the number one college baseball player in the country, signs a three-year contract with the Astros for $100 million.
	Much to Logan Behan’s consternation, Bosco announces that under his guidance, his son will make the Astros forget about Aiden.
	“I’ve got a secret weapon for you, Jovanny,” Bosco tells his son. “You’re gonna have an edge over everybody else. A big one.”
	Within a month, a leaner, bulkier Jumbo is hitting nearly as many home runs as Aiden.
 
 
	Two months into the season, Logan Behan calls Aiden into his office.
	“Sit down,” Behan says, offering Aiden the cushioned armchair across from his buffed oval mahogany desk.
	Although his silver hair and gentle brown eyes give Behan a placid look, his deep baritone voice is grim. “I’ll get to the point. You’ve been traded to the Dodgers.”
	“What? I’m leading the league in home runs and batting average. I’m two R.B.I.’s away from the triple crown, and I’m a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year.”
	“Which is why we’re moving you now. Your trade value can’t get any higher.”
	“Between me and Jumbo, we’ve got nearly forty home runs, and we’re not even halfway through the season,” Aiden protests. “We’re ten games ahead. We’ll have the pennant in our back pockets in another month. Why are you doing this?”
	“Steroids.”
	Aiden frowns, balling up his fists. “I’m not taking steroids.”
	“We found a needle in your locker.”
	“Well, it was planted there. We’ve been on the road for ten days. We just got in. I haven’t even been to the locker room yet. You want to test me? Feel free.”
	Behan shakes his head vigorously. “You know the League’s policy. But we’re willing to keep the real reason for the trade a secret if you agree to go quietly. If we tell the press, you’ll be suspended for a year.”
	“The fans will roast you alive for this. Rotelli and I could have led this team to multiple World Series wins.” 
	“It’s Jumbo’s team now.”
	“So that’s it. You’ve been duped by your old friend, Bosco. He wants his son all alone in the spotlight. Well, the spotlight’s too bright for him. He doesn’t have the charm to deal with the press, and he doesn’t have the talent to lead by example. And if anyone’s on the juice, it’s Jumbo. His acne started breaking out the same time his hitting did, and he’s been really touchy lately.”
	“The Dodgers have an off day tomorrow. You’ll be their starting centerfielder on Wednesday.”
	“When we win the World Series, I’ll be sure to stop in so you can see what a championship trophy looks like.”
 
 
	Jumbo sits at the end of the bar, watching the Dodgers play the Arizona Diamondbacks. The skinny drunk in the Dodgers cap next to him leans across the bar yelling, “Hey, Sully! I bet you two bills Burke hits a homer!”
	The pudgy bartender looks up at the screen. “Nah, Sven. You’ve got me too many times with that one.”
	Sven turns to Jumbo. “How about you, Mister Universe?”
	“How about you leave me alone.”
	Sven is distracted by the noise of the crowd blasting from the television.
	“Another homer! Man, I still can’t believe the Astros traded away that stud Burke for a couple of old codgers and an A-ball pitcher who’ll never see the majors.” 
	Sully glances at Jumbo. “They thought their rookie catcher could carry the weight of the team.”
	“Yeah, right. Rotelli couldn’t carry a bucket of balls without dropping them.”
	Sven looks at Jumbo for a reaction, his jaw dropping when he realizes who he’s looking at.
	“Rotelli! You lead the league in errors, pass balls, and broken water coolers. Didn’t you wind up on the disabled list because you sneezed and threw your back out? Some superstar!”
	Rising from his seat, Jumbo’s ears start ringing and his vision blurs as his blood pressure soars.
	When his vision clears, his oversized arms are pinned behind his back by two pairs of handcuffs linked in a makeshift chain.
	Three bruised and bleeding police officers stand over him. One is still holding the stun gun he repeatedly tazed Jumbo with.
	The broken television hangs off its shelf, spitting out sparks. A pair of paramedics are rushing a moaning, profusely bleeding Sven to their ambulance while Sully, holding his dislocated jaw, limps alongside.
	“Most hits Jumbo’s had all season,” an officer comments.
 
 
	Bosco cringes as he enters Behan’s office.
	“Sit down. You know why you’re here, don’t you?”
	“It was just a little dust-up,” Bosco insists. 
	“Once is an anomaly. Twice, something’s up that needs investigating. Three times and the reason behind his violent behavior is evident.”
	“It won’t happen again.”
	“You’re right. Jumbo is suspended for thirty days. And before you start whining, we’re going to say it’s for exhaustion and a pulled hamstring. In reality, he’ll be going to a private hospital to get off the steroids. You know what really bothers me, Bosco? You. I trusted you to the point where I traded a potential Hall of Famer so your son could lead the team. I understand that he’s your boy, and you’ll do anything for him, but this…”
	“He’ll bounce back. I’ll see to it.”
	“No, Bosco. We’ll see to it. You go back to New York. Retire, put your feet up, and watch the games from there.”
	“But my boy needs me.”
	“If you show up at the stadium or at any of the road games, I’ll see to it you spend the rest of the season in jail for trafficking steroids.”
 
 
	Jumbo misses the final two months of the season. Returning to the team in time for the playoffs, Jumbo tries to ignore the many stories documenting his downfall, including: “BUST BOLSTERS ASTRO BENCH,” and “WHERE’S YOUR DADDY NOW?”
	Bosco is content to stare at the puffy clouds hanging over the stadium and to let the action on the field wash over him like an absurd Bugs Bunny cartoon. Then the starting catcher breaks his hand, and Bosco finds himself behind home plate, waiting for his father to tell him what to do.
	Despite having to come back from the verge of elimination twice in the playoffs, the Astros end up facing the Dodgers in the World Series. Aiden leads the Dodgers, hitting two home runs in their first victory, three doubles in their next win, and three homers in their third. Aiden makes his presence known in their three losses as well, hitting two more home runs.
	Jumbo has few hits but secures one of the Astros’ wins with his lone home run, a solo shot that breaks a twelve-inning tie. The homer appeared to be going foul, but Jumbo jumped and waved his arms like a signal controller landing a jet plane, as if willing the ball fair. The home run becomes the lone highlight of Jumbo’s baseball career.
	The seventh and final game is a back-and-forth struggle. With the score tied in the eleventh inning, Aiden, who already has four hits, strides toward the plate. Knowing one swing from Aiden could end the series the Astros’ manager holds up four fingers, intentionally walking him. 
	The crowd boos the decision to walk him.
	The next batter hits a long fly to right field. Tagging up, Aiden moves to second.
	With the count stretched out to 2-2, Punch Palmeiro, normally a line-drive hitter, lifts a high fly to deep center field. The Astros’ centerfielder jumps, catching the ball inches away from the wall. Disappointed, the crowd’s enthusiastic cheers slowly fizzle out.
	Aiden tags up, dashing to third as the Astros’ shortstop runs out to center field to take the relay throw.
	The crowd’s cheers explode as Aiden runs through the coach’s signal to stop at third. He speeds toward home plate, his blue eyes darkening with determination.
	Jumbo watches the weak relay throw reach the shortstop. He stands on the plate as Aiden rounds third, charging for home.
	The umpire shouts, “You can’t block the plate without the ball, Rotelli! Get out of the way!”
	Jumbo refuses to move, standing on top of home plate.
	Lowering his shoulder, Aiden runs full speed into Jumbo. 
	Jumbo’s helmet is propelled straight up in the air. His glove and shin guards are ripped from his body, shooting sideways. Cameras flash as the unconscious catcher’s body flattens out in midair, then hits the ground with a dusty thud.
	The shortstop’s late throw barely rolls past second base.
	Aiden’s teammates lift him on their shoulders as the dejected Astros walk off the field, leaving an unconscious Jumbo laying on his back in the dirt.
	Rising out of his Naugahyde recliner, Bosco shakes his fist angrily at the television. “Cheater! Burke cheated me out of a championship!”
	Bosco grabs at the sharp pain in his chest. Hyperventilating, he turns toward the shelf with his son’s trophies. Cradling Jimbo’s headless congeniality trophy, Bosco collapses.
 
 
	Polly pushes Jimbo’s wheelchair onto the deck overlooking Oregon’s remote Silver Lake.
	“Did you finish your evaluation of that boy?” she asks.
	“Yeah. I’m convinced he can be helped. I think his behavioral problems stem from OCD and his parent’s separation.”
	“Another reporter called.”
	“It’s been three years,” Jumbo grouses.
	“But you’ve never answered the question, Jovanny. Why didn’t you move out of the way?”
	“I was tired of living my father’s dream. I wanted it all to end.”
	“Next time, just retire.” 
	“My dad used to say I was going to the Hall of Fame.”
	“You can still go. You’ll just have to buy a ticket to get in like the rest of us commoners. There’s a game on in a few minutes. Dodgers against the Red Sox. You want to watch Aiden hit some home runs?”
	“How about we go fishin’ instead?”
 
 
 
 
","July 27, 2023 17:10","[[{'Michael Jefferson': 'Thanks!', 'time': '11:43 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Jumbo becomes Jimbo towards the end.\nGood portrayal of prompt.', 'time': '00:54 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,lgl700,Stylus,R H Sallow,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lgl700/,/short-story/lgl700/,Character,0,['Funny'],4 likes,"
Carl’s gaming chair, with its cracked upholstery, multitude of off-white and reddish-brown stains, and faint, rotten sweet stench, was only the centerpiece to his vile quarters. There were less putrid decorations strewn about – dirty laundry dating back two months (which amounted to five or six outfits) and knick-knacks and peeling posters of animated characters – but the corners of his room hid the most offensive filth. A moldy, maggot-ridden trash bin was toppled by the closet, welcoming anyone brave enough to enter with a paralyzing odor, and plastic bottles of glassy, amber liquid were tucked underneath the bed, which, unfortunately, were not the only bodily fluids stored away there. How Carl could look at such a grotesque landscape and consider it the apex of comfort was criminal. It was home.
 
Excursions beyond the grimy dungeon walls were rare and trips outside of the house were even more occasional - usually forced on him by his mother who fretted about jaundice and an “unhealthy lack of sunlight”. Carl would argue that he held sunlight in a generally favorable perspective except in two cases: when it was directed at his computer screen, and when it caused temperatures to rise above 80 degrees Fahrenheit, which he deemed unbearable. This dramatic approach to mildly warm temperatures was indeed hyperbole, though it wouldn’t be difficult to imagine weather above the threshold causing him to melt into a slimy puddle of blubber – such was his softness and fragility. But Carl had accepted this. Everyone had. It was his father that accepted it first, that time in little league when the pitcher released a wild pitch to the inside, barely grazing Carl’s knee, sending him and his father into shame as he cried like an infant and was dragged off the field, unwilling to walk on it. Inevitably, others began to notice his utter intolerance for pain and his tendency to give up at the onset of difficulty. This would change, though, if only for a time.
 
In August of 2024, a new animated television show by the name of “Stylus” was released in the United States. Carl’s taste leaned in the direction of Japanese film and television, but he made an exception based on the supposed pop-culture relevance. Carl was unimpressed by the first episode, as voiced in his internet forum post.
 
MEGABOSS044  8/9/24 03:16:24  
Ah, yes, the archetypal superhero origin story! How many times will this trope be beaten to death? If it were only a more compelling character with unique powers, it might be bearable, but Stylus is LITERALLY THE SAME AS GREEN LANTERN! Sure, he has to draw the object instead of imagining it, but it is effectively the same. Oh, I wonder where this one is going…. NOT! Incoming episodes of the protagonist struggling to develop and strengthen his superpower sprinkled with interpersonal conflict with his best friend and a love triangle that will inevitably end with Stylus getting the girl and Clyde accepting his position as the comic relief who will never find love. The ONLY reason I am going to watch the next episode is to feel the satisfaction of my prediction proving true.  
 
Carl waited unenthusiastically for another week until the next episode was released. This time, he was met with surprise.
 
MEGABOSS044  8/15/24 23:54:02  
Well, I suppose I will have to eat my words a bit. I am not often wrong, but I will admit when I am. It was quite refreshing to see Clyde steal some of the spotlight from Stylus. He is the only character that is truly intriguing, and while the other characters offer a marginal level of depth, Clyde is the only character capable of capturing the attention of the most intellectual audience members. Of course, the damsel is reeling in her lapse in judgment and is still head over heels for Stylus, but one can hope that she comes around in the next episodes.
 
That night was grew long for Carl, whose imagination picked away at what the next episode might hold. When he did sleep, he dreamt a chimera of his own world and the world of Stylus. In the following days, he maintained his balanced routine of 10 hours of gaming and 10 hours of sleep, but often both activities were interrupted with nagging curiosity.
 
MEGABOSS044 8/23/24 01:03:58
OH. MY. GOD. HOW DID I NOT SEE THIS COMING! Of course Clyde has superpowers! It should be noted that the producers worked this in quite skillfully, and I suppose I was clouded by my own perceptions to not see it coming. This was a masterpiece beyond that of entertainment. It was a work of art. The battle between Stylus and The Duke foreshadowed doom and utter destruction, BUT THEN! BUT THEN! Clyde channels every emotion in such a beautiful twist, and reveals his superpower! This couldn’t come at a better time, since now it is obvious that Clyde is the true hero. It is such a relief to see Clyde finally given the respect he deserves. And the once deluded Katie has a moment of enlightenment, and overflowing with joy and tenderness, kisses the obvious hero in the heat of her passion – as she should. This episode was PERFECTION.
 
PB&JiffyLube 8/23/24 01:10:11
Dude… Relax.
 
BlastedUnicorn6969 8/23/24 01:11:59
Lol holy cringe what a f****** incel 
 
SilentCruz88 8/23/24 01:22:13
F*** Clyde, team Stylus all the way b****
 
The harsh replies hardly touched Carl amidst the euphoria. He had heard it all before and far worse, whether it was concealed in whispers in those tight circles of peers always forming when he was out of reach or shouted belligerently across the cafeteria. The comments were peripheral – the moment was transcendent. Carl re-watched the episode three times that night, and he looped the battle scene for at least seven. Clyde – misunderstood, timid, sensitive – underwent his metamorphosis, not an evolution, but a change that preserved his core DNA, siphoning the assaults, slander, and abuse, and reforming them into the motive force of his new power.
 
Carl awoke the next morning with a fire in his heart. He couldn’t bear to sit in his chair – that was too sedentary. He needed adventure, to tear down his boundaries and move beyond comfort. Carl remembered Clyde, bloody and beaten, with his strong, soft voice, brimming with determination as he struck The Duke with unpredictable strength. Carl left his room.
 
“Mother, I will be going outdoors today. No need to accompany me.”
 
His mother hovered over the kitchen stove, mouth agape, and a glint of hope filled her eyes.
 
“Enjoy yourself, honey! I’ll have lunch for you when you get back.”
 
Clyde would never burden another by making them provide him a meal.
 
“No, Mother, I think I will forage for my own food.”
 
There was a large creek that wound through the suburb, surrounded by preserved forest that was most often inhabited by drunks or druggies. To Carl, this seemed the most natural place to begin. In order to channel great power like Clyde, he thought, he must dig deep and find his most primal self, and within this primal self he would find the building blocks of unprecedented achievement. He breathed in the sharp, dynamic air powerfully and purposefully. He removed his shoes and his socks – they were only barriers between him and the earth, the ancient roots and the green vegetation’s life force. His stomach rumbled with hunger, as it had been months since he had spent longer than a few hours without food. Returning was not an option. Carl’s eyes narrowed, suddenly realizing the task before him. He must hunt.
Thankfully, the forest floor was not lacking in weaponry. It took all of thirty minutes for Carl to scavenge then assemble a crude spear, sharpened with a stone he found by the creek bed. He beamed at his success. All that was left was to locate his prey, and the rest was primal instinct. Carl waited. Much longer than anticipated. His feet and back ached, his ankles became fodder for mosquitoes, but he would not relent. As the sun grew dim in the orange sky cracked by the tendrils of trees, Carl spotted movement along the water’s bank. It was brief, but it caught his attention, now honed by the intense urge to feast on something. He scanned the bank until he saw it again – a furry brown thing larger than a squirrel, perhaps a beaver of some sort, low and stout and deceivingly quick. Carl fumbled his spear, struck with joy intense and surreal. He wasted no time, trouncing through the woods directly at the beast, leaves crunching loudly with each step. A branch swiped his face as he ran, and for the span of two seconds he considered crying out at the pain. But that’s not what Clyde would do. So Carl continued forward through the cold, knee high water while the furry thing remained calmly stationary. Carl contorted his body into an unbalanced coil, then released it as he heaved the sharpened stick at the rodent. The stick hit the creek bank with an unimpressive thud, and the rodent scurried away into the tall grass.
 
It was not all a failure – Carl had discovered a strength in himself that was previously untapped. However, he still lacked nourishment. As he sat above the creek, leaning on a rotting trunk, watching as the curve of the sun flattened into the horizon, a glint of color shone but a few feet away. The berries were an enticing red, small but appealing. He picked a handful and stuffed them in his mouth, and his tongue met with a bitter juice that resembled tomato.
 
Twilight melted into night, and Carl found himself unable to move. Breaths became swift as a dizzy fog filled his head and an uneasy tightness gripped his stomach. Sweat poured from his glands even though he was horribly cold. But Carl didn’t scream in pain – certainly Clyde wouldn’t have. The pain grew and swelled through his body, and at the moment that the pain was about to break him to pieces, he saw a vision – although it wasn’t as much of a vision as it was his destiny. Carl took up his spear, stood face to face with The Duke, and stuck him through with piercing quickness. He turned, and at his side was a beautiful girl, hair shimmering in the moonlight like water of a pond, eyes like jewels hidden deep in the earth. He took her quickly, not hesitating to touch her ruby lips with his own. He was Clyde. And then, he was not.
","July 28, 2023 21:16",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,27oa5z,Garrett Ruiz,Lou Riel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/27oa5z/,/short-story/27oa5z/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama']",4 likes,"
Garrett Ruiz was not only beautiful, he was also painfully charming. And hypnotic. And intoxicating, like the world’s most expensive cocktail. It didn’t matter what your palette or your tolerance was, you could never consume enough of him. Both of his smiles, his cheeky onscreen smile and his sinless offscreen smile, could generate power for a thousand cities until the planet gave out. His skin was lightly tanned, his proportions were exceptional; not even including the lean muscle gained from vigilant weight training and cardio, he had been blessed with a terrific, shapely body.
 
And he was a talented actor. Nowadays he was drawn to more family sitcoms, like the one he was currently shooting for at studio near the café where I worked. But his repertoire included so much more. Prior to the sitcom, he had already been a part of numerous works in the genres of comedy, drama, and horror, all at such a young age—the epitome of a rising Hollywood star.
 
I was an actor, once. I started working at this café years ago—a side hustle to finance my dreams of acting when I still had qualities that audiences wanted. I was young. My skin was supple and still stuck snugly to my face and arms. I had groovy hair, and I was knowledgeable about styling it. My face wasn’t handsome, but it was personable, and on the right day, in the right lighting, with the right background, it could pass for inviting. My proportions were average, not male lead-average, but supporting best friend character-average.
 
People started telling me that I had real potential to become an actor when I entered high school. Not in the context of school musicals or anything like that. I think everyone just knew how good I was at lying, which, admittedly, was something I took pride in. Starting in my sophomore year, I took formal lessons with an acting coach. I learned later on that most aspiring actors typically started lessons around age 5, which put me at a disadvantage. But I’d also heard of actors finding success with less, or even no formal training at all. Success for me, I figured, would come as a result of exceptional luck and fierce determination.
 
I’d had some mild victories in the beginning. Some restaurant and insurance commercials. The first victim in a gruesome summer slasher. A drunken jock at a house party in a high school Bildungsroman. I remember how I felt when I scored my first speaking role—I was an extra on a crime investigation show, playing a bank robbery hostage who was being held at gunpoint. I only had two lines, yet I was so giddy that I practiced them in front of the bathroom mirror for hours. The lines were “What did you say?” and “I’ll do anything, I swear.” I told all my friends and family to watch it when it aired, and from then on, I figured this was only the beginning. More opportunities would surely come now. And they did, sort of. But nothing significant, nothing that stuck out to people, nothing that would make a moviegoer remember my name. The rejection and lack of opportunities started to get to me. The bills started piling up, so I took more shifts at the café. Eventually, I stopped going to auditions altogether, and just worked full-time at the café. Acting became a dull memory. Not painful or bitter, just dull, like an old ache.
 
By that point, Garrett Ruiz had already established himself as a supporting actor. I didn’t pay him any significant attention at first. He was just a name that popped up every now and then, another up-and-coming actor trying to make something of himself.
 
That was before I met him. It was an early morning shift; opening time was at 4:30 a.m., before the sun was even up. At 5 a.m. I was fine-tuning the espresso machine when the shopkeepers’ bell rang. I looked up from the counter to see Garrett Ruiz walking in through the front door, wearing track pants and a oversized, dark sweater. 
 
I didn’t comment on his identity, even though I knew who he was. I knew actors valued their privacy and didn’t always like being recognized. So I just asked him what would he like to order, and he said a medium iced coffee, double shot with whipped cream. Long day ahead? I asked him. I liked to make idle chat during the bleak hours of the morning shift. He said yes, a thirteen-hour day ahead, in fact. The track pants and sweater made more sense: he was going to a morning shoot. Yikes. I’ll be rooting for you, I told him, which was true. Full day shoots were hell, even if you only had two lines. He said thank you, he’ll give it his best shot, in a real toothy grin that no actor would have on their face at 5 a.m. before a morning shoot. Yet there it was, as plain as day.
 
And he kept coming back. Three, sometimes four times during the week, before a morning shoot. Ordered the same drink, sometimes a blueberry bagel if he hadn’t had time to eat beforehand. In time, he revealed to me on his own that he was an actor who was shooting a pretty popular long-running family sitcom—“You might’ve heard about it,” he said, all nonchalant—at a nearby studio. I surprised myself; almost effortlessly, I feigned shock and amazement. Turns out I wasn’t completely out of practice, which was good to know. We talked a little about what it was like, how the show was progressing, if there was any on-set drama between actors or crew—there’s always drama between actors and crew. We talked briefly about other upcoming projects, what he planned to do once the show ended, which wouldn’t be for a while, he guessed.
 
He only came to the café during shooting period, which was about four months long during the fall. The following season then aired for a couple months from winter to spring. I started watching it on television when I got home. His character was my favorite, multi-layered and lovable, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The role played to his strengths, highlighted why Garrett Ruiz was easily the most competent actor among the cast.
 
After a while, I became curious. A thought suddenly passed through me that just down the street, a hit television show was being filmed. A callback to my old life. I knew Garrett’s show was filmed in front of a live audience, so I decided something. When I got off work, I made my way to the studio and experienced his performance first-hand. I didn’t want Garrett to recognize me—would he think I was following him?—so I didn’t go as the barista from the café up the street. I slipped in as a regular man sporting a dark hoodie, not unlike how Garrett was dressed the first time we met. Experiencing the show being acted out live in front of me was a different experience than seeing it on television, and it brought back heavy memories. Through these older eyes, I could see the bare bones of it all, the rawness of the performers that is usually covered up through video editing before being broadcast. I noticed some flaws in Garrett’s acting that I wouldn’t have caught in the final onscreen product. Er, maybe not so much flaws as things that could be done better.
 
He made creative choices that I didn’t quite agree with. Like how he delivered certain lines. Or how he used his hands to convey certain emotions. These could, and would, likely not be a problem after editing, but I knew he could do better. I thought hard about how I might deliver those lines or how I might use my own hands, and then, one day, I tried to offer him some advice, feedback from an outsider’s perspective. He didn’t like that. He didn’t get angry, but I could tell I’d made him uncomfortable. Looking back on it, it seemed obvious it would make him uncomfortable. Who wouldn’t feel uncomfortable? Nobody wants to be told criticism about their profession to their face from some has-been, especially before a thirteen-hour shift. It was a stupid, intrusive thing to do and I felt a deep shame for doing it, so I never did it again.
 
But my thoughts on his performance didn’t go away. I was still bursting with ideas that could boost his career and blow away his audience. Don’t misunderstand me; I adored Garrett Ruiz and his career. But I had rediscovered my love for theater, and there was no quelling that again. I had so many subtle ideas that could make him shine brighter than he already did.
 
But I didn’t ever want to make him uncomfortable again. I was lucky that he even came back to the café after my criticism. I knew I couldn’t ever talk about my ideas to his face, so I started sending him mail. Well-meaning critiques that I could put eloquently into words. From “fans.” I knew he might not take it seriously if they all came from the same person, so I conjured multiple personalities and sent letters from several different “fans” all over the country, some of whom were acting coaches, high school drama teachers, and small-time critics. To balance the criticism, I also sent letters of praise, gushing and acclamatory, from secret admirers, aspiring actors, and long-time fans of the show. The point of it all was to raise him up as well as guide him, to encourage him to act forever.
 
At first, I couldn’t tell if he was reading the letters. Nothing about his acting seemed to change. But one day, while he was filming a scene where his character needed to get angry, I noticed his bottom lip start to tremble. Sitting in the audience, I had to suppress the violent urge to bolt up from my seat. That was my doing! I told him to do that! And he listened! He took on some of my other suggestions, as well, and soon enough I had my proof; the letters were getting through. I was getting through.
 
After five years of this, the news broke that the show would not be renewed for another season. I was saddened to hear this, but I knew that no show lasted forever. And for a show to be on the air as long as this one was—that was impressive. And it was all thanks to Garrett Ruiz, whom I never saw again in person after the show ended. Allegedly, the show was supposed to end three seasons ago, but his involvement alone was enough to keep pulling in viewership, which kept the show alive. Only when he decided it was time for the show to end, so he could begin new projects—he had already signed up to headline two summer blockbusters in the coming year—did it become so. He never came back to the café. I had often hoped that he would pop by just to check in on me, just to say hello, thank you for serving me my morning coffee all these years. After a while, I lost my hope in that. I don’t think I was a very memorable person to him. I don’t think he even remembered my name, but that didn’t matter. Because of me, people would never forget his.
","July 29, 2023 01:25",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,4zy708,Tomorrow and Tomorrow,Sav Lightwood,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4zy708/,/short-story/4zy708/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fantasy', 'Friendship']",4 likes,"
Outside, the inky cloak of nightfall. A starless night cradled a city of muted steel, bathed in the glow of sterile streetlights and the whirr of infrequent cars. Inside, however, was a different realm entirely. Like the peak of dawn, the tavern was ardent with activity, alive with hearty cheer and the glow of warm firelight. Ale and lager flowed vivaciously on tap, the odd scent of scrumptious pub food and excited patrons dissipated into the high, crystal-crusted ceiling.
 
Bustling backpacks. Clinking coins. No matter what time of day, the Adventurer’s Guild found itself lighting the way. The commonplace of conversation, commotion, and chatter - adventurers kicking back for a job well done, lining up for their next glimmer of coin.
 
“Aha! What do we have here?”
 
Sword at his back and soot on his tunic, the ash-faced gladiator laid a stack of newly-minted Hunt Bills on the table.
 
A practice as old as the world itself - Hunt Bills were the Adventurer’s Guild way of detailing and distributing quests to those brave/foolish enough to risk their lives. Printed on thin slabs of wood and stamped with the Chamber of Commerce’s mark of guarantee, Hunt Bills were an efficient but archaic way of writing cheques for adventurers.
 
“An awful lot of monster quests.” The dark elf chuckled in a voice that had no ill intent but was just so stereotypically evil-sounding, “Is thy in a killing mood, Adam?”
 
Adam shrugged nervously.
 
With sharp eyes and nimble fingers, the half-human, half-cat trickster swept half the cards in a swift sleight. He shuffled them between his fingers like toys, scouting out the handsomest deal.
 
“No job is too daunting if the coin is good.”
 
“You’d sell thy mother if the coin was good.”
 
“And my father too.” He scoffed without a whiff of sarcasm. “Now shut up and help me pick something, F’rahim.”
 
For a brief flicker, the guild’s boisterous energy ebbed, surrendering to a poignant of silence. Eyes were torn from tankards and tales as a sweet-looking dwarf, swathed in an impractical white cloak and too many scarves and ribbons for the pungent summer air, stepped into the threshold. Her innocuous appearance belied her reputation; but a single glance of the dragon-shaped tattoo beneath her left eye and the immaculate staff of never-melting ice that idled at her harness, everyone knew that they were dealing with a top of the shelf, S-class mage.
 
As the knowledge rippled through the crowd, the usual cacophony of the guild resumed, but with a newfound respect in every glance thrown her way.
 
“F’rahim. Soju.” She saluted as she plopped herself unceremoniously on the shortest stool available. “Adam.”
 
Adam smiled gingerly.
 
“Always so late, Diane.”
 
“It’s not my fault I’m actually employed.” Diane said as she beckoned for an apple cider. “Actually, maybe it is. It’s not my fault I need money to pay rent.”
 
“Touche.”
 
Diane glanced at Adam, letting her eyes linger just long enough for him to notice that she had caught him staring. Startled, he looked away, the floor suddenly looking so much more interesting than the Hunt Bills on the table and the incredibly powerful wizard who sat before him.
 
“How was your day, Adam?”
 
Adam offered a thumbs-up.
 
“Good to hear.”
 
“Hear?” Soju snickered, his pointed eyes peering above the cards like a cat on a window sill.
 
Diane shot the thief a piercing, icicle-imbued look. Soju muttered an unimpressed apology and returned to rummaging through the Hunt Bills, as if he were looking for the last chip in the Pringle jar.
 
Adam’s fingers grazed the Hunt Bills, the coarse parchment grounding him amidst the situation. He closed his eyes - not literally, that would be too obvious - hoping the knot in his stomach would dissipate into the summer wind.
 
Any onlooker observing this quartet might find themselves bewildered. Sure, Adam was undeniably a capable warrior. Disciplined. Calculated. Steady. His training evident in his battle stance and the callouses against his palms. He stood his own against the monsters that roamed the land. Yet, compared to his extraordinary comrades - F’rahim who brought down arcane magics and divine summons through his enigmatic tome; Soju who could deceive, disarm, and dismantle anyone with nothing more than a dagger and his natural dexterity - Adam couldn’t help but feel so strikingly pedestrian, so viciously uninteresting.
 
He didn’t bother comparing himself to Diane.
 
“What do you feel like running today, Adam? Treasure hunt? Gathering?” Diane took a swig of her cider, the mug looking cartoonishly large compared to her stubby, gnome-like body.
 
One card caught Adam’s eye, glimmering with the allure of danger and profit. A silver-ranked mission featuring a monster betrothed from a childrens’ horrior story. The crude sketch on the card hinted at an entity swathed in sinewy vines, its menacing silhouette decorated with rows of serrated teeth. Tendrils stretched outwards, a reign of terror over a tempest-ravaged swamp.
 
The journey itself would be no small feet, requiring at least a day and half via horse and carriage. Yet, the promise of reward was equally monumental. Success would not just cover their travel expenses, but leave the party with a hefty surplus. Adam could order himself a customised set of gleaming plate armour - perhaps even a glistening shield for his troubles.
 
“A boss raid.” Diane nodded, her voice curious but serious. “It plays to your strengths as Paladin.”
 
Adam’s smile was shaky. He wasn’t technically a Paladin yet. However, this mission provided an opportunity, steeped with challenge and brimming with potential. If he could triumph in a trial like this, he might just accrue enough commendations to qualify for the all-important examination.
 
He thought of himself, among the ranks of the royal guard, and gradually his nervous smile thinned into a line of determination.
 
F’rahim and Soju inspected the mission conditions - and by conditions, we meant the remuneration. They traded looks of silent communication, eyes glistening with greed - F’rahim who lusted over the prospect of forbidden knowledge and arcane learning, and Soju who simply wanted more cash to store under his bed.
 
“Guess it’s settled. Let’s take out the boss raid.” 
 
As his companions jostled one another, disappearing to secure their mode of transport, Adam strode purposefully to the Adventurer’s Guild reception desk. With fierce resolution, he announced the team’s decision to confront the looming swamp monster - not by shouted words or written text, but with a thumbs-up and an assuring smile.
 
Adam’s gaze was drawn to the trio, their avatars flickering under the pixelated glow of the guild’s lanterns. Their ages, true faces, and real names were hidden behind the guise of their online personas. Yet, despite this digital divide, the camaraderie between them was as true as reality.
 
It was a lot more colourful than reality, too.
 
Crude. Gross. Musty. The air was thick with the raw odour of instant noodle seasoning, dried out and long forgotten. The room’s only sources of light were the pulsating RGB hues of her gaming keyboard and the bluish radiance from her monitors - casting an alien glow in the dim space.
 
Her body clung uncomfortably against her chair. She hadn’t showered in three days. She hadn’t logged off in seven - her physical existence blurring into the background as her virtual life took precedence. When her companions logged off. She meandered along the digital landscapes, eagerly awaiting their return.
 
The world of spellbound forests and mythical beasts was far more compelling, far more accepting than the concrete prison she was obligated to call her place of birth.
 
She found solace in Adam - in all his amateur gallantry. Under his guise, nobody would ask anything difficult of her. No probing questions. No unwelcome expectations. Her silence was respected here; well, most of the time. Her refusal to use voice chat was met with understanding, not suspicion. The assumption of her being a ‘he’ too was a welcome reprieve.
 
A mask she preferred, really. But that was a conversation for another day.
 
She wondered what they would think if they knew.
 
“Adam, are thee geared up?” F’rahim called from beneath his hood, anxious for a killing.
 
While the outside world hummed with its mundane realities - the relentless drone of academia, the unyielding grind of corporate work - in this online realm, she had found a second home. A virtual sanctuary, where she could break away from the expectations thrust upon her and instead become the authors of her own story, the hero of a never-ending regalia.
 
Adam nodded with a wide, face-splitting smile, taking his seat in the rickety carriage. More adventures were yet to unfold, tomorrow and forevermore - an intoxicating antidote to the ennui of the everyday.
 
","July 29, 2023 01:46","[[{'Michelle Oliver': 'I liked this. It’s so true that there is comfort and security in an online persona with its associated anonymity. You have a very lyrical style in this piece, which deftly weaves a sense of a fantasy realm.\n“Outside, the inky cloak of nightfall. A starless night cradled a city of muted steel, bathed in the glow of sterile streetlights…” such a poetic opening that grabs attention and leads us into the magic of your online world. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '14:03 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,lygt38,Goodbye,Sivashankary Gopalsamy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lygt38/,/short-story/lygt38/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Teens & Young Adult']",4 likes,"
March 10th. 2015
 
As the sun sets in the distance, the mourners start to disperse. One by one, they turn and walk away, giving Roxanne a gentle pat on the shoulder, or a sympathetic nod as they pass her on the way out. Eventually, she’s the only one left, stony-faced, still staring at the fresh mound of earth beneath which her best friend now rests. Pretty white and pink roses are strewn on the grave, and as the trees sway in the cool, gentle breeze, the weight of the reality finally hits her: Janet is gone. Her best friend of 30 years is gone. She’s never coming back. Ever.  
 
Roxanne heaves a sigh of relief. 
----------------------------------------------------------------
January 25th. 2000
 
“No, no, no! Janet! Wake up!” Roxanne’s shrill voice rent the otherwise still air, her screams echoing off the walls of the empty building. Tears streamed down her bony cheeks as regret flooded her entire being. Her trembling body was bent over the motionless girl lying flat on her back, limp, blonde hair plastered across her face. Janet William’s pale face looked lifeless, although the gentle rise and fall of her ribs indicated otherwise. At first glance, she didn’t seem hurt. But her legs. Her pudgy legs were bent at odd angles, almost as if they’d been pulled violently apart. 
 
Roxanne couldn’t breathe. How could she have been so careless? How could she, Roxanne Jones, a state swimmer, have let her guard down for a minute? She shouldn’t have gone along with this stupid idea. Everyone knew that the disused swimming pool was cursed. How could she have allowed Janet to get to the top of the diving platform? 30 metres above the ground, built over 20 years ago and hadn’t been maintained in the last 5 years. The platform wasn’t sturdy. Definitely not sturdy enough to support a 150-pound teen with no experience whatsoever in diving.
 
Perhaps if she’d fallen into the water beneath, Janet would’ve been fine. Maybe a few scratches, or a bumped head even, but still fine. But she’d hit the cold cement with such a sickening thud. Perhaps if Roxanne had been able to grab onto her friend’s flailing arms as she teetered on the edge of the platform, Janet would have been all right. Perhaps if Roxanne hadn’t also climbed onto the platform, Janet wouldn’t have lost her balance in the first place.      
 
They didn’t know it then, but that one moment of stupidity (or was it misfortune?) had altered the course of their lives forever. 
----------------------------------------------------------------
September 20th. 2002
 
“You’re going to resign?? Again??” Janet screeched at the top of her lungs. “But you promised to stick to this job! No other job will pay as well as this, and we need the money, remember??” 
 
“You need the money, you mean,” Roxanne muttered bitterly under her breath, inaudible to anyone but her. This was not the life she had envisioned for herself. She had once harboured great aspirations, aspirations that seemed certain at that time. Winning the state swimming championship just over 3 years ago had caught the attention of the top sports schools in the country, and she was sought after by world-class coaches who’d promised to send her to the Olympics. She was so close to her dreams; so close. 
 
“Roxanne? Are you listening? We need the money. We’re supposed to go for that Taylor Swift concert in Singapore next month. Aren’t you excited for that? And our Europe tour later this year? Isn’t that on your bucket list? 
 
Roxanne forced herself to look at Janet. Her best friend. The girl with whom she grew up at the orphanage. The girl who’d been by her side since they were toddlers. The girl who’d been confined to a wheelchair since that horrible incident 2 years ago. Janet looked hurt, tears starting to pool in her eyes. It took very little to set her off these days. Janet’s once-bubbly personality had been crippled along with her legs. Initially distraught after the doctor’s declaration that she’d never walk again, she’d now come to terms with it. But Roxanne became everything since then. Even as children, they were inseparable, but now, it was as if Roxanne was her lifeline. All of Roxanne’s ambitions had to be abandoned; all of her desires were put on the back burner. Janet’s needs, and wants, took precedence over all else. Whatever Janet wanted, she got. Through Roxanne. Janet was living through Roxanne.  
 
Despite her frustration, Roxanne thawed. Although she wanted to scream at the unfairness of it, her expression softened. Once again, she was consumed by the familiar guilt. It was after all, partially her fault that Janet was now in this state. 
 
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t quit the job. We’re definitely making the concert and the tour. Two items off our bucket list,” Roxanne heard herself say, kneeling so she could hold Janet’s hand.
 
This was how all of their disagreements were resolved – with Roxanne conceding. 
 ---------------------------------------------------------------
 June 10th. 2005
 
“You want me to what??” Roxanne bellowed. 
 
“Trust me; it’ll all be worth it -” Janet’s sentence was cut short by Roxanne’s outburst.
 
“You want me to be a surrogate?? Carry your child? Are you insane?? You do know that I’m engaged right? Marc and I plan to start a family one day when we’re ready. That’s probably years away. Who’s going to raise this child of yours then? Or are we all going to live together for the rest of our lives? How much more are you going to ask of me, Janet? Haven’t I given up enough for you??” 
 
Roxanne knew instantly that she’d gone too far. The expression on Janet’s face said it all. Her features were contorted in agony, and tears cascaded down her cheeks like a burst dam.
 
“I-I can’t b-believe you just said that!” Janet’s voice broke as she yelled. “Given up enough for me?? If you hadn’t dared me to jump off that wretched platform that day, I’d still have a life! If you’d stopped me from climbing up those steps, I wouldn’t now be a paraplegic! If you’d grabbed me when I reached out for you, I’d probably be a wife and a mother today!”
 
Roxanne felt like she’d been slapped. She always wondered if Janet truly blamed her for the mishap. Now she finally got her answer. And it stung. In that moment, words failed her.
 
Janet wasn’t done. 
 
“Since you’re the reason my life has gone down the drain, don’t you think this is the least you can do for me?? You know how much I love children, right? It’s probably one of my dearest dreams, which I can no longer achieve, no thanks to you! So you think 9 months of carrying a child is worse than 5 bloody years in a wheelchair? 5 years and a lifetime to go! You owe me this!” 
 
Roxanne sank into the couch, covering her ears, refusing to listen. 
----------------------------------------------------------------
August 2nd. 2008
 
The smell in the doctor’s office was oddly comforting. Roxanne winced when the cold gel was applied to her growing belly, but she was eager to see the ultrasound image of the life within her womb. Janet looked ecstatic of course, seated in her wheelchair by the foot of the bed, squeezing Roxanne’s foot reassuringly.
 
“Did you feel any movements today, Ms. Jones?” the doctor’s concerned voice boomed after a few minutes. 
 
The smile on Roxanne’s face faltered. 
 
“I t-think so,” she stammered, looking at Janet for confirmation.
 
“Is something wrong??” Janet’s voice was laced with panic.
 
“I’m afraid I can’t detect a heartbeat, Ms. William. I’m very sorry.”
 
And just like that, their second surrogacy attempt came to naught too. Both Janet and Roxanne grieved, but in different ways. While Roxanne withdrew into her own cocoon, Janet was more vocal. Her heartbreak was too painful to contain. She bawled her eyes out daily, inconsolable, irrational. For Roxanne, the pain was beyond words. Granted, she’d been a reluctant participant initially, but with each attempt, the idea had grown on her. She’d broken off her engagement with Marc, choosing to put Janet first, as usual. She’d devoted all her time and energy to this. She was so invested. She felt like a failure; she’d failed Janet once again. 
----------------------------------------------------------------
March 10th. 2015
 
Roxanne heaves a sigh of relief. A part of her aches at the thought of spending the years ahead without her best friend, but another part feels as though she’s been liberated. But the guilt is something she’ll carry with her forever. Janet managed to live her life to some extent through Roxanne, but many of her dreams remain unfulfilled. 
 
The past few years have been rough. Janet’s health took a turn for the worse after a bout of pneumonia about a year ago. Recurrent infections and hospital admissions became more frequent until last night, when Janet finally gave up. 
 
“Goodbye Janet. I hope you’re in a better place now,” Roxanne whispers as she takes a step back and finally leaves the cemetery. 
 
 
","July 25, 2023 10:03",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,2ssg0t,The Allure of Tracy Station,Madeline Honig,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2ssg0t/,/short-story/2ssg0t/,Character,0,['Fiction'],3 likes,"
Tessa had worked at The Whiskey Barrel for nearly four years now.  The town folk knew it for its cheeseburger and stake fries, cold domestic beers, and enough whiskey to drown a horse. If she wanted to stay in the small town of Frankville limited her choices of employment and the fear of leaving this place was nerve-racking.  The owner of the Whiskey Barrel coached her high school soccer team so it was an easy in.  Most people in this town worked at the local slaughterhouse, but the smell had caused Tessa to become a vegan early in life and so that did not seem like a possibility for her.  
 
Tessa wiped table four clean for the next customer who may walk through the door when she heard grumblings from the television hanging over the bar.  It was a Tuesday afternoon, right after the lunch rush, and so the restaurant was empty, except for Fred in the kitchen.  She took a seat at the booth, eyes transfixed on the television.  
 
The television chirped as Tessa listened carefully, “after only six months after their breakup Tom Smitton was seen cuddling with model, Fiona O’Neal leaving Tracy Station in tears.”  The television showed a split screen.  On one side the famous actor Tom Smitton cuddled up with a beautiful woman that Tessa had never seen before.  On the other Tessa saw the familiar face of Tracy Station with a frown on her face.  
 
“Oh come on.  That picture was taken six months before they even broke up,” Tessa said to herself, standing up from the booth as soon as the television focused on other celebrity news.
 
The door chimed and Tessa looked up to see a customer she knew very well, Mr. Finkle.  She took her place at the bar to pour him his usual Coors Light and place his order for the chicken sandwich.
 
Later that evening, after Tessa had showered and changed into a comfortable oversized t-shirt and pink and white striped men’s boxers she had purchased at WalMart when she was a teenager, she opened her phone to scroll through Instagram.  When she didn’t see what she was looking for, she clicked on the magnifying glass and typed “Tracy Station.” 
 
The first photo was of Tracy in a bikini.  The caption read, “against popular belief, I am doing just fine and I am living my best life.”  She had posted this the day after her breakup with Tom was made public.  It appeared as though she had not posted anything new.  
 
Tessa scrolled further, finding pictures she had looked at a million times before of Tracy with other beautiful people looking happy and living their best lives.  Tessa wished she could have this life.  It was all she ever wanted since she first spotted Tracy Station in a Quinton Terentino movie three years ago.  Since then, Tracy Station had became the biggest star in Hollywood.  
 
She opened the DMs and typed out a quick message, “I hope everything is going okay.  You can always talk to me if you need a shoulder to cry on.” 
 
Tessa put the phone down with hesitation and waltzed into the bathroom.  She looked at herself in the mirror, putting her hands on either side of her face and pulled up.  She then pushed out her lips.  She made this face a million times because that is now the only way she could see it:  Tracy Station’s face looking back at her.  
 
She relaxed her face, glancing into the hallway at the framed photo Tessa took from her parent’s house when she was a child of about five.  Sitting next to her was her older identical twin sister, Tracy.
 
The pair were thick as thieves growing up, never leaving each other's side.  But a fight over a boy the summer after their high school graduation gave Tracy the guts to escape Frankville.  It appeared Tracy denied her past, changing her name and never referring to Frankville or her life prior to the media.  It had been years since Tessa had spoken to her twin.  And although there was no way Tracy could still be upset about the boy, she felt as though if Tracy wanted to speak to her, she would have.  This was not the first DM she had sent Tracy, but she never received a response, a telling sign that her sister no longer wanted anything to do with her. 
 
Then a thought occurred to Tessa, what if there was a way to get into Tracy’s Instagram?  Instagram had been, up until recently, her only connection to her sister.  If she could get into Tracy’s instagram, perhaps she could find some personal information about her sister.  Perhaps, she met a man and gave him her number.  Perhaps, she met up with someone, providing a place near her home.  There must be a clue somewhere in there. 
 
She logged out of her own Instagram, landing her on the Instagram login page.  She entered Tracy’s handle, “TheRealTracy” and thought for a moment.  In the password field, she entered their birthday.  “Wrong password.” Tessa thought again, their mother’s birthday.  “Wrong password.”  She tried “Frankville” and was greeted with a picture of a beautiful man without an ounce of fat on his body standing on a paddleboard.  She was in.
 
Tessa navigated to the DMs and fingered through them.  They all appeared to be from adoring fans looking for a bit of Tracy’s attention.  It couldn’t possibly hurt to respond to them.  It would only give them hope, Tessa reasoned.
 
She opened a DM at random, “Hi Tracy.  I am your biggest fan.  But I really want to know, is Tom Smitton really as good in bed as he looks?” 
 
Tessa felt odd about responding for Tracy regarding her sister’s sex life, but Tessa was not Tessa at this moment, she was Tracy Station.  “He is even better **winky face emoji**” send. Tessa was not expecting to feel this good pretending to be Tracy.  So she went to the next one.
 
“Could you wish my mom a happy birthday?  Her handle is @KarenMommySmith.  It’s next Tuesday” 
 
Tessa clicked on the handle and typed out a quick message “Happy Birthday @KarenMommySmith.  Sorry I’m eight months late.” 
 
Tessa clicked on the next message, typing out a quick response and then another and another.  Then she saw a message that made her stop.  
 
A message from Blane York, the quarterback of the Tennessee Titans.  “Hey Tracy.  Had a great time last night.  Hope to see you again.” 
 
Was she really about to reply to a professional football player?  Was her sister so famous that she had this type of pull with other celebrities?  It never occurred to her that other celebrities would also be interested to get to know her sister.  
 
She thought for a second before typing out her response, “sorry for the delay.  I have been so busy.  Can we meet up?”  If this worked, Tessa would be meeting and possibly finding out where her sister was.
 
He responded almost immediately, “Your place or mine?” Tessa’s heart skipped a beat.  Her intention was to never bed the quarterback, but to speak with him.   By telling him he was speaking with the wrong sister she could deter him from meeting with her so she decided to follow along. 
 
She could not meet this man in Frankville, that would be a dead giveaway that she was not Tracy.  Her only hope was making her way out of this town and into Nashville.  
 
Tessa responded to the quarterback and after some back and forth, she packed a few day’s worth of clothes.  She was going to start her search in Nashville.
 
The next three months, Tessa felt like she was living in a dream.  At first she never intended to emulate her sister, but it was too easy, everyone assumed she was Tracy and showered her with admiration, which included a life of luxury.  She took out a credit card using Tracy’s real name and social security number, only a few digits off of her own.  Since she had had a modest life, it was difficult to say no. 
 
Each time she went out on the town with new friends, they urged her to post pictures on Instagram and tag them.  Not wanting to disappoint her new friends, she obliged.  It seemed to become a cycle of meeting new celebrities and partying at their penthouses or on their yachts.  
 
Tessa woke up, touching her fingers to her forehead to relieve the pounding in her head.  She glanced over to see a man with bleached blonde hair under her hotel bed covers.  Looking down, she could see tattoos covered his body.  They covered many of the celebrity men in tattoos these days.  She maneuvered herself to see the face of her companion.   The face looked vaguely familiar but she could not place it.
 
She shrugged and climbed out of the bed slowly to not wake her companion.  She found the bathroom of the suite and sat down on the toilet to relieve herself.  
 
Her phone buzzed, startling her.  She jumped, wiping herself clean before picking up the phone to see “Unknown” across the screen.  Everyone she had met in the past three months would purposely block their numbers, so this was no surprise to her.  She was unsure of which one was calling but answered, anyway.
 
“Are you using my identity?” The voice on the other end said.  Was this her sister?  Did her sister finally reappear to take back her fame?
 
“Who is this?” 
 
“You know who this is.”
 
“I…” Tessa started.
 
“Tessa, if you don’t stop, I will have you arrested for identity theft.” 
 
Tessa's heart sank.  All she wanted was to find her sister, she never intended to be her sister.  The realization that her deception had finally caught up with her hit her. The weight of guilt and shame descended upon her, as she understood the gravity of her actions.
 
""I'm so sorry, Tracy,"" Tessa whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. ""I never meant for things to get this far. I was so desperate to find you.""
 
“I didn’t want to be found.  I wanted to escape Frankville and never look back.""
 
“You mean you wanted to escape me?” Tessa asked as Tracy’s heart sank. 
 
The sisters both knew that the other one was right. For Tessa, living a lie had only brought her temporary satisfaction, but it had cost her the trust and love of her twin which she desperately craved.
 
""I promise, Tracy, I'll stop,"" Tessa said with a heavy heart.  The only way to stop was to go back to Frankville and go back to The Whiskey Barrel.
 
“Wait, I have an idea.” 
 
Two weeks later, Mr. Finkle sat at the Whiskey Barrel watching the celebrity news the new bartender had put on the television.  He watches intently as a familiar face appears on the television.  It pipes out, “Tracy Station has came out of hiding and is appearing with a new love interest.  No, it’s not a man.  Tracy recently reunited with her long-lost twin sister Tessa Station…” 
 
 
 
 
","July 28, 2023 00:24",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,xcxo9y,Glory and Sacrifice ,Eric E,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xcxo9y/,/short-story/xcxo9y/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",3 likes,"
	The clouds hung low in the sky like pillowy mountains that were mysteries to those who gazed up at them. Above them the sun burned evenly, spreading an indolent haze. Below them, it was the first day of Wimbledon and the green was strikingly verdant against the array of colours the spectators wore. Nikola Marusic was preparing to serve, and he approached the ball boy behind him who brought out three balls. The ball boy’s name was Max Hunter and he tried his best to stop his hands from shaking as his idol approached him. Marusic towered above Max’s lanky sixteen-year-old frame like a giant, though the similarities stopped there as his face seemed chiselled from granite, all sharp lines and perfectly proportioned. The rest of his body was sleek and powerful - coiled tendons and inherent explosiveness ready to be unleashed.
 
	“Which one is the oldest?” asked Marusic. Max held out the one in his left hand, knowing it had already been used for a few serves by his opponent and Marusic pocketed it, along with one of the other ones. Max had studied Marusic’s game for so long that he understood his tendencies, that an older ball was best for rallies, and he wanted to save that for his second serve.  For the first serve, it was best to have a new ball, especially if he was going for an ace. Marusic looked at him for a moment and it was as if he really saw him for the first time. He nodded and turned to prepare his serve. Marusic’s serve was exquisite and landed near the line, but his opponent was not able to get it. The crowd clapped politely as a clipped British accent pronounced: “15 – love.” Marusic pumped a fist and returned behind the line to prepare his next serve; Max watched with glory in his eyes.
 
	The match continued with the expected grit of two top 5 contenders: fault, deuce, set point, et cetera, as the players spilled their sweat on the grass and Max waited for his turn to pounce, retrieving balls with precision, just as his training had taught him. There were moments, in the second before a serve, where that fraction of time seemed to stretch the very fabric of what a second actually was and Max would stare at Nikola Marusic and wish that he were him. He’d played throughout school and was fairly competitive against people his own age but had never had the prodigious skill or freakish athleticism required to play at the highest level. To him, players like Marusic were like the mythological Gods of Olympus, colossus astride the Earth, capable of bending the seemingly immutable laws of space and time.
 
	Hours later, Marusic was trying to bury his opponent and win match point. Max watched as his idol’s racket swung with unabashed fury, as if he were controlled by some malevolent force intent on the destruction of the ball, yet capable of controlling it with precision. The ball outpaced his opponent to the corner and the crowd cheered as the voice exclaimed: “Match Marusic.”
 
	There he was, his arms in the air, his face beleaguered but buoyed by the adrenaline of victory. He shook hands with his opponent and the officials and waved at the crowd, then went to his seat under an umbrella. He dug around in his bag for a moment and eventually pulled out a fresh towel that he dried himself with. He stood up and walked over to Max, who was standing at his post, as was customary for ball boys until the players left the court. Max felt his heart flutter as Marusic approached him and he hoped he hadn’t done something wrong, though he quickly realised his anxiety was misplaced when Marusic held out his hand to shake. Max did and felt a piece of paper being placed into his palm. Marusic spoke, and now that the fog of battle had cleared, his voice was calm, the Serbian accent there but smoothened with years of public relations training: “Put this in your pocket and look at it later. Good job today.”
 
	Max Hunter immediately put his hand in his pocket and deposited the slip of paper there as he smiled back at the man who seemed to emanate light.
*
	That evening, Max Hunter got off the train at Clapham Junction and walked towards the address on the slip of paper. The message accompanying it was vague: You know the game well. Come by and speak with me this evening. Keep it secret. He memorised the address, ripped up the paper and told his parents he was going to dinner with some school friends. His destination was a house that Marusic had rented, and it was larger than most in Southwest London. He knocked on the door and his mind flooded with terror: why had he been asked here? Was he in trouble and this some kind of trap? Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, was the exhilaration that can only accompany meeting someone who holds the very balance of the world in their hands. The door opened and Nikola Marusic smiled at him. He wore a loose top with buttons undone at the top and tight chinos.
 
	“Ah, come in. Glad you made it. I like my own space, so my team, they are in a place around the corner.”
 
	Max stepped into the house and looked around, taking in its opulence as Marusic guided him into the sitting room. His eyes noted the blinds drawn and Marusic caught him, stating with derision: “Can never be too careful with these paparazzi, yes?”
 
	 Marusic walked over to the counter where there was a pitcher of clear liquid.
 
	“You will have a drink of celebration with me, yes?”
 
	“Uh, yes, sir. I would.”
 
	Marusic poured two drinks and walked over, handing one to Max. “Call me Nikola, please.”
 
	Max nodded and sipped his drink; the fragrance of gin invaded his mouth and stung as he swallowed. Nikola now laid his eyes on him and there was something curious and inquisitive in them.
 
	“So, tell me about yourself.”
 
	Max did, and stammered and faltered through an abridged story of his short life: born and raised in Southwest London, private schools, loving tennis as a child, playing and practising as often as possible, having some success but nothing major, going to the try-out for ball kid at Wimbledon and making it through, studying the game and, with a blush to conclude, studying his game.
 
	Marusic sipped his drink, but his eyes didn’t ever leave Max. “This does not surprise me,” he said. “The way you move on the court to get the ball, your eyes, they tell me that you know how the game works. You anticipate, yes?”
 
	Max nodded and sipped his drink which he was surprised to see was almost finished. Marusic noticed this as well and chuckled: “Ah, you drink quickly. Let me fill your cup.”
 
	Before Max could tell him that wasn’t necessary, he had retrieved the pitcher and refilled it.
 
	“So, you tell me about your time playing. Maybe I can help you. Show me your serve,” said Marusic, and with a magician’s flourish brought a brand-new racket out from behind the sofa. “You go over where there is some space,” he said as he pointed to a clearing in the palatial sitting room. Max stood up and took the racket, feeling as if the only possible explanation for what was happening was that he was dreaming and somehow lucid. He picked up the racket and bent his knees, brought the racket back as he imagined the ball floating upwards and swung the racket down, making a whoosh sound in the still air. Marusic nodded and stood up.
 
	“See, here is your problem. It is your hips.” He moved to stand behind him and his chest was now against Max’s back; he could smell aftershave and gin but could sense the power of the man that seemed to ooze from him. He placed his hands on Max’s hips and moved them gently, showing through motion the way the hips should open, how the legs should propel the serve, utilising all the larger muscle groups in the body.
 
	“Okay, now your try,” said Marusic as he sat back down and sipped his drink, the dark eyes never leaving him. Max did a few more serves, trying to navigate through the gin and sheer panic he felt.
 
	“See, this is better. I can tell you have something special,” he said. “You know, if you practise like this, one day, maybe when you finish school, you can come on my team. Work with us to win.” His eyes spoke of an opportunity that wasn’t extended to many and he awaited a response.
 
	“Wow. Um, well yes, of course! That would be incredible. I’ve always dreamed of… working with you.” Max blushed again but had begun to feel at this point as if his mind was no longer tethered to his reality.
 
	“Of course,” said Marusic, “You need to make sacrifices. Friendships and things like this – these are for the weak. For the people in this world who have no conviction, no desire. Are you weak like them?”
 
	“No, si- I mean, no. Nikola. I’m not weak. I would love to work on your team.”
 
	A smile across the granite face and the eyes, still dark, still unwavering. “Good,” he said. “Now, come up with me. I need your help with something.”
 
	Marusic rose and went towards a winding staircase and said nothing else. Max Hunter followed him.
	*
	The bedroom was enormous, and everything was white with black trim. On the walls were paintings of pastoral landscapes.
 
	“Just have a seat,” Marusic said. He went into the bathroom and came out in a robe a few minutes later. “I have some very bad soreness in my back. You don’t mind helping?”
 
	Here, Max felt a line being crossed, but that part of his brain was being outvoted by the notion that it was perfectly normal for athletes to get massages and that it was actually an honour to be able to do this and that he needed to sacrifice for his future. Marusic lay on the bed and slipped his robe down to his hips. Deeper in Max’s mind were the thoughts that only came out at night when he was in bed, watching highlights of this very man and thinking about what his body would feel like. As he placed his hands on the sinewy back, he felt himself step back into his own consciousness. The tether had been reeled in and every sensation was now real as he felt the supple flesh that was full of life beneath his fingertips.
 
	“Get the oil,” Marusic said through the towel at his face and pointed towards the dresser. Max did and poured some onto his hands, rubbing them together. He massaged and pressed and leaned his weight into his work until Marusic spoke again: “Stop for a second.”
 
	 With that, he rolled onto his back. The robe was still around his hips but there was a slight protrusion in the fabric. “You know, it’s very common for members of the team to… help out. You know? Only if you want to.” As he said this, he sat up, his abs perfectly chiselled, his eyes on Max still unwavering, still dark. Max’s hands moved without his brain asking them to as he took Marusic into his hands and moved them up and down. Eventually, Marusic sat up and turned Max onto his stomach with the towel on his face. Max felt something painful inside of him and he winced with a gasp; Nikola Marusic shushed him and grabbed a handful of hair.
 
	Later that night, Max snuck quietly into his house. His parents were asleep, and he knew they might give him a hard time for being so late, but they were lenient about most things. He went into the bathroom and ran the water lightly, taking off his clothes and getting into the bath; the water that ran down the drain was tinged with blood.
	*
	For the rest of the summer, a routine developed. During Wimbledon, Max would work during the days and be with Nikola at night. They would talk about previous and upcoming matches, go over strategy and would always have a massage session at the end. On off days, they would sometimes go to a court that Nikola had booked out. To the outside world, it seemed like a lucky kid who had won a Make-a-Wish contest or something. Marusic’s discretion was effective, though, and they barely had any interactions with outsiders. By the time Wimbledon was over and Marusic had lost in the semi-finals, their training regimen extended through August as Marusic had some time off before the next tournament in September.
 
	Other than tennis, they didn’t talk about much. There wasn’t much to Nikola Marusic other than tennis, and Max realised that early on. Often, a conversation would dry up and Marusic would take out his phone and google himself, reading the articles on the sofa, his face empty of thought, eyes hungry for recognition. Eventually, it came time for Marusic to leave for a tournament in Australia that aligned with the start of school for Max. They met in the morning and there was a final massage. Max expected a farewell or a clandestine way of keeping in touch, but there was nothing. Just a nod of the head and the vagueness of: “I will see you another time.” As Max left the house for the final time, he felt something hollow in his chest where his heart should have been.
	*
	The school year began, and Max avoided any feelings of ambivalence towards Nikola. He knew that he had to stay in school, and though he felt like he could have been doing more for the team that he felt he now belonged to, he contented himself watching his matches and making notes – that would surely impress him when they were reunited.
 
	A match had just begun, and Max’s eyes were tuned to Nikola’s every movement. It would have been imperceptible to most, but after a serve, he saw Marusic approach a ballboy for a new ball and there was a way of standing, of body language, that Max knew right away. Instantly, the searing heat of anger built in him, and he knew that that kid, whoever they were, would be given the same treatment: the slip of paper, the rented house, the drinks, the massage. His fury came from the realisation that he wasn’t special; that it had all been a lie.
 
	He turned off the television and sat stewing. That night, he collected all the magazines, newspaper articles, photographs and notes he had taken about Marusic and put them into a shoebox. He went deep into the forest by his house and lit the box on fire. His anger, by now, was shapeless, formed from the pain he had felt but hadn’t known how to explain; when the box was embers, he stomped his foot on it so that no more damage would be caused.
	*
	Just under a year later and there was Marusic again, centre stage at Wimbledon with all the eyes in the tennis world on him. He was fresh off a hot streak with a string of wins from big events around the world. He walked onto the grass and sat on the chair, preparing for battle. Turning behind him, he spied the familiar eyes of Max Hunter and he flashed a quick smile. Max’s eyes looked through him; his expression didn’t change. Marusic thought nothing of it and stood up. 
 
	Nothing of note, outside of exceptional tennis, happened until the third set. It was a standard return for Marusic, but as he made his way to the corner and planted his foot, something went wrong. Analysts and coaches call it a career-ender, but to go outside the vagaries of euphemism, it was a torn MCL. There is no way to know exactly why it happened. It could have been a misstep or a miscalculation or it could have been something else, something divine in its sense of justice.
 
	But what was clear was the gasp, the toppling over, the pale face – all of these were soaked in by Max Hunter. But more than anything, it was the certainty that this man would never play again that brought a smile to his face.
	*
	Another year gone and another tournament at Wimbledon. This time, Nikola Marusic was at one of his many spacious homes scattered around Europe. His recovery had officially finished but he would always walk with a bit of a limp; it was safe to say that his playing days were over. He had begun to coach but things were slow getting off the ground, so for now, he was stuck watching his opponents. He had switched to scotch, and as he sipped his drink, he could barely taste it for the bitterness in his mouth of not being able to play. It was unfair, he thought, that someone who worked so hard would have to pay such a dear price. Of course, the hypocrisy of his statement about fairness in relation to his own actions was lost on him, but so were so many other finer points of morality and justice.
 
	The Italian, Marcello Lamberto, was up to serve and Nikola watched. In the background, a familiar face: the young, soft mouth; the deep blue eyes that seemed to see so much; the blonde hair that caught the sun. The serve was short and as Max Hunter retrieved the ball expertly, Nikola Marusic turned off the television and sipped his drink, feeling for the first time a true realisation of how powerless he had become. 
 
 
","July 28, 2023 16:47",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,4uqq5g,Waiting On The Train,Scott Jacobs,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4uqq5g/,/short-story/4uqq5g/,Character,0,['Western'],3 likes,"
The weeds are pumped with blood, unmitigated residence in these parts allowing them to grow wildly through the cracks in the wood and the seedy underbelly of stones. The meek ones stick to the tracks, but the most brazen reach up to the train. They’ve caught the cow catcher; they’ve wrapped accordion-style in between its metal prongs. Up in the sky slumped trees shroud the locomotive in vines. I suspect their awkward embrace is unwanted–the tendrils are delaying its arrival at the end of the world.
 
I watch my step as I get closer–the weeds are just nature’s expendable fodder, but the copperheads no doubt nestled in the shrubbery are its seasoned soldiers. And I’m not trying to incite their wrath.
 
Shink. Shink.
 
The window’s been broken. Something wild’s in the cab. I grip my shovel tighter as I slink around the cylinder.
 
Shink. Shink.
 
It’s clawing at the metal. Hell, it might even be in the engine. Sweat runs down my bro–
 
Crack!
 
It’s stopped. It heard the stick trampled under my foot. I’m getting careless, I need to relax, it’s gotta be small, it won’t get the jump on me…
 
Shink. Shink.
 
Wait. Is it… stoking the engine?
 
I jump out into the open.
 
Its skull is bathed in dirt and coal dust, cracks forming in the bone. Inside its body a tree is growing, sapping the marrow from the ribcage as it coughs up black lungs. It doesn’t take notice of my appearance, the brim of its tattered cap dangling limply over his eye sockets. It just keeps shoveling, scraping at the floor for scraps of fuel and blowing them into the burner.
 
I stare at it in disbelief as it slowly, agonizingly slowly tilts its skull to meet my gaze.
 
“Hello.” He’s unearthing his voice, digging it from the depths of his hollow throat. It’s deep in there, so it comes out guttural and scratchy at once.
 
I lower the shovel I had viscerally jammed against his neck.
 
“It looks I’ve run out of coal. I’d sworn I had more than plenty, but… it’s all gone.”
 
“...How long’ve you been here?”
 
“Hmm… not sure. But I’m late. They’re gonna be after m’head down south.”
 
I look at him for a second, then let out a deep sigh. I’m not high enough on the payroll for this.
 
“Look, sir. You’re gonna have to get out of the train. We’re clearing this out tomorrow.”
 
“I can’t. I told ya, any later ‘n I’m a dead man.”
 
“About that…”
 
The fear’s palpable in his invisible face.
 
“...Nevermind.”
 
“If you can head down to Agricola and let ‘um know the situation, I’ll be outta here quick. It ain’t far, jus’ follow the tracks.”
 
I’m not paid enough to deal with ghosts. But I’m also not paid enough to not slack on company time.
 
So I go back to my car and begin the journey to Agricola.
 
***
 
It ends up being maybe a twenty-minute drive–better than I’d expected.
 
Usually when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, not much changes for minutes, even hours as you drive; nowhere is nowhere until you’re somewhere again. But as I trail the tracks, the stalks of grass and weeds and growing buds I'd grown familiar with are at once forcefully ripped from the scalp of the earth, asphyxiated by the jarring transition into dry, desert-like soil devoid of nutrients. As I pull in I realize there’s nothing to romanticize now, no picture to paint of nature reclaiming its territory in the absence of people. No one is reclaiming anything: out here both sides lost everything.
 
Agricola
Pop 39
 
Stale dreams and rotten witch hazel churn in my lungs and nose as I come into town.
 
Through the window I see a woman. She’s on her knees praying to Jesus, or someone, anyone who’ll fix her daughter: she’s come down with something dreadful, and her skin’s thinning out by the second. The local medicine man’s come in and is helping her calm down. The doctor from far up north already left after telling her there’s nothing he or she or anyone can do–not without taking her money, an act just short of robbing her at gunpoint. Medicine man knows her daughter’s a goner, too, but he’s not here on promise of payment. He’s just trying to console a friend.
 
Then I see the town panhandler. You’d think after a while he’d realize the well’s dried up in Agricola, or that his dusty hat gets lighter each day, and he’d hitch a ride on the train and skip town. But most people get the feeling he’s too preoccupied waiting for a different kind of train. He’s getting to that age, after all, where his ultimate destination is in full view and he can’t ignore it any more. He’s a smart guy, and real friendly, so it’s a real shame he is where he’s at. It’s no one’s fault–not his, either. The world dealt him a bum hand and he had to fold.
 
I walk past him into the saloon, nearly tripping over a man passed out in the doorway.
 
There’s an out-of-towner with his boots up on the counter. He’s got his gun in his hands, trying to smack the flies with it as vocal smoke clouds his judgment. His finger slips; a shot goes off; no one looks back. The bartender tells him to knock it off; cowboy looks at him like he’s crazy, then begrudgingly puts his gun away as he scowls. If it were booze he were indulging in and not a cigarette, it might’ve been a different story.
 
The table of 8’s passing cards between hands. The guy who’s got all the chips looks the same as the guy who’s been had. Either there’s nothing at stake, or there’s so little that it won’t make a difference for anyone playing. I take the bottle in the middle of the table because the bartender wouldn’t pay me mind when I asked for my own. The winner reaches for it without looking, wrapping his hand around the glass and lightly tugging at it like a toddler clinging to a toy. I let him have it, feeling more than unsettled.
 
I step outside. There’s a vulture with its back lit by the sun flying—in choppy motions, left wing more inactive than the right—above me. She perches on the roof hanging over medicine man’s head.
 
“What’re you doing out here?” She croaks.
 
“Uh, I’m here on account of the fireman. His train’s broken down up north.”
 
“Really.”
 
“...Yeah.”
 
“Did you tell the sheriff?”
 
“Not yet. Truth be told I’m just here to kill tim–”
 
“Well, you better be quick. Watch out.” She points behind me with her wing.
 
I turn around and have the wind knocked out of me in a flash.
 
Cowboy rushes out of the saloon first, screaming like a madman as he crashes into me. The rat race follows behind him, running around with their arms flailing and banging their heads into walls as queens and kings and jokers are thrown everywhere. The saloon spits out the drunkard, slams its doors closed, throws the wine off its shelves and barricades its windows. Panhandler knows he’s already been done in, so he’s laughing as he looks to the ground. The diseased one’s turned deceased, and her mother’s wails pierce the mania and hold it still for just a second until the needle bends and it descends into hell and slips out of control once again. Medicine man shakes his head.
 
Then the houses crumble to ash and their guts get tossed by the orange devil’s dusty fingers as rails are divorced from planks. They’re dancing and sobbing and collapsing in the street and I try to stop them but my hands stay folded against my will.
 
Panhandler looks me in the eyes before he bites it. He’s still smiling, because it’s only gotten funnier to him.
 
And that’s all of the undoing.
 
“Well, I’m sure it wasn’t that dramatic,” the vulture admits. “I don’t much care how it happened, though. At the end of the day I’m just the one that came in and cleaned up the mess.”
 
I turn back around to her.
 
“And I’ve done a good job, too,” she continues. “There’s nothing living and nothing that’s ever lived left in Agricola.”
 
“Nothing?”
 
“Not except for me and you. But you’ll leave soon. And if you don’t I’ll wait ‘til you die and peck your brains from your skull. And then it’ll be me again, all alone.”
 
“You like being alone?”
 
“Sure.”
 
“Ditto.”
 
I start to head back to my car. But as I turn around my nose catches something.
 
“Smell that?” I ask her.
 
“No.”
 
“Course you don’t. You’ve been dragging your beak in death your whole life, it’s practically all it’s good for smelling.”
 
She follows me back through the tracks as I chase the scent. It’s not sweet, or alluring really—maybe a little lemony. But it’s clear. It’s not like the hazy alcohol stench that seeps through the saloon’s teeth or the humidity lethargically wrapping around my head and filling my nose with a vague, indiscernible pressure. It’s perfectly coherent.
 
I take a left on a dirt path stemming from the railroad that runs between the sheriff’s office and the church. It subtly shivers left and right until it smacks into a quiet house, thin but two stories tall.
 
The color’s dripping from her hair out of a leaky faucet, the remaining vestiges of red softened by gray solvent, but it’s still full and runs like a river down her back and shoulders under protection of a sunhat. She doesn’t hear my footsteps: she’s busy watering the yellow flowers growing at the front of the house.
 
TWEEET! 
 
The train’s come into town, easing to a halt while announcing its arrival. He’s carrying the weight of the world by his eyebags, his face sullen and his figure hunched over as the door swings open and he stumbles out. He breathes in through his nose and lifts himself up.
 
She turns around as the whistle blows. They smile as they see each other, the sandbags dropping to let them both lift off the ground. He falls into her hug as they melt into the sand and the house is swallowed into the ground and the train rots into nothing. But the flowers are still there, somehow alive.
 
“How about that,” Vulture says. “Looks like I was wrong. There is something worthwhile left in this dump.”
 
I’ve already started walking away. She follows me back to my car, and as I get in she looks at me longingly with what I assume to be the vulture equivalent of puppy-eyes.
 
“…Oh, buzz off, I’m not just gonna keel over and die for you. Stupid bird.” 
 
And I’m gone.
 
***
 
He’s still shoveling coal when I come back. He lights up as he hears me approach.
 
“You saw ‘um, yeah? The daylilies?”
 
“...Mhm.”
 
“I could see ‘um in your eyes,” he says. “Mama always took care of ‘um. Sometimes it seemed like she kept on jus’ so she could keep ‘um alive. ‘N when I’d stop by home they’d be the first thing I’d smell.”
 
The sun’s starting to set, so I need to wrap this up.
 
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think anyone’s coming for you.”
 
He’s confused for a moment, then he remembers what he told me earlier.
 
“Heh, I’m sorry too. I led you on. I know I’m dead ‘n gone.”
 
“What?”
 
“I didn’t need coal. I jus’ needed someone to go check on ‘um. The daylilies, I mean. I tried m’self, but seems I’m bound to this train. When I try to leave m’brain gets all fuzzy ‘n I wake up shovelin’ the same as ever, in a trance. Again, I’m real sorry, I–uh, didn’t wanna waste your time–”
 
“Look, don’t worry about it, it’s already done,” I tell him, attempting to mask my annoyance. “For what it’s worth, the flowers were nice.”
 
He still looks concerned, so I change the subject.
 
“So, what happened to Agricola?”
 
“Nothing, and that’s the problem. There was no big bang or what have ya’. Sometimes things jus’ crumble. It never was the same after the lil’ girl Bonnie fell ill. ‘N then later on people really lost hope 'n either left or died once the railroad was decommissioned ‘n investors lost interest in us. I lost my job as a result and left town, too. But Mama couldn’t let herself leave. So eventually she was all alone down there, watering the daylilies. I like to think it was her protest against the world. Those daylilies take to heat fairly well, ‘n Mama always found beauty in stuff like that. Jus’ her and her flowers in the middle of hell.”
 
He straightens his cap. “I felt bad leavin’ ‘er there. But I had to live my own life, ‘n I knew there was nothin’ else left for me in that town. But once‘n a while, when I’d get feelin’ homesick, I’d find my way back to that same smell.”
 
Then he gets up from the cab and lands on the ground.
 
“I think it’s time for me to get goin’,” he says. “I’ve caused you enough trouble as is. Thanks, stranger.”
 
He starts walking down the tracks. As he goes his stride becomes wider and his steps become slower, until at last he turns to mist and disappears.
 
The next day they came and hauled the train away.
 
","July 29, 2023 03:52",[]
prompt_0040,Write a story about someone living vicariously through someone else.,gjix7h,FAME,Ruby Zaidi,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gjix7h/,/short-story/gjix7h/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Drama']",3 likes,"
FAME
 
Had it really been only fifty minutes since she got here ? It seemed to be so much longer . She glanced up at the wall clock again . Had it stopped ? She would gladly have come at dawn - in any case she had been unable to sleep a wink - but for security reasons. She would not have been allowed to enter. She was unable to stand in one place. She began pacing restlessly up and down the crowded platform . She felt about as calm as a cat on a hot tin roof. She did not even attempt to make a conversation with the other people there although everyone was chatting animatedly.  
The whole place was decorated  - it wore a festive look . Spic and span , the floor shone like glass. Welcome banners and garlands of flowers had transformed the place .Young girls , barely out of their teens - probably sweet hearts and young wives ; older people - probably brothers , sisters, fathers , mothers like herself ; even young children with their  teddies clutched to them - jostled for space ,  brushing against each other . There were tall military men resplendent in their starched uniforms , the Guard of Honour , the Welcoming Committee , and even a band . The whole place looked like an army cantonment . After all they were welcoming the war heroes home ! The Military Police tried to manage the crowd but it was an uphill task . There was so much excitement , anticipation and joy in the air. It was actually palpable. She herself was on pins and needles. 
She had not seen Jeremy for over a year . In fact from the time he had left ' to fight a righteous war '. So tall , so handsome in his splendid new uniform  - how proud she was of him ! The one bright spot in her otherwise dull, uneventful life !
The desire for fame and respect had been like a drug in her bloodstream - destroying every rational thought . A single mother with no great qualifications or job, her neighbours thought her about as relevant as a fur coat in the Sahara desert. It was through her son that her obsession for fame could be realized . She would be treated with respect and admiration. When he had enlisted she had seen the change in the neighbours ' attitude. The craving for respect and fame permeated every facet of her being , spreading like a deadly poison in her veins ...
He , always caring, protective and loving had worried about leaving her alone . She had hugged him - as usual dwarfed by his size .
"" Now Jem , don't you worry about anything ,"" she had said . ""l'll look after Rover and take him for walks . l'll take care of myself . I'll care of the house. You just follow orders and bring home a lot of medals. ""
She had got a new display shelf made right on the mantelpiece of the living room . Just right for his medals. She pictured him putting them on display ( she was not tall enough to reach that high) and the resulting euphoria was once again like a drug- wonderful, uplifting, heady ... She pictured the faces of the neighbours - especially the much decorated and much respected Colonel Cruthers ...the feeling beat any drug in existence. 
Jem had written every week . How she had bragged to the neighbours !Suddenly they had started listening to her. They had actually begun giving her the attention and respect she craved . What would happen when Jeremy would be a decorated officer with his name in the papers ? What would happen when they saw Jem tall and handsome beside her , standing and smiling with his medals ? She shivered with anticipation . She was already on a ' high'. 
Suddenly the letters had stopped coming . Without him or his letters her life was about as exciting as a pandemic lockdown . Silence for six months . Must be some emergency , or maybe one emergency after another , she had consoled herself . After all he was on the war front . Who could tell what the brave young men were facing ? That's what she also said to the solicitous inquires of the neighbours .
Then came the telegram from the Army Headquarters - her son would be on this train bringing the war heroes home , today . She had been overwhelmed with relief and happiness. She had shown the telegram to all her neighbours and slept with it under her pillow - getting up many times in the night to read and re-read it.
She had been in a fever of anticipation - unable to eat or sleep - since then . Maria , her best friend , had wanted to come to the railway station with her - she had known Jem since he was a toddler- but she had not wanted to share the return of her hero . She had even bought herself a new dress. Maria had said, "" Wow ! You look terrific ! Smart enough to be a war hero 's mom !""
 Of course she couldn't have brought Rover - dogs were not allowed . She knew the neighbours were busy arranging a grand welcome party. The entire building was being decorated . After all it was a matter of pride for the whole community - a war hero from their own neighborhood ! Even that snooty Norma who had usually looked through her behaved as if they had been childhood friends. 
Finally she heard the whistle - the crowd cheered , the band began playing . Then suddenly everything exploded in a kaleidoscope of sound , colour and chaos ! The train , festooned with garlands , had arrived ! 
What a tremendous homecoming - shouts of delight , laughter , tears , hugs , kisses ...
She desperately looked around for Jem . He would surely be among the tallest . She ran her eyes over the rapidly thinning crowd . Everyone in a hurry to get home with their hero . Where was Jem ? She longed to hear his booming voice , longed to see her tall handsome son , longed to be enveloped in his bear hug ...
Now only some young men on crutches and wheelchairs were left . Their loved ones , with the Military Police in attendance , were helping them as they slowly and carefully traversed the rapidly emptying platform . Her handsome Jem would have towered over the crowd. Had Jem not boarded this train ? She wondered whom to ask. Should she ask the officers on the Welcoming Committee , the ones with the lists ? Or the officers at the counter ' May l help you ?' Or the Military Police ? She was in a quandary . She was still clutching the telegram like a talisman in her hand . She wished she had brought Maria with her . She was turning away in disappointment , her eyes clouding , when someone touched her arm . She turned . It was a man in a wheelchair - half his face was swathed in bandages , his legs were covered with a blanket .
A hoarse , rasping voice , a voice she did not recognize - said , "" It's me , Mom . I have brought home the medals. ""
","July 25, 2023 04:15",[]