prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",f6sd3g,Speed Fate,Derrick M Domican,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/f6sd3g/,/short-story/f6sd3g/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller', 'Mystery']",105 likes,"
To: Buck TuckerFrom: Speed Fate Team Date: 19th July, 2023, 12:47Subject: Your Speed Fate InputHi Buck! Thanks for taking part in the recent Speed Fate speed dating event and submitting your feedback! We hope you enjoyed the evening! Please find below a copy of the comments you left for each of your dates. You will receive feedback submitted about you in a separate mail. Should any of those you said “Yes!” to also say “Yes!” to you, we will forward each of you a copy of your contact information so you can get in touch.The very best of luck and thanks for choosing Speed Fate!The Speed Fate Team.-----Buck Tucker dated the following people, 18th July 2023, and left the following feedback.Mandy Rogers, age 37, Self Help Guru: You said: Fun person! Quick smile, bubbly, the conversation flowed from the get-go. Love the curls. She had so much to say, and was passionate about her interests even if they were a bit airy-fairy. If there’s one thing I respect, it's passion about your subject of choice. Refreshing to meet someone as firm a believer in destiny as Mandy is. Could talk to her for hours about sliding doors and parallel universes. Would love to delve deeper into her thoughts on ‘escapable fate’. Great date!Would you like to meet Mandy again? Yes!Evelyn Pearce, age 35, School Teacher:You said: Evelyn is a dark horse. Shy to start but relaxed as the date went on. I was nervous too because she’s very smart, I felt dumb by comparison. Very impressed by her career, she seems to be a great teacher, very professional. I get the impression she could be successful at anything she turns her hand to, even partnering with me! She has the voice of authority, it just needs to be strengthened. She could broaden my horizons on intellectual topics and I could teach her about life outside the classroom. Definitely see potential here.  Would you like to meet Evelyn again? Yes!Katarina Cruz, age 38, Physical Therapist: You said: Not much to say about Katarina except-wow. I didn’t know drop dead gorgeous was an actual thing but as soon as I left her table I felt part of me die. Or at least abandon ship so it could stay behind. Her eyes really drew me in. Could get lost in them for hours. Not to mention everything else. Her English isn’t great but that didn’t matter, her body language did the talking. Can tell she doesn’t take shit from anyone and with those muscles…you wouldn’t want to forget her birthday! Bit intimidating, but that’s a turn-on, so it’s a yes from me. Would you like to meet Katarina again? Yes!Ashley Davenport, age 41, Office Admin:You said: Ashley is a bit mousey, not my type physically but has an air of mystery about her which is attractive. Not sure why she was at the event, she was an ice queen and I had to work hard to make conversation. Wasn’t very successful. Didn’t find out much about her other than that she has cats and works in ‘admin’. I’m not a cat person, but I have a dog who hates cats, so he would probably chase them off if we got together! Pretty sure she just had her walls up. I have a feeling I could get her to loosen up. I am 100% sure it would be worth it. It would be nice to see her show some emotion. Challenge accepted.Would you like to meet Ashley again? Yes! *****To: Buck TuckerFrom: Speed Fate Team Date: 19th July, 2023, 16:31Subject: Your Speed Fate FeedbackHi Buck! Thanks again for attending the recent Speed Fate speed dating event. We have now compiled the feedback we received from the people you met and have included it below. You will receive the contact information for anyone who said “Yes!” that you said “Yes!” to also in a separate mail.The best of luck and thanks for choosing Speed Fate!The Speed Fate Team.-----Mandy Rogers, age 37, Yoga Teacher: They said: Buck was a pleasure to talk with! Very open minded and I didn’t get the impression he was humouring me when I was rattling on about chakras and meditation, he seemed to be genuinely fascinated. Was interesting hearing his views on the afterlife and reincarnation. He carries a lot of nomadic energy and seems to be as much of a free spirit as I am, even if yoga and mindfulness aren’t his thing. Would definitely like to bounce more ideas off him. I promised him a tarot reading if we meet again so here’s hoping!Would they like to meet you again? They said: Yes!Evelyn Pearce, age 35, School Teacher:They said: Buck is great! He’s a lot more adventurous than me, very extrovert, which is exciting. I need someone like that to get me out of my comfort zone! Raising two teenagers as a full-time single dad is not an easy task so I take my hat off to him. Also impressed by his role as a part-time scout leader, setting time aside to take kids camping and teach them about the great outdoors, that’s inspirational. Would definitely be interested in getting to know him better. Always a sucker for a good dad!Would they like to meet you again? They said: Yes!Katarina Cruz, age 38, Physical Therapist:They said: Buck is interesting man. Similar interest in keep-fit. Training for marathon now, I think he has a lot of work to do but is good he has goal to work for. Perhaps he need some help training, little out of shape but I don’t have heart to say! Cute smile, kind eyes, love bearded man. Also interested in his musical career, must be nice to date with guitarist of up-coming rock band! I think I should like to see this!Would they like to meet you again? They said: Yes!Ashley Davenport, age 41, Office Admin:They said: God loves a tryer. I gave him nothing but he kept on trucking. Bonus points for that. If I was him I would have given up in the first minute. Like everyone else. Five must have been torture. Really hate this shit, only did it cos my friends signed me up and I never would have heard the end of it. Whatever, promise I’ll make more of an effort next time. Not that he’s going to want to meet me again. He’d probably sooner throw himself under a bus.Would they like to meet you again? They said: Yes!*****To: Buck TuckerFrom: Fate Team Date: 20th July, 2023, 11:30Subject: Your Speed Fate ContactsHi Buck! Please find attached contact information for your matches from the speed date event you attended on July 16th, 2023. We hope you had an enjoyable experience and have our fingers crossed one of your matches will be ‘the one’! We’ve had a number of success stories to date, some leading to marriage, and are always interested in hearing how things go! The best of luck and thanks for choosing Speed Fate!The Speed Fate Team.*****Dressed in his least shabby suit, well-worn blue check shirt, newly bought navy tie and doused in the least repulsive knock-off Hugo Boss aftershave he could find, Tucker drew a well-practised smile onto his goatee-framed jaw and slid into the seat opposite his date, the redhead in the white dress, whose hair was tied back in a hastily knotted ponytail and whose name was displayed on the sticker attached to her chest. “Evelyn!” he announced, clasping his hands together and placing his elbows on the table. “So good to see you! I was delighted to hear you wanted to meet me again! I felt we had a good connection, even though we only talked for five minutes! How have you been? How are those schoolkids? Hope they’ve been listening to teacher?”Across the white-clothed table top, past the bottle of champagne chilling in a stainless steel cooler, two sparkling champagne flutes and the candle protruding from a chrome holder, Evelyn met Tucker’s gaze and swallowed the lump of saliva that had stuck in her throat.He hadn’t thought it possible for her to be more nervous than she’d been at the speed date, especially since they knew each other now, but there she was, eyes darting about, glancing at the people either side of them, beads of sweat visible on her brow.It was going to be harder than he thought to get her to loosen up, he realised, but that didn’t matter. In a way, he found her nervousness endearing.“They’re fine,” she said, her voice coming out a whisper, forcing her to clear her throat. “They’re good, they don’t give me trouble. I never have to reprimand anyone.”“Really? There’s not a single troublemaker in the bunch? What age did you say they were?”Tucker reached forward abruptly, suit sleeve riding up his arm, and closed his hand around the neck of the champagne bottle, causing Evelyn to jump, eyes darting to his unclean fingers. “F-fourteen,” she said, returning her eyes to his as he took the bottle from the cooler and started undoing the wire holding its cork in place. “And fifteen. No, honestly, nothing like that. I don’t… I’ve never had to punish anyone, if that’s what you mean?”“I see,” Tucker said, narrowing his eyes as if to peer into her mind. “Bit boring, isn’t it? All that authority and there’s not a single obnoxious teenager for you to use it on? I find that hard to believe. As a former teenager in a school full of stuck up bitches and bullying brats, I find that extremely hard to believe. But hey, if that’s what you’re saying…”POP! The cork shot from the bottle with explosive energy, making the nervous teacher jump again.“...I’ll take your word for it. How about your colleagues? They all super-nice too? Come on, you can be honest. Bet there’s a couple of real shits, right? Get off on tormenting the kids? Probably a few pervs too. Pedo bastards? I know there were at my school. Oh, I know. Can think of at least three motherfuckers who deserved to have their dicks cut off.”Sitting forward, extending his arm, pouring bubbly liquid into his date’s glass, he glared as she shook her head softly, almost imperceptibly, and sucked in her lips. He snorted, smiled, a shake of the head as he finished pouring and moved the bottle to his own glass.“You don’t have to be so nervous, Evelyn. It’s just me and you, you can tell me anything. I’m very open minded. A man of the world. I know the way things work. I’m familiar with what goes on behind closed doors.”In response to his comment about it being just him and her, her eyes had flicked to the left and right again, almost as if to remind herself there were people around them, though it shouldn’t have been necessary, considering how boisterous they were.“Don’t worry about them,” Tucker said, depositing the champagne bottle back into the cooler with a clatter and crunch. “What we talk about is none of their business and vice versa. Let’s just focus on getting to know each other.”He lifted his glass, took a sip, let the bubbles pop in his mouth and tickle his throat.“Mmm. Effervescent.”Evelyn watched him return the glass to the table with dampening eyes and quivering lip, bubbles spinning in the amber liquid in the untouched glass before her.“So you’re not a mean teacher. And you have no asshole students. And everyone you work with is lovely. Okay. I get it. They’ve conditioned you well. Turning a blind eye is second nature. That’s okay. That can be fixed. You just have to open your eyes, see things for what they are. Identify the evil in people, acknowledge it, accept that it’s there to be destroyed. And do you know the best way to do that?”He crossed his arms, lifted an eyebrow, cocked his head. “N…no,” she said, the first tear escaping an eye and running down a scratched, grime-covered cheek. “I don’t. Buck, you know, I think you got the wrong impression of me. I’m not a bad person. I treat people well, I don’t, I’m not, I…”“The best way to do that,” he cut her off, craning his head closer to hers, his nose almost touching the trembling candle flame. “Is to find it in yourself and expose it. Draw it out into the light, like a putrid, rotting vampire, set it free and watch the havoc it wreaks. Once you know what your own darkness is capable of, you’ll be able to recognise it in others. And then you’ll be able to do something about it. Like me. It’s simple, really. So come on, let’s go on a journey of self discovery. Aren’t you drinking?”“Please, Buck. I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for. I think we should …”“Have you ever cheated on someone, Evelyn? Deliberately? Or ‘accidentally’, thinking it was okay because, you know, it wasn’t that serious and they weren’t ‘invested’.”“No, I never…”“Have you ever lied to someone, to let them down gently, or just because you wanted some attention, to be wined and dined, treated like a Princess to pass the time?”“Buck, I want to stop, please.”“Have you ever hit anyone, a sibling, a child? Have you ever lost your cool and lashed out blindly with a hand or a foot, hurt someone, out of anger or desire?”“Please.”“So you don’t use your authority to punish students, how about something else, have you seduced one? All those virile young teenagers, staring you up and down, have you ever taken advantage of it, tasted forbidden fruit? Or maybe not them, maybe one of their parents, maybe a bit of homewrecking sates an urge.”“I don’t know why you’re doing this. I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, but I’m not…”“Have you ever thought about killing someone, Evelyn? Pulling a cord tight around their neck and watching them choke, sticking a knife in their guts and twisting it, enjoying the warmth of the warm, sticky blood that…”“Jesus, God, somebody help me, please somebody help me!”She screamed. She stomped. She shook. She howled and yelled and roared, teardrops flew from her eyes but nobody helped.“Oh, Evelyn,” said Tucker, after allowing her a moment. “I had a good feeling about you. I thought if I could get you to see the light and come around to my way of thinking, we’d have fun expelling assholes from the world. But it’s not going to happen, is it?”She continued to scream, wrenching and twisting in the chair she was tied to, so he shrugged and took hold of the candle, slid it from its holder, revealed the blade that protruded from its base. The teacher’s eyes went wide and her voice cracked as he angled it towards her throat, leaned further forward and swiped left. A second mouth fell open in the smooth, pale skin of her throat and she gasped, gurgled, thrashing more urgently as a spine-chilling groan crept from her soul.Tucker sat back and watched. No glee showed on his face. No excitement.He watched blankly, the knife held loose, the thin layer of blood on its blade sprinkling scarlet splashes on the tablecloth. If there was an air about him at all as his second hope for a partner fizzled out, it was one of disappointment. He really would have liked her as a soulmate.After a minute, when Evelyn stopped twitching, he checked to ensure his shirt and jacket hadn’t been soiled then slid the candle knife back into its holder. Licked his forefinger, extinguished the candle’s flame, pushed his chair back and got up. He took a napkin from the table, dabbed at his mouth as he stepped back, watching his scuffed loafers, careful not to step into the blood that had pooled beneath the chair behind him, the blood that had oozed from boring-not-mysterious Ashley. To his left, bound and gagged Katarina lunged her upper body towards him, impressive arm muscles bulging through the gossamer-thin material of the dress he’d clad her in, brown eyes glowering with hate, teeth gnashing behind the black rubber strap that subdued her mouth. The chair was bolted to the floor, her feet were chained to the chair, her movement was restricted.He wasn’t ready for her yet. A fist to the face, she slumped, head lolling loosely over her chest.To the right of the teacher, in the centre of a long abandoned warehouse, another dressed table, another pair of chairs and terrified captive, a puddle of urine, not blood, on the floor around her feet. Tucker fished a lighter from his pocket as he stepped around the corpse of bleeding Evelyn, lit the wick of the candle dagger protruding from chrome scabbard. Lighter back in pocket, he took hold of the rubber gag around the girl’s head, pulled it off, relishing the snap as it came loose.“Please,” she said, all wild, rabbit eyes and mascara-smeared face. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything. I promise. Anything.”He drew a well-practised smile onto his goatee-framed jaw and slid into the seat opposite his date, the blonde in the ivory white dress, whose curls hung loose around her face and whose name was displayed on a sticker. “Mandy!” he announced, spreading his hands to greet her and bowing theatrically. “So good to see you! I was delighted to hear you wanted to meet me again...“I believe you had some thoughts on escapable fate?”
","July 22, 2023 00:06","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'Loved how you set this up with the emails and speed dating descriptions! I was thinking oh fun! Who will he date?!? 😃 then hold on… what?!? Great story!', 'time': '11:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '6'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Nina! \nGlad you enjoyed. If 'enjoyed' is the word!! 😬😬"", 'time': '16:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Most certainly enjoyed! Congrats on the well-deserved win! \n\nThe judges swiped right on this one!!! 👏🏻', 'time': '17:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Nina! \nGlad you enjoyed. If 'enjoyed' is the word!! 😬😬"", 'time': '16:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Most certainly enjoyed! Congrats on the well-deserved win! \n\nThe judges swiped right on this one!!! 👏🏻', 'time': '17:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Most certainly enjoyed! Congrats on the well-deserved win! \n\nThe judges swiped right on this one!!! 👏🏻', 'time': '17:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🍾Here I thought those dating apps were on the up and up not the cut them up.🥂🔪\n\nCongrats on the win.🏆', 'time': '16:13 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks M!', 'time': '21:36 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks M!', 'time': '21:36 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Brenda Ratliff': 'This was so great--a little gory at the end, but the transition from innocuous to serial killer was seamless. I loved the set up, the build up and the payoff.  Each woman had a specific character.  I could point them out in a room full of people.  However, he is a different story.  I picture him as a Ted Bundy type or someone a little more nerdy looking like Bill Gates.    Anyway.  Great story!', 'time': '17:22 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Brenda. Definitely, a cross between Ted and bill sounds about right! :)', 'time': '21:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Brenda. Definitely, a cross between Ted and bill sounds about right! :)', 'time': '21:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Great buildup, why is she so nervous, why does he keep telling her to ignore the other dinners…and The little quips in the dating notes were so funny.. “As i left her table I felt part of me die. Or at least abandon ship so it could stay behind.” That was so funny and now i see it ties into the ending… these wild horror stories are def popular on wattpad (and now reedsy too!) congrats on the win.', 'time': '16:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Scott. High praise coming from someone of your caliber!\nPleasantly surprised by the win!', 'time': '16:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Scott. High praise coming from someone of your caliber!\nPleasantly surprised by the win!', 'time': '16:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'When he said ""yes!"" to everyone, that was notable. Mind you, we didn\'t yet know why - he could have just been lonely, trying to get out there, whatever - but it was notable. But then the band name, that was a big clue too.\n\nI had some suspicions he was a killer. I did *not* expect him to go for all four at the same time - that\'s quite a twist!\n\nMandy seems to have mastered her panic at least, and she\'s doing what she can. Giving her the last line here is clever, tying in to their previously mentioned interests, but also allowing her to show ...', 'time': '01:28 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Michal. Always appreciate your comments.\nIt's actually supposed to be Tucker who says the last line, I wanted it as a separate line but see that's not clear now so added ellipses to previous line to clarify.\nAlso removed the band names to take the clue out :)\nLove the feedback I get here it really helps me.\nThanks for reading"", 'time': '06:47 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Ah, indeed! I misread it then, and that does change the ending somewhat. Less hopeful for Mandy, and darker all around :)', 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Congratulations on the win! :D', 'time': '21:32 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': '😁 pleasant surprise for a not so pleasant tale!', 'time': '21:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Michal. Always appreciate your comments.\nIt's actually supposed to be Tucker who says the last line, I wanted it as a separate line but see that's not clear now so added ellipses to previous line to clarify.\nAlso removed the band names to take the clue out :)\nLove the feedback I get here it really helps me.\nThanks for reading"", 'time': '06:47 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Ah, indeed! I misread it then, and that does change the ending somewhat. Less hopeful for Mandy, and darker all around :)', 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Congratulations on the win! :D', 'time': '21:32 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': '😁 pleasant surprise for a not so pleasant tale!', 'time': '21:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Ah, indeed! I misread it then, and that does change the ending somewhat. Less hopeful for Mandy, and darker all around :)', 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Congratulations on the win! :D', 'time': '21:32 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': '😁 pleasant surprise for a not so pleasant tale!', 'time': '21:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': '😁 pleasant surprise for a not so pleasant tale!', 'time': '21:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""So good. I didn't know where it was going with the speed dating but what a great format to show us the characters real quick and build a facade of who Tucker was.\n\nWhen we finally meet him I was disturbed by what a dick he was, then he keeps going, and going, then bam the penny drops.\n\nMarvelous execution, my favourite of yours so far."", 'time': '11:50 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Parul Shah': ""OMG I never would have read this had I known it would be a horror story, but I'm so glad I did. (Guess I didn't read the genre buttons!) I was so delighted by the emails and the rush of optimism came to a hard, cold stop so sharp I could feel the chill in my veins. Really nice pacing and clever character development that's just enough to feel so badly for these people. Thanks, I needed that!"", 'time': '20:53 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""EEk, sorry Parul. Yes those genre buttons can be helpful... :)\nHopefully you aren't too traumatised!\nThanks for the kind words!"", 'time': '23:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Parul Shah': 'No need for apology, it was a great read! I’ll wade into your brand of horror anytime.', 'time': '15:51 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""EEk, sorry Parul. Yes those genre buttons can be helpful... :)\nHopefully you aren't too traumatised!\nThanks for the kind words!"", 'time': '23:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Parul Shah': 'No need for apology, it was a great read! I’ll wade into your brand of horror anytime.', 'time': '15:51 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Parul Shah': 'No need for apology, it was a great read! I’ll wade into your brand of horror anytime.', 'time': '15:51 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'C. Charles': 'Congratulations! A very twisted story with a great and sinister twist in the end. Nice work!', 'time': '20:18 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Cheers Chris. I do indeed like my sinister twists! 😂', 'time': '21:36 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Cheers Chris. I do indeed like my sinister twists! 😂', 'time': '21:36 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'At first I thought the speed dating section at the beginning was not needed, but it did set up the story well. \nGood (though gruesome) descriptions  \nAwful dark!', 'time': '19:01 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Marty!', 'time': '21:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Marty!', 'time': '21:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lucid C': 'You ever read something so good it consumes every part of you? And have you ever felt empty after finishing it? I finished this feeling like there was a hole in my chest. This was so good and unexpected. 10/10', 'time': '18:18 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ashley Soto Prado': ""Wow, this was amazing. I knew something was off when the teacher was a little too nervous, but I didn't expect him to be a serial killer. Great work!"", 'time': '23:24 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marc Rothstein': 'Extremely dark clever twist. Well done!', 'time': '20:51 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Geir Westrul': 'Derrick, that was such a creepy twist, going from the epistolary maybe-rom-com premise of the speed dates to the serial killer tableau at the end. Gut punch!\n\nBravo!', 'time': '16:00 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thank you Geir! Lovely to get a comment from you here I read your work regularly and it's always impressive and inspiring 😊"", 'time': '16:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thank you Geir! Lovely to get a comment from you here I read your work regularly and it's always impressive and inspiring 😊"", 'time': '16:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rae Toonery': 'Love a bit of sick humour - very well done. (thanks for the follow)', 'time': '10:33 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Lol thanks. Yes enjoyed your nursing home romp too! Nothing like a bit of tongue in cheek darkness', 'time': '10:52 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Lol thanks. Yes enjoyed your nursing home romp too! Nothing like a bit of tongue in cheek darkness', 'time': '10:52 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michael Robinson': 'I liked this story.  I kinda expected something sinister, but I wasn’t expecting this!  At first, I thought it was an ordinary date until I read the line about the grimy face and had to go back and read it again.  Well done!', 'time': '12:19 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Michael! :)', 'time': '18:39 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Michael! :)', 'time': '18:39 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Derrick!\nCongratulations on the stunning win! Your use of speed dating was brilliant and I loved the way you built the suspense up. I was totally terrified during this story in the best possible way. I love that you chose to truly commit to this character’s perspective. Insanity is a fascinating thing to write with. Nice work!!', 'time': '04:19 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Aw thanks Amanda! Lovely to get a comment like that from a long-term submitter here. :) Chuffed!', 'time': '09:57 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Aw thanks Amanda! Lovely to get a comment like that from a long-term submitter here. :) Chuffed!', 'time': '09:57 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nathaniel Miller': 'Brilliant. Love how you played with structure here - speed dating comments in the beginning created a really nice exposition for all the characters. Also, I enjoyed the painfully slow reveal of Tucker’s true sociopathy. A really fun, dark read. I’m a fan. Thanks for sharing!', 'time': '00:54 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Nathaniel!', 'time': '16:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Nathaniel!', 'time': '16:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'Congratulations! Ingenuous dark tale, and I love the innovative setup! And Buck Tucker — love it!', 'time': '20:00 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Yes! Thanks Martin! Probably the darkest thing I've ever written. \nThere is a second part to the story, I will just have to wait for a suitable prompt to turn up so I can get it out there :)"", 'time': '20:21 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Yes! Thanks Martin! Probably the darkest thing I've ever written. \nThere is a second part to the story, I will just have to wait for a suitable prompt to turn up so I can get it out there :)"", 'time': '20:21 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shania Ottessor': 'Derrick, this was so captivating from the first word. The layout of the emails made it an easy read and the twist was so smooth and seamless. Brilliant.', 'time': '22:46 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Shania. Glad it went down so well. I really wasn't sure when I submitted! Thought I might be run out of reedsy-town lol you just never know. \nAppreciate the comment!"", 'time': '06:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Shania. Glad it went down so well. I really wasn't sure when I submitted! Thought I might be run out of reedsy-town lol you just never know. \nAppreciate the comment!"", 'time': '06:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Evan Charles': 'This gives Joe Goldberg a run for his money. A very chilling story and a great read!', 'time': '18:45 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Evan! Glad you liked!', 'time': '21:55 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Evan! Glad you liked!', 'time': '21:55 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karin Eriksson': 'I really enjoyed this. A creative and entertaining twist!', 'time': '23:48 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks so much Karen, glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '20:22 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks so much Karen, glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '20:22 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sarah Saleem': ""The writing style is really cool, very different and very creative!\nI like the twist you have taken on speed dating and I loved Buck's calmness through it all."", 'time': '07:49 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks so much! Yes annoyingly calm psychopath acting like he's not doing anything wrong, just trying to find his psycho soulmate. \nPsycho Soulmate would also be a good name for a speed dating service possibly 😂"", 'time': '16:27 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks so much! Yes annoyingly calm psychopath acting like he's not doing anything wrong, just trying to find his psycho soulmate. \nPsycho Soulmate would also be a good name for a speed dating service possibly 😂"", 'time': '16:27 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Stevie Burges': ""Frightened me to death!  I had checked the categories before reading the story so knew this wouldn't end well.  Very slickly written.  Congratulations on the win."", 'time': '07:03 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Stevie. Hope you have recovered by now!! :)', 'time': '20:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Stevie Burges': 'Only just.  Story too clever by half!', 'time': '09:18 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Stevie. Hope you have recovered by now!! :)', 'time': '20:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Stevie Burges': 'Only just.  Story too clever by half!', 'time': '09:18 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Stevie Burges': 'Only just.  Story too clever by half!', 'time': '09:18 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sammy Xoxoxo': 'wowwwww.. this took me by surprise. loved it! congrats on the well deserved win!', 'time': '03:08 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Sammy! :)', 'time': '20:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Sammy! :)', 'time': '20:25 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hala Giles': 'Congrats on the win! Loved the set up with the speed dating emails and dinner ambience. As a reader I felt comfortable knowing that she was safe in the company of others but you completely span that around. Yup - enjoyed that.', 'time': '20:17 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Hala! Yes I was hoping to blindside people with the setup so glad to hear it worked :)', 'time': '20:26 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Hala! Yes I was hoping to blindside people with the setup so glad to hear it worked :)', 'time': '20:26 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anna W': 'Wow, what a great story, Derrick! I loved how it transitioned from innocent to deadly, and the tension that built up along the way. Wonderfully executed, no pun intended :)', 'time': '17:39 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Anna! Glad it worked out the way I wanted it to.\nAnd. ...pun away! I love a good pun!! 😂', 'time': '18:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Anna! Glad it worked out the way I wanted it to.\nAnd. ...pun away! I love a good pun!! 😂', 'time': '18:29 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'Congratulations on your win, Derrick. I thought the concept for the piece really helped elevate it to something special. Well done.', 'time': '17:28 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Kevin! Glad it worked! 😊', 'time': '18:32 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Kevin! Glad it worked! 😊', 'time': '18:32 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Very good, Derrick.\n\nCongratulations on the well deserved win.', 'time': '12:52 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Cheers Chris! I am in good company in the winners circle 😊', 'time': '13:05 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Cheers Chris! I am in good company in the winners circle 😊', 'time': '13:05 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. S. Bailey': 'Already been mentioned a lot but starting the story with the dating app emails was a great choice. Paints a picture of these characters and gives the story a light-hearted tone...then the tone shifts.\n\nI was aware of the horror tag but never guessed where this was going. Brilliant execution and well done on the win. Loved it!', 'time': '03:19 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks JS! Yes took a bit of a gamble on the email idea but it worked out well. Seems to have caught quite a few people off guard!', 'time': '08:03 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks JS! Yes took a bit of a gamble on the email idea but it worked out well. Seems to have caught quite a few people off guard!', 'time': '08:03 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Sjan Evardsson': 'Well deserved win. Kudos!', 'time': '00:05 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Sjan!', 'time': '08:03 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Sjan!', 'time': '08:03 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chuck Sears': 'That was one heckuva twist at the end.  Well disguised!!!', 'time': '20:48 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Chuck!.', 'time': '21:47 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Chuck!.', 'time': '21:47 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'John Del Rio': 'wow!\ni don\'t want to repeat the no doubt often voiced ""job well done"" but it was definitely a job well done and deserved a win.\n\ni like the play on speed ""date"" in the title.\n\na nice set up and interesting format in the beginning, via the correspondence. \n\ni will check out more of your work and look forward to you other submissions.', 'time': '16:52 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Yay thanks John! Glad you enjoyed!! :)', 'time': '19:47 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Yay thanks John! Glad you enjoyed!! :)', 'time': '19:47 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Wilma Segeren': 'Wow !\nVery captivating !\nI enjoyed reading your story even though I’m not a horror enthusiast. \nPerhaps this says something about the talent you display. \nI’m also impressed by your responses to all who comment. You seem genuinely grateful, modest and interested in criticism. \nI found nothing to criticize so kudos !\nCongrats Derrick', 'time': '14:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Love the comments and chatting with everyone it's the best part!\nThanks for the feedback and im glad you enjoyed despite the subject matter!"", 'time': '16:06 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Love the comments and chatting with everyone it's the best part!\nThanks for the feedback and im glad you enjoyed despite the subject matter!"", 'time': '16:06 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine work. Jack the Ripper way. Till Jack is ripped. Congrats.', 'time': '14:02 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks!!', 'time': '14:38 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Pleasure.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks!!', 'time': '14:38 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Pleasure.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Pleasure.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Luca King Greek': 'Very very dark!  Clever inflection and reveal', 'time': '13:06 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Luca 😊', 'time': '14:38 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Luca 😊', 'time': '14:38 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""What could be more fun than a homicidal lunatic dating game?  Considering how much you packed into a 3000 word challenge, this is exquisite work.  I'm a big fan of macabre and twisted scenarios so this was definitely to my liking.  I read so many great takes on the prompts this week, I'm pleased not to have to judge, but no complaints about this win - extremely well done.  A great read."", 'time': '12:58 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hi Susan! Thank you for the kind words. A kindred spirit lol yes I love the macabre too it's my favorite genre. Suspense and surprise...twisted! Going to read more of yours later do you have one you would like to recommend?\nI've done a couple of horror tales, got one shortlisted before but thrilled with the win"", 'time': '14:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': ""I plan to read the horror shortlist of yours after this.  I've dabbled a lot - pure horror would be The Edge; Fear Itself; Death Without End and Danni's Fresh Hell.   I should tell you I was raised on Oz books and Tales of Terror and the Supernatural.  Great upbringing."", 'time': '16:58 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Best upbringing if you ask me!', 'time': '08:04 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hi Susan! Thank you for the kind words. A kindred spirit lol yes I love the macabre too it's my favorite genre. Suspense and surprise...twisted! Going to read more of yours later do you have one you would like to recommend?\nI've done a couple of horror tales, got one shortlisted before but thrilled with the win"", 'time': '14:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""I plan to read the horror shortlist of yours after this.  I've dabbled a lot - pure horror would be The Edge; Fear Itself; Death Without End and Danni's Fresh Hell.   I should tell you I was raised on Oz books and Tales of Terror and the Supernatural.  Great upbringing."", 'time': '16:58 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Best upbringing if you ask me!', 'time': '08:04 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""I plan to read the horror shortlist of yours after this.  I've dabbled a lot - pure horror would be The Edge; Fear Itself; Death Without End and Danni's Fresh Hell.   I should tell you I was raised on Oz books and Tales of Terror and the Supernatural.  Great upbringing."", 'time': '16:58 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Best upbringing if you ask me!', 'time': '08:04 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Best upbringing if you ask me!', 'time': '08:04 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aaron Tippit': 'I really like the email chain format as an introduction. It definitely had a darker twist than I expected.\nGreat work', 'time': '12:53 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you so much Aaron! Yes pretty dark .. 😬 appreciate the words, glad the email chain idea worked out', 'time': '14:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you so much Aaron! Yes pretty dark .. 😬 appreciate the words, glad the email chain idea worked out', 'time': '14:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'That was a very compelling read.\n\nHe gave off rather keen creepy vibes from the get go, but you get that from the most wholesome geeks as well... So I just went along.😳\nI love that when he does get exposed as a serial killer looking for love, it all fits in as you look back.\n\nWell deserved win. Congratulations!!', 'time': '10:08 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Cecila. Yes it's so hard for an honest, hard working serial killer to find a kindred spirit these days 😂\nGlad you enjoyed!"", 'time': '10:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Cecila. Yes it's so hard for an honest, hard working serial killer to find a kindred spirit these days 😂\nGlad you enjoyed!"", 'time': '10:44 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Fernando César': 'Hi Derick!\nCongratulations on your winning! I enjoyed your writing. I do have a negative note on the main character. I’m not expert (I just see a lot of serial killers series on TV), but Tucker seems more of an imaginary/fantasy character than a realistic one. Usually serial killers take some form of pleasure in their killing. Tucker seems more of very rational psychopath, in the sense he is looking for a soulmate and is eliminating all the refusals. Rationally, there would be simpler ways to move along. So, we must assume the killing is par...', 'time': '09:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hi Fernando. Thanks for the comment,and the insights! \nFor Tucker, he's looking for a soulmate who shares his darkness and also shares his tendency to seek out and identify the darkness in others. So these 'dates' are more like interviews to him. He's trying to see if he get pry out the dark side of these women and expose it because he believes everybody has it, even the most innocent looking, decent, upright citizens. When it becomes clear to him he's not going to find it, he cuts his losses and moves on to the next person, as simple as tha..."", 'time': '20:29 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hi Fernando. Thanks for the comment,and the insights! \nFor Tucker, he's looking for a soulmate who shares his darkness and also shares his tendency to seek out and identify the darkness in others. So these 'dates' are more like interviews to him. He's trying to see if he get pry out the dark side of these women and expose it because he believes everybody has it, even the most innocent looking, decent, upright citizens. When it becomes clear to him he's not going to find it, he cuts his losses and moves on to the next person, as simple as tha..."", 'time': '20:29 Aug 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Way to Go! Yay! LF6', 'time': '04:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks lily!', 'time': '05:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks lily!', 'time': '05:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Definitely loved the start. I also saw this prompt as a dating one. Didn't read your warning. Lulled into a false sense of security. Thinking that the poor girl was hiding a secret about herself. But no, it was Buck. What a creep. What a twist. Well done, Derrick."", 'time': '22:39 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Oh gosh. Sorry!! 😬😬 \nYes he is. \nVery much so.', 'time': '23:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Oh gosh. Sorry!! 😬😬 \nYes he is. \nVery much so.', 'time': '23:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Okay, I cannot claim to have had worse dates after reading this. You did shock me and make me want to know more... All that a winner should do!\nWell done, sir. And I have never speed-dated and never will. ;)', 'time': '20:10 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Me neither!! Lol\nThanks Kendall\nYour name is cool!', 'time': '21:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Me neither!! Lol\nThanks Kendall\nYour name is cool!', 'time': '21:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'WOW. my jaw was on the floor by the end of this. congrats!', 'time': '19:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': '😁 the effect I was hoping for! Cheers!', 'time': '21:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': '😁 the effect I was hoping for! Cheers!', 'time': '21:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Patricia Jablonski': 'Very, very clever, Derrick, and such a chilling description of a psychopath--every single woman\'s worst nightmare. I have a feeling you didn\'t do much for the speed dating crowd! Honestly, though, nicely done. That last line: I don\'t understand why it can\'t read: "". . . you wanted to meet me again. I believe you . . .""', 'time': '19:36 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thank you Patricia. \nNo.....it probably isn't the best advertisement!!!\nLast line ...no particular reason. Just a stylistic choice really to indicate a pause or a beat.\nThanks for reading!"", 'time': '19:40 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thank you Patricia. \nNo.....it probably isn't the best advertisement!!!\nLast line ...no particular reason. Just a stylistic choice really to indicate a pause or a beat.\nThanks for reading!"", 'time': '19:40 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lauren Kawamoto': 'Wow what an intriguing story. Lots of foreshadowing and building up to the climax, I thought. Congrats on the win and looking forward to the next story you produce!', 'time': '19:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Lauren!', 'time': '19:40 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Lauren!', 'time': '19:40 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Well written, good flowing pace, speed dating can get pretty scary and intense. Yikes...! Nice work & congratulations.', 'time': '19:18 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thank you Joe. \nYes don't think I'd trust it myself! Dating is hard enough without the added potential element of risk!! :)"", 'time': '23:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Malgeri': ""You're welcome, Derrick, and yes, it is difficult out there on the single's scene. The last girl I asked for a date handed me a fig. Ha-ha..."", 'time': '00:06 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thank you Joe. \nYes don't think I'd trust it myself! Dating is hard enough without the added potential element of risk!! :)"", 'time': '23:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Malgeri': ""You're welcome, Derrick, and yes, it is difficult out there on the single's scene. The last girl I asked for a date handed me a fig. Ha-ha..."", 'time': '00:06 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""You're welcome, Derrick, and yes, it is difficult out there on the single's scene. The last girl I asked for a date handed me a fig. Ha-ha..."", 'time': '00:06 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': ""Wow, quite the story. I liked how you telegraphed that all was not as it seemed with Evelyn's nervousness and the grime on her face. My question is, what did he want in a mate that Evelyn didn't have? Not sure I see a clear motive, but I'm guessing you hid it in there somewhere. You have a very smart and descriptive writing style; not overdone at all and really brings you into the action. Definitely not my cup of tea but I can't argue with the execution."", 'time': '18:07 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Ben. \nHe is looking for his life partner to kill with him essentially but someone who thinks killing is justified if the ones they kill are bad themselves. Of course he's no better than the 'bad guys' he targets. He was hoping to find a kindred spirit. I guess even serial killers want to find love without having to fake who they are"", 'time': '18:11 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ben LeBlanc': 'Ok, that makes sense. Definitely worth a reread now that I know that haha.', 'time': '18:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Ben. \nHe is looking for his life partner to kill with him essentially but someone who thinks killing is justified if the ones they kill are bad themselves. Of course he's no better than the 'bad guys' he targets. He was hoping to find a kindred spirit. I guess even serial killers want to find love without having to fake who they are"", 'time': '18:11 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Ok, that makes sense. Definitely worth a reread now that I know that haha.', 'time': '18:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Ok, that makes sense. Definitely worth a reread now that I know that haha.', 'time': '18:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'The email set up is so well done, and the reader is duped along with the dates—he just seems overwhelmingly hopeful in saying yes to these different and even really recalcitrant women. His creepiness at first just comes across as dropping the formality and using too much bad language, being overly familiar about assuming the worst in others. That she was tied down was very surprising—excellent pacing. Congratulations', 'time': '18:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Anne. Lovely to receive some feedback from you, I enjoy your writing a lot. !', 'time': '23:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '06:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Anne. Lovely to receive some feedback from you, I enjoy your writing a lot. !', 'time': '23:57 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '06:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '06:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Dena Linn': 'A wonderful story and artfully crafted in its sections. Kudos for your work and creativity... super !!!! Hope to see more of your writing.', 'time': '17:41 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks so much Dena!', 'time': '17:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks so much Dena!', 'time': '17:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'E. M.': ""What an enjoyable read! I appreciated how easily your character went from a single dad to a terrifying serial killer. I didn't find myself reading back for clarification. You placed a lot of hints throughout the story that foreshadowed something dark on the horizon. And honestly, dating later in life (dating at all nowadays) is a horrifying experience on its own. I still joke with my friends about meeting the guy in public, just in case he's a murderer. Well done, and congratulations on the win!"", 'time': '17:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Em! Appreciate the words. \nAnd yes I know what you mean about dating In later life....it's a minefield and way too much like hard work. Hard to find someone at an age where you actually know what you want!\nThank you again!"", 'time': '17:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Em! Appreciate the words. \nAnd yes I know what you mean about dating In later life....it's a minefield and way too much like hard work. Hard to find someone at an age where you actually know what you want!\nThank you again!"", 'time': '17:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Congrats Derrick, well deserved! 😁', 'time': '16:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Kevin. \nVery surprised!! In a good way!', 'time': '16:55 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Kevin. \nVery surprised!! In a good way!', 'time': '16:55 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Congrats Derrick!', 'time': '15:52 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks JD! \nCan't believe it lol"", 'time': '16:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks JD! \nCan't believe it lol"", 'time': '16:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Chilling. A perfect fit for he prompt, but I’m still reeling. I liked the presentation of this with the speed fate replies. We get to meet the characters where everyone is putting on a persona for the dating app. What a chilling twist at the end. Just shows you can’t believe everything you read online.', 'time': '07:32 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Michelle.\nYou can't trust anyone online!!!! Especially to date! I think!"", 'time': '23:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Congratulations on the win!', 'time': '00:08 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': '😬😁', 'time': '00:09 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Michelle.\nYou can't trust anyone online!!!! Especially to date! I think!"", 'time': '23:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Congratulations on the win!', 'time': '00:08 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': '😬😁', 'time': '00:09 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Congratulations on the win!', 'time': '00:08 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': '😬😁', 'time': '00:09 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': '😬😁', 'time': '00:09 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Unknown user': '<removed by user>', 'time': '04:11 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '0'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'LOL thanks AG. Yes I liked the swipe left thing too, it just popped out in the spur of the moment and I thought....oh hello! :)', 'time': '23:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'LOL thanks AG. Yes I liked the swipe left thing too, it just popped out in the spur of the moment and I thought....oh hello! :)', 'time': '23:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",8kql8f,Hunting with Hyenas,Kathleen Fine,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8kql8f/,/short-story/8kql8f/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Drama', 'Sad']",38 likes,"
Uncapping the large plastic bottle labelled Liquid Sugar, Jezebel deliberately twisted her wrist just inches above her chest, gripping the container tightly in her hand. As the sticky, clear fluid dripped down her torso, she made eye contact with the suited man in the front row before examining the rest of the room. The dim lights highlighted the thick cigar smoke wafting through the air, making Jezebel resist the instinctual urge to rub her eyes. She hated smoking almost as much as she hated drinking. “Pour some sugar on me. Ooh, in the name of love. Pour some sugar on me. C'mon, fire me up. Pour your sugar on me. I can't get enough…”It was perfect timing, the pour. She’d always been good at timing her moves to the exact lyrics of her music. She hadn’t always been the best dancer. Or the most seductive. But timing…timing was her thing.“No, it’s step two, three, four. Not step, step, two, three, four,” Marabel would direct her when they’d practice their jazz routine in the basement after school. But Jezebel could never get the moves right no matter how hard she tried. Rather than feel inferior because of her lack of dance skills, she’d asked to help out behind the scenes with the jazz teacher.“You changed those lights to the exact beat of the music…how’d you do that? Aren’t you only ten?” the teacher had asked in surprise after she helped with her sister’s first performance.“Nine and a half,” she’d grinned.“You sure are good at timing,” the teacher praised. And Jezebel agreed. She sure was good at timing. As she rubbed the oily, sugary water down her ribcage, she slowly untied the left side of her bathing suit; her eyes surveying the front row of men sitting on the velvet, maroon furniture. It reminded her of an animal program she’d just seen on TV: Hunting with Hyenas. Desperate, hungry hyenas waiting anxiously for carcasses to be thrown to them by their zookeeper. Mouths watering. So impatient.Jezebel tried to spot one of her regulars in the modest crowd. Maybe Todd or Billy D.? Hadn’t DeMarcus promised he’d visit her today? She could always count on at least one familiar face to throw her a hefty tip, even if she did sometimes have to take them to the back room. But today, only new expressions gawked back at her. Bending down slowly, she held her breath, trying to ignore the smell of residual vomit and beer at the end of the stage. She’d have to make a complaint to Steve before she left. She…these women…they deserved a clean stage…didn’t they? The stench made a memory emerge of when she’d last seen her father. Vomit and beer spilled down his belly. His shirt pulled up above his waist.“Do you think he used it as a napkin to wipe his face and never lowered it again?” Marabel had asked, standing stiffly next to Jezebel as they both stared, stunned at their father’s corpse. Jezebel had barely registered what her sister had said, trying to sort out in her head if she felt remorse or relief.As she prodded her face between her legs, she glanced at the stage behind her. Kitty was doing her signature move at the pole: the inside hook. A few unfamiliar men gathered around, ogling as Kitty hung upside down, her right leg hooked around the pole. Jezebel shifted her eyes away before she got too caught up in Kitty’s performance.The worst thing you can do as a performer is compare yourself to others, Marabel had told her when she’d first started jazz. Kitty was a pole master queen the same way that Marabel could move across a stage like a ray of light gliding across the room. Kitty could spin upside down on a pole with the same art form that Marabel could perform a Flying Charleston. Jezebel simply rubbed wet sugar down her body and got naked.Jezebel wasn’t naïve. She was fully aware that spinning upside down on a pole and doing a Pas De Bourrée was harder than what she did. But Jezebel usually attracted a larger crowd than Kitty. It was in the same way that Marabel was the smarter one. The kinder one. The better one. But Jezebel seemed to always have more friends. Sometimes she felt like talent and kindness got you nowhere in life. Or at least, not in hers. Certainly not in Marabel’s.As she leisurely ran her hands through her sticky hair, neck, and around her hips, she tried not to show her disappointment by the lack of customers. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken this morning shift for Amethyst. But Amethyst had promised her that a ton of night workers would be getting off and it’d still be busy. And after watching, Hunting with Hyenas with Ben, she’d learned that even though hyenas were nocturnal animals, they still could venture out during the early morning hours when other predators began their daily hunting. She’d taken it as a sign to switch shifts. So where were her hyenas?Slowly untying the right side of her bikini bottom, she heard some moans and whoops from the front row almost indistinguishable from the noises she’d heard from the mammals on TV. Eyes glossed over. Lips parting. Leaning closer and closer, almost touching the stage.Trying not to wince, she pulled the rhinestone studded cloth off of her, shifting her eyes to the neon sign behind the bar. This is where she’d keep her gaze until she was done. She hadn’t yet learned how to keep her focus like the zookeepers did after they tossed scraps over the fence. Or maybe the difference was, once the hyenas received their carcasses, their gazes broke away. Jezebel’s hyenas kept their gazes, only wanting to be fed more.The neon sign etched in her irises was a pretty, dark blue. Marabel’s favorite color. Jezebel always liked pink or purple. But Marabel always loved blue. The color of her eyes.“Terminal,” Marabel had explained last year, her sister’s voice trembling on the other line of the phone. And when Jezebel heard these words, she’d conceded of course.“Come live with me,” she’d said, “I’ll take care of you.”“How can you afford…”“I’ll afford,” she’d interrupted her.As Jezebel swished her hips, she thought of how only a few months ago, she didn’t even take her bottoms off. Hell, she didn’t used to take anything off. But when she’d bartended and overheard that the strippers made three times what she was making, she’d conceded of course. And when she’d overheard the performers who went full nude earned twice as much as topless ones… she’d conceded of course.She tossed the bottoms over to the man in the suit, hoping he was the one with the largest wallet. Doing a spin, she waited anxiously for the song to come to a close. Her feet ached in her heels, her pinky toes squeezing out of the sides like swollen sausages. She wished she could take them off. She’d lost a toenail last month because of them. But no one wants to see a stripper dancing without heels, do they? She’d never seen any at least…“Take a bottle, shake it up. Break the bubble, break it up…”As Jezebel shook up the half empty bottle of sugar and began spraying it over the front row of men, she reached behind her and unlatched her bikini top. As the song concluded, she was in a full split in the front row, the papery feeling of money fluttering on her face… the third best feeling in the world. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.Shutting the door slowly behind her, Jezebel turned on the water, washing the overdone makeup aggressively off her face so that the image staring back at her in the mirror returned to Jess. Grabbing baby wipes from her bag, she slowly wiped the sticky sugar off her skin, the absolute worst part of her shift. The part where she cursed herself for picking liquid sugar to use as her signature move. Why couldn’t she have opted for water? Or bubbles? Or learned to use the pole? She felt like a human fly trap.Finally clean, she tugged on her pair of jeans and an oversized cozy sweater before heading out of the bathroom and to the back door. She had two days before her next shift. Two days to be Jess.As she walked up to her house, she could hear the sound of laughter floating through the windows. The sweetest sound in the world.“Mommy?” Ben called through the window, as Jess pulled the front door open. The smell of coffee brewing mixed with wet dog wafted into Jess’s nose. They must’ve played with the hose outside, she thought, she must be feeling okay. “Hi honey, how was your day?” She leaned down and spread out her arms as Cooper came running behind him. Damp paws jumped on her as little hands grabbed at her ribcage. The soft feeling of toddler and puppy kisses fluttering on her face…the two best feelings in the world.“You’re home in time for lunch,” Marabel said softly, popping her head out of the kitchen. She gave Jess a forced smile, masking whatever pain was lurking inside. “Can we watch Hunting with Hippopotamus’s tonight?” Ben asked, tugging at her arm as he pulled her inside the kitchen.“There’s nothing I’d want to watch more in the world,” Jess conceded of course, as she followed her son inside. 
","July 18, 2023 18:09","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'Quite a complex story! It\'s clear Jezebel isn\'t entirely satisfied with her life, and about the only reason she does her job is the money, but the ending is also surprisingly wholesome. Almost happy, when contrasted to all the sad. \n\nIn her case, she really *can* take off the mask, and draw a hard line between her job and her life. That\'s not an easy skill to learn, for many. \n\nLikewise, there\'s a repeated device here, ""Jess conceded"". It paints such a bleak picture, like she\'s being pulled into this world and is powerless to stop it - like ...', 'time': '20:36 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Michal!', 'time': '11:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Michal!', 'time': '11:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Great story, Kathleen. You have packed many contrasting ideas into a small number of words. I very much liked the contrast of the noise and smells of the nigh club with her home environment. Another juxtaposition was her being able to afford to shelter her sister with her dancing routine.  Also the contrast of her stage name, Jezebel, with her ""home"" name of Jess.', 'time': '14:54 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Bruce!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Bruce!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aaron Tippit': 'I liked the dichotomy mixed into the story. The contrast between ""real life"" and her stage performance was great then you drove the nail in at the end. \nGreat work', 'time': '21:55 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Belladona Vulpa': 'Loved how you told the story, swift from past to present and again, seeing things from her eyes and from her senses, how she dislikes some smells, her motivations, all was so interesting to read, and I also liked the positive notes at the end :)', 'time': '13:12 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I liked the disconnect that Jezebel seemed to have between what she was doing and what she, was thinking, like she was an outside observer viewing her own performance. We go to see her performance through her eyes, but also how disengaged she was with it. The contrast to her at home persona was well done. She was totally engaged in that part of her life.', 'time': '11:36 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Nice work, Kathleen. \n\n(Although I can\'t listen to that song. ""...sticky sweet/from my head down to my feet"" just conjures an old bloke from Sheffield with sticky feet.)', 'time': '19:00 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': ':) thanks!', 'time': '11:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': ':) thanks!', 'time': '11:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Patricia C': 'This story is really well written! I love how the story ended with her washing off her work and returning home to her family.', 'time': '12:35 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Patricia!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Patricia!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': 'Extremely well done! I love the metamorphosis of Jezebel into Jess. I love how you waited to the very end. You painted such amazing pictures with your words, when describing Jezebel and her performance. Great job!', 'time': '01:42 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Joan!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Joan!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Absolutely great, Kathleen, many powerful ideas put together perfectly.', 'time': '20:28 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'This is lovely. Sister and mom just doing everything for her loved ones. How gross the men/hyenas are by comparison just highlights how wholesome her home life is. This is a wonderful answer to this prompt.', 'time': '15:22 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Angela!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Angela!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Another great story, Kathleen! Sad, but it humanizes an otherwise objectified industry. Great ending!', 'time': '09:53 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Ty!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Ty!', 'time': '11:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'I can\'t say that I know much about the strip club culture, but this feels genuine. Almost mercenary, from the stripper\'s POV. This was an immersive experience, what with the smell of vomit and stale beer, and the dispassionate judgments of other strippers\' talents.\n\nYour tale, Kathleen, is chock full of meaning and depth. I especially liked the Jezebel/Jess dichotomy. Jezebel, the Biblical character purported to be a whore and a temptress. Jess, the all-American girl who loves her family, especially her son and sister. \n\nI found the ""Pour So...', 'time': '10:59 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Delbert! And yes I intentionally chose those names- well done noticing! :)', 'time': '11:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Delbert! And yes I intentionally chose those names- well done noticing! :)', 'time': '11:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""So much story crammed into a short. Masterful Kathleen. There was so many bits of this that made me uncomfortable in the best possible way, the vomit smelling stage, the flashback to her father's corpse, the feeling of being covered in sticky sugar, yet having to do it all to support someone you love. Chefs kisses. Beautiful, fast flowing, brillantly written."", 'time': '19:15 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Wow thank you so much Kevin!', 'time': '11:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Wow thank you so much Kevin!', 'time': '11:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Gartner': 'I like the mixture of real time with flashbacks. That can be hard to pull off so good work with that.', 'time': '20:54 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Jonathan!', 'time': '11:03 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Jonathan!', 'time': '11:03 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Theo Benson': 'It’s amazing how hard a single word can hit in story. The way Marabel said “Terminal” struck deep. There’s a lot of complexity to Jezebel as a character, and getting glimpses into the motivations behind her actions is a huge part of why this story sticks out at me. Well done!', 'time': '19:49 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Theo!', 'time': '11:03 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Theo Benson': 'You’re welcome! Looking forward to reading your future projects :)', 'time': '13:51 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Theo!', 'time': '11:03 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Theo Benson': 'You’re welcome! Looking forward to reading your future projects :)', 'time': '13:51 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Theo Benson': 'You’re welcome! Looking forward to reading your future projects :)', 'time': '13:51 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Fine, Kathleen, mighty fine.\n\nThanks for liking my public speaking...\nAnd my mayhem.😉', 'time': '19:30 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Mary!', 'time': '11:03 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Mary!', 'time': '11:03 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",tooikh,The Times In Between,Robert Lee,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tooikh/,/short-story/tooikh/,Character,0,"['American', 'Sad', 'Western']",35 likes,"
I wake up and slide out of bed. I’m careful not to wake her as I tiptoe out of the room. I shut the door behind me.I’ve been doing this for years. She tells all of her friends how considerate I am. I smile and say something like, “I’ll try not to hurt my arm patting myself on the back.” Everyone laughs; they always laugh. Humor has become my job, my responsibility. I wonder what she would think if she knew that I sneak out of our bedroom so I can be by myself. Would she brag to her friends if she knew the truth? In my defense, it's not just her—it's everybody. Interaction is a chore, engagement is a duty, human contact is oppressive.Safe in the solitude of my favorite wingback chair, I read. I read the newspaper, or a book, or anything else that takes me away.I read what I want.This is my time, my favorite part of the day. No one is awake to entertain—no one is interrupting me with questions or problems or demands.The phone rings. It always rings exactly seven times. I know this because I never answer. I don’t even look at the Caller ID. I don’t want to feel obligated. If I do, I’ll have to put on my mask—the mask everyone knows. He’s so funny, so interesting, so smart.My daughter comes down the stairs. I love her more than life itself. Still, I hope she doesn’t stay long. She thinks I’m perfect. I have her fooled. She tells me she wants me to meet her new friend. I told her all about you! She says with a smile. She thinks it's a compliment. It feels like another obligation. Yet another person I have to deceive.When she leaves, I'm relieved. I'm ashamed.Now I’m in my car, the second favorite part of my day. I am an aggressive driver. I cut people off. I don’t let people in. “Fuck you!” I yell because no one can hear me. I say the things I dare not utter in public. If people heard me then they might know who I really am.I can’t stand the idea of anyone knowing me. I’m not a bad person. I’m not an angry person.I just need a way to let off steam. The car acts like the release valve on a pressure cooker. I need the time alone. I need it to get through the day. I wish the drive were longer.It’s not.All too soon, I’m at work.It’s time to do my morning dance. I scan the parking lot. Is anyone getting out of their car? Is anyone pulling in? On good days, I can time it exactly right so I’m too late to ride the elevator with the people in front of me while being far enough ahead of the next group to avoid them as well. But not this morning. Today I’m forced to ride up in the elevator with Barry and Heather. Barry asks me about my weekend. Heather turns to listen. “Same as always—too short.” They both laugh. Heather says I crack her up. Three floors up with them seems an eternity to me. I smile, praying no one else gets on.I work in a call center, an ironic job for someone who hates talking to people. I am pleasant. I ask my customers questions about their lives. I empathize with their struggles. I tell jokes. They like that, they chuckle.I tell them I’ll call back with an answer, but I never do. Once they are off my phone, they are dead to me. They only get to see the mask I am paid to wear.I have to stop on the way home. I need a new shirt for a party tonight. I dread the store. A salesperson will talk to me. I don my mask once again. The conversation is endless, Jehovah’s Witness meets Amway rep endless. I hate every second. Finally, another customer comes in, relieving me of my obligation. When I buy my shirt, I say, “I hope that card works—I found it in the parking lot.” The salesperson laughs. I’ve done my job. I've been entertaining—now I can leave.Back in my car for the ride home, I savor my freedom from others. I eat in the car. I sing in the car.I cry in the car.I am myself in the car. More than once I contemplate driving right by my exit and never turning back, only I know my curse will follow me wherever I go. In a new town with a new name, I’ll still be me.I’m home again; she’s working. I’m happy. She’s otherwise occupied. I don’t have to tell jokes or be interesting or interested.I go back to my chair and enjoy the few quiet moments before the party.I made plans with three different friends. I’ll disappoint two because saying yes is easier than saying no.I’m always overbooked with events I don’t want to attend, so I try to settle for the least offensive.At the party with my wife, I talk and I listen. When the conversation starts to lag, everyone looks to me to liven it up. So, I tell a joke—I always have a joke. They laugh—they always do. Tonight, there is karaoke—I love to sing karaoke. People think it’s because I love the attention. It isn’t. On the stage, I get to be alone. I’m willing to sing poorly just for a moment of respite. I want to be the first to leave the party, but I’m always the last.Now I’m back home. She tells me what a great time she had. My wife has made plans to do it all again. I tell her I’m tired, but I’m not. Not really. I just want to go to sleep so I can be alone once again. Such is my curse. I do need to sleep because tomorrow it will start all over again.There are no support groups for extroverted introverts. Everyone would RSVP but no one would attend.
","July 17, 2023 15:25","[[{'Mike Panasitti': 'This reminded me of a role Robin Williams would have played...a role that would have revealed something of what it was like to be Robin Williams, that sad happy man.  Great work, Robert.', 'time': '19:13 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Hi Robert! I’m trying to get better at critiquing things, so this is going to be a longer review. Not trying to nitpick or anything like that. Just trying to get better at writing by looking in depth at the work of others. I hope you find some of my stuff helpful but remember that this is all just my opinion. \n\nPros:\nI am a huge introvert, so a lot of the points in this story hit close to home. The protagonist (who I will just call MC for Main Character) always has to be a source of happiness for others, something I am all too familiar with....', 'time': '22:47 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Robert Lee': 'Sue, this is about the kindest feedback I’ve ever received. You not only took the time to give me props for the things you liked, you cared enough to give me constructive feedback on what might have made it better. The first part was cool, the second was above and beyond cool. Part of me wishes the story wasn’t locked so I could use some of your suggestions, but they will also help as I write in the future. Thank you. You are the best.', 'time': '02:49 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Sue Hunter': ""Aw, you're making me blush :]"", 'time': '00:43 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert Lee': 'Sue, this is about the kindest feedback I’ve ever received. You not only took the time to give me props for the things you liked, you cared enough to give me constructive feedback on what might have made it better. The first part was cool, the second was above and beyond cool. Part of me wishes the story wasn’t locked so I could use some of your suggestions, but they will also help as I write in the future. Thank you. You are the best.', 'time': '02:49 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': ""Aw, you're making me blush :]"", 'time': '00:43 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': ""Aw, you're making me blush :]"", 'time': '00:43 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'As an introvert who has to pretend to be an extrovert, I can so relate to this character. Loved the story. Thank you for sharing.', 'time': '08:16 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': ""Great story! Your character was true throughout. I am an extroverted introvert and could identify. I loved that he didn't see himself as unusual or weird just burdened. I wonder how many people just like him, live in our world. Great job!"", 'time': '22:23 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Deidra Whitt Lovegren': ""Robert, this is incredibly relatable...and perfectly written, down to its last comma.\nTold in spare, clean, deceptively simple prose, the narrator's pain/guilt/shame comes through in waves -- he's almost drowning in grief from the loss of who he'd really like to be versus the societal construct he's found himself in."", 'time': '12:44 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Robert, a very well-written story about what you are calling an extroverted introvert. I think that more people fall into this category than recognize. Good work.', 'time': '20:25 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'C. A. Janke': ""Hi Robert! This is such an incredibly well-written story and I found myself relating to a lot of the protagonist's struggles. The simple, straightforward voice really shows how he's got this practiced inauthenticity down perfectly, how he's mastered the skill of not only being likable but also entertaining to make it through his everyday interactions. The spaces and times where he can be himself are so limited (i.e. his chair, his car) that almost all other aspects of his life feel exhausting and oppressive. Very effective, great work!"", 'time': '22:41 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Elias Kaye': 'I like the idea of a group for extroverted introverts, but I feel the how he describes it is too ""on the nose."" maybe, a group for people ""like me...people forced to talk about nothing when they want to be quiet about everything.""', 'time': '15:41 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Olive Silirus': ""Great story! I love the last line especially - 'There are no support groups for extroverted introverts. Everyone would RSVP but no one would attend.'"", 'time': '19:26 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Temitope Ajao': 'Great story', 'time': '13:54 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Hmmm. This story was a little dissapointing for me. There was a lot of repetition. Different situations with no variation in character. I get that he\'s an extraverted introvert, but he acted robotic, and no one is that simple. There must have been some way to escalate/deepen his character as the story progressed. Introverted extraverts don\'t hate everyone all the time. It didn\'t seem like his problem was just that he needed to ""blow off steam""; it seemed more psychological, like he was a narcissist or a psychopath (or both). I do like how si...', 'time': '23:13 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '-1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",wod451,Letting It Go,Michelle Oliver,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wod451/,/short-story/wod451/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad']",29 likes,"
NowShe stands before the mirror, staring blankly at the reflection of a woman she has never met. With trembling hands, she unclips the silver hoops from her ears and places them carefully in the jewelry box. The matching necklace is next. It slithers from her neck and crumples into a pile of links in her palm. She pours the chain into the box. Her rings follow. She wrestles each one over the knuckle and drops them all beside the chain. The jewelry belongs to someone else, a different woman, and she is happy to shed that woman, like a snake sheds its skin.She steps into the adjoining ensuite bathroom and discards her clothing, ripping at the garments and dropping them to the floor. She will never wear these clothes again and she kicks them to one corner.The water in the shower is steaming hot, and she welcomes its painful sting as it sears her icy flesh. It is only when the heat steams up the shower stall in a heavy fog, that the tears finally fall.ThenThe church was full by the time she arrived. The last time she had arrived at a full church was on her wedding day. Today was not her wedding, although she had selected the dress with care. Ice blue and ruffled. There was no other choice.Father Greg greeted her with his somber eyes, and she smiled her thanks. The expression felt stiff and awkward on her face, but she knew the ritual of greeting. Say hello, express your gratitude, smile. She allowed the priest to lead her to the front of the church, where Steven was waiting. The last time he was at the front of the church waiting for her was also on her wedding day. Ironic.In the last six months, Steven had slowly withdrawn until he had become a stranger. That which does not kill you, only makes you stronger. Well, their marriage was not strong enough. He walked out a month ago, just when she needed him. He’d said he was sorry, he’d said he wished he had more to give. Empty words. Seeing him today should have hurt, but she felt nothing.She sat next to him, eyes fixed forward.He took her hand in his. “How are you Lara?”Her hand was cold compared with his warm fingers, and her voice was icy cool as she replied with a polite, “I’m OK.”Was she Ok? She supposed she had to be. It was a facade, and she knew it, a fragile front she showed the world. A brittle shell that contained all her ugly broken bits. Lara knew she was being watched, could feel the eyes on her, staring into the back of her head, peering with morbid curiosity into her soul. She would not give them anything to see. No drama, no hysteria. She was too broken for those dangerous emotions.The stirring from the church foyer indicated that it was about to begin. They had arrived. Lara’s stomach dropped. She could feel the blood drain from the cheeks and her head spun. It was happening. It was really beginning now. As much as she dreaded it, she needed this. Needed it over.The music started, and Father Greg invited everyone to stand. She stood. Not a tremor, not a waver. Her legs obeyed on autopilot.Dry-eyed, she turned to watch the six men, her brother and Steven’s brother among them, wheel the small casket down the aisle toward the altar. Some part of her, the part outside of herself, listened to the music as it played ‘Heimr Àrnadalr’ the beautiful choral piece that was played at Queen Elsa’s coronation. Frozen was Sarah’s favourite Disney movie. The little casket was wrapped in blue snowflakes and images from the Disney classic. Elsa, Ana, Olaf, Sven.It was so small.It was left before the altar, alone and cold.Father Greg incensed the casket. The spicy fumes caused Lara’s eyes to water, but she refused to lift a handkerchief, surreptitiously using a knuckle to cast away the moisture instead.The eulogy was read. Lara focused upon the curve of a snowflake as it caressed the rounded corner of the casket, and did not hear a single word. She didn’t need to. After all, she had written it. She knew Sarah better than any other here. Who else would write it?The slow procession past the casket began with the usher assisting her to stand and place upon its white top a small posy of lavender tied in a silky blue bow. She put it next to the photo frame of a younger, healthier, smiling Sarah hugging Mitzee, her one eyed moggy. He was a mangy-looking beast, but Sarah loved that cat. He gave her such comfort and joy that Lara couldn’t help but smile. Sarah had taken one look at the battered and scarred creature, declaring him hers, and a mother’s heart just couldn’t say no. Sarah could be stubborn like that, one-eyed, both metaphorically and literally.When she was eight, cancer had taken Sarah’s eye, but not her ferocious spirit. Out of all the cats in the shelter that day, Sarah had taken the oldest, ugliest, most unlovable one-eyed beast, saying he was different, just like her. After suffering a mother’s anxiety as she awaited the results of the surgery, Lara was ready to give her daughter whatever creature filled her with joy.Sooner than Lara expected, Idina Menzel’s famous, powerful ballad ‘Let It Go’ rang out through the church. The casket was carefully manoeuvred back down the aisle. To her surprise, Lara realised that she was standing, and the usher directed her to follow the tiny casket. She could feel the press of people filing out behind her, their solemn gazes weighing on her shoulders. Steven walked beside her, bowed with grief, but she held her head high, shoulders rigid.The soft thud of the rear door on the hearse closing nearly broke her. She wouldn’t let it. The tail lights as the car quietly rolled away threatened to shatter her, but she was resolute.“I’m sorry for your loss.”Nod and smile, “Thank you.”“I’m sorry for your loss.”Kiss and hug, “Thank you.”“She was a wonderful little trouper.”Shake a hand, “Thank you.”Lara lost count of the number of times she said that, ‘thank you’. She wanted to scream, to tell everyone to just bugger off now, but she was scared of being alone. And there was cake, and scones with jam and cream, and tea, mustn’t forget the tea. The Ladies Auxiliary had provided it in the church hall. Mustn’t disappoint the Ladies Auxiliary.So she smiled, and kissed, and hugged, and thanked, and waited until it was all over.NowIn her small shower cubicle, blanketed with steam, Lara breaks. At first it is a soft, guttural groan seeping out of the corners of her mouth from behind tightly clenched teeth. It builds in a slow crescendo and becomes a full-blown wail. No one can see her. No one is there to hear, except an old, one-eyed cat, who eyes her from the bed with curious concern.
","July 18, 2023 14:37","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Michelle,\nOh my heavens this is a heartbreaker! I loved the way you teased us at the beginning, let the story unfold, and then ended it with the true sadness of it all. The imagery was vivid and gut wrenching. I loved the way you kept character interactions to a minimum which helped emphasize the character’s pain. Nice work!!', 'time': '19:48 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. I was hoping to show through the minimal character interactions how isolated she felt in her grief, so I’m happy that it worked.', 'time': '23:04 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. I was hoping to show through the minimal character interactions how isolated she felt in her grief, so I’m happy that it worked.', 'time': '23:04 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Such a sad story but so well written. This could be turned into a novel!', 'time': '10:45 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for reading. It’s the last in the series so who knows… maybe one day.', 'time': '11:28 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for reading. It’s the last in the series so who knows… maybe one day.', 'time': '11:28 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Michelle,\nA very moving piece emotionally. Told from the perspective of grief. A brave face held up to public scrutiny. Then, when she feels safe enough to let her grief loose, the healing begins.\nVery well written and sensitively told.', 'time': '03:45 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': ""Thanks for reading this. I believe this is the end of the Mitzee Saga. It wasn't the story I initially set out to tell this week, but it was the story that demanded to be told."", 'time': '05:23 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': ""Thanks for reading this. I believe this is the end of the Mitzee Saga. It wasn't the story I initially set out to tell this week, but it was the story that demanded to be told."", 'time': '05:23 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Blake Tori': 'Hey this is really good! Granted, the story is laced with tragedy and sadness and no death of a child would ever be considered ‘good’, but the way you tell it - your style - it’s talented and fantastic!!', 'time': '19:36 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. It completes a whole saga about the one eyed cat. It kind of demanded to be written, it wasn’t what I planned to write.', 'time': '22:15 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. It completes a whole saga about the one eyed cat. It kind of demanded to be written, it wasn’t what I planned to write.', 'time': '22:15 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'WOW! I hope you win for this piece.', 'time': '03:04 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for the vote of confidence. Thanks for reading it. It’s the last in a saga about the cat Mitzee.', 'time': '03:27 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'I need to go back to the beginning of the Saga again. I was curious about the one-eyed cat.', 'time': '03:55 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'If you’re interested, it starts with:\n1) Mitzee’s Moment, 2) Mitzee’s Revenge, 3) Mitzee’s memoir, 4) Mitzee and Menace, 5) Write Rite- a Mitzee story then this one 6) Letting It Go.', 'time': '04:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thank you Michelle. Yes, I'm interested. It's such a sad ending. It will be all the sadder once I read the whole series."", 'time': '04:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for the vote of confidence. Thanks for reading it. It’s the last in a saga about the cat Mitzee.', 'time': '03:27 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'I need to go back to the beginning of the Saga again. I was curious about the one-eyed cat.', 'time': '03:55 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'If you’re interested, it starts with:\n1) Mitzee’s Moment, 2) Mitzee’s Revenge, 3) Mitzee’s memoir, 4) Mitzee and Menace, 5) Write Rite- a Mitzee story then this one 6) Letting It Go.', 'time': '04:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thank you Michelle. Yes, I'm interested. It's such a sad ending. It will be all the sadder once I read the whole series."", 'time': '04:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'I need to go back to the beginning of the Saga again. I was curious about the one-eyed cat.', 'time': '03:55 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'If you’re interested, it starts with:\n1) Mitzee’s Moment, 2) Mitzee’s Revenge, 3) Mitzee’s memoir, 4) Mitzee and Menace, 5) Write Rite- a Mitzee story then this one 6) Letting It Go.', 'time': '04:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thank you Michelle. Yes, I'm interested. It's such a sad ending. It will be all the sadder once I read the whole series."", 'time': '04:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'If you’re interested, it starts with:\n1) Mitzee’s Moment, 2) Mitzee’s Revenge, 3) Mitzee’s memoir, 4) Mitzee and Menace, 5) Write Rite- a Mitzee story then this one 6) Letting It Go.', 'time': '04:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thank you Michelle. Yes, I'm interested. It's such a sad ending. It will be all the sadder once I read the whole series."", 'time': '04:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""Thank you Michelle. Yes, I'm interested. It's such a sad ending. It will be all the sadder once I read the whole series."", 'time': '04:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': 'Amazing!  Your word choices are perfect to describe the emotions of your character. I could visualize the whole scene because you painted an amazing picture. I lost a child and you did such an amazing job of describing the pain.', 'time': '22:33 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I am so sorry for your loss. I can only imagine the pain. Thank you for reading and leaving your feedback.', 'time': '00:07 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I am so sorry for your loss. I can only imagine the pain. Thank you for reading and leaving your feedback.', 'time': '00:07 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sherry Bazley': ""Michelle, I loved this one.  Your style seems so tender to my inner ears.  By that I mean that you seem to capture the beauty, resilience and fragility of the creatures and people you tell stories about.  It's  lovely.  Thanks for being a writer."", 'time': '12:54 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you, what a lovely compliment, I am humbled.', 'time': '13:16 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you, what a lovely compliment, I am humbled.', 'time': '13:16 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow! An unexpected but necessary (IMO) Mitzee tale. I always felt that this was the one hole in the Mitzee/Sarah/Lara saga. I also felt like it might be too painful to write; kids' deaths slay me, and you as well, I'm willing to bet. The only other possible tale that could be told would be Lara's journey to recovery. \n\nAs it stands, the sage is beautiful, sad, poignant, and worthy of being published and acclaimed. They really are that good, my friend. I will go further and state that this tale had better be shortlisted and/or the week's winn..."", 'time': '12:34 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for your vote of confidence. This story surprised me this week. I was writing a different one, but this tale just had to be told. It was like it had a mind of its own. I’m sorry for the tears yet again. \nThe death of a child is crushing and cruel. I don’t know how parents survive it.\nI really appreciate your feedback.', 'time': '13:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for your vote of confidence. This story surprised me this week. I was writing a different one, but this tale just had to be told. It was like it had a mind of its own. I’m sorry for the tears yet again. \nThe death of a child is crushing and cruel. I don’t know how parents survive it.\nI really appreciate your feedback.', 'time': '13:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Great, sad take on the prompt. Sad for a number of reasons. Sad for the loss of a child, sad because we discourage hiding the entirely normal emotions such a loss brings with it, sad because even here the spouses are sparring. \n\nWe put on all kinds of masks in public. \n\n""She put it next to the photo frame of a younger, healthier, smiling Sarah hugging Mitzee"" - oh, dang! I didn\'t realize we were following these characters, and suddenly this piece hit a lot harder. \n\n""little trouper"" - curious! This works perfectly, but I\'ve only ever seen ""t...', 'time': '20:45 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. I was inspired by a memory of a family friend who lost her oldest child just after I had my first. At the funeral I remember thinking, how the hell was she still upright and smiling? It was that mask that you talk about, putting it on to get through something that is almost unbearable. Only once she was alone did she let the pain out.\n\nI thought I had finished with the Mitzee tales, but this piece just demanded to be written. \n\nMaybe trouper is an Australian thing? I don’t know. I rarely use trooper, unless I’m talking...', 'time': '22:34 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it. I was inspired by a memory of a family friend who lost her oldest child just after I had my first. At the funeral I remember thinking, how the hell was she still upright and smiling? It was that mask that you talk about, putting it on to get through something that is almost unbearable. Only once she was alone did she let the pain out.\n\nI thought I had finished with the Mitzee tales, but this piece just demanded to be written. \n\nMaybe trouper is an Australian thing? I don’t know. I rarely use trooper, unless I’m talking...', 'time': '22:34 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Slightly confusing me because I still have another 2 Mitzee stories to read, but couldn't not read this! \n\nI really like that you've done things a little differently by using Laura's POV and not Mitzee's.\n\nLove it!\n\n(Still on the finishing quest, onto the first page now! Stop writing so I can catch up! 😁)"", 'time': '09:00 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading.', 'time': '15:06 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading.', 'time': '15:06 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'RJ Holmquist': ""This is so sad! I found it fascinating how well the Disney references worked for me. They seemed to be great shorthand for describing the child's character and also provided a strong sensory impact, as the music was easy for me to hear in my head.\n \nWell done as always!"", 'time': '05:21 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. Music is a powerful link to emotions. I find myself linking stories with sound tracks a lot.', 'time': '08:45 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. Music is a powerful link to emotions. I find myself linking stories with sound tracks a lot.', 'time': '08:45 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emma D': 'Another Mitzee and Sarah story. So sad, but it was great!', 'time': '02:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I know, I thought the last story was the last one, but this was demanding to be told. It wasn’t the story I expected to write this week.', 'time': '08:43 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I know, I thought the last story was the last one, but this was demanding to be told. It wasn’t the story I expected to write this week.', 'time': '08:43 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Great emotional piece Michelle. \n\nIt doesn't actually matter to the power and strength of this tale but I'm trying to work out the relationship between Lara and Sarah."", 'time': '18:08 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Mother and daughter. I will go back and look at this, see if I can make it clear. I didn’t want to state the obvious, but if it’s not obvious… then I need to work on it. Thanks for the feedback.', 'time': '22:32 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""I was thinking it would most likely was Mother, but because it was open I was just clarifying. It's great writing Michelle, I wouldn't edit because of my sleep addled brain ha."", 'time': '06:18 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'I added a bit just for clarity. Hopefully it works.', 'time': '08:46 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""I can't pinpoint your changes, but on the reread there is many clues that just went past me, being ushered to the front of the church, the first to the follow the casket, the barrage of thank yous. Yes it's obvious, I'd say the fault was on my end, apologises if I cost you extra work."", 'time': '09:09 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I added the bit about Mitzee to clarify that it is actually a mitzee story and to make a clear link between the previous stories.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Mother and daughter. I will go back and look at this, see if I can make it clear. I didn’t want to state the obvious, but if it’s not obvious… then I need to work on it. Thanks for the feedback.', 'time': '22:32 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""I was thinking it would most likely was Mother, but because it was open I was just clarifying. It's great writing Michelle, I wouldn't edit because of my sleep addled brain ha."", 'time': '06:18 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'I added a bit just for clarity. Hopefully it works.', 'time': '08:46 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""I can't pinpoint your changes, but on the reread there is many clues that just went past me, being ushered to the front of the church, the first to the follow the casket, the barrage of thank yous. Yes it's obvious, I'd say the fault was on my end, apologises if I cost you extra work."", 'time': '09:09 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I added the bit about Mitzee to clarify that it is actually a mitzee story and to make a clear link between the previous stories.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""I was thinking it would most likely was Mother, but because it was open I was just clarifying. It's great writing Michelle, I wouldn't edit because of my sleep addled brain ha."", 'time': '06:18 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I added a bit just for clarity. Hopefully it works.', 'time': '08:46 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""I can't pinpoint your changes, but on the reread there is many clues that just went past me, being ushered to the front of the church, the first to the follow the casket, the barrage of thank yous. Yes it's obvious, I'd say the fault was on my end, apologises if I cost you extra work."", 'time': '09:09 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I added the bit about Mitzee to clarify that it is actually a mitzee story and to make a clear link between the previous stories.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I added a bit just for clarity. Hopefully it works.', 'time': '08:46 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""I can't pinpoint your changes, but on the reread there is many clues that just went past me, being ushered to the front of the church, the first to the follow the casket, the barrage of thank yous. Yes it's obvious, I'd say the fault was on my end, apologises if I cost you extra work."", 'time': '09:09 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I added the bit about Mitzee to clarify that it is actually a mitzee story and to make a clear link between the previous stories.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""I can't pinpoint your changes, but on the reread there is many clues that just went past me, being ushered to the front of the church, the first to the follow the casket, the barrage of thank yous. Yes it's obvious, I'd say the fault was on my end, apologises if I cost you extra work."", 'time': '09:09 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I added the bit about Mitzee to clarify that it is actually a mitzee story and to make a clear link between the previous stories.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks I added the bit about Mitzee to clarify that it is actually a mitzee story and to make a clear link between the previous stories.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Worthy of the trophy! 😪', 'time': '15:37 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for the vote of confidence. This was not the story that I started writing this week, it’s just one that was demanding to be told.', 'time': '22:36 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for the vote of confidence. This was not the story that I started writing this week, it’s just one that was demanding to be told.', 'time': '22:36 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",dn9f6y,"Me, Myself And I Mayhem",Mary Bendickson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dn9f6y/,/short-story/dn9f6y/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Contemporary', 'Speculative']",27 likes,"
Me, Myself and I Mayhem
 
I am a facade. I am pretending to be something I am not. Look at me, posing as something I will probable never become. I continue to put on a show believing others believe in me. How can I believe I can accomplish what I can not do? I go through all the right motions putting on the charade. I create a semblance of what I think I could be but I must face the truth sometime. It is all only window dressing to pose the masquerade. It's a simple guise to hide the lies. 
Am I hurting anyone by putting on this pretext? What kind of inhumanity to man am I inflicting with my selfish playacting? Has my elaborate camouflage even been working? Will I have to pay a price for my perfidy? Do I double down on my double-dealing double-crossing deceitfulness? Or do I come clean and confess to clear my conscious? Who is going to believe any semblance of an excuse for my blatant ruse? How can my assumed affectation be regarded by anyone as anything but putting on airs? Has my puny performance proved convincing to any of the all-powerful powers-that-be?
The stress of this mess is taking its toll. I find myself engrossed to continue the treachery. I get very little else accomplished. I spend most of my waking hours perpetuating the falsity. I have so many more directions to which I need to be devoting my energy. These other interests are left deserted, unfinished, undone, unfulfilled. I ask if this impersonation I have taken on is doing anything to nurture my real life relationships? Or is it truly only draining my limited reserves? Am I finding joy and passion pursuing this illusive goal? Is it only a fleeting thing?
--- I—I—I, starting to stutter I would say.
---And who do you think you are, I ask?
--- Only being Myself.
--- So self-analyzing?
--More self-effacing is what is happening. Why so self-conscious? Where is self-confidence? Self-accomplishment? Self-assurance? Sorry, can't help myself.
--What about Me?
--Don't get me started on Me. Me, Me, Me, Me, Me! That's all we hear about! Someone always thinks it is all about Me.
--Myself, I could take it or leave it to Me.
--No one ever asks Me. I just tells it like it is and poor little Me and Myself suffer along.
--Oh, come on, Guys. You both know what I am talking about. Look at those first three paragraphs. Three hundreds words into the script and still no charming character, no character development or building, and no character arc. No bewildering wilderness setting. No weather to weather. No protagonist to cheer on to victory or an antagonist to defy. Besides there isn't even a plot plotted. Don't get me started on descriptions. 
Well, maybe descriptions should be started on. None exist. No sickly-sweet flowery ones, punch-in-the-gut poignant ones, no breathtaking scenery nor heart-stopping action. Nothing one can see, hear, smell or feel. No show or tell. Nothing to emote. Nothing overdone, becoming over-powering, or finally over-coming. Nothing that can bring a tear to an eye, an unexpected wit to elicit a laugh, or a twist to get angry or upset about. No surprise resolution. Only a bunch of pure nothingness.
--Instead, here Me, Myself and I sit arguing with each other. Like it is going to improve anything. That's why I am lamenting. Help me out. I am beside myself. Do we go on as is or throw in the towel and call it a day?
Me, Myself and I have been reading and studying all the terrific examples of real talented professionals in the business so by now should have a pretty good idea and blueprint of how it should be done. But yet we are stumped again and again as to how to proceed. Where do we begin? How do we create that flowing prose that captivates and entertains others? They manage to make it look so effortless. Like it comes natural to them. It is not natural and effortless to our inner being. We struggle and struggle for the inspiration to start the process.
Those in the know say to start with what you know. So we three search our memories and come up with episodes we remember well enough to reinvent with a little creative license to make a story. Sometimes the stories have been heart-rending, sometimes on the humorous side. Sometimes they get lots of positive responses from the community. Sometimes they barely draw any attention whatsoever. That's okay. We recognize it is not a numbers game and we are not simply trying to garnish massive amounts of praise. Although the kudos do wonders to boost the old, flailing morale. We appreciate and try to show gratitude for whatever encouragement is offered. 
So the impetus is to make stuff up. Evidently, I am no good at that. Me and Myself keep to themselves when asked to contribute. Fantasy is all the rage. We don't see it. Science fiction is electrifying. We don't feel it. Horror is all-consuming. We can't stomach it. That leaves speculation, inspiration, drama, adventure, crime, suspense, romance and a few other categories to capture. All well and fine and well, out of our reach, sad to say. 
So the consensuses seems to point to admitting defeat and say thanks but no thanks. Me, Myself and I just don't have what it takes to be short story writers. It has been fun experimenting but...such is life. You win some, you lose some. 
There is a time and place for everything so maybe someday...in a land far, far away... in a galaxy out of this world...when one least expects it...
But, then again. If you write does that mean you are a writer. Maybe, just maybe, I can become a paper-back writer. It's the stuff made for song. Have I ever told anyone about the novel I spent a year writing and now need to devote time to getting it edited and out to the waiting world?
I am a facade. I am not a short story writer. Am I a novelist? I'll ask Me and Myself. 
 
 
","July 21, 2023 20:19","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hey Mary,\nThis was a particularly interesting approach the prompt because it allowed us to truly get into the mind of the writer. I appreciated that you posted so many diverse questions, and create an existential crisis within the piece. The stuttering was a particularly nice piece. It was a great response. Nice work!!', 'time': '18:20 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and commenting.', 'time': '19:02 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and commenting.', 'time': '19:02 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chad B': 'This was great! I was not expecting the meta-narrative aspect but really enjoyed it when it came around. I like the commentary on the first part of the writing and the internal conflict comes through very well. Great job!', 'time': '09:29 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and commenting. I was a little frustrated looking for inspiration then look what happened by reading Susan C,s comment below yours.😊', 'time': '09:55 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and commenting. I was a little frustrated looking for inspiration then look what happened by reading Susan C,s comment below yours.😊', 'time': '09:55 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""You know, Mary, you could have written this one on behalf of any 'me, myself and I' in existence at one point or another.  Stream of consciousness is a tricky thing to make palatable to a reader but you excelled with internal mayhem.  \n\nThey say true happiness is when your actions, your thoughts and your words are in complete harmony.  hmmm \n\nInteresting, Mary - thanks for the meaningful read and afterthoughts!"", 'time': '18:57 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for the like and glad? it resonated.\n\nBut, hey, got to shout this out to someone, hope you don't mind.  I wrote this lament and now this morning I found out I am a FINALIST in a contest I entered the first 50 pages of my novel into!!!! And it is a big one!!!! So YOO-HOO!!! Even if I don't win this is such a game changer to have my work validated!"", 'time': '19:16 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': ""OMG, Mary, you'd better shout it from the rooftops!  I'm so thrilled for you!  Enjoy it, all of it!"", 'time': '21:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks! I added it to my profile but I don't know how else to spread the word except mention it to a few of my followers. Sounds a lot like bragging and there are so many on this site that have accomplished more, I'm sure. How do I know if they don't call everyone in that genre a finalist?"", 'time': '22:24 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': 'Mary, you have accomplished something special; it\'s not about ""bragging,"" it\'s about look what can be done, how things can be.   A person\'s accomplishments are meant to be celebrated!  (IMO)   Comparisons are just that.  Satisfied souls tend to be the more generous.  Best of luck (and skill) going forward.', 'time': '23:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Woot woot woot! Finalist Mary! Is there anything the community can do to help?', 'time': '18:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Don't know what it would be. Not a social media vote. \nIs it okay to name the contest here? Would like to know if anyone knows it's reputation. I think the prize for the winner is publication of novel."", 'time': '18:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Definitely mention it to see if anyone knows of it.', 'time': '18:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Killer Nashville Claymore Award. Western category.', 'time': '19:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'OH MY GOSH WOW!! Well done!! You deserve it!!', 'time': '07:33 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏. Pleasant surprise \U0001fae2', 'time': '14:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for the like and glad? it resonated.\n\nBut, hey, got to shout this out to someone, hope you don't mind.  I wrote this lament and now this morning I found out I am a FINALIST in a contest I entered the first 50 pages of my novel into!!!! And it is a big one!!!! So YOO-HOO!!! Even if I don't win this is such a game changer to have my work validated!"", 'time': '19:16 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""OMG, Mary, you'd better shout it from the rooftops!  I'm so thrilled for you!  Enjoy it, all of it!"", 'time': '21:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks! I added it to my profile but I don't know how else to spread the word except mention it to a few of my followers. Sounds a lot like bragging and there are so many on this site that have accomplished more, I'm sure. How do I know if they don't call everyone in that genre a finalist?"", 'time': '22:24 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': 'Mary, you have accomplished something special; it\'s not about ""bragging,"" it\'s about look what can be done, how things can be.   A person\'s accomplishments are meant to be celebrated!  (IMO)   Comparisons are just that.  Satisfied souls tend to be the more generous.  Best of luck (and skill) going forward.', 'time': '23:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Woot woot woot! Finalist Mary! Is there anything the community can do to help?', 'time': '18:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Don't know what it would be. Not a social media vote. \nIs it okay to name the contest here? Would like to know if anyone knows it's reputation. I think the prize for the winner is publication of novel."", 'time': '18:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Definitely mention it to see if anyone knows of it.', 'time': '18:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Killer Nashville Claymore Award. Western category.', 'time': '19:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'OH MY GOSH WOW!! Well done!! You deserve it!!', 'time': '07:33 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏. Pleasant surprise \U0001fae2', 'time': '14:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""OMG, Mary, you'd better shout it from the rooftops!  I'm so thrilled for you!  Enjoy it, all of it!"", 'time': '21:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks! I added it to my profile but I don't know how else to spread the word except mention it to a few of my followers. Sounds a lot like bragging and there are so many on this site that have accomplished more, I'm sure. How do I know if they don't call everyone in that genre a finalist?"", 'time': '22:24 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': 'Mary, you have accomplished something special; it\'s not about ""bragging,"" it\'s about look what can be done, how things can be.   A person\'s accomplishments are meant to be celebrated!  (IMO)   Comparisons are just that.  Satisfied souls tend to be the more generous.  Best of luck (and skill) going forward.', 'time': '23:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks! I added it to my profile but I don't know how else to spread the word except mention it to a few of my followers. Sounds a lot like bragging and there are so many on this site that have accomplished more, I'm sure. How do I know if they don't call everyone in that genre a finalist?"", 'time': '22:24 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': 'Mary, you have accomplished something special; it\'s not about ""bragging,"" it\'s about look what can be done, how things can be.   A person\'s accomplishments are meant to be celebrated!  (IMO)   Comparisons are just that.  Satisfied souls tend to be the more generous.  Best of luck (and skill) going forward.', 'time': '23:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': 'Mary, you have accomplished something special; it\'s not about ""bragging,"" it\'s about look what can be done, how things can be.   A person\'s accomplishments are meant to be celebrated!  (IMO)   Comparisons are just that.  Satisfied souls tend to be the more generous.  Best of luck (and skill) going forward.', 'time': '23:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Woot woot woot! Finalist Mary! Is there anything the community can do to help?', 'time': '18:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Don't know what it would be. Not a social media vote. \nIs it okay to name the contest here? Would like to know if anyone knows it's reputation. I think the prize for the winner is publication of novel."", 'time': '18:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Definitely mention it to see if anyone knows of it.', 'time': '18:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Killer Nashville Claymore Award. Western category.', 'time': '19:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Don't know what it would be. Not a social media vote. \nIs it okay to name the contest here? Would like to know if anyone knows it's reputation. I think the prize for the winner is publication of novel."", 'time': '18:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Definitely mention it to see if anyone knows of it.', 'time': '18:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Killer Nashville Claymore Award. Western category.', 'time': '19:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Definitely mention it to see if anyone knows of it.', 'time': '18:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Killer Nashville Claymore Award. Western category.', 'time': '19:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Killer Nashville Claymore Award. Western category.', 'time': '19:02 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'OH MY GOSH WOW!! Well done!! You deserve it!!', 'time': '07:33 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏. Pleasant surprise \U0001fae2', 'time': '14:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏. Pleasant surprise \U0001fae2', 'time': '14:17 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Mary,\n\nLots of self-exploration possibly fuelled by negative doubts can make anyone question themselves as to their true nature. \n\nI know from experience that each week's submitted short story, fires up a lot of those questions in me about myself and I. \n\nMy philosophy is, know what you want to be and act like you already are. So, here goes... I'm a writer! (Just wish I could win a prize once in a while).\n\nYou asked yourself what I think we all ask ourselves. Thanks for reminding me."", 'time': '03:33 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the like and appreciation.😊', 'time': '05:11 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey, Chris. After writing this something wonderful happened so am going back to anyone commenting on this lament and shouting it out. Check out my reply to Susan Catucci.', 'time': '17:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Congrats, Mary!', 'time': '03:22 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '03:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Oh, I forgot to wish you good luck. Good luck!', 'time': '04:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the like and appreciation.😊', 'time': '05:11 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey, Chris. After writing this something wonderful happened so am going back to anyone commenting on this lament and shouting it out. Check out my reply to Susan Catucci.', 'time': '17:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Congrats, Mary!', 'time': '03:22 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '03:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Oh, I forgot to wish you good luck. Good luck!', 'time': '04:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Congrats, Mary!', 'time': '03:22 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '03:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': 'Oh, I forgot to wish you good luck. Good luck!', 'time': '04:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '03:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Oh, I forgot to wish you good luck. Good luck!', 'time': '04:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Oh, I forgot to wish you good luck. Good luck!', 'time': '04:13 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Heh, publish a story like this on a site filled with short story writers, and you\'ll get a lot of ""I hear that!"" responses :) \n\nIncidentally, ""I hear that!"" \n\nThe ending is on the sad side, but of course we all occasionally need a break - and besides, a novel is a great thing to pursue too, and demands a lot of time. \n\nThe actual writing itself, quite fun. Lots of word play, and the conflict of arguing with yourself - and the confidence issues and anxieties that might bring - is universal. Beyond just writing. As is coming to a conclusion an...', 'time': '22:14 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey, Michal. Check out the comment thread under Susan Catucci on this piece. My work got some recognition!🎉', 'time': '17:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': ""Congrats, Mary! It's always nice to get some recognition, especially for a project as big as a novel :)"", 'time': '18:58 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks', 'time': '21:32 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey, Michal. Check out the comment thread under Susan Catucci on this piece. My work got some recognition!🎉', 'time': '17:35 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Congrats, Mary! It's always nice to get some recognition, especially for a project as big as a novel :)"", 'time': '18:58 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks', 'time': '21:32 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Congrats, Mary! It's always nice to get some recognition, especially for a project as big as a novel :)"", 'time': '18:58 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks', 'time': '21:32 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 thanks', 'time': '21:32 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Danie Nikole': '“I am a facade. I am pretending to be something I am not. Look at me, posing as something I will probably never become.“\n\nThis really hit me in my feelings. I like and dislike you for that. \n\nAs a person who is also posing as a short story writer myself, I found your self reflection gripping and poetic. Raw and honest. And isn’t that what writing should be about? Don’t we all dive into words looking for reflections and truths of who we are ourselves or some kind of meaning in our selfish little worlds. Why our favorite characters are people ...', 'time': '21:26 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey,hey! Check out the comment thread under Susan Catucci . Got some kudos!', 'time': '17:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey,hey! Check out the comment thread under Susan Catucci . Got some kudos!', 'time': '17:37 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'You capture how a lot of us feel often. And sometimes the ideas just dont flow and some of the genres are not for us. Bur somehow we just keep going. Great to see this made it on the recommended lisr, good luck in the contest this week.', 'time': '15:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey, Scott, check out comment thread under Susan Catucci here. My work made a finalist list!!', 'time': '17:39 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""that's great news!  must feel like v good validation for your talent as a writer. I wrote dozens of stories when I started that didn't go anywhere and almost quit before making it into that list which kept me going."", 'time': '02:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for the vote of confidence. May I ask how do you know it made it to 'recommended list' and what is said list?\nOh, and I am sending one in this week after all this ranting😜."", 'time': '16:14 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Scott Christenson': 'If you click on one of your story topics…try...’contemporary’  then scroll down you’ll see a few “recommended” stories.. those are the ones that have made it through the first round of judging.', 'time': '16:59 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏.', 'time': '17:22 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey, Scott, check out comment thread under Susan Catucci here. My work made a finalist list!!', 'time': '17:39 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""that's great news!  must feel like v good validation for your talent as a writer. I wrote dozens of stories when I started that didn't go anywhere and almost quit before making it into that list which kept me going."", 'time': '02:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""that's great news!  must feel like v good validation for your talent as a writer. I wrote dozens of stories when I started that didn't go anywhere and almost quit before making it into that list which kept me going."", 'time': '02:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thanks for the vote of confidence. May I ask how do you know it made it to 'recommended list' and what is said list?\nOh, and I am sending one in this week after all this ranting😜."", 'time': '16:14 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'If you click on one of your story topics…try...’contemporary’  then scroll down you’ll see a few “recommended” stories.. those are the ones that have made it through the first round of judging.', 'time': '16:59 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏.', 'time': '17:22 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'If you click on one of your story topics…try...’contemporary’  then scroll down you’ll see a few “recommended” stories.. those are the ones that have made it through the first round of judging.', 'time': '16:59 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏.', 'time': '17:22 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏.', 'time': '17:22 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mustang Patty': ""Wow - a great piece of self-reflection, but it is also something to chew on. I found myself wondering - don't we all put on a 'game face' when facing the world and all of its challenges?\nIs it a facade or a coping mechanism?\nGreat thoughtful piece - thank you for sharing,\n~MP~"", 'time': '18:07 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for thinking on it', 'time': '18:25 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'What do you know? I made the finalist list on a big contest with excerpt from my novel! See comments under Susan Catucci.\n🙏 Thanks.', 'time': '17:48 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mustang Patty': 'Congratulations!!! That is awesome.\n~MP~', 'time': '01:00 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for thinking on it', 'time': '18:25 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'What do you know? I made the finalist list on a big contest with excerpt from my novel! See comments under Susan Catucci.\n🙏 Thanks.', 'time': '17:48 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mustang Patty': 'Congratulations!!! That is awesome.\n~MP~', 'time': '01:00 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mustang Patty': 'Congratulations!!! That is awesome.\n~MP~', 'time': '01:00 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'This was captivating and relatable as all get out. I think we all share these feelings and aspire to be better but also suffer the vagaries of low morale. And invention! \nSo well written and different voice for you I love it', 'time': '15:41 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏. I guess creativity means variety.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey,Derrick, I got some kudos! See comments under Susan Catucci.', 'time': '17:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Yes!! That's incredible!! Well done Mary! Doesn't matter what happens next, this is a moment to be proud of! Well earned and deservedl!! Fingers crossed for you!"", 'time': '17:52 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. I am amazed!', 'time': '17:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Me too at my win here!! 😬', 'time': '17:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏. I guess creativity means variety.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey,Derrick, I got some kudos! See comments under Susan Catucci.', 'time': '17:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Yes!! That's incredible!! Well done Mary! Doesn't matter what happens next, this is a moment to be proud of! Well earned and deservedl!! Fingers crossed for you!"", 'time': '17:52 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. I am amazed!', 'time': '17:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Me too at my win here!! 😬', 'time': '17:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Yes!! That's incredible!! Well done Mary! Doesn't matter what happens next, this is a moment to be proud of! Well earned and deservedl!! Fingers crossed for you!"", 'time': '17:52 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. I am amazed!', 'time': '17:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Me too at my win here!! 😬', 'time': '17:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. I am amazed!', 'time': '17:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Me too at my win here!! 😬', 'time': '17:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Me too at my win here!! 😬', 'time': '17:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': '""It\'s a simple guise to hide the lies"" That\'s a great lyric.\n\nThis is a perfectly healthy reflection for anyone trying to write creatively. \n\nBalance is everything. \n\nAs for this week - with your knack for wholesome family tales (the Taco night one) surely there\'s a story in the toy that brings back memories? But if there\'s not, so what? It\'s all for fun.', 'time': '09:43 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Good points. I will probably give it a go. Found \nStretch Armstrong when cleaned out Mom's house."", 'time': '13:40 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey,Chris. Good news. I on finalist list with first pages of my novel! Read thread under Susan Catucci', 'time': '17:51 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': ""That's wonderful news, Mary. Good luck!"", 'time': '06:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '14:15 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Good points. I will probably give it a go. Found \nStretch Armstrong when cleaned out Mom's house."", 'time': '13:40 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hey,Chris. Good news. I on finalist list with first pages of my novel! Read thread under Susan Catucci', 'time': '17:51 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': ""That's wonderful news, Mary. Good luck!"", 'time': '06:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '14:15 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': ""That's wonderful news, Mary. Good luck!"", 'time': '06:36 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '14:15 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏', 'time': '14:15 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Self-doubt is a natural, if not nice, feeling. It's what all writers feel, so you're in good company. We feel your pain. But it's not *just* writers who feel it. \n\nThink of it like this: If you didn't doubt yourself from time to time, you wouldn't be a very nice person to know. I'm-always-right, Whatever-I-do-is-perfect people aren't nice. But that doesn't mean you should doubt yourself all the time. \n\nYou don't have to do it every week. We (your loyal followers, your faithful servants) can wait! \n\n\nNo, you're not a short story writer.\n\nYou'..."", 'time': '09:19 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you very much.🙏 Takes one to know one in this case.', 'time': '09:22 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Look what happened! Read under Susan Catucci', 'time': '17:52 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you very much.🙏 Takes one to know one in this case.', 'time': '09:22 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Look what happened! Read under Susan Catucci', 'time': '17:52 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I hear you Mary! Sometimes when we look at our lives we realise how much of it we are faking to get through it. Imposter syndrome is real.\nDon’t ever doubt yourself. You have put words to paper (or screen) that others have enjoyed. We are all allowed to take a holiday and fill our lives with other things.', 'time': '08:12 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the vote of confidence.', 'time': '09:13 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Wonders of wonders! First pages of my novel won a finalist spot in big contest! See Under Susan Catucci here.', 'time': '17:54 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Wow! Congratulations! I loved your novel. I will admit that I haven’t finished it yet, just because I’m crazy busy.', 'time': '00:05 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the vote of confidence.', 'time': '09:13 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wonders of wonders! First pages of my novel won a finalist spot in big contest! See Under Susan Catucci here.', 'time': '17:54 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Wow! Congratulations! I loved your novel. I will admit that I haven’t finished it yet, just because I’m crazy busy.', 'time': '00:05 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Wow! Congratulations! I loved your novel. I will admit that I haven’t finished it yet, just because I’m crazy busy.', 'time': '00:05 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Great reflection on someone who has perfected playacting. You know what they say, shoot for the stars and, even if you don't get there, you'll be in outer space. Or, 'all of us are in the gutter but some of us are looking up at the stars'. (Oscar Wilde) You have to see yourself as you want to be seen to eventually achieve. If you can actually pull off the persona, you are half way there. It works well and isn't harmful as long as it isn't driven by ambition and pride. We all wish we were better than we think we are. We all need to pull ourse..."", 'time': '22:29 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the like and I think this is just me blowing off some frustrations. May take the pressure off myself and not worry about entering every week. Wait until something grabs me.', 'time': '02:14 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'I always wait until prompt grabs me too. A story just pops into my head. Or I have one on hand that fits the prompt. Like you, I can never predict the genre or the tone. It just happens. I love what pops out of your head!', 'time': '02:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Look what happened after all this crying. Read under Susan Catucci here.', 'time': '17:55 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the like and I think this is just me blowing off some frustrations. May take the pressure off myself and not worry about entering every week. Wait until something grabs me.', 'time': '02:14 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'I always wait until prompt grabs me too. A story just pops into my head. Or I have one on hand that fits the prompt. Like you, I can never predict the genre or the tone. It just happens. I love what pops out of your head!', 'time': '02:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'I always wait until prompt grabs me too. A story just pops into my head. Or I have one on hand that fits the prompt. Like you, I can never predict the genre or the tone. It just happens. I love what pops out of your head!', 'time': '02:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Look what happened after all this crying. Read under Susan Catucci here.', 'time': '17:55 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Jez Mary, this hit me in the gut, get out of my head! There is a lot of self reflection in this, and some great lines in a voice I haven't heard from you but it really works. This is resonate with so many.\n\nThis prompt was a tough one, for me anyways, you should be damn proud of this! And if them self doubts are real, remember we all have them, it's what we do with them that counts, and you turned them into this 😊"", 'time': '21:24 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the positive comments. My husband was quite concerned when he read this. I think it is just me blowing off some frustration. You are right we all have self doubts. Nothing was developing this week in my head and I am facing the same with this next set of prompts. Nothing demands I have to do one every week so I may only need a break and enter again when something speaks to me.', 'time': '02:10 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""This is the correct way of thinking. It can take a lot coming up ideas, mental exhaustion. I'll be feeling it myself. Take some Mary time, read your favourite book again, go for a walk, mainly just relax. These deadlines are self imposed, we will all be here when you return."", 'time': '06:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Well look what happened after my rant. Read under Susan Catucci here.', 'time': '17:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the positive comments. My husband was quite concerned when he read this. I think it is just me blowing off some frustration. You are right we all have self doubts. Nothing was developing this week in my head and I am facing the same with this next set of prompts. Nothing demands I have to do one every week so I may only need a break and enter again when something speaks to me.', 'time': '02:10 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""This is the correct way of thinking. It can take a lot coming up ideas, mental exhaustion. I'll be feeling it myself. Take some Mary time, read your favourite book again, go for a walk, mainly just relax. These deadlines are self imposed, we will all be here when you return."", 'time': '06:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""This is the correct way of thinking. It can take a lot coming up ideas, mental exhaustion. I'll be feeling it myself. Take some Mary time, read your favourite book again, go for a walk, mainly just relax. These deadlines are self imposed, we will all be here when you return."", 'time': '06:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Well look what happened after my rant. Read under Susan Catucci here.', 'time': '17:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Unknown user': '<removed by user>', 'time': '08:37 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '0'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. I will.', 'time': '14:26 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Hi,A.G. got some good news. See the comment thread under Susan Catucci!!!', 'time': '17:42 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. I will.', 'time': '14:26 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hi,A.G. got some good news. See the comment thread under Susan Catucci!!!', 'time': '17:42 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",vlrvel,The Millicent Boone Method for Ending a Bad Romance,Delbert Griffith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vlrvel/,/short-story/vlrvel/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Crime', 'Contemporary']",26 likes,"
Millicent sat across from the interviewer, relaxed and confident. A man pointed a finger at the interviewer. Five cameras softly whirred into action.
“We’re here today with Millicent Boone, best-selling author of the self-help book, Ending a Bad Romance. In this book, Millicent takes us, step by step, through the process of getting out of a bad relationship. So, Millicent, can you expand on this a little more?”
“Certainly. But we have to understand where we’re going before we know how to begin. That is, we must consider the endgame. To achieve our purposes, we look at…”
                                                           **************
Conrad woke up, finding himself chained and shackled in a basement. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, not to him. He had planned his escape well, as usual, yet the grimy, cluttered basement and the eerie, pale yellow bulb burning overhead spoke of something that had gone terribly awry.
For the first time in his adult life, Conrad was frightened. There could be only one reason to chain someone up in a basement, and Conrad felt the force of that reason fully. 
He looked around, desperate to find a way out of the steel bindings. He found nothing that would aid him in breaking free. He did, however, spot something that horrified him. 
He screamed until he could scream no more.
                                                       **************
                                         Step 1: Seize the Initiative!
You’re in a bad relationship. Maybe it’s a toxic one, maybe it’s something less malicious. No matter. The crux of the matter is that you need to find a way to get out of this mess with as little damage to yourself as possible.
Don’t wait around for your partner to make the first move. They’ll have the upper hand, and you’ll find yourself being dictated to. Haven’t you had enough of that? My guess is that you have, and you need to get some of your own back.
Take action – right now! Below is a list of things you can do to come out on top…
                                                      **************
Conrad heard the footsteps on the stairway. He shuddered slightly at who could be coming down to the basement. His mind had already run through the possibilities, but no one came to mind. At least, no one that wanted to murder him. Sure, he had taken advantage of a lot of women. Certainly, he had absconded with a lot of their money. That was what he did.
A figure stopped at the bottom of the stairs, shrouded in shadow. Conrad could feel their eyes on him, appraising him, judging him. Conrad felt his flesh prickle; he was soon to meet the person who wanted him dead.
The figure stepped forward, causing Conrad to gasp in astonishment. It simply didn’t make sense to him. Millicent Boone, his current girlfriend/mark, stared at him impassively. As if he were a butterfly in a display, stuck through the heart with a pin.
“I am officially ending our relationship, Con. Our bad romance is over.”
Conrad gazed at Millicent, his terror abating. Surely, he thought, this meek woman isn’t capable of murder. Teach me a lesson is what she’s doing.
“Millie. What the hell – “
Conrad stopped speaking when Millicent held up a notebook. A stylish, red notebook that showed lots of wear and tear.
“I found this at your apartment last month. Interesting reading, Con.”
Conrad became angry. He stood up and advanced toward Millicent, coming up a foot short of where she was standing, held back by the chains that bound him. Millicent didn’t flinch, didn’t move. She knew how far he could travel in his chains.
“You scammed a lot of money out of a lot of women. I found that as well.”
Conrad blanched. His secrets and his money were precious to him.
“Took some finding, I must admit. Secret compartments under rugs and furniture. Very clever of you to use magnets to lift the floorboards. No way anyone could suspect that they were there.”
“Yeah,” Conrad said, sulkily, “so how did you figure it out?”
“Saw it on a television show. And you had two magnets with handles in the storage room. I put two and two together and came up with – well – you know what I came up with.”
Conrad glared at her.
“Fine. Lesson learned. Let me go. I’ll leave town and you’ll have money.”
Millicent smiled grimly and left. Conrad didn’t like her smile. Not at all.
                                                   **************
                                        Step 2: Eliminate Retributive Acts
Now that you’ve taken the initiative, it’s time to deal with the possibility of retribution. Your partner will be angry. They’ll want to get back at you. You can’t let that happen.
Don’t threaten them with legal action; that’s like pouring gasoline on a fire. No, you must be forceful and direct. You must give them reasons not to mess with you, and those reasons should be deterrent enough. Remember, you are not in a relationship any longer. You are now dealing with a potentially dangerous person. They may want to harm you, or your personal property. You cannot let that happen.
Below is a list of things you can do to ensure that your ex-partner will stay well away from you…
                                                     **************
“Back again?” Conrad growled at Millicent. His mood had not improved the past two days; he had been given no food or water. His weakened state was assuaged somewhat when Millicent sat a gallon jug of water and some chips out for him. 
Millicent watched as Conrad guzzled water and gobbled chips. She hadn’t set out any napkins for Conrad, so he wiped his fingers along his jeans and shirt.
“So,” Conrad turned to Millicent after he had finished his third bag of chips, “when you gonna let me go?”
“Who says I’m letting you go?” Millicent smirked. This did nothing to lessen the anger that Conrad was currently feeling.
“Look, we both know you don’t have the balls to do me in. It isn’t in you, Millie. Just – just let me go and we’ll part ways, ok?”
Millicent gazed at Conrad. She was, frankly, amazed that he thought she would believe him. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch, she knew, but surely he saw his future.
“I think you underestimate me, Con. The metaphorical balls are present and accounted for.”
Conrad blinked.
“What?”
“Let me explain it in simple terms. You have to die. I have to kill you. Simple as that.”
Conrad blinked again, then laughed.
“No way.”
Millicent sighed at his obtuseness and began working.
“You ever read The Cask of Amontillado? A Poe tale. One man walls up another man as an act of vengeance.”
“Oh! Ah! So that’s what you think you’re gonna do to me? Fat chance. Yes, I admit that you’re scaring me. Fine. I’m scared. But you can’t keep me here forever.”
Millicent stared at Conrad, shaking her head.
“Con, I can and will keep you here forever. That’s the whole point.”
“C’mon, Millie. Let me go. Seriously, I’m tired and smelly and I won’t come after you. Promise. Swear to God.”
Millie kept on working. Soon, she had enough cement mixed to do the job properly. She then turned to Conrad and shot him.
“What the – “
“It’s a dart gun, loaded with a powerful sedative. Amazing what you can get your hands on these days. You have ketamine in your system now. It’ll put you out – hello? – and he’s asleep. Wow, that stuff works fast. Ok, now I’m talking to myself. Nothing unusual there.”
Millie used a pulley system to get Conrad in place. She secured him to the back wall with more shackles. She then walled him up, but not before whispering in his ear.
“Don’t worry, Con. The rats will get you before you die of thirst.”
Conrad started screaming just as Millicent was placing the final brick in place.
                                                             **************
                             Step 3: Enjoy Your Freedom, Learn from Your Mistakes
When you end a relationship, the natural thing to do is to dwell on the mistakes you made in the relationship. I advise you to abandon these types of thoughts. Everyone makes mistakes; they’re inevitable, especially in relationship matters.
Concentrate on what you did correctly. You took the initiative, you protected yourself from retribution, and now you’re free to celebrate your accomplishments. You’ve just done something remarkable. Celebrate! Enjoy the freedom that comes from leaving a bad romance. You are now a wiser person, a better person. Reflect on your victory.
Rather than castigating yourself for your missteps, simply reflect on where you went wrong. Identify the red flags that were present early in the relationship. You’ll be in another relationship at some point. Use your new knowledge to your advantage. If something doesn’t feel right, get out immediately. Don’t let it snowball.
I have a few tips for what to do at this point. Read below to…
                                                             **************
Millicent visited the basement in the abandoned farmhouse two weeks later. It was quiet. Serene. Pleasant, even. Rats could be heard scurrying back and forth. Millicent was pleased that she could provide them with some food for the summer. Crucially, no odor emanated from the walled-in victim.
Just like the first three times.
","July 21, 2023 18:06","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Oh Delbert! I loved the psychosis that you decided to explore for this piece, and the formatting was incredibly delightful in the worst possible sense. You did a great job of bringing in the spine chilling thrill while also ensuring that we knew something was just a little bit wrong from the very beginning. You played into our comfort zones with the choice to write a book and then added those basement scenes to throw us for a loop. Nice work!!', 'time': '18:18 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the praise, Amanda, and for commenting on my little tale of darkness and horror. I blame Poe and public education for my macabre tastes in writing. LOL\n\nI'm glad you found it delightful because I wanted there to be a little lightheartedness to the piece. The MC is an evil person, certainly, but she can be fun as well - I think. I'd never date her, though. LOL\n\nAgain, thanks so much, my friend. I truly appreciate your comments and insights.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '18:51 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the praise, Amanda, and for commenting on my little tale of darkness and horror. I blame Poe and public education for my macabre tastes in writing. LOL\n\nI'm glad you found it delightful because I wanted there to be a little lightheartedness to the piece. The MC is an evil person, certainly, but she can be fun as well - I think. I'd never date her, though. LOL\n\nAgain, thanks so much, my friend. I truly appreciate your comments and insights.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '18:51 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Camille Dixon': 'Masterfully written, Delbert, from the attention-grabbing title to the pivots between the tense narrative and airy advice from Millicent Boone. Also, nice job ramping up the suspense by implying what Conrad saw in the basement.\n\nI think what I found most clever is the way the excerpts of Millicent’s advice speak directly to what she is doing to Conrad in the narrative, but as is the case in many relationships, she is so busy identifying the faults in her boyfriend(s) that she becomes a hypocrite. It is a splendid irony. \n\nThe final section f...', 'time': '02:59 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the praise, Camille, and for the sharp insights. You certainly identified what I was trying to say.\n\nMillicent is a hypocrite, and self-help books are often devoid of the genuineness that we seek in them. Like many things - and people - in life, what we are shown is not what is true. \n\nThe last line cements Millicent's true nature. I love her as a character, but I don't think I would ever want a relationship with her. LOL\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend, for the sharp observations and the kind words. I truly appreciate both.\n..."", 'time': '11:51 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the praise, Camille, and for the sharp insights. You certainly identified what I was trying to say.\n\nMillicent is a hypocrite, and self-help books are often devoid of the genuineness that we seek in them. Like many things - and people - in life, what we are shown is not what is true. \n\nThe last line cements Millicent's true nature. I love her as a character, but I don't think I would ever want a relationship with her. LOL\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend, for the sharp observations and the kind words. I truly appreciate both.\n..."", 'time': '11:51 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Delbert,\n\nThis was a shorter than usual piece but packed a hell of a lot in there. Nicely done, mate.\n\nOh, what a serial crusader of revenge Milicent is. I like her! Showing one face to the public and hiding her true essence is something we all do in life. Maybe not to Millicent\'s extreme, but I can attest to ""putting on a face"" when out and about. It makes life simpler at times when one doesn\'t want to truthfully engage socially.\n\nIt\'s obvious that Millicent\'s skeletons won\'t fit in her closet, so the next best thing is walling them into a ...', 'time': '03:17 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Chis, for the kind words. I truly appreciate you taking the time to read and comment on my little tale.\n\nI really like Millicent as well, so long as she's confined to the story. I don't think I'd like her in real life. LOL\n\nMaybe the dart gun is a little dated. Liquid ketamine didn't occur to me, but I can see how that would fit a little better. Thanks, my friend.\n\nAgain, thank you for the commentary, Chris. It's always a pleasure to read your thoughts on my stories.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:22 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Chis, for the kind words. I truly appreciate you taking the time to read and comment on my little tale.\n\nI really like Millicent as well, so long as she's confined to the story. I don't think I'd like her in real life. LOL\n\nMaybe the dart gun is a little dated. Liquid ketamine didn't occur to me, but I can see how that would fit a little better. Thanks, my friend.\n\nAgain, thank you for the commentary, Chris. It's always a pleasure to read your thoughts on my stories.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:22 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Way to pay homage to Amontillado. Millicent is just as scary a character as Montresor was creepy. This was fine writing with a great take on the prompt. I loved how you switched from an interview on helping others to how she really ends her bad relationships. This is great storytelling. Bravo!', 'time': '11:43 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much, Ty for the kind words and the commentary. I truly appreciate your time and insights into my little tale.\n\nCheers, my friend!', 'time': '12:31 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much, Ty for the kind words and the commentary. I truly appreciate your time and insights into my little tale.\n\nCheers, my friend!', 'time': '12:31 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': 'Hey there, Delbert -\n\nOkay, I like how you break this piece out into Millicent\'s steps inbetween Conrad\'s agony. The foreshadow of ""what\'s in the basement with Conrad"" plays well.\n\nMillicent was Conrad\'s mark? Like, Conrad was supposed to kill her? Confusing.\n\nConrad ate three bags of chips? Yikes, that\'s gonna be a mess without a toilet ... ich! But goodness, we\'re walling Conrad up ... \n\nYikes, a femme-fatal serial killer. In keeping with the prompt, I really think you needed to make Millicent Barbie in a new playset where you could wall-i...', 'time': '02:13 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks for the praise, Russell. And the suggestion about a Barbie sequel! LOL\n\nOddly enough, my wife and I were watching a show where the blond female agent was kicking ass and taking names. I told her that maybe Barbie would appeal to a wider audience if she did something of this nature. My wife laughed, but I think it was simply to shut me up. LOL\n\nThanks again, my friend, for the comments and the read. I appreciate it, truly.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:57 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks for the praise, Russell. And the suggestion about a Barbie sequel! LOL\n\nOddly enough, my wife and I were watching a show where the blond female agent was kicking ass and taking names. I told her that maybe Barbie would appeal to a wider audience if she did something of this nature. My wife laughed, but I think it was simply to shut me up. LOL\n\nThanks again, my friend, for the comments and the read. I appreciate it, truly.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:57 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ela Mikh': 'This one definitely made my juices flowing! Your storytelling is impressive, as always - thank you for sharing', 'time': '01:38 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much for the kind words, Ela. I appreciate you reading and commenting on my little tale, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:45 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much for the kind words, Ela. I appreciate you reading and commenting on my little tale, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:45 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'This was a great, classic crime Delbert Griffith story as per. I loved the snippets from Millicent\'s book, and how they tie into the action. By breaking up Millicent\'s murder of Conrad with seemingly innocuous tips, you build the suspense quite well. I also like how you play into the ""who\'s really the bad guy"" theme. In the end, it\'s all just relative. \n\nCritique wise, I think this story would have added nuance if you delved into the motivations if Millicent and Conrad. With evil people, I\'m always interested in how they got that way, and it...', 'time': '18:45 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Sophia for the praise, and especially for the critique. \n\nYes, the story was rushed. I submitted late, and I didn't have any time to revise. As you say, the story is a bit unfinished and unpolished. Your observations are apt, my friend. I need to revise the original, for sure, and make it something that's a little more well rounded. I appreciate that you saw this.\n\nAgain, thanks, my friend, for reading and commenting. Your replies are always wonderful and insightful.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '23:04 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Sophia for the praise, and especially for the critique. \n\nYes, the story was rushed. I submitted late, and I didn't have any time to revise. As you say, the story is a bit unfinished and unpolished. Your observations are apt, my friend. I need to revise the original, for sure, and make it something that's a little more well rounded. I appreciate that you saw this.\n\nAgain, thanks, my friend, for reading and commenting. Your replies are always wonderful and insightful.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '23:04 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Great ideas, Delbert, parts of the dishonesty actually got my blood boiling, which means it's good writing to make one feel. It all came together though."", 'time': '20:54 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Joe. I appreciate the praise. Truly.\n\nYes, the intent was to make Conrad despicable, and, eventually, Millicent. Who's the bad guy here, right?\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '22:50 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Joe. I appreciate the praise. Truly.\n\nYes, the intent was to make Conrad despicable, and, eventually, Millicent. Who's the bad guy here, right?\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '22:50 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Loved this Delbert, the format was well constructed and kept me interested from section to section as the story developed.\nLast line is killer.', 'time': '22:50 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much, Derrick. I appreciate the kind words, and the time you took to read and comment on my little tale. Truly.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '07:29 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much, Derrick. I appreciate the kind words, and the time you took to read and comment on my little tale. Truly.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '07:29 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Certainly. Wall off your problems! 🧱🧱🧱\nInteresting to know this is the genius that  comes out when you write without inspiration. Got a struggle going on there myself.\nCheers to you, too.', 'time': '14:16 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Mary, for the sterling praise. As always, I appreciate you reading my twisted little tales. Truly.\n\nI understand the struggles of trying to write when nothing comes to mind. I think anyone who writes as much as we do can understand that problem. But, we do what we do, my friend: we keep on writing. Like Ray Bradbury said (paraphrased): if you write a short story every week for a year, you'll have at least one great story. It's impossible to write 52 bad stories in a row. Can't be done.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. \n\nChe..."", 'time': '16:34 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, thanks so much, Mary, for the sterling praise. As always, I appreciate you reading my twisted little tales. Truly.\n\nI understand the struggles of trying to write when nothing comes to mind. I think anyone who writes as much as we do can understand that problem. But, we do what we do, my friend: we keep on writing. Like Ray Bradbury said (paraphrased): if you write a short story every week for a year, you'll have at least one great story. It's impossible to write 52 bad stories in a row. Can't be done.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. \n\nChe..."", 'time': '16:34 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sherry Bazley': ""Well, Delbert, I for one didn't trust ole Conrad (CON-RAD) by a quarter-inch for one second despite his sugary promises.  And I didn't trust Miz Milli-Cent not to do him in.  Despite desiring to be Zen-minded in my thinking/doings, I found myself feeling flares of outrage over his imagined lies and thievery.   I was a tad surprised at the end when you revealed Millicent's history.  I reckon Birds of a Feather Flock Together, eh??  I'm enjoying the commentaries on the great Readsy stories near as much as the stories themselves and can hardly ..."", 'time': '12:49 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the kind words, Sherry. I appreciate you taking the time to read and comment on my little twisted tale.\n\nConrad was bad, and we find Millicent to be a semi-sympathetic character - until the last line. Now we are left with an entire Millicent Boone backstory that the reader can only imagine at. Is she really evil, or is she simply a victim of circumstances? I plump for the former; if she can write a self-help book about relationships, she can surely spot a bad 'un.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend, for your commentary. And I'll..."", 'time': '13:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the kind words, Sherry. I appreciate you taking the time to read and comment on my little twisted tale.\n\nConrad was bad, and we find Millicent to be a semi-sympathetic character - until the last line. Now we are left with an entire Millicent Boone backstory that the reader can only imagine at. Is she really evil, or is she simply a victim of circumstances? I plump for the former; if she can write a self-help book about relationships, she can surely spot a bad 'un.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend, for your commentary. And I'll..."", 'time': '13:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thoroughly enjoyed the mixed format and how the self help sections related to both Millicent and Conrad. Really strong writing, wonderful flow and delightfully sinister character.\n\nThe last line creates a whole back story to be imagined in six simple words. Another great submission. Keep up the great work Delbert.', 'time': '11:19 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much for the kind words, Kevin. I appreciate the analysis and your sharp insights.\n\nYes, Millicent goes from semi-sympathetic to dark in one line. The backstory might be fun to explore. Nice idea, my friend.\n\nAgain, I thank you for reading my little tale and leaving commentary.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '13:03 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""Anytime Delbert, you keep writing them, I'll keep reading them 😊"", 'time': '14:08 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks so much for the kind words, Kevin. I appreciate the analysis and your sharp insights.\n\nYes, Millicent goes from semi-sympathetic to dark in one line. The backstory might be fun to explore. Nice idea, my friend.\n\nAgain, I thank you for reading my little tale and leaving commentary.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '13:03 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Anytime Delbert, you keep writing them, I'll keep reading them 😊"", 'time': '14:08 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Anytime Delbert, you keep writing them, I'll keep reading them 😊"", 'time': '14:08 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Wow. That was amazing.\n\nOkay... I smell something different here. \n\nI didn't like Millicent, but the last line went passed that. She's just twisted!\n\nSorry I can't offer more. I just don't have any more words."", 'time': '09:08 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks for the kind words, Khadija. \n\nAs you state, she is twisted, and she is very unlikeable. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:25 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Thanks for the kind words, Khadija. \n\nAs you state, she is twisted, and she is very unlikeable. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:25 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'What a read. I liked the structure of this with the quotes from the book matching with Millicent’s actions. The fact that she has done this three times, implies she hasn’t learned how to identify a bad romance early on… or perhaps she’s a psychopath and seeks out bad romances so that she can repeat the process of doing away with the men.\n\nI liked your character name, Ms Mills and Boone? Haha\n\nWell done, a fun, but chillingly awful read!', 'time': '07:53 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Michelle, for the kind words and for reading my twisted little tale.\n\nI wanted Millicent to be a sympathetic character - relatively so, anyway - until the final line. Only then do we get an inkling of just how dark and twisted she really is. In my mind, she is a psychopath that seeks out bad men to destroy. I'm also pleased that you liked my name choice. LOL\n\nAgain, thank you for reading and commenting, my friend. \n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:23 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'It worked, I was fully empathising with her predicament, falling for a man who was obviously a con-man and then ‘boom’, a great single line twist at the end.', 'time': '09:45 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much, Michelle, for the kind words and for reading my twisted little tale.\n\nI wanted Millicent to be a sympathetic character - relatively so, anyway - until the final line. Only then do we get an inkling of just how dark and twisted she really is. In my mind, she is a psychopath that seeks out bad men to destroy. I'm also pleased that you liked my name choice. LOL\n\nAgain, thank you for reading and commenting, my friend. \n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:23 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'It worked, I was fully empathising with her predicament, falling for a man who was obviously a con-man and then ‘boom’, a great single line twist at the end.', 'time': '09:45 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'It worked, I was fully empathising with her predicament, falling for a man who was obviously a con-man and then ‘boom’, a great single line twist at the end.', 'time': '09:45 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': ""What a creep fest, Del - I enjoyed every word!  This had to be great fun to write.  You are truly master of the twisted vigilante, turning the tables on those who would dare cross that line of decency or, in some circles, plain bad manners.  I dearly love your 'take no prisoners' approach to the despicable.    \n\nBeautiful work, you know what you're doing!  :)"", 'time': '00:33 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thank you very much, Susan. Truly.\n\nIt was indeed a fun write, and it came together quickly. I'm sure it could have been polished a little more with your help, but time was tight and I had to get the story submitted.\n\nThis week, I'm determined to write a humor tale, no matter the prompts. Let's see if I can tickle that funny bone, yes? LOL\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. As always, I look forward to working with you.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:19 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Susan Catucci': ""I'm in, Del - always ready for a good laugh!  Thank Heavens we're both fairly good at it!"", 'time': '12:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thank you very much, Susan. Truly.\n\nIt was indeed a fun write, and it came together quickly. I'm sure it could have been polished a little more with your help, but time was tight and I had to get the story submitted.\n\nThis week, I'm determined to write a humor tale, no matter the prompts. Let's see if I can tickle that funny bone, yes? LOL\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. As always, I look forward to working with you.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:19 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Catucci': ""I'm in, Del - always ready for a good laugh!  Thank Heavens we're both fairly good at it!"", 'time': '12:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Susan Catucci': ""I'm in, Del - always ready for a good laugh!  Thank Heavens we're both fairly good at it!"", 'time': '12:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Okay, I bow to the master! I think that Stephen King may have some competition...\nExcellent!', 'time': '23:46 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'LOL Thanks for the kind words, Kendall. I really appreciate them, and especially the comparison to the king of horror. \n\nIt was a fun write. I enjoyed making Millicent a sympathetic character - until the last line.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. Truly.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '00:00 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'LOL Thanks for the kind words, Kendall. I really appreciate them, and especially the comparison to the king of horror. \n\nIt was a fun write. I enjoyed making Millicent a sympathetic character - until the last line.\n\nAgain, thank you, my friend. Truly.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '00:00 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Heh :) Great format and premise. I'm reminded of cases like the firefighter who was an arsonist, who also wrote a novel about a firefighter who was an arsonist - and it was ultimately what linked him to his own crimes. \n\nMillicent knows what she's talking about. She's been used and Conrad is all around an ass. Maybe murder was an extreme solution, but who knows. He definitely seems like the retaliating sort. So, we're inclined to sympathize with Millicent… \n\nUntil that last line :) I wonder how many other best-sellers she's written. Perhaps ..."", 'time': '20:34 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the kind words, Michal. Truly.\n\nI wrote this tale with absolutely no clue as to what I was going to write about. I've been working on writing when I have no inspiration, just to see if I can still write something decent. If you found merit in this tale, then I feel like I'm growing as a writer. A real writer, one that doesn't necessarily need inspiration to write.\n\nAnd, you read Millicent as I intended her to be: a sympathetic character - until the final line.\n\nThanks again, my friend. Your analysis is always worthy of a f..."", 'time': '22:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'No doubt! Inspiration is nice, but ""waiting for inspiration"" is a great excuse not to write. We have to make the effort.', 'time': '23:16 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the kind words, Michal. Truly.\n\nI wrote this tale with absolutely no clue as to what I was going to write about. I've been working on writing when I have no inspiration, just to see if I can still write something decent. If you found merit in this tale, then I feel like I'm growing as a writer. A real writer, one that doesn't necessarily need inspiration to write.\n\nAnd, you read Millicent as I intended her to be: a sympathetic character - until the final line.\n\nThanks again, my friend. Your analysis is always worthy of a f..."", 'time': '22:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'No doubt! Inspiration is nice, but ""waiting for inspiration"" is a great excuse not to write. We have to make the effort.', 'time': '23:16 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'No doubt! Inspiration is nice, but ""waiting for inspiration"" is a great excuse not to write. We have to make the effort.', 'time': '23:16 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Interesting story, Delbert. Fascinating to put have your ""heroine"" as the author of a book on self-help. As someone who also writes short stories and knows their limitations, I had the feeling that I would have liked more development of your characters and their relationship. Put another way, they were so vivid that I would have like to know them better to understand their motivation.', 'time': '18:47 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the kind words, Bruce. As you say, fleshing out the tale a little more would be beneficial. As I re-work the tale, I'll keep this in mind. Thanks so much for the insight, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '22:05 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Thanks so much for the kind words, Bruce. As you say, fleshing out the tale a little more would be beneficial. As I re-work the tale, I'll keep this in mind. Thanks so much for the insight, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '22:05 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",iflhda,The Eyes Have It,Amanda Lieser,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/iflhda/,/short-story/iflhda/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'American', 'Coming of Age']",25 likes,"
TW-teenage relationship abuseEva found her seat and waited for Annie Mae to show up. She read through the instruction sheet at her table and pulled her wool sweater around her shoulders to help fight the bitter January cold. Annie Mae arrived, Allen in tow. His fingers laced with hers as tight as a corset. He offered Eva a smile before shoving his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat. Eva’s eyes flitted to the drying rack, the whiteboard, Ms. Wilson, hoping something would call attention to the awkwardness. “I love you,” declared Annie Mae. She stood on her tiptoes in her little pink ballet flats, threw her arms around Allen’s long neck, and offered a sweeter, softer kiss. The bell rang out, announcing class had started. “Miss. Clark will see you later, Mr. Martin,” assured Ms. Wilson as she stood up and began waving the teen out the door. He didn’t turn around, keeping his eyes locked on his girl who gave him a smile and blew him a kiss with cherry gloss coated lips. Eva, for her part, had pulled out her sketchbook. She snagged a ruler from the tub in the middle of the table as she heard the heavy clang of the wood door closing Allen out of their world.Using a pencil, Eva had begun drawing out a grid as Ms. Wilson said, “Well, seniors, you’ve seen your project. Make it happen.” She approached the whiteboard and took out a marker writing in big bubble letters, MAY 17TH. “That is the date of the Spring Show. That is the night your attendance counts for 50% of your grade. Please, invite family and friends. This is your night so dress up if you want. Pretend this is you opening your own gallery show,” she was raising her voice over the excited chatter of her students. She added the time 5:30-7pm before coyly turning on her heel and raising two fingers in the air. The students’ chatter began to die down. “You may use any medium of paint you want and…there will be light appetizers for you to enjoy. I will be sending out a survey to make sure we have something good, so please respond quickly!” she instructed with a grin .“Ugh, of course you already have an idea,” said Annie Mae as she pulled her chestnut curls into a high ponytail. Eva found an involuntary grin spreading across her cheeks. “Ok, ok, what is it?” Annie Mae asked. Eva pulled her notebook closer to herself, hiding her grid of 20 squares. “It’s a surprise,” she said. “Even from me?” demanded Annie Mae. Her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pouted. “Even from you,” replied Eva. “But I’m your best friend,” Annie Mae protested. She stood from her seat to try to catch a glimpse of the sketchbook. Her chair’s metal feet loudly rumbled over the green tile floor of the art room. But Eva pulled her sketchbook to the other side of her workstation, further away from her friend’s prying brown eyes. They seemed so big, so full of concern and a hint of fear. The light of the morning sun added soft gold flecks to the ring around Annie Mae’s pupils. Annie Mae huffed, crossed her arms around her bustline, and sauntered away. Eva returned furiously to her sketchbook, scrawling handwritten notes and observations on a separate sheet. Annie Mae burst through Eva’s front door, holding two pints of mint chip ice cream triumphantly as she exclaimed, “I had to go to like, seven stores to find these.” “Totally worth it,” said Eva. She gave her friend a tight squeeze, both of them knowing the unspoken reality of the second semester of senior year. The girls waved hello to Eva’s parents and began to dig into the open pizza boxes in the kitchen. In the safe cocoon of Eva’s room, they played pop music and pulled out the box of nail polish hidden in the back of the closet. Annie Mae went first, painting slow, long strokes of purple on her friend’s nails.Upon entering Eva’s cave, Annie Mae immediately noticed the open sketchbook tucked in the corner of the room which bore a grid structure. “Oh, my God! Is that your project idea?” she demanded as she rushed over. But Eva ripped the pad from her friend’s hands.”It’s not ready!” Eva shouted. “Jeez,” said Annie Mae. She handed the sketchbook back, refusing to make eye contact with her best friend. She tossed a pillow down and then belly flopped, holding her hands out expectantly. Eva tucked her sketchbook back in the corner before taking her place on her own stomach. “It’s going well. I like him a lot, Evs,” confessed Annie Mae. There was a sparkle in her eye, a kind Eva hadn’t seen before. It seemed to glow from within her childhood friend, even in the dim light of the room, sending shivers down Eva’s spine. “You always like them a lot. What is this, boyfriend number six this year alone?”Eva asked with a soft, teasing shoulder bump. “No,” she said lowering her voice upon seeing her friend’s eyebrows furrow, “I know he’s different. You’ve been inseparable all year.” She cleared her throat to hide her envy. “I’m happy for you; really, I am,” her voice reached an octave unknown to her. But her best friend detected its fake nature right away and frowned at it before applying a top, clear coat in silence. “So…have you checked your mailbox recently?” asked Eva, trying to change the subject to something more exciting as she acted casual, blowing softly on her wet nails. “Shut up,” scoffed Annie Marie, “You know I have.” She rolled her eyes and screwed the black lid of the nail polish closed. After standing, she approached her backpack and pulled out the huge, manilla folder with the gold ram seal. Teasingly, she tossed the acceptance packet at her friend who indicated her desk. Inside was her acceptance letter, with matching golden ram. With squeals of delight, the girls leapt up onto Eva’s bed. They began jumping just like they did as little girls, barely noticing when the photo of the two of them at their very first swim meet fell to the floor. Two ten year olds grinned at the camera in matching swimsuits and swimmers’ caps—inseparable ever since. SOS, read the text on Eva’s phone. She leapt into action, pulling on sweatpants and matching sweatshirt before grabbing her keys, and running out her front door. She drove the ten minutes to Annie Marie’s apartment complex, where she shot a reply text confirming she had arrived. Steam clouded her windshield in the cold of an early March night in sunny Colorado. She sat, anxious in the parking lot, watching Annie Marie’s slim shadow as it exited the dark house and skipped down a set of outdoor stairs. The doors were unlocked with a click that somehow always felt louder at night. Eva tried not to notice the way her friend’s fingers quaked around the seatbelt. She didn’t need to see the storm clouds in Annie Marie’s eyes to know they were there. Eva knew the routine. She drove over to the only fast food joint still open at 2:30am. Her order was the same every time: two large fries and matching hot fudge sundaes. The girls sat in silence in a parked car with their food, the scent of grease lulling them into a state of calm. Annie Mae broke the silence first saying, “She caught him again,” before aggressively shoveling a bite of ice cream in her mouth. Bits of fudge flew out with each word as she added, “Like she’s surprised. Dad has always cheated. Always apologized. Always promised not to.” She rolled her eyes to hold back the tears. Eva reached a hand out, placing it on her friend’s gooseflesh covered bicep, who heaved a big sigh. “Thanks for the rescue; they were ‘talking it out’ tonight,” said Annie Mae, adding air quotes to her eye roll this time. “I’m always here for you,” promised Eva.“So, can you drop me off at Allen’s?” she requested, but didn’t meet Eva’s gaze.“Not at my place?” asked Eva. She tried not to notice her voice cracking at the end. “But you always come home to mine after a bad night; I have your extra clothes,” she said. “So does he,” Annie Marie whispered. “You’re having sex?” demanded Eva.“I can handle it, Evs,” said Annie Mae. She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. When she looked up, Eva saw the spiderweb of pain that permeated them. They looked like the little girl’s eyes that burned with chlorine after holding her handstand the longest. They had the dilated pupils of the first kid in their class to get drunk at a party. They were her best friend’s and yet they felt like a stranger’s.“Are you going to take me to him or do I have to hitchhike?” Annie Mae ended the question with a laugh, but wouldn’t meet Eva’s gaze.A sinking feeling filled Eva’s stomach as she demanded “What’s the address?” She threw the car into reverse.“I’ll…just….give you directions,” said Annie Mae. She pointed and directed, sitting on her hands when they weren’t directly in use. Eva pulled up to the curb, noting the white picket fence which seemed to glow in the dark.Eva asked the house, “Where are his parents? Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?”Annie Mae cleared her throat before saying, “They’re away on business. You can’t afford a ski lodge, a European vacation during the summer, and a new car for their kid if they stay home instead of working.” She took a shaky breath, “Plus, it’s not like they’d care what he does, he’s a legal adult.”“But you’re not,” protested Eva.Annie Mae shrugged flippantly saying, “Skipping a grade has always had its perks. Plenty of older guys.” For a moment, she made direct eye contact with Eva. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the car. They gleaned with hope at the idea of spending the night with Allen. The car door clicked loudly as it opened and Annie Mae made her exit. She lingered in the doorway, her smile wavering slightly. Eva listened to the bell chiming to notify her that it remained ajar as her friend reached for her hand. Her lace fingers were cold to the touch. With the door shut, Eva was left to watch her friend saunter up the porch steps.The lights remained off, but Eva noted the hooded figure who stood waiting; his eyes glowed red. “An invitation to the cabin is a pretty big deal,” said Allen. He popped a French fry in his mouth and wrapped a tentacle arm around Annie Marie’s waist. Eva’s brow furrowed as she chose her words carefully, “But we do a sleepover every spring break. We watch shitty rom coms, and stay up too late, and work on our art projects.” Allen met her protests with a harder eye roll, zeroing in on the other young man at the table, Connor, who wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation as he was busy picking at his hangnails. “It is a big deal,” he said while clearing his throat and furiously wiping at the tiny geysers of red blood spurting from his fingers when he finally felt Allen’s stare in his direction. “I mean,” he continued while grabbing napkins from the dispenser in the center of the table, “I’ve never been invited. And I’ve known Allen for, like, ten years.”Allen nodded confirming this truth, which was typically inconvenient for a devil may care cool guy like him, but in this case was perfectly acceptable. Connor leapt from the table, leaving behind a flurry of cheap, thin, white napkins covered in red blood. This triggered a laugh from Allen. He stood as Eva looked to Annie Mae for support, but found her face was buried in Allen’s shoulder. “Aren’t we all a bit old for those kind of sleepovers?”he asked. “Are you going to the art show?” Eva chose to answer Allen’s question with a question. He scoffed. Eva spun around to meet Allen’s gaze as she said, “We’ve been waiting four years to be a part of the art show. It’s a big deal. The whole school’s invited. The pieces have to be perfect have you even bothered to let her work on her piece?”The cafeteria seemed to go silent. Connor looked from Eva, to Allen, to Annie Mae who was pulling on her boyfriend’s arm. Eva realized he had pretty eyes, dark blue like the ocean. Allen stepped closer to the girl still sitting at her table, brushing off his girlfriend’s concern as he said, “Don’t tell me what to do. Annie Mae isn’t your puppet anymore. She’s comin’ to the cabin and that’s final.”Then, he turned back to his girl and whispered something in Annie Mae’s ear. She offered him a kiss, not adding another word to the conversation. Then, she reached for the pendant around her neck, a crystal A on a gold chain. It glittered in the light of midday which Eva felt warm the room upon their exit. She was left to watch them go, pleading for Annie Marie to turn around, to apologize, to show her nothing had changed. Instead, she bussed her tray at the trash bins by the posters saying: VOTE FOR PROM KING AND QUEEN-ANNIE MAE AND ALLEN 2017!SOS read the text on Eva’s phone Tuesday morning. She hadn’t heard a word the last Friday of school before break, nor had she heard anything on Saturday, her texts on Sunday went unanswered. Eva immediately called, hearing the chipper voice on the other end asking her to leave a message sent her into a further panic. She couldn’t just drive over, so she contemplated showing her mother the message when a text came through: Allen is really mad about CSU. He thinks I should go with him to NYU since I technically have the acceptance letter. He said his dad can pay my tuition if cost is the problem. Can’t talk, going to dinner soon. Kinda wanna leave. A million questions and arguments flew like the snowflakes outside her window as Eva penned a response. She typed them out, then hit backspace, then rephrased, and finally asked where Annie Mae was so she could come pick her up. That text went unanswered for an hour as Eva paced the room. She attempted to work on her art piece, which she had taken home, but found the art simply couldn’t flow from a terrified mind. No, don’t pick me up, we’ll work it out, was the text she received followed by a single word ending the conversation: Night!Annie Mae arrived at 5:29pm. Students' art filled the walls of the lunch room, hung up on the walls or on display stands. Some were vivid with bright color from acrylic paints, others chose a black and white medium. A couple had elected to choose the watercolor route. She signed in and took six cookies. All around her the cafeteria was already buzzing with life. Family and friends crowded the artists who were accepting big bouquets of red roses before posing for photos. She wandered over to her own piece. A watercolor of symbols that Disney princesses had. Ms. Wilson had helped her incorporate salt into the top left corner for Ariel’s contract. But Annie Mae was most proud of the subtle shadows of Aladdin's lamp, the deep velvety smoothness of Belle’s rose. She smiled at the way Cinderella’s crown seemed to sparkle in the light. Eva had helped with that. Annie Mae raised and dropped her black high heel, listening to the soft clack as she searched the crowds for her long lost friend. Eva had arrived at 5:30pm on the dot. She, too, had signed in, along with her mother, Maria. Ms. Wilson had praised Eva’s work to her mother, eliciting an eye roll from the teen. Everyone was meant to walk clockwise around the cafeteria.After brief introductions, Eva scurried off to the bathroom where she stood, back pressed against the cold wall of the stall door, feeling the weight of fake eyelashes and thick lipstick. Her hand held her cell phone as she typed, deleted, and retyped a message to Annie Mae. Heavy, hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she found herself furiously backspacing her words away. Her mother’s advice ringing in her ears, “Sometimes, it’s better to support a friend even if you don’t think what they’re doing is wise. Best to be on the same side as them if they’re going to build a wall.”While standing at the sink, she contemplated destroying her mother’s work by splashing some cold water on her face. But the bathroom door swung open and an older lady shuffled quietly in. So she took her exit and returned to the cafeteria. Annie Mae noticed Maria and waved her over. Some pleasantries were exchanged before the painful question was asked, “And who’s here for you, Sweetheart?” “Mom has to work late, Dad said he’s tired,” replied Annie Mae. Maria patted her shoulder and invited her over for a sleepover at their place. Annie Mae shook her head. In the uncomfortable silence, Maria poured out the compliments before moving to the next piece. Annie Mae watched Eva rejoin her mother and finish the circuit. Slowly, but surely all of the students and their guests headed for the double doors, back out into the cold spring air. Until the only ones left were Eva and Annie Mae who listened to the sound of her high heels clacking on the green tile floor. She had to cross the whole cafeteria to stand before Eva’s piece. Twenty pairs of her own eyes stared back at her. The first one, in the top left, held a kind of cosmic beauty she had only read about. They were set against a crisp, robin’s egg blue background. The next pair seemed to sparkle with laughter. Eva must have captured that set at their first sleepover of the new year. The next set of eyes was 90% closed, fast asleep tucked in next to Eva. As Annie Mae scanned the canvas, she noticed that the background turned into a dark, stormy gray, representing her turbulent spring break. She cringed at the sight of the red rings around her irises from the night that Allen had said that she had a choice to make: him or college. Beside that set of eyes was the pair that had stayed up all night, hauling extra baggage the next morning. Only one of her eyes was open on the last grid line, her left glued shut by Allen’s rage. The pair in the middle was nearly as black as the background. And the last set of eyes, well, that set Eva could barely stand to look at. They were hers, only covered in cheap makeup. Hiding the rage. Hiding the baggage. Hiding the abuse. But not well. Eva had captured the way the bruise peaked out.“It’s me,” whispered Annie Mae.“It’s you,” Eva echoed, wrapping an arm around her friend whose head fell onto Eva’s bare shoulder. 
","July 14, 2023 16:24","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'Hard to watch someone we love heading down a destructive path. Harder still if they leave us behind. This captures that quite well. Eva had to find unusual strength, not just to be there for her friend but also to manage her own disappointment.\n\nUltimately it\'s a great story of friendship, particularly given the difficult topics it addresses. Funny how love and friendship can be so often at odds. \n\n""Annie Marie"" - she was Annie Mae before, is this change on purpose? Like she\'s growing up and doesn\'t want to go by Mae anymore? \n\n""She brushed ...', 'time': '20:46 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Linda Lovendahl': 'Good motivation set up between the friends and good description of the difficulty their relationship had with the circumstances. The ending was good too but as a reader I would have liked more of the art introduced at the beginning carried through the piece since it ended with that project.\nKeep writing!', 'time': '00:07 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Anna W': ""Wow. What a powerful story. It's so hard to see someone we love walk this path. What a beautiful thing Eva did, showing her friend, in her way, what everyone else could see. Such a complicated issue that you portrayed very well. Thank you for sharing this Amanda."", 'time': '20:19 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Hey Amanda! This story developed really well, and the foreshadowing of the end of anni Mae\'s and Allen\'s relationship was great. Like ""tentacle arm,"" shoving the tongue down the throat. Also, I liked how you used Eva\'s artwork to reveal what happened. \n\nAs a young adult, this was very thought provoking for me. Should you intervene if a friend is making a wrong decision? How do you support them? This really stuck with me: ""Best to be on the same side as them if they’re going to build a wall.”\n\nOn a nit picky note, there were a couple of jumps...', 'time': '02:18 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Amanda,\n\nA subtle and poignant tale about control, abuse, and unquestioning friendship. \nWhat a great friend Annie Mae has in Eva.\n\nI loved the following line: “Sometimes, it’s better to support a friend even if you don’t think what they’re doing is wise. Best to be on the same side as them if they’re going to build a wall.”\n\nHow very true that is. Very nicely told.', 'time': '04:08 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': 'Nice story. You quickly entered me into your psychological world. Loved how you used the green tile floor. I was impressed with your ability to switch back and forth  the characters with no confusion.You got so many circumstances of their friendship into the eye painting. Very cleverly done. Like it.', 'time': '18:07 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'L J': 'Well done! I liked the description of the painting. \n\nThank you for taking time to read my entry!', 'time': '20:45 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I difficult topic and you approached it so well from the pov of a friend or outsider looking in. It really is a hard thing to watch a friend self destruct through choices that they are making. I liked how the art pice at the end tried to show the changes in the friend captured by an observer over time. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '12:39 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Abuse is always a difficult thing to deal with or even write about, but through the eyes of a friend was an interesting approach that made is subtle. Very well done Amanda.\n\nI noticed a few typos that I\'ve pasted below. But other than that, a good read.\n\n\n""She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes Ann’s when she looked up,""\n\n""Annie Mae cleared his throat before saying,""\n\n""They cleaned with hope at the idea of spending the night with Allen.""\n\n""Her lace fingers were cold rot he touch.""', 'time': '13:55 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'The eyes do have it a day it all.👁️👁️\n\nThanks for liking my Fancy Ranch.', 'time': '17:56 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",2ljbdz,When A Lie Becomes Truth,Antonio Jimenez,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2ljbdz/,/short-story/2ljbdz/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",24 likes,"
When a lie becomes indistinguishable from the truth, is it really a lie? The lone man walked slowly down the snow-covered sidewalk, collar flipped up in a vain attempt to shield his neck and face from the blustering wind, hands stuffed in his pockets in a slightly more successful attempt to keep his fingers from freezing. The falling flakes were visible in the light cast by the street lamps placed at regular intervals along the road. They seemed to be lighting his path and his alone, not a soul was in sight. The usually bustling city had shut down due to the late hour and the inclement weather. Only his footprints were visible in the fresh powder, giving the illusion that he was the first to walk down this sidewalk.You sent me to fight for good. For truth and justice. You sent me to kill bad guys and steal stuff. I was given a mission to protect the citizens back home from enemies overseas who would like to kill our innocents and steal our innocence. They want to destroy us, and you sent me to destroy them.The man came to a cafe. Bright light spilled from the large windows, drawing him into the establishment like a moth to a flame. He stopped at the door and brushed the snow off of his shoulders and head. He then stomped his feet a few times to clear the bottom of his stylish leather boots of any packed snow and grabbed the well-worn bronze handle. The peeling oak door opened to reveal a brightly lit, if empty, cafe and bakery. The five tables scattered around the place were empty and their chairs had been placed seat down on the tabletop to signal they had been cleaned for the night. A glass display case at the front was devoid of the pastries and cakes it usually held.Suddenly, the clomp of a man’s footsteps on hardwood echoed through the place and a man appeared from behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the rest of the cafe.“Regular?” He asked, without any other pleasantries, wiping suds from his hands onto the apron tied around his waist.“Please,” the man responded as he pulled a chair down from one of the tables.I agreed to fight for you. For us. I believed in our mission. I decided to do whatever it took to punish the evil that had arrayed itself against us and promote the good of our cause. To do this you said I had to become like the enemy. To go undercover and to spy. I didn’t just have to lie, I had to become the lie. I had to convince the enemy that I was one of them, that I believed in their cause and hated our own.In less than a minute, the air smelled of roasting coffee and baking bread. The sounds of clinking mugs, dripping coffee, and a whirring oven soon filled the previously quiet room. The lone patron removed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. He then sat down and stared out the window, thinking of nothing but the way the lights of the cafe made the snow glow as if it was alive. The man loved the snow. Every winter, frozen water fell from the sky and made everything look white and pure and clean. For a time, the backstreets and alleys of the city looked almost as nice as the wide, mansion-lined boulevards.Then the sun came out and its unflinching rays brought the world back into focus, with all of its evils on full display. He knew the snow didn’t really make the evils go away, but it kind of felt that way. I left everything I ever knew for our cause. You gave me a new name, a new birth date, and a new background. The old me ceased to exist. Together, we crafted someone who hated good and loved evil. Who thrived in the darkness and scorned the light.And it worked.The owner of the cafe emerged once again from behind the curtain, a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and a plate topped with a thick slab of banana bread in the other. He set the food and drink in front of his one customer and patted him on the back. He then disappeared again behind the curtain. The man grasped the handle of the mug and brought it to his mouth. Wisps of steam rose from the dark liquid as he breathed in the scent. The first sip scorched his tongue but he barely noticed. He felt the hot drink slide down his throat and warm his freezing body. He took another sip then set the mug down and broke a piece off of the banana bread.Together, we fooled the foolers. The evil-doers thought I was one of their own and invited me into their inner circle. When I had been accepted, I stole from them and fed you information that resulted in the capture and even death of some of them. At every turn, I foiled their plans and made certain their evil deeds were stopped before harm could come to the innocents. The man made quick work of his coffee and bread then rose from his chair, brushing crumbs off of his shirt and pants. He cleared his throat, then called for the owner of the cafe who came through the curtain a few seconds later. “Would you like another cup of coffee? Another slice of banana bread?” The man asked making his way towards his customer.“No, no, I am good. Thank you very much, it was wonderful as always.” The man reached into his back pocket. The owner began to protest, saying that it was on the house, but stopped when his customer didn’t offer cash but his entire wallet. For a moment, the owner’s face was a knot of confusion, then his face fell. “You're doing it tonight?” He asked quietly.“Yes,” was the one-word response. He stepped forward and placed the wallet into the man’s hands. “You don’t have to do this. You really don’t.”“I do,” the man sighed and reached for his coat. Putting it on, he said, “Thank you. For everything.” Then he slipped through the door and back out into the falling snow.I made these criminals and vagrants my friends. They became my only friends. Their ideas became my ideas and their thoughts became my thoughts. I became one of them. Slowly, the lie I had been living began to slip away. The lies became truth, and truth became the lies. I became lost in the labyrinth I—we—had built for me.The lie was too successful.The man once again flipped his collar up and thrust his hands into his pockets. He glanced back. His earlier tracks had been covered by the falling snow as if they had never existed. He turned away and continued making his way down the sidewalk, the street lamps once again his only companions. His destination wasn’t far. Less than a mile. I realized that I had fallen for my own lie. I no longer even knew who I was. I had been so busy protecting everyone else from evil, that I hadn’t protected myself.As the man walked, he suddenly had the urge to make a snowball. Bending down at the waist, he used both hands to scoop up some snow and form it into a perfect sphere. He chose his target—a snow-covered red sedan about twenty yards ahead—and fired. The snowball sailed through the air and landed square on the car’s windshield. I have slipped into the grasp of the evil and lies and I can feel them squeezing me, trying to suffocate the life out of me.He smiled briefly then kept walking. He could see his destination just up the street. The imposing brick building that used to mean safety and security. In a sense, it was his home. That was before.I refuse to go out of the way. I went into this mission pretending to be a bad guy. I refuse to come out actually a bad guy.He took a deep breath and walked slowly up the stone steps leading to the large double doors. It had been a while since he was welcome in this place, but he had decided he would visit one more time and drop his facade once and for all. He opened the heavy doors and stepped across the threshold. It had been a long time, yet it still felt familiar. Evil and lies are all-consuming beasts. Uncontested, they will spread until the only option is to burn it all down and start over. The man stood just inside the doorway and looked around. There were a few faces he recognized and a few he didn’t. Some of them wore looks of shock while others looks of confusion. He glanced over each of them and then looked up at the large flag hanging from the ceiling. The flag he had gone to war under. The flag he had fought for, killed for, and lied for.I still believe in our cause. In my bones, I still do but I must drop this facade before the lies finally overtake me and send me spiraling into a life of grey. Where there is no black and white and everyone does what is right in their own eyes. I could think of nothing worse. I did what I could. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.Signed, Your loyal servant.The man let the image of the flag burn into his vision, then he shut his eyes and placed his left hand over his chest pocket. He could feel the sealed envelope through the fabric. It was his letter. The why and the how. Hopefully, they would read it and understand the dangers of lies.With his right hand, he then reached into the small leather holster on his right hip and withdrew his service weapon. Without opening his eyes, he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. 
","July 20, 2023 05:43","[[{'Parul Shah': 'Antonio, you have a gift for descriptive writing. The walk through the snow and the cafe were quite vivid to me, I felt as though I was there. The story ending is shocking, you amply reward the reader with a good story. I think you can make the story leaner and stronger by editing out any cliches and not relying on the italicized paragraphs to do the work of explaining who he is and what\'s gone wrong. The letter in italics doesn\'t begin with an address such as ""Dear Maam X"" and so it doesn\'t come across as a letter but rather as internal dia...', 'time': '23:50 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Thanks for the comment. Unfortunately, I can’t edit it now but I will keep that in mind for later.', 'time': '00:49 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Thanks for the comment. Unfortunately, I can’t edit it now but I will keep that in mind for later.', 'time': '00:49 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Deidra Whitt Lovegren': 'Great line - ""I went into this mission pretending to be a bad guy. I refuse to come out actually a bad guy.""\nGreat spin on the prompt! Engaging from start to finish.', 'time': '22:51 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Thanks! Glad to hear it', 'time': '00:26 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Thanks! Glad to hear it', 'time': '00:26 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Spying - a great take on the prompt. And it highlights a phenomenon that happens anytime someone goes undercover, or even just immerses themselves in another culture. I hear this is why ambassadors get swapped out periodically too. \n\nThe protagonist is stuck between two sets of lies. That which his own country fed him, and that of his assumed identity. But he's also stuck between two sets of truths too, isn't he? He's lived in both places, he's seen reality here and there - and the fact that the enemy is ultimately human, just like he is, dr..."", 'time': '20:35 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': ""Thanks for your awesome comment! I'll delete those tags. This story turned out to be pretty philosophical almost, and I guess I can get wordy when venturing in that direction, as I've gotten multiple comments now about streamlining the story lol. Thanks again!"", 'time': '00:53 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': ""Thanks for your awesome comment! I'll delete those tags. This story turned out to be pretty philosophical almost, and I guess I can get wordy when venturing in that direction, as I've gotten multiple comments now about streamlining the story lol. Thanks again!"", 'time': '00:53 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'John K Adams': ""This portrait of both sides of the same coin is remarkable, Antonio. You do a fine job of keeping us wondering which side he's on, and then realize both sides do the same thing. Pretty chilling.\nSome of your descriptions seem wordy and editing might energize them. I find that reading aloud helps me cut flabby sentences. And the use of cliches like 'like a moth to a flame' distract from what is otherwise, a deep and compelling story.\nThanks for inviting me to read this. I will happily read more."", 'time': '18:15 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Yeah, I’ll get rid of the “moth to a flame.” What other specific sentences do you think should be changed?', 'time': '06:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'John K Adams': ""Now that you have some distance from it, read it aloud. What sentences need streamlining will be obvious. I cannot dictate that. Develop an editor's taste by testing each sentence for whether it is as strong and purposeful as it needs to be."", 'time': '13:55 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Yeah, I’ll get rid of the “moth to a flame.” What other specific sentences do you think should be changed?', 'time': '06:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Now that you have some distance from it, read it aloud. What sentences need streamlining will be obvious. I cannot dictate that. Develop an editor's taste by testing each sentence for whether it is as strong and purposeful as it needs to be."", 'time': '13:55 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Now that you have some distance from it, read it aloud. What sentences need streamlining will be obvious. I cannot dictate that. Develop an editor's taste by testing each sentence for whether it is as strong and purposeful as it needs to be."", 'time': '13:55 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Beautifully written. Wonderful flow and highly descriptive. I did get the idea of the danger of lies. For my taste, however, it was a little too abstract.', 'time': '13:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Hmm, I purposefully wrote it to be a bit abstract. I didn’t want to single out any specific country, agency, etc. I’m glad you liked my writing!', 'time': '05:01 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Hmm, I purposefully wrote it to be a bit abstract. I didn’t want to single out any specific country, agency, etc. I’m glad you liked my writing!', 'time': '05:01 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'I really like the premise of the tale, Antonio. The theme of blurred lines between reality and illusion is great. The only real criticism I have is that the internal dialogue is telling too much and showing too little. If you could tone down the telling a little, the tale would be more powerful.\n\nYou can obviously write, and you do it well. I admire your talent.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '10:42 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'How would you go about doing that? Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough, but the italics are supposed to be the letter he has written. Thoughts?', 'time': '06:50 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': 'Ah, yes. You did make it clear, but that came almost at the end, my friend. Perhaps if you had started by showing him writing a letter, I would have seen it more clearly. \n\nAs a letter, it makes more sense. Good tale, Antonio. And a very good premise.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:28 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'How would you go about doing that? Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough, but the italics are supposed to be the letter he has written. Thoughts?', 'time': '06:50 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Ah, yes. You did make it clear, but that came almost at the end, my friend. Perhaps if you had started by showing him writing a letter, I would have seen it more clearly. \n\nAs a letter, it makes more sense. Good tale, Antonio. And a very good premise.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:28 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Ah, yes. You did make it clear, but that came almost at the end, my friend. Perhaps if you had started by showing him writing a letter, I would have seen it more clearly. \n\nAs a letter, it makes more sense. Good tale, Antonio. And a very good premise.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:28 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Antonio,\nOh my gosh, this was a heavy hitter. This piece felt heartbreaking and honest. I loved the way we got to walk with this character and slowly understand what has become of him. Your story was a great exploration of the human spirit and the line between “good” and “evil”. Great job on this one!!', 'time': '00:54 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Charles Corkery': 'Okay, firstly, thanks for commenting on my story.  Much appreciated.\nI really like your story, too.\nI like the switch from third person narrative to being inside the protagonist\'s mind.\nIt\'s ironic that one of the comments (criticism) that I received for one of my stories-""Breaking Point"" -was because I used the same switch in voices.\nI guess everybody has their own perspective of how to write.\nAnyhow, back to your story, I thought it was really good and summed up the sense of disillusionment that most ""good"" people feel with the morons runn...', 'time': '21:37 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Thanks! I am glad you enjoyed it. I may have to check out your other story. I enjoy both reading and writing a POV switch that is done deftly and effectively.', 'time': '04:48 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Thanks! I am glad you enjoyed it. I may have to check out your other story. I enjoy both reading and writing a POV switch that is done deftly and effectively.', 'time': '04:48 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': 'Great story! You wore me out, changing back and forth. but I enjoyed the adventure. Good job!', 'time': '18:19 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Antonio Jimenez': ""Thanks! I'm glad you liked it"", 'time': '04:47 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Antonio Jimenez': ""Thanks! I'm glad you liked it"", 'time': '04:47 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Ok guys, probably more unsure about this story than anything else I have written. It turned out way darker than I initially intended and not sure if I really got the message I wanted across. This story is not intended to condemn spies or spy agencies. Rather, I wanted it to be a warning about the danger of lies and evil in general. Spies are just a genre I feel comfortable in. Please lmk what you think!', 'time': '05:46 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",16ppo1,A Child Lost in the Shuffle,Grace Anderson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/16ppo1/,/short-story/16ppo1/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Fiction', 'Drama']",23 likes,"
The Silver Serpent is far from the glitz and glamour of a typical casino and that’s precisely what its patrons prefer. Stale beer and spilt cocktails stain the worn-out carpet, giving it a patina that is more grit than grandeur. Fluorescent lights flicker intermittently, casting a cold glow over the battered slot machines and chipped roulette wheels. Amongst the cacophony, nestled through the maze of dingy gambling tables, a Friday night poker game has ensnared the attention of every soul in the room. A ring of onlookers forms a human barricade around the players, their breath holds in anticipation of the drama to unfold, their attention a currency as valuable as the meagre sums of money that changes hands with each shuffle of cards.
 
An enigmatic figure with an unnerving calm slides into the spare seat across from me. Her gaze slicing through the thick cigar smoke. Dark brown hair, emerald eyes like my own and a knowing smirk. Familiar – but from where?
A low voice comes from the dealer: “Cadoc Lukes. Back at it again, eh? Never gets old, watching you lose day after day.” The words sting, echoes of a similar taunt from a time when I had more to lose than just my pride, just the scraps of my money. The allure of the Silver Serpent, its siren call of thrill and chance, had been too potent to resist.
The woman watches me as the cards are dealt.
She confidently looks at her hand, pushes an intimidating pile of chips into the centre.  
“Didn’t expect a rose among thorns tonight,” I hiss, returning her stare. My snake-green eyes narrowing.
“Expect the unexpected,” she shoots back, breaking her stare and turning instead to assess the other players. Her eyes carry burden as she flicks between each seat. 
I sneer back at her. It’s clear she’s no good, with that pre-flop move. Amateur. How dare she flaunt her beginner's luck at the Silver Serpent.
“Who are you?” I stare her down. The nerve.
She hesitates. Disappointed almost. “Hailee, but you can call me Hails.”
She pulls out her words slowly, each more pronounced then the next. Her eyes fixate on me, studying my every move.
It is my turn again as the flop comes out. 3 of spades. 4 of spades. 8 of spades. 
Straight flush opportunity. I glance at the familiar faces seated around the worn-down table. I know most of them. Orion, with his dark brown hair and olive skin, comes once a week. Lili’s terrible - she only comes because her father owns the place. She’s rich. Her inky brunette hair, and dark hazel eyes glittering as usual in the dim lighting, framing her porcelain skin perfectly. And Phoenix, right at the edge of the table, exudes confidence. But even now, looks a little scared. Her air of quiet intensity, gone.
One face is new. Hailee - Hails. Familiar, but never seen before here.
Shoot, I got distracted by my own thoughts. I should take my turn.
I glance at my cards once more. A frown rises upon my opponents’ faces. 
A sigh escapes my lips as I fold. I can’t afford losing to a straight flush.
Hails, across from me, snickers, “I’ve heard terrible things about you, Lukes. Not a reality, I’d hoped. But I guess I was wrong.”
Her tone is indecipherable. Is she aiming to win or lose?
Eyes around the table dart and lock, each glance a subtle dance of strategy and scrutiny. Faces become borders, shutting off emotion that might hint the flicker of hope, doubt. Nothing but steel determination.
I can feel the shadows behind me. Engulfing my pride, my purpose, my prominence. The audience bites their tongues. I can’t do this anymore. Hails’ stares slice me in half. The turn comes out. Ace of hearts. 
A look of triumph comes from Hails. Everyone around her folds. Until it comes to her. She wins before the river comes out; she doesn’t have to reveal her cards, but she does. 
Not a flush. Pocket Aces.
A gasp acquires every player’s lips. Including mine. She’s fooled us.
“What's the matter Lukes, cat got your tongue?” She says, elegantly. Still her eyes are focused on me.
Hails leads by a mile. More than half of the table leaves. It’s late. They’re just scared.
“It’s just you and me,” Hails laughs. “Get up and leave right now. Nothing changes.” Her voice has a sing-song tone to it. Patronising. Familiar.
“Come on Hails, you may be a world-renowned poker player, watched in awe by your fans. Or you might be a beginner off the streets. Praying that every round you win won’t be your last. But I know one thing. You will never beat me.”
“I already have.” She sniggers softly and looks down at the ripped up carpet. 
I can’t argue with that. I’m the only one on this table who hasn’t quit while they’re ahead. The scorn, the shame, they’re old friends. But it doesn’t mean I’m not low. My hand drifts over the nearly empty space in front of me. Chips, like so many things in my life, has a way of disappearing.
The dealer deals the final cards.
I flip up the ends. My eyes scanning the letters and symbols. Trying to make sense of them.
Ace, 4. My unmasked expression meets Hails’ regretful eye. “You really don’t know me, do you?”
“What’s that ‘sposed to mean.” I slur my words. The world looks blurry around me.
Hails looks at me sadly, she turns her hand around. It shows an Ace and a 5. She wins, if she plays.….
She folds.
As she does her signature laugh, she grabs a piece of paper from her red dress pocket followed by a golden lined pen. She scribbles something down throws it my way and vanishes into the crowd before I can look up to gloat. 
I carefully open the piece of paper, it reads:
Hailee Lukes
13A Waters St.
You won, come home Dad.
 
","July 15, 2023 07:49","[[{'Tommy Goround': 'Nice twist. Clapping.', 'time': '08:52 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Sophie Y': 'Such an compelling story with an unexpected ending, great work Grace.', 'time': '09:03 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Two works, a mention. Congrats. Interesting storyline.', 'time': '14:14 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Beautifully written! Didn't expect the revelation, nicely done! Your descriptions are exquisite."", 'time': '07:56 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""Grace, this is spectacular. So much art within so many of the lines. I agree that there's a poetry to it, but I think it balances out well with prose. Great job."", 'time': '16:21 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wow. What a writer! Congrats on the shortlist.🤩', 'time': '16:08 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Rose Lind': 'Well written.', 'time': '21:18 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ezra Grey': 'You have a way of bringing elements of poetry into your writing that really brings in a reader. Also, your foreshadowing was very well done. Great read!! Good luck in the contest!', 'time': '01:27 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mustang Patty': ""Wow!\nI wasn't expecting that at all! Though you did a great foreshadowing, the eyes should've given it away.\n\nThank you for sharing and Good Luck in the contest!"", 'time': '12:30 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Grace!\nCongratulations on the shortlist! I loved that this story was a bit shorter than some of the other submissions. It takes serious abilities to craft a masterful story in a small number of words. Nice work!!', 'time': '04:30 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",weofo7,Dressed in Pink Seeing Red,Kelita Sim,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/weofo7/,/short-story/weofo7/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama', 'Funny']",17 likes,"
The house at the end of Beverley is enthroned with pink blossom trees. From the outside alone, a pale bricked driveway swept clean, I can tell this household likes to keep everything in order. Spring shivers through the branches as I bring my own ride, an ergonomic budget-friendly hatchback, to a stop. I wonder, gazing through the window if the party’ll be hosted outside.Spring is my favourite season, but sadly, it’s incredibly temperamental. I have vivid memories of enduring outdoor functions whereby all four seasons fought for centre stage within one hourly period. It’s not such a big deal if you’re a guest - first class hospitality is expected, it’s your privilege. But as a hired hand, the same courtesy isn't. If any unforeseen circumstance interrupts the event and my performance, I’m expected to fend for myself. I am contracted to simply do my job regardless and then get the hell off of the premises.Mostly, my events occur without incident. I turn up, make myself known to the client, get in the zone and then wait in the wings until it’s time to show out. The best events normally take place after midday, because the client has considered holding a celebration late enough that allows the required contractor to get some shut-eye, eat and make the journey to the venue. The worst demands an early start (a breakfast event) or a late finish (sleepovers are the devil’s work!) with no additional financial incentive to work these ungodly hours.“It’s part of the job. It’s what you signed up for,” Punch (officially Paul) of “Punch and Judy”, reminds us at every debrief meeting as soon as someone even slightly complains about an overzealous job. ”You get paid, don't you? We pay the best in the country. We work with respectable clients, we cover your costume laundering fees - what more do you want? If you don’t like it, there’s the door!” “Punch” isn’t one to mince his words. You’d never believe he owns a business  supplying entertainment services for children's events. But he does, in fact, he and his wife “Judy” (officially Lena) are the owners of several businesses. They are known nationwide and have won multiple awards.“So remember it’s a bloody privilege that you’re employed by us,” Paul usually concludes, stabbing the air with a can of Irn Bru, “No better place to work and the whole damn industry and clientele agrees. You represent us and don’t you forget it. So give the client the best experience of their lives or I'll personally make yours a living hell. Understand?”“Yes Paul,” we mutter. So much for raising team morale…It’s a wonder how very few people have actually quit Punch and Judy. Often I wonder how and why I’ve been kicking it with these two overbearing tycoons for four long-suffering years. The idea of entertaining used to fill me with jittery excitement. I used to get high from the applause and the mini arms wrapped lovingly around my brightly coloured façade.I used to not mind missing days without eating properly or spending my tips on extra makeup just so I could play the part better for the paying client. But it’s been four years and I will never get them back. I have dutifully dedicated every moment to a company, which still gives me, despite what Paul claims is the best, a minimum wage. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to finally be truthful; to address the undeserved wage and my deteriorating unhappiness, in the hope that things will change. But I've been burnt before.When I was a rookie, I spoke up perhaps too often and made the mistake of being honest.I still remember the first and only time I naively ranted about a notoriously bonkers but loyal client to her equally loyal nanny whilst on duty at her daughter’s first birthday party, “Gosh, I can’t imagine working for Mrs Jacobs every day. She’s a bit of a ‘mare, isn’t she? Is it true she left the birthday cake outside to cool down overnight only to find a dozen birds had scavenged it? What a looney…”. I also still remember the squeezed expression of the nanny, my own realization of my mistake and, of course, the caution notice from management about my unprofessional outburst. I was promptly disciplined, with reduced work opportunities for an entire month, and humiliated by Punch, when he forced me to write an apology to January Jacobs.Now, four years later, I keep my mouth shut and look at the floor when Punch Paul shoots me a threatening glare, whilst part of their ridiculously problematic mantra scrolls through my mind: Here at Punch and Judy, our clients are our pride. We commit to conducting ourselves in a professional manner at all times. We will not slander or share false information about our clients...But, I know now, this industry is full of and built upon fakes. I’ve been here long enough to witness the two-facedness, and sadly, become a part of it. My job is to pretend. I’m paid to shut up and look cute. Ironically, I’ve pretended to love my job, my persona, my so-called work family. Because we've all been conditioned to. You are rewarded when you pretend, you are punished when you do not.  -I sit reminiscing in my car, my breath further obstructing the view of the house I have been contracted to spend five hours at this afternoon, and seriously consider going home to crawl in bed and mourn my lost years and innocence.I am tired. And today, I feel it even more as reality shakes me like a doll.Wake up Flora, wake the heck up. Nothing is going to and will ever change.You are the sheltered fool that naively allowed two opportunists to coax you in. You fell for their reputation wrapped up in their false promises to welcome you into their family and teach you the ropes if you remain loyal. And yet, here you are, four years later, still the clown in the Barbie getup, glossing their lives and slumming your own…A Mercedes shoots past my hatchback, halting outside the pristine drive. The driver is a fake-tanned mum, who is carrying a teal leather handbag whilst balancing a frosted tiered cake. A flashback of January Jacobs makes my pits perspire. The mum totters across the drive, followed by two girls, both sporting French braids and those Perspex kitten heels you find in a fancy dress box. I slide down quickly to avoid them seeing me and watch as they disappear into the house. When it is safe again, I check my appearance in the rear-view mirror. My hair is a box blonde wig, fashioned into a labour and pain-intensive style made possible only by overnight old-fashioned rollers. It hangs static, after the hours’ drive, but it’s nothing a little Elnette won’t fix. I flick a curl back and sigh heavily at my reflection.For today’s façade, my eyes are framed with thick black kohl and washed with a typical rosy eyeshadow. The earrings are heavy loops, a gesture to the 90s - a decade these little party girls surely know nothing about. Thankfully, for once, the reference photo I meticulously studied this morning, didn’t include a bright lipstick. I touch my slightly swollen lips - medicated with prescription ointment and a less offensive pink gloss - and wince. They're still sensitive after withstanding a million rhinestones, affixed with some cheap craft glue, part of an aquatic look from last weekend’s event.Yes, Spring is my favourite season, but it’s also a punisher because it contains the most celebrations - Easter, Mothers Day, Valentines. Which normally means that come summer, this Barbie body is in dire need of R'n'R.The dashboard clock blinks an angry red 13:30 as I reapply my gloss. I take a breath before calling the client on her preferred contact number. She picks up after the fourth ring, her voice sounds clipped.“Yes?<” she says as though I’m about to sell a life insurance policy.“Mrs Lachland? This is Flora, from Punch and Judy. You’re expecting me for your daughter’s birthday party this afternoon?”“Of course,” Mrs Lachland barks. ”But Paul said you’d be punctual. You’re late.”What? I glare accusingly at my digital clock before checking my phone. It says 13:54. Crap….“So sorry Mrs Lachland,” I attempt to exit the vehicle only to remember I am half-dressed and in full view of the client’s house. Rookie mistake.“ I am pulling in now, where do I enter the property?.”Mrs Lachland snaps that there is a garage at the side.“And don’t you dare scratch my car, you’re not insured for that.”I reply sweetly that I will be careful and will be there in a moment.She tuts and hangs up.This is the last time Flora; I promise my screaming body; this is the last time.The garage is big enough for at least three cars, so I manoeuvre my hatchback inside with ease. Mrs Lachland makes me wait ten freezing minutes alone and doesn’t even greet me.“You’re not dressed!?,” she shrieks, eyeing my plain clothes, “I explicitly stated to Paul and Lena that I need the performer to be ready to go by 2”.I'm embarrassed at my pathetic apologies.“I didn’t want to dirty the boots and the feather bolero is handmade and very delicate…”“Well, hurry up,” she stamps “It’s unacceptable, the girls are getting antsy. You look a mess. I paid for a polished Barbie, not a dishevelled one!""I am about to follow her out, hoping for a dressing space with a mirror and soft furnishings, but my client slams the garage door shut on me, saying she’ll be back in five to bring me out. I almost lose a full minute gaping after her, my frosty breath escaping between chattering teeth.My dressing table is the bonnet of my own car. I dare not go anywhere near the car, a hefty Lexus, I’m not insured to touch.The silver corset is so tight I have to forgo my bra. Fortunately, I remembered to pack pasties to cover my nipples, which are now erect from the chill. I try not to swear or look around at the hostile environment I have been forced to undress and beautify myself in. My ears burn with anger but my toes start tingling as I hop around on the cold concrete, wiggling into the white heeled booties. The jeans go on next, clipping my starved stomach. I make a mental note to cook honey butter pancakes as a treat later for enduring this ordeal. Finally, I peel open the dry cleaner bag, reach in with pinched fingers and shoulder into the handmade pink feathered bolero. To my dismay, pieces of the elaborate plumage shed, floating like silent snow to the ground. I use my car’s windshield to re-poof my curls, then toss everything into my car just as Madam reappears to free me.“Better,” her lips purse as she inspects my look. And then she breaks character, and a mischievous grin spreads unexpectedly over her face.“Come on Barbie, let’s go party!” she sings, picks up my wrist and skips me out, ready for play.To my annoyance, the main event is outside. I groan, skin goose-pimpling after exposure in the garage.The birthday girl is a true blonde, prettier than the hired zitty student made to look like perfection. Mrs Lachland dumps me behind an amplifier and manages to gather the little girls away from a candy station in order to announce my arrival. The party theme is rock-star chic. The six-year-old birthday girl, Hailey, requested a “boss” Barbie - feathers, bold eyes, killer boots, the works.The breeze teases my bolero. But I can only watch feathers float away helplessly before screwing shut my eyes and conjuring the Barbie from within. One last time.I am jittery, but for the first time, not with excitement. My stomach gurgles. I’m a Barbie girl, and I’m about to hurl… A vision of me resigning flashes across my mind and steadies my nausea. Just in time.Music from the amp suddenly tears up my ears, adrenaline kicks in and I break cover to my cue of Megan Trainor’s obnoxious “Made You Look” track.There are shrieks of “Barbie!” from every side, and a wave of pink clothes and flesh ripples up and down at my strut. Barbie comes to a stop, flicks her lion curls in her best bossy way and punching the air, cheers “Let’s rock girls!”.My eyes glaze over as the rehearsed steps to the infamous Tik-Tok dance take me over. I feel that out-of-body experience, like I’m simply a fairgoer strapped on a rollercoaster as I bend, jump, and snap. The track and delighted screams are blaring and distant at the same time. My adoring audience dances in sync as we jive together across the decked garden. As the last sequence dawns, I resurface and happen to notice a huddle of adults gathering. I am shocked to spot Mrs Lachland, the pretentious housewife, actually doing a two -step, cheering and filming us on her phone. She thumbs me, mouthing “Love it!”I grin instantly, my body warm with pumping blood and relief. I had hoped, for Barbie’s last outing, for redemption. As the song ends, I assume I’ve smashed it - the girls are ecstatic and Mrs Lachland is hooting. I envision a glowing five-star review and a generous tip. I envision collecting my dues and gloating on the way out of Paul and Lena’s stinking business forever. I envision finally being free from the façade, to live my very best life without needing to be the dumb blonde bombshell to meet my basic needs let alone fulfil my dreams.Doting mothers descend on us, sweetly celebrating the darling dance troupe. Barbie seeks recognition but gets none. Of course! She’s just part of the décor.The guests are ready to move on to the next item in the itinerary, probably lunch or another scripted activity.My client finds me in the crowd of turned backs. I expect her to be smiling but her face is a hard line. She prevents three little girls from taking selfies with me before snatching my wrist again.Inside an elaborate kitchen, we stop at an island boasting pink fruit, pink cookies and the tiered cake I saw the tanned mother carrying earlier. I wonder what I’ve done wrong, Mrs Lachland is frosty.“Fix your hair;” she hisses finally, whilst chopping on a strawberry, “Quickly, before anyone notices it's a wig.” My face stiffens. But I obey miserably, blindly adjusting the hairline under her watchful glare. She doesn’t offer me a mirror.When she is satisfied, Mrs Lachland barges the tiered cake into my bonded chest.“Change of plans. We’re cutting the cake now since it looks like it might rain. You can do it. Stand beside the marquee, say something cute and only take a photo with my daughter. Understand?” She moves off again, calling me to follow.The smell of the frosting makes me feel queasy. The cake feels heavy and I am weak with hunger after the dancing.I falter and Mrs Lachland spins around.“Let’s go Barbie!” she claps with each word.But Barbie can’t go. Barbie licks her lips, sticky with salty sweat and gloopy gloss. Her plastic smile is dwindling fast.“ I-, Mrs. Lachland, I need a break,” I whisper.“Are you kidding me?” she snaps, “You’ve been here not even one hour, done one thing we agreed and you want a damn break?”A stray child suddenly runs towards the kitchen door. But Mrs Lachland is quick and she slams it in her little face. Go away; my client mouths through the glass and I’m forced to watch tears bubble in the girl’s eyes as she turns away, dejected.""God, I hate that greedy kid,"" Mrs Lachland scoffs, ignoring my open mouth. And then she’s back to hounding me. She is mad, she is triggered now.“Paul and Lena promised me the best. But you’re absolutely useless. God, I knew I should’ve listened to January, knew I should've chosen a better company. Punch and blooming Judy - bottom of the barrel and they know it.”I gasp, trying to make sense of what I’ve just learned. I’m not sure which part of Mrs. Lachland’s revelation is more shocking. And whether she realises the impact of her word vomit.But Mrs Lachland has gone too far this time to regain her apparent polished composure. The housewife clatters back towards me, arms outstretched for her cake. She’s about to dismiss me, I know I’m about to be fired.But I don’t care because I have no energy left to defend myself, to defend the company I represent, to even stand up straight. And also because this is Barbie’s last outing and Barbie not only deserves her redemption, but a payback.I wait until my client is close enough to feel her fury before finally letting go.I allow what she wants most - the tiered cake, a perfect image of her sweet but artificial façade - to slip from my grasp and splatter to ruin at our heeled feet.I step back and claim, with dolly innocence, the “accident” to be an unforeseeable circumstance. And then, revived with adrenaline, I finally fend for myself by leaving the party early, forfeiting the measly pay and five-star review to strut away into my truth and well-earned freedom.
","July 21, 2023 22:41","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Kelly’s,\nOh this was an incredible short list! I love how you addressed the prompt. It was heartbreaking and brutally honest in all the best ways. I loved the way you took the time to add those memories in the story and the car scene was perfectly well written. I’ve had a few of those, “this has got to change,” cat moments. Nice work!! I hope for a happy ending for this character.', 'time': '04:23 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kelita Sim': 'Hi Amanda\n\nAww, thank you so much. Appreciate your comments and you taking time to read my story! Glad you can resonate with the characters struggle ❤️', 'time': '08:54 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kelita Sim': 'Hi Amanda\n\nAww, thank you so much. Appreciate your comments and you taking time to read my story! Glad you can resonate with the characters struggle ❤️', 'time': '08:54 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'I appreciate the approach you took with this story, and I think the story has a very distinct voice that made it jump off the screen.', 'time': '16:40 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kelita Sim': 'Cheers Kevin, happy you enjoyed the distinctiveness. Feel quite honoured to get a comment from you :)', 'time': '08:58 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kelita Sim': 'Cheers Kevin, happy you enjoyed the distinctiveness. Feel quite honoured to get a comment from you :)', 'time': '08:58 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats.', 'time': '10:33 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kelita Sim': 'Thanks very much for reading :)', 'time': '08:56 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kelita Sim': 'Thanks very much for reading :)', 'time': '08:56 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'The best to Barbie. Congrats on the shortlist.🎂', 'time': '17:03 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kelita Sim': ""Thanks so much for reading!  And for letting me know...I didn't even realise I'd been shortlisted!"", 'time': '19:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kelita Sim': ""Thanks so much for reading!  And for letting me know...I didn't even realise I'd been shortlisted!"", 'time': '19:49 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",lm0mex,My Life as a Currency Trader,Bruce Friedman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lm0mex/,/short-story/lm0mex/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",16 likes,"
I was sitting on a bench in my favorite pocket park on East 59th street near my condo early one Sunday morning. Not doing much— just sitting there and lightly dozing. I had been up all-night fixing a glitch in the computer system that I use for currency trading. I needed some down time. I was actually the sole benefactor for this park but I had asked that my gift be anonymous. I use the same process for all of my other charitable donations, most of which have ­­involved substantial sums of money. I like to stay out of thelimelight. Anyway, this young man sat down next to me. He smiled warmly and I returned the gesture. “I’m Josh Wellman,” he said. “Just graduated from college. NYU. Bachelor’s degree in business. I also just got hired at Goldman Sachs as an associate. I’m thinking that it’s too competitive an environment for me in the long run but it’ll be a great launching pad. I’m starting in derivatives but we’ll see where this takes me.”“Good to meet you,” I responded. “I’m Jack Bernstein. I’m a currency trader on FOREX, the global marketplace for international currencies. I started a small company for currency trading soon after I got out of college. Work out of my apartment. I’ve taken the business to a point where I only work a few hours a day. However, and because I trade in many time zones, I’m often working when others are sleeping. Hence, my current state of disarray.” “I’d like to hear more about what you do if you are willing to share some of the details with me,” Josh responded.I’m usually not that chatty with strangers but this young man was not a competitor and was even perhaps a potential recruit for my company. I continued to chat with him and to discuss my firm and trading practices. Probably a little ego creeping in here. Not my usual reaction and modus operandi of keeping everything to myself.“As I mentioned,” I continued, “I trade currencies on the FOREX. It has no trading floor like the New York Stock Exchange but it’s the largest market in the world by trading volume. Trillions of dollars change hands every day. By the way, I am also an expert in flash trading. I execute currency buy-sell orders with my homebrew trading software in microseconds. “Currency arbitrage is a strategy by which a trader takes advantage of different buy-sell prices offered for the same currency in two different countries simultaneously. Let’s say that I am alerted that the Bank of India is selling euros at a particular price and Citibank is paying one or two cents more for them in the U.S. This provides an instant opportunity for arbitrage. In a fraction of a second, I buy a million euros in India and then, at nearly the same time, sell them for dollars, reaping an instant profit of $10K. Need to work in very high volume trading.“I’m sure you are thinking, Josh, that’s easy. Why doesn’t everyone do this for a living? Well, first of all, I usually never trade in euros to dollars or vice versa. That’s nearly always a perfect market with few arbitrage opportunities. A much more common trade for me would be Vietnamese bongs for, say, Thai bahts or the reverse. There is a less active market for them, one more subject to arbitrage. My job, or rather that of my AI software, is to look for currency trading opportunities that present themselves only for a nanosecond or two.“Secondly, my computer trading technology, unequaled even for large banks, is located in a secure room in my condo. No one else has access to it. At the center of my trading operation is an AI module that searches for currency trading pairs suitable for my attention 24/7 based on criteria that I have personally established. I designed and built the whole system—it can’t be duplicated in the market at almost any price.“Theoretically, currency pairs are affected by interest rate differentials, international relations, the strength of each currency’s responsible nation, and the state of various nations’ imports and exports. I specialize in often unstable currencies like Turkish lira and Argentinian pesos. With my flash buy-sell orders, the larger issues regarding unstable currencies are not really that relevant. Large banks also try to avoid trading in them, thus offering less competition for me. My AI knows the times when pesos are the most stable and that’s when I make my trades.“As to my life outside work, I must admit that I’m not very active on the social scene. My wife left me more than ten years ago without looking back. No children. I do have certain social and business obligations, however, so I host a dinner party at the end of each month in my condo for a dozen or so people. I hire a name chef to supervise the meal preparation. Best wines available. That’s my life story. What do you think? Want to join my little firm?***“Mr. Bernstein! Mr. Bernstein! You need to wake up to take your meds.”I had been dozing for a few minutes in my bed and did not appreciate being shouted at and shook by this overweight, uneducated woman. She probably took a crash course in nursing in some community college where she must have skipped all the classes devoted to manners and cordial behavior. But I'm constantly being told by her. and others, that I need to be on my best behavior so I’m willing to be cordial despite her rude behavior. I will try not to make waves in my current environment.No one in this place knows anything about my esteemed career as a currency trader in which, as I mentioned, I risked millions on trades daily. Well, now that I think about it, my trades never actually reached these levels. Perhaps I was embellishing my life story and career a tiny bit to impress you. You also probably need to take a number of zero’s off the size of most of the trades I mentioned. And, I never really had a condo in Manhattan—more of a fourth-floor walkup in Queens. And, by the end of my currency trading career, I was definitely working on the red-ink side of the ledger. Suffered some major losses. In truth, I would also refer to myself as a “behind the scenes” trader working in obscurity in Queens. “OK, I’m up now,” I said to Nurse Ratched. “Hand me the paper cup with the pills and get me a glass of water. These pills won’t go down dry very well.”“Get your own water,” she responded. “I have to take care of thirty residents on this floor. I don’t have the time or patience to cater to your special needs.”I begrudgingly took the paper cup from her and filled my bedside glass with water from a pitcher that was adjacent. I felt a pressing need to strangle this primitive creature and put her out of her misery but I was able to constrain myself, at least for a while.Unfortunately, she made no obvious effort to leave my bedside to my great distress. Apparently, she had more gripes to lecture to me about. I gritted my teeth.“And by the way, the manager of the facility has told me that you’re way behind in your monthly payments. You’re at risk of being thrown out of this facility on your ear. Is there someone we can contact like children or relatives for help?”“No, not really,” I responded. “There’s really no one to call. That's all behind me.”I then thought to myself. They’re robbing me blind here. I do need to pay more attention to the contract and my monthly budget. I will catch up on my payments as soon as my financial situation is clarified. They will just have to wait as I wade through the paperwork.“And now, just leave me alone for a change.” I shouted to her, now in a more agitated state of mind. “This has been a rocky day for the Argentine peso and I need to pay attention to the trading action. There’s surely money to be made here but I can’t be distracted.”She wheeled around, apparently willing to give me some peace of mind for at least one more day. But our conversation did make me realize that my living situation was precarious. Of course, I have been working on the edge my whole life—this was nothing new.
","July 17, 2023 14:10","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Bruce,\nOh dear, what a tragic story. Although, perhaps this character has lived the life he wants. It feels like a story that’s been told before, but will be told a million times again. This story felt disappointed and exhausted by life. It was a good take on the prompt. Nice work!!', 'time': '01:29 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'There is a beautiful melancholy to this piece, a man who never became as successful as he thought he would. The hateful nurse and his want to strangle her add a dash of realistic comedy. And then the idea of being in a facility but still needing to work is a sad reflection on society.\n\nVery nice piece Bruce.', 'time': '17:48 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Kevin, thanks so much for your comment. I occurred to me, when reading your comment about a beautiful melancholy, how apt it seemed. And yet, the phrase would not have been one that I personally would not have come up with. Hence the need for others to read the piece and provide insights that I personally did not have when writing it.', 'time': '18:35 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Kevin, thanks so much for your comment. I occurred to me, when reading your comment about a beautiful melancholy, how apt it seemed. And yet, the phrase would not have been one that I personally would not have come up with. Hence the need for others to read the piece and provide insights that I personally did not have when writing it.', 'time': '18:35 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'We have an image of a man desperately clinging to his dream of making it big, of being someone. Though he wants to be rich, it\'s not greed - he dreams of philanthropy, of providing work for promising young people. He wants to invent the perfect solution for his chosen line of work, a turnkey FOREX trading AI, and be lauded for achievements. \n\nBut reality is far from the dream. He\'s bedridden, possibly at the end of his life, impoverished, disrespected, and unknown. \n\n""There’s surely money to be made here but I can’t be distracted."" This line...', 'time': '20:44 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Michal, you have captured the essence of the story in a few words. No mean feat. You glommed onto the phrase ""I can\'t be distracted."" He was pursuing great wealth but failed. \n\nAs to his philanthropy, not sure whether this was real or imagined or sincere. If real, was this for the purpose of creating an image or to really benefit people.\n\nAs an octogenarian, I am grateful that my insights of my life are generally positive.\n\nThanks so much for your comments. Much appreciated.', 'time': '21:50 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Michal, you have captured the essence of the story in a few words. No mean feat. You glommed onto the phrase ""I can\'t be distracted."" He was pursuing great wealth but failed. \n\nAs to his philanthropy, not sure whether this was real or imagined or sincere. If real, was this for the purpose of creating an image or to really benefit people.\n\nAs an octogenarian, I am grateful that my insights of my life are generally positive.\n\nThanks so much for your comments. Much appreciated.', 'time': '21:50 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",il2m9i,Becoming Me,Ty Warmbrodt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/il2m9i/,/short-story/il2m9i/,Character,0,"['Transgender', 'LGBTQ+', 'Happy']",15 likes,"
As a little kid I didn’t feel different from everyone else. Probably because no one treated me any differently than anyone else. I grew up in a strict evangelical home that believes the Bible verbatim and that one should conduct themselves in such a manner that is deemed appropriate representation of the cross. As a kid that didn't mean much. I believed what my parents told me and everything else revolved around play. As a kid everyone accepted everyone and we all played the same games: hide-&-seek, tag, red rover and we all sang in the youth choir at church. Nobody was excluded.By the third grade though, everyone noticed that I walked differently from the other boys. The adults said I delicately pranced, infuriating my father. They noticed I had a more feminine tone to my voice and more feminine mannerisms than the other boys, something that made my father reject me. I was never athletic, nor did I like rough housing and soiling my clothes. I always liked to keep a neat, presentable appearance as a kid, just as my parents always had. I tried to fit in with the other boys and play their role-playing games. If they let me, I was always the sole bad guy who didn’t get to join in on the fun adventure or they would gang up on me and torment me. Most of the time they would call me sissy and little girl, running me off to play with the girls who were actually accepting of me. There I got to be the dad, the masculine figure, or the boy doll. I really didn’t care. It was just fun to be included. I was never invited to a birthday party unless it was a girl’s party and I had never been to a sleepover.In the fifth grade all the boys started chasing girls, doing ridiculous things to try and impress them and get their attention. I wasn’t at all into that. I could tell that a girl was pretty, but it was no different than finding a flower pretty. I found myself more attracted to the antics the boy’s put on for the girls. I’d hide it, but I found boys, especially boys who played soccer, attractive.At home I would strive for my father's attention and try to be as masculine as possible. I’d ask him to play sports, but he would get frustrated and disappointed in me and quit. I would try to help him in the workshop or in the yard and he would tell me to go help my mom. My mom decided one day that my father needed to spend more time with me, and recommended fishing. It was my first time. I was so excited to do this with my dad. It was fun for me, but I hated the feel of the worms, and I was scared of the fish. I just liked hanging out with my dad drinking sodas and feeling the excitement when I caught one. My dad was miserable the whole time and kept telling me to stop being such a pussy about the worms and the fish.Growing up Baptist, I was taught that homosexuality was wrong and a sin against God, so I tried to hide it, even deny it; but everyone else saw it in me, calling me gay boy and faggot, pushing me around, taking my things, and beating me for no reason. Even the people at church would look at me disgustingly and shrink away like I was covered in vomit. My mother and father switched churches and started leaving me at home when I was twelve. I’d cry on those days knowing that my own parents were ashamed of me. I cried most nights knowing that people rejected me no matter how nice I was or no matter how hard I tried to fit in. I often wished my mom wasn’t allergic to dogs just so I could have someone in my life who didn’t judge me and loved me unconditionally.High school came and the bullying and harassment got so bad I tried killing myself. I slit my wrists in a tub of hot water. By the time my mother found me the water was cold and filled with blood. My parents had me institutionalized where I was diagnosed with Major Depression, and I was prescribed an anti-depressant. When I got home, my dad said the doctors didn’t know what they were talking about, that I was demon possessed. My mom stepped in and said that was nonsense and she wouldn’t hear any more of it, but I could see it in my father's eyes his disdain for me from that day forward.Getting back to school I was taken in by a rough group of teens that had noticed my bandages. Several of them had been through suicide attempts in their life and adopted an “I don’t care” attitude. I wasn’t at all like those people, but as long as I hung with them, the bullying stopped. Mostly they were about fighting, stealing, vandalizing, even bullying. I was a little relieved when I moved off to college and cut ties with them.At college I met people that were more like me. Nice people who spent their free time volunteering at the homeless shelter or the animal rescue center. They had movie nights and book clubs that I enjoyed immensely. I was never excluded and had people in my life for the first time that I could call friends. I even found that male role model I sought for in my father in Professor John Whatley.Professor Whatley taught family psychology at the University of Chicago. I confided in Professor Whatley a lot, abusing his open-door policy. After a semester of getting to know me, he asked, “Which are you more attracted to Robbie, men or women?""I didn’t want to answer the question. I didn’t want to lie and say women, but part of me was telling me I needed to say that, like a defense mechanism that had been programmed into my brain.“This is a safe place, Robbie. Whatever you say here, stays here. I’m bound by law,” Professor Whatley told me.I shifted forward in my seat, resting on the edge of the chair, staring down at interlaced fingers. All I can think of is that if I say it, then it is true. Then what? How is everyone going to react. My parents suspect and my father already hates me. My mother’s love is questionable. I finally have these friends in my life and now I risk losing them.“If you’re worried about your Christian heritage, those laws were put in place at a time when people were satisfying their urges with the same sex not because they were gay, but because they were away conducting business or herding sheep away from women. Sometimes it would be the stronger forcing themselves on the weaker, just like it is in today’s prison system. Some went as far as copulating with animals. The laws were written to deter deviancy, but do not speak of homosexual love. Therefore, what is good for the heterosexual is good for the homosexual; keep sexual intercourse within a committed relationship.”“It’s not just that professor. I think something went wrong in the womb when I was conceived. I think I was supposed to be a girl. I know I have feminine mannerisms and a feminine voice. I prefer more feminine styles and activities. I envy girls who get to put on make-up and look beautiful. I’ve been this way my whole life. When the other kids called me little girl, I agreed with them. It was the one thing they called me that didn’t bother me. If I were a girl, the whole world would be more accepting of me,” I finally found the courage to say.“Psychologically, it will be better for you to embrace who you are than living in a world of denial. It will be better for you to seek out people who will accept you for who you are and to stop trying to please those people who cannot or will not accept you as you are. I want you to meet with this support group. They are meeting tonight in the library, meeting room A at seven o’clock,"" Professor Whatley told me.I was nervous walking into that meeting room. I didn’t know what to expect, but when I saw my friend Matty standing over by the food table, eating cookies and drinking coffee while chatting it up with another guy, I got excited and rushed to him.“Matty! What are you doing here?”“Same as you. It’s about time you came out. We’ve all known since you started school here,” he tells me.“Well, I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”“That might be but wait until you see who the group leader is.”In walked a man with a tone build and a bushy beard that I instantly recognized as Christopher Martin. He’s Professor Whatley’s TA and he occasionally hangs out with our group after class for coffee. He’s a very handsome man. Very much my type.“Everyone, take your seats. I see that we have a new face joining us today. Let me introduce Robbie Baxter. He is a psychology major here from Joplin, Missouri. Robbie, I’m going to let you tell everybody about yourself in just a minute, but first, I want to tell you a little about me.”“That’s silly, Chris. We know each other from classes, and we’ve shared coffee. I think I know you.”“Did you expect to see me here today?”“No, I guess not.”“Then obviously you don’t know me. I was born Christina Madeline Martin, and despite being drenched in pink from an early age I was a lover of all things dirty and rowdy,"" he began, and my mouth dropped. ""From a young age my voice was a little deeper than the other girls and I carried myself like a boy. Boys and girls alike tried to tease me and bully me, but I beat the tar out of both of them. I grew up liking more masculine things, especially dirt bikes. I preferred men’s clothing and haircuts. I was lucky. I had an understanding dad who allowed me to start hormonal therapy at the age of fourteen. Highschool was rough. So rough that my dad pulled me out and homeschooled me. College has been different for me and I’m here to ensure that it is for you too. Any time you need to talk or report abuse or discrimination, come to me and we’ll get things taken care of. Do you have any questions?”Questions? I wanted to have complete conversations with him, but I figured that could wait until later. I took my turn and gave everyone my story, even told them how I believed something got messed up in the womb and I was supposed to be a girl. I thought they would laugh, but they listened intently. When I was done everyone introduced themselves and told me their stories. I hung on to every word that each person said. I had so much in common with these people. I have never experienced this sense of comradery before. Tears would well up and a lump would form in my throat every time I thought about it. When it was all over everyone came by to exchange numbers and pleasantries. The last was Matty, who said we had a few people we needed to meet. We walked our way down to the campus coffee shop where Angie, Clayton, Leighton, and Rebecca were all waiting.“Robbie has something he wants to tell you all,” Matty said as we walked over to their table, catching me off guard.“I’m... I'm a... I'm a woman trapped in a man’s body,” I said with an exhale, just getting it out there, not sure how else to put it.“No,” they all said, pretending to be surprised in exaggerated fashion. Then they laughed and left their seats to give me a hug. Clayton even treated me to an espresso and a scone. I asked them what they thought of me starting hormonal therapy and getting a consultation on surgery. I had their full support.Over time, with the money my grandparents had left me, I became the woman I was meant to be. I kept the name Robbie, saying it was short for Roberta. My friends thought it was cute and so did I. After senior year I went home to see my parents. Mom and I emailed on occasion but that was about the extent of our communication during my time at school. Needless to say, they were shocked. I think my dad would have hit me if it wouldn’t have looked like he was hitting a lady to the neighbors. Mom cried, but said I was still her child. Dad said her child will never be welcome in his house. It caused a rift in mom and dad’s marriage that couldn’t be fixed. Mom left dad and moved closer to me, both geographically and emotionally. We have mother daughter days and every year she marches with me and my friends in Chicago’s Gay Pride Parade. Since finding my true self I have gained friends who love me and now have a loving relationship with my mother. Not a day goes by where I regret the decisions I have made.
","July 16, 2023 07:58","[[{'Michelle Oliver': 'A well written story with a great moral.\n“seek out people who will accept you for who you are and to stop trying to please those people who cannot or will not accept you as you are.” Very empowering. Well done.', 'time': '06:36 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': 'So well done! Glad you showed the timing of the process. And how even the church rejected Robbie.', 'time': '23:29 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",5f4vkq,You Are So Very Welcome,David Ader,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5f4vkq/,/short-story/5f4vkq/,Character,0,"['Funny', 'Fiction', 'Contemporary']",15 likes,"
	   Ellen Berliner offered the caller a ready excuse that her system was incredibly slow that morning. What with the holiday coming up and Covid going around there were simply an awful lot of calls coming in. It rolled off her tongue like the lines from a well-rehearsed play. Ellen also rolled her bored eyes. “We’re experiencing unusually high call volume,” a quote taken directly from the Post-it permanently taped to her monitor. She apologized, per another Post-it, and moved to the topic at hand. “Now what date was the claim again?”
	   An aggravated gasp came through Ellen’s headset.
	   “I’ve been on hold for like 20 minutes!” said the caller.
	   Ellen’s systems were not slower than usual that morning or any other morning. None of the associates’ systems were slower. Ever. It was the standard excuse generated by representatives of the GoToHellth Insurance Company. The real name was United National Healthcare Corporation, a blandly sinister integration of United, National, Health, and, in last place, Care. The employees thought GoToHellth captured the culture better.
	   What had kept the claimant on hold was Ellen’s trip to the bathroom, a stop at the coffee room where she got herself two Keurig cups of hazelnut coffee, a brief exchange with a colleague about lunch plans, and a walk back to her cubicle.
	   “Is the policy in your name?” she asked.
	   “My God, I told you already. Yes, it’s my policy, for me and my family. I’m on Cobra. That’s $1836 per month, and you’d think I wouldn’t have to call three times to deal with this…”
	   “Just a moment,” said Ellen. She put the caller on hold to cacophonous sound of a saxophone interrupted every few seconds with a voice that repeated, “Your call is important to us.” Ellen did not need to search for the claim details; she had them on the screen all along. What she was struggling with was a three-letter word for meadow. After a minute she wrote LEA in the puzzle then reconnected.
	   Yes, the claim was denied,” said Ellen.
	   Ellen and her colleagues had been trained to use the passive voice when discussing the downside of policies.
	   “I know that already. My question is why?” fumed the caller.
	   Ellen explained with coached patience that United National required more documentation from the provider to determine the appropriate level of reimbursement. She shared sympathy that the claim was for a procedure that had been submitted multiple times before. “I don’t know how this one ended up in that department.” Still, she explained, that the cost of the procedure would be allowed; she’d see to that. Then, in a confidential aside, she cautioned the cost of the treatment, in this case physical therapy, would only apply to her out-of-network deductible, which hadn’t been reached for the current year. It was, Ellen reminded her, only April.
	   “There’s a list of in-network providers on our website. The deductible is lower if you stay in-network,” she added.
	   The claimant had choice words about deductibles, in-network providers, and co-insurance, fulminating on the BS cost of the plan, and how they denied more than they accepted. She slammed the phone down before Ellen had a chance to ask if she would like to participate in a survey. 
    	It was the third slammed phone that week and it was only Tuesday. She hit ‘completed’ on the customer’s file, putting a conclusion to this claim.
	   Her phone was ringing again.
	  “Hello, United National Healthcare where our clients are our most important asset. How can I help you today?”
	  Ellen didn’t need to reference the employee guidebook for that line; she knew it by heart and instinct. The line was part of the collection of studied responses designed by a well-paid neuro-linguistic programming firm to keep interactions unemotional yet empathetic in a noncommittal way. The intent was to avoid tears, screams, pathetic pleas and calls to the state’s insurance overseer. There was the unspoken goal of exhausting people into just giving up on a claim or stretch out the process where a successful outcome could be as simple as “Well, you’ve hit your deductible.” It was frankly amazing how often the caller at the other end would say, “Thanks for your help.” And Ellen would respond appropriately with a “You are so very welcome.”
	   She left out what was always on her mind at those moments: “what an idiot.”
	   Before failing her physical therapist licensing boards…the first time, not the second time…Ellen would never have said “idiot” out loud about her professors, fellow students, or patients. She did say it about herself when she saw her scores and said it about everyone else when her advisor, Helen Adler, advised a repeat of her senior year. Ellen had said, “What an idiot.” Adler returned a smile and with a former smoker’s smug rasp said, “You are so very welcome.”
	   Helen Adler’s cold response ended that conversation. Ellen made a note.
	   The recruiter for United National found Ellen’s resume on LinkedIn via an algorithm that cross-referenced PTs who had taken their licensing boards and were still looking for work 90 days after the test results were released. The recruiter’s database flagged those who'd taken the exam more than once; they’d prove ideal candidates.
	   “Are you looking for a career in your profession? One where you don’t need a license?” These were magical words to the depressed and disenfranchised fretting their limited options, wondering if they’d thrown away years of education.  
	   The recruiter explained the health-insurance industry needed professionals who might be more suited to an office than a clinic, who had the knowledge to understand medical evaluations, and could, “like a detective,” she’d said, help determine if a given treatment was genuinely warranted, or, and she left this part out, whether the patient could hobble along in agony for the rest of his or her life and save the insurance company some money.
	   Never, not once, had the recruiter been called out by someone saying, “So what you need is an unlicensed PT, OT, MSW, fill in the blank, to say “no” to paying for treatment.” 
	   Ellen’s colleagues accepted their fate or saw it as a temporary step as they studied for another shot at their license. In the meantime, they justified their work with excuses ranging from “well someone has to” to calling it “a crusade to stamp out corruption.” 
	   At least it was employment in the once-chosen field for which they failed to qualify and a chance to challenge the expertise of people who did. That made the bitter aftertaste a little sweeter. Ellen was particularly bitter making her particularly good at the job.
	   “Hello, United National Healthcare where our clients are our most important asset. How can I help you today?”
	   The caller didn’t respond immediately forcing Ellen to repeat the canned phrase. “Yes,” came back in a strained sotto voce. Ellen screwed up her eyes as the caller attempted to get to the point. Ellen insisted without initial success to get the caller’s ID and group number until, against protocol, she said, “Stop it. I’m about to hang up if I don’t get your ID and group number.” 
	   “All you had to do was ask,” huffed the caller. Or was it more a rasp than a huff? Ellen typed in the numbers. She had a grin like the Jack Nicholson character in The Shining when she saw the name that appeared on her monitor.
	   “Well now. How can I help you, Helen Adler?” Help was the last thing on Ellen’s mind.
	   Helen Adler’s long-winded explanation followed the trunk of a very large decision tree following up and down each branch as the tree grew in length. There was no need. In front of Ellen was the electronic paper trail of a claim filed, sent to the wrong department, refiled, sent back to Adler for more information stating some data couldn’t be read even though the scan on the screen was quite legible, and documentation of her multiple calls.
	   I do understand your frustration,” said Ellen. “You don’t want to…” Ellen was about to say “go back to school” but caught herself. “You don’t want to go through this again. Let me give you a case number if you have to reference this call.” The case number hadn’t changed in the three prior episodes when, according to the file, it had been provided to Adler.
	   “Please, I just gave it to that woman, Sheila something, before she transferred me. I was on hold for over 10 minutes.”
	   Ellen took note of that; the usual wait time was slated for at least 20 minutes.
	   “Give me a moment to review the file. I’m going to put you on hold for just a moment.” 
    	Ellen heard an aggravated “But wait” just as she muted Adler’s call.
	   It was clear what was going on. Adler had a simple case of tendinopathy after a week of skiing in Aspen. “She can afford that?” thought Ellen. She bit hard on her sucked-in cheeks at the image of her former advisor skiing in Aspen. And she had dared to see an out-of-network physical therapist, out of state, for an expensive series of treatments. The claims were initially denied due to improper paperwork - older employees of United National called that the ‘hanging chad’ excuse – but the intent was clear to anyone who knew all 26 letters in the alphabet; postpone. Any fault could be cited,: black ink instead of blue ink, printing a name instead of a signature. Or triple checking the license number for an out-of-network provider.
	   It was a philosophy United National embraced.
	   PT claims were habitually refiled, lost, refiled, sent to the wrong department, and finally landed on Ellen’s lap. As a trained if unlicensed PT, she was either the light at the end of the tunnel or barbed-wire topping the chain-linked fence at the end of a dark alley. 
    	Ellen was the eternal clerk behind the counter of the DMV; she could either point right, in which case the claim was approved, or left to the “get-back-on-that-line” heap.
	  The screen in front of Ellen showed that even by United National’s standards, Helen Adler’s case was a doozy. Several of the procedures had been signed off pending approval. Ellen was in the position to authorize, a.k.a. reimburse, them if she so chose, or send Helen Adler’s stone of Sisyphus rolling back down the mountain.
	   There was a sob followed by sniffles and then a rallying cough. “I’ve provided ‘further details’ so many times,” Adler said and listed each date, each action taken, and the identity of the United Health employee she’d spoken with. “And, for my records, what’s your name?”
	   “Um,” said Ellen.
	   Ellen looked at the surrounding cubicles. What she needed was a name other than her own. Page 21 of the manual started the ethics section and the ethics section made one thing abundantly clear: you could cajole a claimant to your heart’s desire, but you could not handle a claim of someone you knew. That was a conflict of interest that would bring the insurance regulators down on United National like a year’s worth of unreimbursed claims. The example cited was of a client who sued United National after his invasive procedure was denied by a still-angry former girlfriend. The state’s regulators did their own invasive procedure on United National. United National changed the manual.
	   “The individual’s role was terminated.”  
	   The passive voice was consistent with how the firm communicated uncomfortable information. The active tone came in the next sentence. “The former employee cannot legally work in a regulated industry again.” That was problematic for Ellen because said former employee had trained as a Physical Therapist. Ellen’s duo of inadequate board scores came back in a flash.
	  “Just a moment,” said Ellen.
	  Her colleagues looked busy. Janet, an obese PT, was talking into her headset. Janet had worked in a clinic, fully licensed, until the weight got in the way, got in everyone’s way. Bill – a former chiropractor who had to give up that job due to a bad back – had his eyes were closed. He was twirling a pen around his thumb in a distracted way. He must have had someone on hold. 
	  Up and down the cubicles Ellen looked for a name, someone who’d cover for her. Yeah, right. She considered making up a name, but Helen Adler had a case number and she’d entered it in her screen; her name was already registered. She considered hanging up, but Helen Adler would just call back with that damn case number. 
	  Ellen stared at the blinking red light on the phone console that had an angry Helen Adler at the other end. A queasy warmth expanded into her throat causing a slight gag as her whole body started a reflexive heave. Ellen grabbed for the trash bin under her desk, relieved to see the white plastic liner. The heave was about to manifest itself into the bucket when Ellen heard words of inspiration. 
	   “I do apologize. I’m not really sure how this happened, but it all looks good to me. You have more than met your deductible. I’ll see you get the allowed reimbursement for this.”
	  Ellen’s oozing warmth retreated.
	  “Please, there’s no need to thank me.”
	  It was Janet, now rewarding herself with the first of two Subway Chicken & Bacon Ranch Sandwiches that were her Wednesday’s meal-du-jour. She’d gotten thanks for, in essence, applying a claim to a deductible at a petite cost to United National. And when another claim followed? The rigmarole would start over.
	  Ellen took Helen Adler off hold.
	  “I’m so sorry for the delay. I had to pull some strings.”
	Ellen cut to the chase after another ten minutes reviewing the long paper trail Helen Adler had been following. Being deliberate and detailed was also in the manual, though not specifically mentioned as a technique to numb the customer. Helen, too, had met her deductible and so further claims would be paid out at 80% for in-network providers, after co-pays, and 60% for out-of-network. Ellen gave her the website where she could find those coverage tidbits.
	  “And I’ve authorized the allowable, the maximum allowable, reimbursement for this claim. That’s fifty-six dollars and twenty-nine cents. You’ll get that within two weeks.”
     Nothing came out of the  other end of the line. Ellen looked to make sure they were still connected. “Hello? Ms. Adler?”
	  “I’m here. I’m just, you know, exhausted from it all. But, anyway, thank you. You know, I don’t think I caught your…”
	  “Name? Let Sheila take the credit,” said Ellen. “Oh, and Ms. Adler? You are so very welcome.”  
 
","July 14, 2023 16:46","[[{'Katharine Widdows': ""Hi David, \nThis made me cringe and smile at the same time. Having worked in a call centre I know how irate people get on phones even when you don't delay them unnecessarily - this all rang true with me. \n\nMy favourite line was: she was either the light at the end of the tunnel or barbed-wire topping the chain-linked fence at the end of a dark alley. \n\nI do question whether it entirely meets the prompt - does Ellen let her facade fall at the end? I'm not sure she does. But either way its very entertaining."", 'time': '20:34 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'No wonder I love insurance companies so much!', 'time': '18:32 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",a730ds,Honey Trap,Amanda Atkinson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a730ds/,/short-story/a730ds/,Character,0,"['Mystery', 'Romance', 'Sad']",14 likes,"
Eira purrs on my lap, soft and light, and I lift her to my face. Her body is loose and trusting as I bury my face into her mottled fur and breathe in the warm scent of home she carries with her.My heart swells as she nuzzles my cheek, her rasping tongue drying the sweat from my morning run.— I think I’m starting to like Ellis, — I tell her as I lean back into the chair and lower her back into my lap. She pads at my thighs in approval.Ellis. My boyfriend of three years. The man I smile at every morning I stay over at his house, the man I learned to act in love for. I think I’m starting to like him.I sigh. I think about his eyes. A training exercise; find three physical things in him to admire. Then three about his personality.— His eyes are brown, — I tell her — and they reflect amber in the morning sun.In the dark, they are a rich dark colour, but the flecks of hazel scattered in his irises, and the dark brown, almost black ring that circles them makes them look like honey when the light hits them.— He has a crooked smile.It’s one of my favourite things about him. It makes him look kind, breaking his face out of its usual serious lines, creasing it into something new and soft.— He has nice hands.They’re calloused and freckled, with strong fingers that love to trace shapes on my back.She blinks at me, slow and unjudgmental.— He’s a romantic. — I offer. She meows, a long burbling sound — You’re right, I used that one last week.I take a moment to think. — He’s good at his job — I say. Three years in, countless hours of building trust between whispered fake secrets and selective truths, he still hasn’t shared an inch of his project with me. Nothing but a knowing smile and a deep distracting kiss after teasing me for poking.Most days I wonder if I’ll ever complete the mission. Maybe I’ll have to marry him before he complies. The thought of giving up this place makes me shudder. The one place where it’s just me. Just me and my beautiful cat and no one calls me Anwir. The name that is both mine, and has never been mine.I scoop Eira up again and press her to my chest where the vibration of her purring echoes off my ribcage. I press her tight against me hoping it’s true that a cat’s love can heal you. That her purring is enough to fill the hollow ache.— He loves his friends fiercely — the loyalty he shows his friends, he shows me, is staggering. He’s there for those he loves in an instant. He remembers all our favourite foods, our favourite shows, our favourite places to go. He takes us there when we’re feeling overwhelmed and tired and just need someone to listen, to not offer anything but pure unjudgmental kindness. It must be exhausting.His favourite spot is the oasis. It’s not really an oasis but he calls it that. I think, if he ever proposed to me, it would be there.It’s hidden behind a wooden fence with a metal warning sign, rusted by the years and the water in the air.You have to jump over the sun-bleached fence to get to the rock fall and climb over the crumbled mountain that paves the way down. Stairs made of rock hide beneath the rubble and become visible the deeper down you go.The first thing you hear is the sound of rushing water. It fills the air, blending with the rustling of leaves and the distant cicada chirps that hush as you get closer. The smell of wildflowers and damp earth envelops you; it’s intoxicating.The path weaves its way, guiding you, and then finally, the magnificent waterfall, a torrent of crystal-clear water thundering into the pool below, where mist rises, carrying tiny droplets that glisten in the sunlight. Sunlight that filters through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. Moss and ferns cling to every crevice. Towering trees reach toward the sky. Time seems to stand still.He took me there on our third date.I stroke Eira’s fur, absentminded. I really do think I’m starting to like him. Would that be so bad? It might make the job easier if there was a little bit of truth in it. It might make it harder.She jumps off my lap, claws making tiny pinpricks on my trousers as she bears her weight down before the jump. She bumps her forehead against my ankle, an affectionate gesture of impatience, before strolling into the kitchen. I follow.— He’s in love with me, — I say as I open the cupboard. She stares expectantly at my hands as they pull her breakfast out from where she can’t reach it. — and he shows it in the most beautiful ways.He doesn’t say it often, those words that are supposed to mean so much, but he makes me food every single time we're together, without fail, because I mentioned one time, three years ago, that I didn’t like cooking. He never asks, he just does, making sure to stock the things I like, even when I’m not going to be there. Just in case.He waits to watch the shows he’s most excited to see so as to share them. He re-watches old favourites with me in my mother tongue even though it’s not his first language so I enjoy them as much as he does. I’ve never had to ask for that either, he just does.He kisses me three times when we say goodbye because once isn’t enough, and three times again the next time he sees me to bridge the gap between visits.Eira crunches on her cat food, even as I’m pouring it, and no longer paying any attention, turns her back on me. — How like a cat — I say and scratch her soft white head. She burbles, disgruntled, between mouthfuls for me to leave her to her breakfast in peace.The hallway to the bathroom stretches before me, and I peel the t-shirt from my body on my way to it and ball it up in my fist for the hamper. The edge of the bath is hard and cold through my trousers, but I sit on it anyway, feeling it dig into my aching thigh muscle as I reach for the tap. The water thunders into the tub, almost as loud as the waterfall, almost loud enough for me to miss my phone, ringing, forgotten on the sink.The name that flashes on my screen makes my heart drop just a little. Emlyn. The name of the sister I don’t have. I turn the water off and the silence is almost as deafening, pierced only by my breathing and the shrill ring of my phone. I swipe my screen and try to mask the deep breath I’m taking before I answer.— Good morning, Director, how can I help you?
","July 19, 2023 17:49","[[{'Carol McCarroll': 'This should be the start of a novel! Even from such a brief introduction, I feel I know the two main characters - and I am so intrigued to know what secrets are to be discovered!!', 'time': '16:52 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Amanda Atkinson': '\U0001f979♥️', 'time': '19:22 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Amanda Atkinson': '\U0001f979♥️', 'time': '19:22 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",8yciss,Just Wrong and Sorry,Anne Shillingsburg,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8yciss/,/short-story/8yciss/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",14 likes,"
When Cristine walked into their mother’s kitchen, Camille’s stomach lurched like a lilypad abruptly abandoned by a colony of frightened frogs. The sounds of the Bastille Day party came in with her from the garden, where Maman’s friends talked ever louder as their wine glasses drained either down their throats or onto the flagstones as their barefoot grandsons raced by, bumping their elbows. Camille knew Cristine was coming to mend fences. Still, without knowing if she should now expect a tepid truce, a bitter reckoning of past sins, or the reunion of her dreams, she opted to keep her hands busy with the crudités and onion dip rather than mingle in the garden attempting to smile with old friends and neighbors. Her mother had said only that she’d passed on to Cristine what Leo had remembered of repeating the eavesdropped news of her pregnancy at Sunday school and that she had convinced her to come to Bastille Day. They faced each other awkwardly across the island, Camille wiping the wet of the cut vegetables from her trembling hands on a teatowel. Cristine’s steps slowed and she slung an off-white canvas bag from her shoulder and pulled out a bottle of red wine. The sisters had spoken only in public in the nine years Cristine had missed this party. It was hard to know where to begin. Well, “I’m sorry. I was so wrong,” was where to begin, but it was so hard to say. Instead, without a word, she went to the cabinet and took out two glasses.“Don’t tell mom,” Cristine quipped as she twisted off the cap and poured them each a glass. The irrepressible merry elf-light in her eyes danced, and only Camille would understand the gravity of the sin of wine without a cork.“I never tell your secrets,” Camille replied, holding her sister’s gaze as her eyes welled, praying she would know.“I know.” Her gaze fell. Camille raised her glass to graze Cristine’s, and she understood that that dropped gaze was all the sorry her big sister would ever require of her. She stepped forward and buried her face in Camille’s shoulder, marking the silky teal tanktop darker with her tears. Todd would never let her just be wrong and sorry and move on without a fraught conversation he claimed was a way to clear the air and she felt as an exercise in cataloging her flaws, highlighting by contrast how very right he was. Cristine’s shoulders heaved a little as Camille’s hands reached around her, first hesitantly and then powerfully. Nine years lost to the mere bad luck of a child eagerly repeating what he thought was good news about a coming cousin. Cristine had told no one else, could only conclude that Camille had betrayed her. Only when Leo joined the adults’ table and learned not only that the marriage was over, but that it should never have begun did he recall his role in provoking the proposal.“Thank you,” Cristine said, wiping her face with that same teatowel and laughing as she regarded it. Because she always did that. Not snot on the teatowel, but some vaguely wrong choice like it: the car parked in the middle of the driveway instead of to either side, the red t-shirt thrown in at the last minute with the whites, the mayonnaise knife plunged half-scraped into the mustard. And because laughter was her identity. And because Camille only laughed and never shamed her for it. They sipped and smiled sheepishly. Camille was just thinking that it was not that Cristine was inconsiderate, when, as if to prove her thought Cristine announced “Oh!” and proffered the other lump from her canvas bag. As she unwound a winter scarf from the object, Camille smiled again: not inconsiderate, but inattentive. For what emerged was a sculpture from her recent showing, something, Camille knew from her website, that might sell for a thousand dollars, but was, to Cristine, just something she made when the inspiration hit her--something she could not have resisted making once it did-- and which she could wrap loosely in a scarf and shove in a shoulder bag with wine.The figure was a kneeling woman, a highly glossed pale green nightdress slipped from one shoulder and hair hanging in disarray. One arm rose in triumph over her head, a silver anchor pendant gripped in the hand, the broken chain trailing below. A gash in the figure’s nape bled where she had torn the necklace free. Camille recognized Cristine’s own necklace, an engagement gift Todd had meant to represent himself as her safe harbor.The model was the same she’d seen in a three-piece series that began with the woman reclining on glossy sheets of a luxurious bed, rose petals on the pillow. The second showed the woman huddled on the floor in misery, struggling with the same sheets beside the bed, only the corner of it depicted. The third featured her with the sheets torn to ribbons and tied from a banister, the figure climbing over. In each the face is only suggested, lost in a disarray of brown hair, while the fabrics lay in the rippling folds of living action, so perfect you expected to touch satin if you reached for it. Camille had known at once what it meant, even before her mother had announced that Cristine was leaving Todd. There would be no more sculpted babies sleeping at their adoring mother’s breast or toddlers almost airborne above father’s up-stretched arms, the contact necessary to support the sculpture just barely visible. Cristine, having honed her skill on the scenes that Todd could talk to his friends and family about, had finally given up. He was not going to see her as more than a competent maker of plates and vases, a hobbyist. In the escaping woman, Camille had seen a glimmer of hope that they could repair the rift that had opened between them when he’d dropped to one knee at a church Fourth of July picnic, sealing Cristine's fate as the wife a man who politely, adoringly piled sea walls around her imagination. The door swung open again, and Marjorie, a neighbor, came in, still yelling instructions to her son over her shoulder. “Well, hey!” she announced as she saw the sisters together staring at a porcelain sculpture. “I didn’t know you were here!” She addressed Cristine specifically. “I didn’t see Todd and Marie?” Cristine smiled but became a little clipped. “No, they went to Kansas City on vacation.”“Oh?” Marjorie looked confused.“We’re separating,” she stated with little emotion.“Oh no!” she exclaimed, taking Camille in her look. She had obviously not noticed that she had not seen the sisters together in years, was unaware of her intrusion on their first shared glass in nearly a decade. “What happened?” Sympathy flowed from her voice before her face snapped into a performatively defensive expression, readied by her own experience to leap to the woman’s side.Cristine sighed deeply. Was “he leads me by the hand to see how I’ve folded his clothes wrong again” or “he wants to watch documentaries and I want to watch stand-up comedy” something that could be said to have happened? Could it be said to a woman who had needed a restraining order, who’d gone to court to demand enough money to keep her children alive? She shrugged one shoulder, sending her tanktop strap off the other like the sculpted woman’s. She imagined Todd’s hand there, righting the fallen strap, embarrassed by the sensuousness. “There just wasn’t any love anymore,” she said, which was not true. There was enough love left that she spent three waking hours of every night placing neatly labeled stones in her mind’s scale: Kindness in the stay side perfectly balanced against inflexibility in the leave tray. Marie’s sadness versus Marie’s learning to live inauthentically. She’d fall asleep at last with them still level and have to do it again the next night. Part of her wished he would hit her so she could wield that rock to break the scale.What she wanted to say was that when Todd was ready to take her out to some work function charity ball thing she didn’t know the purpose of, she was always still in her overalls with clay in her hair and an idea possessing her hands and all she wanted in the world was to be married to someone who could go to the function and say out loud with smiling pride “my wife is always covered in clay when it’s time to go” as an excuse for her either not being there or still sporting a smudge of chalky white on the back of her neck, depending on the demands of the idea and not the colleagues. But instead he tapped impatiently while she rushed to clean herself and dress, the idea left burning in the lump of clay, and her burned with shame for her inconsideration, even after her work gained notice and he asked her to donate a piece to the auction or bring a vase as a housewarming gift. She wanted to tell her about the humiliation of having one of Todd’s cheerful colleagues turn to her and say “Todd said you’re a homemaker.” Not because she would be ashamed to be one, but because Todd was ashamed to say that she worked all day everyday chasing a dream of being an artist and she hadn’t caught it yet. Because for Todd she would only be an artist by making money from art and not by making art. But she had smiled and agreed that she was and tried to be interested in whatever work talk they made. None of that was weighty enough to say to Marjorie. He was right. It was inconsiderate, and yet, she thought, still so very easy to love her through. Like Camille would, she realized, as soon as Marjorie left and she had the incomparable relief of saying it to her. They took the bottle upstairs and locked themselves into the bathroom, sat on the inexplicably carpeted floor (and had a good laugh at their mother’s style choices) while Camille drank the rest. Cristine declined not only more wine, but also the offer to stay over. She had come to see Camille, to give her a peace offering, and to not have to say that she was wrong. Then she would drive to the new apartment.“Oh but it must be empty! Stay.” Camille pulled her sister’s arm into her own lap.“I want empty,” Christine protested, her eyes glinting with the potential in a blank studio. Camille read the glint and knew it was not politeness.“But you must see Leo. He feels terrible.”“He was a kid.” Cristine waved her hand to dismiss it all. It was impossible to regret. If he hadn’t spilled her secret, she would not have Marie, and she could never regret Marie, even knowing she would not have chosen motherhood. Sometimes she imagined that future conversation with Marie, could see her distraught after Todd wielded that she would have aborted her as a weapon against Cristine. She imagined talking her through the logic steps of separating not wanting motherhood from not wanting her. “How many kids do you want?” she would ask her. “Two” Marie would say, tucking her straight brown bob behind her ear. “And what about the third that you won’t have? Does it make sense to consider how he feels about not being?” She would get it intellectually, but there would be a lot of kisses and peanutbutter cookies to help her know it emotionally. “You can only love a baby who is. You can’t invent an idea of one to love.” And the part she wouldn’t say unless Marie was already 18 and off to college when this all happened: “you will understand when you are on your own financially and not in love with the man you should be in love with.”But that was all speculation. Todd didn’t know she had only married him because Leo had made her pregnancy public and irrevocable. Todd didn’t want to hurt her and would never hurt Marie. It was only Cristine herself who dreamed he would do it, only she who could see the scars of all the hurts he had no idea he’d inflicted. “I’ll see Leo tomorrow,” she promised.A smile tugged Camille’s cheek at the word “tomorrow,” and she nodded. Cristine kissed her forehead as she stood, leaving her on the floor. “You’ve got red wine teeth.”“Got it. Thanks.” Camille smiled her gory grin. “I love you.”Cristine opened the door, tossed the keys back in her near-empty canvas sack, and gazed on the stark white walls of her living room and through the cutout into the whiteness of the kitchen. She’d left the light on when she’d come earlier today to drop off groceries and pull the delivered foam mattress in from the hall. Of course she had. She pressed her back against the white door and let her knees sink beneath her, sliding down to the floor. Her hair fell into her face like her sculpted woman’s and she pulled her hand up to her eyes. In her mind a stone dropped into the tray, knocking it decisively out of balance. The weight of the stay side lifted off her own shoulders as the leave side sank under the last stone’s bulk. Realizing the one glass of wine was all she’d had at the party, Cristine stood and went to the kitchen, flipping her sandals off as she walked, and took a slice of bread and two small jars from the cabinet. She pulled out a drawer for a knife and made herself a peanut butter and jelly foldover, pausing for a moment over the grip on the new jelly jar. She looked into the peanut butter, at the sweet red streak within and apologized to no one. She would sculpt the scale tomorrow, with the top stone marked “home.”
","July 20, 2023 13:49","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Oh Anne,\nIt’s lovely to see these characters again. And their heartbreak is palpable. A line that stood out to me is the one about inventing the idea of a child and loving it. It was something for me to muse on since one of these character isn’t “real” in the tangible sense. Still, the idea of inventing someone-a soul to connect with is so very human. Children have imaginary friends, couples discuss their future children, and there are plenty of ghost stories to prove that “real” has many definitions. Nice work on this one!! Always fun to re...', 'time': '14:03 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Amanda, thank you so much for reading and commenting as always. I’m glad you found something thought provoking here', 'time': '06:04 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Amanda, thank you so much for reading and commenting as always. I’m glad you found something thought provoking here', 'time': '06:04 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Ah! I remember these characters from your earlier story :) It's nice to see how it develops.\n\nIt's hard to move past a decade of pointless suffering, isn't it? I think this story captures that feeling well, especially at the start. It's that mix of desire and dread, that wanting it to just be over already so they could move past it. But, the reunion ends up being much more pleasant than she imagined. Sometimes, especially if we have a lot of time for ruminating, our imaginations become our worst enemies.\n\nThanks for sharing!"", 'time': '22:28 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for reading and leaving your thoughts. I really appreciate how you always comment letting people know what your take always are—it feels good to know when your points land.', 'time': '17:36 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for reading and leaving your thoughts. I really appreciate how you always comment letting people know what your take always are—it feels good to know when your points land.', 'time': '17:36 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': ""I hope people read your Bastille Day story to get the context, although it does work fine on its own. \n\nI really liked your ideas on the experience of creativity - an idea possessing her hands and being left burning in the clay. \n\nI'm curious about the relationship between Christine and Marie. Especially if Marie was aware of the reason for the feud."", 'time': '15:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I really love you talking about Marie like she’s real and her feelings must be considered! She doesn’t know and Todd doesn’t either, but would probably tell her to hurt Cristine if he did… not immediately but in a moment of weakness. Maybe I’ll write that one day—i Think there’s probably a lot of emotional truth to be mined about how moms feel about the kids they would have aborted given the choice, especially now that choice is being withdrawn (in much of the US). \nI Hope people read from the fourth to Bastille, too, because it’s a better s...', 'time': '17:07 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': ""I think there is an excellent and timely story idea in there. There's a great book by Will Self called How the Dead Live where a dead woman is forced to spend her time with the fossilized foetus of her unborn child. It's not the main point, just one of many very strange things that happens."", 'time': '17:29 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Miller': 'PS, sometimes the level of attention different stories get on here seems to have only the vaguest link to their actual quality. But what do I know.', 'time': '17:37 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Well, some people put in the time making so many connections that everybody reads their stories. It’s hard to tell what’s going to be good before you start.', 'time': '19:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I tinkered with adding a little bit of that. I think it makes it a better story. Thanks!', 'time': '12:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I really love you talking about Marie like she’s real and her feelings must be considered! She doesn’t know and Todd doesn’t either, but would probably tell her to hurt Cristine if he did… not immediately but in a moment of weakness. Maybe I’ll write that one day—i Think there’s probably a lot of emotional truth to be mined about how moms feel about the kids they would have aborted given the choice, especially now that choice is being withdrawn (in much of the US). \nI Hope people read from the fourth to Bastille, too, because it’s a better s...', 'time': '17:07 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': ""I think there is an excellent and timely story idea in there. There's a great book by Will Self called How the Dead Live where a dead woman is forced to spend her time with the fossilized foetus of her unborn child. It's not the main point, just one of many very strange things that happens."", 'time': '17:29 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Miller': 'PS, sometimes the level of attention different stories get on here seems to have only the vaguest link to their actual quality. But what do I know.', 'time': '17:37 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Well, some people put in the time making so many connections that everybody reads their stories. It’s hard to tell what’s going to be good before you start.', 'time': '19:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I tinkered with adding a little bit of that. I think it makes it a better story. Thanks!', 'time': '12:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': ""I think there is an excellent and timely story idea in there. There's a great book by Will Self called How the Dead Live where a dead woman is forced to spend her time with the fossilized foetus of her unborn child. It's not the main point, just one of many very strange things that happens."", 'time': '17:29 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'PS, sometimes the level of attention different stories get on here seems to have only the vaguest link to their actual quality. But what do I know.', 'time': '17:37 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Well, some people put in the time making so many connections that everybody reads their stories. It’s hard to tell what’s going to be good before you start.', 'time': '19:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I tinkered with adding a little bit of that. I think it makes it a better story. Thanks!', 'time': '12:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'PS, sometimes the level of attention different stories get on here seems to have only the vaguest link to their actual quality. But what do I know.', 'time': '17:37 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Well, some people put in the time making so many connections that everybody reads their stories. It’s hard to tell what’s going to be good before you start.', 'time': '19:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Well, some people put in the time making so many connections that everybody reads their stories. It’s hard to tell what’s going to be good before you start.', 'time': '19:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I tinkered with adding a little bit of that. I think it makes it a better story. Thanks!', 'time': '12:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kylie Payne': ""I love the unspoken language between sisters in this story. This telepathy is something very relatable to anyone with siblings, and I especially love the bathroom scene. It truly does capture true sisterhood in its most basic form--women creating a sacred space in order to care for each other. After reading some of the other comments I'm excited to read your other stories that give more detail to these characters. I hope to learn more about Marie and maybe hear from Todd himself."", 'time': '02:02 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'You have really got what I want to say in this story—it’s not eventful, but that still-there love between them without dragging each other through a reckoning is a kind of medicine. The first one is «\xa0from the fourth to Bastille day\xa0» Thanks for reading!', 'time': '06:40 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'You have really got what I want to say in this story—it’s not eventful, but that still-there love between them without dragging each other through a reckoning is a kind of medicine. The first one is «\xa0from the fourth to Bastille day\xa0» Thanks for reading!', 'time': '06:40 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'More of your ongoing saga. Took me a moment to recall.', 'time': '15:57 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '17:08 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '17:08 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",qw4vga,The Soviet Bull,Zack Herman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qw4vga/,/short-story/qw4vga/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Friendship']",13 likes,"
 Igor Zarkov, the Soviet Bull, glared into camera 2 and began growling what people in his profession call a promo.“You Americans make me sick! You think you are the good guys and everybody else are the villains! Land of the free? Home of the brave? Your President is such a coward that he will not send your puny athletes to the Olympics! Just look at this!”The large man with the shaved head and goatee held up a newspaper. The headline read “CONGRESS APPROVES ADDITIONAL FUNDING FOR DISABLED VETS”.“What a fraud! In my homeland, the Soviet Union, when a man is in the armed forces, he serves until he dies! They don’t quit and cheat the government out of money like they do in this pathetic country!”|The Soviet Bull spat on the concrete floor.“That’s America down there! No, America is even lower than that!”At that point, the audience in the TV studio, about 50 people seated in folding chairs, roared. A blonde haired, muscular young man, dressed in camoflauge pants and combat boots, climbed into the ring!Dane Kovacs, the bookish man in the blue, double breasted suit, who held the microphone for Igor, pointed to the ring.“Mr. Zarkov, Sgt. Jack Majors, is here!”Majors began to stomp his foot and clap his hands. The studio audience, mostlly kids and elderly people chanted “USA” to the rhythm that Majors provided.Zarkov grabbed the microphone from Kovacs’ hand.“I see you, Gomer Pyle!” He pointed to the glob of saliva on the floor! “That’s where you belong, too!”Zarkov ran to the ring! He climbed in and the fight was on! The two beefy men threw rights and lefts like two prizefighters in a boxing match. Zarkov threw a wild right cross at his opponent, Majors ducked under the punch, grabbed the Soviet bull around the waist and lifted him into the air! Majors then dropped Zarkov down so that the Bull’s tailbone connected with the Sargent’s knee! Zarkov stumbled foraward and then tumbled over the top rope and landed on the floor. Remarkably, Igor was standing when he made his landing.“Ladies and gentelmen,” Dane Kovacs said breathlessly, “ Sgt. Jack Majors, the decorated marine and American hero, will faced Igor Zarkov, the brutal Soviet Bull, tonight! In a Boot Camp Match! The ring will be surrounded by barbed wire! There will be no disqualification, no stopping the match for any reason until the referee counts one man down for the count of ten! That’s at 8 PM at the Greer County Memorial Stadium in Fowlersburg! That’s the main event of an all star night of Southern Pro Wrestling! Tickets are $6 for general admission, only $8 for a ringside seat!” Zarkov stumbled his way out of the studio into another room. Usually, this was where the local news and a country music show was taped, but on Saturday mornings it was a dresing room for the stars of Southern Pro Wrestling. The Soviet Bull sat down on a folding chair and began unlacing his boots. The promoter and owner of Southern Pro Wrestling, Dougie Varnado, walked in. Short, chubby, crew cut, and wearing coke bottle glasses. If a wrestling fan was told this was the man who bossed around the wrestlers and decided the winners and losers, the fan would have laughed out loud.Dougie didn’t bother addressing Igor Zarkov, the Soviet Bull. He spoke to Stu Ragland, decorated Vietnam vet, native of Mobile, registered Republican, Southern Baptist, and father of two beautiful girls,“Hey, Stu, you’re the best hel in the business,” Dougie began. “In fact, you’re too good!”“What do ya mean by that, Hog Jowls?” The accent had gone from ersatz Russian to genuine Alabama.“Look, some FBI guys were here. They had received complaints about a Russian commie badmouthing the good ol’ USA. They were asking questions. I kayfabed’em pretty good. I told them that rasslin’ is a real sport, but if you guys mat wrestled like in college or the Olympics, we wouldn’t draw a dime. So we have to add some dramatics to the show. You have to act like you hate America, for example.”“They buy it?”“Yeah, they seemed to.”“Do they wanna talk to me?”“I told’em that your English ain’t so good and that you get nervous when you have to have long conversations with Americans…”“What if they bring in a translator who speaks Russian? Somebody like that would see right through me. They’d figure out I can’t speak Russian! Then, they’d start digging and find out I have medals for killing Commies over in ‘Nam! Then, there goes my career!”“The agents really didn’t take the whole thing that seriously. They said it was mainly some hysterical senior citizens. They almost winked and nodded at me.”“ OK, don’t sound like nothing to worry about.”“It ain’t Stu, it seriously ain’t!”At that moment, Stu’s best friend in the world walked in. The people in the studio called him Sgt. Jack Majors, American hero. Back here he was Elmer Stidham, high school buddy of Stu Ragland. Instead of going to war like Stu did, he’d headed to Canada, and stayed there until Gerald Ford had made it ok for him to return.“Hey, comrade, good show out there!” the two old friends high fived, then Elmer sat down. “I say we’ll probably sell out that football stadium tonight. “How many seats is that, Hog Jowls?”“Right at seven thousand, “ Dougie replied.“That’s gonna be a sweet payoff!” Elmer said. His grin revealed a few missing teeth. He had a military gimmick, not a pretty boy one, so the missing teeth were an asset.“Hey, do you have a finish, Stu?” Elmer asked.“Yeah, I came up with something. First of all, we’ll need a bunch of blood tonight, right, Dougie?”Dougie smiled.“You know it, comrade!”“Ok, I’m packing two blades. That way if I lose one, I can still get color. You better do the same. The good guy needs to bleed more to get sympathy from the crowd.”“No doubt, Stu.” Elmer had both of his boots off now and was stripping off his socks. “The finish?”“Here it is: I’m gonna have the chain and I’m gonna beat you half to death with it. You start taking off one of the combat boots. The people will be screaming at you to fight abck and wondering what the heck you’re doing! When you get the boot off, I’ll whip you to the rope and try to clothesling you with the chain. You duck and hit me right in the face with the combat boot! One...two...three..and we’re home free!Dougie applauded.“If that place had a roof on it, those marks would blow it off!”Elmer pointed a finger at Stu.“Best finish man in the business, Hog Jawls!”“Aw, shucks!” Igor responded in his Russian accent. He stood, now stripped to his underwear and curtsied. It looked ridiculous and everybody in the room laughed.“You bums git showered and I’ll buy yer lunches, “ Dougie said. “Of course, you can’t eat at the same place and risk being seen together.”“I wouldn’t eat lunch with this commie if he was the last rassler on earth!” The Sarge proclaimed.###It’s after midnight. A navy blue Chevy Nova that has seen better days pulls into the driveway of a modest brick home. A large man exits the car and enters the house, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. The big man unlocks the door and enters the living room of the house. There is a lamp on and a tiny woman is curled up on the couch reading a book. She has, long, jet black hair and is deeply tanned. She is dressed in pajamas . She sees the man enter the house, smiles, and puts down her book. She arises from the couch and pads over to the man. He drops the bag to the floor, wraps his arms around her and lifts her up to where his lips are waiting for hers. They have a long passionate kiss.“Ah, my Soviet Bull,” she purrs in a terrible Russian accent.He responds in a more practiced accent, “The Americans are inferior except for the women. The women are amazing.” They share another long kiss.“Was my Bull victorious? And why are there so man band-aids?”Now, he’s back to being Stu: “Naw, the draft dodger cheated me, but the check that ol’ Hog Jowls handed me afterwards made me feel a whole lot better! Lots a bleeding tonight because of the barbed wire.”She winced at the last sentence.”Why don’t we head up to bed, my Bull?”“That’s the best idea that I’ve heard all day. Go on to bed. I’ll be there as soon as I look in on my babies.”And with that, the Soviet Bull’s lady heads to his bed while, the most hated wrestler in Southern Pro Wrestling goes to check on his two year old and four year old
","July 15, 2023 16:26","[[{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'This is a great take on the prompt. As a wrestling fan since the 80s when there were a lot of those America vs Russia or Iran themes, I really appreciate this story. It really shows behind the scenes where wrestlers are actually co-workers who get along with each other and some of the best rivalries come from the best of friends. The only thing I noticed is that the story could have used a good proofread. It had a few spelling errors like clothesling instead of clothesline. Other than that, great job on a fantastic story.', 'time': '01:37 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Zack Herman': ""Thanks for the feedback! I actually noticed the typo after I had posted the story and tried to edit, but for some reason, I wasn't able to make changes. Yes, some of the biggest rivals were real life friends. I saw Sgt. Slaughter do an interview after the Iron Sheik's death and he was in tears.\n I was kind of worried that there might not be any wrestling fans reading the stories here. I guess we're everywhere..."", 'time': '00:09 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Zack Herman': ""Thanks for the feedback! I actually noticed the typo after I had posted the story and tried to edit, but for some reason, I wasn't able to make changes. Yes, some of the biggest rivals were real life friends. I saw Sgt. Slaughter do an interview after the Iron Sheik's death and he was in tears.\n I was kind of worried that there might not be any wrestling fans reading the stories here. I guess we're everywhere..."", 'time': '00:09 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'As someone how grew up on late 80s wrestling this was a fun tale.\n\nWas waiting for something more, a twist or such with the FBI.', 'time': '14:49 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Zack Herman': ""Thanks for the feedback, Kevin. The FBI situation actually happened with Ivan Koloff back in the 80's. I thought about exploring it further, but I was looking to do more of a character sketch of a wrestler and didn't want that being a main focus of the story."", 'time': '22:08 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Zack Herman': 'P.S. Thank you for being the first to leave a reply!', 'time': '22:08 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Zack Herman': ""Thanks for the feedback, Kevin. The FBI situation actually happened with Ivan Koloff back in the 80's. I thought about exploring it further, but I was looking to do more of a character sketch of a wrestler and didn't want that being a main focus of the story."", 'time': '22:08 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Zack Herman': 'P.S. Thank you for being the first to leave a reply!', 'time': '22:08 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Zack Herman': 'P.S. Thank you for being the first to leave a reply!', 'time': '22:08 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zack Herman': ""Ok, I should have noted that this story takes place in the early 80's."", 'time': '16:30 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",jso1ws,ALL AMERICAN,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jso1ws/,/short-story/jso1ws/,Character,0,['American'],13 likes,"
ALL AMERICANChase Malone was the quintessential American hero: tall, strong, blonde and handsome. He was fun around the guys and chivalrous around women. He drove an enviable Porsche Boxster to work and a Jeep Wrangler to the beach in summer. He rose at 5am each morning to go work out at the Y and had the kind of buff body that would not be out of place in a pro-sport locker room. Additionally, he played racquet ball competitively, swam lengths twice per week and, on weekends, was the best player in his team’s softball league. In summer, he tanned perfectly, highlighting his physique and pearly white smile and, even in winter, he, somehow, maintained that healthy glow. Not that fitness and sport was the be all and end all for Chase. He enjoyed his regular Friday night poker game with the guys and would indulge in a few beers and a stogie. When he and Gladys, his wife, hosted a barbecue, he would perform manfully at the grill, cooking plenty of free range chicken and vegetables for the women while ensuring that there were plenty of juicy steaks and burgers for the men. In short, Chase was the perfect American…except he wasn’t. Chase Robert Malone was not really American. Born, Sergei Nikolai Abramovich, good old homeboy, Chase, was Russian; a Soviet agent. To be more precise, Chase was a deep cover agent aka a sleeper.His “wife”, Gladys, too, was a sleeper. As beautiful as Chase was handsome, Gladys was lusted after by most of their coterie of male friends and had even been propositioned by one of her female friends. Unlike Chase, Gladys projected the image, however, of the loving, faithful wife and maintained a low profile. Chase’s profile, on the other hand, was anything but low for internal low confidence issues drove him to excel at everything and he simply hated to lose. Even playing poker, his game was reckless, dangerous. He would wager large bets on poor hands in a desperate effort at ending the night ahead of the pack. Though the rumours were unconfirmed, Chase’s male friends knew that he was sleeping with one of their wives. They argued among themselves as to a) which of them was being cuckolded and b) how Chase could possibly cheat on his gorgeous wife.What none of them could possibly know was that, each night, as the couple retired, often having spent the evening with friends and appearing to be in perfect harmony, the husband and wife would part at the top of the staircase and each adjourn to their own, separate bedrooms. Usually, Gladys having berated her husband for the way he had behaved that particular night, the centre of everybody's attention, but, she knew, her words fell on deaf ears. Chase worked for, ironically, the Chase Manhattan Bank where he was a mid-level executive and did a moderate job. He earned a decent salary and, usually, an end of year bonus, but it was no more than would be expected for anybody at the same level. His job bored him but was bearable and it was the one area of his life where he felt no impulse to excel.Once per week, Chase would deviate from his usual healthy lunch routine and would visit the local Westfield Southcenter shopping mall, partake of junk food in one of the fast food outlets in the food court and be discreetly joined by his handler, Alexei Pavlovich, an employee from the Russian Embassy on Wisconsin Avenue. Few words would pass between them for Chase was not a spy. Usually, Pavlovich would calmly admonish his agent for being so high profile. It had become a constant refrain and the handler knew that his words would not change Chase’s behaviour; the man simply could not help himself and was, without question, the least reliable of the agents under Pavlovich's personal wing. For his part, Chase felt only scorn for his handler dressed, as he was, in his usual dowdy, ill-fitting Moscow suit, cheap haircut, permanent Soviet scowl, he exuded greyness. With nothing in common, their meetings rarely lasted more than ten minutes before Chase got to go back to his pleasurable, bright American life. He was intelligent enough to know that, at any time, he could be recalled from the field, that his perfect existence was tenuous at best and, for that reason, he did make the effort to lower his profile…for a week or two. Eventually, however, his hidden insecurities would, once again, rise to the fore and drive him to excel. When Admiral Halsey and his wife, Virginia, moved into Chase’s Woodley Park neighbourhood, they were welcomed warmly by their neighbours. The Admiral, in his sixties, had been posted to a desk job at the Pentagon after a successful career spent, mostly, overseas. Virginia Halsey, a decade younger, eschewed fake beauty, rarely wore makeup and allowed her naturally greying locks to flow. This did nothing to take away from her ethereal beauty and, despite their difference in age, Chase was attracted to her from the first moment he saw her. He pursued her and, for a woman, more used to hosting boring dinner parties for her husband’s important but elderly acquaintances and swapping recipes with their old before their time wives, Virginia could not help but be seduced by the attentions of this handsome jock. Soon, they became lovers.“Are you crazy?”Gladys was furious when she found out about her husband’s latest shenanigans.“You are placing me in danger, you fool. An Admiral’s wife? How could you be so stupid?”Shamefaced, Chase could only stand and take his admonishment. He knew that he was playing with fire but…When he met with Pavlovich that week, he expected to receive another scolding but, instead, he found his handler in sanguine mood. He was more open to Chase continuing the relationship for who knew what secrets might be divulged in a bedroom setting? Unknown to both, on a level above the food court, their meeting was being secretly photographed.“I think my husband suspects something”, Virginia Halsey told Chase as she lay in his arms after their latest liaison. Alarmed, Chase sat up.“What do you mean?’“He’s been a bit distant, distracted but, this morning, out of the blue, he spoke about you”.“What did he say?”“He just said that you’re not what you say you are”.The blood chilled in Chase’s veins.That weekend, Chase and Gladys were invited to a 4th of July barbecue at the Halsey’s. Most of their usual friends would be in attendance and, despite his apprehension, the gathering would have been difficult for Chase to wriggle out of. All afternoon, he went out of his way to maintain his distance from Virginia and she did likewise. Everything seemed to be going well and Chase had started to relax and be his normal, boisterous self when he found himself alone in the kitchen as he hunted for a beer. As he turned from the refrigerator, he was confronted by the Admiral who was staring at him with pure malice.“I know!”“That was all he said?”“It’s enough, isn’t it? He knows who I really am”.Since the barbecue, Chase had been a nervous wreck. Believing that the Admiral, with his high level Pentagon contacts, had, somehow, discovered that he was a sleeper, had made all of his, hitherto hidden, insecurities rise to the surface. Convinced that, at any minute, he would be arrested, he did what he had never had reason to do previously; he called the secure, emergency number at the Embassy.“He could have been referring to your screwing his wife. Stop panicking”.Pavlovich’s words did nothing to placate Chase.“I’m telling you. He fucking knows. You’ve got to pull me out”.“We would have heard something if they even suspected. You’re being paranoid. Get a grip of yourself. Go lift weights or swim or whatever it is you do. Don’t ring that fucking number again unless you have a real emergency”.That afternoon, Admiral Halsey received a visitor in his office. The man showed him a collection of photos. Some showed Chase meeting with a stranger at the Westfield Southcenter Mall. He cast these aside. Others showed Chase working out at the Y. These were cast aside also. The ones that he did not discard were those showing his wife, his beautiful Virginia, entering the Conrad Washington Hotel on New York Avenue, followed within minutes by Chase Malone, the ones showing them leaving, two hours later, together, and, in particular, the ones of the two lovers, naked and unsuspecting, snapped from a building across from the hotel. The Admiral, any last hopes that he might have been mistaken, shattered, thanked the private investigator, watched as he left his office then, taking his Sig Sauer M17 from his desk, blew his brains out.The news travelled fast. This time it was Pavlovich who decreed the emergency and summoned Chase to meet him, not, as per usual, at the shopping mall but at the Potomac Overlook Regional Park, far away from any possible observers. As Chase hiked the trail to the meeting spot, he looked all around him, his paranoia causing his facial muscles to twitch, expecting FBI agents to emerge from the trees at any moment. If convicted of being a sleeper agent, he could face decades of imprisonment or he could be part of a swap for any US agents being held in Russia. In that case, he would be returned to Moscow in disgrace. His best option was to be simply recalled before any possible repercussions from the Admiral’s suicide. At the peak of the trail overlooking the Potomac far below, Chase found Pavlovich sitting precariously near the edge. He gestured for Chase to join him.“All we asked was that you keep a low profile. Nothing more. No danger. A good life in return. But you couldn’t do it, could you?”“You wanted me to continue the relationship. You encouraged it…”“A fucking Admiral’s wife, Sergei. From the fucking Pentagon, no less”.Chase shocked at Pavolich’s use of his real name, could not answer.“Yes, I called you Sergei. There’s no more Chase Malone. No more pretence, my friend. You have blown it. No more deep cover. You have exposed our operation, me, Gladys, everybody. I hope you’re proud of yourself”.“I’m sorry but what was the point of it all? I’m not a spy. I don’t do any espionage. What was my purpose?’“Your purpose? Your purpose was just to be! To show that we could achieve it; to have agents in every aspect of American life. There are hundreds more just like you. Just to be! In return, for serving your country, you got to live the fucking American dream; the perfect life. But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it?”Pavlovich stood and started to walk away. Chase turned and called after him.“What happens now? Do I get recalled?”“You know, Sergei, I just don’t understand you. Even now, after the trouble you have caused, you expect me to get you out of it. What? You don’t fancy spending twenty years in a penitentiary? You had it all, my friend. Anybody with half a brain would have swapped places with you without a second’s thought. You had the perfect life. Compare that to my situation. What do I get for serving my country? Shitty food, shitty clothes, a bleak, grey, sterile, mind numbing existence, dealing with morons like you. You have the life that should, naturally, be mine. You think I don’t wish, every single day of my shitty life, that my country would call me back? You think only Russia has sleepers?”Chase stared incredulously at his handler, realising that Pavlovich's accent had changed completely, no longer that of a born Muscovite.   Standing, flabbergasted, he asked:“You’re American?”Without answering, Pavlovich stepped forward, raised his right leg and thrust it with full force into the chest of the Russian sleeper. He watched as Chase’s body plunged to its death in the water below.“As apple pie, buddy!”.
","July 16, 2023 22:05","[[{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Well done! I thoroughly enjoyed this story, and the ending caught me completely off guard, loved it.\n\nI just published a story also in the spy genre. I would love if you could check it out and maybe leave some feedback. Thanks!', 'time': '16:10 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joan Wright': 'Great ending! You fooled me. Very well done. You painted detailed pictures with your words. Very well done!', 'time': '23:19 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'George Pickstock': 'Good twist. I like that.', 'time': '14:16 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Double lies. Double lives. Double cross. Double trouble.\nExcellent prompt fulfillment.', 'time': '00:23 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",bmse4z,brightstar,Victoria Shellady,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bmse4z/,/short-story/bmse4z/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'LGBTQ+']",12 likes,"
 
At first glance, it appears Lilith has just stepped out of a romantic comedy. Her white and gray hair is tied in a fluffy bun, sticking straight out from the top of her head. She's curled up in a tight ball on a green velvet couch, sporting a flowy white gauze top and distressed jeans. She's balancing a book on one knee and a cup of mysterious green juice in one hand. A beam of light hits her from behind, making her silhouette glow. This is a startling departure from the woman I grew up listening to and watching on the biggest stages in the world, and not because she isn't beautiful without the touch of her glamor team. My teenage heart wondered where the coal eyeliner that faded into a cloud of eyeshadow had gone. Where are those fluffy lash extensions? What about the slicked-back, pin-straight hair? 
She clocks my confusion and says, ""I don't know who I am more nervous for – you or me. Either way, one of us must start asking questions, huh?"" I didn't know it yet, but Lilith would not be making an appearance at this interview. Lily Moon was ready to make her debut.
 
I first met Lilith when she was 63, freshly off her Legacy Tour, where she partied with the likes of Sting, Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart, and Stevie Nicks. At the time, I was a fresh-faced 20-something entertainment reporter for Rolling Stone and had been sent to New York to get an exclusive about the closing of her tour. I was giddy to have the chance to be in the same room as one of my idols. Fifteen of us crowded around a table in a standing-room-only bar called The Lounge, adorned with green velvet curtains, glass tables sporting ring stains from sweating liquor glasses, and shaggy carpet. Lilith was smoking, tapping the end of her cigarette butt on the tip of the microphone. An ash cloud ricocheted off the mic, landing on the white tablecloth. I raised my hand, and her press manager, who looked vaguely annoyed by nothing in particular, nodded at me as if to say, ""On with it."" 
I knew what I wanted to ask, but I choked spectacularly under the weight of inexperience. ""Can you just tell me something real?"" The room erupted in thunderous laughter. Deflated, I sat back and prayed I didn't lose my job. My chance to have that question answered wouldn't come for another 20 years. In this interview.
 
Summer 1938. Carl and Mickey Moon welcome their first and only child into the world. They fight about what her name should be. Something epic, her mother said. Something easy to pronounce, her father countered. Then, as their new baby girl was napping in the incubator, the Moons received an anonymous bouquet of flowers: lilies. 
""It's pretty silly,"" Lily says, ""Can you imagine if someone had sent my parents a sneezewort?"" She takes three heaping gulps of the green goo.
She sees my confusion.
""It's a white flower. Looks like mini daisies. The name doesn't fit the damn thing at all."" She raises her hand to get the attention of the bartender. She holds up two fingers. 
""I can't imagine your parents would have named you sneezewort,"" I laugh.
She lets out a wheezy, endearing laugh. ""You didn't know my parents.""
Lily describes her parents as controlled chaos – always one wrong decision away from complete ruin or winning the lottery. But you wouldn't know it by looking at them. Both were raised in a small town in Cincinnati. Carl was a clean-shaven mechanic at the auto shop, a job he fell into at 17 because he couldn't pass his high school exams.
Carl liked his job at the shop. He enjoyed working with his hands. He also liked that it gave him street cred with the ladies. But he wasn't prepared for Mickey, who rolled into his shop with a bumper holding on for dear life. When he asked her what happened, she leaned down, yanked the bumper off, and handed it to him. Paying no mind to the muck that covered her once immaculate white gloves.
A few years older, Mickey worked as a secretary for the state. She was a fast typer and quick on her feet, always thinking one step ahead. The perfect match for Carl, who was used to winning every conversation. Watching them was like watching a race – each stumbling over their words to stay ahead of the other's argument. They were passionate. But even more so, they were keen on taking life by the balls. They weren't afraid to try something new. One of their favorite things was trying quirky foods at a hole-in-the-wall diner. And because they were poor, they never wasted that food. Even if it was particularly foul.
""That's probably why I eat just about anything."" She's not kidding. She's eaten everything from bull testicles to worms. But that's another story.
The bartender arrives with two tall glasses of green liquid. She gives a smile and slips him a $100 bill.
I take the glass and stare down at what appears to be, at a closer glance, baby food.
""It's juice, I promise."" She laughs.
""What's in it?"" I give it a sniff.
""A cacophony of things. I don't eat many vegetables, so this is how I do something good for my body."" I ask her if she still smokes. She doesn't. Kicked the habit about five years ago at the urging of one of her friends who developed lung cancer.
I take a big swig.
""They've been serving this drink here for over sixty years.""
""How did you discover it?"" I place it as far away from me as I can.
""Stumbled in here in my early twenties with a friend. She wasn't adventurous with food. But I said I would give her fifty bucks if she tried it with me."" Fifty dollars in the late fifties has about $500 purchasing power today. In other words, it was a good deal.
Did she like it?
Lily stares off into the distance as if she is somewhere else. Slowly, a big smile creeps into the corner of her lips. ""She hated it.""
 
 
Lily never intended on becoming Lilith. In fact, she never expected fame to become a permanent fixture in her life. A girl from a small town, she was raised by parents with ""minimal means"" and ""abysmal access"" to the arts (the exception being the records her father bought at second-hand stores). That was until one night when she stumbled upon a flier advertising a free art festival in the city. She used her savings from that summer to buy a seat on a bus into New York City. She had no plans. She just wanted to see something different. That, and she loved music.
""Your parents let you go into the city unattended?""
""Crazy, right? Can't do that now with children. I believe I grew up in a special era with especially free-thinking parents. They let me do whatever I wanted."" This isn't an exaggeration. Lily never had a curfew. Could watch anything she wanted on TV. Had her first drink at 10 (beer, which she still hates to this day). Was able to dress in what some might call ""skimpy"" clothes (a pink tube top and short jean skirt, for example). The only rule in her home was to remain respectful, considerate, and kind.
Fifteen-year-old Lily stumbled into the Washington Square Music festival with ten dollars and a coca cola that August. It was a night of firsts: live music, bright lights, people wearing very little, tasting wine from a plastic cup. But nothing held her attention more than the young man who played the keys with such passion that his body shook. It was Jerry Lee Lewis.
""Say what you want about him, but that man was gifted."" She's referring to Lewis' spotty, sometimes horrific, history. The rock n' roll hellraiser was especially good at bucking the expectations of the time and never shied away from a bit of rebellion, even if it cost others greatly. He had seven wives (one of which was his 13-year-old cousin), a drinking problem, and allegations of abuse and thievery tied to his name.
Lily makes it clear to me she is not justifying the way Lewis behaved. In fact, she finds his history deplorable. But Lily can separate the art from the artist, unlike so many. Though, she admits it took work.
Lewis is why she fell in love with the piano, and the day after the music festival, she went to her local music shop and started playing on their public piano. She's self-taught – since her parents couldn't afford lessons- and practiced daily for the rest of the summer. When school was back in session, she joined the choir.
""I didn't just want to be someone that played the piano.""
Carl saved for two years to buy her a piano. It's the same piano that sits in her apartment at the Bramble. And she never intends on getting rid of it, no matter how ugly or out of tune it gets. ""It's not about the fact that it's my first piano. It's from my dad. And it's a reminder of the sacrifice he made for me. And you don't just toss something out because it no longer looks pretty.""
""Is it true that you adopted Lilith because of your dad?"" I ask. Word around the music industry is that Lilith was written in her father's handwriting on the bottom of her first piano. Lilith is a nickname he gave her in her tween years -- though Lily is unsure of its origins.
She nods. When she was home, around people she loved, she was just bright-eyed Lily. Hair in knots and splayed in every direction. Usually, wearing pajamas or overalls. A reader, a conversationalist. She became the edgy, coal-liner-loving rock n' roll Lilith whenever she performed. But she insists it wasn't armor. It was just another expression of who she was. Her parents got both parts of her. The world only saw one. When she tells me this, her eyes sink.
""What are you thinking?""
She lays a seismic question on my question: ""Are you going to ask me about my love life?""
I'm stunned.
""I don't think you'll like the question I'm going to ask.""
She leans forward. ""Ask it. I'm not here to pussyfoot. Let's start asking the questions that matter.""
I shake off that girl who failed to ask so many decades ago. ""Are you a lesbian?""
She sits back, her shoulders falling. ""It's about time somebody asked.""
 
Lily realized she liked girls when she was in her early teens. While her friends had pictures of Elvis on their walls, she had pictures of Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. She wrote in her diary about meeting them, their taste in clothes, and how they articulated their bodies when they sang. It wasn't sexual, Lily insists; it was a fascination with the female form. She thought the female body was indescribably beautiful. And when Lily imagined kissing and how it felt, she always pictured women. And she admitted as much to her father, who took it quite well.
""He agreed with me, of course, because he was madly in love with my mother. But it was earth-shaking. Not just because he was bucking social norms of the times, but because he made me feel so seen."" A few years later, when Lily turned 21, she told her mother. When I ask her why it took longer to tell her mother, she says, ""I think I could have handled a rejection from my father. But my mother – the person who brought me into this world – if she couldn't love me, no one could."" 
Mickey gave Lily a big hug and took her out for ice cream.
Her number one hit, Nights in July, was based on this day with her mother. ""Ironically, people thought I was talking about love for a man,"" she laughs.
""Did you have relationships with women early in your career or even during it? It just seems like an impossibility, given the times."" The sexual revolution didn't hit until the 1960s. And discussion of the LGBTQ community? It wouldn't come to the forefront of society until 1970.
Lily recounts her relationship with a woman -- we will call her Jane for this article -- that loved to wear flowers in her hair, chains around her waist, and her heart on her sleeve. She describes Jane as a character from a romance novel. A good girl with a sprinkle of spice – almost too good to be true. One of the most significant differences between them? She didn't have parents like Lily did.
Jane was painfully private about their relationship, always fearful that her parents would find out before she was ready to tell them. But she was present for the majority of Lily's career. She would meet Lily after an audition or right before a gig. Sometimes sneak in the back door of the recording studio. There was a time when they shared a townhome together, just as Lily's career was taking off. It was a brownstone walk-up with three levels. There was an American Redbud tree out front. Jane didn't want to live there – but not because she didn't want to be seen with Lily.
""Her parents were rich. And she hated being perceived as someone who could have whatever she wanted. She would rather work for it.""
Then Lily drops a bomb on me – what every journalist would call a golden nugget for a piece on a high-profile celebrity: they had been engaged. And even though they knew it wouldn't be recognized as a legal marriage, they set the wedding date. But one week before the wedding, something horrible happened to Jane. When I press Lily about what happened, she insists that is as far as she is willing to elaborate.
 
Despite her best efforts, Lily couldn't escape the horrors of working in the music industry as a strong, conventionally attractive woman. And not having Jane around made it easier for money-hungry, self-entitled men to take their stab at her and her body. She admits to me that there were far too many instances where Lily was forced into a room she never wanted to go into, held too close for comfort, and touched when she never gave anyone permission. To be violated by a man was one thing. To be infringed by a man when she held an attraction for women? That was another trauma entirely. 
I asked her why she had never mentioned it earlier in her career when she was gracing the cover of every mainstream magazine. She had a reputation for being outspoken, so a calculated silence on such a vital topic seemed ""off-brand."" ""My manager at the time was part of the problem. That's all I'm going to say on that.""
Worth noting: Lily cannot speak to the specifics of this statement because she is currently on trial. She's suing her first manager, Michael Stockard, for abuse of power, garnished wages, and contract violations.
""If there was one thing I could fix right now – it would be to get rid of this fucking duality attached to being a victim.""
I ask her to clarify.
""It's awful to be both the person that survived something horrific and then the person that stands up and says something, ripping everyone's world apart.""
Lily looks down at her hand, staring intently at a faded tattoo. ""I've never told anyone about this tattoo. But I want someone to know."" 
It's a feather drawn by Jane. According to Lily, Jane was an incredible artist, unaware of her budding talent. The day her parents called and said they weren't attending their wedding, they went to a parlor shop to get tattoos. Jane got one inside her arm. As a surprise, Lily got the same one on her hand.
""I suppose you could say it was my way of conveying that I had her back no matter what.""
Lily reveals to me that Jane died ten years ago. She saw an article in the paper saying she passed away surrounded by her family in her home. She was happy that Jane could still build a life, even after all that had happened to her.
""Are you curious as to why she chose to get married to a man?""
She ponders this momentarily: ""I used to think about it a lot. But I've accepted that sometimes, in this life, we just aren't meant to get answers to the questions we have.""
 
Now 83, Lily Moon is still the brightest light in rock n' roll music. She is a living tapestry of everyone that came before her – representing the best and worst of those in her line of work – and she is damn proud of it. When stripped to her bare bones, this iconic, edgy rockstar is no different than your next-door neighbor. But she has been living a life with extraordinary circumstances. And while retiring from the industry later this year after a successful sixty-year career, she's still excited for what comes next.
""I still have many questions, which is pretty amazing at my age, given all that I've seen and experienced. But there's plenty of mystery left in the world to discover.""
She notices I've only taken a few sips of the juice.
""Don't like it?""
""I hate it.""
She laughs, the crinkles around her eyes deepening. ""Music to my ears, kiddo.""
I thank her one last time, turning to leave. She clears her throat to signal my stop, so I do. ""Yes?""
""You don't remember, do you?""
""Remember what?""
""This room. It looks a little different now. Bigger. Nicer things to dress it up. But it's still here, all that history.""
For the first time since the start of the interview, I realized the Bramble used to be The Lounge.
 
","July 21, 2023 17:30",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",9jn2bs,Letting The Mask Slip,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9jn2bs/,/short-story/9jn2bs/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Inspirational', 'Thriller']",12 likes,"
After all this time, I think I’m beginning to understand.
 
I’ve spent my entire life running. Running away.
 
Now I think I know what it was I was running away from.
 
Me.
 
I was running away from myself.
 
I kept running, only I told myself that this was living. That I had to keep going. I could never stop. To stop was to meet an end, and I told myself that I was afraid of the end. That I was not ready.
 
Truth is that we are never ready. I’ve seen that truth more than most.
 
I’m beginning to realise that none of this was real. 
 
Not one bit of it.
 
And neither was I. I was far from real. I was a facsimile that I created to hide behind, but then I became that facsimile. I’m self-made and this is what I made. 
 
There was nothing else.
 
Only now can I begin to interpret what I saw in the eyes of those I had to end. The light show in their eyes that played out for them and for me in the moments before they left this place. 
 
It makes a kind of sense now. 
 
Now that I know.
 
I created a legend and the legend went before me. I strode into the places where angels feared to tread. Even I believed the fantasy that I’d embroidered and thrown around my shoulders. 
 
I was death, and if you saw me, if you really saw me, then you were about to say goodbye to this godsforsaken world.
 
The smiling irony of my existence is that so few saw me. I don’t mean to say that they saw something that I was not. Well, I suppose that they looked and did not find anything that was worth seeing. I hid in plain sight. On the face of it, I was a mildly inconvenient truth. But under that façade, I was a ruthless and relentless killing machine. 
 
Time and again I was underestimated and at the ultimate cost.
 
That was how I became the most successful and longest serving contract killer in the business. No one saw me coming even as I strolled right up to them. 
 
But I know that’s not who I was.
 
The thing is, I wore that costume so well, I thought that was who I had become, but really I knew that I was kidding myself. Always kidding myself.
 
I was never allowed to be myself. They made sure of that. I was told I was an orphan, but I think I always knew that was a lie, but when everything is a lie, does it really matter? Besides, I knew that finding that particular truth would hurt. Finding that you’d been rejected and abandoned at the outset of your life, at that point where the world hasn’t started in on you yet and you’re as near to perfect as you ever will be? No one needs to know that. I suspect that I was made for the purpose I was put to, my mother another piece of meat, broken by the state and used to provide the raw materials for its ends. She didn’t stand a chance, especially when she had outlived her usefulness. 
 
Then she was just so much trash.
 
People like that have a habit of disappearing, and no one misses them. Not ever.
 
I wasn’t given the opportunity to miss my mother.
 
My father was our great nation. Via my instructors, he instilled in me the burning desire to serve my country. It helped that by serving my country well, I survived.
 
To fail was to die.
 
And so I lived, and I lived, while all around me there was death.
 
You are what you do.
 
I bring death.
 
Some would expect that I also bring misery. Those two are sometimes bedfellows, but I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. They were all willing participants in a high stakes game. The ultimate stakes. Kill or be killed. I was the method of their demise. A tool deployed again and again, after each roll of the dice.
 
I never went beyond that. I didn’t add a value judgement. Not once did I think I’d done the world a favour. Who was I to say that? 
 
Who was I to feel anything about what it was that I was about?
 
Then she came into my life, just the same as I had entered life after life. Quietly unassuming. There was a time when she was not there, and then she was.
 
She was.
 
I cannot pinpoint when it happened. I don’t know when it changed. I’ve thought about this a lot. It doesn’t matter, but then it must because I kept on picking away at it. 
 
It could not have been the very first time we encountered each other. I was a different person back then. 
 
The truth of it was she changed me. I had to change. She was nothing to me when she came into my life because that was the way it was. Everyone was nothing. Including me. It was easier that way.
 
When a person is nothing and you are nothing, then you can play the game of death and win. Once you’re invested, everything changes.
 
She changed everything.
 
She was the only friend I ever had.
 
I think I loved her.
 
Life is a cruel joke and the joke is on each and every one of us. 
 
I did not know what it was that I had until I no longer had it.
 
And now I know. 
 
As I sit here in the pale moonlight and bleed out, I understand it at last.
 
Dying doesn’t hurt. Not at all. But then, I thought it would be this way. I have witnessed the end any number of times and I knew that there are those that choose not to allow the pain to disturb their final moments. I hoped I could be one of them. 
 
They say that you have to let go. That bit should be easy for me. I never had much of anything in my life. Only her. There was only ever her.
 
And the lies of course. They made me into a lie and they pointed me at their enemies. That was wrong. It was all wrong. 
I was wrong.
 
Well, now I’ve made it right.
 
For her.
 
For once in my life I had a purpose. I didn’t have orders or instructions. I took control and I did what I had to do.
 
I think I always knew it would end this way. I suppose I hoped it would end this way. Now it’s done, I've got nothing to live for anymore.
 
You gave me something to live for Janet, you gave me something real. 
 
She’s all I ever had, but letting go of her is the easy part.
 
I’m still afraid to drop the mask and see what is behind it. I’m terrified of what they have done to me, worse still is the shame of what I did to me. 
 
I’ve been so ashamed all of my life.
 
That was what I was running from. 
 
The shame.
 
Not me.
 
Not me after all.
 
Time to let go.
 
Time to be free. 
 
I have to let go of everything that shackled me to this miserable existence and return to how it all began.
 
I feel the mask slipping…
 
Oh!
 
It’s so beautiful!
 
I’m beautiful!
 
This is the pure truth of it all.
 
How could I not know that?
 
How could I have been so blind!
 
Why do we do this to ourselves?
 
Letting go.
 
That’s all it took.
 
It’s all gone.
 
I love.
 
So peaceful.
 
Love…
","July 16, 2023 12:36","[[{'Joe Malgeri': ""Intense story - coming to terms with one's self, Flashback City, cool ideas, Jed."", 'time': '16:28 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Joe - glad it hit the spot!', 'time': '17:49 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Joe - glad it hit the spot!', 'time': '17:49 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Electra Nanou': ""Cool story. You delivered this perspective very well—a contact killer's life flashing before his eyes. There's almost a childlike innocence in the way his tinted glasses shatter and he changes his appreciation for himself with his final breaths.\n\nWhat you could improve on is the story's structure and flow of thought. Make it all tighter and tenser, while clarifying plot elements, such as how he met Janet and how long they'd been rivals/friends/lovers. All that is unclear. Tweaking these kinds of key moments can make the story better."", 'time': '15:20 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for this - glad you enjoyed it.\nI don't do that sort of clarity - not even in the expanse of a novel. We, as readers, colour the story in. Wondering how those two met and about other elements of their back stories is all a part of the allure of a story and makes it all the more engaging.\n\nInteresting that in your reading of the story you saw the main character as a man..."", 'time': '16:59 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Electra Nanou': ""Aha! I did wonder if the lack of a gender reference was intentional or if I was reading too much into it. Nice touch.\n\nAnd I understand about the allure of limited description. You don't have to go into lots of detail if full clarity isn't the goal of a story."", 'time': '19:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Jed Cope': 'I step away from being overly descriptive at times. I like to think it allows the reader to complete a character in their own mould or one that suits them best. \nSome clarity is essential - there has to be a coherent narrative, but blurring the edges can add a certain something...', 'time': '19:39 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for this - glad you enjoyed it.\nI don't do that sort of clarity - not even in the expanse of a novel. We, as readers, colour the story in. Wondering how those two met and about other elements of their back stories is all a part of the allure of a story and makes it all the more engaging.\n\nInteresting that in your reading of the story you saw the main character as a man..."", 'time': '16:59 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Electra Nanou': ""Aha! I did wonder if the lack of a gender reference was intentional or if I was reading too much into it. Nice touch.\n\nAnd I understand about the allure of limited description. You don't have to go into lots of detail if full clarity isn't the goal of a story."", 'time': '19:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Jed Cope': 'I step away from being overly descriptive at times. I like to think it allows the reader to complete a character in their own mould or one that suits them best. \nSome clarity is essential - there has to be a coherent narrative, but blurring the edges can add a certain something...', 'time': '19:39 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Electra Nanou': ""Aha! I did wonder if the lack of a gender reference was intentional or if I was reading too much into it. Nice touch.\n\nAnd I understand about the allure of limited description. You don't have to go into lots of detail if full clarity isn't the goal of a story."", 'time': '19:00 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'I step away from being overly descriptive at times. I like to think it allows the reader to complete a character in their own mould or one that suits them best. \nSome clarity is essential - there has to be a coherent narrative, but blurring the edges can add a certain something...', 'time': '19:39 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'I step away from being overly descriptive at times. I like to think it allows the reader to complete a character in their own mould or one that suits them best. \nSome clarity is essential - there has to be a coherent narrative, but blurring the edges can add a certain something...', 'time': '19:39 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Let go.\nThat's enough stories for one week, Jeb. Very impressive.\nMay have to borrow one.got nothing this week.😉"", 'time': '13:00 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""You mean you don't want any more...?\n\nI'm glad I managed to impress you!"", 'time': '13:21 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""You mean you don't want any more...?\n\nI'm glad I managed to impress you!"", 'time': '13:21 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",24j2ci,Last Ride,Kendall Defoe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/24j2ci/,/short-story/24j2ci/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Crime', 'Suspense']",12 likes,"
Welcome aboard… Guess you are my last fare for the night. We have about thirty to forty-five minutes before we get to the terminus and usually no one ever takes this last ride. Take a seat. There are about thirty for you.Right at the front… Yeah, I’m a little bored, too. Working nights has made me think that I must have something wrong with me. Better to be up and doing this type of work when the sun is coming around and you can feel the rest of you waking up. Only doing this…for my own reasons.Night shift for you, too? Great, then you understand what I’m saying. Have to talk to someone who understands what the hell you are talking about. Something about the night keeps us going. What are you…?An investor? In this city? Well, good luck with that… That is a tough one, and you guys are not that popular right now. Must be doing all that work overseas so the time difference doesn’t… Anyway, you got a tough job. All those numbers and making sure it gets balanced. Something I did…Okay, okay… Why not? Can talk about it at least once in my life…? I was a financial advisor before the glamour of this job. Had a really good set up with a company that…well, if you ever picked up a financial paper, you might have heard about it (about a decade ago?). You know about that? Great…Long light, this one…You didn’t invest in anything too sketchy in the last five years, did you? I hope not, yeah… You’d have told me if you had. Everyone else did and I had to keep a low profile for a while. Wife and kids were long gone, but the company kept standing up and getting sued by all of the people who thought that they would get rich without lifting a finger. A lot of rich kids and their idiot friends (now those were the ones I felt bad about; they were really screwed over); some retirees (poor fools); and then the general investor who did not do their due diligence (always hated that term; really hated hearing it in depositions, court rooms, and seeing it in the papers and on web sites).You gotta take a seat now. Have to take the incline and it… Well, you should know. You live here all your life?Me, too. Actually, a bit out of town because of my dad. My father was a factory worker who never had more than the price of a beer in his pocket if he even made it home on payday. My mother was the one who took care of things at home. A damn good businesswoman who taught me everything I needed to know from behind the counter of a hair salon. She was wise enough to have her own business, money, and ideas about what she wanted for her favourite son. I always wondered why she married my dad. Even bigger questions about my…Sorry, construction… We got a detour.Yeah, yeah…family is nothing anyone would pick. My sister made her choices because she was not happy with ours. Haven’t spoken to her in about ten years, but I know all about her. Not the only one who made it into the papers. 27 and she got so reckless… Anyway, that was what made me forget all about her. And my mom…?She taught me everything. How to manage and invest; how to do a deal for your benefit (always giving them what they think they want). Probably why I hated school… Waste of time…Damn long route. Wish the light was better here.And another light…So, that was my family. Still love her. I took over for things before we had to bury my drunk of a father and it was just the three of us (soon to be two). Just a hair salon for some; just a perfect front for others.Back to it…You would be very surprised at how many businesses in this town are hanging by the cheapest thread. A lot of people with a lot of hands in a lot of pockets. Wouldn’t work if people did not try to help each other out. There are still the kitties used to pass the money around and some are now using check-cashing stops and…Sorry, I’m old. A kitty is what we called the money we put together. You shared it out at the end of the month so everyone got a taste. Another reason why I was so good with numbers.No, I saw some things I shouldn’t have seen. My mom did not lie to me, but she never went out of the way to tell her youngest son all of the truth. I learned by watching, listening and just thinking for myself. You cannot let a twelve-year-old run around doing errands and “special deliveries” – her term for it – and not figure things out.Got the highway now…Yeah, yeah… It is such a cliché. Kid goes to school and learns nothing; kid drops out of school and makes a fortune. Well, not a fortune. Not really much, but it got the wrong attention.Mom? She passed before all the heat went down. I was always in the papers and I did not want her to see it, so I gave it all up. Gave up some big names, too.Commercial Road is coming up.Come on. I don’t blame that for her death. She knew what I was up to, but she could not really point a finger at me and say, “I’m so ashamed.” How could she? She taught me. The others out there, well, they weren’t so sympathetic.And that is why you’re here…Just sit back. I knew. I knew from the moment you stepped on board. No one working in an office handling things up would be without a bag or suitcase or something to carry their things in. And your dress sense were a real clue (shoes were a real giveaway). Like I said, I had to learn things very quickly. You know, everyone has a tell – a giveaway – the way they act and speak…The questions they ask.No one is going to be around this stop for a couple of hours. And that bulge in your coat is obviously a revolver you want to take out and use right now. Would be the perfect place to use it. But that would be stupid.Why’d you think I became a driver? Why’d you think I moved to this town, got a new name and decided to take these night shifts? Perfect set up for me.Yeah, it’s loaded. Yell if you want (no difference to me). This isn’t even on my regular route and you have not even taken yours out yet. Should have done the deed when I had both hands on the wheel and had just pulled in. So stupid. Just glad that I had someone to talk to before I took you out. They’ll probably find you in few days. That undeveloped land has a lot of raw space the city never touched (always good to know where literal bodies can be and are buried).Stop it. It has to be this way. You put this on me. I will have so much to explain when they see that the cameras were off. Not my first mistake on the job.But it has been an interesting ride…
","July 21, 2023 21:31","[[{'Derrick M Domican': ""Nicely Told tale. Didn't see the end coming. Two reveals In one. Clever!"", 'time': '15:35 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Thanks!', 'time': '12:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Thanks!', 'time': '12:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'An interesting ride.\n\nThanks for liking my mind mayhem.', 'time': '14:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'With a painful stop?', 'time': '12:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'With a painful stop?', 'time': '12:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'WooHoo! What a ride, literally and metaphorically. This was fun, my friend. Turning the tables on someone who want to, in a sense, turn the tables on you. Nicely done, Kendall. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '22:28 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Thank you. I wondered about much to include with this story, but I like the tone of it.', 'time': '03:05 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Thank you. I wondered about much to include with this story, but I like the tone of it.', 'time': '03:05 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'I hope the passenger deserved his fate. Very interesting story/monologue, Read it twice in case I missed something. Like any clues that the passenger deserved to die at the end. He had a gun? The driver had sussed him out and judged him. Sort of self defense. Not the sort of story to read just before catching a cab! Well done.', 'time': '03:57 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': ""Cabs are fine. Just keep an eye on the road (and don't read 'The Dead Zone').\nI think I prefer these kinds of microsized fictions. And I am working on something for tomorrow's deadline in the same vein... ;)"", 'time': '01:29 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': ""Cabs are fine. Just keep an eye on the road (and don't read 'The Dead Zone').\nI think I prefer these kinds of microsized fictions. And I am working on something for tomorrow's deadline in the same vein... ;)"", 'time': '01:29 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Wow, this was cool, sort of reverse combat, and a fun adventure for me, with a twist. Nice job, Kendall.', 'time': '00:30 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Thank you!', 'time': '12:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Thank you!', 'time': '12:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Just a little bit creepy. I liked the way you told this as a one way conversation, it really adds to the sense of mystery and makes the twist at the end so much more powerful. The way you have crafted the story and interspersed the mundane, like roadworks, helps to really give a sense of place.  An interesting ride indeed.', 'time': '11:33 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'I wondered where I would head with this one... 🙄', 'time': '12:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'I wondered where I would head with this one... 🙄', 'time': '12:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",y3ze0w,Like Home,Martin Ross,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y3ze0w/,/short-story/y3ze0w/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Friendship', 'Sad']",12 likes,"
2006I barely recognized him. I mean, there was no mistaking Craig’s long square jaw, the shock-blue eyes behind now-superfluous designer frames. His name was on a whiteboard under a bolted flatscreen, and the others loosely arranged about the tight, spare space would testify to the fact of it all.It was Craig, in rough sketch in a nightmare journal, deep lines and gaunt hints and his essence charcoaled in by a tortured artist wholly unfamiliar with the model. He managed a smile as I approached bedside. It was a flickering glint at the bottom of a deep well at midnight, and it took effort. As did mine, and I placed a hand on his gowned shoulder as if to brace myself at the rim of that fathomless well.“Miss you, bud,” I said, locking in on that distant light even as I lightly squeezed what felt to be bone and little else. “Miss lunch.”Realizing that was about what there was to say. A short jaunt off the frontage road that fed into the sprawling offices onto the Beltway with the dashboard dispensing Edie Brickell or that other one I’d always ask him to identify and remark as how I really liked that and would have to seek her out until the next biweekly lunch rolled around. It was always a great 70 or so minutes (we were salaried, and we could vanish for days leaving behind chaos and bloodstains, as long as the work product materialized by Friday). Snarky social commentary, unfettered corporate catharsis, abstract BS, almost anything no holds barred.It was the smile, like one of those intrusive lane sensors in the later models except his would dim if the conversation threatened to meander over the solid double line. That line usually came up quick – the perforated line of trust seemed always just this side of the hairpin curve or the low-visibility rise. I eventually learned how to subtly crimp that wheel and, eventually, how to keep safely in my lane.And that was about Craig and me. I was the last one, so I gave him a last squeeze and something I hoped to sell as a smile, and we shuffled out. Well, the two of us – Louis, Craig’s former boss and the host of this impromptu final “lunch” with Craig Dannameyer, lingered. I found out only later Louis had orchestrated three previous living visitations, two of us each, all at the spur, no prep. A long goodbye, Raymond Chandler notwithstanding.A colleague of Craig’s was pissed, hurt twice over after his trip to the Walnut Avenue Nursing Home two days later. It had been an abrupt departure, maybe seven months prior, with no explanations or farewell drinks at the Chili’s down the block. Like the rest of us, he’d earned the trust never given. But I got it. Fear and religion crackled fiercely through the folks we served and counseled and stumped for, and Craig had come up “through the counties,” specifically the one where Harold Dannameyer kept Holsteins and beans. And as for us, well, Craig didn’t want us to see him after AIDS had had its go, until it just really didn’t matter a fuck how anybody saw him any more.Louis’ administrative assistant Anna was the ride today, and we trudged carefully across the slushy-but-slick nursing home lot without a word. At one point, she grabbed my elbow and guided me out of a faceplant. On safe ground, I planted a gloved palm on the hood of Anna’s Taurus, took a bracing breath of late winter air, and without preface broke into loud, ugly, gasping, convulsive sobs. Anyone spotting us likely would have assumed father and daughter, in that generational inversion where child becomes parent, patiently hugging through helpless parental grief. They wouldn’t have given it much thought, save perhaps to ponder what they someday might leave behind the Walnut Ave’s security doors.**Louis asked me to write the eulogy a month later. The service was in Jersey County down south, while I was unavoidably headed for a biotech conference in Boston. “Mike, Craig said he didn’t want some FFA graduation speech,” Louis informed me. “Craig didn’t really want this whole show, either, but he said if his folks insisted, he wanted somebody who actually knew him to have the final word.” Truth be told, this was about what I could do a little too late.I was careful, of course, as had been the hometown obit I’d surfed up in preparation. Back in my Southern Indiana daily days, the local funeral home had handed off the obit of a middle-aged woman who’d by whatever means had ended her own life. The female sole survivor listed was curiously unidentified, and being the officious young sprout eager to graduate from death notes and honor rolls, I told my editor I was calling Jason Kittleson at Kittleson and Calhoun for details. Stu waved me into his office and quietly but just a tad too harshly read me the facts of small-town life and provincialism, his view of who this whole “death racket” actually was for, and how we served who got left behind even when or maybe especially because no one else would. Stu never was a really Quixote, but he knew how to keep innocent folks out of the windmill blades.It was about two weeks after they sent Craig off that I kicked off a new round of occasional lunches with Louis. Our government relations director was a Louisiana boy who’d wound up trading cotton for corn, and he was affably political on the clock and musing and esoteric over a plate of rib tips and cole slaw at a cinderblock shack on the deep west side where almost no one much clock-adjacent ventured. As promised, he conferred a butcher-wrapped parcel of some unspecified swamp meat to our ancient pit master, Cyrus Mead, with whom he struck up some brotherhood of smoke and soul first time they met. If Craig lived – and ultimately died – having to keep his mask in place, Louis had a country gentleman’s manner and an easy wit that seemed to serve him at any compass point. I had my work, I did it pretty well, and self-deprecation and a closed mouth had become a fairly effortless costume to slip on and off.“Well, Andrew’s still a mite frosty with me – he takes it personal Craig couldn’t confide in y’all, or for that matter me,” Louis smiled sadly. “Craig lived fearful. Wasn’t necessarily who he trusted, but who you or Andrew might place your misguided trust in. Remember what you told me Joel Grayling said first time he spotted you two heading out to lunch?”“He closed my door and asked if I was sure I wanted one of the guys to see me eating alone with Craig, if I wanted to risk what they might think or say.”“And just what’d you tell him back?”“That even if I were so inclined, anyone with a lick of sense would realize Craig had much better taste. And that my friends were my friends, and to hell with what people think. Sounds pretty pompous now I say it aloud.”Louis grinned. “Principle does these days. But I will say, it’s an easy principle for you. Now, don’t get your back up. Why you think you feel that way, are willing to take that risk?”I laughed. “Well shit, I was on the yearbook staff, the speech team, for crying out loud the Creative Writing Club in high school. For a while, I thought ‘faggot’ was my actual name. I got to where I could laugh it off, as my mom woulda said, considering the source. But at some point I wondered what if that was your life, if instead of trying to get your goat, the morons had nailed it in one? And this is what life might be from here on out?”“And you moved on. And, see, that’s the jist of the matter. ‘What’s bred in the bone will not come out of the flesh,’ as Mr. Daniel Defoe is reputed to have said. Boys like Craig and Joel, they’re anchored where they were bred, no matter where they wind up. That’s a mighty pull, even if you’re anchored in fear and prejudice and some pretty powerful false prophets. Home’s where the heart is – don’t remember who claimed that one, even if it’s a pretty heartless place. Those weekends Craig ran off to Chicago, St. Louis -- those weren’t his sanctuary. He didn’t know how to find his sanctuary, or how to live there, live with himself. You done, Mike? I need to settle up with Cyrus, and I forgot something I needed to tell him ‘bout how to fix up that cocodri.”**Louis was a member in strong standing of what Grandma proudly called The Clean-Plate Club, but a styrofoam clamshell bounced on the console. Cyrus had presented it to Louis with great dignity as we left – what my friend called a lagniappe. I Yahoo’d it back at the office.It was a starter complex tucked in off The Beltway, behind the Red Lobster and a sprawling carpet showroom. Eight years ago, I’d inhabited a nearly identical quadruplex, mine behind a Chinese buffet that graced Poverty Transition Row with a powerful and glorious garlic perfume. I was registered there, as well, as a Clean-Plate Club platinum member.Middle of a Tuesday, a single vehicle inhabited Unit 125-128’s lot. A blocky old man in jeans and a tidy short-sleeved plaid shirt of ‘80s Penney’s or K-Mart vintage hefted a box effortlessly into the Ram bed with a thud that belied his wobbly, seemingly weary demeanor. Positioning Holsteins and manhandling alfalfa bales and grief had toned Harold Dannameyer.“This’ll just take a minute,” Louis promised, waving to the bereaved farmer and retrieving a paper box from the backseat floor. He carted what I assumed to be Craig’s office effects over to the gleaming black Dodge. Harold accepted the box and a clap on the shoulder, and they chatted for a moment before the dairyman hobbled to his cab, stretched inside, and hobbled over to me. I took in a long gulp of early summer air, braced myself for a second, and climbed out.“Harold,” I said, smiling deferentially.“Mike,” he echoed. He placed a calloused paw on the hood of Louis’ Victoria, gripped my hand with the other, and without preface, yanked me into a hug.“Thank you,” Harold choked. “What you said, wrote. You know, thanks. Just, thanks.” He locked into the embrace, I suspected as much to shield what was now soaking into my shirt.“Hey,” I offered, patting him awkwardly until he released. Harold grinned, but I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was shimmering in his wet eyes. I had a fairly good idea, or I could conjecture or maybe even hope, which was the wrong word for it. Whatever it was, he’d take it back home, put it on a shelf somewhere next to his mask and Craig’s knick-knacks and photos.Then he remembered, and extended a plastic case at me, pausing to study my face curiously.“He said he could trust you with this,” Harold related slowly, a question as much as explanation. He opened his mouth again, then his lips quivered shut, he nodded once and squeezed my shoulder, as if bracing for the journey home. As Harold hobbled back to his truck and Louis back to his car, I remembered to look down at the CD. Norah Jones. Feels Like Home.“Oh. Right,"" I mumbled.      
","July 22, 2023 00:01","[[{'Joe Malgeri': 'Very interesting, well written story, Martin, much of it sounded very convincing and real.', 'time': '00:47 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Joe. Based on a work friend of mine. Only the names and the BBQ joint changed.', 'time': '01:00 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Joe. Based on a work friend of mine. Only the names and the BBQ joint changed.', 'time': '01:00 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'You are such a story teller! Aced it again.', 'time': '15:38 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Mary — this one was about 90 percent how it really happened. Your support means a lot to me!!', 'time': '15:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""So much of what you write is from experience but you never claim creative nonfiction. That's the mystery about you."", 'time': '16:22 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': 'I should consider doing that. I couldn’t and realized I shouldn’t make a mystery out of this one, but I want to keep Dodge a viewpoint or at least touchstone character whether I’m doing crime, a philosophical or supernatural story, or, and you’re right, a creative nonfiction story like this one. Harry Kemelman, the ‘50s-‘70s writer who created the wonderful Rabbi Small mysteries, wrote a non-detective Rabbi novel to explore Judaism and Jewish identity in an entertaining manner. Thanks.', 'time': '17:36 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Mary — this one was about 90 percent how it really happened. Your support means a lot to me!!', 'time': '15:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""So much of what you write is from experience but you never claim creative nonfiction. That's the mystery about you."", 'time': '16:22 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': 'I should consider doing that. I couldn’t and realized I shouldn’t make a mystery out of this one, but I want to keep Dodge a viewpoint or at least touchstone character whether I’m doing crime, a philosophical or supernatural story, or, and you’re right, a creative nonfiction story like this one. Harry Kemelman, the ‘50s-‘70s writer who created the wonderful Rabbi Small mysteries, wrote a non-detective Rabbi novel to explore Judaism and Jewish identity in an entertaining manner. Thanks.', 'time': '17:36 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""So much of what you write is from experience but you never claim creative nonfiction. That's the mystery about you."", 'time': '16:22 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'I should consider doing that. I couldn’t and realized I shouldn’t make a mystery out of this one, but I want to keep Dodge a viewpoint or at least touchstone character whether I’m doing crime, a philosophical or supernatural story, or, and you’re right, a creative nonfiction story like this one. Harry Kemelman, the ‘50s-‘70s writer who created the wonderful Rabbi Small mysteries, wrote a non-detective Rabbi novel to explore Judaism and Jewish identity in an entertaining manner. Thanks.', 'time': '17:36 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'I should consider doing that. I couldn’t and realized I shouldn’t make a mystery out of this one, but I want to keep Dodge a viewpoint or at least touchstone character whether I’m doing crime, a philosophical or supernatural story, or, and you’re right, a creative nonfiction story like this one. Harry Kemelman, the ‘50s-‘70s writer who created the wonderful Rabbi Small mysteries, wrote a non-detective Rabbi novel to explore Judaism and Jewish identity in an entertaining manner. Thanks.', 'time': '17:36 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'this is good. you write so much!', 'time': '00:55 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks! I enjoy it!', 'time': '01:30 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'welcome.', 'time': '08:54 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks! I enjoy it!', 'time': '01:30 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'welcome.', 'time': '08:54 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'welcome.', 'time': '08:54 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",h8m74z,slice of pie,Colleen Ireland,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/h8m74z/,/short-story/h8m74z/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Speculative']",12 likes,"
From a short distance, with cylinder ringlets, round saucer eyes, and peachy complexion, she appeared as a historical fairytale dream, a Miss Colonial pageant queen. Her rosebud lips formed rhotic consonant-r’s, all her words moving to the sounds of a Tidewater settler. An accent I was familiar with but couldn’t name until now. In her hand, a scarlet red crayon; the letters, CRO, were written onto a Muslim white wall in the Noix House main room. Turning to look over her shoulder, she caught me watching; wispy curls framed her apple-cheek face, lash-lined eyes narrowing, not at me, but at the dayshift nurse approaching from behind. Miss Colonial turned back around, facing the wall, starting on a fourth letter; the titled straight line telling me it was to be a capital A.  The nurse brushed past me, her voice level, “Ok, how about if you give me the crayon now; you know you can’t draw-” Spinning around fast, Miss Colonial’s angelic aura, a crossbody 1592 satin sash instantly evaporated, celestial feminine fanning out into the pink neck frill of a hissing lizard, sharp teeth ready to rip through the fast approaching medically trained meat. Stopping in her tracks, hands on hips, the nurse let Miss Colonial hiss, and a proper stand-off between pilgrim and healer began. The room quickly cleared, orderlys shuttling patients back to our rooms. I wanted to watch but could only hear the loud trills and clicks as the scarlet red crayon was forcibly removed from Miss Colonial’s clenched fist. 
 
Ear against my door, a muffled scuffle ensued, and then silence. The count of my heartbeats told me it was two minutes between the silence and the crackling voice over the loudspeaker announcing we could return to the main room. 
 
Settled back into our usual seats, beige barrel accent chairs not designed for the kind of lounging the room teased, Victor turned to me, “That’s what happens when you don’t take your meds. The little belle should know by now this isn’t her ball.” 
 
Victor, in his faded crimson velvet jacket, waving an invented cigarette, tucked me under his sinewy wing the day after I arrived, explaining the behaviors of other patients to me, a newbie.  Institutionalized many times since 1975, Victor readily confessed, “I’ve seen it all, so many versions of the same porcelain doll. In and out of the medicated box, I like to call the mindlock.” 
 
“Mindlock? That’s good! Like under lock and key!”
 
Victor scowled with a low growl, “You can’t use that line; it’s mine.”
 
A paranoid schizophrenia who cut all the wires in his house and then placed a tin foil hat on his taxidermied mouse; Victor didn’t trust other people using anything of his, especially words. Nervous, perspiration popping, I shifted in my seat and course-corrected, 
 
“Yes, yes, of course. I won’t use it. Mindlock is totally yours, I promise...”
 
Grinning thin tobacco-stained teeth, Victor seemed satisfied with my back-peddle, softening his stance, adding, “It’s for your own protection, dearie. You know, not repeating what I say. They’re always listening to me.”
 
Nodding along to show Victor, I agreed; to exactly what I left it for Victor to determine. The risk of Victor’s verbal claw scratches and my proverbial flying fur was enough to send me to a compliant place, cramped but safe. 
 
A woman in scuffed black ballet flats glided up, stopped in front of me and did a little toe-heel-toe-heel dance, exclaiming with a wide grin and dramatic arm sweep,
 
“My grandmother taught me this! Her name was Alice, and she lived in Wonderland!” 
 
On my third day, this was the same woman who told me I looked like her sister, Jackie Kennedy. Chest puffed with pride; she also told me she was related to the British Royal family and Pope Francis, who, in turn, was related to her second cousin, once removed, France. 
 
“You mean, as in the country?” 
 
“Yes. yes, of course! There’s only one France, silly!”
 
A man named Joe shouted for an orderly to change the television channel.
 
“Nobody wants to watch this shit! Cooking shows are disgusting; these so-called chefs with their loose hair and unwashed hands! Look at that!”  Joe pointed to the TV, where a woman was preparing a garlic-stuffed chicken. “She wiped her hands on that towel after touching raw poultry. Where’s the fucking soap and water?!” 
 
Joe’s former wife ran a diner; his grandmother made the famous peanut butter pies sold by the slice in the window case. 
 
Another man, closer to a boy because of his age, paced nearby, pulling at his dreadlocks, trapped with the rest of us in what Victor referred to as the “giant waiting room.” The room where we waited for all things, lined up single file for breakfast, snacks, lunch, dinner, and bedtime snacks. The room where we waited for our vitals to be taken, medications dispensed, and art therapy to start, only to be interrupted by a social worker or psychiatrist. Called out of art class, walked across the hall to a small library stuffed with worn paperbacks and board games, missing all the critical pieces. Every one-on-one check-in starts with the same three questions; do you have thoughts of self-harm? Harming others? Are you seeing things others don’t? 
 
“You mean as in hallucinations?”
 
“Yes, hallucinations.”
 
I wish I were hallucinating, like when I was tripping on shrooms, and a big pink fluffy bunny hopped across the road. But even if I saw something others didn’t, I knew better than to say. Not even Miss Colonial would share her hallucinations; no one wanted the shot. The enormous needle full of medicine made the visions disappear. 
 
The giant waiting room where Joe waited impatiently for the channel to change from Food Network to FX and Jackie Kennedy’s sister waited for it to turn back again. “Cooking shows remind me of my brother, Emeril. He used to be famous too.” The waiting room that would clear for little Miss Colonial’s dragon lady tantrums, forcing everyone to their assigned solo spaces, eventually returning to the waiting room, where the countdowns began again. 
 
The glare of natural light could be blinding bright; the free world is just on the other side of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Patients weren’t allowed outside except as a special treat, the reward of fresh air for those who cared. My stay didn’t last long enough to compare inside to outside time. The nights I was there totaled eight, and when I finally left on day nine, it felt like walking out of purgatory and through the trumpeting gates of Heaven. 
 
There’s something to be said for a peanut butter pie slice of your life spent behind the window glass of a psychiatric center.  It only takes a few days, letting go of all you know, to have things make more sense on the other side of the fence—the side of your life where grass doesn’t grow greener. When you have the time and ability to explore your human fragility, it changes you in seemingly impossible ways. One of many things I’ve learned by being unwillingly sent away is that none of us stay in one place for long. Unless you’re a frog in a small pond, stagnant and stale, change seeks you out; a little or a lot depends on your life plot. The grass beneath your feet, the company you keep, whether you cry fake tears or naturally weep, it all comes and goes, little bits or in droves.
 
In a state-of-the-art facility like Noix House, there’s no need to save face; the entire point is to be yourself, not sit on a shelf. How else does one get better except to storm all the weather? Flash floods of fear, earthquake-shaking tears, the hot sun of a scorched betrayal, cool rain of shame, and the breeze of settling into your flaws with ease. Tornados, hurricanes, lightning, and thunder, all force you to wonder, is this it? Or can I be the mother who controls my nature?
 
Even something as simple as a name change can up or down your game. Colonial Miss called herself Rainbow Army. Jackie Kennedy’s sister settled on Lily, then Milly, and then Tilly, in honor of her best friend, Meg. One of the three Heathers changed her name to Kim after her Kardashian girlfriend. “She likes it when I copy her. It’s all part of our connection. The more I’m like her, the more I become her. Two as one is so much more fun, don’t you agree?”
 
Nodding yes, just like I did with Victor, I added, “You’re right. It really heightens the intimacy.” 
 
I’m not a trained medical professional; I only know what I experience, and in my experience, surrounded by roses, prickly pears, and daisies, all labeled crazy, letting a person talk helps them walk. Which direction isn’t part of my reflection, I can’t control where others go, only what I know. And I know that when you move through life, staying fluid, not stopping to peer into other’s minds, guessing what makes them tick or keeps them thick, life can be spent in the present. A much better place, even in the space behind the case. Because just like peanut butter pie, it’s not a forever stay, only temporary, right down to the last plate-licking crumb. Yum.
 
","July 20, 2023 00:49","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is great Colleen my favourite of yours so far. I am in awe of your descriptions.\nAlso...the three Heathers. I thought the Kim name change was in relation to Kim Walker who planned one of the Heathers (and sadly passed away shortly after filming)\nGreat work', 'time': '14:54 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Entertaining, good ideas, and interesting. Although, I guess you didn't realize it, but I was the guy named Joe who shouted for the orderly to change the T.V. channel. Damn, what a small world, I had no idea that was you in there with us. Also, that was my red crayon that Miss Colonial stole from me. If you see her again tell her I'll trade her my Bert and Ernie thermos for my red crayon back."", 'time': '20:24 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Colleen Ireland': ""Hahaha! Glad you enjoyed it, and yes I'll let Miss Colonial know you're willing to trade! Thanks for reading and your comments!"", 'time': '09:34 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Colleen Ireland': ""Hahaha! Glad you enjoyed it, and yes I'll let Miss Colonial know you're willing to trade! Thanks for reading and your comments!"", 'time': '09:34 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",qete32,The Professor’s Secret,Nina Herbst,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qete32/,/short-story/qete32/,Character,0,['Fiction'],12 likes,"
 
	Morning seeped through the window and swirled about the room. Thin white curtains did little to stop it. Bits of dust sparkled in the air as Professor Miles Clark sat with a stack of papers and red pen, reading and grading. 
	The squeaking sound of sneakers jarred the Professor from his concentration and he turned to look toward the door, glasses slipping an inch down his nose. 
	“Ah, Julia! Turning in your work I see! It’s about time, young lady! You really do like to press a deadline, don’t you!” Professor Clark said with a smile. 
	“Haven’t missed a deadline yet, have I?” she replied, passing over her papers. 
	“No, not a single one! I suppose some of us work best under pressure.” 
	“Is that how you worked when you were in school?” she queried the aging Professor. 
	“Oh, not me, not me…I’d say I was more methodical. More patient in getting done what had to be done,” he said, as that familiar dreamy look crossed his face which meant he was wandering way back in his memories. 
	Taking a seat in a nearby chair, she waited for the story that was undoubtedly to come. 
She enjoyed the Professor’s stories, and didn’t mind sitting for a listen, despite how busy she knew her morning was. 
	Professor Clark set down his pen. 
	“These can wait a moment while I tell you about something, something I’ve not told anyone.” Professor Clark whispered as he leaned in closer.
	“Oh? Something that happened while you were in school?” she leaned as well. 
	“Yes, a long time ago. But it feels like yesterday. Isn’t that how memories sometimes are?” he said. 
	“Quite so, Professor.” she nodded. 
	“Back when I was in school, things got to be very competitive. In my final year of classes, last semester, I was determined to come out on top. Top of my class, top of my friends, top of the world in my book. I wanted to show everyone who ever doubted me what I was capable of. And in doing so, I learned just what I was capable of to get there,” he said as he turned his eyes to the window. A shadow seemed to pass across his face. 
	Professor Clark’s stories were typically about trips he’d taken, books he’d read, or harmless anecdotes. What was he getting at today? 
	“I never meant to hurt him. It just…happened that way. He was the only student my equal, had been for years. I knew he was the only one standing in my way of being first in my class. First! I had dreamed of being first in my class since the day I started school! I wouldn’t let Robert have it. It was mine, you see. I worked and earned it. Robert didn’t have to work towards anything. Life was handed to him on a platter, and I was so tired of it. While I spent weekends in the library studying for exams, Robert spent his with his friends. Parties and drinking and drugs, you name it. How did I know? Robert was my roommate. A random pairing by the school, and we became ‘friends’. You know what they say Julia, keep your friends close…”
	“And your enemies closer?” she finished.
	“Exactly. I remained his roommate year after year. Endured, more like. He was intolerable at best. So messy, so loud, so inconsiderate. How was he getting top grades? I knew something wasn’t right. I waited. I watched. And I finally got it out of him one night, as he wandered in drunk and blabbering. I asked him just how it was he could party all the time, never study, yet still ace everything. His brain was swimming in booze as he told me how his father made sure he always got the best of everything. Money talks, and the school listened, he had said laughing, then passed out in his bed.”
	“So, his father was paying off the school to get him top grades in everything? That’s just awful, Professor Clark! What did you do once you found out?” she asked. 
	“Well, I needed to be smart about it. I needed a way to expose him, his father, and the school in such a way as to make them all come clean about it. But my time was limited. It was almost graduation at that point, and I had to act fast. I needed a foolproof plan. And I had one,” Professor Clark said and paused. He folded his hands, and looked down at the years gathered in wrinkled hills and valleys across his skin. And then he continued. 
	“I set him up. I left a note on our door for him to find, telling him to meet at midnight in the alley off Birch Street. The note said ‘I know your secret’. Of course he would come, and I had planned to confront him there. I had clothing all in black, even a ski mask and hat. He’d never recognize me, and I’d tell him to come clean about the whole thing or I’d go to the Dean myself. Did I actually plan to do so? I’m not sure. And I never got to find out if I would have gone. Things…went south,” he said, his voice trailing off at the end. 
	“What happened that night?” she asked, her heart racing to know what Professor Clark did to Robert all those years ago. 
	“I was waiting in the shadows. I had my back pressed to a door in a darkened back entrance to an apartment building. The alley in June stunk with trash as cans lined the small street. I was early. I didn’t want Robert to see me coming, so I could surprise him. I saw him coming, right on time. Which was unusual for him, since he was always late to everything. As I watched him make his way down the alley in the dark, a saw a larger dark figure approaching behind him. I nearly shouted for Robert to turn around, to watch out, but it was over before I could even utter a sound. The dark figure swiftly approached, and Robert never saw him coming. He went down to the ground with little more than a gasp. The dark figure went through his pockets, took his wallet, and took off into the night. I stood frozen. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I ran to Robert’s body, checked for a pulse, and found none. He was gone. And it was because of me. In a panic, I ran as fast as I could back to my dorm room. I took off my hat and ski mask as I ran, and once in my room, changed out of the rest. It wasn’t at all what I had planned. It wasn’t at all what I had wanted. And yet…yet now Robert was out of the way. News of the mugging and murder swept the school. Nobody questioned Robert being out by himself at midnight, probably headed to a party they said. Only I knew the real reason he was there that night. In my valedictorian speech at graduation, I was received with a standing ovation. My fellow classmates knew my ‘loss’, and suddenly I was the most popular and well-liked student on campus. Was I sad about losing my roommate? I’m not so sure. Was I happy about being first in my class? Absolutely. I had gotten what I wanted and worked for. Everything after that fell into place, with acceptance into the best graduate school, and eventually earning my Doctorate and becoming the Head of the English Department. And now, Julia, you know what happened. My little secret is now our little secret, “ Professor Clark said with a smile. 
	“Wow, Professor Clark. That is quite a story. And you’ve been holding onto that secret all these years. Don’t worry, it’s safe with me,” she assured him. 
	“I knew I could count on you, Julia, my best student!” Professor Clark replied. 
	“And now, Professor, I must get back to my work. You know how it is, there’s always something to do!” she said as she stood up to leave. 
	“See you tomorrow with your next assignment!” the Professor called after her as she made her way to the door. 
	Jen closed the door, and stood for a moment in the hallway. She was running back through Professor Clark’s story, and trying to decide if she should tell someone. Would it matter at this point? Maybe it was best to lay it to rest. 
	She pulled her stethoscope from her lab coat pocket, and draped it back around her neck. She made her way to the Nurse’s station, as she did every day after her visit with Professor Clark to “turn in her work”, which was a printed Wikipedia article about any classic book she Googled that day. Today she turned in something by Poe, something about a heart. She would give it to the Professor who took out his red pen, and spent the day making notes in the margins and finally assigning it a grade. He didn’t have much time left, as the cancer was eating away at his organs. And dementia was eating away at his mind. The doctors had told her his final days in the hospice wing were upon him. She would continue to see him each morning and drop off her work til the end. His best student, Julia, whoever she was. 
	“And how is the Professor today, Jen?” Kelly asked from behind her clipboard. She was making notes for the morning staff to address at morning meeting before the shifts changed. 
	“Same as always. Grading his papers, and telling stories. And…I get the feeling he’s ready for the end now,” Jen said, her face suddenly serious. 
	“How do you know?” Kelly asked her, seeing the look on her face. 
	“I think he may have told his last tale…” Jen said, and glanced down the sterile white hallway towards Room 106. 
 
	Down the hall, Professor Clark felt a sense of relief having finally shared the truth about Robert. And he closed his eyes. 
","July 21, 2023 11:42","[[{'Bob Long Jr': ""Another wonderful story but I have to ask if when you wrote thus, was it written as a made up story by the Professor or a true story ? You know it's not obvious !"", 'time': '16:59 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Bob! Well, within the frame of the story, it’s true for the characters. Something he was holding onto. \nBut the whole thing is just fiction that I made up. Is that what you mean? \nThanks for reading my story!! 😄', 'time': '17:48 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bob Long Jr': ""Well I was curious whether the Professor made up that story or if he was truly confessing. Dementia plays tricks on the mind so I wasn't sure. But your statement that it was something he was holding on to tells me he was confessing."", 'time': '02:20 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Often long term memories can be intact, which is what this was. And why he was calling the nurse by the name of a former student. I worked in nursing homes for several years, so that’s where the idea came from, although it’s a made up story!', 'time': '12:46 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Bob! Well, within the frame of the story, it’s true for the characters. Something he was holding onto. \nBut the whole thing is just fiction that I made up. Is that what you mean? \nThanks for reading my story!! 😄', 'time': '17:48 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bob Long Jr': ""Well I was curious whether the Professor made up that story or if he was truly confessing. Dementia plays tricks on the mind so I wasn't sure. But your statement that it was something he was holding on to tells me he was confessing."", 'time': '02:20 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Often long term memories can be intact, which is what this was. And why he was calling the nurse by the name of a former student. I worked in nursing homes for several years, so that’s where the idea came from, although it’s a made up story!', 'time': '12:46 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bob Long Jr': ""Well I was curious whether the Professor made up that story or if he was truly confessing. Dementia plays tricks on the mind so I wasn't sure. But your statement that it was something he was holding on to tells me he was confessing."", 'time': '02:20 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Often long term memories can be intact, which is what this was. And why he was calling the nurse by the name of a former student. I worked in nursing homes for several years, so that’s where the idea came from, although it’s a made up story!', 'time': '12:46 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Often long term memories can be intact, which is what this was. And why he was calling the nurse by the name of a former student. I worked in nursing homes for several years, so that’s where the idea came from, although it’s a made up story!', 'time': '12:46 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'I did not see that ending coming, but it made the whole story. Such a sweet way for Jen to help ease prof. Clark through his last days. Great job.', 'time': '10:35 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Full of understanding and caring unselfish emotions. Listening can go a long way, often even better than advice... Nice work, Nina...', 'time': '01:10 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Spot on observation, Joe. Thank you, and thanks for reading! :)', 'time': '17:47 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Spot on observation, Joe. Thank you, and thanks for reading! :)', 'time': '17:47 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'I did not see the twist. Very well executed Nina. Jen is obviously full of heart to help him out with ""papers"" to grade, even to listen to his stories. As someone whose mother has dementia sometimes they just want to be heard, even if it nonsense.  Really enjoyable read', 'time': '08:44 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thank you, Kevin. Sorry to hear about your mom. I’ve had family go through it too, and I think you’re right. They do want to be heard if we will listen, and sometimes just be with them. \nI’m glad I was able to pull off the twist in this one :) thanks so much for reading!', 'time': '09:21 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thank you, Kevin. Sorry to hear about your mom. I’ve had family go through it too, and I think you’re right. They do want to be heard if we will listen, and sometimes just be with them. \nI’m glad I was able to pull off the twist in this one :) thanks so much for reading!', 'time': '09:21 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Final release.', 'time': '19:23 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Final indeed!', 'time': '19:37 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Final indeed!', 'time': '19:37 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",9xa585,Pot Plants and Self-Help Books,Carina Caccia,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9xa585/,/short-story/9xa585/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad', 'Contemporary']",11 likes,"
It is here in a lamplit living room, surrounded by pot plants and self-help books, where we meet our protagonist, Marta. She sits in a cloud of cigarette smoke, ashing it every few tokes in a red metal tray painted with gold elephants. Her daughter brought it back from Thailand—another toke of her cigarette—and, as always, had thought of her. Thank goodness someone does, otherwise she might go mad; no amount of pot plants and self-help books can compensate for a child’s love. They do, however, silence the scream of solitude for a while.
She grew that Chinese evergreen from a seed, she raised that monstera for three years, and she was delighted when her baby photos climbed from their pots, their long, green arms reaching for the ground; this is the refuge she’s made for herself, as advised by one of her scruffy and dog-eared books that champions creating an environment conducive to healing.
Marta hovers on the edge of the couch, her elbows on her knees, leaning towards the television; the cigarette sits upright and obedient between her fingers as she makes two fists. The thud of the tennis ball pervades the living room—the rally beating like a heart—and yes! the applause shakes the silence, shakes the speakers on the TV cabinet. Marta’s cigarette crumples slightly, peering out from her closed fist, and her eyes sparkle beneath the white light of the television, her heart thumps. This Alcazar is just a kid, really; he’s just a kid, our kid. I mean, Marta was born here, too. And if Carlitos can do it, that means any of them could have done it. Could have. She shudders at the thought, at the phrasing.
There’s so much promise in youth, and it’s as palpable as the glass Marta raises to her lips, the beer that cools her throat; the promise of youth is as tangible as the Chinese evergreen leaves bobbing beneath the fan. This promise makes us believe in the fruition of dreams, and yet it reminds us that we gave up on our own; it reminds us of our own eroded hope, our own eroding youth, and the universal excuse: we never stood a chance in this tempest we call life. But then we see a nobody like us become a somebody; and it is then, when that nobody plucks themselves from obscurity, that we know we’ve lied to ourselves. 
Another kiss of beer, a stain of lipstick on the cup’s lip.
Marta forgives herself for all the things she hasn’t done, for all the things she hasn’t become. Motherhood, after all, is the biggest accomplishment of her life: all twenty-five years of it.
“Mum.”
Marta pauses the television as her son comes trudging down the hallway.
“Where are your car keys? I’m taking Nora home.”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Petrol.”
“They’re in my bag,” she says, nodding towards the dining table.
Alex rummages through his mother’s bag and finds the jangle of keys.
“Hi,” says Nora, emerging from the hallway. She waves at Marta with a timid enthusiasm.
“Hello,” says Marta, smiling. 
Nora doesn’t usually see Marta leant over like this, elbows on her knees. It isn’t her usual posture: a leg draped over the other, a languid agility, a catlike sway in her wrists, shoulders, hips. She looks to the television for an explanation: a static Alcaraz holding up his racket.
“You’re watching the tennis!” says Nora, grinning.
“The kid’s only twenty,” says Marta.
“I know!”
“We’ve got to go,” says Alex. He’s already by the door, waiting with a mask of patience that contradicts his words.
“Bye,” says Nora, with a smile and a shrug.
“Get home safely.” 
The door closes behind them, and Marta takes another pull of her cigarette, another sip of beer. She thinks she likes Nora; she’s always smiling, and giggles trickle out from the bedroom from time to time. To Marta’s surprise, so too does her son’s laughter. He doesn’t laugh around her, not anymore, not for a long time; and all her attempts at joviality are either met with a curled lip and derision, incomprehension, or at best indifference. She feels that she’s slowly been conditioned out of her humour, out of her happiness. Does Nora even know her son? 
There have been a few times where Nora hasn’t understood one of her jokes—I’m sorry, I didn’t get that—and Alex has laughed, neither do I! Nora smiles apologetically and says it’s due to the language barrier; and when Marta explains, she understands, while her very own son shakes his head.
Alex is a lot like his father, Marta thinks, who also belittled her when in company, and now that hijo de puta was taking her to cou—She shakes off the thought, and inhales deeply. What you think is what you feel, says one of her books.
She ashes her cigarette in the red tray and stares into the golden elephants, their curled trunks. Her daughter likes Nora, too; she’d seen a happiness there, a playfulness.
Marta sees more. She can’t remember when it was exactly—an afternoon lunch, perhaps—when she saw a familiar sparkle in her eyes, that promise of youth. You gave up on your dreams, said Nora, but your dreams never gave up on you. They keep popping up, don’t they? And we repress them. Her conviction was palpable, as palpable as the glass Marta raises to her lips, the beer that cools her throat; the promise of youth that she saw in Nora was as tangible as the Chinese evergreen leaves bobbing beneath the fan. Nora, she feels, is a lot like her, and not at all like her son.
***
A key turns in the door, and Alex enters the lamplit living room with a familiar scowl. He trudges towards the dining table, drops Marta’s keys back in her bag, and enters the kitchen.
She hears the fridge open, and the clank of cans; she hears the thump of a cabinet door, the crackling of plastic.
“Don’t drink too much,” she calls, pausing the television.
Alex emerges from the kitchen, a six-pack of beer and a bag of chips cradled in his arms.
“You’re a hypocrite and an alcoholic,” he snaps, before shaking his head and storming off. There’s something safe about his mother’s unconditional love, about taking her for granted and punishing her for all the things she hasn’t done right.
Marta hears his bedroom door close, hears the click and fizzle of a can being opened. She glances around the room, her refuge, the photos hanging from their pots; and she knows, as surely as she knows the void, that no amount of pot plants and self-help books can compensate for a child’s love; nor can they silence the solitude that screams a little louder in her son’s presence.
She presses play, but she can’t see the rackets or the court, she can’t hear the applause, she can’t feel the promise. 
Another kiss of beer.
She knows Alex will continue punishing her for the rest of her life. She’s the reason he’s like this, he says, and instead of doing anything to change his life, he chooses to dwell in his victimhood. There’s no sparkle there, no promise of youth; just the dull, empty eyes of her darling son. And it is here in a lamplit living room, surrounded by pot plants and self-help books, where we leave our protagonist to her thoughts.
","July 21, 2023 22:28","[[{'Anne Shillingsburg': '“There’s something safe about his mother’s unconditional love, about taking her for granted and punishing her for all the things she hasn’t done right.” So true. Kids are this, what you have here in the story. Potentially magical creatures, but also so punishing, and the role of parent is impossible to get right.', 'time': '13:58 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Carina Caccia': ""Thank you, Anne. I'm glad I was able to capture that! You're spot on, it is impossible to get right... If only we were all a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving of others' flaws (i.e., their humanity). Thanks for reading!"", 'time': '20:22 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Carina Caccia': ""Thank you, Anne. I'm glad I was able to capture that! You're spot on, it is impossible to get right... If only we were all a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving of others' flaws (i.e., their humanity). Thanks for reading!"", 'time': '20:22 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'First I thought it was ""potted plants and self help books"" ... then I see its both, plant care and pot care.. you def get through some of the pain of parenthood. Sometimes I wish my children could have stayed 9 years old and clingy forever.', 'time': '04:08 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Carina Caccia': 'Thanks for your comment, Scott! I\'m glad to have captured the pain of parenthood. Sorry about your little ones growing up and all. Every stage of their development has something exciting to offer, I\'m sure! Regarding the title, there\'s actually no pot care here, lmao! ""Pot plant"" in British English is synonymous with ""potted plant"" or ""houseplant."" I think I prefer your interpretation, but unfortunately Marta is just smoking tobacco.', 'time': '09:28 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Oh, I spend the whole story thinking it was pot. Maybe I have to reread?', 'time': '13:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Carina Caccia': 'Haha, now I wish it were! Are you from the States, by any chance? I listened to a podcast recently about different English translations for different English speaking audiences, so I\'m finding this all quite fascinating 😂 I might opt for ""houseplant"" or ""potted plant"" to avoid the ambiguity. It\'s nice to have multiple pairs of eyes! Thank you, Anne.', 'time': '20:19 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Carina Caccia': 'Thanks for your comment, Scott! I\'m glad to have captured the pain of parenthood. Sorry about your little ones growing up and all. Every stage of their development has something exciting to offer, I\'m sure! Regarding the title, there\'s actually no pot care here, lmao! ""Pot plant"" in British English is synonymous with ""potted plant"" or ""houseplant."" I think I prefer your interpretation, but unfortunately Marta is just smoking tobacco.', 'time': '09:28 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Oh, I spend the whole story thinking it was pot. Maybe I have to reread?', 'time': '13:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Carina Caccia': 'Haha, now I wish it were! Are you from the States, by any chance? I listened to a podcast recently about different English translations for different English speaking audiences, so I\'m finding this all quite fascinating 😂 I might opt for ""houseplant"" or ""potted plant"" to avoid the ambiguity. It\'s nice to have multiple pairs of eyes! Thank you, Anne.', 'time': '20:19 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Oh, I spend the whole story thinking it was pot. Maybe I have to reread?', 'time': '13:56 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Carina Caccia': 'Haha, now I wish it were! Are you from the States, by any chance? I listened to a podcast recently about different English translations for different English speaking audiences, so I\'m finding this all quite fascinating 😂 I might opt for ""houseplant"" or ""potted plant"" to avoid the ambiguity. It\'s nice to have multiple pairs of eyes! Thank you, Anne.', 'time': '20:19 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Carina Caccia': 'Haha, now I wish it were! Are you from the States, by any chance? I listened to a podcast recently about different English translations for different English speaking audiences, so I\'m finding this all quite fascinating 😂 I might opt for ""houseplant"" or ""potted plant"" to avoid the ambiguity. It\'s nice to have multiple pairs of eyes! Thank you, Anne.', 'time': '20:19 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",xcfqrp,What We Lost At Sea,Caroline Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xcfqrp/,/short-story/xcfqrp/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Contemporary']",11 likes,"
There had been a rumor, living in perpetuity on the tongues of generations of fishermen and charter captains, that something strange lived on the ocean floor. The brash and flushed old-timers sweating over their pub pints would exchange stories of a salacious mermaid tempting them beneath the surface with the promise of a saltwater kiss, as viscous and everlasting as taffy. The younger guys smoking joints behind the boathouse liked to joke about increasingly ridiculous combinations of creatures, a shark and an electric eel or a giant frog crossed with a sunfish, and they’d push each other off hulls and docks with taunts that they’d better swim to shore before the monsters swallowed them.“What do you think, Eddy?” they’d ask at the marketplace where he sold his catches at the end of the day. “Pretty li’l thing or an ugly demon down there?” “I see one of ’em right in front of me now, and it ain’t the pretty thing, that’s for sure,” Eddy would reply, and the guys would laugh and give him the finger and slap him on the back.What he wanted to say was: It didn’t matter what lay beneath the barges. Getting beckoned to the bottom of the ocean, whether by a siren or a savage, meant you weren’t coming back up.One balmy June morning, however, he sees it.Much of his life has been spent on the water, raking clams and netting fish, and yet each day there is some new interpretation of his life to think about amid the dredging, the years compounding and unfolding until all his alternate lives are spread out like a deck of cards on a magician’s table. Sometimes he is afraid to pick one of the cards up and look at the fate awaiting him on the other side. Sometimes he wants nothing more.This particular day, he is thinking about appearances. He has had many over the years, the hippie-long hair, the curly beard, the weight gain of fatherhood and the loss of divorce. Yet sometimes, he would look in the mirror, gaze into the pools of algae that were his eyes, and think to himself, I don’t know you. The baubles and clothes and friends and women he adorned himself with on the outside never seemed to align with whatever he was inside.But out on the water, he doesn’t have a reflection. He can lean over the back of his rowboat and observe how the shape of his face warps and melts in the rollick of the waves, but he finds comfort in knowing that isn’t what he really looks like. He finds comfort in not knowing what he looks like at all, because he knows he now has rings the color of a butterfish beneath his eyes and that years of brutal summers and bone-chilling winters have etched their stories into the surface of his face. He would rather detach the idea of himself from a face at all. Eyes and noses and lips could be arranged like the most striking of bouquets, and it still wouldn’t be enough to hide the hornet inside the stems, to forgive all the faults a body belies. It was all an illusion. Humans love to be drawn in by an illusion, he thought one day, as graphite clouds rolled overhead and the pleasure boaters sped to shore. They will gasp at the lake’s surface, crystalline and smooth like an ironed sheet, without thinking of the mud and the crabs’ pincers, the trailblazing current waiting to sweep up its next victim. They will be enchanted by the twinkling lights of a city skyline without noticing they can no longer see the stars standing in solidarity with the moon. They’ll love the sun until it burns, the sea urchin until it stings.He thinks it is an illusion at first when the water surrounding him rumbles and roils and a face appears amid the bluster. It looks like a woman, painted by Picasso or cobbled together by someone unfamiliar with anatomy; her eyes are asymmetric, her mouth off-center, skin the pale green of avocado flesh. His first instinct is to yank his motor’s pull cord, but she flings out an arm to stop him. Her skin feels waterlogged and sandy against his.“Please don’t be scared,” she says.Eddy closes his eyes. He feels incapable of being scared. Nothing feels outlandish enough to be scary anymore. “I see your boat every day. The bottom of it. I recognize the scrapes and the barnacle patterns here. I see a lot of your world from underneath. Legs, propellers, oars rising and falling like breaths. I know you catch fish. I try to guide them into your net. Lure them in with little worms.”“And why would you do that?” Eddy grunts. He thought it was his expertise that had been netting him a profit these past few months.The woman shrugs. “I watch the people up here a lot. I wait for them to drop things. A lot of the time it’s trash, but sometimes they’ll drop little parts of their lives. You dropped this once.” She drops into his hand a gold wedding ring, as glimmering and promising as it had been when he first saw it.“Well, gee,” Eddy says, holding it up to the sun, shutting an eye as if to ascertain its authenticity. Then he tosses it back in the water with a dejected plinking sound. The woman’s face is placid.“If you’re always watching people around here, why haven’t I seen you? I’m out here every day.”“You weren’t looking for me.”Eddy sits back. It’s true that despite the vast stretch of seawater, his hours are contained inside this little sphere: the boat, the equipment, the purr of the motor as he glides to the next spot when the catch runs dry. He barely notices the hues of the sky as morning melts into twilight. He looks up occasionally to wave to Jim or Derek or Marlo as they zip by too closely and leave nauseating wakes behind. But he would have noticed a strange woman watching him, he thinks. He’s pretty sure he would have. It’s possible this is all a delusion, that his mind has finally betrayed all sense of reality. It’s also possible that those stories the guys told at the bar had some modicum of credibility to them after all. He had learned over the years there was no such thing as actual truth; it was so often entangled with opinion and fiction that to parse fact from fantasy was akin to picking the sand apart grain by grain, before concluding that the shore’s landscape was more beautiful as a whole. Perhaps this was him now seeing the shore for the ever-changing, bewildering thing it was.“So what do you want now?” he says.“I need help.”She tells him the story of a long-lost brother: Their father was a landman, scouring isles and beaches for shards of history to collect in his scrapbooks and notepads journaling the changing landscape of his town. One day he fell into the acquaintance of lotus-eaters who converged on a distant corner of the shore, and their languid nature was enticing to him, a man who had been taught to constantly strive and work and provide. What, the lotus-eaters asked, was the purpose of such a life? Death befalls everyone and does not favor those who blind themselves with the idea of accomplishments.His duties soon fell by the wayside — work, hobbies, loved ones, until he spent all his days by the seaside, playing games and making music and lying in the sun. But his new wife soon bore twin children, a boy and a girl, and the effort of responsibility flooded back into his veins like muscle memory. He fled shortly after, leaving the wife, who deposited the children into the ocean, unwilling to sacrifice her life of enchanted dalliance.  “How did you survive?” Eddy asks the woman now.“I transformed,” she says, and suddenly her nose twists into a beak, feathered wings sprout from her back. She looks like a seagull, though her feathers are pale green. “I was a bird when I needed to fly.” She hunches and shifts into a snake, writhing on the floor of his boat. “I was a threat when I needed to feel powerful.” She springs back into the form of a woman. “I ran, I crawled, I swam. I could never find either of my parents.”“That’s very sad,” Eddy murmurs.“All I had was my brother, and this.” She shows Eddy a stone the size of his palm, with four letters crudely carved into it. Eddy reaches out to take it, to examine it closer, but she closes her fingers over it and pockets it in a small pouch. “It’s our initials. He made it. He was happy to live life here in the sea. But after I came back time and time again, each time more dejected than the last, he finally set out to find our father, to put an end to it all. That was many years ago. I haven’t seen him since then. I started transforming into rocks, sitting on the shore, waiting for my brother to dive back in. Into fish, darting from one end of the sea to another. Into women, talking to men like you, hoping someone knows him. But they just wanted to trade my body for empty promises of information. Women were repulsed by me. It’s taken me a long time to learn the forms I can take that others find acceptable and worthy of help.”“What does he look like?”The woman squints into the sun. “Isn’t that always the question. He’s like me. He could be anything. Anyone. I wish there were a way for us to recognize the familiarity of someone’s soul.”Eddy asks how long she has been looking for her brother, and she says she doesn’t know, that she can’t measure it. Those aboveground can look around and recognize the facets of passing time — gray strands of hair and wall calendars and faded photographs — but the only medium she has is the measure of her interiority, to note the ways her perspectives have changed.“So a long time,” Eddy says, and she agrees.***Eddy never finds her brother, but he and the woman spend their days out on the water talking. He had always found it a burden to be around other people. He had to perform responsibility for his father, irresponsibility for his peers, intellect and exuberance for Daisy. Years of isolation have convinced him he is better off a solitary man, but he finds he is relieved to have a reservoir into which he can pour his philosophies.He tells her about Daisy. She was beautiful, he says. Hair like a golden waterfall and eyes like blades of grass after the first summer rain. He spent years trying to get her attention, asking her to school dances, watching through windows as she held other boys’ hands and got in their cars. In those tumultuous years, with the backdrop of violent family fights and never having enough money, she was the only thing that made him feel happy. He learned what she liked, why she had broken up with the boys before, and he returned to school the first day of senior year full-figured, well-read, and emitting a display of bravado he had learned from mobster movie marathons. Finally, she fell for him.He was elated, and the years slid by like a montage, highlighting the happy moments: their first kiss, dates on the pier, a set of house keys pressed between their palms, the baby boy. But Eddy’s mask slipped more and more frequently and Daisy didn’t like disguises. He was quite shy, preferred TV to books, could only love in the way he had been taught to love, through backhanded compliments and under the condition of reciprocation. That wasn’t the man she fell in love with. So she left. “I never was the same,” Eddy tells the sea woman.After a minute, she replies, “You know, a lot of men will let algae and mud and barnacles live on the bottom of their boats. It builds up over years and slows the boat down. And yet, instead of cleaning the detritus off, they’re content with their slower boat. Content with never again reaching their potential, content to be eaten away at slowly. Those are the men who are afraid to face the light. Afraid of success, because it makes failure so much more threatening. That’s what made your boat so notable. Only one side was clean. As if you decided halfway through it wasn’t worth it.”“Could be that they’re content to parade around the boat as it appears above the water, knowing nobody can see what’s underneath.” Eddy is thinking of Jim, who often brags about how much money he spent on his schooner but fails to disclose the crater-size hole in the cabin floor.“I think you wanted to be with Daisy because you knew it wouldn’t work out. You knew your persona would slip one day, and you liked knowing the ending instead of letting things unfold organically.”""I did always read the last page of a book first,"" Eddy says.She grins. ""Exactly.""***Another day, they talk about whether they believe in past lives. Eddy doesn’t. “This was my one shot,” he concludes.“I like to think I could be anything in a next life,” she counters. “Maybe my life upgrades every time. Maybe next time I’ll have a family.”“You will,” Eddy says. “Not that that’s necessarily an upgrade. Family in concept isn’t always so in execution.”“I think you were an oyster,” the woman concludes. “There was a pearl taking years to shape on your tongue, waiting for someone to pry you open and expose it and take that beauty to share with the world.”He looks at her. The net thrusts and wobbles, but he hasn’t been concerned about the catch in a while. “What do you really look like?” he asks. “When you’re not shape-shifting or transforming or whatever it is you do to look like how you look now.”She smiles, drops her gaze and looks over her shoulder into the murky depths below. Pulls a squirming salmon out of the water with her bare hands. “I don’t think you really want to know the answer to that.”“Maybe I do.”“What does it matter? You don’t know what I look like, but you know who I am. I know what you look like, but that doesn’t mean I know who you are.”He takes the salmon from her. He thinks of gutting it, shiny scales giving way to the bare bones beneath. He places it in the bucket instead. “I don’t know who I am either,” he admits. “My father would always bring me out here when I was young, and he told me I’d be better off having no one else to answer to. I always believed that. But then he died alone and when I think of how I can save myself, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know if I can trust that lad. Everything I ever thought or felt or did was in service to other people. And now I'm alone and as empty as—” he gestures to the scattered shells she has lined up on the shelf.""You aren't alone now,"" she says.***It is five years later. The sea woman has been gone for a very long time. Eddy spends many days pondering this; perhaps he was in an extended fugue state of some kind brought on by dehydration. Perhaps he offended her in some way, he thinks, and he combs through every line of their conversations, trying to locate his errors. He hopes she has found her family after all.The net wobbles precariously, a sign of an excellent catch. “Bingo,” he cheers. The woman had found the explanation of that word very amusing.He pulls up the net and sees he has captured a dozen haddock and, inexplicably, several oysters, although they have not grown in this section of the ocean in a very long time. He sells everything at the market later that day but for one oyster, which he takes home, thinking he will eat it — he hasn’t allowed himself a delicacy like this in years.But after he cleans it and shucks it, he finds no meat inside. Just a stone etched with the primitive carvings of four initials. He holds it at last, feeling the weight in his palm, the weight of family, of mysteries, the heavy burdens of bereavement and joy and mistakes. Of the people he's been, the creatures she's been, and how after all that aping of others he has ended up standing in a kitchen holding a rock and she a simple letter in a stone. He finds he does not like knowing the ending.
","July 21, 2023 03:22","[[{'Theo Benson': 'It\'s amazing how many years can flash by in a single descriptive line: ""He has had many [appearances] over the years, the hippie-long hair, the curly beard, the weight gain of fatherhood and the loss of divorce."" That line painted a very vibrant picture in my mind - nicely done. :)', 'time': '23:03 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Caroline Smith': 'Thank you so much!!', 'time': '00:06 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Caroline Smith': 'Thank you so much!!', 'time': '00:06 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",tuzo68,The Caregiver,N.M. Stech,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tuzo68/,/short-story/tuzo68/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Sad']",11 likes,"
           Jeremy woke on a bright Saturday morning during the summer between their first and second evictions. By more conventional accounting, it was the summer between his junior and senior years of high school. For his classmates, this was that illusive, magical summer between adolescence and adulthood, that rare patch of temporal ground in which the freedoms of childhood overlap with the privileges of maturity. It was a summer of exploration and discovery. Jeremy, however, woke on this beautiful morning with that sense of sluggish dread found in disillusioned men twice his age. Hoisting his legs over the edge of his old twin bed, which fit either his head or his feet, but not both, he sat up and sighed, running a hand through his hair.           The sound of pots clanging and cupboards closing from down the hall told him his mother was already awake. At this realization, his already hunched shoulders sank another inch. There would be no easing into this day. After a few minutes and another sigh, he sat up straight, rolled his neck, set his shoulders, and practiced his familiar, casual smile. It had taken a few months, but he pretty much had it down now. Through trial and error, he had learned to correct any giveaways that this cheerful appearance was anything other than genuine. He rarely slipped up these days.            With a purposeful saunter, he walked down the short hallway connecting the two modest bedrooms of the apartment to the combined kitchen and living space. His mother was absentmindedly stirring something in a pan at the stove. “Morning Mom! Watcha making?”“Good morning sweetheart,” she responded, with a smile that did not reach her eyes, “Realized we still had some eggs in the fridge, and thought that might be a nice Saturday treat, don’t you think?”Over her worried smile, Jeremy saw his mother’s eyes under furrowed brows, searching his face for any sign of discontent or sadness. Steeling his casual grin against any flicker, he calculated the best response.“Sounds great, Mom! And it smells fantastic.” This was half-true. The aroma of the frying eggs made Jeremy’s stomach growl and his mouth water, but there was something off-putting in it as well. He knew exactly why. He had checked the eggs just yesterday and noticed the “use by” date had passed weeks ago. Unfortunately, they were running low on options. The recession hadn’t hit their little corner of Iowa as hard as it had the bigger cities, but for those already living on the edge, like Jeremy and his mother, it had hit hard enough. His mother had been laid off from her housekeeping position at the Davenport Inn, and none of the dozens of applications she had peppered over town had yielded any results. Jeremy had sought out any odd jobs he could pick up over the summer, but even those had run dry and subsequently, so had their pantry. Jeremy carefully poured two juice glasses half-full of orange juice while his mother divided the eggs between two plates. Sitting at their little kitchen table, his mother offered her usual prayer over the food and began to eat. That is, she raised a miniscule fork-load to her mouth, and chewed slowly, subtly shooting glances at Jeremy’s plate. This was the real danger zone, Jeremy knew. Pacing was important here if he wanted to protect her from the waves of debilitating guilt she was prone to. If he ate too quickly, he knew his mother would worry he wasn’t eating enough and insist that he take some of her eggs as well. If he ate too slowly, she would become anxious and worried that he noticed and was unhappy with the obviously sour taste of the expired eggs. The key was to eat at a moderate pace at first, slowing down and ultimately leaving just enough food on the plate to signify that he enjoyed the food, but was too full to finish. That was the tough bit. In spite of the twang of the expired eggs, it took all his willpower to keep from cleaning his plate. If anything, the meager portion left him hungrier than before. Against the urging of his pleading stomach, however, he kept with the right pacing and left just enough food on the plate. He could read his mother’s moods by now and knew that the guilt of not being able to provide had taken her to a mental precipice. He would do whatever was necessary to protect her and keep her from going over the edge. “Are you sure you got enough, sweetheart?”“Oh yeah, Mom, thank you! It was delicious, but I really can’t finish it. I’m gunna jump in the shower, if that’s alright. Nick was saying yesterday that they’ve had a few people quit and could use more help detasseling, so I thought I’d drive over there and see if I can’t pick up some hours.”His mother sat down her fork and fidgeted with her napkin. “That’s fine Jer, I just hate that you have to spend your last summer doing that…”“Don’t worry about it all! I actually enjoy it. It gets me out in the sun. Gotta work on that tan before school kicks off again.” After scraping his remaining eggs onto his mother’s plate and dumping his empty dishes in the sink, Jeremy made his way to the shared bathroom. He had just stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain when the bathroom lights went dark. “Mom! Do we have any lightbulbs? I think we just lost the ones in here!” he shouted from behind the curtain. No response came back through the door. After fumbling with his pajamas in the dark, Jeremy managed to get dressed and stepped back out into the hallway. It wasn’t just the bathroom lights. The hall lights wouldn’t turn on, and the clock on the old stove was dark. The whole apartment had lost power. “Mom? This is wild, I wonder if the heat knocked out a transformer or something. Mom?” His mother was no longer in the kitchen or the living room. Stepping out into the hallway, Jeremy heard sounds coming from his mother’s room. In another few steps, he could tell she was in there behind her closed door. And she was weeping. Jeremy crept over to the wall the apartment shared with one of their neighbors, old Mr. Morris. Putting his ear to the wall, Jeremy could hear The Price is Right blaring from Mr. Morris’s television, confirming what he had begun to suspect. It wasn’t an outage. Their electricity had been shut off. Jeremy stood there for a moment, his head leaning against the wall and his thoughts running a mile a minute as he calculated the best next move. Within five minutes, his plan had taken shape. If he could keep up the happy appearance, it could work. With a deep breath, he walked across the hall and knocked on his mother’s door. “Hey Mom, are you ok? Can I come in?” Not waiting for a response, Jeremy opened the door. His mother was sitting on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands, sobbing quietly. Jeremy walked over and knelt down in front of her.“Mom, hey! Everything’s going to be ok, I promise! What’s wrong?”“I’m so… so… useless…” his mother choked out between sobs, “I couldn’t pay the electric bill last month and they’ve got this new woman working there that is just awful. She…she…wouldn’t give us an extension like they used to and they shut… shut our power off. I don’t know what to do, baby, I’m so sorry.” With this, she dissolved back into tears. “Hey now! Mom, it’s totally ok! I know exactly what to do. But first things first, I’m gunna go take that shower. Don’t we have some candles around here somewhere? I’m going to have myself a nice, romantic, candlelit shower, and it is going to be wonderful.”His mother smiled a little through her tears at this. “I think…think we do. Maybe under…under the sink?”“Thanks Mom!” Jeremy retrieved the candles and set about lighting them in the bathroom, while crooning old jazz standards to himself loud enough for his mother to hear. “Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars…” He took his time in the shower, though it was a cold one with their electric heater out of commission. Jeremy dressed and stepped out into the living room, where his mother now sat on their formerly beige sofa. He could tell his plan was working; she was no longer crying, and chuckled at him when he came into the room humming and pretending to slow dance with himself. “Sounds like you had a pretty good time in there, Jer.”“It was actually very soothing! So, I think I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll head up to Nick’s today and start detasseling, which should bring us in some money by next Friday, which will be great. As for the electric bill, I’ve got a plan, but you’ve got to hear me out. Nick has also been trying to buy my guitar off of me for over a year, and-““No, Jer, No!” His mother began to tear up again, and he knew he needed to work fast.“No, Mom, really! I’ve been thinking about selling it to him anyway, even before things got rough around here. I just don’t really play it all that much anymore, and if it’s just going to sit in that room, I might as well get some cash out of it, you know? Seriously, I was going to sell it anyway, I’m not worried about it!”“Do you promise you’re not lying?” His mother asked, grabbing his hand.“I swear to God!” Jeremy lied, without blinking an eye.  His mother stared at him for a few seconds before letting his hand go and wrapping him in a tight hug. “Well, if you do this, I’m going to pay you back once I get back to work! Plus interest, I promise, Jer! You really are a saint, sweetheart.”Peeling his mother away with affirmations that it really was no big deal, Jeremy made his way back to his room. As he entered, he let his eyes linger on the Gibson Les Paul Classic, immaculately polished and placed perfectly on its stand in the corner of his room. The previous summer, he had worked any and all odd jobs he could find and saved every penny to purchase the instrument, which he practiced religiously every night after his mother went to bed. It helped to keep him sane during the rough, long days. Keeping the smile frozen on his face, he mechanically went about packing up the guitar and accessories in its case. Jeremy gave his mother a hug on his way out. He lugged the guitar down the two flights of steps to the apartment complex parking lot, where he loaded it into their old Ford Escort. He headed out of the complex in the direction of Nick’s farm, but pulled off into the old, empty park a few blocks north of the apartment. Pulling into the furthest parking space, he threw the car in park and turned off the ignition. Only now did he allow that practiced smile to drain from his face. The nonchalant shoulders fell, and his eyes drooped. A tightness rose in his chest, and his eyes began to sting. Finally alone in the empty lot, Jeremy wept. And wept. And wept.  
","July 21, 2023 06:00",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",gsdkm0,Volunteer,Bettina Karpathian,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gsdkm0/,/short-story/gsdkm0/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Contemporary']",11 likes,"
	The security guard looked askance at Belinda’s aged Toyota Camry as she pulled up to the entrance booth of the exclusive golf community. Nettled, she announced the address she was visiting in imperial tones quite unlike her usual speech and saw the guard nod with grudging respect. As she drove past elegant homes with picture-perfect emerald lawns and manicured gardens, she wondered where everyone was. The scene was devoid of human life other than an occasional delivery van or group of dark-skinned landscaping crews. Belinda thought with resentment of the time she could have spent working on her latest painting instead of coming here for this Women’s Charitable Society meeting. Dave owed her big time for this. 
	Dave’s boss had casually mentioned that the group had been founded by the wife of one of the senior partners and Dave had pleaded with her to try at least one meeting. Fuming, Belinda reluctantly agreed.
	“I shouldn’t have to schmooze with a bunch of women I don’t know and have nothing in common with in order to make you look good. Why can’t they just judge you on your work?” 
	“Babe, that’s not how it works in the real world. These are guys with Roman numerals after their names. I’m the first in my family to go to college. I need to make connections. You might find you have something in common besides your husbands working for the same law firm.”
	“What happened to social justice work anyway? I didn’t think I was marrying a corporate lawyer.”
	“I’ve got law school loans to pay and then I can follow my passion.”
	“By then you’ll have been sucked into the system. Don’t sell out!”
	They had finished by glaring at each other and stomping out of the room in different directions. Belinda could not remember them ever arguing like that before. She had not slept well and could still feel an indigestible lump of tension sitting in her stomach. Dave had left early for work, so there had been no opportunity to clear the air that morning.
	She had understood the security guard’s expression as soon as she parked her car next to the Mercedes and BMWs in the driveway of Dave’s boss’s home. Pausing to gather her courage, Belinda suddenly remembered her grandmother’s voice from years ago and straightened her spine.
	“Never show no fear. You’re as good as anyone and don’t you forget it.”
	 Taking a deep breath, she marched up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Chimes echoed in the distance. The door opened and a poised, slim woman with stiff, frosted blonde hair peered enquiringly at her. 
	“Hello, I’m Belinda, Dave’s wife, Dave Bernstein, the new associate, his boss told me to come, or I mean, said I was invited,” Belinda said, inwardly cursing her incoherence.
	“Ah, yes,” the woman said. “Do come in. I am Frances Deville. Norman mentioned that you might come.”
	From a distance she could have been thirty-five, but up close, Belinda could see tiny lines in the taut skin around her eyes and lips. Light sparkled off the diamond tennis bracelet on her bony wrist as she extended her hand. Belinda followed her through an Italian tiled, cathedral ceilinged foyer and into a large sun room where several women were seated, heads together, whispering as they sipped their coffee. Silence fell as they looked up. Belinda felt her face flush. 
	“Girls, this is Belinda Bernstein, the wife of the newest addition to the firm. Belinda, meet Naomi, Christi, and Celia,” said Frances. “I’ll let them introduce themselves while I get more coffee.”
	“It’s Belinda Rossi. I kept my own name,” said Belinda awkwardly.
	Frances blinked and raised her eyebrows.
	“Indeed. How modern.”
	“Sit here. I’m Naomi,” said a plump lady with a shoulder length bob and an elegant silk scarf draped around her shoulders, indicating one of the deep-cushioned bamboo patio chairs. Belinda nodded her thanks and sat, sinking into the upholstery.
	“I’m Christi,” said the rail-thin woman opposite, giving a little wave with perfectly manicured, crimson-tipped fingers.
	“Celia here,” said the remaining woman, smiling slightly as she smoothed her linen dress around her knees. Her hair was auburn, her skin a leathery tan.
	Frances returned and sat down, followed a moment later by a silent, copper-skinned maid pushing a hostess trolley.
	“A little milk, no sugar, thanks,” Belinda said as the maid poured from a delicate porcelain coffee pot and offered plates of sandwiches and cakes. She ventured a glance around the room. The ‘girls’ seemed to be around the same age as Frances, although it was hard to tell from their immaculately made-up faces. They were all elegantly dressed in designer clothes. Belinda’s best Indian cotton dress stood out like a sore thumb. 
	“Welcome. I hope you and your husband will be very happy here,” said Frances. “What have you been told about our little group?”
	Belinda carefully set down her cup and saucer on the coffee table. She was known for being clumsy, especially when under stress.
	“My husband said you do charity work. I’d be glad to help if I can. I like volunteering.”
	 “We are aware of how fortunate we are and thought we should give back,” said Frances. “We have various activities. We do an annual fashion show and a Belle of the Ball gala once a year with silent auction. In December we do open houses and display of Christmas decorations. The proceeds go to orphans in Africa and to various local worthy causes. We usually have photographs of our events on the ‘Our State’ magazine society page. Perhaps you’ve seen them?”
	Belinda shook her head apologetically.
	“I’m afraid not, sorry.”
	“What volunteer experience do you have, Belinda?” asked Christi. 
	“Where we lived before, I volunteered in a shelter for women who were victims of sex trafficking. Admin in the office, that kind of thing. I have a degree in fine art, so I also taught painting and drawing. Art can be very therapeutic for survivors of trauma,” said Belinda, smiling at the memory. “Those girls were dear to my heart. They had suffered unimaginable experiences.”
	There was an awkward pause as the ladies glanced at each other. 
	“My goodness. That is interesting,” said Frances, patting her hair. “We will have to consider how we can put your talents to good use.”
	“I’ve already applied to volunteer at the women’s shelter here, but I’d still be glad to help you. Probably not the Christmas open house,” said Belinda, grinning. “Dave and I have lived in shoe boxes since we got married, so we’ve never had room to do more than hang a Christmas stocking. Not that we really celebrate Christmas. He’s Jewish and I lean agnostic. I do love Christmas carols though, and I can do some mean Christmas cookies.”
	She bit her lip as an even frostier silence fell.
	“I could donate a painting to one of your silent auctions,” she said desperately.
	“Where did you say your husband went to law school again?” said Naomi.
	“I didn’t,” Belinda said under her breath before naming the state law school Dave had graduated from.
	Christi frowned.
	“Isn’t that a historically black school?” she said. “Is, er, your husband…”
	“It’s an excellent law school with a history of civil rights engagement,” said Belinda. “Let me say the quiet part out loud. Dave is white. Very white. Fish belly white. But Jewish is probably all the diversity you can handle anyway.”
	She tried to jump up from her chair, ending up with an undignified scramble to get out of the soft cushions. As she lurched to her feet, there was a crash as her coffee cup shattered on the tile floor.
	“I’m sorry. Please deduct it from Dave’s pay. Thanks for the coffee,” she said to Frances as she fled for the front door.
	She was still trembling when she reached home, though whether from anger or embarrassment she could not have said. Cooking had always been her refuge in times of turmoil; she threw on an apron, reached for her recipe book and began chopping vegetables as if her life depended on it. By the time Dave came home, the kitchen was full of the savory smell of risotto and fresh baked bread, the white wine was chilling, and the table was set. He inhaled deeply as he entered, sheepishly presented Belinda with a bouquet, and swept her into a bear hug. 
	“I’m sorry. I have to say…”
	“It’s my fault. I didn’t mean…”
	“I have to tell you something…”
	They burst out laughing as they spoke over each other. 
	Belinda put a finger to her lips.
	“Not now. We are going to eat first.”
	After the meal, they sat, sipping wine, and looked at each other.
	“Me first,” Belinda said, taking a deep breath. “I hope I haven’t derailed your career, but the charity thing was a fiasco. I put my foot in my mouth like you wouldn’t believe, even for me.”
	She regaled Dave with the morning’s events. He grinned wryly.
	“It’s a moot point. Deville, Throckmorton, and Throckmorton and I have agreed to part ways, even before your coffee morning debacle. It was a mutual decision. I’m just sorry I put you through that.”
	“What happened?” Belinda said, incredulous.
	Dave shrugged. 
	“You were right. It was never going to be a good fit. I’m back to the help wanted section. I’m going to reach out to some of my law school contacts.”
	“We’ll figure something out,” Belinda said, hugging him. “I could never have kept up with those wives in a million years. At least we’re back on the same team.”
	Dave came home a couple of weeks later, grinning and happily brandishing a letter.
	“Got another job offer.”
	“Jones and Perry? Civil rights?” she said, skimming the page.
	He nodded proudly.
	“Way to go,” she said. “And not to be outdone, I got a job at the local indie bookstore. Pays a pittance, but the hours will allow me to keep painting. Oh, and I’ll be volunteering at the women’s shelter.”
	A few months later, Belinda was absorbed in arranging a display at the book shop when she heard a vaguely familiar voice behind her.
	“Excuse me, but could I speak to you for a moment?” 
	She spun around, flustered, knocking over several books as she saw Frances standing there. 
	“Sorry about that,” Belinda said, mortified. “I am such a klutz. Can I help you find something?”
	 “Do you have time for a coffee?” Frances said, retrieving books from the floor and handing them to her.
	Belinda grinned mischievously.
	“As long as it’s not served in a porcelain cup. My lunch break is at twelve. Would you like to meet at the café across the street?”
	Frances was already sitting in a booth when Belinda entered. Belinda eyed her apprehensively as she sat down.
	“This is a surprise. Is it about the coffee cup? Was it a family heirloom or something? I’ll be glad to pay for the damage.”
	Just then the waitress appeared to take their order. After she had gone, Frances laughed.
	“That cup was from my husband’s family. I’m only sorry you didn’t have the chance to break the whole set.”
	Belinda gaped at her.
	“But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask about volunteering at the women’s shelter.”
	“You mean that your group wants to get involved? What do your friends think? We don’t tend to end up with our pictures on the society pages.”
	Frances played with her napkin.
	“Since we last met, I discovered that my husband had been having a long-term affair with a paralegal in the office who is the same age as our daughter. My so-called friends were aware of it, but kept quiet, pressured not to rock the boat by their husbands who didn’t want to upset the senior partner.”
	“I’m sorry,” said Belinda. “That’s awful. What a stab in the back all around.”
	A thought suddenly occurred to her.
	“When I went to your house, I thought they were whispering about me, but maybe they were whispering about you.”
	Frances nodded. 
	“It took a while to find a good divorce attorney who was willing to go up against my ex-husband, but I came out well in the end. Now I’m trying to change my life. No more society pages or balls, all that ridiculous posturing. The problem is that I don’t know people outside that world. When I was your age, it was assumed that when you got your Mrs. degree, everything would end happily ever after. By the time I became the senior partner’s wife, I’d forgotten who I am. I wish I had your independence and energy.”
	“It took a lot of courage to walk away from that beautiful house and lifestyle,” said Belinda. “You’re stronger than you think. Look at all the possibilities ahead of you. I’ll introduce you to the volunteer coordinator at the shelter. Your organizing skills will be appreciated there. Just don’t expect your coffee to be served in dainty cups!” 
 
","July 21, 2023 14:38","[[{'Bruce Friedman': 'Very good effort. I liked the flow of the story. Very insightful.\n\nYou had a few time jumps in the story. You might like to make such transitions more obvious by creating subchapters.', 'time': '02:51 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bettina Karpathian': 'Good point, thanks!', 'time': '18:05 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bettina Karpathian': 'Good point, thanks!', 'time': '18:05 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'A lesson in social graces.', 'time': '20:41 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",27p5l9,The cat blinked.,Rose Lind,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/27p5l9/,/short-story/27p5l9/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Drama', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
To imply the word ""facade"" means cultural control. It means the ball of twine is tangled and dirty, and the culture wants to blame the cat for the abhorrent mess. The cats of the world are the most obvious blame, aren't they? So let the yod, or the finger of God, squarely point at the stereotype, the cat! The weak, the coward, choose not the internal journey of teasing out the dried leaves, spider webs, mud, and/or excrement from thyself, lest of all straightening the string. ""NO,"" says the hive mind, readying to wreck havoc, snubbing the obvious to yell, ""How long is a string?"" Yes, in wisdom, the cat must individuate, as the other, and set the chessboard to entertain and stall, the competative, mobbing crowd!
 
You know, cats are said to be fifth dimensional creatures, the observers, the magicians of the world. They sleep above the third dimension of material world heavy, yet pulse and see all. If you pat their light-filled bodies, for instance, one can see people like the dodgy Mediums cold calling on those who lost a loved one. They hear, the doing safe repetition of ""love and light"" whose scanning the circular sun tan on finger to reveal a removed wedding ring and the secretive internet search to gain nitty gritty details of the deceased! They yawn at the diehard, jumping the fragile client to ignite emotional disclosure and how they compound their powerful controlling gift with the words ""mental health"" to solidify the ectoplasm from sky-to-wallet.
 
Fortunately, I have a cat. My life had been a train wreck before her. I had shifted home to a small flat with commodities included like a orange spray painted bar fridge, three seater lounge, a tiny television, wooden bedframe and a clean mattress but sunken in the centre. It was right, beggars cant be choosers right? I had also lost a few bags off the back of the trailer, which I did not tie down, that included cosmetic jewellery, a 1950s Catholic angel statute I called my ""work angel"", my essential oils, paint brushes, and paints. It was a sad and expensive loss lessened by Karen (yes, that's her name) of course who liked the butter off her feet.
 
Karen was found about six months before i moved to this new flat. I remember that blessed synchronised day clearly, I had trouble finding a carpark at McDonald's due to the Ipswich Cup- a local horse race nearby. I totally forgot about the event. The drive-thru was packed. I drove near cloisters of suits of evening dresses, of high heels, of dull perfume and after shave scents drifted thru the rolled down windows and the next parking yard of squashed, anxious cars nearly deterred me from my hunger for a cheap, hot meal. I kept turning the steering wheel, and my left hand unconsciously changed the gears from second-to-first and back again. Finally, I found a space near a smelly, fly ridden dumpster. I smiled to myself, "" probably not suitable for that class, ahh but beggars can't be choosers right?""
 
I placed the order and enjoyed the air conditioning during a long wait for food. Exiting, I bit into the fishburger without removing the gherkins. My car keys were shorted when they fell in the toilet at a gas station and I fished them out with the toilet brush, laterI soaked them in disinfectant. I struggled with manually unlocking the car and stuffing my mouth; there could be no compromise. My napkin fell and blew, rolling off to be stuck to some seeds of epoxy in Paspallum grass, like a kite caught in a tree. Followed by chips and gravy- Splat!!! I heard scuttle and scratchy feeling on my top of my foot. I did not have my glasses on, so at startled glance i though it was a large rat! ""Meow"", went the rodent! 
 
My eyes adjusted, a shrunken, squiggly gecko covered with saliva limped and rolled under the bin. "" Oh, it was a kitten! How cute!"" I stood still, not wanting to scare her with sound. Like a professional, she scratched and squashed a few hot potato mush, liking the drying gravy on the warmed bitumen, also turning her body in the opposite direction to her head so she could escape. She gobbled everything. ""Oh beautiful girl."" Her sunken eyes still sparkling. I bent down slowly and picked her up.  She was skin and bones. She had an old white almost shredded collar with a rusty bell that had lost its tinkle; she was dumped probably a Christmas purchase!
 
I chose the name Karen because it was a discarded, discouraged name that no one really wanted. I wanted her, so that would be our joke. She liked raw kangaroo meat and I could barely afford that, but I did! With another mouth to feed, I ate rolled oats and looked for more work. I still kept my luxury of tobacco- the frenemy- which was rationed!
 
That sounds like an excuse, another mouth to feed that is! Before Karen, I was already close to being unemployed and working small contracts as a sole trader. I was desperately avoiding going on a government welfare benefit. I mean, you gotta like your work, but there's mountains, loaded drawer and duchesses of workplaces out there who did not like working. Work was a means to an end, there's, no gratitude, no intrinsic value gained from a job well done, no happiness, plenty of complaining, noise, anger, slithering and Google hit confidence. Its just money, money, money. I needed a base wage and gain a customer base, so I tried to tolerate the nonsense. A Rabbi said the balance between greed and good business practise is being charitable. 
 
To add to my grief, there was too much government assistance out there indeed helping the struggling, honest employer, but the funds were open to exploitation. Firstly there are job vacancies, then there were job agencies, then the employers and finally the unemployed, in that order!
The unemployed come in three categories: 
1. Those who are new on the market- young and fresh;
2. Those willing to be unemployed but are over or under qualified, usually 30 years plus;
3. Those spun out and burnt out from the find a job system and can't work;
 4. And the most cunning, those not wanting to be employed.
 
Karen blinked. I was in category 2, the one who heard the previous trainee was sacked on personal grounds when their government funding expired, although the last bit, where the money ran out, only showed in the upright self righteous interviewer posture and attitude. Also, I viewed, pursing my lips, that is, I kept my mouth shut, seeing the flying feathers from burst Covid pillows. The Australian government, to protect the economy, paid full-time and part-time wages of all employees of established businesses during the epidemic-the Covid pillow! The swindlers, the tax dodgers, the money launderers God help us!
 
After three months, I felt desolate. I had saved like a squirrel for these times. All the full-time jobs were comtinually advertised but nothing! I, like many others, cracked the covert modus operandi, of stinge. I browsed the internet job plethora sites, full-time, full-time, full-time... Karen blinked... I would bring up the option of part-time work again and again. I put forward that option in the cover letters. Many times, I remebered the gritted, paper shredding teeth talk, ""We want someone full-time."" I kept typing. I remember a facial side on, usually from males, head tilting upwards exposing a tongue which curled on its tip outside of the mouth, ""We want full-time!"" I kept typing. I remembered the rejection email, ""Unfortunately, YOU do not have the skills We require."" 
 
Whilst eating breakfast, I scrolled again thru last nites search. PING, PING, PING, My emails had downloaded! I had a urgent interview.in a few hours. I had showered the nite and I would need a quick baby bath (wash cloth in sink of water) to freshen. The drain pipe had been blocked, costly, so I monitored my water use to preserve the new pipe and help water conservation too.
 
I arranged my clothes out on my made bed. My bra was not doing up. I already knew the problem was the hooks twisted in the old washer. Even though I had fastened the back of the undergarment, the only wash cycle which operated was ""Hard Wash."" As usual, I pushed the metal closure against the cupboard so it was bent back to flush. Next, a singlet, followed by dark blue, all cotton jeans, a soft silk, tucked in blouse with floral print. Finally, a very necessary maroon woollen vest draping down over my hips In the past, I had reoccurring colds and chest infections. That was cured after my doctor refused to give me a fourth course of antibiotics and I had no choice to adhere to the stern advise of the next practitioner, a naturopath, ""Keep your kidneys warm and never go outside with wet hair or an umbrella""
 
Luckily, i took my umbrella with me, sometimes here in Queensland, its four seasons in one day. When i was young, people could look at the sky: clear, its going to be hot; muggy with some clouds, we could get a storm in the afternoon. The office was hard to find, my shoes were soggy and my socks soaked. I squished into the interview room. The interview was as dreary as the day was; I was in and out quicker than one could say, ""Bob's your uncle."" 
 
My hopes dampened, I entered my home, I shivered, feeling the chill of the room thru my jeans. I hung my umbrella on its hook. Straightened the picture of a Sparrow on a lawn next to it. Reading printed text below the bird, ""God cares for the small birds..."" chirped at my low spirits, ""...why do you not think he cares for you?"" The magic of those words lifted the worry on my shoulders. Pussy-cat appeared to have not moved deep under the rug she looked satisfied, at the end of the lounge. My internal fire may have gone out, and the water partially sucked from my bones, but I could bring some heat to the room. I found a heating method from youtube, I improvised that method! I found an old shower tile and two dessert bowls at the local markets. My lucky finds were placed on the coffee table far away from curtains. The two bowls must be placed face-to-face with spoons on either side acting like beams. A lit tea light is placed inside the bowls. In no time, the room got hot.
 
I stroked Karen's soft, comforting fur as she purred a soothing vibration. It was 6 pm. I decided to watch the news, I needed to catch up. Canberra looked like a mixture between a therapy session and kangaroo court. People demanding parliament privilege, crude revelations and allegations, another member stuttering from pain killers and no paramedic present. We were also accused of flying cardboard airplanes fixed with rubber bands in a civil war, then youth crime, homelessness, and the cost of living rising. I mean, American call our koala bear Capricious and I guess our country is moody and eccentric too like that too! We were a mess, and the world was in a recession. Interrupted. I felt a sharp pain in my left eye like an insect had flown and stuck on my eyeball. I found the bathroom cabinet with my good eye - stark, cold chemical tears formed; my eyes blinked. 
 
The next morning, Karen was stretched out laying on the carpeted floor in a square of timed, warm, giving sun; it was sucked up in her breath. She was tired. She had a hard night, fighting ghosts and catching evil spirit dream catcher feathers. I was grateful. My dream narrative was good. I have three relaxed dream landscapes, and last nite was the one visiting the art deco shopping centre, having coffees and talking to dream friends. Strangely, as I left for the next job interview, I could see quite well without my glasses. Karen lifted her head and winked. My reflex blinked back. She provided me with armoured vehicle, two security guards protecting my clean spiritual space and my energy currency. I said as I opened my car door, ""I'm willing to share, but not be stolen from because a blink of the eye can changed the continuum and bend to a new reality!
 
 
 
 
","July 15, 2023 08:42",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",gmon5o,The Smile,Electra Nanou,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gmon5o/,/short-story/gmon5o/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Contemporary']",10 likes,"
10am
I know that hyena smile—toothy but awkward beneath ominous eyes. It means she wants something, usually unpleasant, but is trying to be polite about it. 
I brace myself, while returning a more cordial smile, the one I wear five hours a day for customers and colleagues alike. My shield.
'What's this about a course you're doing?' she asks, her interest tinged with judgement.
'Yes, I've started an Access course. It's nearby. Fits perfectly on my days off. It's quite cool so far,' I reply, unsure what her complaint is this time.
She saves me the trouble of wondering any further, the edge in her voice now undeniable.
'You're supposed to make yourself available in case I need cover.'
One of my eyebrows tries to rise. The corners of my smile twitch—first downwards then up. I compose myself and respond calmly.
'Oh, I'm happy to skip classes if necessary. I've already discussed this with the boss. You don't need to worry.'
I love my smile for two reasons. It's part of my serene mask that stops me from losing my shit. But it also makes bullies like her squirm as their attacks or attempts to get a rise out of me crash and burn.
She fidgets, strings together some incoherent words—part approval, part reprimand—and walks away. She didn't draw tears this time. I consider it a win.
 
2pm
The table lamp clangs against the glass counter before he graces me with a hoarse voice and haughty gaze. Neither has changed since I served him two days ago, but today he's clean-shaven and wearing a black suit jacket over his Rolling Stones t-shirt.
'Ummm, I got this lamp here the other day,' he says. 'It stopped working. I'd like a refund.'
I look down at the lamp, an ugly metal retro thing, and clap my chest, heartbroken.
'Oh, no, what happened?' I exclaim. 'We tested it before you bought it, remember? And it worked fine.'
'Yeah, no. I don't know what happened. I went home, plugged it in, and it wouldn't turn on.'
I notice that the lightbulb I sold it with is missing. 'Did you check the bulb? Try a new one?'
'Yeah, yeah, I tried everything. It doesn't work,' he grumbles as he leans against the counter, shifting from foot to foot, voice rising.
He's tall and getting agitated, so I look him straight in the eye and don my sweetest smile. It melts butter, I hear.
'Not to worry, love. Let's see if we can find the problem. If not, we'll get this sorted. Do you still have the lightbulb by any chance?'
He softens, cheeks turning ruddy, and averts his gaze. 'Nah, I tossed it.'
'Not a problem. We have fresh ones here.'
As I pull one out of the box beneath the counter, he gulps and inches back. I screw the bulb into the lamp, plug that into a nearby socket, and, lo and behold, we're engulfed in a bubble of bright white light.
'Fancy that.' I marvel at our now heavenly surroundings, crystal glasses and ornaments gleaming on the shelves, every colour on display popping. 'There's life in the old chap yet. Must have been the lightbulb that snuffed it.'
My gaze is innocent as I unplug the lamp and wrap the cable around its neck. His thick brows furrow.
'Uh-huh,' he grunts through a pout and in no hurry to reclaim his revived property. 'Can I still have my money back?'
'Afraid not. It's in working order, just as when you bought it. The best I can do is an exchange. You can have anything from the shop up to the lamp's value. If you have the receipt I gave you.'
'Uh, nah. Tossed that, too. It was like a tenner, I think,' he shrugs.
'Really?' 
My fingers brush the lamp's base where a label used to be, displaying the price: £7.99. I wrote it myself. 
'I don't remember it being that much,' I reply and fix him with an apologetic smile. 'In any case, without the receipt, I can't offer a refund or an exchange. Strict company policy, I'm afraid. I'm really sorry for the inconvenience. But you get to keep a pretty cool lamp. And the new lightbulb? On the house.' I wink. 'It's still a great steal.'
 
6pm
The front door slams shut. My sigh echoes through the hallway. I kick my shoes off, peel my feet out of my socks, and relish the soothing coolness of the wood against my aching roots. Can't have workers sitting at the till, see? 
My head drops back against my shoulders, and I stretch my face, silent-screaming at the ceiling, eyes bulging, arms slack at my sides. If the ceiling had a soul, it would flinch at my gnashing teeth as I work my mask out of my face.
I let my head flop down, the smile downturned and feeling fantastic. My grumpy cat slippers swallow my feet, and I make for the kitchen, dragging one foot in front of the other. That soft slithering sound—music to my ears. 
I stare out the window as the boiling kettle fills the room with steam. No emotion. No need for a shield. Just calmly waiting for my tea, while the laptop whirs to life in the other room. I follow the ritual in silence: teabag, water, milk, each motion and sound relaxing me further. 
With the mug clutched beneath my nose, I inhale the steam and stroll into the living room, sink into the sofa. I take a sip and set the mug on a coaster beside me. It's time. A bit late in the day, but she said it was okay.
I open Skype, find Barbara Ite, and launch the video call. Two seconds, and she answers—in a mint-green hoodie instead of her usual sharp attire. Her kind face welcomes me regardless.
'Hi, Dr Bite. Thanks for seeing me. I won't keep you long,' I babble, but she waves me off.
'Think nothing of it. Now, what's the matter? Good day or bad?'
'Good. Very good. It worked again. I used different smiles for a few difficult situations, staying calm, as we practiced.'
I sip my tea, my chest already warm with confidence, briefly lighting my face up before I let it relax again.
'See?' Dr Bite chirps and leans closer to the camera. 'Harness the smile and your inner strength. Bullies don't stand a chance. Tell me everything.'
","July 16, 2023 20:20","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'I really liked your first sentence. It was so descriptive; the metaphor really drew me in.\n\nThe tale has a great premise, and fit the prompt well. I liked the episode about the man who regretted his purchase and tried to get his money back. As one who has had jobs where you deal with the public, I can sympathize with the shop worker. Sometimes, you have to bite your tongue and be polite.\n\nThe kicker at the end left me feeling like it needed just a bit more, although it was still a good ending. \n\nA very engaging read, with good writing and a ...', 'time': '09:54 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",en1hop,Bury the Heart,Susan Laurencot,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/en1hop/,/short-story/en1hop/,Character,0,['Fiction'],10 likes,"
            The robin stuck to the truck’s grill like she belonged there, splayed like a ship’s figurehead. A decorative ornament. Artie squatted in front of it, stroked his chin like his grandfather, Ardal, for whom he was named, would have. He looked to the sky, ironically sunny and blue. “I’ve gone and done it this time. Killed it,” he said. He shook his head. “Not much I can do now.” 
	Artie’s girlfriend, Janie, leaned out the window of his steel-gray pickup. “What’s that?” 
            “Least he didn’t fly into the cab and die,” he said. Janie gave him a look he couldn’t put his finger on. He figured he irritated her with his superstitions. He figured she thought less of him for them. 
	“What would have happened then?” she asked. Artie was surprised she bothered to ask. He was sure she was being polite, sure she didn’t really care.
	“One of us would have died.” 
	“If a robin flies into the cab of a truck, someone has to die? That seems so specific,” she said. “I mean, I guess if it flies in and distracts the driver, then everyone dies.” She awkwardly laughed. Sometimes he made her nervous, and her nervousness irritated him. He was making her nervous now. He looked up. She was still leaning out the window, her arms folded across the frame to soften the sharpness of the edge. She lay her head on them. Earlier, at the start of the drive, he had, on an impulse, taken out her hair clip, so now her brown hair fell partially across her arms, over her face just a little. She twisted her left arm over her head to swoop the strands out of her eyes.
	Artie returned to looking at the dead bird. He didn’t feel like seeing Janie, didn’t feel like arguing with her.
	“So what happens now? What happens when a kamikaze bird dies on the grill?”
	Artie shrugged his left shoulder. “Life of misery.”
	“What happens?”  she asked again. If Janie wanted to talk to him, she could get out of the truck. He didn’t feel like yelling the answer to her. Hardly wanted to hear it himself. 
	“Life of misery,” he said again, but no louder. The old Irish were clear: if you cause the death of a robin, you will have a life of misery. God can be whimsical like that. Artie had seen it all his life. Little things becoming catastrophic at the whim of the Creator. Some silly story his grandmother telling him becoming as real as the Bible in her mouth. 
	“Now what?” she asked.
	Artie gave the bird a gentle nudge with his toe. It tumbled to the ground. He looked around for a stick to flick it to the side of the road.
	“What are you doing? Are we going to bury it?”  He didn’t directly hear the sarcasm, but he was sure it was present in her voice.
	“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
	“You really think you have to bury it?” 
	“Really.” In Artie’s head, this was the end. He’d had enough of her, and she, he was pretty sure, was done with him. They weren’t meant to be. It started with a blind date, and it ended here, with the burial of the robin. Sure, Janie was a good woman. A good person.  It was great at first; he was happy for a while, then he slipped back into himself. She couldn’t keep him out of his own vortex. Maybe this was his out. When he looked up at her again, she was on her phone, hair clipped up. She’d probably moved on to taking selfies and pictures of him that he imagined would show up on social media with some catchy hashtag. Already life was seeming pretty miserable.
	“Ok, I’ll look for a stick.” 
	“Forget it.  I’ll just be a minute.” He wanted her to stay in the truck; didn’t want her help. She’d be posting all kinds of shade about him after this, anyway. He didn’t even think they’d talk about breaking up. It was all around them, hovered over them, this breakup. She’d think about the dead bird then, crying to her friends that she didn’t believe in superstitions, but now look what happened. Maybe the dead bird was her omen of misery and not his. Could be. He couldn’t talk to his grandmother about this like he would have, like he used to, because she was dead, and Artie believed in a lot of things, but he didn’t believe in talking to dead people. He could speak to the fairies, and they’d intercede. That’s what his grandmother told him. 
	“Ardal,” she’d said, “when I go, ask the fairies to find me. You can even whisper, even just think it, and they’ll still hear you. They dance with the dead.” Artie pictured small, wispy, ghoulish figures dancing with corpses in varying degrees of decomposing. Thin hair swirling gravity-less. Thin arms and legs tangled with winged creatures. These weren’t the fairies of children’s stories but of Irish grandmothers afraid of leaving the world of the living, afraid of losing their influence over their children’s and grandchildren’s lives. But he didn’t believe in fairies either and so kept to the superstitions about things he could see and touch. Like dead robins. Like dead robins getting him out of a rut, even risking a life of misery for it. 
	He found a spot on the side of the road and was able to carve out a small ditch with his hands and a stick. He’d have to use grass and weeds to finish covering the bird. He wondered if she had chicks somewhere, though it was late enough into the summer that the babes would be off on their own already. Maybe she wouldn’t even be missed. A life of misery seemed a heavy price for a bird that no one would miss. Still, those were the rules. He knew them. He should have been more careful. He looked up at Janie. She was still on her phone, probably posting about this, turning this into a game of likes and comments. She saw him looking at her and leaned out the window.
	“God between us and all harm,” she said.
	“What?” He walked closer to the cab.
	“God between us and all harm. I looked it up. You Irish don’t have a lot up your sleeves to reverse a bad omen, but this came up.”
	“I don’t think it will work,” he said.
	“Why? God between us and all harm. I mean, it sounds very strong to me.” She smiled weakly at him.
	“Because no one says that,” he said.
	“They do. Trust me. Maybe you’ve never heard it, but listen to it: God between us and all harm. That’s a pretty big shield, don’t you think?”
	He did think so, but he didn’t believe in God. Not like that. The McGiverns were Irish Catholic but of the severest type. They believed in the God of the Old Testament, the one that sent fire and brimstone, plagues, floods, and murderous brothers. God created the fairies who stole children, He created magpies and crows (and robins) that appeared out of the Heavens themselves and brought bad luck. God sent the Banshees to sing the death knell. He, according to everything Artie knew, was not a shield against harm but a catalyst of big and small catastrophes.
“Just say it.” What was she doing? “God between us and all harm. It might work.” She
got out of the truck and started pulling weeds from the side of the road to help cover the robin.  “Really, Artie. I’m giving you a possible way out. Say it: God between us and all harm.” She smiled at him and gave him a gentle push. “Come on, say it!” But Artie couldn’t. He just looked at her, watched her covering the dead bird. “We’re really sorry, Miss Robin. We wouldn’t have hit you if we could have avoided it.” She got down on her knees and lowered her head. “God between you and all harm. May your children live to grapple with worms on Spring mornings, to lay beautiful blue eggs in May, and to watch fledglings fly away come June. May your family live on and on. Amen.” She crossed herself the way all Catholics do, like his grandmother had done, the way he used to: purposefully, as a way of saying the end after the final Amen. “Say it,” she repeated, this time without the smile. “I dare you.”
	“Nope. Come on, let’s go.” He held out his hand, and she took it. She carefully stepped over the little mound. They walked toward the truck. He thought maybe he’d say it later, in bed, just before sleep took him. He thought that maybe today wasn’t the day he’d break up with her. Thought maybe she might be on to something. He squeezed her hand before they split off to separate sides of the truck. When he reached his door, he said it, quietly and quickly, “Godbetweenusandallharm.”  All one word. An exhalation. 
 
 
 
","July 16, 2023 23:31","[[{'Charles Corkery': 'Good job, Susan.  Really like it (being Irish).', 'time': '22:01 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Terri White': 'There are such beautiful lines here…”a decorative ornament”…and how “she couldn’t keep him out of his own vortex.” Meaningful and lyrical. Keep writing such lovely stories. Or should I say…andkeepwritingsuchlovelystories…almost like a little prayer!', 'time': '14:50 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Laurencot': 'Thanks so much!\nBest,\nSusan :)', 'time': '15:56 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Susan Laurencot': 'Thanks so much!\nBest,\nSusan :)', 'time': '15:56 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""This is a very engaging tale, and it has some depth to it. You have some legit writing skills, Susan.\n\nAlthough I don't like Artie, he is a fully-realized, complex character. An old-school Catholic, inundated with the fire-and-brimstone school of God. I understand that. My parents and their siblings were, and are, old-school Protestants that believe almost everything is a sin, etc. However, he also believes in bad luck arising from the killing of a certain bird. This doesn't mix well with a belief in God, but it's totally in tune with human ..."", 'time': '10:21 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Susan Laurencot': 'Hi,\n   Thank you so much for these comments. :)\nBest,\nSusan L', 'time': '15:56 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Susan Laurencot': 'Hi,\n   Thank you so much for these comments. :)\nBest,\nSusan L', 'time': '15:56 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",id2s84,chase after belief,Mara M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/id2s84/,/short-story/id2s84/,Character,0,"['Inspirational', 'Romance', 'Gay']",10 likes,"
 To whoever believes love to be foolish.
 
 
I believed in many things. My friends as much as my family said that it was my best trait, that that is what one would call an optimist. I did not think I was.
 
I did not believe in God, though I thought I would have actually been able to call myself an optimist if I had. I believed people could change and I believed I could not. The only thing changing was that rotten shell I was living in, the thing that peeled and twisted depending on which person I was with.
I did not believe in God and I did not think anyone had seen what was underneath that shell of mine. And that was a good thing. I didn’t think I could have borne even taking a closer look myself. I was as much a stranger to me than to anybody else.
 
I often thought that maybe the roots for that lay in my childhood, growing up as a theatre kid, spending my free time (all of it, really) living another person’s life, saying their words, laughing their laughs and thinking their thoughts. But maybe that was just a lazy excuse built upon cowardice to roam for a real reason. Maybe there was none, in the end.
I had come to a stark realization long before even my late adult years; that I was a blank slate of sorts, a clay made to be moulded into anything there could be, there had to be, that it had been so since my inception. I do not believe in destiny, though it might sound like it. I just never believed in an option different from my life as it was. I accepted this life until my twenty-ninth birthday. My life had been a performance… but for whom did I act, really?
What had been an internal battle first, became one clawing to my outer circles and all I could do was watch; My relationships were the first to fall, my performances on stage growing stale with each passing play. I became a no one. I was neither myself nor anyone other.
 
What I did have was Nic, my best friend and on the darkest and warmest of nights sometimes more. He saw as much of me as I saw of myself; which was not much but more than any other human being could have stated to see. As dramatic this sounds, he was the rock to my ever-flowing river, unyielding presence in the nights I wasn’t sure anymore which direction was the right to flow.
 
‘What is it that you’re chasing after?’ he had asked me one summer night, laying on my bed with his feet on the bed post, cigarette lazily jumping with his movement of lips. I had looked at him then and remained silent. I had never considered myself chasing after anything. ’You should find something.’ he had said, matter-of-factly. ‘Makes life much more desirable, trust me.’
I had asked him what it was that he was chasing after and he had told me that in that moment, it was me, and I had rolled my eyes and we had made love.
 
A month after that I told him that it was myself I was chasing after; it had been the truest thing I had ever said. He asked me why that was.
‘I seem never to quite catch him.’
‘Let him go.’ he had said in his manner of casualness that I hated and adored so much. ‘If you have not found him yet then it shall not be.’
‘You don’t understand me at all.’
‘I fear I understand you more than you understand yourself.’
‘It is not difficult.’
He looked at me with such deep interest then that I felt embarrassed, almost invaded.
‘Why are you so terrified of questions?’
‘Why are you always so cryptic?’ I only gave back, getting up from the roof we were sitting on, dusting off my trousers. He did not move, hands behind his head as he looked up at me, curious amusement sparkling in his eyes.
‘Have you not read Oscar Wilde?’ he said a little louder as I exited the roof. ‘To define is to limit. I believe in that!’
 
 
He was smart, Nic. Smarter than me, I never denied that. But I was a coward and I was stubborn. I knew this much of myself even then. He wrote poetry and he wrote it about anything. Once he said his favorite poems were those that he wrote while watching me play. I believed it as much as I believed in God.
 
As a child I had always hated darkness. I would have checked underneath my bed every evening for monsters. As a teenager I would drown in the solitude the darkness revealed, the very presence of a shadow whispering how truly lonely I was became the real monster then. When you do not even have yourself, loneliness seizes to become a whole other definition.
The very indifference of this struck me only when I laid next to Nic for the first time, When I knew that he could write a poem about the gone-bad yoghurt in my fridge and who could look at the stars and tear open the very essence of eternity they held. Someone who carried out bees and hated the government, someone who did not fear to eventually tear at the shell and touch my heart where I had thought it to be rotten, if it existed at all.
 
‘Do you believe in love?’ I had come to have his questions be the highlight of my day, even if most of the time I could not answer him. It had been dark and I could not see his dimples appearing while talking, could not see his eyes softening as they sometimes did when looking at me (I had taken months and months to even let me believe this a possibility). I wondered often enough what was going on in his mind, so different from any other I had encountered, so captivating in his web of quotes and books and love and charm, memorizing quotes of several philosophers that I had never heard of before (but that I would secretly write down every time I did), for eternity in the mind that I pictured like an old library, smelling of classics and passion, never dying, ever.
I could not see him but I could feel his slow heart rate and his warm breath on my cheekbones, could smell the mix of coffee and cigarettes and sex when the moon dared to come out. I had whispered that I did, I supposed I did, at least.
‘Do you think that foolish?’
I had not answered him because I had never heard his voice go so fragile.
‘I think it is foolish not to.’ I had answered. ‘I would not believe in love if you would not have believed in me.’
Nic was silent for at least an hour then and he had cried suddenly and I had tried to comfort him, though I did not think I did a very good job at it until later as he told me that I did and for the first time I believed him.
 
When he told me that night that he had a tumor and that it had spread and that there would no miracle be happening even if he had always praised them his whole life, I agreed with him that love in fact was foolish. It was a pact with your soul, every bit of it, a pact promising devastation.
 
Nic was an optimist and Nic was half of myself, so maybe I became an optimist there. I have The picture of Dorian Gray on my nightstand now every night and keep it as much a reminder to myself to not limit my very self as to Nic’s courage to ask questions until their answers make you anew.
 
He was the very essence of who I was and still am and everyday I smile because my soul became the shadow of a love poets could envy us for. Because every flinch, every beat of heart, every word I speak and thought I think is painted in the crimson ache of what once blossomed under his breath. Where people would say they lost themselves in parts they lost him, I can only say that I found myself in every part I found and lost him. 
 
People tell me to move on from him but really what is left to me if my veins drew blood flawlessly, if my skin did not falter under every scar still lingering, if my heart did not throb with every word I read because once, he was to say it.
 
He was for whom I acted and he was for whom I dared to look beneath the many roles I played. For whom I lived even when he did not anymore.
 
","July 19, 2023 16:35",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",tngfnr,The Face of Death,David King,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tngfnr/,/short-story/tngfnr/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Suspense', 'Thriller']",10 likes,"
      The barely legal tinted Challenger made everyone in the vicinity anxious. Not-so-subtle glances and obvious peeks were shot in the car’s direction from miscellaneous windows and partially open doors.
            Despite all this, Asura walked confidentially to the car. His smile glistened through his hairy and unkempt face as he entered the car.
            Not a single smile was present on the faces of the officers, all of whom were strongly against Asura’s release. He had been locked up for 2 years on some petty theft charges.
            With each confined day, Asura taunted the other inmates and even cops about the day that he would be free. He chanted. He sang. He yelled. Anyway he could remind people he was only here temporarily, he did.
	Word about his release became a nation-wide controversy and many people thought it was dangerous and stupid to give Asura a second chance to living among normal civilians.
 “Deranged” is what they called him.
 “Monster”
 “Inhumane.”
	He had thought patterns not even seen in psych wards. He seemed to only act on intrusive thoughts. He was respected out of fear. Fear of the lengths of his very-real delusion.
            The driver revved the engine disturbingly loud and sped off joining the road at an illegal speed.
	Releasing someone like Asura may as well been the same as releasing Joker into the city.
	But they had no Bat-Man.
 
            “Where we goin?” Asura asked ignoring the car’s seatbelt beep, beep, beep, beep.
	“Where would you like to go?” Amon asked as he looked back on the road.
            “Let’s get sumna eat?”
            “Food?” Amon asked humorously.
            “You think they were chefin’ it up for me and my felon friends every night?”
             Amon didn’t appreciate Asura’s sarcasm.
            “You didn’t have friends in there.” He replied to scratch the petty-itch. “But I know you well, so I know exactly where to take you.”
	“Better not be McDonalds or some crap?” Asura grunted with an attitude.
	Asura straightened in his chair. He liked to carry himself like he was better than everyone else. He liked to dress meticulously. To pick up Asura, he wore tan joggers that matched perfectly with his Balenciaga’s. A crisp, white shirt with Japanese-style art. The fresh length of his braids hung out of the edges of his white durag.
	“Is it at a bar? I could really use a drink.” Asura suggested.
	“Not tonight. Every bar in the city is going to be waiting for you to walk in. News of your release has reached every TV.” Amon explained. “Tonight, we’ll be going somewhere no one is going to touch me, spill a drink on me, or poke at my temper. However, if someone does force me to the extent, I will shoot them in the left eye.”
	A smile creeped on Asura’s furry face.
 
            Asura was out of the car quickly. He leaned hard, stretching his abdomen before approaching the diner.
            One by one, heads began to turn. Amon swaggered in. He picked a booth he liked in the middle of the restaurant and slid into his seat.
	All eyes shifted to the waitress who walked out from the back to approach the lovely new guests.
	Her legs quaked and lips quivered as she slowly attempted to make her way to the table.
	Amon read her nametag as she got closer.
	“Evening, Dorothy.” He greeted her. “It’s my friend’s first time here.”
	“What’s y’all’s best options?” Asura interrupted.
	Dorothy was frozen.
	“Well, our breakfast is most popular.” She said still with a dry throat. “That includes our four-stack waffles or pancakes, three strips of bacon, two sausage links, and scrambled eggs.”
	Her voice was shaking and cracking.
	“I’ll take that.” Amon said eagerly.
	Dorothy struggled but found her voice again.
	“Wh—which one?” She asked.
	“Oh, those were all separate?” Asura asked with a laugh. “I’ll take all of them, baby. If it’s the most popular, I gotta see for myself, don’t I?”
	Dorothy turned quickly.
	“Such a sweetheart.”
	“And gorgeous too.”
	Dorothy pushed the doors open and almost stumbled into the kitchen.
	She stayed back there until the food was ready. Then after getting herself as mentally prepared as her worries would let her, she brought all three plates out to the drooling man.
	“Anything else I can get you?”
	“Did I say a strawberry shake too?” Asura asked her. “I don’t remember. You?”
	Dorothy’s gut screamed.
	 “I—I’ll get it for you right away.”
	She turned and darted.
	“You’re so kind, thank.” He called after her.
	She came out quickly with a large strawberry shake and sat it and the top of the table.
	Asura was starting his second plate.
	“Your service has been more than great; you have a good night.” Amon told her.
	Lightheaded, she turned around and headed to the back.
	“So, I was thinking.” Amon whispered to Amon. “Did we make the best decisions when we did what we did?’
	Asura stuffed a bacon strip in his mouth and picked up his last waffle, folding it in half. He dipped it in his shake and took a big chomp. His eyes rolled back in satisfaction.
	“Huh?” He said and chugged what was left of his waffle-crumb filled shake.
	Asura wiped the corners of his mouth, stood up, and headed for the door.
	One of the chefs pushed past Dorothy peeking through the kitchen door.
	“Excuse me, you can’t leave un—” He had only taken one step out before he stopped talking. The ringing in everyone’s ears stopped, their eyes turned to the front doors. Amon had done a one-eighty and stood there, arm up with his gun in hand.
	The chef laid in a puddle of his own blood with his left eye missing.
	Dorothy was in shock. She stared at the empty middle table and slowly made her way over to it. Not only were the plates stacked neatly, but under it were two small stacks of money.
	She picked up first stack and realized it was the exact charge for the food. Then she picked up the second stack and it was the exact change for a twenty percent tip. 
 
            “Any plans for tomorrow?” Amon asked Asura.
            “Why the hell would I have plans? I don’t even know what day tomorrow—”
            “Our birthday.” Amon interrupted.
            “Oh.”
            There was a brief pause.
            “Oh!” Asura continued. “In that case, we should visit our friend, James.”
	“James?” Amon repeated with disgust.
	“I’m sure he knows I just got out. We should surprise him. Ya know, in memory of our being, or whatever.”
	Amon could smell the violence Asura was suggesting. And he was up for it.
	“OK, we’ll visit him in the morning.” He replied. “Let’s get a motel for some sleep though.”
 
	Captain had personally driven to the diner to witness the atrocity that happened directly because of a decision that was made just three hours prior.
	His phone and radio had been going off nonstop and he had been in contact with almost everyone in his call log within minutes.
	He breathed deeply over and over and over again.
	He was able to create a small calm space in his mind to think clearly.
	He dialed a number from memory.
	It rang twice.
 “Captain Barry? It’s too early for—“
	“Mary, you still in the hospital?” Captain interrupted.
“I’m grabbing my stuff to go home now. Why?”
“I need a favor. Can you get me some information before you leave?”
 “There’s an open investigation, you have clearance to come in and get most of that information yourself.”
	“I’m too far and have no time to make it there tonight. I just need you to check some records for me. Can you help me? Please?”
	There was a pause followed by a deep sigh.
	“Thank you.” He said.
	“What do you need?” She said seconds later.
	“I need information on the man that released just hours ago, you know which one.”
	“OK.”
	Minutes passed and Captain spent anxious seconds pacing and biting on the nail on his thumb. He held the phone pinched in between his ear and shoulder, listening to the typing of keys, and ruffling of papers.
	“That’s weird.” Mary said under her breath.
	“What is it?”
	A couple seconds of typing and clicking.
	“Tomorrow, July twenty-third, is his birthday.
	Captain was stunned.
 “That’s strange. Why would they let him out a day before his birthday?” Mary complained. “That just doesn’t feelright.”
            “OK, Mary listen. I need an immediate update on his last psych examination. I need to know when the last time his brain was examined.”
            The typing speed doubled and fought audibly back and forth with the violent clicking.
            Then it all stopped. Mary was reading. She was making Captain jittery.
            “Oh, this is bad. It has been stated that Asura, for sure, has developed a fully functioning personality he now acknowledges in his own reality. He physically sees and interacts with this new personality.”
	Captain grabbed his phone and held it against his ear with his hand.
 “He was found referencing an Amon when speaking to himself and tried hard to hide it from others.”
	Captain was already running back to his car.
	“Does it quote anything he said? Any examples of the things he used to say to Amon?”
	His phone was pinched in between his ear and shoulder again and the car’s engine roared to life.
 “Unfortunately, he did a good enough job keeping his conversation quiet. A name was the only thing a few of the guards were able to get.”
	“He wasn’t talking. He was planning! He knows exactly what he’s doing next. And whatever it is, I don’t think we’ll find out in time to stop him. We just have to be ready to chase whatever trail he leaves.”
 “So, I wasn’t supposed to do this.” Mary started. “But I read some of the older records not pertaining to the case, and I found out something creepy.”
	“What?” Captain asked, speeding left and right through the other vehicles on the road.
 “Asura was supposed to be a twin, but his brother died in the womb. Only one was born successfully.” She stuttered. “He killed the other one just weeks before birth. Only Asura was ever born. I need to throw up.”
	Captain immediately hung up and dialed another number from memory.
	The phone rang and rang and rang and rang.
	No one picked up.
	“Requesting immediate backup.” He said into his radio.
 
            The motel room was as spotless as when Amon had checked into the night before. He exited the room and entered the driver’s seat of the car.
            “Ready to visit James?” He asked.
            The first rays of the sun had just began to touch the sky.
	“Finally, some action.” Asura replied.
	When Amon pulled into the neighborhood an hour and a half later, he stopped at the house with the Benz and Tahoe in front.
	Asura picked the lock on the front door while Amon made sure to keep an eye out.
	Passed the kitchen on the right and living room on the left. At the end of a short hall, Asura slammed his palm on the door, pushing the frame off the hinges and dropping to a loud wham!
	“James!” He shouted too excitedly.
	James jolted, and as soon as his eyes adjusted, he sprung reached for his nightstand.
	A fist reached his face first, breaking of bones in his nose and knocking out a couple teeth.
	“Did you tell someone, James?” Asura asked with blood on the knuckles of his hands.
	The woman in his bed screamed and fell off the bed with a loud thud! Then she proceeded to run out of the room.
	James denied all accusations and pleaded for his life.
	“People are talking, James. Amon knows. And Amon is always right.”
	“Asura! Please! I was your therapist! I’m legally not allowed to—”
	Asura stopped listening sent a hard backhand.
	/There was a distant crashing sound followed by rushed, loud footsteps.
	A few cops flew into the opened room.
	The fist cop was immediately snatched and, in that same second, placed on the floor with a broken neck. A bullet entered the next cop’s right ear and perfectly out the left. There was another single gunshot, but the last man heard two bodies hitting the floor behind him.
	The last man was Captain. And everything happened so fast, by the time he looked back at James, the man was kicking violently in the bed with a sheet tied around his neck with the ends of the sheet around the bed posts.
	He took one step forward and the cold barrel of a gun kissed his temple. 
	“Drop the gun.” Asura ordered him.
	He stared as the body in front of him flipped and flopped. James hands had been zip-tied behind his back, making an escape impossible.
 “Drop the gun.” Asura repeated.
	Captain took notice that he held the gun up with his right hand and placed his left hand was behind his back. But he knew Asura couldn’t be hiding another weapon.
	He knew he was being held at gunpoint by Amon.
	Captain lowered his gun to the floor slowly, dropping it beside one of his dead officers and standing back up even slower.
	“Listen, Amon, we can help you.” He suggested.
	Amon froze.
 “Captain, do you need backup?” His walkie shouted.
	His eyes met Amon’s. Slowly Captain moved his hand up to his walkie.
 “Cap, we’re coming in—”
	“Stand down.” He commanded. “Wait for my order.”
	Amon lowered his gun and stood right in front of Captain. He studied his face for a second. Thick mustache with a terrible attempt at a beard. He looked weak. Weak, but desperate to show his importance. His value, if he even had any. Amon looked at the ceiling and let out a dramatic and judgmental chuckle. He lowered his sight back to Captain and stopped smiling.
	“How are you here?” Asura barked. “My friend James told you, huh?”
	“Asura. Introduce me to Amon.”
	Captain was sweating. Yet cold. The blood in his nose had begun to pool but he knew better. He desperately attempted reasoning with Asura in hopes to at least stall long enough for backup to arrive.
	He could already hear the beautiful ring of sirens in the far, far distance.
	“I wanna meet Amon.” He repeated. “I’ve heard so much about him.”
	“I don’t care what you’ve heard about me.” Amon replied. “Your opinion has no importance.”
	Before Captain could offer a reply, Asura began to speak.
	“You here to arrest me again?” He questioned.
	His eyes pierced through to Captain’s. From Captain’s perspective, Asura’s eyes were dark. So dark, they seemed hollow and deep with emptiness. Like something else had fully taken over. Asura was not gone, but he wasn’t there either. Like a body stripped of its soul.
	He could no longer tell who he was talking to. Staring at.
	But whichever one it was lifted the gun and swung it, slamming it against his temple.
	He felt like his eyeballs shattered. And for that split second before his vision faded to black, through the slits of his almost-closed eyelids, he could’ve sworn he could see two separate people standing in front of him.
 
 
	Captain’s eyes opened and he gasped and grasped along the bedsheets wrapped around his body. Multiple hands grabbed him forcing him back down. He struggled and struggled and let out a bone chilling scream.
 “No, no Captain. Relax, you’re fine. Open your eyes.”
	Captain recognized the voice. He stopped struggling and his eyes opened slowly. He squinted and blinked as his eyes got used to the light. When his pupils adjusted, he realized that he was in a hospital. On a hospital bed.
	Beside him were two officers and his wife.
	He was confused and felt distant. He felt like he was the only one lost in the room.
	“Baby.” He whispered weakly to his wife. “Why are we here in the hospital? Are you OK?”
	She stared at him and cried. She bawled her eyes out until she could finally speak.
	“You were in a coma.” She replied between disrupted beaths.
	“Coma?” He repeated, shocked. “What? For how long?”
	She didn’t answer. She just cried and cried more.
	Captain looked at the officers.
	“A couple months.” One said.
	“Four months.” The other one added.
	“Four! Months?” Captain asked. “Asura? Did we catch him? Tell me we had the whole house and neighborhood surrounded. There’s no way they got away. Not from so close.”
	Neither cop was eager to respond.
	“What happened?” He asked finally.
	Another hesitant second.
	“Since his release, he hasn’t slowed down. People are beginning to despise local police. They want him caught on some real charges this time.”
	Captain closed his eyes hard.
	“Besides the witnessed and surveillance footage of the diner murder, a couple other things have happened since then too. The problem is just finding him.”
	Captain felt a chill fly up his spine. Something strangely felt familiar. The air seemed heavy and almost-tense. He recognized the feeling. And it was growing. Getting closer and closer.
	He struggled to breathe properly and felt the heaviest layer of fear he had ever felt in his life. It was a strong feeling of evil as he had once felt months before.
	“Baby?” His wife stated. “Baby, what’s wrong? Someone get the nurse now.”
	One officer rushed out of the room and returned seconds later with a nurse following behind.
	The nurse closed the door behind him and turned around, facing Captain.
	“Hello Captain Barry.”
	Captain had heard that voice before. It belonged to the same person that put him into a four-month coma.
	He looked at the nurse and immediately was completely submerged under the heaviness he felt. Still, he was unable to tell which one of was standing in front of him, but he was certain he was staring at the face of Death.
","July 20, 2023 16:48","[[{'Kylie Payne': ""I loved the imagery of this story. It was really easy to picture the scenes in my mind. I think there are some grammatical things that would be easily corrected with a simple reread/edit. The end of the story leaves more questions than anything. Are Amon and Asura not actual humans? Are they two separate beings? How is the nurse involved with them? And, as it relates to the prompt, it's hard to tell exactly which facade has been dropped. Overall it's a really mysterious story that does leave me wanting to learn more!"", 'time': '01:28 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David King': ""I LOVE that you could follow a visual mentally as you read along! That makes me feel so proud of my writing lol. (I'll make sure to correct those errors haha).\nFor clarification, Asura is a normal human, just like you and me...only he is severely mentally unstable causing his mind to create another being that he feels can relate to him (like an imaginary friend...but impulsive and criminal lol).\nA good example I can think of is when they went out to eat right after Asura's release. Even though Asura recollects Amon firing that gun, it was ac..."", 'time': '16:51 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David King': ""I LOVE that you could follow a visual mentally as you read along! That makes me feel so proud of my writing lol. (I'll make sure to correct those errors haha).\nFor clarification, Asura is a normal human, just like you and me...only he is severely mentally unstable causing his mind to create another being that he feels can relate to him (like an imaginary friend...but impulsive and criminal lol).\nA good example I can think of is when they went out to eat right after Asura's release. Even though Asura recollects Amon firing that gun, it was ac..."", 'time': '16:51 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This story is really intriguing and keeps you guessing, but the ending was a little unclear to me. I end not knowing if the captain has gone mad, the nurse is in disguise, or if Amon/Asura like possesses people. Maybe you want it unclear, it’s just what I noticed.', 'time': '07:14 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David King': 'So Asura and Amon are the same person; while Asura is more of the ""face"" everyone knows, Amon can only be seen by Asura. He\'s sort of a figment of Asura\'s fragmented mind state. The captain, however, is dedicated to capturing and putting Asura away PERMANENTLY so ""both"" Asura and Amon make sure to get rid of him. When Asura find out the captain\'s in a coma, he keeps tabs to make sure when he wakes back up, he\'s there.\nHopefully this clears up the things I was a little hazy about. I\'m glad you like the story and I\'m  REALLY glad to hear that ...', 'time': '16:38 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David King': 'So Asura and Amon are the same person; while Asura is more of the ""face"" everyone knows, Amon can only be seen by Asura. He\'s sort of a figment of Asura\'s fragmented mind state. The captain, however, is dedicated to capturing and putting Asura away PERMANENTLY so ""both"" Asura and Amon make sure to get rid of him. When Asura find out the captain\'s in a coma, he keeps tabs to make sure when he wakes back up, he\'s there.\nHopefully this clears up the things I was a little hazy about. I\'m glad you like the story and I\'m  REALLY glad to hear that ...', 'time': '16:38 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",grhj7x,The Light of Absecon,John Werner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/grhj7x/,/short-story/grhj7x/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Urban Fantasy']",10 likes,"
“You did it!” Loretta exclaimed, patting him on the back. The cigarette’s column of ash, dangling by the filter from her bottom lip, quivered and fell on the carpet. She brushed its remains from the lapel of her jacket and the spine of the book she carried under her arm before she ground them into the outdated pattern of the musty, faded carpet with a scuffed stiletto.Darren Holme was exhausted. It had been a long time since a magician had been offered a residency of this size in Atlantic City. Let’s face it, Vegas was much more where it’s at. But, he had been there and done that, at least a dozen times.“Thanks, Loretta!” He smiled, avoiding eye contact. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”Her rough laugh sounded more like the bark of an aggressive rottweiler. She placed her blue-veined hand protectively on his shoulder. It lingered there for a long moment. There were whole conversations unspoken, resting beneath the palm of her hand. She pushed her intentions gently but relentlessly down into his flesh so that he would understand perfectly. When she was sure he had, she released him.“I’m going for a walk.” He said, changing without waiting for her to leave and grabbing his coat should he need protection from the late-night autumn air on the Jersey Shore.He didn’t bother trying to hide. He realized that most people don’t recognize magicians unless they are on stage doing magician things. The reality was, that even though he had been on every late-night talk show, Good Morning wherever, nobody seemed to recognize him at all once the lights came up.He slouched into his jacket as he emerged from the casino doors. His feet hit the boardwalk with a familiar sound he could never find anywhere else. The boards of the legendary Atlantic City Boardwalk had a sound all their own. A modern-day Ship of Theseus, the boardwalk had been there since 1870, but not a single timber remained from that original structure. Yet somehow, each new board set in place retained the spirit of its forebearers. The whole transcending the ever-replaceable parts.The bright electric screens which shone like torches along the edge of the dunes lit the entire boardwalk, even during this off-season. He couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the advertisements for his own show, growing smaller as they repeated into the distance on those electric screens. He crossed the storefront with a giant iguana out front. A weathered, salt-stained pizza place was open on the corner. Massage parlors, psychics, and dollar stores resided at alternating intervals between souvenir shops. He smiled as he lost himself to the rhythm of his feet walking along the boardwalk.When Loretta proposed the residency, the casino was immediately onboard after his success out West. They would have preferred that he had chosen one of their other spots, but anything to draw crowds. Four nights a week with a matinee on Sunday, and a suite each for herself and him.He walked past the vacant mall, its quiet hallways connected to the neighboring casino by a bridge to the greatest evidence that the city itself was in deepest hibernation, waiting patiently to awaken and regain its glory. He found the Steel Pier and looked up the grand Ferris Wheel reaching into the sky. Its lights were on, but the pier was closed. “Technology is the greatest magic humanity has ever worked.” He thought.He continued his journey to the very end until he could see the beacon of the Absecon Lighthouse keeping time in the distance. He remembered the first time he had seen it. That was a very long time ago.He remembered his last agent. He was a good man. Together they had made each other a lot of money. But, as all things must, their partnership came to an end. That was when he first walked these boards. He was not a magician then. He had been credited as a partner in a law firm. If there were two things existence had taught him, it was to interpret rules, and how to use magic to break them.It was for that reason he was here now. Turning, he saw that there were no stragglers behind him. He had passed the scant barrier which marked the end of the boardwalk. The final casino on the strip had grown smaller behind him and the lighted screens beckoning the crowds to his shows were fireflies in the distance. Confident in his solitude, he summoned the warm saltwater-infused winds to himself and gently ascended through the iron bars of the catwalk surrounding the lantern room.He stood there for quite some time, wishing that he could just get a moment’s darkness. Darkness was so hard to find here. But darkness is what this required. Taking a deep breath he focused his will and, knowing that his power would only provide a few moment’s respite, he called out to the abyss, pulling its darkness to him and unleashing it down the weathered boards. It was as if the entire boardwalk had simply gone to sleep, lights winking out in a great wave all along the beach until the darkness was complete.“Nu!” He screamed out into the dark and roiling waters. “Free me! Bring me home! I have been too long in this land!”For a moment the ancient sea itself rose in acknowledgment of his pleas. The surf roared and the waves crashed. Just as those waves slithered back to the mighty Atlantic, the lights began their return. Winking back into brightness in the distance, they slowly made their way to him until the light of the Absecon burned once more.A shadow.Turning, he saw Loretta. She was standing there in her bathrobe and her slippered feet as she unsteadily gripped the metal grating around them. She held in her hand the book which bound them together. She saw him and her eyes widened in fear.“I still have one wish!” She said defensively.“Do you know the paradox of the Ship of Theseus?” Darren asked.“Whatever foolishness you’re thinking of, get it clear out of your head,” Loretta ordered him, choking on the last words as a wracking cough rattled in her chest.“Long ago, I realized that the lamp was an encumbrance that had outlived its time.” He explained. “I had my partner melt it down and guild the pages of this book with its essence. Rub a lamp, open a book, what’s the difference, right?”“Let’s just go back and shoot some craps!” She choked. “We’re good! We’re living the life!”“This too is a game of chance, Loretta.” Darren conceded. With a wave of his hand, the iron barrier between them and the night-time sky disappeared.He walked to her and gently opened the cover of the book. The page was not important. The gilded edges sparked to life, catching the light each time the beacon came full circle and shone upon them. He caressed the paper-thin skin of her fingers and gently curled them around the corner of the page.“Please,” She looked up at him, a tear forming.“Please,” His plea was equally heartbreaking.Guiding her hand he tore that page from the book. Guiding it again he lifted it to the sky. He whispered in her ear and together they let it go, watching as it drifted away on the wind, it landed gently upon the water, and was swallowed by the dark and hungry sea.Each page they tore together. Each page they sent to the abyss. When the final page had wafted down and they were left with only the leather binding she turned to him. Her eyes had sunken deep into their sockets and the skin around her lips had been pulled tightly to her teeth.“Please?” She begged.“Yes,” Darren replied. Still gently guiding her hand he hurtled the empty cover of his prison out into the darkness and as it flew through the air the remains of Loretta whorled with them. With each moment, the distance grew between them and time consumed her. By the time the splash was heard from atop the Absecon Lighthouse, she had joined the twinkling stars as the very particles of her were lifted into the sky.“What’s going on up here?” The door burst open and Darren started. The lighthouse keeper balked, blinking. Darren blinked as well. It had been a long time since he had taken his true form. It had been a long time since a human had beheld his true form. The keeper simply fainted, falling backward down the circular staircase, but not falling too far. The passageway was rather narrow here at the top.The long black hair at the top of Darren’s head was gathered once more in that golden ring. That golden ring which had once been stolen to forge his lamp. That golden lamp which he had melted down to be gilded upon the pages of the book. But now, with the spell broken, it was his once more. It looked like molten fire each time the beacon shone upon his crimson skin.“Where will I go next?” He asked himself, not wanting to rush the decision.The light of the Absecon rounded once again and as it fell full upon him he rode those electric currents to its core. The beacon's flaring could be seen for miles beyond its normal range. The Absecon light now had a beating heart all its own. For now, the spirit of the djinn abides within. 
","July 20, 2023 17:19","[[{'Kevin Logue': ""Thoroughly enjoyable tale. Was totally immersed in your descriptions, so much so that the twist totally caught me. Very well executed.\n\nI feel it could even be in other prompt for a magician revealing it's secrets.\n\nKeep up the good work!"", 'time': '22:06 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John Werner': 'Thank you, Kevin! It started out that way but when it was done I felt it better fit the other. Glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '22:37 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John Werner': 'Thank you, Kevin! It started out that way but when it was done I felt it better fit the other. Glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '22:37 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'You lost me somewhere in the light of that lantern.🏮\nThanks for likingy fuzzy slippers.', 'time': '18:17 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John Werner': 'Thanks, Mary!', 'time': '18:24 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John Werner': 'Thanks, Mary!', 'time': '18:24 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",644app,"Pastoress, Post",Gladys Iceburgh,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/644app/,/short-story/644app/,Character,0,"['Christian', 'Fiction', 'Friendship']",10 likes,"
Once communion ends, I can’t help carrying a smile as I leave the podium and practically float down the several steps down to the pews to shake the hands of my parishioners as they leave the church. I also can’t help complementing anyone for their recent generosity such as Mary Rachel for the doilies she had devoted the entire summer to crafting for the altar. I also can’t help showing concern for anyone in troubled times such as asking Todd Jr. how his father is doing and telling him how he is in my prayers. And I couldn’t possibly help ruffling the hair of all my budding Christian warriors as they follow their parents out, the future of the church.And when the last person is gone and I close the doors with a thud and my mind is left to itself, my palms gripping the polished brass doorknobs begin to perspire and I can’t help but feel ashamed in my joy. For it isn’t from the flex of my faith or in doing my God’s work that makes me smile, and it isn’t the power of Him that fills me with gratitude and concern for my flock. It kills me this happiness only comes from inching ever closer to the end of my Sunday tasks and that for several days after I can forget the church’s existence, that I can let go of the weight of the job, that is feeling more and more like a burden, and finally breathe easy for a while. I let go of the doorknobs and watch as the sweat of my hands dissipate from the surface leaving a distorted and grotesque woman staring back at me. I feel like the saleswoman of a product someone forgot to inform she’s not allowed to sell. I turn from the doors and, to my further dismay, across the nave stands one of the reasons for my ennui, Mrs. Davis – her kyphotic back to me, as she sweeps wayward communion wafers into a dustpan. A woman of such small stature that her feet swing when she sits in the pews, she is my sole deacon, though she refuses to openly take the title, and I estimate her to be about as old as the building. I can’t help but see her as holy as the Book for her dedication to the congregation and feel even more like a fraud compared to her and her faith done right, a specter representative of how women used to be in Christianity.The big room is now quiet save for the woman’s sweeping, and I fret any footstep I’d dare make be betrayed by the 19th century floorboards, and Mrs. Davis would turn around and give me those eyes of hers. It is through those brown, slightly cataracted eyes that I truly feel seen in my failings in the clergy and that’s why she is the last person I want to see in this moment. Though, I have yet to feel truly confirmed in how Mrs. Davis feels about me, for in the month I’ve been here I have yet to hear her speak. I’ve learned when communicating with her to only ask yes and no questions. When I first got the placement, the pastor I took the torch from said the woman comes with the place as if she’s a furniture piece and will do just about everything and anything besides speak. I didn’t mind it at first; however, in these recent weeks, with the crisis I’ve been having lately, it is hard to share the silence. It seems like with each passing Sunday that my suspicions of Mrs. Davis metastasize into her holding an ever darker, more resentful opinion of me. For, if she’s so firm in following the text that she, as a person of our gender, refuses to speak in the church, how must she feel when she sees me with the audacity to stand at the podium? The sharp, declarative words of how a woman should exist in a church from Paul in Corinthians and in Timothy come to me like horsemen of the apocalypse watching me from on high and laughing. How has no one stopped me from committing these abominations?Embarrassingly, I realize I’ve been talking out loud and then notice that Mrs. Davis has stopped sweeping and is now staring at me from across the nave. I try to calm my head and dust off my smile from before though it’s now a bit stiff, and I walk towards her end. Impressively, she appears even smaller with closer proximity. I ask her if she needs any help. She shakes her head and goes and puts the broom away. As she closes the door of the closet, for the first time, I’m emboldened to ask her question about the service.“What’d you think about this morning?” I ask her, my voice trying to stay as leveled as possible to belie the storm brewing in my mind that could knock me over with one little gale. Innocently enough, she looks up at me the best she can with what her neck will allow, and her chin slides to the left, her face shifting diagonally, and then finally she gives a nod. I could see anyone chemically balanced assuming this as a positive critique, but in my sorry state, I see it as an indictment against the service from start to finish: that she notices how I’ve been getting more and more people to do readings to fill more of the time I’d have to spend with my sermon and that my sermons themselves have become waterlogged with greeting card wisdom and scant with relational biblical context – an entire portion of last week’s focused on something so obvious and common as loving thy neighbor? I know I can do better, but with the worries I’ve been having, the cracks in my confidence, I feel like I can only run at half steam no matter how hard I try. How can I legitimize my station against words written in stone?The dam breaks, and I burst into tears right in front of her. My head so filled with emotion, I wince my eyes closed and don’t even notice that she has taken my hand. I’ve given up and only realize until after that I am following her blindly to who knows where. She gets me to sit down on something cold and hard and I open my eyes to see that we are in the memorial garden facing the back of the church. My eyes start to settle, and a breeze filtering through a stalwart pin oak besides us cools my tears. I look up and see the sun is close to reaching its mid-day spot.She puts both her hands on my shoulders, and I instinctively start to mimic her breathing, and the tears eventually stop. She lets go of me and sits pensively beside me staring at me all the while, her feet slowly swinging underneath her.“What the hell is going on with you?” she asks flatly, her voice is full of grit but somehow surprisingly warm.“Don’t you know?” I labor out, my voice croaking, “I’m a fraud. I’m not fit to do this. Never was.”“Who said this?” she poses and shifts on the bench as if ready to throw hands with someone.I don’t know what to say as I’m quite shocked to be holding a verbal conversation with her, so my thoughts just run out like a stream, “The looks you give me after every service; they burrow into my head shining a spotlight on all my inadequacies with this church. It just brings up loud and clear everything Paul said about who should truly be running the church. It all weighs on me so much I don’t think I can take it anymore. I feel like I’m slowly walking on a plank, and I just wish someone would get it over with and push me off. The church no longer feels like the place of refuge it was before but more like the belly of the leviathan.” I feel the tears coming back.Mrs. Davis sits through all this patiently, and when I finally take a breath, she puts her little knobby hand on my knee, “Well, I haven’t looked in a damn mirror since Reagan, so I wouldn’t know how this old leather boot looks to you, but from the inside I only look at you with love and admiration,” she pauses to let that sink in and flicks a mosquito off her arm, “And as for that Paul… women not to speak in the church? - divine stenographer, my ass – tell that to Phoebe and Deborah. How can you even be an apostle of Christ if you damn well never met him. Hmm?”She looks up at me so earnestly after saying this and then pokes me between the ribs, and for the first time in a long time, I laugh as if I’ve I’m laughing for the very first time, till it hurts. She chuckles as well, deep guttural ones like a pot boiling and the sound is so saccharine I can’t but laugh harder.  I sit looking at this woman as if we’ve never met. A question burbles up to my head.“Then why don’t you speak?”Mrs. Davis spurts another laugh, “Well it sure ain’t because of my sex, damn straight!” and she laughs even more. When she’s able to take a breath, “I don’t speak cause of my sailor’s mouth, I’d catch aflame the second I utter even a salutation. At least, that’s what Mr. Davis used to say, bless his soul.” Her one hand goes to her mouth in contemplation, “Maybe that’s something I should work on.” For the first time her face turns stoic as if she’s deep in thought, and for a moment I feel alone on the bench. I take her other hand into mine, my hand swallowing hers whole, and I can’t help but see her as an angel, curses and all. She wipes something from her eye and musters a smile. I can tell she has more to say, and I listen engrossed.“Honey, God’s not in that book,” she continues matter-of-factly, “God’s in your tit,” and my mouth makes an O as she pokes me in the chest, “That book is neutral. It can be used for good or evil depending on who is wielding it. You just need to believe in yourself. Don’t let stink eyes, even ones that are intentionally stinky let you doubt yourself. It’s work, just like Mary Rachel’s doilies – those jasmine stitches are a bitch and a half but with determination you end up with a lacy masterpiece."" She looks up at me and studies my face hoping that I've absorbed at least some of her advice.“Thank you for this,” I blurt out, my hands clasped together. I know indubitably what she is saying to be true. I guess I just needed to hear someone say it. I can feel the weight starting to lift off me, and I begin to feel something I haven’t felt for many Sundays, a gleeful anticipation for the next one. With my mind settled, I can feel ideas springing from the calm; an excitement spreads from my heart to my limbs for all the possibilities for sermons, starting with an idea thanks to Mrs. Davis – to worship God not the Bible.She stands up, and just as she settles her dress, the noon sun lays a ray on her head as she says, “Any time preacher.” She lets out a hand for me to join her, but before she takes my hand, she pokes me between the ribs again and concludes the conversation as we head back inside, “Us ribs have to stick together.”And I can't help but smile.
","July 20, 2023 21:59","[[{'Beth Nolan Conners': 'I enjoyed your story, Gladys! I particularly liked how you described the setting so clearly that I felt I was ""in it"".  I will say that ""kyphotic"" leapt out at me as it\'s a word not often used so it jarred me a bit, but overall I thought it was a well-written piece with a strong story arc (always difficult to do with a limited amount of words!).', 'time': '00:21 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kara Niccum': 'What a lovely story! I really enjoyed!', 'time': '14:27 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Womanly wisdom.\n\nWelcome to Reedsy.\nThanks for liking my mayhem.', 'time': '22:34 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",ar1e6x,The Usurpers,Len Rely,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ar1e6x/,/short-story/ar1e6x/,Character,0,['Contemporary'],10 likes,"
Abel (whose full name was Abehamr) lived in the city with his nonessential roommate Max. He was a man of few words having been raised with four sisters all of whom were tall, good-looking blondes like himself. People seemed interested in him without much effort on his part which made him an uncomplaining witness to many strange behaviors. He had already achieved the goals of being gainfully employed and having an apartment; now he felt a strong civic responsibility but at the moment the state was torn by a political rivalry in which the civic process itself was under assault.
On one side Seventy-year-old incumbent Jim Marx was considered a traditional southern candidate. A musician-turned-grocery magnate whose grandfather ""ran lightning for Lindy"", he had once been a spoken-word entertainer called a ""balladeer"" but today was the face behind a cornbread empire advertised by him picking a banjo. His strategy of using country club donors to bring wagons of rural folks to the polls was considered the more straightforward of the two campaigns.
On the other side was dapper, womanizing playboy Tom Nicks who claimed to be the son of three different Hollywood actors conceived on ""one magical night of television"". Once a child star, it was decided that it was time for him to get political. But the biggest headline was his nefariousness with women as young as fifteen of which there were many accusations going back to his teenage years when he dated women as old as forty-one.
Abel sat down to watch a televised debate between the two contenders. The incumbent was standing at his podium, a white-haired old man whose heavily dimpled face looked like a powdered biscuit. When the challenger’s name was called Nicks emerged from the curtains in a tuxedo accompanied by two escort models wearing cocktail dresses slit to the navel. Nicks had a face that looked like Clark Gable in the scene where he sneers at Vivien Leigh. When he got to the podium the escorts sauntered off stage and he said to them using the microphone ""Thanks vixens, see you later tonight!"".
The moderator called for silence and each candidate made his opening remarks.
""Call me old-fashioned but I'd like to speak about agriculture."" Jim Marx said in a weathered voice. ""We’re able to make organic fuel out of marsh grass and yet look at the crops we choose to grow instead. And I'll tell you what, there are secret agendas in the legislature that are as slick as the bottom at the end of a baby, conspiring to take away everything that gives men and women the same slice, keeps old folks alive and lets you have any say over your own affairs.""
""Yeah that’s all just baloney pudding."" Tom Nicks smiled and winked with a flash of light from his teeth like a toothpaste commercial. ""Swamp juice? You’ve been eating crazy beans with a cross-eyed sailor!""
The audience gasped and roared with laughter. The moderator looked up at Nicks to finish his remarks, but that's all there was.
""Mr. Nicks I'd like to bring up the charges of sexual misconduct from twenty different women.” she stated. “You have yet to make any recompense for your behavior, so how are you qualified to run for office?""
""By restoring a message of morality and trust that has long been absent, Darlene."" he said with a look of benediction. ""Let me spell it out for you; mo-ra-li-ty. How refreshing is it to hear someone in this day and age actually say that? We have allowed our values to stray far from the mark with this slander.""
""But how is being a known predator of women acceptable?""
""It's acceptable because I’m not a deviant."" he answered slyly. ""When someone is trustworthy it’s his good word against a vicious sorority of liars. Let me put it this way Darlene; would you trust this face with let's say... going all the way on a first date?”
He leaned roguishly against the podium with an amorous look. The moderator picked up her cards and fanned her chest with them.
“Is he flirting with her?”Abel thought to himself.
""Are you going to tell us what your platform is tonight?"" she moved on to the next question.
""Not while I'm standing here, Darlene."" he objected. ""Look at the mockery our system has become, letting a Progressive on the stage!""
His opponent did a double-take.
""Good gravy, in what way am I a progressive?"" Marx interjected. ""I just want this community to have a plan for the future.""
""Exactly, he wants it to proceed!"" Nicks finished his argument.
""But why should voters choose you?"" the moderator pressed on.
""There is no choice, Darlene. Voting has become a joke so why even go to the polls?""
The mumbling in the crowd increased to a disorderly clamor.
""What do you say to the claims that you’re a straw man at the behest of political shadows like Sigisimund Munfro?” the moderator posed.
""I don't know who that is, Darlene."" he answered.
""But didn't you go to high school together?""
""I never went to high school Darlene. It wasn't part of my heterosexual agenda.”
The audience was now riled up into a state of confusion not normally seen at formal events, people getting up out of their chairs and turning their jeers and bickering on each other. Abel turned the screen off.
He leaned back in his chair astonished by what he had just observed. Aside from being a hedonist the challenger was a complete idiot. The man didn’t seem to know how to run for office, so what was actually going on here?
 
Like a good citizen Abel went to the local registrar’s office hoping to get some unbiased information. As he was waiting to cross the street he noticed the figure of a man sneaking (for that was the only word for it) along the sidewalk like a stereotypical burglar does; constantly looking over his shoulder, following the edges of buildings instead of just walking like a normal pedestrian. He was short and stocky with black whiskers and the collar of his coat was pulled up to conceal his face. Abel wondered if his entire commute was like this, a man who is afraid of being seen.
When he arrived at the registrar’s office it was a pleasant scene with festive campaign signs and a friendly, blonde-haired woman who looked like a stewardess encouraging people to go inside.
“Are you here to register today?” she greeted Abel with an inexhaustible smile.
Abel nodded that he was.
“Well I must say I wish everyone was as well-dressed as you. You make the voter look good!” she overloaded him with compliments.
Abel wasn’t really prepared to say anything to this so he just let it pass.
“So we need volunteers to get the word out pretty badly.” she gave him a sheepish grin. “Since you take your civic duties so seriously I’d highly recommend you get involved. I could show you the ropes.”
Abel was trying to think of what to say so he could proceed inside, but she was looking over his shoulder and said “uh oh”. Abel turned around to see a dark figure approaching from the sidewalk.
“Well well well, is this an illegal public demonstration?” the black-whiskered skulker raised his voice. The volunteers and a dozen people standing outside the building turned to look at him.
“Mr. Munfro you were asked not to come here.” the young blonde woman approached him.
“What’s this a Saturday night intern?” he insulted her. “Are you turning tricks or turning votes?”
She retreated back to where Abel was standing. The strange man began pacing in front of them like a parishioner, plucking campaign signs out of the ground and breaking them over his knee until the registrar himself emerged at the top of the steps.
“What is the meaning of this disturbance?” he demanded. “Both parties are represented equally here.”
“I see a Marxist with a history of misinformation!” Munfro pointed at him. “You think you can disturb the peace by setting up this one-sided political sweatshop in our fair city?”
“Harassing a polling place is illegal.” the registrar responded. “This kind of voter suppression will not be tolerated.”
Munfro marched up to the front of the building, reached up and tore a poster down in front of him.
“You paper this city with your Marxist agenda and claim to be equal?” he hissed, tearing it to shreds. “Citizens walk in and Jim Marx supporters come out?”
“That was a list of legislative issues on the ballot.” the registrar argued. “Why don’t you make your opinions known through legitimate means by setting up pollsters and tables of your own?”
“Heh heh heh…” he barely concealed his outrage at this suggestion. “You think I’m going to play a game where you make the rules so you can decide who wins?”
He turned toward the growing crowd of onlookers and spread his arms like Moses parting the Red Sea.
“They want to feed you a list of their priorities to disguise the real choice here!” he declared sternly. “But they don’t have the power to force you to do this! There is a real contest with more at stake than just petty issues! That means if Tom Nicks wins there are no issues!”
He pumped his fist and people reacted with confusion.
“One of the biggest points to be decided is Gerrymandering.” the registrar pointed out.
“Who cares about some flyover counties?” Munfro responded easily.
“Women’s reproductive health is on the block and towns are going to be denied the right to have bird sanctuaries.” the registrar continued.
“Disease mongering and sanctuary cities?” the man’s pejoratives seemed to have no end. “Were you born a pinko or did you have to grow into it?”
“What do you mean by that?” the registrar was genuinely puzzled. “I listen to gospel music and drive an Oldsmobile!”
“Exactly, a gin-burner!” Munfro declared.
The confusion grew in intensity as Abel observed this agitator, this non-candidate who was skilled at hurling accusations whose result was a moral panic.
“I’m not going to let you frighten people away from the polls.” the registrar stepped back to allow a line of people waiting to enter.
“Yes go on, get your food stamps!” Munfro beckoned them. “You know what they say, a friend of the Black man is a friend of the fat man!”
Now the disorder was bubbling over; some people were staring as if they had been smacked while others ventured out of their buildings. Abel’s fist was clenched in his pocket. He wasn’t skilled enough to do anything about this, but his roommate was.
 
According to the day’s news there was nonsensical political unrest erupting in the cities as a result of low turnout of traditional voters leaving uninformed fringe elements as the main participants. This was worsened by the news that Jim Marx had taken ill and would have to suspend his campaign for a few days.
Max suggested Abel get involved himself but he was smart enough to know he was too ignorant of these games to be a participant.
""You are living proof that talking is a liability."" Max said. ""So why not use your power?""
They went to the incumbent's party headquarters. They wanted to know if there was a way the debate could go on without their candidate physically being there. As Abel’s 'manager' Max explained that it was important to keep the electoral process going, and that Abel could not be more serious about this.
""Is this true?"" the woman looked into Abel's blue eyes. His eyebrows raised with a look of sincerity that would charm the eggs out of a hen. Employing his skill to its fullest led them to the boardroom where it was decided the debate would proceed as planned.
The town hall was prepared for a packed audience. Tom Nicks arrived on stage with the same flair and disrespect as before. Abel stood at his podium in a tailored cream-colored suit; his blonde friend from the campaign approached him to give him his cards and straighten his tie, during which he was completely unmoved. Nicks himself watched this with intrigue.
Munfro who was behind-the-scenes like a hairy shadow recognized Abel from the incident on the street. He did not wish to be seen and ducked out through a stage door. The house lights went down.
""Hello and welcome to the second debate of this campaign season."" the moderator began. ""The incumbent Jim Marx is on sick leave and has agreed to let campaign volunteer Roger... I'm sorry, Abel Moore speak in his place."" she smiled. ""We welcome him and Mr. Nicks to the stage. The challenger will make his opening remarks.""
“Well Diane, Jim Marx is still the ugly face of his party and this godless election."" Nicks sneered. ""I was going to say he’s just a lymph node with cramps, but he isn’t here to take it like a man, so…”
He looked at Abel waiting for him to say something so he could shoot it down. Abel looked indignant as if statements were beneath him.
“Mr. Moore, may I call you Abel?"" the moderator inquired. ""Your party’s management has said that you are just here to uphold the inherent goodness of our election process to keep certain important issues in the spotlight, and for this you are accepting absolutely no reward?""
He smiled and then leaned forward to his microphone.
""Yes."" he answered simply, and leaned back again.
Nicks opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. The crowd erupted into applause at the brilliance of this answer. The next question went the same way; his muckraking had no target so when it was Nicks’ turn to speak his gaffs were no longer a novelty. By the end of the evening the audience was calling out Abel's answers for him, which he affirmed with a congenial nod leaving his opponent to come up with something. Nicks looked around as if searching for someone to tell him what to say.
 
The debate received high ratings and Abel took many handshakes. After nodding with some reporters, he stepped outside to get a breather and saw in the corner of his eye a figure scampering away and boarding a bus. Something possessed him to find out where Sigisimund Munfro lived. He caught the next bus on the very same line.
It took him two hours out of the city and into the night. Abel was able to find his building and apartment from people were happy to oblige him. The man lived in a slum.
Munfro had returned to his apartment wheezing and was talking on his phone.
“No you’re not listening to me."" he said hoarsely. ""We can still take control of the party! Nicks doesn’t care, we’ll give him money or women or something. There’s no danger of a man growing a spine if you can shoot him in the back!”
“Then why not just shoot Marx?” a voice responded on the line.
""Why would we assassinate our opponent?"" he answered. ""As if he was any threat to us. No you shoot your friends. We need enemies! Hello? Hello?!”
There was a solitary knock on the door. He had neglected to turn the lights on; the only illumination was a garish orange glow that flooded the windows. The door swung open and Abel was standing there in the hallway. Munfro dropped the phone and backed away from him.
""What are you doing? Home invasion!!"" he stammered.
Abel walked slowly toward him, his face an unrevealing stare neither smiling nor livid. Munfro grabbed a hammer and swung at him clumsily with it, which Abel deflected easily with a closed umbrella.
""You were at the debate."" Munfro realized frantically. ""Why are you here? This is my house!""
Abel gave no reply but approached him steadily. Munfro retreated to the back of the room.
""I don't know what you think you saw but you don't have anything on me!"" his accusations bounced off of him without reaction.
He tried to make a break for it but his stout legs slipped out from under him and he stumbled to the floor, crawling to the back corner of the house with Abel at his heels.
""No more!"" Munfro turned and put up his hand for mercy. ""What do you want from me?""
Abel said nothing. He watched the man steady himself against the back wall and smiled at him.
""Are you hoping to get something for your silence?"" Munfro breathed heavily. ""Perhaps we don’t have to be enemies.""
Abel reached down and grabbed him by the coat collar to force him to look him in the eye.
""I'm asking you to name your terms!"" Munfro pleaded. ""Every man has his price. For God's sake why won’t you say something!""
He wriggled free of his coat and stumbled out the back door, landing in a crouched heap at the top of the fire escape.
""Don't think you're so righteous!"" the man scowled up at him. ""There are people who think the biggest need in the universe is enforcing rules and stamping out anyone who breaks them, and those who think the biggest need is to stand in the way of self-made enforcers and their arrogance! I was put on this Earth to throw roadblocks and watch their frustration! There's a war out there and we have to do what we have to do!”
His hand was on his chest and he was breathing in fits. He pulled himself upright using the iron railing, hobbled down the steps and disappeared into the dark.
 
When Abel returned to the city it was daybreak. He was considering running for office himself someday. When he saw Max again in the park he wished him well and went his way. There was a pretty young volunteer waiting for him on the other side of the fence.
","July 21, 2023 01:11","[[{'C.G Ripplinger': 'Your story is very interesting for what you were going for. While it was enjoyable,  I can see how the limitation of the word count had hindered it some of the plot points you wanted to establish.   It definitely benefits having the narrative longer.   However, for what it was, I thoroughly enjoyed it!', 'time': '23:57 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Manny Arcaro': 'Thank you for a great read, Len. I loved the opening, it grabbed me immediately. I loved the punchy pace too, things moved along well. Your character were strong and I thought you had a good balance between explicit descriptions and implied ones. The dialogue was great. The only thing that bothered me was that I sometimes lost track of who I was reading about. Probably because I’m tired at the moment more than by your story. I got a bit confused about the characters and your transitions between scenes. Maybe it is just a matter of adding a l...', 'time': '22:21 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Len Rely': 'I could not have asked for better compliments.  I had to trim this down from a 7,600-word story which was more work than writing it in the first place, so my greatest fear is that things will seem jumpy.  Removing the whole backstory wasn\'t enough, I had to cut another 1,000 words out of the 3 major scenes losing many euphemisms.  Abel\'s roommate Max is a ""poet"" he met on the employment line who was verbally abused.  Before the scene at the voting office Abel observes Munfro kicking a ladder out from under a painter, then after the scene he ...', 'time': '01:33 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Len Rely': 'I could not have asked for better compliments.  I had to trim this down from a 7,600-word story which was more work than writing it in the first place, so my greatest fear is that things will seem jumpy.  Removing the whole backstory wasn\'t enough, I had to cut another 1,000 words out of the 3 major scenes losing many euphemisms.  Abel\'s roommate Max is a ""poet"" he met on the employment line who was verbally abused.  Before the scene at the voting office Abel observes Munfro kicking a ladder out from under a painter, then after the scene he ...', 'time': '01:33 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",08n2br,Beautiful Catastrophe,Alexia Kendall,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/08n2br/,/short-story/08n2br/,Character,0,"['Lesbian', 'Romance', 'Sad']",10 likes,"
My life is very plain and simple. Wake up, work, home, repeat. It was like clockwork, and I loved it that way. That's how it's supposed to be, Monday through Saturday. I Struggle to get out of bed sharp and early, just to make it to work every day. Today is the same as yesterday, how was I supposed to know she would see through everything I worked so hard to build. I'm sitting just scrolling through the lists of contacts to call, listening to the constant clicking of keyboards and obnoxious conversations of my coworkers. My bright fake smile as I put my customer service voice on to speak to people over the phone. Everyone who works at this office knows, and absolutely adores me. It can be irritating, since they talk to me non-stop. As soon as I hang up my phone call, I get pulled into a conversation between a couple people. They always bug me about going out to clubs, never really being my scene, I have to make up creative excuses to decline. I'm always bright and bubbly, making sure to be sweet and funny to everyone around here. None of them have ever questioned me, only ever loved me, saying I was a hyperactive sweetheart. Exactly what I want them to see, it makes things run smoother. I hate things being complicated, I made a decision to create a face that people could adore, and I'd be left alone. I don't need others thinking they could fix me or pity me. There's no point in making people feel as if they have to worry about someone as insignificant as I am. I was at this job to make money and go home, anything more was an inconvenience. So, when I walk into those doors, my mask goes on, and I become the person people want me to be. Every day is the same, I keep the friendly banter to a minimum and don't go passed my boundaries. That's what I was hoping for, but after some time I guess I got the attention of an absolutely stunning Latina woman. I'll admit she was definitely entertaining, I started to wear shorter and tighter dresses and watch as she'd blush and become so flustered. She was a game I was tempted to win. We started to go out for lunch breaks together, but I kept my cute little facade for the next couple of weeks. Before I realized what was happening, I fell in love with her, very hard. She became way more than a game to me; I wanted her and vice versa, she was my muse. She always went on about how much she loved my giggling, how I always was smiling, that I was always happy. She loved my mask, and when I drop it then she'd drop me, just a matter of time. But I lived for her, she was the highlight of that miserable office building. If I played correctly maybe I could have her, and I'd be hers. I decided that I couldn't lose her, I'd do anything it took to be with her. It's been a couple months and I thought everything was going as planned, we'd meet in the bathrooms and hallways as little rendezvous. Every conversation we had brought us closer together, I became more attached to her. The peaceful dates we'd gone on, from picnics to dinners. I fell so deeply for this woman; I was a lovesick mess. I listened to every word she said, remembering as many details as possible that could be useful. She was lactose intolerant but enjoyed oat milk in her coffee or matcha. I'd keep in mind her favorite bands and songs, just in case they had a concert in town. I took mental notes of absolutely everything I could, just so I could give her the life she deserved. It was truly bliss, until my facade shattered. We met in the back stairwell; it was always abandoned so we could speak freely. We were laughing and going on about things in our lives. And that's when she decided to tell me that she was aware I was hiding behind a mask so thick that even she was worried I wouldn't be able to take it off. Of course, I was shocked, and she could see it written plainly on my face. Of course, I was, she was concerned for me, and it made my heart ache. I knew I never wanted to worry her, now that I know she sees who I am. She went on to explain that she watches when no one is around me how my face turns from a bright happy one to a blank stare that looks pained and in deep thought. She started on about how much she loved that even though I was going through the things that are causing pain, that I still come to work with a cheerful attitude even though it's fake. I was still silent in awe, staring at this gorgeous girl in front of me. She saw through me and was still here with me. She was still rambling about me, so I decided to shut her up, I kissed her and held her close to me, feeling like static running through my body. I have always suffered with multiple mental illnesses; I have never felt true comfort, until now that is. I was able to spill everything to her, my whole life story. She witnessed the deepest part of me, a part I never thought anyone would ever see. These parts I keep hidden are usually enough to devore me into a void of depression and numbness. I was completely and utterly broken. A puzzle that was missing pieces, never being able to feel whole. But she was everything I never knew I needed, as if she was gluing pieces of myself back together. She is my safe haven, the only one I have ever dropped my guard for. And we loved each other, she was my reason I could finally drop my facade. And it was a beautiful catastrophe.
","July 15, 2023 02:54","[[{'Corey Joyce Henderson': 'Very cool story! It plays out like how a Hozier song feels; intimate, emotional, and romantic.', 'time': '17:12 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': ""Greetings Alexia, and welcome to Reedsy! And congrats on your first submission. \n\nYou've got something really great here. When I read the prompt, your piece was the last thing I was expecting. I figured the story would be told by a third person narrator, about a character hiding behind a façade. Or, possibly, told by another character who knew someone was a phony. \n\nYour descriptions of the main character's feelings for this new love are really good. And this line: \n\nA puzzle that was missing pieces, never being able to feel whole.\n\nreally j..."", 'time': '11:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",skz2r2,The Last Letter,Q K,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/skz2r2/,/short-story/skz2r2/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Teens & Young Adult']",9 likes,"
(Note: This story speaks of mental health, disassociation, and indicates suicide/self-harm.)
 
	Dear Mom, remember when we’d write each other letters after what we could call events in our lives. It didn't matter what it was or how minor the moment. Award ceremonies, heartbreaks, embarrassing times, graduations, funerals, etc. We’d pour emotion onto the page, say all the things we thought we couldn’t in person. I want to thank you for the memory you engraved in my brain tonight. Tell you, I love you before I leave. Explain the gravity of life and how everything isn’t what it seems. So I decided I’d write you one last letter tonight.  
 
	Ever since I could remember I’d always been happy. Never gloomy, always upbeat. You said I came out of the womb smiling and if anyone asked you I was the most optimistic person in the world. Today when I got into my dream college, I was ecstatic. I had hope but I didn’t think I’d get in. And I appreciate you taking me out to celebrate, mom. You took me to the one place I told myself I’d stay away from before I left. Our favorite restaurant was a soft spot for me and always held me back thinking of our memories. I smiled as you and dad talked about all my achievements and how you knew I had the backbone to make it in this life. You told everyone I was resilient and could get through anything. You didn’t know I was only trying to survive.
 
	See, everyone thinks that I will go somewhere in life. They see me as an achiever but the truth was I’m only a dreamer. I dreamed about doing things I had no motivation for and when I did I never had a set plan on exactly what I was doing. My life to you may appear like nothing more than a never ending fairy-tale, but it’s far from the truth. 
 
	I’d wake up at war with myself and spend hours a day arguing with my thoughts. If I could stop being my own friend and leave myself in the dust, I would. I didn’t like the things I was saying to myself anymore. Truth is I’m tired of being sad and numb. I hated feeling everything and nothing all at once. The feelings were unnerving and made me antsy. I was worn out from hoping for something to change.
 
	I didn’t know how to tell you that there are mornings when I have to coach myself to breathe again, because everything feels overwhelming. Sometimes I wake up and it feels like I’m drowning in my own sorrow. I didn’t want you to know that life was dragging me under. It’s just that things come and go so quickly. Emotion leaves as quickly as it comes. Everything happens in flashes and too fast, it’s a roller coaster that no one wants to get on. 
 
	Tonight at that dinner I realized how long it had been since I’d felt anything. It was the same emptiness I tried my best to get away from. All the self talk, confidence, and positivity I had given myself when I decided I would never leave you was gone. 
 
	The stress overwhelmed me and I found myself crying my eyes out. I had been faking everything. The joy of the day and constant giggles shared with everyone. Times like this, it feels like I’m watching the same movie over and over again, finding all the details I missed before, picking up new ways to pretend. Wondering why my mindset never changed. I stared at the ceiling trying to convince myself to stay. So many reasons crossed my mind, yet not one made a difference. 
 
	I thought of earlier when I watched as you recalled how you took pride in our trust in one another. How I ran to you and told you everything..
 
	 what I didn’t tell you was that I wasn’t leaving in the way you’d thought. . You never did and I don't blame you. I, myself could never truly grasp the misery that lingered in the air. How these feelings came out of nowhere. 
 
	  No one knows the full burden of living my life. The pressure of keeping it together and remaining on the top isn’t everything you’d think it is. Yes, I know you think I wanted to be at the top. No.. I DID want to be at the top, till I got there. I wanted to achieve all of my goals.
 
	At first it was the best feeling ever, I’d finally won. I thought there would be a chance to always have it together, to have a sense of where I’m going. I thought I had won the race. That for once depression, anxiety, and darkness had fallen behind. And I convinced a world of people I was whole. I’d gotten so good at pretending, at times I’d even convinced myself I was happy. I never genuinely was. 
 
	You once said you thought I was afraid of death but I wasn’t. The truth is I was afraid of living. I could barely breathe when I stepped into a room full of people, attention made me nervous. Sometimes I’d wish I could hide in plain sight at times, but things don't work like that. I know I like to ramble on so I'll cut to the chase to let you know that I tried. I tried to be okay, I did. For the family, my friends, for the sake of the world.. But I grew tired. Mama, your baby girl is tired. Tired of holding myself back from every bridge, every knife, every gun, every moving car. I was told that it stops, that the monsters under your bed eventually go away. 
 
But what about the ones in your head? 
 
	I never told you about how the smile washes away at the end of the day, what the loneliness of the night feels like. So in my version of leaving, my stomach was no longer queasy and my mind stopped running. I mean that my bed was no longer a dark abyss. Not having someone in my loneliness didn’t matter. I was no longer waiting to be saved by the same demons that were taunting my success. The voices in my head were finally silenced and you laid your first born to rest. 
","July 15, 2023 21:26",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",he8rjm,The Empath,Nicki Nance,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/he8rjm/,/short-story/he8rjm/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Romance']",9 likes,"
Zach was peeling off his cap and gown when Jenny tapped him on the shoulder. “Stop by the shop before you go home, OK?” He was surprised to be looking into the honey-colored eyes he loved and feared.He shook out his unruly black hair. “Uh…OK. Did I forget to do something?”Jennie scoffed. “As if I would make you come to work on your graduation day.” His anxiety shuddered through her. “Nothing to be anxious about. I have a present for you, but it was too big to carry.”Zach gave her a sheepish smile. “Yeah?”“Yeah.” Her eyes were locked on his. Does this woman ever blink?“OK. I won’t be far behind you.”***An hour later, Zach tripped the buzzer on the front door of Mystique. The spacious shop Jennie inherited from her aunt smelled like books, incense, and coffee.“Welcome to Mystique. I’ll be right with you.”Zach chuckled. “It’s just me, boss.”Jennie stood up from behind a display case. “Meet me in the nest,” she called, referring to the conference room where they took breaks and had meetings, and where Jennie did psychic readings. Today it was set up for coffee and pastries. A “Happy Graduation” balloon floated from the tiny blue box in the center of the table.Zach stopped outside the doorway to take in the room and to settle the waves of energy radiating through his body. Jennie nudged him aside and walked past him. “Grab a coffee. I got the cannoli you like.” When he didn’t move, she asked, “Are you stuck?”Zack looked down at himself. “Looks like it.” He stepped in. “I wasn’t expecting this.”“Sit down. I’ll get the coffee. That little box is for you. Go ahead and open it.”“I thought you said it was too big to carry.”She put the coffee in front of him. “Well, what comes with it is too big.”The balloon floated to the ceiling as he opened the box. It held a brass key. He closed his hand around it and felt her sadness. For him? He looked at Jennie. “You know.”Jennie nodded. “I know it’s getting stronger, too.”Zach teared up. “Did you always…” His voice hitched and he lowered his head. Do not lose your shit.Jennie put her hand on his shoulder. “Take a few breaths, then I have a story for you. You get to write the ending. What do you think?”Zach drew a long breath and exhaled slowly. He looked up and gave Jennie a nod. “Sorry about that. I’m good…What ‘s the story?”Jennie was talking fast. “OK. It has three chapters. Chapter One. Since you were 15, you have worked every shift you could get. No sports, no clubs, no dates. In college you scheduled classes around work, studied during breaks. You stayed at Mellie’s when you aged out in exchange for more work. I don’t want to see a great human being become a human doing.” She took a breath. So, the key is to the apartment upstairs. My aunt was an empath, too, so it’s practically soundproof. Your rent is covered until you get your MBA.”Zach stared at her. “I don’t even know what to say.” I’m so in love with you.“Then don’t talk.” Jennie cut the cannoli. “Chapter 2 is a proposition for you. Do you want to see the apartment first? Zach took a bite of cannoli. “What’s the proposition?”“I would like you to manage Mystique. I need fresh ideas, an internet presence, and a business manager. You will schedule work around your classes. If we need more coverage, we’ll hire someone. You’ll get twice your current hourly based on 40 hours – salaried, so it doesn’t matter whether you get the work done in thirty hours or fifty. The weekly gross is on the back of the box.” She sat on the chair next to him.Zach turned the box over and looked at the number. “Jenn, why would you do this for me?” He tapped the box. “This changes my life. I can get ahead and stop being a charity case – as long as I’m not your charity case.”“Is that what you think?” Jennie shook him by his shoulder. “Because I think I’m recruiting a bright, attractive, hardworking man. It’s for both of us, Zach. We work well together, you know the business, it feels right.”He shrugged. “Except for me being an emotional chameleon.” Did she say attractive? “An empath,” she corrected. “That’s Chapter 3. How much do you know about your empathic gift?”He huffed out a breath. “Gift? It’s a curse.”She put her hand on his forearm. “Listen, I can help with that. I’m empathic, too. My aunt taught me to shield myself, so I could be clearer as a psychic.” Jenny backed away. “Just give it some thought.”Zach rubbed his arm where Jennie had touched him. “I have to let that sink in.” He chuckled. “I need a minute to adjust to being emotionally outted.”“Empathically outed,"" she corrected, then she stood up. Grab your key. Let’s check out the apartment.”When Zach stood up, he surprised Jennie by pulling her into a quick, tight hug. “I won’t let you down, Jenn.” She feels so good. Zach let Jennie go so she wouldn’t feel him getting hard.***Jennie curled up on Zach’s sofa. “I’m glad you called me.” Zach sank into the opposite corner.Zach sighed. “I’m running out of places to hide, Jenn. I ran out of accounting class today because the angst coming from the professor was tearing my guts out. Your clients who come for readings are wrought with pain and confusion. I can hardly work when they’re here. I don’t know how you can stand it.”“I had a good guide. I can help, Zach. I want to, but I need to know more about what you’ve experienced. You haven’t shared much about yourself. Will you be able to tell me more about yourself?""""I'll give it my best."" Zach picked a thread on his jeans. “It’s embarrassing. My parents are addicts. Dad is in prison. Mom’s probably dead or in the streets. When you took over Mystique, I’d already been in foster care for ten years. I didn’t talk until I was in first grade. I was just kind of shut down.”“Did you always pick up other people’s feelings?”He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. ""I think so. I don’t remember much.  He hung his head. ""It was chaos. Sirens, laughter, fighting, screaming, hiding, holding my breath until it all went black.”Jenn uncurled her legs. “Some empaths are sixth sensers. They sense emotions, and read them, and it creates a feeling in them. You are the other kind of empath. More like a tuning fork. You don’t have to perceive and create feelings. Your own feelings rise and resonate.”Zach was quiet for several minutes. “It’s getting harder to keep a game face when I’m in public. I could do so much more if I felt safe in my skin."" He looked up at her. ""Can you make it stop?”Jennie’s throat was clogged with tears. She resisted the urge to go to him. “I can teach you to manage it. I can help you work through the trauma. It’s a process, but I’m willing to give it all I’ve got. What about you?”"" I have to try."" He raked his hand through his hair. Jennie quietly asked him. “What are you other gifts, Zach?”He looked away. “They aren’t gifts to me, Jennie. Sometimes I touch metal, and it plays its history in my head. When I picked up the key to the apartment, I could see you wrapping it, and I knew you knew about me.”Tears escaped, but he continued. “Sometimes I black out and see things before they happen. It scares me. What if I black out in traffic? What if see something bad about to happen and I can’t stop it?” He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve.“I stay to myself to avoid people and work myself stupid so I don’t feel the loneliness.” A sob escaped his control.Jennie moved closer to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “This is the worst of it. I promise it gets better from here.”“How?”“I’ll teach you what I know. You’ll practice. Oh, and I’ll break out my secret gift - I mean that literally. No one knows. - I’m also a healer.”***It was raining sideways when Zach walked into the stock room. Jennie had already started inventory.Jennie laughed. “How’d you get soaked? You live upstairs.”He held up a bag. “I ran down to the bakery to grab some cannoli.”“I just pulled the promotional tees down I’ll grab one for you.” She found his size and turned to hand it to him. He was shirtless. . She caught herself staring at him. When she looked up, he was staring back.“I’m sorry, Zach. You’re gorgeous. I couldn’t look away.”Zach pulled the shirt she handed him over his head. “Welcome to my world. I’ve been looking at you that way since I was 15.”Jennie took a breath. “So, if I kiss you, will you report me for sexual harassment?”In reply, he took her into his arms and kissed her, gently at first, then passionately. The store buzzer sounded. Breathlessly, Jenn asked, “To be continued?” She felt his smile against her cheek. “I sure hope so.” He turned to her before he went into the showroom. “Don’t go anywhere. I need to tell you one more thing I’ve been hiding for too long.”Jennie smiled at him. “Chapter 4?”Zach wagged his eyebrows at her. “You said I could write the end of the story.”
","July 17, 2023 03:41","[[{'Patricia Williford': ""What an intriguing concept!  You did a great job creating suspense and keeping me engaged as a reader to the end.  You also did a nice job with making the dialogue seem real.  That's hard to do.  I really enjoyed the story."", 'time': '14:30 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",ab3h6z,Shifting Reflections,Jimit Gandhi,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ab3h6z/,/short-story/ab3h6z/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Romance', 'Drama']",9 likes,"
Chapter 1: A Mysterious Awakening

Amanda Fields opened her eyes, greeted by unfamiliar surroundings. Confusion overwhelmed her as she realized she had awakened in an unknown bedroom, with no recollection of how she had gotten there. As she tried to gather her thoughts, something peculiar began to unfold. She glanced at the mirror and discovered that her reflection was not her own. She was someone entirely different.

Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by an unfamiliar ceiling. The room was shrouded in shadows, with faint rays of sunlight seeping through the half-closed curtains. Confusion washed over her as she tried to remember how she ended up in this place.

The events of the previous night began to trickle back into her consciousness. She recalled a chance encounter at a bustling café, an instant connection with a mysterious man named Ethan. The allure of his deep gaze and enigmatic smile had drawn her in, blurring the boundaries of rationality and desire. They had surrendered to the intoxication of the moment, embarking on a passionate journey that now seemed like a distant dream.

She carefully sat up, the sheets slipping from her bare shoulders. The room was tastefully decorated, adorned with framed photographs that captured fleeting moments frozen in time. The scent of unfamiliar cologne lingered in the air, entwined with a hint of musk. It was clear that she was not in her own home.

Gathering her courage, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and took in her surroundings. The space was a reflection of its owner—meticulously organized, yet harboring a sense of hidden depths. The door leading to the hallway was slightly ajar, beckoning her to venture forth and seek answers.

Tentatively, she made her way through the corridors, her steps echoing in the silence. The house appeared empty, as though it had been frozen in time. Whispers of unease began to dance in her mind, but curiosity propelled her forward.

As she explored, she discovered fragments of a life that was not her own. Pictures of a couple, smiles frozen in joyful moments. Books with dog-eared pages, hinting at countless hours of contemplation. A worn guitar nestled in the corner, silently pleading to be strummed once more.

The girl's heart raced, realization dawning upon her. This was Ethan’s home, his sanctuary. But why had she awakened here? What had transpired after their shared intimacy? Questions swirled within her, yet there were no immediate answers.

 
Chapter 2: The Journey Begins

As Amanda grappled with her newfound reality, she soon discovered that every morning brought forth a fresh identity, a new persona. She had no control over these transformations, nor could she recall the memories of her previous personalities. It was as if she were living multiple lives within a single body.

Curiosity gave way to excitement as Amanda embraced the opportunities her shifting personalities presented. Each day offered a chance to experience the world through different eyes, to indulge in various passions and explore a range of desires. She embarked on a remarkable journey, embracing the thrill of uncertainty.

 
Chapter 3: Love and Lust

In her journey, Amanda found herself encountering people from all walks of life. Each day brought forth unique attractions and connections, whether it was a chance encounter with a free-spirited artist or a deep conversation with a passionate scientist. During her journey, she encountered moments of romance and intimacy. She met people who captured her heart and others who broke it. It was both a blessing and a curse, as the connections she formed were fleeting, yet they left lasting impressions on her heart. She discovered that love and desire transcended conventional boundaries.

Amanda’s relationships were as diverse as her changing identities. She experienced love and intimacy with both men and women, exploring the depths of connection and discovering the beauty of human emotions. Yet, she couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that her transient nature hindered her ability to form lasting bonds.

 
Chapter 4: Finding answers as well as figments of attractions

Amidst the whirlwind of passion and adventure, Amanda’s thirst for understanding grew. She sought answers to the mysteries of her condition, desperate to find a way to regain control over her life and memories. One fateful day, after waking up with her memories intact, Amanda was determined to find a way to put the puzzle pieces of her life together. She sought the help of Dr. Daniel Harris, a compassionate and talented psychiatric counselor known for his expertise in memory disorders.

As Amanda and Dr. Harris worked together, they discovered clues and patterns that hinted at a deeper underlying cause of her unique condition. With every session, Amanda felt herself falling for the kind and understanding counselor. In turn, Dr. Harris found himself drawn to Amelia’s resilience and captivating spirit. 

 
Chapter 5: Acceptance and Empowerment

As the truth about Amanda’s past began to unravel, so did their feelings for each other. Their connection deepened, and they found solace in each other’s company. But as their love blossomed, so did Dr. Harris’s doubts and insecurities. He struggled to overcome the fear of losing her to another personality, unable to fully grasp the complexities of Amanda’s situation.

The restrictions he placed on her weighed heavily on Amanda’s heart. She yearned for the freedom to be herself without judgment. The constant doubts and insecurities gnawed at her, and she found herself longing for the days when she embraced her ever-changing self without restraint.
 
 
Chapter 6:   Shifting Reflections on Purpose

Eventually, Amanda faced a difficult decision. She realized that she needed to reclaim her life and her own sense of identity. While grateful for the memories she regained, she couldn’t bear to be confined by the limitations and doubts imposed on her by others.

In a heartfelt conversation with Dr. Harris, Amanda expressed her need for space and independence. It was a painful but necessary step for both of them. With a heavy heart, Dr. Harris understood that true love didn’t come with restrictions; it required trust and acceptance.

Embracing her past once more, Amanda chose to live each day as a new beginning, embracing the beauty of her ever-changing personalities. She treasured the fragments of her heart and cherished the moments she shared with others.

As time passed, Dr. Harris learned to let go of his fears and insecurities. He realized that his love for Amanda transcended her condition. Their bond remained, even though they walked separate paths.

In the end, Amanda found contentment in her unique life, and Dr. Harris continued his work, helping others as he once did for her. Their journey, though bittersweet, left an indelible mark on their souls, reminding them that sometimes, love meant letting go.

And so, the girl who changed personalities every day continued to dance through life, weaving stories with every step, leaving an everlasting imprint on the hearts she touched.

 
","July 17, 2023 12:26","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'Definitely an interesting concept!  I think, instead of a short story, this is really the outline of a larger work like a novel.  I was left with wanting to know many more details of their lives.  It would make a great book!', 'time': '14:37 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jimit Gandhi': 'Thank you so much for the kind words! I am in the process of figuring out guidance and funding to do the same. Will be publishing the same. really soon.', 'time': '07:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jimit Gandhi': 'Thank you so much for the kind words! I am in the process of figuring out guidance and funding to do the same. Will be publishing the same. really soon.', 'time': '07:30 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",r9ad64,The Death of Stars,Katherine Z,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/r9ad64/,/short-story/r9ad64/,Character,0,['Fiction'],9 likes,"
I think I might be the only person that is willing to die for my job. Maybe that is why I’m standing on this ledge. I know for certain, if I do this, I will be the most sought after actress in Hollywood. Let’s face it, no director wants an actor that refuses to do scenes and requests a stunt double. They want excitement and buzz, it’s the only reason I was given a chance in Hollywood in the first place. 
I will be praised for my performance in the movie, maybe it’s just my sick mind wanting to jump. Or maybe I have truly become the character. Either way I will convince the audience that this is what I want. To die a sick and stylish death. Standing on this ledge I can almost see the headlines. 
 
Actress Lilith Jan pronounced dead after stunt gone wrong. 
 
The blaring ring of the On Set alarm brings me back. The director is on the ground staring up at me. His firetruck megaphone chirps before his voice reaches my ears. 
 
“Lilith after I say action I want you to count to five and jump.” His eyes showed nothing but excitement when I requested no harness. 
 
The director stepped back and held up his bullhorn, I waited and waited until he yelled, “Action!” 
 
Looking at the camera zooming in on me I let loose.
One. Death.
Two. If I move six feet to the left.
Three. I am like glass.
Four. Would my manager be mad? Probably.
Five. Jump.
 
I could feel when my heels left the ledge. Suddenly I felt like a feather falling ever so slowly. This must have been how Alice felt. The wind rushing around me as gravity tries to prevent my body from falling. My hair was flying up as the fans from below blew to mimic true wind. 
 
The slow motion of this fall sped up until I landed with a thud onto the cushion, snapping me back to reality. “Cut! That was perfect, the emotion you showed gave me chills.”
 
The writer nodded in approval at the screen playing back the cut. 
An intern helped me up from the deflated pillow as I rolled to get to the floor. 
 
“Lilith Jan, it was a pleasure working with you.” 
I gave my five carat diamond smile and thanked her for all the work she had done. 
 
“Miss. Jan, truly amazing working with you!”
“Thank you Paul.”
“Lilith, I hope to work with you again someday.”
“I shall see you again Ella.” I had turned hoping to avoid anymore pleasantries. 
 
My manager came around quickly wrapping a towel around me, before pointing to the dressing rooms. “Great performance today. With that last scene, everyone was on edge. When the media hears you did such a dangerous stunt they will flip.”
 
“Dangerous?” I chuckled, “That’s nothing.”
“Nothing?!” My manager glanced back at me. “You jumped off the roof!” 
My makeup was smudged and runny as the previous scene was shot in the rain. Irene, my makeup artist got to work removing, and reapplying. “Thank you.” 
 
“With this movie, I have no doubt that we will get an award.” My poor manager. Dan was the only person in the company that volunteered to work with me. My poor attitude, and resting bitch face scared everyone else away.
 
Dan dismissed the makeup team, and prepared my bag. “Your clothes for the day are in the bathroom. Get changed and we will get you sent home right away.” 
 
Once I heard the click of the door I turned back to the mirror. Another dazzling death. I could feel my reflection smirking at me. It must think I’m a psychotic bitch. 
 
This marks the sixth character I have played, the sixth tragic death. But with each one, I become more daring, more hungry for the real thing. Amelia Benar, a seventeen year old girl that commits suicide after finding her boyfriend has slept with her sister. The boyfriend and sister had manipulated Amelia into giving up her money for them. Such a silly little story, but I’m sure sane people won’t find the comedy in it. My eyes rolled down to the droplets of water falling from the white dress. 
 
A simple bath should do me some good. The screenwriter heard that I wasn’t satisfied with the plot. She could see my distaste for the character and the ‘happy ever after’, I told her how I wanted Amelia to die, and what would cause it. As the ending was flipping between happy and sad already, it wouldn’t have hurt for my input. 
 
At first she was hesitant but after sitting on it, she agreed an ending such as that would leave the audience in shock. I sank down into the tub as I let the cold water cover my head. I held my breath and cleared my mind. 
 
Amelia was a character that lived the same fate of Alice. Alice didn’t deserve what happened to her. But at least today I was able to feel how she did in her last moments. Before she hit the rocks, I knew that she was already dead. There is no telling if I caused it, or if she wanted it. Part of me wishes I killed Alice and part of me wishes I jumped first.
 
The funny thing is, I don’t remember everything that night. Maybe I was the reason she drove to the cliff, but I also believe she wanted me to jump with her. Except at the last second, I stepped back and watched as her body fell onto the jagged rocks. 
 
What we were doing at the cliff was a mystery to me. There was no camera’s to capture her death. I didn’t call the police, what could they have done? She was already gone. I sat there for two hours, looking at her lifeless body and watching as the blood drained from her wounds. 
 
I was terrified they police would suspect me of killing her. I left before the sun rose, when her family visited me to tell of her death, I was shocked. I sobbed and by the time they left, I had composed myself. I wasn’t truly upset about her death, I was mostly scared I would be pointed at. But I got a thrill of not being found. 
 
Technically I didn’t kill her, but I also didn’t do anything to stop her. My lungs were burning for air as the water rushed in. I popped up from the tub and sputtered out a few coughs. 
 
A quiet voice floated through the door. “Miss Jan, are you alright in there?” 
Quickly composing myself I replied, “Everything is fine! Thank you.”
 
The amount of times I have tried to die, my scars can show. I always chicken out at the last moment and grasp to my weak lifeline. Not today. Not like this, there needs to be an audience. 
","July 18, 2023 02:03","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is great Katherine, short and sweet and packs a real punch.\nLove this line: My poor attitude, and resting bitch face scared everyone else away.\nLooking forward to more!', 'time': '10:18 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",kaue3t,Running Away From Himself,Kas Strobel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kaue3t/,/short-story/kaue3t/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Friendship', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
Alex shoved his feet into a pair of old running shoes and laced them up with a sigh. He didn’t really want to do this, go run with Cassidy, but he knew that he had to. After all, he was the one who pushed for a running partner. After two months of putting off inviting her for a run, she had invited him on a run the last time they saw each other – in Costco, both buying cases of kombucha – and for some unknown reason, he had said yes. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. He’s a trauma surgeon, and a damn good one. He saves lives on a daily basis. And, sure, Cassidy’s gorgeous, but he’s not looking for a romantic partner. He just wants someone to run with. Besides, she was his patient. She was unconscious on his table while he screwed her leg back together. And she’s a lawyer, he’s a surgeon. They’re both way too busy for each other. Oh – and he suspects she’s gay. 
	No. He has absolutely no idea why she makes him nervous. He suspects it’s that she’s always so put together, smiling, casually runs five miles, climbs harder routes than he does, and came back way faster from a pretty nasty leg break than anyone ever expected. Her dog is adorable. She’s clearly intelligent. Hell, she bought a fixer-upper and is doing all the work herself. It’s who he wishes he could be, who he hopes people see him as. 
	He reflects on all of this as he walks the few blocks from his house to Cassidy’s. When he gets there, she’s in the front yard, dressed in her own running clothes, stretching on the ground. Zion is sitting next to her, but wags his tail energetically and bolts over to Alex as soon as he sees him. Alex chuckles, steeling himself to be the sociable, organized, confident surgeon that he needs people to see, and squats to give the hound some belly rubs. Cassidy is in a complete split and bent so far forward that her forehead is touching the ground, a thin strip of white skin appearing between her cropped top and leggings.
	“I’d be stuck if I did that,” he says. Cassidy laughs, a warm and genuine sound that makes Alex a little bit more self-conscious about the mask he wears constantly.
	“Tons of yoga. A wise surgeon told me once it would help me get my strength back faster after I broke my leg. Of course, I already had a pretty great base, since I’ve been teaching it for almost fifteen years.” She lifts her head and winks with the comment about the wise surgeon, and Alex hopes she doesn’t see him turning pink. “Anyways, I mostly just don’t want to hurt myself again, so I’m making stretching and warming up a priority. ZZ Tops already got a nice long walk in so I don’t complete embarrass myself going from nothing to running.”
	“ZZ Tops. I like it. I’m guessing Zion has lots of nicknames?”
	“That’s the one I use the most. He also occasionally gets Zsa Zsa Gabor. Sometimes I just call him by other Utah National Parks, but he doesn’t really answer to those. Utah, he does answer to, though.” She unfolds from her deep bend and pulls herself from sitting to standing without using her hands. He suspects she noticed him watching her when she tells him that that’s a physical therapy move she worked on when she was building strength and confidence in her leg. “Anyways, ready to go?” Alex watches as she clips Zion’s leash around her waist, does a quick ankle circle, and then asks him which direction he wants to head. 
	Alex is slightly overwhelmed by Cassidy, he has been since the day he rounded on her after her surgery. Less in pain and more awake, she had been more conversant than when he met her right before her surgery. They had laughed about her injury, a fall from a bouldering wall at her climbing gym, since it was the same gym he frequented. “I’ve just been waiting for someone to come in with this injury.” He could have kicked himself for saying it, but she had given him a genuine smile and hadn’t seemed offended. He asked her more about what she did, she told him a quick story about a recent trial she had been involved in. They talked about hiking and running and camping and climbing and how she would, in fact, do all of those things again. It was the first time he had wanted to stay and chat with a patient, and he could tell that his residents had been a little bit confused. He couldn’t explain it, there was just something about Cassidy that pulled her into his orbit and he wanted to get to know her.
	They talked as they ran, setting off at a comfortable pace that Alex was afraid would be too fast for Cassidy. Instead, she gave no signs of it being too fast, and kept talking as they finished their second mile. Consider me impressed, Alex thought. He supposed he wasn’t surprised, though, since she was lean and strong, and he had read the notes from her physical therapist. They chatted about work, and he found for the first time in a long time that he wasn’t censoring or steeling himself as much as he normally did.
	Something about Cassidy made it safe to talk about the horrible, traumatic parts of his job, about seeing bullet-riddled young men, the stomach-turning injuries from car accidents, and strong, athletic type people with horrid injuries from activities that he loved, like rock climbing. She told him the story of a case she had faced as a prosecutor, about a young man whose penis was shot off by a woman whom he had rejected. Alex almost died trying to keep from laughing as she told him about the trial, and was shocked when she told him that he had been working in the emergency department the night the man had come in, she recognized his name from the thousands of pages of medical records she had reviewed. 
	“Seriously? You remembered the name Alex Hartman for years?” 
	“I have a weird memory. And it was more that I recognized the name in conjunction with being a trauma surgeon at the same hospital that I went to. I would have gone and looked it up if I still worked there and had access to the case file, honestly.” She gives him a wry, yet slightly shy smile and he sees for the first time that she might also be nervous. 
	“Why’d you leave?” He blurts out, curious. She looks at her smartwatch and almost barks a laugh, in sharp contrast to her warm, soft laughter.
	“We only planned for five miles and we’re already at three, I don’t know if we have enough time for me to tell you that story. But essentially it was burnout. I was exhausted, I was dreading trials, and I was constantly on the verge of a breakdown. I was my office’s domestic violence and sex crimes prosecutor. I loved it, until I didn’t, and I got offered a partnership and a boatload of money at just the right time. I went to a firm, ran their criminal defense division, was promised it would be mostly white collar, ended up defending a ton of scumbags for rape and cocaine. The number of sex scandals we were covering up was appalling. Then, of course, I fell off a rock wall, broke my leg, had surgery, and the time off recovering from that made me realize how miserable I was all the time. So I paid cash for my house, quit my job, got a fantastic buyout, focused on healing, and have started freelancing and ghost writing.” Cassidy’s voice is harder now, she sounds exhausted and older than her thirty-five years. “I think I was burnt out for a lot longer than I realized.”
	Alex stops running almost mid-stride and stares at Cassidy. After a few strides, she realizes that he’s not with her anymore and she stops and turns around. He realizes that his mouth is hanging open, and she chuckles gently and takes a few steps back to him. “Too much? Sorry about that. I’ve been working on being more open and honest, but I’ll have to tell my therapist she did too good of a job.”
	“No, it’s okay, I just don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone be that brutally honest about shit like burnout. I work in a burnout heavy profession, we both do, and no one talks about it like that. They just warn you that burnout is bad and encourage you to, well, not burn out.”
	“Oh, I’ve been there, it’s why I talk about it now. All through law school, every training I ever went to as a public defender and prosecutor and private attorney, capital certification training, it’s all ‘don’t burn out, do yoga, turn the email ding off on your phone,’ but nothing useful. No one ever tells you to talk to a therapist the first time you cross-examine a child victim instead of running six miles and then drinking two bottles of wine. No one ever tells you that a trial a month for years will try to kill you. No one ever tells you how to recover when you do burn out. So I’ve made it my life mission to not hide it.”
	Alex suddenly realizes why Cassidy makes him so nervous. She’s intensely honest, and right now she’s being intensely honest about exactly what he’s been fighting.
	“Look, do you ever feel like nobody really knows you? Like, the real you?”
	Alex listens to the sound of his feet pounding the pavement for a few beats, thinking about the question and realizing that he knows the feeling that Cassidy is describing.
	“I hate makeup and heels. I’d rather wear leggings than suits. I’m happiest when I’m outside, preferably in the woods or on a mountain. As much as I loved trials, I actually hate courthouses. My favorite office ever was my office as a prosecutor because I could open the window and get fresh air. I, like, love bluegrass music. I make my own kombucha. I steep fresh lavender and mint for tea. Hot yoga is one of my favorite workouts. I hate caffeine and quit drinking years ago. I wanted to be an Olympic diver when I was a kid and may have actually made it if I hadn’t gotten hurt in high school. I have a dozen tattoos. Nobody that I ever worked with knew any of that. No. They all knew the Cassidy that runs five miles a day despite working 60- to 80-hour weeks, all in dresses and skirts, with an appalling collection of black heels and blazers, never looking anything less than perfect. I’m sure they all assumed that I’m straight because I never talked about my personal life. And if we’re being completely honest, I hated that Cassidy.”
	For the first time in four miles, they run in companionable silence. Alex is deep in thought, and he suspects that Cassidy might be, too. After a few minutes, he breaks the silence. “I’ve never really thought about what exactly my colleagues don’t know about me, but they definitely don’t know me. I’m pretty sure the first time any of them found out that I climb was, well, when you fell.”
	Cassidy stares at him while she runs, and he feels uncomfortably seen. He wonders what she’s thinking, if she sees how much he’s struggling. “I spend hours at the hospital. Some weeks I sleep there more than I sleep at my own house. I thought I knew my residents better than I know myself, but now I’m questioning that. I love my job. I love being a surgeon. I love teaching.”
	“There’s definitely a ‘but’ there.”
	“But. I’m exhausted. I barely have time to run. I can’t remember the last time I went camping. I haven’t had a decent relationship - girlfriend or otherwise - since medical school. All of my friends are doctors and we’re all too busy to have time for each other.”
	Cassidy lets out a soft, gentle laugh. “You sound like me from a year ago.”
	“So what do I do?”
	“Well, I don’t recommend falling off a rock wall and breaking your leg in five places.”
	They finish their run in silence, Alex once again deep in thought. He looks over at Cassidy, grateful for her openness. They turn onto her street, Zion trotting happily along, and she takes off sprinting and laughing, her ponytail sticking to her sweaty neck. Alex takes it up a gear and chases after her, catching her and Zion at the very last second. Cassidy collapses onto her lawn, with Zion and Alex collapsing on top of her. They lay in a sweaty, sticky, furry pile, and Alex realizes how much he's missed any companionship that isn’t at the hospital.
	“This was great,” Cassidy tells him, panting. “You pushed me way harder than I push myself, so it was nice to keep up with the pace for so long.”
	“You pushed me way harder than I could have possibly pushed you. I can’t even tell you how important it was to hear everything you had to say about burn out.” She pulls herself off the ground, extending a hand to Alex and pulling him up.
	“Keep running with me. And let’s plan a climbing session. Something tells me that you’ll be okay, Doc. But seriously, just don’t do what I did – I had a great surgeon, but it still sucked.”
","July 19, 2023 01:40",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",fmhhto,Superhero Putting on a Facade,3i Writer,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fmhhto/,/short-story/fmhhto/,Character,0,['Fantasy'],9 likes,"
One day, a gigantic sea creature suddenly appeared near the city’s coastline and had the intention to reach its shore. A guy called Jack Legend sensed that the sea creature would obliterate the whole city within an hour once ashore. He was well-known and well-loved by all in his city as the mightiest superhero of justice. So once again, it was up to Jack to save the day. He stormed out in his most iconic suit and magnificent cape to challenge his oceanic adversary. When the monster saw Jack Legend approaching, it released purple fumes from its mouth. Few such fumes had seeped through Jack's nostrils and already it had taken its toll; it had weakened his superhuman strength. The purple fumes were comprised of deadly neurotoxins. The slightest dose could easily cause humans to have their organs bled and corroded at an accelerating rate before they die in agony. Fortunately for the city's only superhero, Jack Legend had a completely different biological construct. Although he looked like a human, he was in fact from a distant planet. But despite his body being able to neutralize most of the toxins, he knew that a prolonged battle would have detrimental consequences to his health and even lead to his demise. He had no choice but to use his special finishing move.       At that moment, a wild tornado was fast approaching. Jack had recalled that the observatory did mention on television about a tornado. But he paid no heed to it. After all, he was Jack Legend, the hero who had the power to conquer countless foes whose sizes surpassed him by various degrees and whose mere existence posed a threat to human survival far greater than any natural disaster. But the observatory did not tell him that it was not an ordinary tornado. In fact, it wasn't a tornado at all but a wormhole of unknown origins. And it had already collected lots of electromagnetic waves at its core. Jack at least managed to deliver the giant monster the final blow before he got sucked into the wormhole.       When Jack woke up, he found that he was lying in a country park. He tried to fly to the sky but failed. He realized that he had lost all his superpowers and could only muster the strength of a normal human being, It turned out that the moment he punctured a hole through the sea creature's body, it didn't drop dead like other foes he had defeated and let the Kaiju Disposal Squad deal with the corpse. It literally exploded as if it was made out of an overly-inflated balloon, bursting out all its toxic fumes as a result. And Jack had involuntarily inhaled a great deal of it. It was simply a miracle that he survived this. After he had spent hours roaming around aimless in order to find out where he was, what he just discovered nearly made his eyes pop. This was his city alright, according to the overall landscape. But everything else was too unfamiliar, all too science fiction for him. Nowhere in his city nor elsewhere had he seen such crazy buildings. There were no buses or trams on the roads except for giant-sized vehicles. As he looked closer, he was shocked to see drivers and passengers of those vehicles were all large grotesque monsters. They did look similar to the giant monsters he had fought but they seemed more evolved, civilized. He clutched his fists tightly at the sight of it all but then he loosened his grip as he was even more shocked to find those people (fellow humans) along the pavement still continuing their walks of life as if nothing happened. They didn’t seem to care how their rights were seriously jeopardized by those large filthy monsters who have stolen their roads.       An endless stream of unanswered questions bombarded his mind. What was going on? Why was my city turned out this way? Where did those monsters come from? Realizing his powerlessness and wanting to find out the truth behind all this, Jack decided to switch to his normal-citizen facade for the time being. The first thing he wanted to do was to head home by the subway, which was the humans-only transportation, and every train was jampacked with hundreds of commuters. Later on, he found out that his home was replaced by a grand luxury hotel of some sort, and the currency in his wallet was outdated for him to buy another one. Fortunately, there was an automated service booth run by a financial company that provided him with the money that was enough to pay the rent of a tiny subdivided flat. And later on, he found a job. Not his usual day job at a news agency but in an enormous department store.       On his first day of work, he saw every fellow colleague were wretchedly thin and had dark circles around their eyes. And every commodity in the department store, whether it be furniture, clothes, electrical appliances etc, was either too big or not designed in a user-friendly manner.       When the department finally opened up its doors and customers started coming in, Jack was shocked to find that all customers were all monsters. Although it shouldn’t be a surprise to him, Jack still couldn’t accept the fact that he had to serve three-headed wolves, gigantic spider-like creatures and man-eating cyclopes.       “Don’t just stand there. Help out, will you?”       Jack never expected to be scolded by a fellow human being for not serving those monsters that used to be their enemies. After working in the department store for a couple of days, Jack hated to admit that his colleagues’ work ethics were extremely remarkable. They were able to endure long working hours (13 hours per day at least), always putting on a smile in the face of grotesque-looking monsters, loading and unloading large bulky items that were more than twice their weight for those monsters. Jack could not imagine how a normal human being would put up with all that but they did it.       A year had passed and Jack finally got his powers back, His ultrasense of hearing had detected that someone within the department store was in danger. It was a fellow junior assistant manager and he was sent to the general manager’s office due to the complaints caused by blunders the junior assistant manager had made on various orders. The general manager was a giant creature that looked like a lobster.       “Wa ha! Ha! What have we here?” cried the lobster, licking his lips, “I shall invite you to my house after work. My wife is preparing a grand feast and so get your arse ready and prepare to be served. Not as a guest if you know what I mean. HA! HA! HA!”       “NOooo!” cried the junior assistant manager.       “Don’t you worry. Pepper, spring onion and rosemary shall be your company. HA! HA! HA!”       Jack Legend knew what he had to do. It was about time to drop the 'good employee' facade and resume the role as the city's beloved superhero. He dashed straight into a nearby changing room and instantly stormed into the general manager’s office in his iconic suit and his magnificent red cape.       The giant Lobster let out a great laugh. “So, you want to volunteer to be his side dish. How wonderful! So put down that petite little fist of yours, you insolent fool. You have no idea what you are up against! Do you know that I have the toughest armor according to the Guinness Book of Records and my pincers cut through steel as if it were paper. So why don’t you just…” Before the general manager got to finish his sentence, his head was smashed by Jack Legend with a single punch and the office walls were immediately filled with lobster juice. The junior assistant manager was in a daze for a moment and then after rushed out of the office without thanking Jack. Then, Jack Legend realized that he was calling the police that a murder had been committed. Is that guy insane? Then, Jack’s instinct told him that everyone else had that twisted mentality as that of the junior assistant manager. Every single colleague backed away from him as if he was a disease. Soon, big-sized police cars arrived just outside the department store. Jack had no choice but to break through a wall or two in order to escape.       Although Jack Legend had defeated several other monsters from time to time, the humans were not very grateful. Instead, they were mad at him for making them lose their jobs as a result of Jack’s actions. What broke his heart was that many in fact made a rally outside the government central office and the police headquarters to send a petition calling for Jack Legend to be brought to justice. The government, of course, was run by monsters. The wormhole created a time-space distortion, transporting Jack Legend a long way into the future, the future where no one remembered what legendary deeds Jack had done. He loved the city. He loved its people. But in the end, with tears in his eyes, he flew off to a distant planet.
","July 19, 2023 02:32","[[{'Michał Przywara': ""That's an interesting story! We go from black-and-white superhero vs monsters, to a much more grey world with nuance. \n\nJack misjudged the monsters. In his eyes they were just savage beasts, but it turned out they could live civilly after all. And he misjudged how people would see his actions. It's true, just walking up to someone and punching them to death is murder, that's hard to deny. \n\nOf course, while the monsters are integrated into society, they're not exactly innocent either. They still commit evil, just in a different form. If we l..."", 'time': '20:46 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'3i Writer': 'Thanks. You really wrote a lot in this review.', 'time': '02:25 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'3i Writer': 'Thanks. You really wrote a lot in this review.', 'time': '02:25 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",vxq8um,Breaking the Facade,Camille Dixon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vxq8um/,/short-story/vxq8um/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Thriller', 'Contemporary']",9 likes,"
 Note: Contains some physical violence and suicide.
 
          I never guessed my mom was having an affair with Jack Bishop. Looking back, I remember playful glances and small gestures. I see now she maintained her act as devoted wife and mother to avoid another failed marriage. None of us—especially not my stepdad Brian suspected when she cheated on him, but when he found out, he cracked.
	I missed every hint. My mom would go shopping three times a week. On Saturday mornings, she spent three hours at Walmart, stocking up on everything we needed for the week, but she shopped exclusively at the Target on Cleveland Avenue on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The Bishops’ house was in a housing development within walking distance from the Target on Cleveland Avenue. Jack worked mostly from home, while his wife Annie worked long days—Tuesdays and Thursdays—at the hospital. 
	Mom would be gone when I got home from school on the days she shopped, but she rushed into the kitchen shortly before Brian came home with a couple bags of groceries, a new item of clothing for herself, and either Chinese takeout or pizza for dinner. We were always overstocked on toilet paper and toothpaste. I assumed those shopping trips were retail therapy, but after the Bishops moved away, the extra shopping stopped. 
	It was a Wednesday in October. Kellie and I were reciting our lines from Our Town and experimenting with our delivery after rehearsals, when Nathan texted me. I hadn’t heard from him since Monday, so I was giddy to see his name on my phone. He asked if I wanted to go with him and Sarah to Dairy Queen. My thumbs twitched as I typed a response. Trying not to sound too eager, I replied, “Sure. Pick me up?”
	I forgot all my lines, stealing glances at my phone and biting my lips, while I waited for his response. Kellie gave me hints to help me remember, but I could only think about Nathan. Finally, my phone chimed, “On our way.”
	His black 2001 Saturn cruised into the school parking lot. Sarah winked at me as she squeezed into the backseat of his two-door to let me sit beside him. She grew up next door to Nathan and promised to set us up. 
	A little black pine tree hung from his rear view mirror, but beneath the musky air freshener, I smelled that familiar hint of his Axe body spray. Nathan cranked up the volume on a pop radio station, making it nearly impossible to talk, and Sarah sang or rapped along with every song, not caring when she was out of tune or butchered a lyric. We left behind our little commuter town, driving past acres of the tan, broken remains of the corn crop. Red and green combines pummeled fields, threshing the last of the dried stalks. The Upper Midwest is beautiful that time of year. The trees wore gradations of fall color until it was time to disrobe. Autumn lasted longer in Indiana than in Milwaukee, where I lived before my parents’ divorce. 
	We ate our ice cream in his car, noting the most drabby or sour-faced passersby. We took turns making up back stories or personalities for the characters visiting Dairy Queen. On our way back, Nathan turned the up the radio until the pounding bass made us lose the sense of our own heart rates. As he dropped me off, he turned down the volume enough for me to hear him say, “I’ll text you later.”
	I smiled at him and said, “Okay,” before I swung his car door shut.
	Unable to stop smiling, I unhooked my bike from its chains by the side entrance of our school and cycled past leveled farmlands and a neighborhood of ranch-style houses. The leaves flitted from branches onto neatly trimmed lawns. A gust of wind made them run and tumble like gymnasts along the curbs. 
	It was nearing dusk when I reached my driveway. As I came in the front door, my mom met me in the doorway. 
	“Okay Lydia, give me your phone,” she demanded with her right palm open.
	“What! Why?” I scoffed.
	“What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t be bothered to tell me when you’re gonna be late? Where were you?”
	“I went for ice cream with some friends.”
	My mom recited her normal script, “Your dad told you when he gave you a phone you have to check in if you’re not coming home on time.”
	I pushed past her and hung up my jacket, refusing to look at her. “You wouldn’t’ve let me go if I told you.”
	“That doesn’t matter. You have a responsibility to your parents to—”
	“Which parents? Dad never makes me tell him where I’m going, and Brian doesn’t care what I do.”
	“Then you have a responsibility to me.”
	I knew my lines for this debate and retorted, “Pretty soon, I won’t have to answer to you anymore. I’ll be completely free. So, why don’t you just leave me alone now?”
	She pressed the bridge of her nose between two fingers, closing her eyes, “I hope you will value your freedom and use it wisely after learning what it’s like to be without.” I paused. She changed the script, leaving me unsure of how to refute her. She must’ve planned her arguments too. She stretched out her hand again, “Your phone.”
           I frowned and reached into my pocket, silently reminding myself I had only one more year until I turned eighteen. As I headed upstairs, my mom called behind me, “That means you come straight home after rehearsals tomorrow, and the Franklins will be here in half an hour. Come down and set the table.”
	Every Wednesday night for four years, the Bishops and the Franklins came over for dinner. After working the morning at the bakery, my mom spent the whole afternoon preparing a meal from scratch. Most nights we ordered in or baked frozen pizzas, but for the Wednesday dinner parties, a three-course dinner with wine and dessert was essential. Jack and Annie were a childless but friendly couple. Jack was dapper with straight, white teeth, and a skill for comedic timing. Annie laughed often, making veins surface on her forehead like strings running from her eyebrows to her hairline. My mom wasn’t particularly fond of her. Even though the Bishops were the life of the party, my mom and Leah Franklin decided to continue the routine after they moved away. The Franklins were a few years older than my mom and Brian. Kevin Franklin’s dark hair had flecks of gray, but his soft eyes held no judgment. I adored their daughter Elise. Whenever we were together, she gave me her full attention, instead of compulsively checking her phone and pretending to listen to me talk while texting someone else. On each of my birthdays, she showed up at my house with a gift and balloons. We could never focus on our homework when we were together, yet she managed to remain the top of her class at the private school she attended. After we stuffed ourselves, Elise and I chatted in my room while pretending to do homework until her parents were ready to leave. My sister, Millie played video games or watched TV with Elise’s competitive little brother, Patrick. From my room, we could hear them squealing and laughing and our parents yelling at them to settle down.
	A mixture of delicious smells greeted me when I trotted downstairs to the kitchen. Out of routine, I set eight places, arranging the napkins, flatware, plates, and glasses neatly on the table like an empty stage awaiting performers. My mom tossed a salad. A dish of brownies sat on the kitchen island, chicken parmesan sizzled in the oven, and a rolling boil blurred the pasta underneath. A pot of a thick marinara sauce spluttered on the stovetop. 
	Brian arrived with his eyes wide and his jaw stiff. Nothing could draw his attention away from whatever was going on inside him. My mom tried to slide her arms around his ribcage with a warm smile, but he went rigid and pushed her aside. 
	He whisked into his office and shut the door. His entry the night before had been nearly identical. He was always preoccupied with something, but for two evenings in a row, he was unreachable and cold. My mom’s lips formed a thin line.
	The Franklins appeared at the door with bright smiles, carrying a half gallon of ice cream. Kevin slapped Brian affectionately on his shoulder. Ordinarily, Brian greeted Kevin with a comment on how their favorite sports teams were doing and discussion commenced, but Brian forced a tight grin and barely uttered a syllable. My mom ladled sauce atop bowls of steaming pasta. The sound of clattering plates and utensils was the loudest noise in the room. 
	As we took our seats around the table, Leah launched into a story about an awkward incident she witnessed earlier that day at the supermarket. Brian stared at his food, and when the rest of us laughed at Leah’s anecdote, his eyes moved blankly from Leah to my mom. Leah cleared her throat and asked my mom about her sauce recipe. 
	Kevin asked softly, “Have you heard from Jack?” 
    At the sound of his name, my mom’s eyes flashed. 
	Brian’s jaw flexed, “No.” 
	The Franklins exchanged a look of concern. The sound of utensils scraping dishes overtook the room and spanned several minutes. When Leah inquired about dessert, she and my mom headed to the kitchen to cut the brownies and scoop the ice cream. Apart from the wordless sounds of enjoyment and compliments regarding the dinner and dessert, no one spoke a word. Millie and Patrick darted for the TV. Leah resorted to displaying pictures from her phone to encourage conversation. While she rambled about a blurry picture of a bird, Elise and I slipped upstairs. We opened our textbooks on my bed, and I said, “You’ll never guess what happened today.”
	Before I finished my story about Nathan, Leah called Elise from the bottom of the stairs. The Franklins normally stayed until close to ten o’clock, and it was not yet eight. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but the precious time we had was cut off. She slapped her textbook shut and gave me a quick hug.
	As I watched her go, my mind wandered back to Nathan. He told me he would text me. Whenever my mom took my phone, her favorite hiding place was the top left drawer of her dresser. I tiptoed downstairs in my socked feet. My mom made enough noise washing the dishes in the kitchen to cover the noise of the creaking stairs. I slid across the wood floor into my mom’s room. My phone was exactly where I thought it’d be. As I retreated to the staircase, Brian’s voice echoed through the kitchen, “How many times, Julie?”
	He usually called her Jules. The faucet turned off, “What?”
	Brian entered the kitchen from his office, fidgeting with his pockets. Guilt was written on my face. At one glance, I thought, either of them would know I had my phone in my pocket. I side-stepped toward the stairs. Brian spotted me.
	“Go upstairs,” he growled. “Don’t you or Millie come down.” 
	He never fumed at me like that before. My eyes were wide, and my ears started ringing as I jogged up the stairs, my jaw pulsing. When I reached the landing, I lowered to the floor and clutched the banister, craning my neck to hear what was happening downstairs, chewing at my chapped lips. 
	“How many times were you with him—Jack?” 
	His voice was level but cold. I was confused for a few seconds, but the extra shopping trips to Target, the Franklins’ expressions at dinner, the way my mom used to make a Boston crème pie every Wednesday night, because it was Jack’s favorite, and the way her eyes lit up whenever someone mentioned him flooded my mind, like a montage. The curtain rose, the spotlight shone on my mom, and she froze.
	She sounded weak, “How did you—”
	“Kevin told me—yesterday at work.”
	 “It’s over now,” her voice was shivering.
	“Of course it is,” he mocked her. “He’s five hundred miles away now.” 
	Brian’s shallow breathing echoed through the kitchen, “Did you really think I’d never find out? How stupid do you think I am?” 
	The sniffling started as he spoke, but her tears seemed to fuel his fury. 
	He yelled, “Did you think you could ruin my family and get away with it!”
	“You never loved me!”
	“Now you’re going to blame me? How dare you!” 
	His shoes pounded quickly across the floor. Her sniffling escalated into audible sobbing, gasping. My stomach writhed. She hardly ever cried. 
	“How many times?” Brian demanded. The words flattened through gritted teeth. 
	Her voice shook, “I don’t know!”
	“That many?” 
	Her body thudded against the pantry door with a gasp. I heard a faint click. Her crying became louder. 
	“Please … don’t do this. I’m sorry,” she whimpered breathlessly.
	“You know, that may be the first time you ever said that to me. As long as I’ve known you, it’s always been my fault.” 
	“Brian, I—I’m sorry,” her voice was thin. “Think of Millie.”
	“I AM thinking of Millie! You ruined our family!”
	“We can work through this. We can see someone. You don’t need to do this.”
	“No, Julie. This is the only way to make it right.”
	A bang echoed through the kitchen. My heart seized in my chest. I lost my grip on the banister and hit my shoulder at the sound. A muffled bump followed the boom. The countertops and wood floors amplified each sound. Another shot boomed, followed by a second thud. 
	I waited for any sign that they were alive, gnawing again at my bleeding lips. With every passing second, my ears rang louder. A slithering feeling twisted in my stomach. My knees shook as I stood. The floor creaked behind me. Millie stared at me with saucer eyes, eyes like Brian’s. We both trembled.
	My legs were weak and stiff as I dragged one foot in front of the other down the stairs, gripping the railing. Tears blurred my eyes. My gut quivered. Brian lay between the kitchen and the dining room, with a hole through his head. Blood spilled on the wood floor, reflecting the light. I gasped for air when I saw another pool forming behind the kitchen island.
	My phone buzzed in my pocket. Nathan’s name was on the screen. I needed to dial 911. 
","July 19, 2023 03:16","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Well, this little tale of infidelity turned dark! This sort of stuff happens, tragically, and one is left wondering how anyone could take anyone else's life over such a thing. Yes, it's a betrayal of trust, but the kids will suffer greatly - for a lifetime.\n\nI find it interesting that the mom asks Brian to think of Millie before he commits such a rash act, but she didn't mention Lydia. Very telling. That Nathan was texting during the tragedy points out that Lydia can probably never have a decent relationship now. Too much trauma. Too much ba..."", 'time': '12:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Camille Dixon': 'Hi Delbert, thank you for reading and offering both feedback and kind words! \n\nThis story was inspired by a news story about a man who killed his wife and committed suicide in his home, while his children were in the house. Like you mentioned, I wondered how someone could reach such a breaking point, which led to the creation of this story. \n\nThank you again for your thoughtful response!', 'time': '00:00 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Camille Dixon': 'Hi Delbert, thank you for reading and offering both feedback and kind words! \n\nThis story was inspired by a news story about a man who killed his wife and committed suicide in his home, while his children were in the house. Like you mentioned, I wondered how someone could reach such a breaking point, which led to the creation of this story. \n\nThank you again for your thoughtful response!', 'time': '00:00 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",jt08d9,The Memory of Mel Scott,Eoghan Ó HAnluain Fay,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jt08d9/,/short-story/jt08d9/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship']",9 likes,"
Mel Scott walked up High Street towards Magdalen College, Oxford. Though the sky was speckled with clouds, it was certainly a sunny day. With this in mind, it was decided that they would gather outside at St Swithun’s Quad. This was to be the college reunion of Mel’s former fellow students, marking a decade since their graduation. 
 
Not since before the Great War had Mel walked through the college gates. It struck him, as it always had, that this was a magnificent place. For three brilliant years these grounds had been a home. Carved in each corridor was a memory of his fleeting youth that amalgamated with the antiquity of their structures, this stone spoke of century-spanning stories, and his now a part of them.
 
The buildings glowed in the sunlight whilst the clouds above painted pictures on grass lawns with their flowing shade. At such a clearing he saw the year of 1908 clustered at St Swithun’s Quad. Mel mixed and merged with the crowd, engaging in punctilious pleasantries. There was much reminiscing which was accompanied by a slightly noxious level of nostalgia. While there was rigour to their etiquette, the collegial competition had diminished over time, liberating the alumni’s personality from their personage. 
 
In the course of conversations, Mel found himself talking to an old friend in Christopher Pitt. Pitt and Scott had found friendship in shared interests during their time at Magdalen. They both studied history, had a keen interest in literature, captained the fencing team on separate occasions, romanticised the navy, often overdressed and always preserved a penchant for Paris. 
 
The two men embraced in a hug, carefully balancing their glasses of Pimm’s. “How good it is to see you Mel! I can’t believe we haven’t come across one another since returning from France.” 
 
“Yes Chris its been far too long, I should think it a travesty.” The two performed the necessary lamenting that the event merited, but they were quick to drive their discourse beyond Oxford. They discussed the latest literary ongoings and all that which had transpired in the writing world whilst they had been moored in the trenches. Each man held in equal admiration T.S. Elliot’s “Prufrock and other Observations”.
 
As talk of what had been happening during their preoccupation at the front lines grew, talk of the war itself seemed inevitable. Both had their reservations on the topic. Neither men had volunteered at the outbreak of the war and were only ushered towards warfare with the introduction of conscription in 1916. While Mel reluctantly accepted his dawn of truculence, Christopher fought it. As Mel began his military training, Christopher was pleading his case as a conscientious objector. He was met with scorn and shame from all those still in England and his case soon lost and so he found himself on his way to the front-lines. 
 
By 1918 both of them were officers with men under their command and lives in their hands, though the decision as to whether these men and boys would go over the top to face fury or hold their line to face fire was kept beyond their control. Christopher was stationed to north of France while Mel was further south near the Swiss border. 
 
Although Christopher was at first disgraced as a conscientious objector, he quickly distinguished himself on the battlefield. He rescued a great many wounded soldiers from no man’s land and saved what were surely dead men. For this act he was awarded the Military Medal and thought of as a hero. Still though, he detested the war and voiced his pacifism vigorously. While not on quite the same the level, Christopher’s sentiment now was the common consensus among the alumni. There was celebration of the victory, though there was also undoubtable horror at the price of it. The mood had swung firmly from Brooke to Owen.
 
“Thank god it’s over Mel, I don’t know if I could have lasted another week there. I was right at the breaking point you know. To be back here in Oxford, out of that hell, it’s just amazing.” Christopher looked right at Mel as he spoke. “Of course in a way I’m proud of the national victory, but I can’t fathom a justification for the horror of it all. I feel as though we lost something of ourselves out there. Out in the mud one had to undergo metamorphosis into a monster just to survive, how else could you be expected to go forth in the name of king and country and kill a man who is only doing the same for his. Monsters the lot of us Mel.”
 
Mel gave a gentle nod of his head. “It was a challenging time. Though I suppose you emerged as something of a hero?”
 
“Oh as if that’s of any importance.”
 
As chatter continued around them silence came over the two friends. Christopher and Mel had often held debates with each other but Mel sensed this was not a matter for discussion. The national dream of glorious combat had been shattered over four long years of war. Christopher did not look back on his heroics with any feeling of dignity and nor should Mel. It was not what one was supposed to do he thought.
 
“It was all an act there any way,” continued Christopher, “there were no real heroes in that fight. No one could have actually taken pleasure in the pain of people fighting, of seeing death hanging just behind each and every man.”
 
Again Mel offered an earnest nod. 
 
Guns bellow all around him, beckoning him forward, onward onward- just keep pushing through. Mel races through the mud as bullets zip all around him. Constant noises surround and drown him. He turns back to his men and swings his arm wildly, trying to rouse and direct them. Two fall dead as he yells his orders.
 
 
“I don’t think it’s something I shall ever forget,” said Mel.
 
The men follow manically. They can’t hear him over the cannons but they know they must keep going forward, ever forward. More fell to the bullets. They were ordered to spread out so as to disperse the machine gun fire and die individually. Some slip and fall into the mud and in a short time die. Others are rocked by shells and scattered over the surface. 
 
“And I don’t think I shall ever be the same.” 
 
Mel watches on as his men are ripped to pieces. They were scrambling in the smoke, searching for some sign that they might survive. He knows it has to be him. He turns his head from the turmoil and faces the enemy trench. Resuming the mantra of ever-forward he goes forth. Acting as though he knows what was to be done.
 
“Well now we can be who we were before it all started and leave those monsters behind now,” said Christopher- for he was at ease in Oxford. He was solemn and sorry for the past, but felt he had found who he was before the war and left his role behind. To him it was like a terrible dream from which he was slowly waking. Once again could he loll like an aristocrat and ponder matters of the upmost unimportance, while sporadically producing works of brilliance.
 
“I wonder is it so easy to leave those monsters behind,” replied Mel. 
 
He rushes forwards to the opposing trench. Like Orpheus he dares not look back lest he slow his men’s advance. At the top of the trench he sees a German gunman. Without a thought he raises his pistol and pulls the trigger. He watches with fascination as the German falls dead with such ease. He marvels at how slight a motion snuffs the life of a man. Forward. He keeps going and finally lands in the chaos of the enemy trench. Seeing more men he shoots them down. Mel saw other soldiers and readies his gun to kill them, barely noticing in time that they are his own. Feeling like a god and a master of mortality he moves manically, losing himself in murderous majesty.
 
Another silence broke out between the friends. As it ended they left discussion of the war behind, moving to the simpler topics such as lambasting the current fencing team, assuring themselves they would never had let standards drop had they been the reigning captain. Other alumni joined their chatter and all seemed completely comfortable. They felt as though the great play was over and all were now returned to their true selves, with the stage left behind on the continent.
 
The rapture of war is upon him, his empathy had deserted him at sound of his first shot. Born again as a berserk, he is in love with this life. His men storm the trench and take home a vapid victory that shall be swept aside like sand in a coast of conflict. It has killed and maimed many and it has changed Mel. It does not change the war.
 
The reunion came to and end as the sun said its goodbyes. The alumni dispersed with ten years disclosed over the course of a day. Christopher had a house not far down the road where retired for the evening. He planned to offer Mel a room to spare him the journey home in the dark but he decided not to. He felt there was a change between them. Previously they naturally nattered from noon till night but no longer. Something there’d been lost. It was as though Mel was merely a reading a script and playing a part. Though he played it well and seemed no different to the others, Christopher was certain it was only a portrayal of a friend once known. 
 
Mel walked out of Magdalen with a shrinking smile on his face. He took heavy breaths and each one with great relief. The performance was over and he could let go of his guise, cease the act of similarity to his younger self. He went to the reunion hoping to spark his vim and be reminded of all that which had enthralled him as a boy but left it feeling all the worse. Not even his treasured youth could trump his longing for the time spent charging through the trenches. Even his beautiful memories of Oxford had been corrupted by the conflict and were rendered dull and innocuous. They could not satisfy his addiction for brio in battle and his greed for glory. Dreaming of France, he walked away from the college completely true to himself, sad, sorry and hopelessly ardent.
 
","July 20, 2023 17:28",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",ywg65n,The Voice of an Angel,Beth Nolan Conners,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ywg65n/,/short-story/ywg65n/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
 
	Sara listened to her last, pure note as it sailed past the stained glass windows and reverberated through the church. She sighed happily. 
	“That was wonderful!” Emily Clapman, who was 85 and deaf in one ear, said enthusiastically. “You are so talented!”
	“Thank you, Emily,” Sara responded warmly. Now to get out of here and head home.
	“Good night, Sara.”
	“Good night,” Sara replied to the conductor as he gathered his music. “Drive safely.” Her inner voice added, “And it’s Sah-rah, not Sair-ra for the upteenth time.”
	Sara gathered her tote bag, stuffing her music and pencil and water bottle inside and headed to the door, the first to leave the nave of the church. She pushed her right arm into her coat and reached out to open the door to the hallway.
	“Let me get that.” John Martin, the elderly sexton of the church, held the door open for her. 
	“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” Sara smiled sweetly and brushed her long, dark hair away from her face.
	“You know, I always say that you have the voice of an angel,” he said earnestly.
	“Mr. Martin, that is so kind of you,” Sara replied as she laid a hand on his arm. “I appreciate that so much, but I’m just using the gift God gave me.”
	Sara stepped out into the cold, winter night. The wind was brisk and snow swept across the parking lot. She hurried to her car, slamming her door and starting her engine as quickly as she could. God she could use a cigarette. Of course that could wreck her voice and kill her before she was 30, but she still craved one. As the car interior warmed up around her, Sara hummed “Panis Angelicus”. When they had rehearsed tonight, stupid Sheila Watson had asked for the solo. Imagine? That silly cow trying to sing Panis Angelicus and sounding like someone going into labor? Sara chuckled to herself. No one - truly no one - could sing like Sara, and people like Sheila Watson just needed to remember that. Clearly the choir had no tenors that could come even close to hitting those notes correctly either. Sara smiled smugly.
	Sara drove the six miles to her apartment, passing small houses within islands of snow, some with their ever-present holiday lights still twinkling. Idiots, thought Sara. Who keeps the lights up when it’s February? Move on, people. 
	Sara slid the key into her door lock and opened her door to her lit, warm apartment. Smaug, her little gray cat, appeared, meowing loudly and wrapping around her legs. “And what did you do today?” Sara asked him, picking him up. “I’m sure you had a better day than I did.”
	A quick scan of her phone showed her that she’d received 23 new emails in the last two hours. “I guess Lana is popular today!” she said with a smile. 
	Suddenly her cell phone buzzed. “Sam Johnson” showed on the screen. Sara sighed. She barely tolerated her choral conductor.  What a tiresome, bumbling old man and clearly far past his prime. Certainly he couldn’t find a job elsewhere.
	“Hi, Sam,” Sara answered with just the right amount of perkiness.
	“Sara, it’s Sam,” Sam replied needlessly. “I need to speak with you for a moment.  It’s about the Panis.”
	“Yes, Sam. What about it? Would you like me to attend an additional rehearsal?” Sara asked brightly.
	“Actually, Sara, it’s Sheila. She spoke to me after rehearsal tonight. You know she and her husband do a lot for the parish. She’s been a member for over 25 years. I think it may be a good idea to let her have a  chance to shine. I think she should take the Panis. You can sing it another time.”
	Sara froze, tightening her grip on her phone. “Sure, Sam. Whatever you think is best.” Sheila the stupid cow was going to have her solo. Unbelievable.
	“Ah, there’s a good girl. I knew you would understand,” Sam murmured happily.
	“Sam, I need to run, but I’ll see you at church,” Sara quickly said.
	“Of course. Of course. Thank you!”
	Sara punched the icon to end the phone call before Sam’s “you” had ended.
	Closing her eyes, she steadied her breathing. Sheila Watson? Sheila the mooing cow Watson?? It was overwhelming how she had to put up with this crap.
	Sara walked down the hallway to her spare room, pulling off her chunky knit sweater. Leather or lace tonight? Leather sounded right. She opened the bureau drawer and selected a black eye mask. That will help cover the bags under my eyes, she thought, then chuckled aloud. Sara held her breath as she squeezed into the bustier. Honestly, she had to lay off the frozen coffee drinks. Running a few vocal trills, she ended with a slightly raspy “hello there” and set about getting things in the right mood. Lighting dimmed. Music on low. A little Gregorian chant sounded perfect for today. Make up on. She set the scene. She’d work up close to the monitor tonight. That way she could keep on her pajama pants. Sara chuckled again. Why was her life filled with suckers and losers? It was 9:58. Almost showtime.
	Suddenly her cell lit up. MOM glared at her in green. 
	“Mom!” Sara answered with a note of surprise. Her mother rarely called her this late. “What’s up?”
	“Oh hi, honey, I just wanted to check in. I know it’s late for a school night.”
	“Gosh, Mom,” Sara said innocently. “I was just heading to bed. It’s 10:00”.
	“I’m so sorry!” her mom replied. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay and you didn’t need anything.”
	“Nope. I’m all set. Working hard!” Sara gave a bright little laugh.
	“Well, you get to sleep. Call me on the weekend. Remember, Grandma’s coming over for dinner after church on Sunday. Love you!”
	“Okay. Love you, Mom!” Sara disconnected. 10:00. That was close.
	She opened up her website and started her camera. The lights, music, and filters all came together to create an intoxicating, sexy atmosphere.
	“Lana, your fallen angel, is here with my favorite dragon kitty. Let’s see who’s with us tonight?”
 
","July 20, 2023 21:31",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",1bwsvb,Better?,Kara Niccum,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1bwsvb/,/short-story/1bwsvb/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Suspense', 'Thriller']",9 likes,"
He moved her hand out of the way to retrieve the bacon from the chest freezer. Closing the lid, he resumed whistling and walked back into the house. His bright-eyed beauty sat at the breakfast bar, smiling at him. They'd had a wonderful night, and now, he was making her breakfast. She was absolutely giddy with appreciation.
 
After he put the French toast and bacon on the plate, he held up a finger. ""One last thing,"" he said, and went out the front door. He came back with a rose from the bush his wife had held so dearly. His lover smiled as he held the flower to his nose and inhaled.
 
They clinked glasses of mimosa- another special touch - and dug in. After moments of silence, she said, ""You know, I never thought you'd actually do it.""
 
""Make you breakfast? I actually love cooking,"" he said. 
 
""No,"" she said, ""leave your wife for me.""
 
He leaned back. ""You asked me to,"" he said. ""Why would you ask me to if you didn't really think I would?"" He tried to keep the clip out of his tone. 
 
""I know, but I didn't think you'd actually do it. I thought I'd have to, you know, break up with you.""
 
He blinked a couple of times, then reached his hand across to hers. ""I love you. I want to be with you."" The squeeze he gave her hand might have been a little too hard.
 
She looked down at their hands, then smiled again. ""I love you, too!""
He kissed her knuckles and they resumed eating. Apparently, the squeeze was thought of as depth of passion, not irritation.
 
""I can't believe she let you have the house,"" she said around a mouthful of food. “I would have thought she would have kicked you out.”
 
He bit back his comment. Her lack of manners was not endearing. Neither were her ideas that she knew what she was talking about. ""I guess she wanted a new start somewhere else,"" he said.
 
""Yeah, but what about the kids? I mean, you said yourself she'd never move away from her kids.""
 
Another pang of irritation shot through him. ""Well, now that the youngest is away at college, and the others are living their own lives, maybe she thought she could find someplace smaller, that wouldn’t be so much to take care of. I wouldn't be surprised if she moved closer to the school our daughter is attending.""
 
She nodded, considering. ""I guess that makes sense."" 
 
What would she know. She hadn't put up with his wife for over two decades. Time to change the subject. ""What would you like to do today?"" he asked. 
 
""Wellllll, we could go shopping...."" she said, looking at him from under her lashes. 
 
He took a long drink. ""Shopping? What do you need?""
 
""Welllll, nothing particular. But I thought we could go out in public together, since, you know, we have never been able to do that before.""
 
He clenched his jaw. ""I think it's a little too soon for that,"" he said. 
 
""Come on,"" she whined, walking around the counter to wrap her arms around his neck. ""It's just... we’ve had to hide for so long, it’d be nice to be able to show the world how we feel about each other, instead of pretending. We could go shopping then go out to dinner, without having to drive an hour out of town.”
 
Before responding, he composed himself. With a sigh and smile that suggested he was giving in to her, he said, ""OK. Whatever you want, Babe.”
 
She squealed and kissed him.""I'm going to shower and get dolled up!"" 
 
He watched her run up the stairs and his smile faded as soon as she was out of sight. She hadn't asked about showering, she'd just done it. She really needed to learn her place. 
 
And they couldn't go out together, it was too soon after his wife had moved out. People would start saying that he had obviously been having an affair, and that was the reason she'd moved out. Then they’d reach out to her, seeking gossip in the form of condolences. He couldn’t have that. 
 
He sighed, stood, and ascended the stairs. It was supposed to be better with her. It was supposed to be simpler now that they could be together. Trying to convince her to wait longer to be seen in public together would be futile. She would agree, but then pout until he got tired of it and gave in. He was tired of being controlled. It was time to do what he wanted when he wanted. Why couldn't these women just let him do what he wanted?
 
Once he got to the bathroom, he watched her through the clear doors for a moment. He even considered jumping in with her. But he couldn't seem to muster the desire, despite her clumsy attempt to put on a sexy show. 
 
When she stepped out, he turned her so her back was to him. Starting at her neck, he dried her off, gently dabbing the towel from back to front. He wrapped the towel around her torso, and she held it in place in front of her.
 
Spinning her to face him, he held her head in his hands, and kissed her gently. He pulled away, and smiled as he moved his hands down, caressing her neck. Her eyes changed from loving, to questioning, to panicked in the space of seconds. He applied pressure until she stopped clawing at his hands. 
 
Throwing her over his shoulder, he carried her down the stairs. It was easier than it had been with his wife. He'd had to drag her larger body down on the comforter, her head banging on each step. Not that she’d minded.
 
Once in the garage, he put her at his feet while he opened the lid. It was difficult trying to rearrange his wife in the freezer. He had to force a couple of frozen limbs, causing a crack to reverberate through the garage. But he made enough room to toss in the new, still pliable form.
 
The two were arranged, almost Ying and yang. One stiff and pale, and still wrapped in her mother's quilt, the other soft and pink, her wet hair sticking to the frozen food. He slowly closed the lid, and began whistling again. 
 
 
","July 20, 2023 23:42","[[{'Kara Niccum': 'Thank you!!! :)', 'time': '18:09 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michael Martin': 'I liked the twist in this story (my gf has noted that I tend to write twists in most of my stories, I guess i have a thing for twists lol).  I was getting into the story about a man leaving his wife and wasnt even thinking about the wife\'s whereabouts until the end, i think you did a masterful job with that reveal (and withholding just enough info to keep it a surprise).  Great work!\n\nOne small suggestion: you started to tell us alot (instead of showing us) towards the middle.  For instance, i liked the line ""...squeeze he gave her hand migh...', 'time': '01:09 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kara Niccum': 'Thank you so much! I appreciate the input, as well! Can only help!', 'time': '19:10 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kara Niccum': 'Thank you so much! I appreciate the input, as well! Can only help!', 'time': '19:10 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Theo Benson': 'Oh wow. That threw me for a loop at the end! I was expecting this to just be a story about the new couple finally dropping the facade and going out together, but you’ve twisted it around in a clever way! I like how you sprinkled in hints that something isn’t quite right with this guy, until it snowballs into the ending. Well done Kara! :)', 'time': '15:13 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",qjw5b6,''A Return To Self'',Francis T. Baker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qjw5b6/,/short-story/qjw5b6/,Character,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],9 likes,"
‘’A Return to Self’’
 
 
The coffee here always was abysmal, a thin, drab liquid little more than a cheap caffeine delivery system. Good thing I stopped noticing the taste of coffee, or rather stopped caring about the taste of things in general, months ago. As I half-heartedly picked up the paper cup and brought it to my mouth for a large gulp I was already sliding the second cup underneath the machine’s spout. Regardless of taste the barely warm contents of these cups would provide me with just enough energy to operate on some basic level until I got home. That was really all that mattered. Couldn’t sleep until I got home after all. God I wanted to sleep. 
 
I’d religiously adopted avoiding eye contact with the other people in the waiting room since my.. episode. Before that I’d look them over intently, commiserate with these poor, unfortunate souls who were so obviously mentally unwell. These poor folks were crazy after all, in one way or another, though surely through no fault of their own. Not me, I was just eccentric, I had ‘a thing’, but I sure wasn’t crazy; I never said it, I tried not to even think it, but obviously I was in some sense superior to these downtrodden, dejected figures. It’s amazing how see-through the lies we tell ourselves are in hindsight. Hard to believe we ever bought into them in the first place. We must sometimes be exceptionally willing to. As I quietly found a seat I downed the second of my, by now tepid, cups of pseudo-life giving coffee hoping others shared my newly found aversion to eye contact and social interaction. Fortunately enough, it appeared they did.
 
“Mr Wright?” The receptionist called, breaking the silent aura of shame that so often permeated the waiting room. Hearing my name called here always raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Even though everybody else was surely there for similar reasons it always made me feel caught, like she was exposing some indignity of mine to the world. I got up and walked over to the counter. It was the brunette one working today, as was most often the case on Fridays. I much preferred her to her blonde co-worker. Though I was sure they were both equally friendly and professional, the blonde one was younger and more inexperienced and hadn’t quite mastered the ability to masquerade the pity in her voice. “Doctor Finch will see you now sir, room 204.” she said as she buzzed me in. As I passed through the door and rounded the corner I realized I hadn’t registered her face at all. Odd that, after a dozen visits or so over the past half year I wouldn’t be able to pick either one of them out of a line-up. 
 
“Welcome David, come in, please have a seat.” the doctor said as he gestured to a chair on the opposite side of a desk that was frankly too big for the small room. Doctor Finch looked more or less like the psychiatrists cliché; a small beard, greying hair, a stocky frame and of course the mandatory tweed jacket. Finch had been my doctor for years and before I’d found his apparent strict adherence to this cartoonish image of the psychiatrist rather amusing. Ever since my momentary lapse in sanity however, I found it oddly comforting in a way. He’d added some colour to the otherwise dreary looking office by way of a large, brightly-coloured, abstract painting over his head. As I took my seat opposite Doctor Finch and his garish painting I gave it an extra once-over. On this specific morning even those normally loud colours seemed to me impossibly dull. That always tipped me off on how much extra effort I’d have to expend to look lively, my own abstract canary down the coal mine. Today would be an extra effort sort of day then.
 
“How have you been since your last visit a few weeks ago, any changes in your moods?” Doctor Finch queried as he pulled up my charts on his computer. 
 
We were starting off easy then. “I’ve been good Doctor, as stable as I was last time I was here. The medication really seems to be helping.” Couldn’t hurt to pepper that in early in the conversation. 
 
“Good, good,” Doctor Finch said as he glanced at his screen and extended my, what must by now be, sizable file. “,and the memory, how’s that been David? These higher doses have been known to cause some significant side-effects in that regard. As I recall you suffered some medication-induced memory loss in the past, has this subsided?”
 
Time to put on my game face. Doctor Finch had stated last time that if my memory didn’t improve he’d cut my dose. Then it’d be back to the real world, that place from before it happened, that place that led me there, where I’d have to think and feel something about anything and everything. No thanks. “Doing much better Doctor.” I put every last bit of energy those cups of coffee had given me into adding some zip to the words, even forced something vaguely reminiscent of a smile. Doctor Finch looked me in the eye for a long moment and steadily held my gaze as if he were weighing his next words carefully. 
 
“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it!” he suddenly exclaimed almost over-enthusiastically. “You mentioned last time you had issues with tiredness and balancing your energy, have you seen any improvements there as well?” 
 
Sure. I thought, keeping my facial expression as level as possible. I no longer have any issue with sleeping 12 hours a day. “Strong improvements there too, I’m way more active than before. I’ve even found the energy to exercise every now and again.” I lied through forcibly exposed teeth. 
 
Doctor Finch replied in that same upbeat tone, almost inappropriate for the subject matter, as if he were trying to sell something to a particularly unwilling customer: “That’s good David, very good. Now as you know I’ve kept in touch with some of your family since your manic episode 6 months ago. They’ve reported very similar findings and said that you appear much improved. In light of all this good news I think it might be time to scale back your medication, after all these high doses aren’t sustainable in the long run as you well know.”
 
My family had indeed reported similar happy observations to me, and it was a good thing they had. I didn’t remember most of their visits or them checking up on me after all. When they came over I’d brew a large pot of coffee, smile and tried my utmost best to focus on any meandering conversations that clearly were little more than thinly veiled probes into my closed-for-maintenance mind. Still, they’d earned the right. I did get the occasional flashes of their faces twisted in horror and concern, as they attempted to fuss over me and care for me when I myself wasn’t in the slightest bit capable of, or interested in, doing so. If they said I looked better, I was glad of it. On their behalf mostly. 
 
“Look Doctor Finch..” I stammered, trying and failing to maintain an air of neutral composure, “..are you sure that wouldn’t be too soon? We could lose the progress we’ve made after all.” At rare times like these the guilt and shame ridden remnants of memories from my manic episode managed to reassert themselves, even if just for a moment. I had absolutely no desire to get reacquainted with any of them. 
 
“Now David..” Doctor Finch grumbled with a suddenly scrutinizing look “..as we’ve discussed the human psyche after an episode is much like a broken bone. It needs time to set and to heal but eventually the cast must come off for the full healing process to be completed. Don’t worry David, after these long months you’ll soon finally start feeling like your old self again.”
 
Fuck I thought as I accepted the reduced prescription and with it the end of my 6-month mental hiatus. My old self, who the hell would want to feel like that?
 
It was good to be home. Days like these took an extra toll on my meagre energy reserves. Workdays were easier. Clients would come into the shop and I’d advise them on one product or the other over a few pots of coffee, taking notes as they spoke. Often when at the end of the day I’d be processing their orders I’d find I had no memory of any of these people. If nothing else I’d become fastidious in taking notes, any detail not penned down had a large chance of never having happened to my mind. And so workdays, and workweeks, all blended together as time itself lost most of its meaning. In sight of recent events I had found this to be a rather large blessing.
 
This loss of sense of time led me to feel like I got home quicker, and that was after all, my only goal. As I dropped my keys and wallet onto the hallway dresser I stared at myself in the large oval mirror hanging over it. The face in the mirror was mine, I was quite certain of that, but the eyes were foreign and strange. Peering back at me from the dark, listless face were two sullen looking green eyes set with tiny, pinpoint-pupils. These were the pupils of the overly medicated, the overly sedated and they made the green irises look enormous, giving an alien quality to the person reflected in the mirror. Had I noticed this before? Would I have remembered if I had? Surely Doctor Finch must have noticed it earlier today. It would have been tough to hide that beneath my well-practiced, worry not, ‘smile’,
 
Today’s exertions had left me utterly drained. As I opened the fridge I found a few ready-made meals, all untouched. I recognized one of my mother’s bright red plastic containers and my sister’s signature Wednesday-night-casserole. They’d be back soon to see if I’d been eating properly. I should dispose of those tomorrow, use the outside trash, wash the dishes, prepare a response on the finer points of how it tasted. Tomorrow though. I closed the fridge and staggered over to the couch where I slumped down as I let the accumulated exhaustion of the day and the fog of the medication slowly enveloped me. I knew if I let myself fall to my side that old leather piece of furniture would be as comfortable as any king sized bed, a more tempting prospect there had never been. Still I fought the urge to lie down just a moment longer and tried to do the math; could I keep up a higher dose for a bit? Stretch the supply somehow? No, I’d just wind up running out before the month was up and then I’d be in real trouble. I counted out my new, lower dose of medication and swallowed the fistful of pills knowing the protective spell they’d so steadfastly cast would soon wither and be broken.
 
As I sat on the couch, staring at a nondescript point on my wall, I reflected on what I knew would be my last waking moments of blissful numbness for a long while to come. And that would be for the best, Doctor Finch had assured me so. Would my family agree with him in the long run, for that matter would I? Both my family’s and my worries had abated over these past 6 months of heavy medication. If nothing else my now ending half-life was far more peaceful than my old self, in many ways it was surely preferable to all parties involved. Couldn’t I hide from the world, and myself, for just a bit longer, for all our sakes? As I slid down and my head nestled on the course pillow of the by now so familiar sofa one last thought crept through my muddled mind before a dreamless and all-consuming sleep overtook me: I might soon feel more like myself again, but I’d never willingly feel like my ‘old self’ again. 
 
 
 
 
~  Thanks for reading, please let me know in the comments how you enjoyed it. ~
","July 21, 2023 06:47","[[{'Emilie Ocean': 'Great story, well done! I am so intrigued by David\'s character and ""manic episode"". You depicted his thoughts with such congruence, I sometimes paused and thought ""I think this way too sometimes"" which was quite scary! Thank you for this story Francis :)', 'time': '17:54 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Francis T. Baker': ""Thank you so much for commenting. I tried to strike a balance between sticking to the very 'in the moment' theme while also fleshing out the character of David as much as I could. \n\nI'm happy you enjoyed my first ever submission!"", 'time': '18:31 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Francis T. Baker': ""Thank you so much for commenting. I tried to strike a balance between sticking to the very 'in the moment' theme while also fleshing out the character of David as much as I could. \n\nI'm happy you enjoyed my first ever submission!"", 'time': '18:31 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",i5xhlc,Br’er Rabbit,Bruce Carrington,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/i5xhlc/,/short-story/i5xhlc/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",9 likes,"
The report called me emotionally unstable, reckless, temperamental, violent and impulsive. But it didn’t recommend to remove me from the field.The list of my reprimands was long, but the culmination of my misbehaviours occurred when I got arrested following a fight I had with the French chargé d’affaires. I shouted some inappropriate ethnic-fuelled slurs, despite my fondness for both him and fried cuisses de grenouille, before beating him up. This was a necessary part of the plan that was meant to finally put me in front of the disciplinary commission. We needed to get one of its members to attend the proceedings. “Commission is now opening the floor for your statement,” said the chairwoman of the committee. Lacee was a 35-year-old brunette. She was the deputy of Alex, a middle-aged man and an extremely talented intelligence officer back in the day. He, on the other hand, was the deputy director of the Agency. They were irrelevant.The single person who was not aware that this series of fuckups was just a ruse was Ben, a man in his sixties, whose attire, always immaculate, changed following the death of his son - right around the time I joined the Agency ten years ago. He was now wearing an aged black suit with a contrasting crisp white, but stained in at least three different places, shirt. He was my friend, mentor, and father I never had. To the Agency, he was the traitor whom I was ordered to kill.I had nothing to say, so the hearing lasted all about 15 minutes, but we sat there for an hour to record such a time in the report. It wouldn’t look serious if we were to write the factual time of the proceedings in the transcript. That’s because the director of the Agency, upon hearing about my adventures, called for disciplinary measures to be taken. We needed to play him too. He was a politically-nominated dimwit whose sole international experience prior to taking up the charge of the most sensitive institution in the country was - and I shit you not - serving as an ambassador to Kuwait. That’s the current state of the espionage world in which, beside few outliers, experienced intelligence officers are being managed by pimple-faced cousins or sons-in-law of the sitting presidents.I went to grab a beer with Ben afterwards, to the bar called “Brother Rabbit”. Its name was inspired by African folklore in which Br’er Rabbit was a mischievous trickster who utilised wit, deceit, and manipulation to achieve his goals. You can imagine why it was our favourite.The joint was a typical-looking sports bar, with a long counter at the right side to the entrance, small tables to the other. It was empty, just an elderly couple sitting in the far corner of the room, minding their own business, drinking tea or something similarly adequate for the early hours of the day.“Joking aside, I am really worried about you,” said Ben, interrupting our bender over some irrelevant matter. I took the shot of vodka and washed it down with the rest of the beer. I ordered another round for us, despite Ben not even being halfway through his. No shots for him. “Where have you been lately? I needed to beat the shit out of some frog-eater to finally get you out of your hole you crawled into?” I bounced the question. He didn’t respond, and we sat there in silence.The third beer and shot arrived, just in time to soothe my shaky hand. I wasn’t sure if he noticed yet. While I was perceptive, Ben had a sixth sense. I guess all of us working in the industry had it. It can be a gift or a curse. Ben always said that the sixth sense is a controlled paranoia. Some controlled it well, some didn’t. He mastered it. That’s why he was the best of us, and I didn't think so only because he mentored me and I adored him. He was widely recognised as the most talented in the Agency.He took me under his wing during my time in “The Academy” - a cute little name for training facility where we were schooled on the subjects relating to clandestine business. I was a troubled young man but outperformed my peers. He noticed me while reading through the files of the newest recruits and their performance assessments during the training courses. I stood out in all the wrong ways, just like him thirty years before me. It’s not that I couldn’t perform the tasks; it’s that I performed them in a manner that wasn’t to the instructors’ liking.I was officially thrown out of the course due to insubordination and my name was struck out of any records, but I continued to learn about the craft under exclusive tutelage of Ben.My first station was in Baghdad, which was supposed to be a transit point before my final destination - Moscow. I was to create my cover story in Iraq and make contact with the small circle of Chechen fighters who moved to the Middle East to support their Muslim brothers in the fight against western invaders. From Chechens in Iraq, I was to gradually infiltrate the baddies financing their presence there - the Chechen mafia. The next point on the agenda involved buying my way into their competition, the Russian mob. Selling out the information on Chechens would never be enough, and so to prove my intentions were true, Ben and I expected that Ruskis would order me to take out a couple of their business adversaries. I didn’t mind. Ben always emphasised the insignificance of collateral damage when working towards the bigger goal, but it wouldn’t be until years later in that obscure bar he was about to die in, that I would receive the final lesson on the topic.It was in Baghdad where I first fell in love. Layla was a local humanitarian aide and the most beautiful and kind-hearted woman I have ever met. She got pregnant shortly after our first date. Our daughter, Sara, was born during my first trip to Russia. I hadn’t seen her for the first three years of her life, but when I finally did, I became blind with an unconditional love I have never ever experienced.For now, Ben and I were recalling my times in The Academy and talking shit about its’ instructors when he summarised his opinion on the matter.“Fuck them. That’s why we took them out of the field,” He said concluding our little memory trip. “I want you to know that I’m proud of you.” “Fuck you,” I mumbled, getting over the nostalgia.He turned towards me and looked deep into my eyes. This little show I’ve put together was about to come to an end.“This will change you.” - Ben said, opening the catharsis’ doors - “The torment will make you ruthless. You’ll become rageful and heartless. You mustn’t let go of that feeling. The anger will sharpen your senses. Hatred will make you fearless. This world we chose is cold and dirty. It’s cruel. It’s so fucking ugly. Remove your heart from the equation, and you’ll do what needs to be done.” He finished, clearing all the remaining doubts I had about whether he knew why we were here.I instructed the bartender to leave. He worked for the Agency. Lacee insisted on his presence and I didn’t have the energy to tell her that Ben and I knew all employees of the bar. The junior officer put down the beer glass he was polishing unenthusiastically and gestured to the elderly couple. They stood up and went with him to the backroom. I should have expected that she’ll place more of the Agency’s guys inside and not tell me. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and put the syringe on the table. The charade was over. “I will not make it easier for you,” he said before finally downing his beer in three big gulps. I knew that he wouldn’t do it himself. Still, there was a part of me that hoped he’ll pick up the syringe and insert it into his neck. I hid my face in the palm of my hand. “Why, Ben? Why would you do something so fucking stupid?” I said with a mix of sadness and anger. He grabbed me by the neck and whispered in my ear. “They had you ever since Lagos happened.” He didn't refer to a place, but an event.I looked in his direction. My eyes were open, but all I saw was black. I started to sweat, my body froze, and my mind became numb.Now it was him who reached into his jacket and pulled out a single surveillance photo, showing me exiting a hotel, female purse in my hand, big red X on my face. He took down another, and two more after that. I knew what was on them, and I turned them around without looking before hiding them in my jacket.It was right after I did my first contract killing for the Russians, all according to the plan we put together with Ben, when I received a message from Layla, telling me that Sara contracted pneumonia. I immediately contacted Ben, breaking all the safety protocols of no-contact, to arrange for them to fly out of Iraq and get Sara the medical attention she needed. He met her once and adored her so he got to work but it was too late. I wasn’t around at the time of Layla’s grief. I didn’t fly-in for Sara’s funeral. I entered the state of utter numbness and detachment. The last message I received from Layla detailed Sara’s funeral and location of her resting place. We haven’t spoken since.I left the Agency and started doing contract work in Africa which is a pompous way of saying I became a mercenary-whore for hire. I started to drink heavily during that time. For a full year I was either blackout drunk or in a firefight, there was no in-between. It was in one of Lagos’ hotel bars that I met a woman. We talked for a bit, got drunk, and went up to her room.I sobered up after we finished. That’s when I noticed her purse, placed at the desk opposite to the bed. I stood up, walked across the room and picked it up. It had what appeared to be two buttons. One was a mini camera that I recognised immediately. I turned around and noticed her, still in bed, looking at me with terror in her eyes. The Russians, who were waiting in the surveillance van across the street, took pictures of me exiting the hotel with their honey trap’s purse. They ran inside, took the pictures of the dead body laying on the bed and started an exhausting process of determining how best to use them. I was approached by Lacee two months later. They found out that Ben was selling state secrets to the Russians and got four of our officers killed. I kept up the facade, pretending I’m out of the game while secretly gathering the evidence of his betrayal. It wasn’t hard. It was now clear to me why.They had no leverage on me. I had nothing left. They knew that I’d sooner put the bullet in my face rather than work for them. I wanted to do it ever since Sara died. I didn’t care about anything or anyone. But Ben did. He lost a son, and his wife passed away from breast cancer shortly after. I was all he had.“This little show of yours was convincing, I’ll give you that. Now, you have to continue mine.” This was his way of telling me what must be done, but for it to work, Ben needed to die.I suddenly realised that my brief yet disastrous crisis costed the lives of four people. He was ruthless and expected the same from me. I know I was worth more than four officers in his eyes. Collateral damage. He sacrificed them and expected me to keep up the appearance of a bitter drunk, reach out to the Russians, and offer myself, furious over what happened to my beloved mentor.“Have you ever visited her?” He was telling me where to start. The bar was empty now. There were no hidden cameras, but we were still being listened to. I stood up and walked around the counter to pour us one last shot. I grabbed the syringe and squirted its contents into his glass. He smiled, we toasted, and we drank the vodkas.Two weeks after, I went to visit Sara and discovered a pendrive dropped into one of the vases placed on her grave. I would later find out that it contained a list of Ben’s handlers along with their psychological assessments, relationships’ summaries, skeletons in their closets, all things necessary to turn the tables at the right time.I replaced the dried-out flowers with fresh ones, took one last look at the picture of a smiling, beautiful, little girl, turned around, and made my way to the airport. My flight from Baghdad to Moscow was leaving in an hour.
","July 21, 2023 08:58","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'Your story kept me hooked from the start. The characters are well-developed, and I like how you ended it with his flight. Very nice!', 'time': '10:13 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",8kz69k,The tumour,Autism Active,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8kz69k/,/short-story/8kz69k/,Character,0,['Friendship'],9 likes,"
She threw her keys on the table and they landed with a brittle bang. What aday. She was tired. In another lifetime she’d have been reaching for the bottle. Now, she turned to the kettle, shook it: enough for a nice cup of tea. She checked the clock. It was just after four in the afternoon. Looking through the window, the sun was fighting its way through copious clouds and she could see it would succeed. Heck, what was she waiting for. She ignored the hot, boiled water and ran for the stairs. With an air of happy abandon, she fired shorts, a few T-shirts and knickers into a small rucksack, grabbed her current novel, considered the phone charger and acquiesced! Bring a warm jumper, Rosemary had said. She grabbed a chunky sweatshirt, pyjamas and toiletries. Still smiling, she reached for her water bottle, HRT tablets and was in the car before she knew it. I’m off she said aloud. Lyric FM was belting out Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and she turned out on their country road with relish, heading for the hills and main road beyond. The glow of the September evening sun began to set behind her. The brambles on either side of the road were weighty with blackberries, ripe for picking. Through the open car window, the scent of honeysuckle intermingled with the furze yielding a mellow honeyed scent. The cries of the crows accompanied the cows, making their way home to the farmyard. These were evenings of sheer bliss.She hadn’t mentioned the scan to anyone but Rosemary and Ann. They were great: two non judgemental and all round supportive women. Although they had explored the whens, the hows, the wheres and what ifs, they really hadn’t delved deeper. None of them could. Emotions were too superfluous. Lord, better deal with these things when you truly had to. And now the results were back. The tumour was benign and she’d live. She knew from the get go, she was going to embrace every minute from when she left the clinic. This was going to be her chapter: one of fun filled joy and laughter. This evening she was headed for a night with the women and tomorrow she’d fly to Madrid. She was spending a month walking the Camino, finding her soul and breathing the chest pains and hidden growths of the past 50 years into the stratosphere of Spain. She knew she was blessed. Her friends had rallied, bills were sorted, Mossy was in a good place and life was looking up. She’d figure out work when she came back. A few agency shifts here and there would keep the bills paid and the wolf off her back. She had come a long way back to the woman she once was and always yearned to be. Back again was the carefree, fluid agent. She smiled at the idea of travelling with little. She now knew you don’t need a lot to live; faith, love and friendship and of course a few euros in the pocket. In another lifetime, there would have been matching bags and shoes, jewellery, false nails (she couldn’t remember the name), never out without makeup, job titles, stress, chest pain and a constant palpable fear. Covid had been a brilliant leveller for a time. It helped bring reality to the mix. She had loved being at home with Mossy, her beloved boy, now an employed autistic man, which was no mean feat given the stats on autism and employment. With that shared time had come the realisation that life was for living and not just longing. Bit by bit, she had started to build a new future. Finding the breast lump had been the real catalyst for change. The car phone sounded. Well, where are you? Ann asked. On the road finally she replied. Rosie and I are just arrived and having a G&T. Will we order a celebratory one for you. No honey, I’ll stick to the tonic she answered with a smile. I’m on a roll now and we’ll keep rolling! KO, see you when we see you! As she joined the motorway, the dulcet tones of Dire Straits and Romeo and Juliet brought a smile of real pleasure to her relaxed countenance. It was a moment of reconnecting with a very satisfied Susan. The shower that revealed the lump had galvanised her to action: Calls to friends to establish the best Dr for the job. You can’t beat nursing buddies of course: practical, peaceful, positive and of course proactive. In a few weeks, appointments were made, bloods taken, a surgeon sourced, Mossy’s schedule in place and the biopsy in the calendar. She had prayed and meditated, combined with daily running to keep some level of serotonin in the system. Funny, there was no yen for a drink. Just keep going as she was going: eating, sleeping, praying and loving. It was great to hand in the notice to another stress related job. It was also great to get the flat rented and a long term lease sorted. With each of these formative steps, came a summative relief. Letting go was never as easy. All she had ever wanted deep down was peace. Maybe you have to travel the madness to arrive at that place. She had done the roller coaster ride: plenty of destructive relationships, copious amounts of alcohol and lots of self loathing and self doubt because of it all. Imposter syndrome had become part and parcel of who and what she was. However, little by little post pandemic, the real Susan had begun to re-emerge. She had cut down on pointless shopping, evolved to organic healthy eating, stopped drinking and reintroduced a regularity of reading, writing and running to her life. She had also embraced the art and practice of meditation and prayer. With that came the true and meaningful journey to inner peace. With it too, came the realisation of how lucky she was to have such great abundance in her life. The tumour and it’s journey was almost like the final catharsis to have a clean sheet heading for the Camino. The fear, her constant companion had finally dissipated, replaced instead by a tranquility for life and living. She knew deep down, she had now been handed her passport for life. The best was truly yet to come.
","July 15, 2023 04:55","[[{'Rose Lind': ""My younger sister died from cancer, the outline of healthy eating, exercise, change in attitude and spiritual practice/healing and support network rings true; she did very little and it returned the third time, over a 5 year period, to avenge her.\n\nI often think of her, God bless her and be with her, I have cleansed of the thinking if only she had listened.\n\nShe had a cancer tablet nicknamed Kali, the destroyer but there was more than the cancer which needed to be destroyed, she was a young soul.\n\nI'm not telling you this to feel sorry for m..."", 'time': '21:30 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Grace Anderson': 'This story was beautifully written. I loved the imagery when she was driving out, “ Through the open car window, the scent of honeysuckle intermingled with the furze yielding a mellow honeyed scent.” This really made me imagine where she is and the olfactory imagery that makes me smell what she is smelling adds a lot to the story. Good luck in the competition.', 'time': '21:13 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': ""Dear, uh...Autism?\n\nI'll admit, I picked your piece for response because of your pseudonym. And I'm just guessing there, but I tried to imagine that name being one of the first read aloud at a high school graduation and it just reeked of cruel parenting! But I digress!\n\nWith two submissions, I would like to say Welcome Back to Reedsy. I don't know how many writers are one and done here, so I'm proud of your repeat. Way to go!\n\nBefore I wade into the writing, I'd just say that several folks here write about their own real-life experiences, an..."", 'time': '12:31 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",ud16i5,The Colorful Mask,Raine Leggett,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ud16i5/,/short-story/ud16i5/,Character,0,['Contemporary'],8 likes,"
I watch as they cheer. The applause ringing throughout the room defended my ears. I smile at them as sincerely as I can. I watch them blow kisses I don’t desire to blow back. A void in my heart makes me wish I could leave. Where did it go the love for this stage? Why have I fallen victim to this sea of lust? Give me my name instead of this blind fame.
She walked off the
stage. Her manager handed her a bottle of water.
She drank it down slowly
as her manager raved with some of the staff. The coolness of the water was
needed. It helped her mind clear. Slowly washing away the frustration she felt.
 She nearly finished her water before she was finally addressed again.
“Good job out there again today.” She was told.
She looked up from the bottle
and put on a brave face.
“Yeah I rocked it!” She
made herself beam.
“You sure did. Now we
have to make sure you are ready for what is next. You have two more gigs coming
up.”
These words came to her in a heavy blow.
“Yeah…” she said smally.
“Don’t worry if you
keep up this level of performance you are sure to keep shining.” Her manager
beamed.
“…”
“Kay?”
She was distracted by her anxiety. She looked up and putt on excitement.
“Oh yeah. I understand.
I’m just a bit tired.” She answered shortly.
“Alright well, how about we celebrate with barbeque.” Her manager said in an encouraging voice.
“Alright, thanks mom.”
She said with a sigh.
As they drove her mom
yakked on her phone about gigs. Every time she hung up, she dialed another
number. It was vexing. “Talk to me” Kay thought. She sped through a light so
distracted by the phone. Kay felt it would serve them right if they crashed.
They arrived shortly
after her mom hung up again.
“We’re here! Now let’s
celebrate!” Her mom beamed.
“This place looks
expensive…” Kay said wearily.
“Don’t worry your gig
paid well.” Her mom reassured her.
As they got to their
seats people stopped them a lot and asked for pictures. Her mom eagerly let
them take a few. She placed the most colorful smile on as she stood with them
one by one.
“Sorry guys but can you
take this outside?” A waiter said as he approached them.
“Sorry guys! This will
have to do it!” Kay then beamed.
After the commotion
ended, she and her mom took their seats. She was waited on immediately by the
same waiter. Her mom eagerly piled up on her order. She asked many questions
about all the expensive foods. By the time she finished, Kay who had zoned out
noticed the waiter leaving.
“Wait my order-“ Kay
said a bit taken aback
“Don’t worry, hun. I
ordered for you too.” Her mom reassured.
Kay sighed.
“Kay, is that okay?”
She put on a colorful
smile.
“Yeah sure!”
The food arrived after
some time. It smelled delicious. Her mom immediately began to divvy it out. She
immediately noticed the portions were off.
I knew it… She thought. She not only got her favorites; she’s eating the most.
She formed up as much
energy as she could and put on a face of fun.
“Well let’s dig in!”
They ate in silence.
She felt the food was what she needed. It was not long after the meal started
that her mom’s phone began to ring. But to Kay’s surprise she didn’t pick
it up. Her stomach lurched at this. Her mom was so selfish at times. If only
she would not pick up the phone when Kay wanted to talk. She didn't want to
feel this way. Afterall she was her mom.
As her face fell, her
mom looked up. She put on a smile before eating into a rib.
“Is everything okay
here?” The waiter said as he returned.
“Yes. However, I would
like a to-go plate.”
Kay’s heart panged. She
was disappointed her mom was keeping this short after all.
Her mom asked for a check as well. 
She immediately began texting afterwards.
Kay didn’t like that she had to tip with her own cash as well as having to use the cash her mom was using. Every bit of those funds was hers and she knew it. Her mom always talked about responsibility but never let her practice beyond her selfish reasons. When does a 16-year-old get her freedom?
They drove down the
road too shortly after leaving. It didn’t look like they were going home.
“Where are we going?”
Kay asked.
“To talk to about
another gig.”
“Wait another!?”
“That’s not a problem.”
Her mom said shortly.
“You’re right it’s
not.” She said as she made a smile form.
It took hours for the
meeting to end but as she left, her mom signed a deal for some gigs at parties.
She couldn’t stand it. Where was her freedom? When will she get a say?
Tiredness began to sink into her.
The next few days were
hectic. She wanted to rest so bad, but her mom made her prepare so much, it was
hell.
The day of the next gig
hit so fast that she thought she would die.
As she waited backstage,
she nearly cried at her exhaustion. At least her mom could try to understand.
She was jolted from her thoughts as she heard her introduction. She ran onto
the stage but as she did a photographer flashed a light directly into her eyes.
She got so disoriented by this that she stumbled over a chord on stage before
she knew it. She landed with such a thud as the mic hit her on the head. A
screech filled the room viscously as the mic blared.
Her mom rushed on stage
as Kay clenched her leg.
“What on earth!?” Mom
said angrily.
“My leg!” She cried.
She cringed in pain but
what scared her more than the pain in her leg was the crowd. Their stares
crushed her. She fell back as she wanted to disappear. In her despair, she
listened as the crowd was told the show was over. The words echoed in her mind
mercilessly. Her mask fell and she began to cry.
 
","July 16, 2023 21:44","[[{'Electra Nanou': ""A heartbreaking example of a bad mum manager who cares more about the fame and money her daughter brings in than the girl herself. \n\nThere was more you could explore, but you got the essence of the story right. It's the delivery that needed work, however. \n\nIn future, make sure your narratives are well-structured in terms of consistency, grammar, vocabulary, formatting, and so on. Making sure these foundations are strong improves the story as a whole."", 'time': '15:43 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David Sweet': 'Many times the mother/manager can be the worst (I think about Jeannette McCurdy). Thanks for sharing for the first time. Good luck in all of your writing endeavors.', 'time': '16:18 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",1mpuls,He was acting the whole time,Bri Lynn,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1mpuls/,/short-story/1mpuls/,Character,0,"['American', 'Drama', 'Fantasy']",8 likes,"
On Sasha's last day of work she found out something very interesting. She was at home with her boyfriend Garfield. They were enjoying their day off together with their grandson Randy and his mom Brit. IT was beautiful out so everyone went outside to have a water balloon fight. It lasted for a while. Everyone was getting hungry. Garfield went in to get changed and to find something to eat while the others were still outside. Randy is an outdoor kid and he loves being outside. Unfortunately Brit and Sasha wanted to go in so they talked Randy to go in. They told him he could play with his rainbow friends. So he ran in to get his toys. He sat down to play and as he did the girls went to their rooms to get dry clothes on. Brit came down and sat with Randy to play with him. As Sasha went out to the kitchen to help Garfield with food. He was making baked chicken and mash potatoes and green beans. Sasha was starting to boil the potatoes when she heard Garfield's phone ring. she looked and it was their client Jason. See they are personal care aids. Anyway Jason wanted Garfield to come in and cover for Larry since Larry called off. He was in a different state and lost track of time. Garfield told him he couldn't be in, he would have overtime so Garfield asked Sasha and Sasha said yes she could use the extra hours this week. So Jason put Sasha in to work to cover for Larry. She had to be in for 4 and it was a little after 3. So she wasn't going to be home to eat dinner. She has to head out around 3:30. She went upstairs to get all her stuff around and was ready to head for work. She headed out awhile to be there on time. When she got there Mandy clocked out and Sasha clocked in. Things were going good until Jason start complaining that Garfield couldn't just come in and clock in under Sasha. She was tired of it. He was complaining and nagging on her for over a hour. she told him about himself and he got meaner. He has been like this with her for over a week. The problem is he has a crush on her boyfriend Garfield but he isn't gay so he is not interested in Jason. Jason takes it out on poor Sasha. She thought he used to be a nice guy until he started being rude and talking about her behind her back. He wasn't always like he just recently started that. She had enough of it and she told Jason "" you finally dropped your act and showed your true colors fake."" She finally saw through his facade and walked out. She called the boss over her client and said she quits. She gave the reason why and that respected and sent someone over as soon as possible since Jason wasn't allowed to be left alone. She left to go home and when she got home her grandson ran up to her and gave her a big hug. Garfield asked her why she was home. she wasn't supposed to be home until that next morning. She explained what happened and told him she quit and left. He respected that and everyone went to their rooms. Jason had another person come in. he was down and upset he didn't know what to say other than hes tired and hes ready for bed. He eventually realized he lost good workers and regretted that he dropped his facade. He went to bed early and didn't talk to anyone for the rest of the night. When he woke his next worker came in. She asked him ""why was the boss here Jason"". He told her the truth and she looked at him in disbelief. They talked for a while and he got an email informing him that Garfield and Sasha had quit. The lady that was working was complaining because she used to have Jason make sure Sasha and Garfield get Jason out of bed and get him in the wheelchair before she got there so all she had to do was sit on her butt and maybe feed him and give him a dink. She now realized she had to do her job fully. She had him email everyone letting them know the situation. So he did and he was grumpy about it. A few weeks went by and he ended losing all his care aids they didn't want to do the work so everyone quit. He then had to move back home with his parents. The problem with that was they didn't want him back since his dad's health was getting worse. He eventually had to get into a home where he would have to live for the rest of his life. The nurses were mean they didn't even wanna be bothered with it. They just wanted to keep going out for a cigarette. He was starting to regret everything he said and did. He dropped his facade and lost two amazing workers. he blames himself for how his life is going down hill and it all started on that day when he drove Sasha to leave. He then eventually got into contact with them and begged for them to come back to work with him again he was so sorry for everything he did to them. They  accepted his apology. they did refuse to come back tho. They found a different job. They were caretakers for a different lady named Layla. she was sweet to them. They wish Jason the best and they find some people they are willing to be care takers for again. They hung up the phone with him and they went back to their lives and he ended up staying in the home regretting everything wishing he could turn back time but he couldn't.
","July 16, 2023 22:12","[[{'Charles Corkery': 'Well done!', 'time': '21:56 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",r3ks03,The Ultimate Facade,Patricia Williford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/r3ks03/,/short-story/r3ks03/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",8 likes,"
 THE ULTIMATE FACADE
 
 
  I drew in a long, deep breath, sucked my tiny, crepe covered wings back into the porous bone of my shoulder blades, and slid screaming out into the cold, bright world. I innately knew I couldn’t keep my feathers on this journey, so I had delighted in their presence while I still had them, fluttering around in twists and turns as my mother rubbed her stomach trying to rid herself of digestive distress.  I didn’t mean to cause her concern, of course. I knew my purpose was to bring joy. But I savored the lightness and freedom that was soon to fade, along with the memory of where I had come from and who I really was. 
 
  There seemed to be light everywhere. And noise. At first, I craved the darkness and silence that had held me for so long.  There, I had been caressed in a warm, silent, liquid love that never dissipated or changed. But out here, everything was different. There were coos and laughter and song and whispers that echoed always in my ears. There were eyes staring at me, hands reaching for me, mobiles rotating above my head, and music and voices emanating from sources beyond my sight. And the colors! As vibrant reds and greens and yellows began to emerge before me, I was stunned at the brightness of the world. I started to forget the dull black and white that I had first known and began to crave the reflections of the rainbows that surrounded me. 
 
  I loved the nurturing taste of warm milk and later was awakened by the brilliant flavor burst of fruits and vegetables in my mouth. It was like I was eating all of the colors of the world. I delighted in making my own noise, setting myself apart from the symphony of sound around me. I laughed at faces and reached for the shiny baubles that dangled before my eyes. Touches warmed and soothed me if I became frightened. And I learned that smiles can feed a different kind of hunger and make me feel full. 
 
  For a while I held tight to the thread of memory that followed me into this world. I had been many places and was part of many souls. I was a tiny ripple in a larger river of life that flowed through many universes.  This body I was in now was only temporary and illusory. And I would one day return to my real self, the force that fed the breath of life. But as I grew and began to be pulled into the energy of my present world, that memory dissolved until it was only wisps of awareness, and later just a vague, faint feeling of a larger connectiveness. Then, as I began to take my first steps, it fled altogether from my consciousness. When I found my own words and could communicate with those around me, I no longer had any inkling of where I had come from.  
 
  I had many lessons to learn. The things I liked to touch were not always touchable. Toys I thought belonged to me did not always remain mine. I tried to demand control of my world, even when to eat or sleep, but was not always successful.  Sometimes the people closest to me would not be there. Sometimes those same people would raise their voice and scold me for just being inquisitive. But sometimes they were all I needed as I fell sleep on their shoulder, hiccupping from crying about something I could not even remember. 
 
  One of my greatest delights was finding friends. There were so many games to play, races to run, and jokes to tell.  We would swing for hours as I was propelled to the height of rooftops. It sometimes seemed like I was high enough to touch the stars.  Along with my buddies, I learned to count and read and desire to know more and more. There were sleepovers and secret passwords and plans to conquer make believe enemies.  I learned to have patience, to share, and to not talk in a way that would hurt the feelings of others. I learned to say I’m sorry and to not turn away when someone else was apologizing. 
 
  This body that I had so long ago understood was ephemeral, began to plague me with growing anxiety. It was out of my control, and I was stuck in it forever. It grew and changed—totally on its own—and I had no say in the matter. I wanted to remain cocooned in the straight lines and lithe dance of childhood. But suddenly life and I had curves and soft edges. All around me there was talk of maturity and growth and vision for the future. I had to learn still more lessons about acceptance and letting go. 
 
  I focused on absorbing new views, experiences, and connections. Since my mind often plagued me with worry about the future, I tried to dissolve my awareness in the warm broth of substances and risky adventures. Life was fun and bright and loud. I wanted only to be focused on this captivating here and now. And, for the most part, I was successful. My brain rested more comfortably, but I also forgot the stirring of a call for real purpose that was trying to seep through the edges of my thrill-seeking thoughts. 
 
  I then entered a period of my life when I thought I was creating the person I thought I had always wanted to be—successful, vivacious, rich with material comfort. Of course, unbeknownst to me then, it was only a charade. But at the time, I thought I was on the right road. I had everything I thought I wanted. I was surrounded by luxury and prosperity. Life became easy and smooth. People knew my name and called out to me as I walked down the street.  They wanted to be like me. And I thought that should be enough. 
 
  But there was something missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it right away, but it felt hollow and vapid.  I sometimes felt like I was walking in a fog—not being able to make out the details of the world right in front of me.  My life was rote and flaccid.  I felt like I was trying to catch the wind in my fingers. I wallowed in that emptiness for several years until I finally met someone who would put a name to that void in my life. Love. I remembered it from another life as soon as I felt it. Ubiquitous and numinous. All encompassing. The only melody ever written. 
 
  My love stayed by my side. We danced, hand in hand, through years of hope and challenge. We brought new life into this world and watched as older life faded back into the heavens. We grieved and celebrated and anticipated the milestones of our children. We thought we knew the very souls of each other. Life, once racing down the slope at breakneck speed, now seemed to coast fluidly along a flat trail-- for a while.  I thought I was content and at peace, but there was a nagging craving for more that ate at me late at night.  I was restless. I remained gripped by the desire for possessions, so I sacrificed contentment and precious time for the long hours of productivity. And I drifted further from my love. I had yet to learn the hard lessons of empathy, purpose, and priority.  
 
  And then my world was upended when the heavens reached down and snatched my love away, leaving me questioning the very existence of God.  Was it punishment deserved for a life spent focused on trying to feel and hold on to joy in its many forms? I had never strived to know or understand anything spiritual or larger than myself. I felt like I had been a good person but maybe I had missed an important path that would have led me higher. Why did I deserve to be alone at this time in my life? I folded into myself and grieved for loss and mistakes and the wave of pity that enveloped me. And the years continued to slip through my fingers. 
 
  There is a similarity between time and the human body. Both become slower and more brittle with age, feeble warp of passing minutes and aging cells, disintegration of both muscle and the measure of an hour.  So, I watched, like a bystander to an accident, as my body began to age.  I remembered that old teenage angst of impotence at stopping change, but this time I understood there was nothing I could do to stop its unrelenting pursuit.  My breath did not come easy and there was a dull ache in my bones.  The world of sight and sound dulled around me. My waning balance caused me to teeter as I shuffled from room to room. So, I often sat in my chair and just reflected on the joys I had felt and the mistakes I had made. I thought I had learned a lot in my life, but I was not able to articulate many of the lessons. I often questioned who was this person that I became? Should I have strived to do something different in my life? What had I actually learned on this journey? I had the sense that I had been acting while wearing a mask, but I had no idea how to remove the veil. 
 
   Energy is made up of strands of strength gathered from the open hands of the universe. Minute particles of light born out of successful, benevolent deeds mesh together to form a fabric of vigorous, unseen spirit that adorns the body of each of us. What seems solid, permanent, and real in our lives is actually deceptively fluid and delusive, while the invisible cloaks we wear grow in length and vibrancy with each new challenge that is overcome with compassion.  This vestment turns into wings that will eventually catch the wind and send a soul soaring. Hidden wings; we all have them. I remembered all of this on the day that my earthly veneer dissolved, and my true self passed into the larger life of the heavens.  I was able to know, as I had known in utero, that the life we carry now, with all of its hard edges, grief, and perceived success is actually an elaborate façade, hiding the very essence of our real self. That self is as fluid as the ocean and as uncontainable as the wind. 
 
  My true spirit lingered briefly in gratitude before its next journey. I watched the recollection of the memories of my family and friends and the differences that I had made. I was able to know then the inner longings of the lives I had impacted. And I saw the destinations of all of the paths I had crossed, even if only briefly. My spirit was in every room I had ever occupied with all of my former companions and also out dancing in the breeze that blew across every town I had visited and every mountain I had climbed. 
 
     A magnificent symphony of flowing flutes, violins, and clarinets serenaded my spirit with their cascading melody of light and water as I looked one last time into the reflection of the love I had known and the brightness I had held as I journeyed all those years toward my real self.   Then I stretched out my wings, now boundless in width and bright with the sun’s reflection and soared into my next life to take on another earthly façade.   
 
","July 17, 2023 13:44","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'Thanks so much, Nicki!', 'time': '20:24 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nicki Nance': 'Nothing to critique here, Patricia. This is a lovely story. As I get older, I experience time differently. I get slower, it gets faster. I liked reading your perspective on that.', 'time': '00:20 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",tbxk2j,The Beginning,Catherine Githui,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tbxk2j/,/short-story/tbxk2j/,Character,0,"['Romance', 'Adventure', 'Thriller']",8 likes,"
Behind the scenes, there should be no room for regrets, only happiness. After all, I did make the decision to love him.
 
Sometimes, though, frustration overwhelms me, and I find myself yearning for his absence. It would be easier if he just left me alone. Why? Because I lack the courage to leave him. Every time an opportunity arises for me to escape, I squander it, trying to make him happy, attempting once again.
 
“But, I don't understand why it is so difficult for you to leave him? Making the decision should be as simple as the decision to love him. How did the two of you even meet?”
 
A smile crosses my face as I ponder the question. Sometimes, the thought of him alone is enough to make me smile.
 
“It was a chilly Wednesday morning, and I ventured to the river to fetch some water. That's when I saw him on the other side, shrouded in fog, exuding an air of mystery and awareness of his surroundings. I couldn't see him clearly, but I could feel his presence. It made me uneasy and yet excited at the same time. I dipped my jerrican into the river, its waters steadily filling the container.
 
Lost in the memory, I drift away for a moment. 
 
“Did he say anything? Did you say anything?”
 
No, we didn't exchange words. We simply sat there, acutely aware of each other's presence. I couldn't bring myself to speak to him; my dignity forbade it. Besides, he made me uneasy. I couldn't find the words.
 
When the jerrican was full, I lifted it from the river, ready to make my way back home and prepare breakfast. But as I climbed the muddy path, I slipped and fell, my heart leaping out of my chest. It was the rainy season, and the river flowed forcefully. I had feared this would happen. Closing my eyes, I braced myself to be swept away by the powerful current, aptly named Father River.
 
As I reminisce, I recall what occurred next. 
 
When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the grass, my clothes miraculously dry. The grass was cool against my skin, and there he was, sitting beside me, a machete in hand and a blade of grass between his teeth. He appeared like a true warrior, his physique awe-inspiring. I couldn't help but gaze at him.
 
“Wait a minute, did he intend to harm you?” I inquire, caught off guard by the thought.
 
“What? The question takes me by surprise. Why would he want to harm me?”
 
“You mentioned he was holding a machete.”
 
“Ah, this is the village. Everyone carries a machete. I laugh, not having thought of it in that perspective. No, he had no such intention. I rose from the ground and bowed before him.
 
""Thank you for saving me,"" I said.
 
He looked at me, his eyes holding an indescribable allure. When I met his gaze, something stirred within me. I couldn't explain it, but I was undeniably drawn to him. Why did I have to fall for him?
 
What did he say then? I inquire.
 
Nothing. He simply looked at me and nodded. Then he turned his attention back to the river. I thought it was rather rude, I reflect.
 
“You mean he didn't utter a single word? Nothing? “
 
I avert my gaze momentarily, trying to imagine how he disappeared.
 
That's right. We remained silent, and then I started looking for my Jerrican. It was there, with the lid securely fastened and the string for carrying attached. As I reached to pick it up and prepare to head home, he sprang to his feet with lightning speed. Taking the jerrican, he gestured for me to turn around so he could place it on my back. I complied, and when I looked at him again, he was gone.
 
“Just like that?! How is that even possible? Or maybe you had just imagined you saw him? Right?”.
 
Exactly. His exit was swift and enigmatic.
 
“So, how did the two of you end up together?” I inquire eagerly.
 
In our village, families choose your marriage partner for you. I didn't see him for the next three seasons. When the time for my arranged marriage arrived during the short rainy season, I was brimming with excitement, ready to embark on the journey of building a family.
 
“Wait, an arranged marriage? So, you couldn't have a boyfriend or go on dates?” I ask, astonished.
 
No, that was not permitted. If you happened to fall in love with someone outside of your betrothal, you were required to inform your parents immediately. So, on my wedding day, a sunny Saturday filled with joy and the azure sky, the entire village buzzed with anticipation. Being the only educated girl in the village, everyone was eager to know who I would be betrothed to. We prepared diligently, and as was customary, the ceremony would span a few weeks. The groom and his family arrived at our home, greeted with songs and ululations. But when I saw his face, my heart sank. We were given an opportunity to become acquainted, left alone in a room. And there he was, the man from the river.
 
We sat there, gazing at each other, waiting for the other to speak. I longed for him to initiate a conversation, but I couldn't bring myself to address him. He signaled for me to share something about myself, and reluctantly, I obliged. My speech was brief, offering only the essential details and everything I believed he should know about me. He listened attentively, his silence profound. I revealed my penchant for walks and watching sunsets, and I confessed that I had a short temper and was sensitive to words, urging him to choose them wisely. I concluded by emphasizing the importance of understanding.
 
“And what about him? What did he say?” I inquire.
 
He stared at me, smiled, and then departed.
 
What an insolent man! How could he be so rude? Why couldn't he say anything? The questions flooded my mind.
 
The women came to inform me that our union had been approved and that he seemed particularly smitten with me.
 
That's an unexpected turn, I remark. The ceremony concluded later on. I recall seeing him conversing with others, but he wouldn't talk to me. That's all I could think about.
 
Later that evening, I approached my mother, seeking answers. ""Why doesn't Iniht talk?"" I asked. That was his name, Iniht. Apparently, everyone in the village knew him except for me.
 
My mother smiled and said, ""Don't concern yourself with it, Iren. Trust your mother. But more importantly, do you like him?""
 
I couldn't discern whether she sought an honest response or simply the answer she desired. ""I will marry him,"" I replied. She smiled and left.
 
I wondered why everything about him remained shrouded in mystery. Would this decision come back to haunt me? Did I genuinely want to spend the rest of my life with him?
 
“So, what happened next?” I ask, eager to know the continuation of her tale.
 
We got married, and throughout our marriage, he never spoke a word, yet I always understood him. He displayed kindness and love in his own unique way. He understood me.
 
Life seemed perfect, and I reveled in the happiness I thought was eternal. But then, after eight seasons, he finally spoke to me. The sound of my name on his lips sent shivers down my spine. The first words he uttered were my name.
 
It transpired on a bright day outside our home, basking in the warm sunshine and beneath the cerulean sky. He called out to me, and at first, I wondered if I had imagined it. He called again, gesturing for me to join him, as he had something to say. So, I did. Countless questions danced in my mind, but I couldn't find the words to ask them.
 
Sitting beside him, I waited for him to speak. He began, ""There are so many things I wish to say to you, starting from the first day I saw you at the river, but I couldn't. I had never seen a more beautiful creature in my life. Until I saw you by the river on that day. I couldn't help but stare at you. When you almost fell into the river, I felt like my heart would die. I kept hoping that you would wake up. And when you did, the heavens granted me a miracle. I knew that day, that you were the one for me.""
 
I interrupted him, cutting him short. ""I don't want to know,"" I said abruptly. ""I don't want to know why you couldn't speak to me. I'm just glad that now I can hear your voice.""
 
I don't know why those words escaped my lips. Perhaps they were what I was supposed to say. But deep within my heart, I knew they didn't reflect my true feelings. He smiled at that, and I sensed that he really did not want to share the reason. Rather, he felt obliged to. We embraced and fell back into silence, just as we always did. Eventually, I left him to tend to my daily chores. In the beginning, things felt strange, with the newfound voice, it was as if an entire season had passed in confusion. But soon, everything returned to normal, and we were blissfully happy. I don't believe there was anyone happier than me in the world. For several seasons, we nurtured our land, and our family grew. Before I knew it, we were the parents of five beautiful children. Life was splendid.
 
However, as time passed, things became challenging. I'm not sure when it began, but his words started to grate on my nerves. Remember how I mentioned my sensitivity to words? I take them personally, involuntarily. Every utterance he made infuriated me, striking a nerve. I could no longer tolerate his words. I found myself longing for one of us to return to silence.
 
“And what happened then?” I probe, eager to unravel the remainder of her story.
 
I'm not sure. That's where I find myself now. I simply want him to leave me alone. He's driving me mad, making me question why I married him.
 
Yet, I am a coward, unable to leave him. Doing so would mean accepting defeat, giving up on my marriage, and turning my back on my family. What kind of woman would I be remembered as if I were to do that?
 
“I don't have all the answers, my sister. I'm on my own journey of discovery as well,” I confess, offering a sympathetic smile.
 
She returns my smile, looking deep in thought. ""Well, life has its way of surprising us,"" she remarks.
 
As the bus comes to a stop, I disembark, feeling as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I can hardly believe that I just shared my entire life story with a stranger during a bus ride.
 
Life truly is full of surprises, I reflect, hoping that this newfound encounter in our beautiful country will offer me the answers I seek.
 
","July 18, 2023 19:27","[[{'Kathleen Fine': 'Beautiful writing Catherine!', 'time': '10:55 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': 'Catherine,\n\nWell, this is an interesting tale. The characters are so intriguing. The arranged village marriage. The husband who won\'t talk and a wife who\'s so sensitive to words, when he finally does, she wants her independence back. It was a lot to take in. And so mysterious.\n\nI had to go to google for one word, something I love to do here at Reedsy. I had never heard or read the word ""ululations."" Google said it was a loud howl that often expressed grief. \n\nI had a hard time reading though, because I couldn\'t understand the point of view. ...', 'time': '22:23 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Catherine Githui': 'Thank you Mike, I will definitely take that into consideration for my next story.', 'time': '12:16 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Catherine Githui': 'Thank you Mike, I will definitely take that into consideration for my next story.', 'time': '12:16 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",29ojwc,Unconditional Haight,Randall Caporale,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/29ojwc/,/short-story/29ojwc/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Urban Fantasy']",8 likes,"
Mom threw me out of the house this morning. 
 
Or did she? 
 
It wouldn’t be unique if she had and, technically, it is her turn as, last time, I beat her to the ‘off’ switch. In either case, this time, instead of the usual orgasmic ripples of triumphant liberation associated with being freed from The Monster that’s trying to kill me, I’m hating her. True, my hate for her is ongoing, but as the bright, perfect sun burns the chill off our Bay Area, this new day’s hate is a spectacularly blinding paparazzi assault of echoing screams and piercing flashes, a montage of highlights clipped from the full body of her work - of our work – multi-screened around what is perhaps her crowning achievement of just a few hours ago: Asleep in my bed, I’m shaken awake to find her face and arms somehow stretched across the entire airspace above me. Trumping every past surprise attack, this new one is most disorienting because I’ve never experienced this particular brand of insanity: quiet and other-worldly.
 
“If you get out now,” ghost-voice in monotone, “I’ll give you one hundred dollars, thirty Biphetamines and a ride to anywhere so long as I’m back by morning.”
 
Now, out here on this freeway on-ramp, I realize a few hundred thousand of the hydrogen micro-spheres blazing hostility toward The Monster are actually pointed at my own heart and'll never reach target Mama. Why?
 
Because I fucked up and said, “No.” 
 
See, somewhere during our live-long-day mission to immolate one another, I’ve shot myself in the balls, (de)evolved, by actually refusing drugs, money and a ride to the Haight just so long as I can be contrary. Just so long as I can make it as painfully clear as a 15-year old can that she no longer controls me. Just so long as I can punish her for teaching me to hate myself. 
 
An hour or so later, I’m knocking on her bedroom door, an attempt to recoup the lost cash n’ prizes.
 
“What do you want?” a barbiturate croak from deep below the earth’s crust.
 
“I changed my mind – I’ll take you up on your offer.”
 
But whatever phantom co-wrote her spooky/glam proposal has left the building:
 
“Close the door, asshole. It’s too late. Get out.”
 
So now, chain-smoking the Pall Mall straights I stole from my Godmother, Laverne, leaning against the familiar 101 NORTH – SAN FRANCISCO sign, the diatomic hate I feel for the both of us feeds my young muscles while it wipes my brain clean of the self-conscious fears of arrest for being the child - ripped jeans, suede cowboy boots and shoulder-slung sleeping bag notwithstanding – hitchhiking out onto the apricot and gold-tinted freeway thru suburban Santa Clara.
 
You can always get a ride in 1968. The tendrils of a million-foot tall Day-Glo Freak Magnet San Francisco’s effectively become are thick with hippie-types and we’re all going to Mecca. The Haight. I’ll be fine.
 
I keep burning the Pall Mall reds to show the world how bad-ass I am - a brushstroke on a work in progress, it’s message already clear: “Don’t fuck with me.” My walk, my clothes, my sleeping bag, my rings, turn me from abused slipper-boy into a defiant little man getting the fuck outta Dodge. Oh. Except the hair. The hair’s all wrong. My hair says, “You should be in school, young man”. Worse, it says, “I’m a pussy from the suburbs.”   
 
Across the overpass, the sign says, 101 SOUTH – LOS ANGELES. A magnetic force whispers, “Hollywood! Movies! My dope fiend dad!” But a hitchhike to L.A. is still too far and too scary. I remember it taking at least a day to drive to LA and besides, the hippies in LA are all phonies – the real hippies - my tribe - are in San Francisco, in the Haight-Ashbury. The real hippies will know I’m one of them, a fellow freak, and take care of me. I walk further down the ramp a ways, throw down my sleeping bag, plug in another smoke and stick out my thumb.
 
And now the old magic’s returning, the one I feel every time I escape The Monster. I am once more drafted into service, picked to star in the triumphant cinema finale entitled: ""I win!"" Maybe I can use this magic to force my hair down to my shoulders by the time I get to the City. 
 
“But oh that magic feeling – bum! bum! bum! bum! – nowhere to go.”
 
Still, fear undulates beneath the glory. Every driver that refuses to stop grinds off a layer of my Oh, Freedom Highway! euphoria, each of their puzzled squints whisper, “Something’s not right – shouldn’t he be in school?” Every flash of doubt and hint of wonder carves the core out of this derelict runaway child standing by the side of the freeway at sunrise.
 
But it all turns around like magic when the CPA in a Rambler makes the mistake of locking eyes with the real me and all it takes is this single blip-transmission of his confusion and fear to remind me of who I am:
 
I’m the one people are afraid of now. I’m the one scaring ‘the straights’. I’m the freak eroding your foundation, I’m a sexy mystery you can’t control. Your world is crumbling and I am the future. Your abuse will no longer be tolerated. We’re taking over and you just told me you know it.
 
I mature by years in moments. A cop rolls over the overpass, right past the ramp I stand on. Nothing. I am untouchable. Magic. On my way home, no where to go. 
 
I hear the honk first. I turn around. Further down the ramp’s shoulder, an old dirty-white delivery truck wheezes black smoke near a blinking right turn signal. I grab my sleeping bag and run to the passenger side. A burly hippie with live-wire hair and glasses beckons me to slide open the door. 
 
“Where you goin’?”
 
Music playing inside. Incense. Big dirty windshield. An Indian curtain half-separates the front seats from the dark rear of the truck. Newspapers. A roach clip. Maps. Coffee cups.  
 
“San Francisco”, I reply.
 
“Vamanos, brother.”
 
“Okay, good. Thanks.”
 
And it’s that easy. I’m in. I have my own co-pilot seat and a wide view of the freeway ahead. He asks me my name and I tell him the truth because we’re family. His name is Oscar. Oscar’s about 20. Or 30. Or 50. He’s not my age, I know that much. But Oscar’s cool. And Oscar knows I’m cool, too, because he stopped for me, let me in and already passed me a lit joint. Oscar’s listening to KMPX, the first underground FM station. I know because I play it when mom’s at work, and the rage ignites - She has to leave for work soon - the memory shoots a blinding-hot wire of revenge through my being. “FUCK YOU BITCH! Find some other live-in housekeeper babysitter cook punching bag to take care of Steve and Elizabeth.”
 
My body, my mind, are entirely encapsulated in a radiation field of a rage strong enough to float this old milk truck on a magic carpet of seething bright hatred all the way to Oz.
 
God, I love this feeling!
 
As the rush begins to wane, my sense of sound returns in time to catch Otis Redding sing, “Dock of the Bay” in his saddest voice. “…left my home in Georgia/Headed for the ‘Frisco Bay…” and I know I’m magic, because, right on cue, I see the first grizzled fingers of blue San Francisco bay waters. “I’m headed to ‘Frisco, too, Otis.” The rage-high, the refer and the freedom of escape snip the last wispy strands anchoring me to an irrelevant, dissolving hell. The universe conspires, joins my celebration by synchronizing a real-time Otis soundtrack as we, Oscar, black brother Redding and me escape the sadness and repression, connected souls sailing an open, enchanted sea.
 
Haight Street, 1968. Troops, armadas, throngs, congregations, ten thousand men and women, boys and girls moving as one amazed, righteous, entitled, stoned entity in water buffalo sandals and high-steppin’ dancehall girl boots, in painted vans, tour buses and gawk-eyed family station wagons, a symbiotic entity that moves up and over and down and thru the streets and sidewalks. Beautiful velvets and cowboy leathers, antique lace and princess slippers, Chinese silk and last-century military parade jackets, plumed hats, beaded headbands, bracelet and rings, ricochets of laughter woven thru chants of “Owsley” and “hash”. Rock guitar feedback and bending sitar notes ride giant nimbus clouds of incense pumped out of stores selling pictures of Hindu Gods with blue skin and cartoon lion mouths, brass hookahs, tickets to the Fillmore and the Avalon. Snake-charming barefoot hippie girls lob acid-injected oranges into the bejeweled kaleidoscope crowd from the edge of a flatbed truck The Grateful Dead perform upon. Hell’s Angels, drunk and sneering, provide the service of reminding us danger and evil still exist. A celebration of The Celebration, the mischief of embracing The Mischief as a chorus of penny-whistle shrieks begins eight, nine blocks east, moving up steep Divisidero hill, it grows louder until, a minute later, the hundreds packed tight around me blow on two-tone Cracker Jack toys, a misfit alarm system warning the dealers and runaways the SFPD is inching its way toward us and the old wall corralling Golden Gate Park. I duck into a stairwell over-seen by a woman with hair like an exploded blonde brain that she somehow balances a Yellow Cab hat upon. She wears tiny blue granny shades to protect her eyes against the lit green candle she cups for light, even though there’s still plenty of day left.
 
“Gotta cigarette?”, she whispers, exotic, from somewhere on the East Coast. I pull out the last two Pall Malls, light mine on her sacred flame.
 
My obsession with Hollywood and its precious merchandise has, over my abbreviated childhood, opened out from itself like flora. First, a seedling with a singular craving for the warm light of fame, it grew into a x40-scale flower I’ll push down the throat of every last motherfucker to let them know who I really am: the Chosen One who’s special enough to act out endless fantastic tales for millions of dollars, safe inside exotic costumes, storybook sets and far-away lands, and all the bright lights and eyes and hearts focused on me will create a ripple effect of world love beyond mortal limits.
 
Someday, baby, someday.
 
But Haight Street – in fact, the whole city of San Francisco - is here! Now! The true alternate universe of acceptance and safety I’ve always longed for, staring actors just like me who’ve chosen to embody characters with names like Swan and Pineapple and Chocolate George, our costumes ready for a zillion different cinema moments we weave together on pixie-dusted Victorian sets, in luxuriant emerald parks, over gritty sidewalks and behind deco behemoths, this enchanted foggy Olympus with views of the entire world espied from tottering peaks above the clouds, all bound together by the most advanced special effects ever conceived by man, God or movie studio: The Drugs. The mesmerizing, all-powerful, erotically congruent puffs, pills and powders. I am me. I am safe and I am loved and I am finally, finally home: San Francisco.
 
","July 14, 2023 17:10","[[{'Corey Joyce Henderson': 'You’ve got a really great talent for helping your reader get right into the setting! Keep it up!', 'time': '17:04 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Randall Caporale': 'Huge gratitude Corey!', 'time': '20:49 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Randall Caporale': 'Huge gratitude Corey!', 'time': '20:49 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",eqfrhr,Trust A Try ,Danaé Morriah,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/eqfrhr/,/short-story/eqfrhr/,Character,0,"['African American', 'Mystery', 'Crime']",8 likes,"
I chose a Vinyl from the pile and turned toward the curious shop owner. He nodded in my direction, approving of my ability to appreciate a classic. An eyebrow raised with his nod, signifying not many women my age would’ve picked it, but something about me didn’t lead him to ask further questions. Something likely related to his planted stance behind the counter, tapping his pen to The Miseducation of Lauren Hill, flipping through a catalog that predates the music it accompanies. He was just as Mother described. Tall, relaxed, and obnoxiously opinionated in the realm of music. I was told so much about him that I knew exactly who he was, the first time I stepped foot in his store. Yet once a month, I entered his shop, and not a speck of recognition ever crossed his face.“You know…I think it’s what they would want.” I could feel a tall stature behind me and prepared to ignore his attempt, but I couldn’t think past the cologne that was all too familiar to my nostrils.“And who are…they?” I spun slowly in his direction, keeping the vinyl close to my chest for protection.He nodded toward my selection buried beneath my grasp while waving his own for curious eyes to see. It was instinctual to roll my eyes to the back of my head and turn down his weak attempt, despite the curiosity his aroma brought. He caught on, smiling from the side of his mouth, able to admit that his reference to a failed nineties couple was bad taste to begin a conversation.“Ok…that was corny, I get it.” He followed me down the aisle. “However, if three records are bought, there’s two free tickets to open mic night. And I don’t know about you, but…an open mic on a Friday night? A highlight.” I could tell he was used to getting his way. His tall stature, charm, and contagious smile led to rejection occurring few and far between, yet he missed the obvious during this interaction.“We only have two.” I continued to flip through a familiar genre.“I’ll let you pick the third one. You obviously have good taste. Maybe we can share custody of it or something.” I could see his smile out of the corner of my eye but refused to let him know.“So, I get a free vinyl, and you get two tickets to an open mic? Doesn’t sound fair.” I picked a Janet from the pile, combing its condition.“Your right…. You should get to go to the show too. It’s a date.” He gestured to my selections, and I paused, allowing him to stir in the possibility that his plan would crumble. However, just as a drop of sweat released from his temple, I obliged, setting my choices atop his.I followed him slowly, begging for a record to pop up at me. An interest so profound that I have to have it, have to disrupt the situation I was following into. Yet nothing caught my eye. I either had what I needed, or the selection was purposefully hiding in the stacks. The conundrum of being a collector. It wasn’t about when you wanted it but when you needed it most. And as I combed by Prince and Michael, Mary and Mariah, or Wayne and Cole, I knew they were choices for another day, another visit. Maybe a visit when the man placing our records in separate bags would know exactly who I was.“Eight?” My benefactor delivered my bag to my wrist and a ticket to my palm. “Nathan. But everyone north of Jersey calls me Nate.” He outstretched his hand, and I looked at it for a few seconds, releasing a smile to match his and answering his request.“I’ll meet you there, Nate.” I accepted my bag and brushed past him to the door, only releasing it as it pushed open, his number scribbled across the back of the receipt. I turned to him, ignoring the bell ringing overhead. I thought about it but said nothing as he conversed with the man behind the counter. They were close, and I hoped I could ignore the bad taste swelling in my mouth at the sight of them together.																***I was prepping by 6:45 but didn’t think that was something he should know. I followed all the rules, ignoring every instinct to save his number, raise my hopes, or send anything that would construe that this night had been on my mind in the days following our interaction. I had paced my hallways, changed my shoes four times, and listened to each gifted vinyl during the process.When the clock struck seven, I prepared. I called Jerome, the surviving member of protecting my best interest, and he had his doubts as usual. I could hear in his voice that his concern exceeded the state of the world and its unknown variables, but jealousy ran through his tone. He hadn’t said anything. Predictable for his type. He hoped I would. That one day, I’d blurt out that my love for him exceeded my need to keep searching, but we both knew that wouldn’t happen. I had been waiting for his confession since adolescence, just as he waited for a sign of acceptance.So, I listened to his portrayal of concern. As I strapped my shoes up my calf, I adjusted the causal shorts and the top deemed appropriate by his need to video chat. I could feel him watching as I guided the night’s shade across my lips, and I could tell he was holding back. I paused before grabbing the tissue, begging him to stop me, but he didn’t. I blotted the access and dismissed the phone call, sending a text about future plans we’d make.He knew better than I that this search was necessary. One doesn’t just fall into the arms of their soulmate and just know. A few frogs are required, and though it hurt, we knew the end goal. He texted back a confirmation, and I gazed at the clock realizing thirty minutes had passed, and my fifth pair of shoes and second wardrobe change would have to do. I grabbed my bag, taking a brief glimpse at my apartment. I paused the Janet that graciously supported my montage and released a breath, hoping I would return and continue in.																	***I’ll admit, knowing I was twenty minutes from the club gave me comfort. I could run in these shoes and possibly make it home with only minor attacks to my heart along the way. I knew the most complicated part would be sitting through the acts taking advantage of the word “open,” and finding conversation of an exciting expression between intermissions.However, it wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be. The level of cringe was minimal, and I could tell by Nathan’s consistent gaze across the table he had an inkling of how the night would go.“You never told me your name.” He joked as he sipped his drink.“You never asked.” I watched the next act, ready her guitar over her shoulder.“I’m asking now.” His glass tapped the table as she adjusted the stool.“Nola.” I crossed my legs as a heavy breath escaped her mouth. She strummed a chord in preparation before locking eyes with a familiar face somewhere in the crowd. Evident by her smile of confidence as she began to sing an original song, I could tell she had similar taste as I did.“That’s a fitting name. I was hoping it wasn’t something ugly. That would be a disgrace.” He whispered over her voice, ignoring her demands of respect for a gentle melody.“And Nate? What does that say.” I whispered but kept focused ahead as her shoulders straightened and confidence grew.“That I’m my father’s son. I just choose to ignore the Junior.” He laughed while taking another sip before abruptly setting down his glass to clap for the exiting artist. “In true narcissistic fashion, all his sons have the same initials. All boys too. Lucky, I couldn’t picture a Nathaniela or something.” He chuckled, but I didn’t join in. “Oh!” He pointed to the guy moving the stool out of the way. “He just started working with me. He has this cool name….Terrill…Tem…something along those lines. Anyway, I saw him scribbling in a notebook and told him he had to come to this.” He sat forward for the first time. Thoroughly interested in the poetry flowing from the man’s lips. It was the first time I saw a level of curiosity, aside from obtaining this date. An intrigued mind would’ve wondered how he couldn’t see through a man he’d just met, whose name he couldn’t remember.“He’s good,” I whispered.“Yeah. His style reminds me of my dad’s.” He lifted his glass again. “He may have been a crap father, but man, could his lyrics make you feel something.” He smiled, a memory obviously on the surface, as he readied the straw in his mouth. “I really only came to see him.” He gestured to the stage. “We can go now if you want.”I took him up on his offer, finishing the water I pretended was vodka that even included a requested slice of fruit on the side of my glass. While I finished, he shook hands with familiar faces leaning against the bar. I opted to pay half of the bill. An insight I saw coming as he arrived beforehand, beer already in hand and a tab maintaining the card given. It gave me the chance to pass on further introductions of comrades that’d likely refer to me as a flavor or an objectifying nickname once the evening concluded.“I’m not trying to be creepy.” He walked close as we headed into the night air, revealing a frequent behavior adapted from his father as he constantly licked his lips before beginning a conversation. “I live like a block from here and listened to I love you, Baby.” He waited for clarification that I knew the song belonging the record he purchased for the tickets. I nodded, hoping his point would find the surface. “It made me think of you.” He fiddled with the watch on his wrist. “You wanna take a listen?” He gestured in the direction of his address.I smiled. It wasn’t a date for the history books, but I remembered how it felt to see Nathan in the store. His confidence was transitioning to anxiety; I took it as a compliment. He didn’t want to blow his chance, and I appreciated that. So, I gripped my purse until I felt my protection choices beneath my phone and keys and obliged, walking beside him.We reached the door, and as he typed in the passcode, I pretended to look away, presumably engulfed in my surroundings, detailing where exits lie.Just as the door clicked open and the alarm rang, I could hear a motorcycle roaring. A bike I rested many carefree adolescent nights on the back of. I took a brief moment while he checked his mailbox, remembering the wind in my hair as the current vehicle lapped somewhere in the distance.“Sorry, I’m on the third floor.” He smiled, gesturing to my shoes. I fanned away his concern, remembering my preparation to run in the opposite direction a few hours prior.I followed him up, one step at a time, and he impressively looked back to find me on his heels, not a stop in my stride.“Trooper.” He joked as we reached his floor, and he turned the corner.“I wouldn’t wear shoes I couldn’t climb in.” I smiled, and I could tell by the way he smirked, how he took my response.He stopped abruptly, reaching his hand back in protection, and I grabbed it, attempting to look over his shoulder.“What’s wrong?” I held on to him, waiting for him to answer.He pushed the door open slowly, and a breath of relief escaped his lips. He walked in further, looking up at the wet ceiling and the tarp placed across his floor.“Must’ve been the super. He lets himself in to fix things.” Obviously, he was annoyed, but he peaked down his hallway for confirmation. He jokingly returned, standing carefree on the noisy tarp. “Come in. The coast is clear. He should be done till the morning.” He sat his keys on the counter and patted his pockets for his phone. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. Instead, I took a step inside, closing the door behind me. “You see what I did with my phone?” He turned to see if there was any place he could’ve set it down in the moments we’d been inside.It took him a few seconds to realize I hadn’t answered. And when he came toward me, standing in the middle of the tarp, I acted. I pulled the knife left on the counter from its position. I thought a pause would come but before I could think, my arm was through the air, and the blade across his throat. I stood still as he dropped to his knees, watching as the blood sprayed down resembling the notes of rain against an awning. I remained still, the knife peeking out of my grasp.I stood back, thankful for my shoe choice allowing me to reach him without having to be in spray distance. I stood out of Nathan’s grasp. I had the instinct to push him, but there was no need. He lost balance, his body splaying out on the tarp as I answered the gentle triple knock at the door. As time returned to me, I pulled the door open behind me, and I walked carefully toward Nathan’s body. I squatted down, taking a good look at him, finding relief in the fading color of his eyes.And as I held the blade in hand that once crossed his throat, I stood to the side while Jerome rolled Nate in the tarp, leaving me alone to think about what I’d done. How many times I’d done it. I took Nathan’s phone from my pocket and the bag laid by the door, prepacked with his collection of vinyl, and I froze as his phone vibrated. I gazed at the picture of Nathan and his father saved on his lock screen. A single tear fell down my face as I hoped I wouldn’t have to do it again. I expected the man behind the counter with the projectable lyrics and sons with the same initial to get the gist. With three of his children now missing, I hoped he’d recognize the one he left behindFor more stories: https://authordanaemorriah.wixsite.com/dmorriah/short-stories-1
","July 19, 2023 02:05",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",5lrs3a,The Perfect Wife,Victoria Blair,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5lrs3a/,/short-story/5lrs3a/,Character,0,"['Suspense', 'Creative Nonfiction']",8 likes,"
Content warning: KnivesThe clock chimes loudly, snapping me out of my self-induced trance. 4 chimes, meaning guests will be arriving in 30 minutes. I spend most of my days drifting in a comfortable haze of mundanity, my biggest concern that night’s dinner menu, but the clock seems to be clanging extra loudly this afternoon, making my ears ring and my whole head buzz. I give myself a few seconds to shake my head and arrange a serene smile before William walks in, lest I give him any indication something is wrong. I’ve heard him wandering around since he came home from the office, but I have had too much on my plate to greet him immediately. This dinner party takes precedence over all other tasks today, even delivering my husband’s after work martini with a kiss. Of course, the party is for him, and if successful, will afford him the largest account he has ever had. Sure enough, cigarette in hand, in saunters William, carrying the paper. I don’t look up at his lack of greeting, he hardly says 2 words to me when we are alone. He prefers to keep his social battery fully charged and ready for use on the “grown up talk” as he calls it. Its no matter to me, as I have plenty of my own concerns to attend to during the day. The house doesn’t clean itself, and frankly, the less he and I converse, the less likely he is to notice anything is amiss.I lean down to carefully add the the last sugared cherry to the tart I have spent the better part of today on. It flies out of my perfectly manicured fingers, and rolls somewhere on the floor, leaving a dusting of sugar in its wake. I start to frown, and I can feel the muscles in my neck begin to tighten. I quickly sweep up the mess, being sure to get every last crumb of sugar that touches my floor. Despite my efforts, I can’t locate the cherry that flew out, so its quickly replaced with another. Tart completed, I feel the serene practiced smile make its way back onto my face. Carefully, I lower the tart into my fastidiously maintained ice box, being cautious not to bump any of the decor. As I set it down, one of the sugared cherries rolls off the side and plops onto the floor of the ice box. My smile slips, my heart rate starting to quicken. Cherry juice AND sugar in the bottom of my ice chest? I frantically clean the mess, taking the extra time to remove all evidence of cherry red from the pristine white bottom. As soon as the mess is handled, I find myself smiling again, but the annoying tension from my neck still won’t leave.Frowning, I begin to busy myself with the floral arrangements for the hundredth time. I’m sure once our guests arrive and shower me and my household in compliments, I will feel much better. Structure and routine are the keys to maintaining my sanity now, and the little disturbances from today are disrupting my usually calm train of thought. My sense of individuality has long been drained, my sole purpose now is to provide a well maintained home for my family and find whatever happiness I can while doing so. A round of compliments from William’s business associates sounds like just the ticket to cure my foul mood. Well maintained is an understatement for this house, as most of my mental energy is devoted to keeping the place in perfect condition. Every crumb is swept, every dish is polished, every bed is made with military precision. Cleaning is an incredibly mundane task, and during my first few weeks of our marriage I couldn’t tune my thoughts out enough to enjoy it. After several years of effort, I have relaxed into a sort of meditative peace that I now associate with cleaning. I hardly have to try anymore to beat my thoughts into submission, now I easily allow my mind to be wiped to be as clear as the glasses I spend so many hours polishing, drifting in blankness until its time for dinner. The doorbell sounds, and I snap to attention, breezing into the foyer with practiced grace, my sensible heels clicking softly on the polished tile. “2 inches is a joke” I snort to myself, as I used to regularly stomp around in sky high stilettos. William prefers a substantial height difference and that’s all that matters now, but I’ll always miss the feeling I get from putting on a killer heel. I freeze in my tracks… its been years since I’ve thought of before, especially so casually. The intrusive thoughts, which brought with them explicit details of my former life, have all but disappeared, and I happily exist in blankness every day. I give myself two sharp slaps to the face, coloring my cheeks and clearing my head. I swing open the door and greet our guests warmly, shaking the hand of the men and hugging the women. I have the greeting down to a science, so coats are stowed and gifts are accepted with flawless grace. By the time William enters the foyer, the men are primed and ready for whiskey and “grown up talk” just as he requires, nobody the wiser to my internal distress. With another warm smile, I gently herd the women into the parlor while the men follow William to the formal sitting room. In attempts to be a good hostess, earlier today I had checked to be sure the sitting room was well stocked with an ice bucket, glasses, cigars, matches and Glenlivet 18. The men will be entertained for some time which allows me to socialize with the wives. I run over the dinner menu in my head, paying little to no attention to the meaningless chatter that assaults my ears. Again, I feel my smile start to slip slightly as I imagine the next 4 hours of conversation I’ll surely be subject to with these women. By far, the most upsetting part of this charade has been convincing the wives that I do indeed care about Paul’s new wife Lisa and her ever shortening hemlines, or about the neighbors petunias that refuse to bloom. William typically doesn’t require a lot of feedback, and my mind is free to wander to new recipes or something useful when we converse. With the women, I am not so fortunate. Thankfully, the wives of William’s business partners are exceedingly dull, and don’t seem to notice my distracted demeanor. Gathering my smile, I politely begin to participate in the current conversation, agreeing with Mary that the last little blue number we saw on Lisa at church was the most scandalous of all. The women, as expected, start to snicker at my commentary, and the party continues despite my ever worsening disposition. As I clear William’s last dessert plate, I survey the remaining damage at the table. Plates are all cleared, glasses are full, and the hum of conversation remains steady, even after several bottles of fantastic red wine. All signs point to a successful party and a signed deal for William, so I’ve at least managed to do my job there. The tart was a huge success and praise was lavished upon me, just as I expected. What is unexpected is the lingering unease in my gut, the compliments and alcohol are doing nothing to soothe me. This is dangerous territory, and I am desperate for our company to leave so I can absorb myself in clean up duty. A good solid kitchen scrub is exactly what I need to feel normal again. Plate in hand, I swing open the door to the kitchen, when my heel connects with something small and slippery. The plate goes flying out of my hand and smashes against the counter, and I land hard on my ass on the unforgiving tile floor. Instantly,I feel the pain shoot up my spine. Groaning, I rise and limp over to the sink to brace myself as I breathe deeply and wait for the pain to recede from sharp and throbbing to a dull ache. I won’t be able to get any cleaning done in this state. Even in my injured state, its not lost on me that William hasn’t come to check on me, even though he undoubtedly heard the commotion. Inhaling, I start to feel the pain change and shift, but it's not lessening, it is swelling into something else, something I haven’t felt in a long time. Looking up into the darkened window above the sink, I can feel the sea of burning rage that has been bubbling under the surface start to roil and splash. He couldn’t even get off his ass to make sure I didn’t break anything, plate or otherwise? The pain fades completely as I allow myself to be swallowed by a wave of pure rage. After all this effort, all this time changing my appearance, my voice, my identity, shrinking myself down to appease this pathetic little man, and he won’t even rise from his chair to see if I’m injured? Just a minute ago, I was drifting in a sea of grey peacefulness, and now I am drowning in an ocean of fire. It just as well could be yesterday that I arrived here, all the practiced control I’ve spent years developing is gone in an instant, burned to ash in my anger.  Shaking uncontrollably I begin to notice a plethora of other new and unwelcome sensations. My back aches, my neck is tight, my feet swollen from these hideous shoes. It feels like I was under the influence of pain medication that has completely warn off. Kicking the shoes off, I select a carving knife from the sink and re enter the dining room. “What the FUCK William? Didn’t you hear me?!” I demand shrilly, the pitch of my voice reaching the edge of human capable hearing. The conversation comes to an abrupt halt, and now the only remaining sounds are my labored breathing and the scrape of William’s chair as I force it back from the table. I can feel six sets of eyes watching, our guests too shocked at my outburst to say anything quite yet. Williams face is splotched and purple, but he too is stunned into temporary silence.Taking advantage of his hesitation, I stab the carving knife into the arm of his chair. “You heard me that time didn’t you? I asked you a question asshole!!” I shriek, widening my eyes for dramatic effect. I spent the better part of my life getting information out of men much tougher than my husband, so this shouldn’t take too long. 2 more minutes in this awful house and then I’m free forever. Screw witness protection, I’ll hide myself this time and they will still never find me. My sputtering husband appears to be slowly regaining the ability to form sentences, the “asshole” comment seems to have done the trick. I dig the knife out of the arm chair and brace myself for his response “Darling, I beg your pardon but we have company!! Please excuse yourself at once before you further embararGHHHHH” he gargles and cuts off. I got impatient with his calculated response and shoved my knife into his left thigh to motivate him to react a little more sincerely.“Come on darling” I drawl sweetly, twisting the knife slowly as I speak “The act is over now you can speak freely in front of our guests, what do you have to say about my behavior this evening? Don’t be shy”. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mary’s husband begin to rise from the table, his hand reaching for one of the solid crystal candlesticks in the middle of the table. In one breath, I wrench the knife out of my pathetic husbands leg and flick it forcefully towards the candlestick. Kevin’s scream of agony is confirmation that my aim has not suffered as much as I thought it would. “Come now Kevin man up” I sing, as he sobs and cradles the stump where his right hand used to be “Plus, those candlesticks were just polished! I would hate for you to have gotten fingerprints on them. No fingers, no risk of that now is there?” I grin devilishly, this smile feeling much more at home on my face than the peaceful grimace from a few hours ago. Whirling back to my sniveling husband, I fling my hand out and backhand him as hard I can muster. “ANSWER ME” I scream in his face, drawing his attention away from his friend “I’m sorry I’m sorry I was distracted” he wails, wiping snot from his leaking nose across his sleeve. “We- we were talking about the Monroe deal and I assumed you had just dropped a dish!! Please forgive me my loveee” he draws the last syllable out into a whine and breaks into fresh sobs. Truly revolting. I shove away from his chair, pacing to the opposite side of the table to pick up my knife. The guests, other than Kevin and his moaning, are all still terrified into silence, watching every move I make with panicked glances between themselves, as if I may strike one of them next. Mary in particular is staring at me in horror, eyes unblinking. Caressing the blade lovingly, I stroll back over to the whimpering pile of dog shit that is my husband, keeping Mary’s gaze fixed on me all the while. “What do you think Mary, should I forgive him? It was just a little spill after all” I say, smiling as sweetly as I can muster to try to calm her nerves. The smile has the opposite effect, now that I have let the crazy unleash itself from my mental prison. I can still feel the flames of anger licking at my consciousness and I know she can see them reflected in my eyes based on the way she stares. “Y-y-yes. I th-th-ink you should. It was j-j-just a spill after all” Mary replies, voice cracking every other word . Grinning even more widely, I nod at her, as if she answered the question correctly. I wait, unmoving until I see her body visibly relax from my reassurance. The second she slumps into her chair, relieved, I flick my hand out once more and sink the knife into my husbands chest. Mary screams as I maintain eye contact with her, all while I drive the knife in as deep as possible, until I feel it exit clean through the chair on the other side. My smile melts into a growl, and Mary’s screams choke off. “You know what Mar? You’re probably right, but there’s no fun in that. Now take your crippled husband and your insipid friends and get the fuck out of my sight” The dining room is once again filled with noise as Mary and company scramble over themselves and each other to heed my instructions. One of her friends trips on her hemline in the rush, and crawls out on her hands and knees in her eagerness to put distance between us. Soon enough, the dining room is silent, save for the quiet dripping sound of William’s remaining blood volume exiting his body. I grin widely, grabbing the half finished bottle of red in front of me and taking Mary’s recently vacated seat so I can get a good view of my dear husband’s final breath. I kick my feet up on the table, swigging wine directly from the bottle. The ocean of fire in my head feels so familiar, and the blood on my hands feels so much like home, I’ll clean the kitchen later. 
","July 19, 2023 02:22",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",3g7gly,Unleashing the Real Her: Awakening to Her True Identity,Carolina Lorenzo López,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3g7gly/,/short-story/3g7gly/,Character,0,"['Inspirational', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Drama']",8 likes,"
In the depths of despair, there often lies a glimmer of hope, waiting to be discovered. This was the extraordinary journey of Amelia, a young woman whose life took a tumultuous turn during the first weeks of the pandemic. As an average migrant, Amelia tirelessly worked long hours, her exhaustion mounting, while lacking a safety net to catch her if she stumbled.Amelia's strength and resilience were about to face the ultimate test. Before the challenges she faced, she had been an outstanding student, consistently earning straight A's. Education held immense importance for her, and she took great care in guiding and supporting both the older and younger generations of her family. Amelia's nurturing spirit extended beyond her familial bonds. During her primary school years, she was known for organizing sleepovers, creating cherished memories for her friends in a warm and welcoming atmosphere.Growing up with two older brothers was a privilege Amelia truly cherished. She admired their achievements, despite the setbacks they faced, especially during their teenage years and later on when both went through divorce after having been living abroad for several years. Witnessing their success, combined with the way in which both embraced their roles as devoted parents and husbands, inspired Amelia deeply. However, she couldn’t help but be amazed by how her brothers triumphed over adversity, by building fulfilling lives for themselves and their families despite the upheaval their inner worlds experienced due to divorce.But Amelia’s life was not entirely like her brothers’. For the last fourteen years, she had played the role of a seemingly put-together young woman. Excelling in academia and her career, Amelia impressed her colleagues with her professional demeanor. She expertly navigated social circles, always appearing composed. But behind closed doors, she yearned for something more. The weight of the facade grew heavier with each passing day, suffocating her true essence.Amelia's journey to shedding the persona began with a single moment of realization. It happened on a serene evening as she stood alone by a shimmering lake, gazing at her reflection. The mask she wore felt suffocating, and she longed to embrace her true self. After returning from her night walk, Amelia attended a work event where she crossed paths with a charming man. A connection ignited instantly, propelling their relationship forward at a rapid pace. However, their journey together was not without challenges: in 2020, Amelia faced her first severe post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) episode. Her roommate and boyfriend heartlessly abandoned her at a public hospital. Her brother, living in California, swiftly flew to Miami, becoming her unwavering support. Chaos enveloped Amelia's life and her belongings were packed into trash bags, shuffled to a friend's apartment.The prescribed medication for Amelia's trauma took a heavy toll on her mind, erasing significant memories and leaving her hospitalized multiple times. As the world around her seemed increasingly bleak, she clung to a desperate yearning for even the slightest glimmer of hope.Fate guided Amelia's path to Spain in search of new medical treatments, where her retired parents had settled after losing most of their life's work in Venezuela. This unfamiliar land presented both challenges and opportunities. Struggling with the aftermath of her trauma, Amelia found herself without peers her age to lean on for support, and she had to navigate the intricacies of an entirely different culture.In this foreign environment, Amelia confronted a host of triggers and harmful substances that threatened to derail her already fragile state of mind. The journey was as daunting as it was isolating, but she refused to be defeated. Amelia knew that, buried within the depths of her struggles, there was a resilience that could carry her through even the darkest times.Amidst the unfamiliarity and the uphill battle for recovery, Amelia discovered the strength to persist. The love and presence of her parents became a pillar of support, reminding her that she was not alone in her fight. Their unwavering care and understanding provided a lifeline to cling to as she navigated the complexities of her new reality.Though the road to healing was arduous, Amelia's determination to reclaim her life began to blossom. She sought out alternative treatments, counseling, and support groups to bolster her journey to recovery. In her pursuit of hope, she unearthed a deep well of courage that kept her moving forward, step by step.The new environment in Spain may have lacked the familiar faces of her peers, but it also offered her a fresh start and the opportunity to rebuild herself on her own terms. The solitude gave her space for introspection, and she began to appreciate the strength and resilience she had always carried within herself.Throughout her stay in Spain, Amelia faced moments of doubt and vulnerability, but she persevered, buoyed by her unyielding determination to conquer her past and forge a brighter future. The journey to healing was a rollercoaster of emotions, but Amelia learned to embrace the ups and downs as part of her transformative experience.In this foreign land, Amelia discovered that hope could be found not only in the pursuit of medical treatments but also within the depths of her own spirit. She realized that resilience could flourish even in the face of adversity, and the scars she carried were a testament to her courage and survival.As Amelia continued to navigate her way through the unfamiliar territory of recovery, she began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The journey was far from over, but the glimmers of hope that once seemed so distant began to grow brighter with each passing day. With unwavering determination, she knew she was on the path to reclaiming her life and rediscovering her authentic self.Amelia's transformation was nothing short of extraordinary. She radiated a genuine aura that captivated those around her. People were drawn to her authenticity and vulnerability, finding solace in her willingness to be open and true. With her newfound sense of self, Amelia realized the immense power of living authentically.Confidence and recognition followed. Online communities provided solace and guidance, connecting her with kindred spirits who had faced similar hardships. They became a lifeline, offering empathyFinding Connection Through WritingAs Amelia contemplates her journey, she grapples with profound questions. How can she shed the weight of the woman she once was before the trauma of her assault? How can she navigate life with the scars etched deeply within her? And how can she effectively manage the overwhelming burden of survivor's guilt? Exhaustion weighs heavily upon her, leaving her yearning for answers. In her search for solace, Amelia finds refuge in reading and writing, the outlets where she can express her raw emotions, thoughts, and deepest feelings.Her journey became a catalyst for change within her community, igniting a movement of self-acceptance and genuine connection. In the end, Amelia's story taught everyone that true liberation lies in the courage to be oneself. As she embraced her authentic self, she discovered a life of fulfillment, genuine relationships, and a profound sense of belonging. And from that day forward, Amelia vowed to live each day with unwavering authenticity, a reminder to all that shedding the masks we wear can lead us to our truest and most extraordinary selves.In the shared vulnerability of her words, Amelia seeks connection, hoping to find understanding and support from others who have walked a similar path. As her story resonates with those who read it, she wonders if anyone else has experienced or is currently facing a similar struggle.Have you ever felt the weight of wearing a mask, hiding your true self from the world? How did you find the courage to embrace your authenticity and drop the facade?
","July 19, 2023 16:26","[[{'3i Writer': ""A simple story about a woman having a promising future but lost everything due to PTSD and had to go to Spain to overcome her difficulties. But I do hope the story would be more specific though, like what caused her to suffer from PTSD in the first place and what's the difference between her true self and her facade."", 'time': '08:11 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",21bd2r,The Masks Must Go,William Flores,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/21bd2r/,/short-story/21bd2r/,Character,0,"['Crime', 'Drama', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
William Flores, LMSW							About 2,400 Words 
140 Darrow Place, 17E
Bronx, NY 10475
347-605-5027
wflores1952@gmail.com
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: This story contains topics concerning mental health and substance abuse which might have triggering effects on some readers.
 
 
				`	The Masks Must Go
 
					By William Flores
 
	“Good morning Mr Diaz. Members of the board of directors, and some of our investors, are gathered in the conference room. They’re eager to congratulate you on your latest success, winning the National Therapist of the Year Award.”
	“Thank you Sonia. I couldn’t have done it without you. Your the best assistant in the business. Let everyone know I’ll be there momentarily. I want to freshen up a bit.”
	“Okay, any thing else?”
	“No, thank you.”
	Frank Diaz, “President of Psychotherapy Now” locked his office door behind him, and went straight to his desk to retrieve the cocaine hidden inside. He trembled while setting up three fat lines to inhale. He knew his assistant would be summoning him soon, so he had to quickly consume as much as possible to stop his physical tremors. He inhaled three more lines, cleaned his nose in the mirror, and felt his anxiety waning as he headed towards the conference room. 
	“Thank you everyone for coming here today to share in our success. It’s an honor for me to receive this professional recognition, but moreover, it shows what we can accomplish together. This award belongs to all of us since I could not have succeeded without you. Words cannot express my gratitude for all your support and encouragement over the years.” 
	He sees Sonia waving to him out of the corner of his eye. 
	“Unfortunately, I must leave you now since my next patient has arrived. Again, thank you, and remember, we are the psychotherapy outfit that wins.” 
	Everyone applauded heartily.
	Back in the privacy of his office, a sense of guilt steadily rose within him. Diaz knew he had to get control over his addiction before it came to the attention of those around him, and he’d loose everything. However, in complete denial, he foolishly would tell himself, no one was the wiser, that his success proved it so.
	“Sonia, please schedule this patient’s next appointment for two weeks from today, and bill him for the next four sessions. I have to meet my wife Connie for lunch. I’ll be back after three this afternoon.”
	“Sure, may I talk with you before you leave?”
	“Of course, come to my office.”
	“Mr Diaz, I know its none of my business, but I have to inform you. Two of our investors asked if you were okay, and mentioned how hyper you’ve been lately. Are you okay?”
	“I’m fine Sonia.Thanks for your concern, I’m a bit tired, but there’s no need for worry. I’m good.”
	“Well, if you say so Sir. You know you can talk with me about anything, right?”
	“Sure Sonia, I know. Thanks again.”
						#
	Diaz’ anxiety rocketed over lunch, obsessing on what his investors knew concerning cocaine addiction, and about their inquiries into his earlier behavior. Though he wanted his time with his wife to be pleasant, Diaz had to finish up quickly so he could meet with his drug connection in the Bronx. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t go on much longer using drugs, nor could he go on without using them. He shuttered to think, how long would it be before he’s exposed. 
	“Are you enjoying your lunch Dear?”
 	“Yes Frankie, very much. Thanks for the date. We need to spend more time together like this, don’t you agree Honey?”
	“Yes we do Dear. Maybe tonight we can do something. You know how busy I’ve been with work. This was very nice, and the food is great. Unfortunately, an unexpected appointment came up that I must make. I’ll have to catch up with you later Dear.”
	“But you’ve hardly eaten your meal.”
	“Its okay, I’m not hungry. I need to leave. Let me walk you to your car.”
	Diaz saw the disappointment on Connie’s face. He told himself she’d get over it, that she’d understand, because his business concerns were important for the both of them. He promised he’d be home early, and take her out for dinner. As he watched her drive off, he could feel his stomach bubbling. He knew what time it was. He consumed the last of his cocaine while sitting in his vehicle. The gram he’d stashed in his office was gone now, and he needed to get uptown to score.
	Bruckner Boulevard was a mess, traffic jammed from end to end, backed up for a two hour wait. Diaz couldn’t believe how long it took him to make the twenty minute trip. His last hit was beginning to wear off, and his nose started bleeding droplets onto his suit jacket. He cleaned up before entering the trap house.
						#
	“What’s up man, how you been Diaz, everything alright?”
	“Yea, I’m good Duppy. You straight? I need five ounces of that raw product you sold me last time I was here. You know, that Bolivian Flake.”
	“When have you known me to be out of product son? Tell me.”
	“Never, you’re always holding.”
	“Let me bag up your order. I’ll be right back.”
	Diaz hung out in the cop spot with Duppy for the next fifteen hours. He forgot about the prior commitments he made to his wife, and assistant. All he could focus on was getting high. He consumed one of the grams he bought initially, and purchased another half of an ounce before leaving Duppy, early the next morning. Diaz reached home around 6:00am, by this time he’d lost all control over his compulsive facial twitches and teeth grinding, when he entered his house. Lucky for him Connie was still asleep. He undressed, and crawled into bed without waking her.
						 #  
	Later that evening, Diaz and his wife shared their excitement over his appearing on a television talk show to discuss his work and latest award. They were scheduled to arrive at the studio in four hours, at 8:00pm. This gave Diaz enough time to sober up. After Connie laid out the outfit he’d wear to the show, they ate dinner, drank wine, and sat around talking.
	“So how did your business go last night? I didn’t hear you when you came in.”
	“It went well. The usual, going over contracts and laying out future plans for the business. We talked about how we should start looking to open up another clinic out of state.”
	“Oh that sounds terrific Honey. What’s the target date?”
 	“Its all in the planning stages at the moment. I’ll let you know what happens. It looks good though. Its going to happen for sure. There’s just some minor steps that have to be gone over before we can move to open up another facility. Howard from the board has already gotten a three million dollar commitment for startup, and the bank is in for another million dollars.”
	“That’s so great Frankie. I’m so proud of you Honey. Let’s toast to our success, and the new venture.
	“Bottoms up dear, we’re almost there.”
	Frank Diaz was at the pinnacle of his success. He worked long and hard to reach the professional and financial outcomes he’d won. He felt as though no one could touch him now. Diaz knew his appearance on the televised show this evening would place him on an even higher professional level. The sky was the limit for this forty year old executive, and his wife.
	“Let me go over some notes in the study for this evening’s show Dear. I’ll be out in about an hour or so.”
	“No problem Honey. Do your thing. I’m going to take a bath and get ready.”
	“Great, Talk to you later baby.”
	Diaz locked the door to the study and cracked open his stash. He knew he had to be cool tonight, and not get too high; he just wanted to take the edge off his feelings. He was anxious about the evening, and how it would turn out. By the time he’d finished reviewing his notes and powdering his nose, he was feeling mellow, without a care in the world. He told himself he was ready for the big time.
	On the ride to the studio, Diaz and Connie were happy, holding hands and trading kisses in the limo. After he secured a seat upfront for Connie, Diaz went backstage to get his make- up and hair done. He also took a couple of small hits of cocaine in the bathroom before the program began. Seated on a panel with another professional, the head Psychiatrist of a New Haven, Connecticut hospital, he heard the Director call out: “Action,” and they were off and rolling on air. After the Psychiatrist gave his credentials and talked about his medical practice, the Host turned to Diaz:
	“Tell us Mr Diaz, how were you able to win such a prestigious national award in the field of Mental Health, and run a private clinic all at the same time?”
	“As you well know, I’ve been in the field a long time, over twenty years, and have worked with a variety of populations over this span of time. My specialty is providing preventive and treatment services to individuals and families addicted to drugs and alcohol. I must admit, it’s a tough business yet worthwhile.”
	Applauds rung out from the audience. Connie was clapping along with others. The host continued with Diaz.
	“Isn’t it heartbreaking though to know that the rate of success within this population is very low. Isn’t the prognosis poor for most? How does it affect you personally Mr. Diaz, when your patients relapse, or dies from their affliction?”
	“Its heartbreaking for certain. No one can deny it. But in order to be effective, one must have hope for their patients. There is always hope, isn’t there? For without it, where would we be? Hope and compassion, along with well honed clinical skills in the talk therapies, are necessary tools Clinicians must have in order to be effective with patients in recovery.”
	The audience burst out in applauds and whistles again. Connie went right along with them, clapping and cheering on her husband.
	“What do you say about this Doctor? Is hope a necessary ingredient in the treatment of addicts today?”
	“I think it’s hogwash. Hope cannot be scientifically measured, so therefore cannot be used by skilled practitioners. Best practices within the field of medicine do not include this so-called amorphous “Hope” anywhere in today’s literature.”
	“Is that so Mr. Diaz? How do you answer the Doctor’s claims?”
	“Its not about whether or not clinical research approves or disapproves of our methods, not at all. In fact, time has shown us that our approach to practice has proven to be very successful. We’ve seen no less than forty percent of our patients maintain at least two or more years of sobriety without relapsing. This is a very high success rate that even the Doctor can agree with.”
	“What do you say to this Doctor?""
	“This is a high rate of success. Only about two out of every twenty five patients ever recover amongst this population usually. Yes, this is very good.”
	The crowd burst out in applauds, with some in the audience giving standing ovations. Connie was proud and excited at the same time. She couldn’t hide her exuberance, happiness for her husband.
	“Well, we have to leave it there, that’s all the time we have. I want to thank our guest and audience for coming, and wish you all a good night.”
	“Cut, that’s a wrap folks,” yelled the Director on the set. 
	Frank Diaz was a hit that night. His professional reputation grew after appearing on the show. His board of directors and colleagues sent him congratulatory emails and made phone calls, thanking him for doing such a great job, representing the business and profession so brilliantly.
						#
	For weeks after the show, Diaz continued using cocaine and alcohol until he’d past out each night. When he did come to in the mornings, he’d be consumed with remorse, and feelings of shame. He didn’t know what to do. If it ever got out that he was addicted, it would ruin him. This could crush him professionally, as well as financially. He felt lost and desperate now. Caught in a conundrum of his own making, he’d cry out loud for a release, behind his study doors, away from Connie’s ears. And then it happened. This one night he was able to dig deep inside himself to find the hope and strength needed to admit his powerlessness over his addiction. He knew he needed help or else he’d die. He finally was able to admit to himself, the masks he’d worn for years had to be ripped away.
	A week later, he confessed to Connie that he was addicted to drugs and alcohol, and wanted to seek help. He also admitted how frightened he’d been over the years that his addiction would be found out by his peers, and the harm this would wreak once it got out.
	“Don’t fret Honey. I’m with you all the way on this one. You can and will beat this, and come out on top. I know you baby, once you put your mind to achieving something, nothing can stop you.”
	“Thank you Connie. You’re the best. I’m so tired of being locked and loaded in this self imposed prison I’ve built. I’ll start immediately by hiring a private nurse who can get me detoxed right here at home. At the same time, I’ll attend sessions out of state where fewer people know me. What do you think Honey?”
	“It sounds like a plan to me. It’ll work, I’m sure of it.”
						  #
	Six months later, Frank Diaz is completely clean and sober. He’s able to confront his demons head on, and found a path to freedom. He accepted the fact that he can not use drugs or alcohol if he wants to remain healthy. He understands now that his physical and mental well being is contingent upon how honest he remains in his daily affairs. Frank Diaz now is free from the weight of the facades he used, to get what he wanted, when he wanted it. He no longer has to find ways and means to please others, just to appear normal. He’s free from self-will run riot, and the calamity people pleasing brings about. In the end, the masks had to go.
						  END  
 
 
.
“ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 19, 2023 17:56",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",nh6eil,Just Tonight,Ezra Grey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nh6eil/,/short-story/nh6eil/,Character,0,"['Friendship', 'LGBTQ+', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
“Enjoy the rest of your day, sir.”
 
 A polite smile graced Tegan’s face as she handed him a brown paper bag with a rectangular box inside that appeared to be containing the shoes the man bought. The man thanked her and turned his back to walk out the door. He was seemingly average and not at all who you’d expect to see in a skate shop.
 
Tegan worked at “FootBoardz”, a small skate shop with a total of four employees: the owner, the floor supervisor ,Tegan(assistant manager), and a part-time associate. The shop often got a decent amount of business during the week for being located near a failing shopping mall. The store housed everything from decks to riser pads. They even sold skate shoes and a variety of tees.
 
The thirty-year-old-woman had been working this same job for five years with no prospect of growth beyond her role. She leaned over and laid her head against the cold, black, germ-infested, marble counter.  
 
“When will this shift end?”, she softly whispered, tracing her finger in a figure eight pattern in front of her as she drifted off into a daze. An image of a grown woman who resembled Tegan’s bone structure grabbed her limited skate deck and broke it in two.
 
You live here, then this has to go, said the grown woman.
 
Yes, Mom. Tegan replied.
 
She lifted her finger from the table and placed her hand under her chin as she whispered to herself. “It’s been eleven years. I do everything right now. She said people won’t hate me if I did the things everyone else liked. If I just…smile.”
 
 Through the earpiece draped over her pale, left ear, she heard a crackling sound.
 
“Tegan? Everything Ok out there?”, a light, kind voice barely caught Tegan’s attention.
 
“Tegan?” The soft voice got loud enough that it jolted the girl out of her trance.
 
“What was that?” Tegan said
 
The voice on the other end giggled. It was a short, child-like laugh.  Out of the other three employees, Tegan had always liked hearing this laugh on the other end of the intercom, but it was just another thing she’d have to keep to herself.  What do they say? Happiness is for the weak...or so she thought.
 
“I asked if everything was okay. Is it?” The voice was soft, but now sounded more concerned than playful.
 
Tegan paused for a moment. She was entranced by the sound of the smooth tone in her co-worker’s voice. You could tell it was the voice of someone who would make one of those guided meditation podcasts and do really well.  I wonder if she’s ever done a podcast or tried ASMR? She whispered to herself unknowingly leaning on a small, black, and round button clipped to her name tag.
 
“What was that?” the angelic voice replied.
 
Tegan panicked. “Umm..I just said It’s all good!” She took a breath. “Our numbers are looking good so far. So let's keep up the good work today. I know we had that one return, but it didn’t hurt us too bad.” Tegan stood up straight and placed a smile on her face, a habit she had become accustomed to.
 
“Sounds good, Bosss!” The playful voice came out from behind the fixture lined with rows of socks. Curling her fingers in toward her hand, she placed it against her bronzed skin and leaned it against the fixture with her opposite hand on her hip pushing the fixture slightly off to one side. “Can I request we move that fixture to a different location?”
 
Stacy, 5’8”, was the floor supervisor with a supermodel-esque physique. Tegan always thought it was like catching a glimpse of the holy grail. Since the girls were the same age, Tegan rarely had to pull rank.  It made store operations run smoothly for her when Stacy worked.
 
Tegan grinned at Stacy as the floor supervisor rolled the sock fixture across the store.
 
“It just doesn’t fit.” Stacy sighed
 
The 5’5”, podgy girl walked out from behind the counter and took the other side of the fixture.
 
“Let me do it.” Tegan said with a straight tone.
 
The hourglass-shaped, redhead let go of the fixture and stepped back. The girl pushed the fixture back across the room and placed it where it once was.  She pulled out her Samsung and went to the notes section and wrote:  
 
Find a new place for sock fixture. Maybe rearrange the floor?
 
She showed Stacy the note she made on her phone. The blue-eyed girl smiled from ear to ear.
 
“Yay! I’ll totally help too!” Stacy exclaimed
 
Tegan shook her head.
 
“For now, it stays in its original spot until I can map out our store and figure things out. Our store is tight and I just don’t want things in the way.” She looked at Stacy with her darkish hazel eyes and extended a sympathetic smile, an action that had become second nature to her.
 
“Is that a good idea?” She asked.
 
Stacy’s blue eyes softened and her lips stretched out to form an adoring grin. She nodded. “Yes. It’s a great idea.”
 
Time had flown by that day. The bustle of customers would have made any day feel short. On a day like this, when it was just the two of them working, it often saddened Tegan as the night drew closer. The girls closed the store doors after the final customer.
 
“Have a nice night! “They waved in unison.
 
Stacy’s shoulders sank as she let out a deep, soulful sigh before turning her attention towards Tegan.
 
“Now it’s just us. I don’t have any plans if you want to take our time tonight.” The small-waisted girl stood towering in front of Tegan with a disarming smile. Her shiny, vibrant orange hair was tied up in a simple braid and laid over her shoulder. Stacy raised her eyebrow and placed her delicate hand on her hip as she flashed Tegan a cocky smirk. “Unless you’re sick of me already?”
 
Tegan turned her back to the girl and walked over to the registers. She pressed the corresponding keys on the register to open the drawer and counted the bills. Stacy stood on the other side of the counter, tilted her head and looked at her with an uneasy expression.
 
“Tegan?”
 
The girl with back-length, chestnut colored hair finished counting and peered up at the ocean-blue eyes.
 
“Hmm?” She answered
 
“Do. You. Want…To take our time? Or are you sick of me, already?” Stacy asked while fidgeting with a nearby pen.
 
Tegan saw worry on Stacy’s face, but she knew she couldn't tell the truth.
 
“Can you count this?” Tegan slid the money across the table.
 
“Mhmm. I’m glad I get to close with you.” She said
 
Tegan pulled her phone out and looked down at the time on her lock screen. She saw it was already 8 o’clock. The girl, who always kept her long, straight, brown hair up in a high ponytail concealed her flushed cheeks and hard to hide small, joyful grin.
 
“It’s getting late.” She said under her breath.
 
Finally, the registers were closed, the shoes were put away, the tees were folded properly and everything was put in its proper place, but Tegan still thought of Stacy’s words.
 
 She enjoys working with me, but would she enjoy working with the real me? I don’t smile all the time. I’m not pretty or interesting. I don’t like what normal people like. Everything that matters to everyone else, does it matter to her?, she thought as she leaned against the wall in the back office.
 
Bam! Stacy slammed one of the locker doors to snap the shorter girl out of her haze. The roaring boom made Tegan’s ears twinge and her back tense so it was almost board-like.  A sudden sense of alarming guilt fell over the queen-like woman like a shadow looming over her.
 
“Can we hang out tonight, Tegan?”  Stacy inquired, knowing full well Tegan had seemed strange today.
 
The song “Misery Business” by Paramore began playing as if it came from thin air. Stacy opened her black leather crossbody bag and pulled out her phone. “Sorry it’s mine. One minute.”
 
“Hello?” She answered the phone and on the other end was a male voice Stacy seemed to recognize. He sounded interested in her and her whereabouts from what Tegan could overhear.
 
The smaller, less significant, girl scooted past her coworker and grabbed her dingy, vintage-looking black canvas crossbody. She dropped her head and walked towards the door.
 
“Stacy, can you walk and talk please? I’d like to go home.” She said in a rather dull, heavy voice.
 
 Stacy informed the voice she needed to go and hung up without waiting for an answer. She hurried to stop Tegan from progressing to the exit. Tears bubbled in the corner of the chubby girl's eyes, streaking down plump cheeks, dripping to the floor as she stared at her shoes.
 
“We need to go. I need to get home…now.” Tegan stated in a seemingly unemotional tone.
 
She has no right to be so irresistible. She thought as the charming woman bent over and placed the tip of her elegant finger beneath Tegan’s grim face and lifted it to meet her gaze.
 
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk about what’s got you upset?” She paused. “Is it about me?”  Stacy asked. 
 
 The assistant manager’s eyes widened and and a light, almost inaudible, gasp escaped her mouth, her bottom lip curled in and she began to sob as she lowered her body to the floor.
 
“It’s not you. Skating is seen as delinquency in my family.  My mother broke my limited edition deck in half right in front of me when I was nineteen. She told me that she would only help me pay for college if I gave up skateboarding, and learned to like what everyone likes. I really wanted to go to college because at the time, I had dreams that skateboarding couldn’t fill. So, I smile, I do what they ask and I pretend to like everything that everyone else likes…including the types of guys the other girls like.”
 
Stacy, whose hair reminded Tegan of the sun, sat on the floor beside her.  She stretched out her legs and leaned back. Placing her arms behind her head, she laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling.
 
“What kind of guys do YOU like?”  Stacy asked.
 
“Umm..Well…” Stacy grabbed the hesitant girl by the back of her shirt and pulled her to the floor.
 
“You don’t like guys at all do you?” Stacy turned to her side and stared, a few stray strands of hair had fallen in her face, the moonlight reflecting in her eyes from the store window, her perfect smile faded from her appearance.
 
Tegan, her back flat against the floor, eyes as empty as if she was disconnected from the world, hands one on top of the other as if a corpse were laid out on the tile underneath rolled her head to the side to meet her coworker’s stare.
 
With bags under her drooping eyelids, she sighed. “No, I am not romantically or sexually interested in men…If that is what you’re asking.”
 
The reflection of the crescent moon through the store window made Tegan’s eyes look like pure gold. This was the first time Stacy had ever seen her assistant manager so vulnerable.  She’s always smiling and supporting everyone else. She never shows weakness…and never shows what’s really important…herself. Does she really think no one will like her?
 
“What’s the workplace policy here?” Stacy asked as she started to lean toward Tegan.
 
“Huh?” Tegan asked.
 
Stacy pushed herself up and held out a hand to Tegan. She grabbed her hand and pulled her up forcefully. The holy grail was in reach and its arms were wrapped around her wide waist. She ran her palms around the waist of the towering beauty before her and laid her head upon her shapely cleavage.
 
“I used to pretend too. My parents used to set me up with all types of guys and some of them still call. I answer to be polite, but I don’t exactly care. I used to think I wanted that kind of relationship, that kind of life. School. Marriage. Kids…But I don’t. I love being alone.”
 
 The stout, small-chested girl pricked up her ears as she directed her gaze up at the goddess-like beauty. She took her hand away from Stacy’s waist and placed it delicately along the shell of the girl’s heart against her soft, cotton t-shirt. She took a few slow deep breaths as her dark, golden-like eyes locked with shining ocean-blue ones. Stacy’s finger found itself tracing around the slightly pointed shape of Tegan’s ear as it made its way just beneath her chin.
 
Tegan paused. She silently stepped back.
 
Before she could turn away, the freckled supermodel of a woman had wrapped her arms tight around her. She felt a rush of warmth and desperation as she swung her arms around her neck. Their hearts raced as their vision blurred and their parted lips met. Their bodies melted into each other and it felt like all time had stopped.
 
Disoriented, she slowly pulled away “That’s why you asked about policy?”
 
Stacy answered. “Yes. But can I tell you something?”
 
Tegan grabbed her hand and placed it in her own. “Of course.”
 
Stacy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. As she opened her eyes, she saw the patient girl standing in wait. A sense of calmness washed over her. “I’m Aromantic” Stacy leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Tegan’s cheek. “This is all I can offer.”
 
The seemingly unlovely girl stayed silent. Stacy jerked her head. “You’re not going to say anything?”
 
Tegan swung her head back and forth. “No, because I already knew.”
 
The freckled goddess was taken back by her answer. “How?”
 
A snicker escaped the lips of her rounded face. “You told me one morning when you came in hungover from some one-night stand.  You came in, threw your stuff in the locker like always, and sat against the wall while I was on the computer. You said…” She changed her voice to sound like a drunk frat girl. “Tegan, why do all these guys expect you to go home with them? All I ever want is just a good night of sex and for it to end there.”
 
Stacy’s face turned beet red.  “I didn’t. Please tell me I didn’t say that.”
 
“Can’t because you did.” She took a breath. “Stacy, I wasn’t sick of you. I was jealous of the phone call.” She pulled her hands away and tilted her head towards the shop window that led toward the lunar-lit street. “You’re the only one who can see through me. I don’t know who the real me is anymore, but what I do know is I find you breath-taking… but I want to keep my friend.”
 
The picturesque, exquisite woman took a single step forward and stood behind Tegan. She hugged her, holding her in her warm embrace.
 
“I’m your friend?” Stacy asked
 
Tegan nodded “Yeah.”
 
 The Floor Supervisor placed her chin atop the other woman’s head. “For four years, you’ve paid attention and listened to me. I want to learn about the real you. What do you say?” 
 
Tegan, whose eyes reflected the sparks of the rekindled flame in her heart, turned and kissed the woman gently on the cheek. 
 
“Okay…as long as you’ll still like me.” Tegan answered
 
“Brrring!” A default chime rang. She pulled her phone from her pocket and cringed at the caller I.D. Right under the screen that read 8:45pm, flashed the word “Mom”.
 
 “I’m usually home by now.” The spark that lit her eyes dimmed.
 
Stacy grabbed the phone out of her hand and placed it in her pocket as she bolted for the door. “Come on. Lock up”
 
Tegan pulled her keys from her back pocket, ran out the shop, closing the doors behind her and locked the doors. She held out her hand to the redheaded queen next to her.
 
“Phone, please.”
 
The statuesque, red head, gave a crooked smirk. “Your mom left a message. Are you going to go back?”
 
The petite, wide-hipped, brunette took the phone from her hand, stared at the screen and pressed the callback button.
 
“Hello?!” The voice on the other end was furious. Tegan sighed and looked at Stacy. “Mom, I still enjoy skating and I’ve been working at a skate shop behind your back. I don’t find guys attractive and I will never live up to what YOU think I should be. I’m going to be me.” The voice on the other end began screaming. Tegan held the phone away from her ear “Oh…and one more thing…I’m moving out.”
 
The shorter, plump-ish, girl hung up the phone while the voice was still screaming. Tears began to linger in the corner of her eyes. The model-like, smooth-skinned woman placed a warm, gentle hand on her shoulder.
 
“You can stay with me tonight.” She offered
 
“I thought you said you couldn’t get involved with me?” The tear-filled woman turned her head to meet Stacy’s overpowering gaze.
 
A bright, sympathetic smile adorned her face. “I’m not. I’m just helping out a friend.”
 
The hopelessness began to disappear and Tegan’s heart began to feel lighter, even though the road was still long.
 
“I guess tonight is okay…but just tonight.”
 
 
","July 20, 2023 02:22",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",jo87af,People-Pleaser,Paris Rome,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jo87af/,/short-story/jo87af/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Teens & Young Adult']",8 likes,"
	(TW: Slight mention of harassment) Beep beep beep beep. She’d slam her hand onto her alarm clock, nearly breaking it instead of shutting it off. 
“Jesus…” Soli would brush her hand back with her hand. She would get up, immediately going to turn on her coffee maker. 
“Oh come ON!” She’d groan as she noticed her coffee machine leaking water out of the side.
“I already hate today.” Soli muttered under her breath, walking over to her bathroom to get ready. As she hummed a melody under her breath, Soli combed her hair back into a military-style bun. 
“I better get tips today-” A large cracking sound would be heard. 
“What the hell was that?” She’d take her hairbrush away from her head, noticing the broken back to her brush. Soli would release an angry sigh, setting it down and running back to her usual routine, pulling out her toothbrush and applying toothpaste. 
“I’m gonna be so late now..” She’d run across her apartment, ignoring her downstairs neighbor knocking on her floor with a broom. 
“Gotta go gotta go!..” She would grab her bag, sprinting out the door to the stairs. 
“Sorry Mr. Clarkson!” Soli would yell to her neighbor whilst jumping down a pair of stairs. 
She would push the door out of her way, running down the sidewalk to her job blocks away. 
“I’m gonna cry if I get fired, can’t deal with any of this crap today..” Soli would yank the door open to her work, winded. 
“Heya Soli!” Her coworker waved, peeking out of his office cubicle. 
“Hello Caleb!” She’d wave quickly, rushing to her desk as she saw her boss start to come around the corner. Soli exhaled slowly, pulling out her laptop and opening it. 
“Get to work Ms.Hathaway.” Her boss would look over to her whilst she typed in her passcode. 
“Yes Mr. Schmitt!” Soli would nod, opening the calendar app. 
“Hey Soli.” One of her co-workers would lean back in his chair. 
“Yeah?” She would turn, raising an eyebrow. 
“Can you print some of these papers for me? By the way, the start button is a green button that says ‘start’. You know how to spell that, right?” He would say in a slightly mocking tone. “Need me to show you?” 
“No, thanks. I’ll get right on it.” Soli ignored his heckling comment.
“Thanks doll.” The man would lean back into his computer.
Soli groaned, rubbing in between her eyebrows. These old men are so stupid nowadays with their old timey thinking…yeesh.  Soli got out of her chair, heading to the printer.
“Broken? Aw come on.” She pouted slightly, walking quickly back to her cubicle.
“Had a problem finding the button doll?” The co-worker would lean back, grinning condescendingly. 
“No, the printer is actually broken for your information sir.” She’d grab her notepad, clicking her pen on. 
“Are you going for a coffee run? I’ll take my usual, thank you doll.” The coworker looked back to his computer, beginning to work again. 
“Uh-well..fine.” Soli sighed, writing down his order. “Anyone else need anything?” She yelled out, waiting for the swarm of coffee orders. 
“I’ll take a nitro!” A voice called from across the room. 
“Black coffee, per usual!”
“Espresso please!” 
“Iced Caramel Macchiato with the toasted vanilla instead of the regular vanilla, extra caramel drizzle and-” 
“Oh shut up John.” The coworker from before yelled out.
“I’m out.” Soli clicked off her pen, walking out the door. I hate old men..live, laugh and love leaving that place each day. 
The bell on the door to the store rang as Soli entered the bustling cafe. “Hey guys..” Soli waved her hand softly.
“Hey Soli! How’s the office doing today?” The barista shook the coffee shaker, smiling. 
“Well, obviously being oblivious to the fact that women have rights.” Soli hooded her eyes, speaking in an annoyed tone. 
“Yeesh, don’t you say that everytime you come here?” 
“Yeah, it’s fine at this point, August. They won’t ever accept the fact. Here’s the list.” She handed August the piece of paper with the coffee orders. 
“I see John changed his order.”
“No, he just got cut off, and I didn’t feel like writing the rest of it.” Soli walked over to the order-receiving counter, leaning back onto it. 
“So, are you free later?” August looked at the long list then to Soli. 
“What? Oh no, sorry. I have my other job right after this one.” She brushed her hair back stressfully. “Gotta pay them bills, and pay for Nala’s cat food…inflation has spiked these brands off the charts, it’s absurd!” 
“Mhm…right. Well, let me know when you’re free. I’d love to hang out sometime, maybe not in a coffee shop?” August smiled awkwardly, finishing up the order. “You sure you don’t need help carrying these? It is a lot...” He looked at the coffees and then her.
“I’m fine, used to it at this point. Old men like their coffee I guess.” She shrugged, picking up the trays. “See you later!” 
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My feet hurt so bad…why can’t I just work one job?  Soli thought to herself, running to the bar for her next shift. She took out her hairband, shaking her hair out. Back to work I see.
“What can I getcha?” Soli held her notepad, jogging over to a table. 
“I’ll have a beer, thanks.” A familiar voice spoke, snapping Soli back to reality. Is that my boss? Soli exclaimed inside her head.
“And for you miss?” She smiled, writing down the orders.
“Oh, just a margarita.” The woman inside the man's arms smiled. 
“Right. I’ll be right back with those!” Soli walked away slowly, processing what just happened. Holy mother of- A tight hand grabbed her shoulder, turning her around. 
“Listen little girl, you cannot tell anybody about this alright? My wife would kill me.” Soli turned to see her boss towering over her. 
“Hm? Well…maybe.” She went from a puzzled expression to a smirk. “Under one circumstance..or two.” 
“What? I’ll do anything so my wife doesn't find out!”
“Give me a raise, and let me get to work any time I want.” Soli’s eyes narrowed.
“Right, right. Just you can’t tell ANYONE.” 
“Sure. Now get your hand off of me please.” She pushed it off her shoulder, walking away. 
Soli sighed, leaning against the wall in the backroom.  Finally, a break… A knock at the door scared her. 
“What the hell do you- oh hey August?” She smiled, pushing her hair back. 
“Hey, I didn’t know you worked at the bar! Anyways-I was wondering if you want to join my friends and I for a little break?” 
“Yeah…I can’t. I still have fifteen minutes till my break. Sorry.” Soli tried walking away. 
“Fifteen minutes isn’t that much! Come on, join us.” August put a hand in front of her.
“Well..okay.”
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Ugh..” Soli woke up, rubbing her head.  I slept in? Oh right, it doesn’t matter what time I get to work. She smiled, taking her time getting ready for work. She stepped out the apartment complex entrance, walking to her job.
“Heya doll.” She was greeted ignorantly. 
“Hey doll.” She’d say in an extremely mocking tone.
“Woah, calm down. What’s got little Miss Priss in such a bad mood?”
“What has you in such a good mood?  What did you do-harass another girl?” Soli raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. Audible gasps were heard across the room, along with quiet laughs. “That’s what I thought, you old crusty man.” She narrowed her eyes as the room burst into laughter. 
“I-I see you’re in a mood today, periods?” The room went silent.
“You are such a-” Soli backhanded him across the face, leaving a bright red mark. “Now go complain you rat.” She watched the man stumble out of his chair, running to the boss's office.
“Boss- I, Soli just slapped me!” He stuttered in awe.
“Not my problem man.” The boss took a sip of his coffee, legs crossed on the table. 
 
","July 21, 2023 00:05",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",y9gv4z,Dreams and Disenchantment,Stephanie Carlson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y9gv4z/,/short-story/y9gv4z/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Romance', 'Sad']",8 likes,"
Only Jasper St. Clair knows how something so beautiful can be so haunted.
 
Jasper St. Clair, with the boyish charisma and devilish smile, Jasper St. Clair, Hollywood's latest heartbreaker with the ability to charm and create irresistibly volcanic chemistry with anyone in his orbit, Jasper St. Clair, the enigmatic artist with a vision to inspire empathy through each role he plays on screen. Jasper, the lucky lad who managed to snag a model for a partner. Jasper, a man of self-made wealth and success. Jasper, a provider of luxury.
 
Jasper Kensington St. Clair, the poetic soul who's felt out of place his entire life.
 
Jasper, invisible.
 
Jasper, losing himself.
 
The solitude and quiescence of the lavish vanilla-and-beige penthouse apartment is a stark contrast to the chaotic superficial energy and flashes of light on the red carpet. Away from the noise, underneath the charismatic and fiery persona he uses to charm his way to the public's good graces, Jasper sits alone with a sense of being incomplete. Gazing spacily at the cream toned walls in a space of deep introspection, Jasper feels just as empty inside as they are. Slipping into the void of his own mind, the corruption of his heart, he has to come home to this every night. The facade of wealth and luxury, and how it leaves him with nothing but unfulfillment. He isn't smiling now, feeling as stone cold as the expensive display of pottery on the shelves. They're just for show, like the poise and confidence he musters in front of the reporters. It's beginning to creep on on him more and more, the emptiness. In a place where he should feel safe and comfortable, free from the pressures and prying questions of fans with their parasocial hopes and nosy paparazzi, he's faced with the demons of loneliness and rejection. The gaping truth that this was never what he originally envisioned for himself.
 
Six years have passed. Six years of hiding from his own truth. Four years of a role that was much different than the one he thought he was auditioning for. Instead of propelling himself toward what he loved, he remained dormant with a slowly vegetating self-doubt and an even more latent resentment. To others, he may have appeared to be hiding from the pandemonium of fame and the overwhelm of stardom after the success he had earned… but what is he really hiding from?
 
Jasper sits on the couch, absently flipping through his social media feed on his phone, while Ava hovers nearby, her watchful eyes tracing his every move. Ava Delia Marshall, the bombshell bikini model who was once a humble farm girl he met in a college classroom. Ava, who rejected him time and time again until he became somebody. Ava, who saw an opportunity standing next to him in a fancy gown on a red carpet. Ava, whose lust for la dolce vita was insatiable.
 
He feels Ava's catlike intensity nearby, cool slate grey eyes tracing his every move as he absently scrolls through the photos and reels of his peers on his phone but he tries to shake it off. Pretend that he isn't crumbling under the pressure to choose between his dreams and the illusion of love he wants so hard to manifest until it looks a little more convincing.
 
""Jasper,"" a seductively sweet voice calls him from the depths of his silent nightmare.
 
""You know how much I love you, right?""
 
Here it comes. Another delicate dance around a trap.
 
""Of course, Ava. I love you, too."" Jasper forces a smile, oceanic blue eyes dull and stormy but at the same time wide and searching. Trying to intuit what Ava's onto. He knows her too well by now.
 
""I just worry about you, you know? These reporters, these women…"" Ava's tone rose, her disdain increasingly audible. ""They only want to use you for their own gain."" Jasper isn't deaf to the possession in Ava's voice. Isn't she supposed to support and encourage him? Isn't she supposed to celebrate his recognition with him?
 
Hesitantly, he started to speak. ""I think they're just fans, Ava. They like my work, it's … it's a testament to my craft,"" he explains, only to be slightly taken aback when Ava's red manicured hands cling onto him.
 
""No, Jasper. You're mine, and I won't let anyone take you away from me.""
 
Jasper's eyes betray a sense of discomfort, but he remains silent, not wanting to upset Ava further. Jasper had given up everything for her, given everything to her, given all that he could have been to be whatever she wanted. Since when did he give her any reason to be this insecure?
 
Ava's sharp gaze snaps to the phone he was holding, taking it out of his hands with her fingers quickly at work. ""Let me handle your social media, Jasper. I know what's best for our image.""
 
Jasper knows better than to fight Ava on this. What she wants, she gets and she made this rule very clear before she agreed to finally humor him with a date. Yielding, he complies, almost robotically. Already defeated.
 
""Okay, Ava. If you think it's for the best.""
 
In this home, the demeanor of sweetness could shapeshift to dominance before Jasper's eyes with every opportunity for Ava to take control over his public presence, using it to further her own agenda. A partnership that began to feel like parasitism.
 
A long period of silence stands between them. Again with the hesitance, the walking on eggshells, Jasper finds his voice. A small voice, low in volume, but still his own.
 
""I… I used to have dreams, Ava.""
 
Ava stares at him, brows knit together and eyes narrowed piercingly.
 
""Dreams of telling stories, making a difference through my art.""
 
Ava scoffed dismissively. ""Oh, Jasper, you're being ridiculous. Look around you,"" she gestured flourishingly, waving a hand to the expensive and intricate lighting systems. The designer furniture that could never be touched or even looked at by peasantry. The million-dollar wine bottles on display in the dining room. ""You have everything you could ever want right here, with me.""
 
Which was true. Jasper was living any man's dream: A house of his own, enough money for anything he wished, a beautiful woman by his side and only the richest man's possessions. A treasure trove of material wealth built on his talent. But was it enough?
 
Jasper's voice softened. ""Maybe you're right, but…"" he stopped himself from saying just that. That it isn't enough. Choosing his words very carefully, he continued. ""I feel like I've lost myself, like I'm just going through the motions…""
 
He felt Ava's grip on him tightening. ""You need me, Jasper. I'm the one who keeps you grounded, who takes care of you.""
 
Jasper struggled free from the death grip curled around his wrists, using his strength so that her hands fell away. ""I know I have my issues, my mental illness, but… I don't want to be defined by that. I can't just lock myself away pathetically while you put up with me-""
 
""You don't have to be defined by anything, Jasper,"" Ava pressed manipulatively. ""Except for being the most wonderful partner I could ask for…""
 
Jasper stares at Ava, then into space, torn between what he thought were the two loves of his life. Between the love he craved and thought he needed, and the dreams he left behind.
 
""I thought we could be happy together, Ava. But I'm starting to see that I can't keep ignoring who I really am."" Jasper finally whispers, a glassiness filling blue eyes. It's painful to hear himself say this, in his own words. To be on the edge of tears before her, to be so sensitive. But he'd always been a sensitive guy. And now, it's more putty she can mold him with.
 
Ava is getting visibly upset, her tone rising in volume. ""Jasper, don't do this. We're perfect together. The fans love us. We're goals.""
 
There was that, too. The pressure to maintain appearances, the impression of a balanced and happy relationship. A sugary-sweet, idealistic romance. Everything this was turning out not to be. Jasper's voice fell even quieter.
 
""But what about my own goals?"" he asked Ava. ""What about the person I used to be before I met you?""
 
This was triggering Ava, pushing her further and further and bringing out a defensive side of her she kept hidden under the plastic smile she would fake when she knew people were watching them. ""You don't need that person, Jasper. You have me.""
 
It hit Jasper like a blast of arctic wind, her words echoing in the acoustics of their spacious walls, echoing throughout his mind. She had successfully molded him into someone he wasn't to cultivate a bougie lifestyle. All of this, everything around them, this luxurious mansion of an apartment was all for Ava. He listened to her blindly, abandoned his aspirations and sacrificed it all for her at the cost of his identity. She turned him into someone just as fake and pretty for the cameras as she was, leaving him isolated from his friends and family and becoming hollow inside. All in the name of love… or what he thought was love. But was love supposed to feel like this?
As Jasper realized the extent of Ava's influence over him, he began to realize that he had been living in a simulation. An illusion he neglected to confront for too long. The cracks in their relationship were appearing under the tension and Jasper was feeling the weight of his choices.
 
He sat at a crossroads with uncertainty hanging in the air like nebulous clouds of fog, questioning the authenticity of their so-called perfect relationship. Questioning the authenticity of his whole existence. Questioning who he was, because it was getting harder and harder to remember.
 
Jasper St. Clair, a failed actor.
 
Jasper St. Clair, a strike of lightning. There, bright and luminous, then seemingly gone in a flash. 
 
Jasper St. Clair, a puppet to a social climbing gold digger who never loved him despite his every effort to please her.
 
Jasper, hopelessly romantic to his own demise.
 
Jasper, heartbroken before and afraid to be alone.
 
Jasper... disenchanted.
","July 21, 2023 00:33","[[{'Jeannette Miller': ""Stephanie,\nThis is a good start. I like the premise; however, I don't think it truly meets the prompt requirements as Jasper never drops his persona. He only thinks about it and quietly mentions it to Ava. \nThe way you describe him in the beginning has to be maintained by him otherwise he'll be found out as a fraud. Which leads me to question how this isn't truly him. Yeah, he can hook up with Ava and her media skills can take his career to another level, but he still has the charisma and all of that. If he feels empty and unhappy, that's an..."", 'time': '19:48 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Stephanie Carlson': ""He does drop his persona... didn't I mention it? I made a point to describe how the public knows him, but in private he's very quiet, emotional, inhibited and kind of shrinks to keep the peace. He has a hard time standing up for himself because he's so desperate to be loved and afraid to be alone, and he struggles with using his voice in private and advocating for himself even though he's basically a rock star to his fans. That's the focus, though. He knows how to turn on the charm for the cameras and interviews, but at home, he's easily int..."", 'time': '00:55 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jeannette Miller': ""Yes, thank you for clarifying. I read through it again and see where you show he's his true self at home. I first read as if he was just lonely or depressed. Although, it still feels like a gray area.\nIt's a solid story and probably would do very well as a longer piece so his character can be fully fleshed out and the relationship with Ava can be resolved in some way. Something to think about :)\nThanks for responding and letting me in on your thought process. I look forward to more of your writing."", 'time': '14:42 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Stephanie Carlson': ""He does drop his persona... didn't I mention it? I made a point to describe how the public knows him, but in private he's very quiet, emotional, inhibited and kind of shrinks to keep the peace. He has a hard time standing up for himself because he's so desperate to be loved and afraid to be alone, and he struggles with using his voice in private and advocating for himself even though he's basically a rock star to his fans. That's the focus, though. He knows how to turn on the charm for the cameras and interviews, but at home, he's easily int..."", 'time': '00:55 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jeannette Miller': ""Yes, thank you for clarifying. I read through it again and see where you show he's his true self at home. I first read as if he was just lonely or depressed. Although, it still feels like a gray area.\nIt's a solid story and probably would do very well as a longer piece so his character can be fully fleshed out and the relationship with Ava can be resolved in some way. Something to think about :)\nThanks for responding and letting me in on your thought process. I look forward to more of your writing."", 'time': '14:42 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jeannette Miller': ""Yes, thank you for clarifying. I read through it again and see where you show he's his true self at home. I first read as if he was just lonely or depressed. Although, it still feels like a gray area.\nIt's a solid story and probably would do very well as a longer piece so his character can be fully fleshed out and the relationship with Ava can be resolved in some way. Something to think about :)\nThanks for responding and letting me in on your thought process. I look forward to more of your writing."", 'time': '14:42 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",97fhsz,Rabbit Fighter,Corey Joyce Henderson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/97fhsz/,/short-story/97fhsz/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad', 'Inspirational']",8 likes,"
	“Get ‘im Shelley!” My brother Tommy yelled as I stomped through the mud. 
 
	We were chasing rabbit’s again. Mama was making stew for dinner, and she told us that if we’d caught a rabbit she would skin it and cook it for dinner. Hunting rabbit’s was easy for most folks. But we were just kids, I was only ten and my brother was 7. We couldn’t shoot them or make traps because Pa didn’t let us touch his gun or traps because he didn't think we could handle them. Even if he did, what good would it be to set a trap when dinner would be ready in three hours anyways?
 
	Instead, me and my brother took a different approach. Hunting rabbit’s wasn’t just hunting for us. We saw the rabbit’s as equals, smart and fast enemies fighting to ruin our dinners. Hunting rabbit’s was war. And we were the rabbit fighters. 
 
	Even though I was older, I was always the faster one. So Tommy would hold the big stick while I chased them. This time was no exception. We saw the rabbit’s just 5 minutes into our hunt. It had been drinking water from a stream by our house when we saw it, and we snuck up on it then. We were smart with rabbit’s. Sometimes if you were quiet enough, you could get right up next to them and bang them on the head without ever having to chase them, boom, easy dinner. But this one caught on to us, and that's when I ran at it. 
 
	I could feel the grass on the soles of my feet, and my toes dug into the wet earth beneath me with each stride. When you're fighting rabbit’s you gotta have a sense to you. You get it once you’ve chased them around enough. You start to know when they’ll turn, which direction they’ll hop in. But here’s the thing about chasing rabbits, they’re way too fast to catch. That’s why we fight rabbit’s, not catch them. Because if it came down to physical skill alone, rabbit’s would win every time. Instead, it’s a battle of strategy. Because I can know where the rabbit goes, I must also know how to send it somewhere. 
 
	I jumped ahead of it, sending it running back in the direction we’d just come from. It thought it had outdone me, and escaped my attempt to jump it right there. But that was all part of my plan. I chased it further, through the woods then back over the stream we’d started at. That’s when Tommy jumped out from behind a bush. He caught it in a sack, then hit it a few times with a stick. We’d beaten the rabbit this time. 
 
	Sometimes we weren’t so lucky. As I said, we thought of the rabbit’s as our equals. They were smart and cunning just as we were. Some battle’s were meant to be failure’s. But you see, fighting rabbit’s was the best kind of war. The kind without gun’s and bombs and chemicals that send you back home wishing you were dead. Instead it was a war where you splashed across streams and felt the wind and breathed in the sweet smell of pine and oak. It was a perfect war, even if sometimes you ran around for nothing. 
 
	This time me and Tommy brought our spoils of war to our Mama, as serious as real warriors. Just as she’d said, she skinned it and threw it in the stew. We waited around, playing board games or fighting until Mama yelled at us to stop and told me I had to go work on my school project. I’d whine and moan until finally I went back up to my room and would finish the strange array of glue, gumdrops, and toothpicks I called my science project. 
 
	Finally, Pa would get home, and mom would shout for me to come down for dinner. I came down the stairs, three at a time then jumping the last 6 and running to the table, helping set all the plates and silverware before sitting down. We’d all link hands, and Pa would say grace. 
 
	“So what’d you kids get up to today.” he’d say after telling Mama how good dinner was.
 
	“I don’t know,” I’d say, “Stuff I guess?” 
 
	“I think I’m starting to see how you got that C in English,” He said with a laugh.
 
	“They went out catching rabbits for me, in fact you're eating it right now,” Mom interjected. 
 
	“Oh really? I remember when I was younger we used to go rabbit hu-”
 
	“Pa! You’ve told us this story before! How you and all the boys would go rabbit hunting by the creek too, and how you’d all get so dirty and muddy all your mama’s would threaten to give you a beating.”
 
	“Oh. Well I didn’t realize you were all getting so tired of me.” he said, putting on an over exaggerated frown and moping.
 
	“Oh look at that, you made your dad sad,” Mom said, “ Why don't you apologize for making him so depressed,”  
 
	“We’re sorry dad!” We said, Tommy a bit louder than me.
 
	“You mean…you kids still want me around?” He said, lifting his head up dramatically. 
 
	“Oh stop being so dramatic dear,” Mom said. “Why don’t you tell us about your day at work instead?”
 
He then went on to talk about his day at the lumber yard. My dad worked there everyday of the week but Sunday. Things were always happening there, whether it was someone getting a promotion who didn’t deserve a promotion or someone getting demoted who didn’t deserve to get demoted. They seem bad at promoting and demoting people from how dad said it. Sometimes things would get really exciting and there’d be some sorta accident. Like a fella getting his foot run over by a truck or someone's finger getting chopped off in the saw.
 
	When dinner was done, Pa would make sure we went and got showered and brushed our teeth. Tommy still had pa come in and tell him a bedtime story, though dad kept telling him he was getting too old for that. We both would have either mom or dad, whoever was feeling less tired that night, come in and give us kiss goodnight and tell us they loved us.
 
*						*						*
 
	I leaned back in my chair and let out a deep, deep sigh. I heard some wild conspiracy theory that the lights in school and office buildings were made to melt your brain. Looking up at the blinding fluorescents above me in this stupid snack company's ceiling, I could practically feel it melting out my ears. I sat back straight again and looked at my screen. 
 
	4:00
 
	Only an hour left at work, but it just seemed too much already. I felt like a kid again, and not in a good way. I wish I could still break out crying and screaming every time I had to do a bit too much. Have someone try and quiet me down before taking me home and making me take a nap. Being 31 is so shitty.
 
	I forced myself to keep at it, even if I was only working at 20% battery, until five. I had to make calls, log appointments, and send emails. All of which seems like it should be so easy. Not of it was. 
 
	The calls were extra hard to do. It’d been 13 years, yet I still had to actively try and hide my accent. In retrospect it was so stupid. But when I first went to college on the west coast, I felt so self conscious about it. I felt like people would see me as some dumb southern hick. I’d googled some simple exercises to get rid of it, to sound more ‘normal’. It worked, people never even realized I was southern for years. I would tell certain friends sometimes, and they’d always be so shocked. Yet still, if I’m not careful, little bits and pieces slip in. It’s even worse when I talk to my parents. Something about them makes me just fall right back into my old ways.
 
	5:00
 
	Thank. God. If I had to sit through another minute I was going to go postal. I logged out of my computer, grabbed my stuff, and walked out to catch the bus. 
 
	I got home at 6:30. I dumped my stuff on the table, walked to my bed, fell down on it, and let out a deep groan, stopping about every 45 seconds to breathe, for 20 minutes. After sufficiently expressing the pain of the day, I rolled myself off the bed and made myself dinner, a nice gourmet meal of stale pizza and a beer I found somewhere around the back of the fridge. 
 
	I sat on the couch and ate. Normally I’d put on some music or tv. But I just couldn’t bear it this time. I just wanted to bask in the silence of the apartment. Maybe if I spent enough time in it, I could just dissolve into the dark and quiet. I closed my eyes and set down the half eaten slice of pizza next to the half empty beer and just wallowed in the uselessness of it all. 
 
	While I was sitting there desperately trying to dissolve into mist, I remembered rabbit fighting. I remembered the thrill, the exhilaration, the joy of victory. I remember sitting quietly watching them with my brother, who I haven’t spoken to for years. But most importantly, I remember the taste of the rabbit stew. The heartiness, and the way it filled your stomach. Gosh I missed eating rabbit stew. 
 
	I almost got excited before I opened my eyes and realized I wasn’t in Kentucky anymore. I was stuck here in my LA apartment. Wasting away with the setting sun. 
 
	I picked myself up from the couch and walked to the bathroom. I had to take off my make-up before I went to bed. As I walked in and looked at myself in the mirror, something in it made me die a little more inside. I realized for the first time in years that the face in the mirror, it just wasn't me. She was so put together. Her long hair was brushed and combed just right (despite how plopping down on the bed and couch messed with it), her makeup done just so that it would look like she wasn’t wearing any but still look good. The person in the mirror was so organized and neat. The person wasn’t a girl.    
 
	I got my makeup wipes out and started the process of wiping everything, putting forth the extra work of wiping off the eyeliner I usually just left on while I slept. The person in the mirror looked more familiar, more like the country girl I’d always been, like the buck toothed kid who grew up fighting rabbits. 
 
	I made a rash decision. I pulled the scissors out from my cabinet, and chopped off any hair beneath the nape of my neck. Then I cut the sides so they didn’t cover my ears, and I brushed my bangs out over my forehead, and cut off any hair over my eyes. I splashed some water to try to wash out some of the hair spray, and roughed up my hair. 
 
	The result was bad. My hair wasn’t cut evenly. Patches stuck out all over the place where I’d cut to close or I’d cut shorter than the other side. And my face looked bad too. You could see all the freckles, all the skin spots, the beginning of wrinkles, and the bags under my eyes. But the results were what I was looking for. Because in front of me, was that same buck-toothed kid running around in the woods. That same messy hair girl in overalls who’d catch bugs by the creek. 
 
	In front of me in the mirror, was the rabbit fighter.
 
	I knew what I needed to do then. I went over to my computer and booked a one way plane ticket. I quickly packed a single backpack with some cash, my passport, and some warm clothes, then made my way to the airport.
 
 
*						*						*
 
	It’s been about a year since I landed in Greenland. The first thing I did when I got here was go out and fight a rabbit. It was hard, I’ve grown, and I’m not as quick as I used to be. My bones ache, and my joints are stiff. Even still, I found them in a meadow a little ways out from town. I didn’t catch any on the first day, but as I was leaving the hotel I found a dog. He was young, though not a puppy. He was dirty and skinny. I took pity on him and snuck him into my hotel room to clean him off. I named him Sam. 
 
	I took Sam out to the meadow. Slowly, over the next few weeks, he learned how to rabbit fight. That’s the first time I’d started being successful in our battles. When Sam would chase them, I’d sneak up and catch them in the sack, hit them with the stick, then skin them there and clean them to cook later.
 
	I found a job when my savings started running low. I work as a farm hand, helping with sheep. It doesn't pay much, but me and Sam get a free room. And as long as we provide the rabbits, they provide the stew, so we don't spend much on food.
 
	My brother and his family even came to visit a few months ago. We got back in contact, and I finally got to meet his kids. They're wild little things, but then again, so were we. I got to go rabbit fighting with them.
 
	I’m stronger now. Physically and mentally. My bones still ache, but my muscles can do more. I can run faster too. I feel comfortable for the first time. I talk in my southern accent, though a bit of L.A. slips in, and nobody cares. I just sound American to all them. 
 
	I spent so long pretending to be someone else. I made a new person to be, someone I pretended to be so I could feel accepted. So I could succeed towards a goal that never existed. But I feel real now. Not like some mask I put on. I feel like a rabbit fighter now.
 
 
 
 
 
","July 15, 2023 03:48",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",sihmtf,Hidden Smiles ,Karrigan Weldin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sihmtf/,/short-story/sihmtf/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Funny', 'Sad']",7 likes,"
	I hear faint footsteps heading towards my door. I listen for a moment. Loud at the beginning of the step and quiet as the rest of the foot comes down. They’re walking with the ball of their feet, not wearing heels though you can’t hear the click at the end. Only Margret, Shannon, and Alexa walk like that, but Alexa wear’s heels. A faint tick sounds through the office, like a bone popping. Margaret has joint issues. From what I’ve heard and researched, Joint Hypermobility, born with it. Just to be sure I listen for the jingling of her bracelets. That’s when I hear it, just over the sound of conversation outside my office. I already know what she’s here for, so I grab the witness statement from my drawer and set it at the edge of my desk closest to the door. I hear the distinct creak of my office door opening. Insead of looking up and pretending I didn’t know it was her, I simply point quickly and get back to typing.
	Margaret is my assistant. She’s in her early 20’s and hasn’t mastered business casual attire yet. She just wears black and white. It makes her blend in with everyone else, she has no personality in her clothes. Makes her unremarkable and ordinary. No professional will remember her. She has dark hair and a kind face. That won’t work for her here the way it works in bars though. She wants to be an attorney one day, she starts law school in August. She’ll get eaten alive in there if I don’t thicken her skin a bit. 
	“Hurry up.” Until I said something she was just standing and staring at me. Waiting for me to greet her I suppose. Maybe she thinks I didn’t know she was there and was just pointing at the exact thing she needs for no reason. She’s not going to get a greeting though. She saw me point, she knows I heard her open the door. She needs to read social cues faster. That's the only way to read a witness and know which buttons to push for the answers you want. “Now.” I say sternly, she’s walking too slow. You have to be quick, efficient. Always look like you are doing something important even if you’re just playing snake on your laptop. “Make sure all witness statements and transcripts from the Buckly trial are ready by Monday morning. I’ll need them Tuesday for my meeting with the partners.” I say, all without looking up at her. “Of course Ms. Conley.” She hurries out of the room and shuts the door. I hear her exhale and mutter something under her breath. We have thin walls. 
	I assume it has something to do with the fact that it’s 3:30 on Friday and the transcripts are at the courthouse. The courthouse that is backed up all day and isn’t open on the weekends. A rather impossible task, but she has two options. She’ll either somehow get the transcripts over the weekend, or she won’t and come to me saying the soonest she can get them is noon on Monday. If it’s the latter and she comes to me scared and asks to get them later, I’ll scold her then tell her to hurry along. If she comes to me confident saying that she is working as quickly as possible and she’ll get them to me as soon as she can, I’ll feign neutral acceptance. The meeting with the partners actually isn’t until Wednesday anyways. I know I’m sending her on a goose chase, but she’ll need friends in the court house. Bailiffs, judges, bookkeepers. She needs anyone and everyone she can get.
	I sit typing on my computer until I finish my opening statement and plan my cross examinations for the trial I have on Monday afternoon. After completing those and saving them to my shared drive, that my computer at work and laptop both have access to, I look up from my monitor. That is when I see my office is dark except for the light radiating off of my monitor, and my phone sitting silently and happily on my desk. I look towards my floor to ceiling windows and all  I’m met with is a dark cityscape, the moon and clouds but no stars. You can’t see stars very well here, and most of the time, not at all.
	 I tap the screen on my phone and check for new notifications. None, as per usual. I look around my office slightly in a daze, I normally register time and how long I’ve been here while I’m working.
	 There is a cream colored loveseat by the windows, topped with a throw blanket with different shades of blue and purple, and throw pillows in the same colors. In front of me I stare at the frames on my wall, bachelor's degree in philosophy, law degree, and letter I got saying I passed the bar on my first try. That was just as impossible as Margret getting those transcripts to me by Monday morning.
	Those three are all in matching frames, equal lengths apart, evenly placed across the wall. I’m looking at them from behind on one side of my L-shaped desk. The other side is sitting to my right. In reality I took two desks and put them next to each other to imitate an L-shape. I’m picky and couldn’t find one I liked, so I made one myself. Behind me are bookshelves full of books, plants, nick nacks, vases, miniature busts of my favorite Greek goddesses. No picture frames though. There are none of those in here. No pictures on my desk, nor on my walls. I don’t even have a cute picture as my computer screen saver. It’s just an inspirational quote, that same one is set as my phone wallpaper too. 
	 I hear a chime. Excitedly, I picked up my phone, looking for the icon of one of my dating apps. Maybe Instagram or Snapchat. Hell, I'll settle for a Facebook message at this point. Instead I’m met with a notification telling me if I scan my app at Starbucks tomorrow I’ll get double stars. At least I know what I’ll be doing in the morning. 
	I pack up quickly, stuffing my laptop into my tote bag, followed by my phone, empty tupperware, and case files to look over for the third time. Walking out of my office I grab my coat and reusable coffee cup. It’s empty now but I don’t like leaving things at the office over the weekend. 
	I see Fred at the end of the hall as I walk out. Fred is one of our custodians, I see him almost every night. “Hey there little lady. You’re leaving even later than usual.” He checks his watch as I sigh dramatically and look him in the eye. He reminds me of a grandfather, not mine though. I don’t even know mine. “Yeah, I got distracted again. I didn't even realize it was already 10:30 until I looked up and saw I was shrouded in darkness” We both laugh. I turn to walk past him and smile. I don’t get to smile here often, being “The Shark” of the office means being nice isn’t in my wheelhouse. But it really is. Appearing mean and chaste works better in this business though. 
	As I’m walking past him, my smile fades but he says “Don’t let me see you over the weekend. Take a break. Go on a date or something. You deserve a vacation from this place.” Just as quickly as it left, my smile returns again and I turn back. “How do you know I’m not already in a relationship?”  I ask jokingly with the raise of my eyebrow. “Because there is no ring on your finger.” He mirrors my expression back at me and taps his left ring finger while holding it up to me. “I could have a boyfriend or a girlfriend.” I lower my eyebrow and cross my arms. “You could but I don’t think so because you are here all, waking hours of the day. If you’re in a relationship with anything it’s that desk of yours.” I lower my arms and giggle. “That’s a solid point you got there. I’ll call the detective's office and let them know they need you on staff.” He laughs and I see the crows feet near his eyes deepen. “I’m perfectly happy where I am.” He retorts. I give him the most genuine smile I have. “Have a good night Fred.” I throw over my shoulder as I turn towards the elevators. “You too Constance” I leave the highrise made of glass and steal. All sharp lines and polished to perfection. I’m walking along the road and all I hear is cars zooming by and the girl’s heels clicking on the sidewalk. 
	I soon find myself walking into Flax. It's a relatively small business where I buy all of my pens, highlighters, legal pads. Just about everything I need to be able to do my job well. “What’s up boss lady” I hear from the counter on my right. “Why are you back so soon? I thought you just picked up some of my good pens the other day” Alyssa says as I redirect my walk to the counter. “I did, highlighters this time.” I look at her and smile. 
	Alyssa is about my age. She’s married to Vanessa and has a daughter about two years old now. I remember when I walked in one day and she was blown up like a balloon. You could feel the joy radiating off of her. 
	She hands me a photo, not a photo on her phone, a physical photo she printed out. Even though this is the twenty-first century and everyone has phones that are capable of containing photos, she still prints them out, so when she shows them to her regulars, they get to hold it in their hands. Alyssa is an old soul, she even has vinyls playing on a record player behind the counter instead of playing the radio through the overhead speakers. I absolutely love it. 
	I take the photo and look down at Emery, their daughter. I start my walk towards the highlighters while staring at her chubby cheeks and pigtails while she eats ice cream. “God she seems so big. I feel like you were just pregnant.” I say over my shoulder towards the counter while in front of the selection of highlighters. No one else is here this late, so we continue our conversation by yelling over the store.  “You’re telling me. My body hasn’t recovered yet. I still pee every time I laugh.” Alyssa returns. That sends me into a fit of giggles while I’m reaching for my regular pack of highlighters. “I’m serious.” she says in a high pitched voice “Vanessa has been obsessed with dad jokes lately. I’ve been peeing my pants a lot.” She continues. That makes my fit of giggles turn into full on laughter. Laughing so hard I have to lean over and clutch my stomach to keep from falling on the ground. When I catch my breath I look over at her and wipe a tear. “The fact that you laugh that hard at dad jokes is embarrassing.” I still haven't completely stopped laughing so I choked the words out between breaths.  “It’s not the jokes, it's her laughing at her own jokes for like five whole minutes every time. The jokes are so bad, not even Emery laughs.” That makes the smile on my face turn into laughter again. I’m stuck laughing to myself, envisioning it and repeating her sentence back to myself in a high pitched and out of breath voice. Once I finally regain the ability to breathe, I walk towards the counter again. “You’re kidding. She does not.” I say incredulously while setting the highlighters and picture on the counter. “Oh but she does. I’ll have to film it and show it to you next time you come in.” She scans the highlighters and takes my cash. I give her exact change as always. I do however stuff a 20 in the tip jar. She sees it and tries to hand it back to me but I start running out the door faster than she can get out from behind the counter. “Oops sorry, I’ve got a very important call from my boss. Gotta go.” I yell over my shoulder as I round the corner out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. I’m still giggling to myself a bit when I hear “It’s like 11 o’clock you lair.” 
	My apartment is down the street so I just walk. There is no point in spending money on a taxi when my feet can hurt just a little bit more and I can enjoy the sky.  I always liked night better than day too. Being left alone but knowing someone is still there with you. Sleeping in separate rooms, but if you need them you could call them and they’ll come.  Even the dark is comforting, the stars in the sky, all the animals outside, asleep. It’s not quite the same here though. Even the night kind of feels like day. It’s like no one sleeps in LA.
	When I get upstairs I’m met with a cold, dark condo. The smell of the candle I lit last night and coffee I made this morning still linger in the air. I drop my bag on the coffee table in front of my couch and collapse onto the deep green fabric. I sit and stare at my ceiling for a while. I have a ceiling medallion surrounding the ceiling light so I follow the pattern with my eyes for a while. I don't know how long I lay there thinking about home, but I do know that home isn’t really a place for me. I know it’s like that for some people, and for them it's a person, a loved one of some kind. For me though, it’s a feeling. Comfort I think, I don’t get to feel it often so I think of the few times I do have it. That is home for me. My only interruption is from  the bubbling of my stomach, reminding me I haven't eaten since lunch. 
	I haul myself up, slip off my heels, take off my coat and throw them both at a cream colored armchair. I have a thing for cream furniture. I grab my phone out of my bag and hit play on an audio book I’ve been listening to. I couldn’t tell you the characters names or what the book is even about but I prefer hearing people talking than the silence of my empty condo. I reach into the freezer and grab a frozen dinner, I was never really taught to cook. The best I can do is rice and maybe some cookies if I devote my entire day to it. After pouring a glass of unsweetened tea I hear the beep of my microwave telling me my meal for the night is ready. I just stand and eat at the counter, I can't be bothered to move to the dining table I have. It’s big enough for 6, but there is normally only 1 sitting at it.
	Once I’m done with my mediocre food, I put on a robe and a face mask and watch one of my favorite movies. I turn all the lights off and sit in the dark like I used to do when I was a teenager. Only this time I have wine. I sit and stare at Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey fall madly in love with each other, surrounded by friends and family and coworkers. I check my phone again. It’s 1:47, my screen saver is telling me it gets better so I should smile, I still get double stars at Starbucks, but nothing new. This is my life. Every day of it.
","July 21, 2023 18:12","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'I really liked the tone of this tale, Karrigan, and I think that first-person POV fits it quite well. You did a good job there. No invading someone else\'s thoughts. That\'s difficult to do.\n\nA couple of grammatical errors:\nFirst paragraph - Only Margret, Shannon, and Alexa walk like that, but Alexa wear’s heels.\n\nFourth paragraph - ""I know I’m sending her on a goose chase, but she’ll need friends in the court house."" I think this should be \'wild goose chase.\' \n\nYou have a very long paragraph, about the fifth or sixth one before the final para...', 'time': '13:46 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",1htaal,Homecoming,Rose Belle,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1htaal/,/short-story/1htaal/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Romance']",7 likes,"
	While the rest of the kingdom was content to celebrate Rym’s recent victory, Loke decided he had enough. It had been over a month since he had been able to sleep in his own bed; a celebration of any kind was the last thing needed. How Rym could handle it let alone choose it, he would never know.
	As Loke tried to make his way out, he happened to overhear Rym’s loud, boastful voice carry throughout the hall. No doubt interrupting the other conversations and dragging the people in to listen whether they wanted to or not. It didn’t help that storytelling wasn’t his forte.
	Loke could not help but roll his eyes.
	“You should have seen the look on their faces when they realized I was there the whole time!” Rym grinned excitedly. “Their terror was almost enough to make me stop. Almost. I raised my hammer and then–”
	Loke tried to put as much distance as he could between him and Rym’s voice. He had had more than enough of it throughout their journey. Just one break, was that too much to–
	“Loke! Do you remember what happened after that?”
	The mischief maker had to bite his tongue to hold back a groan. Painting a smile on his face, Loke turned to the crowd. “I believe the others yielded up their weapons after you took care of all their leaders, and I had to persuade you to let them go.”
	“That’s right!” Rym quickly agreed, caught up in the story. “So then as we were leaving, one of the jotunn tried to–”
	Loke slipped off, having no desire to hear the rest of the story. Weaving through the crowds with skilled ease, he saw the entrance of the hall would soon be within his grasp. If he could just–
	“Loke! Please tell us your side of the story?” one of the ladies called out to him.
	It took everything in him to hold back a growl. Still, Loke brought back up a smile, hiding what he was really feeling.
	“There isn’t much to say,” he grinned. “Rym is going over the tale  in the hall. I’m sure you’ll get a general idea of what occurred.”
	“We wish to hear what truly happened,” another lady whined annoyingly. “Rym’s stories are hardly interesting and they always leave out so much. Please tell us.”
	“Another time,” Loke said, though he had no intention of following through..
	“Do you promise?” a smaller, softer voice piped up.
	The mischief maker gave pause and glanced down. A young girl, hardly the age of ten, returned his gaze. Her eyes seemed to plead with him, wanting a chance to hear his storytelling.
	“Sure,” he promised with a smirk. “If you can catch me.”
	Before anyone could respond, Loke slipped away. He held his breath as the heavy scent of food reached his nose. As hungry as he was, his stomach churned at the smell of the strong seasonings the cooks had favored this evening. His belly rumbled in protest at the thought of indulging in such rich foods. Loke couldn’t blame it. He found himself taking its side on the matter.
 A few more steps, he thought to himself, and I’ll be home free–
	“Loke.” A cold voice warned.
 So close.
	Loke glared at the watchman from the corner of his eye. Why did he have to be here?
	“Yes?” he responded coolly though he would much rather rage at the man.
	“It would seem that you were not the one responsible for this scheme.” the watchman replied. “A pity that could not be the case each time.”
	“Is that all you wanted?” Loke yawned. “To admit that you were wrong? Apology accepted. If you’ll excuse me–”
	“Now, wait just a moment–” the watchman protested.
	The mischief maker walked off as another crowd had begun to form around them. He could hear the murmurings of disappointment as he continued on. A smirk formed on his face. Did they wish for a show?
	Loke snapped his fingers.
	Cries of astonishment replaced the grumbling almost instantly. He glanced back in time to witness the fireshow that happened above the heads of the group. The flames danced through the air, painting the story Rym had struggled to do earlier.
	Unease filled the crowd as the fire flickered during its presentation of exactly what Rym did when the lone jotunn had tried to give a surprise attack.
 While his heart is hardly malicious, Loke thought as he dismissed the flames, Rym could benefit in learning how to hold back and show mercy.
	Loke stopped to scan those behind him, gauging if they still wanted him to stay. Many refused to meet his gaze, some outright looking at the ground rather than look him in the eye. Only one, the watchman, glared at him, fury marring his features.
	The mischief maker dismissed him as he went his way.
	Loke heaved a sigh. The noise of the celebration faded into the night. Silence quickly became his only companion as he headed home, his stomach urging him to hasten his pace.
	As he neared the cottage, however, a new scent caught his nose: the smell of burning food. Loke rushed in.
	“Loke!”
	Sigunn, his beloved wife, great with child, was struggling to save what he could only presume was dinner. She winced as he observed the situation before him. Blacken lamb and bread sat on the table while chopped up vegetables lay scattered all over the place.
	With a sigh, Loke stepped forward and helped where he could. I was craving stew anyway.
	“You should be resting,” he chided gently, stealing a glance at her. “The baby’s due any day now.”
	Sigunn sighed. “I know. I wanted to surprise you with your favorites.”
	He kissed her head. “Consider me surprised.”
	She couldn’t help but puff her cheeks out. “Not funny.”
	Loke chuckled. “You can hardly expect me to take you seriously when you make faces like that.”
	“If you’re going to tease me like this, I've half a mind to send you to bed without supper.” Sigunn lightly threatened, being partly serious.
	“Oh, please, my dear, dear wife,” Loke grinned. “Please don’t send your poor, starved husband to bed when he has been so looking forward to coming home after a long, long month.”
	A giggle burst out from her lips, failing to keep the act up. His heart warmed at the sound. Oh, it had been a prolonged period since he had heard it.
	“I’m never leaving again.” he hummed.
	Sigunn gave him a look. “But you love wandering.”
	“Wandering, yes. Going on a quest with Rym or Odin, no.”
	“So what happened this time?”
	“Another jotunn wanted to marry Freja so he stole Rym’s hammer.”
	“Again?”
	Loke shrugged. “Stories of her beauty have reached far and wide.”
	Sigunn rolled her eyes. “Will you tell me what happened?”
	“Perhaps during dinner.”
	She glanced up at him. “Do you not want to talk about it? Or do you need to prepare yourself first?”
	Loke didn’t respond. Instead, he focused on making the stew, hoping she wouldn’t bring it up again.
	With their combined effort, however, dinner was soon ready.
	With a gentle yet firm hand, Loke helped Sigunn sit before serving her food.
	“Will you tell me now?” she asked.
	He scooped up a spoonful of stew and gave it a try.
	Sigunn sighed. “How is it?”
	Loke gave a smile, the first genuine one all evening. “It tastes just like home.”
	She placed a hand on his. “Will you please tell me what happened? You’ve been avoiding the subject.”
	The mischief maker didn’t answer right away. Sigunn didn’t move, waiting until he was ready.
	Taking a breath, Loke began to snap his fingers, intending for the flames to tell the story. His wife, nevertheless, wasn’t having it.
	“I want to hear from you about the quest, what truly happened. Please, Loke.”
	There were several beats of silence as a battle of wills played out before them. One wished for the matter to be dropped and left alone while the other only wanted to help. The former knew it would mean facing old wounds and saying the words he hardly dared to, though the latter knew it would be best for him to talk about such matters so he could move forward.
	Loke knew this and gave in.
	He spoke how they tricked the jotunn into thinking they had truly brought Freja to be wed, how they had responded to being deceived. Loke touched lightly on the battle that occurred afterwards, knowing that his wife had a gentle heart. His voice became softer as he approached the part where the jotunn surrendered when they saw their leaders had fallen.
	“But that was not the end, was it?” she whispered.
	Loke shook his head. “One, foolish and young giant, tried to get the jump on Rym. He had such an unconquerable spirit… If only he knew when to back down. You can imagine how Rym retaliated…”
	The mischief maker looked away, his heart getting caught in his throat.
	Sigunn carefully got up and made her way over to him. Loke didn’t budge when she wrapped her arms around him.
	“It’s okay to cry, my husband.” she voiced, running her fingers through his hair for a moment. “I know it’s hard for you, even after all this time.”
	Loke trembled at her words. He pressed his hand to his eyes as the dam started to break. She just held him while tears continued to fall from his eyes. Soon, he gently pulled her to sit next to him and encircled her about in his arms.
	Neither knew how long they sat there, though not a word was uttered between them.
	It wasn’t until after dinner had been cleaned up and the two of them were preparing for bed when the silence was broken.
	Sigunn offered her wooden comb, a gentle request. One Loke granted. She turned her back to him and waited.
	As he brushed through her thick locks, she asked, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”
	Loke paused for a moment. “Am I allowed to bring you along?”
	“After the baby is born, yes.”
	He thought and pondered her question. “Anywhere our child doesn’t have to live in scrutiny  because of his heritage. I want a life for him where he doesn’t have to hide who he is, or who his family is. A life where he doesn’t have to worry about what tomorrow might bring. One where he can be free to grow.”
	“Where would such a place be?” his wife pressed.
	“That’s the thing,” he answered. “There are many worlds to choose from. Many where we could start anew, where none would know our faces or our pasts. Perhaps there is even one where we could never be found. To be left alone.”
	“Have your previous wanderings led you to such a place?”
	“A time or two. Finding them again will be challenging.”
	Sigunn turned to him, an unspoken question in her eyes.
	Loke placed a hand on her cheek. “I swear I’ll not go looking until the baby’s born, when you are ready to handle things on your own. Not Rym, and not even Odin himself will force me to break this promise to you.”
	She leaned into his touch, a smile gracing her face.
	Yes, there may come a time when Odin and Rym would want to travel again but he would not go with them. The next time he left his home, it would be to seek for a new one.
","July 22, 2023 00:07",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",ukangn,Strange Kindness,Kathryn Menefee,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ukangn/,/short-story/ukangn/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Speculative', 'Suspense']",7 likes,"
Lina could have just left town. Plenty of people were doing that these days: D.C. felt like a particularly dangerous place to be, even if Lina wasn’t sure anywhere else was better. No one had heard from Estelle in months and several of Lina's co-workers’ desks had been empty for twice as long—though, Lina supposed those could have been forced disappearances as easily as willing. (At least their bodies hadn't been discovered yet, eyes open in horror beneath concave foreheads.)Regardless Mallory would’ve understood if Lina had simply stopped visiting one day, might not have even cared.  But there was experiencing the rapid breakdown of society, and there was being abandoned. The former was almost comforting in its impersonality, and the latter—Well, Lina had never fully recovered herself from the latter. She showed up at Mallory’s doorstep with a couple bags of groceries. The grocery store shelves were getting worryingly sparse, but they weren’t empty yet. “Oh,” Mallory said. Her voice was, as always, flat and incurious. “Did we have a…meeting?” “No. I’m sorry—I was in the area.” Mallory didn’t like when people showed up without notice—it was one of the few preferences she still expressed strongly—but Lina knew if she had to tell Mallory in advance, she would’ve never gone through with it. Mallory opened the door wider, as much invitation as Lina was going to get, and Lina followed her inside. Lina walked into the kitchen and started putting away the groceries, while Mallory stayed in the living room; Lina could hear her closing the door to the balcony. Mallory’s food was delivered on Mondays and the cleaner came on Fridays, so Lina always tried to visit in between to fill in gaps. There was a smell today, faint but pungent, and Lina searched around briefly for the source, expecting overflowing trash, rotting food. But the kitchen—as spare and impersonal as the rest of the duplex—seemed clean enough. “Do you want anything to eat?” Lina called. Mallory had taken a seat at the living room table. Through the cut out in the wall between the kitchen and the living room, Lina could see her blank face, her hands flat on the surface of the table.“No, thank you.” “Do you want anything to drink?” “Yes,” Mallory said. “A….” Lina didn’t try to finish the word for her. When Lina had been sick, she’d hated when people tried to plug the gaps in her speech with their eager guesses.“Glass,” Mallory finished.  Lina knew she meant a glass of water.“Coming right up.”Mallory didn’t respond, her face settling back into blankness. It was how Lina imagined Mallory always was, when no one else was around: sitting alone, lost in the thicket of her foggy misfiring brain. But it was too late for Lina to feel guilty. She filled Mallory’s glass. *“Do you think she’s fucking with us?” Estelle had asked, three years before. “Just a little bit?” It had been two weeks after Mallory’s injury. Lina, Estelle, and Robin—Mallory’s closest law school friends—had gotten together to discuss a schedule for checking on Mallory once she was discharged from the hospital. A cousin was in town to help take of her, but they’d heard enough about Mallory’s feckless relatives to rely on him. “She has brain damage.” Lina was already feeling herself getting defensive. “She was attacked.”“Ooh,” Robin said, nervously. “We don’t know that for sure.”Mallory had been found wandering around one of the more densely forested areas of Rock Creek Park, dazed, with blood at her temple, and no idea of what had happened to her. There was the possibility that Mallory had gotten drunk, wandered off, and accidently injured herself—though Lina had never believed it. Mallory was a partier, but she wasn’t an idiot; she didn’t wander around D.C. drunk and alone at night. “Well, regardless, she’s been hurt—” Lina insisted.“I know, I know,” Estelle said. “I’m not trying to—but it’s so extreme. Yesterday, she said ‘sky water’ instead of ‘rain’? Totally straight-faced.”“She introduced me to someone as ‘a known person’,” Robin said. Lina tried not to let her anger color her voice. “It’s called aphasia. It makes it hard to speak coherently. You can’t think of a word, so you grab a word that’s related, even if it’s a little off…”  Lina remembered how it had felt, every sentence like trying to cross a crumbling bridge. “But what if she’s…playing it up a little bit?” Estelle said. “So we’ll be relieved when she drops the act—” “It’s not an act!” Lina found her voice rising, anger breaking through. “She’s doing the best she can; her brain doesn’t work the way—” “Yes, we know, you’re the brain expert,” Estelle said, rolling her eyes. “You got better didn’t you?” Robin said. “After you got sick—you’re better now?” “Yeah, mostly.” Lina’s had spent the latter half of her college years experiencing a debilitating range of neurological issues—brain fog, aphasia, vertigo—owing, doctors eventually determined, to an infection that had gotten into her brain. Fortunately, her brain was young enough, plastic enough, to compensate for the damage, and she'd recovered after about six months. In the weeks immediately following Mallory’s injury, everyone had hoped her brain would recover too. But Mallory was the exact same, three years later. *Mallory’s eyes stayed fixed on some point near the ceiling, as Lina came into the room with a glass of water. “How’ve you been?” Lina took a seat across from Mallory, and placed the water in front of her.  Mallory didn’t answer. Lina remembered what brain fog was like: as if you were submerged underwater, words and stimuli filtering through dimly and belatedly, or else not at all; the way the sunlight never made it to the sea floor.“I’ve been good,” Mallory said, finally. Her eyes met Lina’s, with a flicker of focus and life.“Good. And how’s that project going at work?” It surprised Lina somewhat that Mallory had managed to return to her job after the injury (one of those D.C. government jobs you weren’t allowed to tell people about). Lina had been forced to drop out of school for a semester, because she hadn’t been able to concentrate in class or do her work.But then brains were strange. Maybe it was easier for Mallory to focus on work than on social interactions, even though she’d been so social before.“Good. My project’s about to…it’s finishing.” “That’s exciting,” Lina said, genuinely. Mallory couldn’t tell her specifics but Lina knew she’d been working on a big project for years.“Yes. I will have to...finish here as well.”""You're working from home?"" Lina wondered if this was Mallory's way of telling her the visit needed to be short.""Just--in order to finish things,"" Mallory said. ""We have to escalate.""""Oh yeah, the final push on a project,"" Lina said. ""I get that.""Mallory nodded but didn't reply.This was how conversations always were with Mallory; stopping and starting, needing always to be nudged along. In the early days, Lina, Estelle, and Robin had spent a lot of time trying to get Mallory to recall what had happened to her in Rock Creek Park; how she’d ended up there at 3am on a Wednesday. But Mallory had never remembered more than: “I woke up…and I was there.” (It was the same basic thing hundreds of other people would say in similar reports over the next few years, explaining their appearance in empty fields, wooded areas, abandoned buildings. I woke up and I was there).Eventually, Estelle had moved onto to trying to get Mallory to engage with stories from before the injury—Remember that time you barfed in the booth at Catch & Release?—as if landing on the exact right memory would jar something in Mallory, restore her to the person she’d been before. It had reminded Lina too much of her college friends after her illness, when they still tried to get her to come along to their nights out, even though she could barely talk, barely walk. As if acting if things were normal would make them so. These days, Lina tried to make it clear she didn’t expect anything from Mallory. If Mallory seemed uninterested in talking—or too hazy to manage it—Lina simply let the conversation die. But today, she had something she actually needed to say. Her heart thundering in her throat, she said: “Mallory, I actually—” Mallory got abruptly to her feet. “I need to use the restroom.” “Oh. Of course—” “I’ll come back.” Mallory was looking at Lina was uncharacteristic focus and intensity. “But I’ll understand if you leave before I do.” Mallory turned and walked out of the room, leaving Lina with the horrifying impression that she had known, somehow, what Lina was going to say.  *“I just—I never get the sense that she even wants me there,” Robin had said, two years before. It had been a year after Mallory’s injury, and Robin and Lina were having a rare dinner together. Robin’s tone was beseeching; she was seeking absolution Lina had no intention of giving. “It’s like I’m pulling words out of her. And if she’s not getting anything out of it…”“She is getting something out of it,” Lina said. “She needs people to check on her, and make sure that she has everything she needs—”“But she gets everything delivered. And she talks to her co-workers every day.”  Lina knew that Robin had been talking to Estelle, because these were the same justifications Estelle had used the year before. “And besides, I don’t think…she’s not really Mallory anymore,” Estelle had concluded. “The person I considered my friend—I think she’s gone.” Lina had been so appalled she hadn’t talked to Estelle since. Remembering this conversation only made Lina angrier at Robin, and Robin seemed to recognize it, because she said quickly: “I also—I worry about travel. I have to take the metro, now that I’m in Virginia…”“It’s a twenty minute trip,” Lina said, flatly, even though she knew it was the murders Robin was concerned about. There had been two metro murders in the past month—as violent and inexplicable as the rest, the victims's foreheads caved in like dented pots—though it wasn’t like the metro was to blame. The murders were happening everywhere.“It just doesn’t feel safe—” “How do you think Mallory feels? Do you think Mallory feels safe all alone in that apartment?”“I don’t—” “—because out of all of us, Mallory has the most reason to feel afraid.”  “I know,” Robin said miserably. “I know.”The police had never figured out who was behind Mallory’s attack—or the near-identical attacks reported across the globe in the year since—and as far as Lina knew, the police had stopped looking.Waking up inexplicably in an unpopulated area was the least of what could happen to a person these days.“So what?” Lina said. “What are you trying to say here?”  Robin was shredding her paper napkin into her lap. Unlike Estelle, she hated confrontation; in law school, she’d almost failed her Oral arguments because she couldn’t make eye contact with the judge. “I dread it,” she said quietly. “I make plans to go see her and I dread it, for days beforehand. And then after I leave—I almost feel worse, guilty and depressed and….” She met Lina’s eyes.  “Do you? Do you enjoy it?” “That’s not the point.” “But if she’s not enjoying it…”“That’s not the point either!” Lina said. They had to owe more to each other than that. They had to deserve more from each other.“It might be you one day, you know."" Lina got to her feet. ""One day you might be the one who’s alone and sick and afraid, and then you better hope that the people in your life care enough about you to stick around.”Lina had gone home her Junior year in college on medical leave and had never heard from any of her college friends again.  “Lina, please, I’m—” Robin started, but Lina didn’t stay to hear her protest. She’d left the restaurant in a righteous fury.It had been so easy, back then, to think of herself as better than Robin, and Estelle, and her college friends, all those worthless people who had abandoned a friend at her lowest. To imagine that she would never do the same.*Lina was opening the door onto Mallory’s back porch, searching for the source of the smell, and trying to come up with what she was going to say when Mallory came back. Because she wasn’t going to leave Mallory an explanation; she at least owed her that. With how bad everything’s getting, Lina rehearsed, I feel like I really need to go home to Texas. She had moved to D.C. to make a fresh start of things after she’d recovered, but now she felt the tug to go back, to be with the people closest to her, the same way she had in college after she got sick. But she was one of the few people who still visited Mallory. Estelle had stopped. Robin and her boyfriend had been murdered in their bed soon after that awful dinner.There was no one else. Eventually the cleaning person would stop coming. Eventually the food would stop being delivered. Lina knew she was a hypocrite, for deciding that—under the present circumstances—all she could care about was herself and her family. It was the same sort of calculus, surely, that Robin, Estelle, and her college friends had made, when they had decided the sick friend in their lives wasn’t worth the time or effort of visiting.Did it matter, Lina wondered, that everything was going to hell? Or did that make her abandonment worse? As Lina looked through the windows of the duplex unit next door—seeing what she had feared ever since she’d noticed the smell—she could only wish that she’d left town directly, without visiting Mallory at all. “Mallory,” she called. She left the door to the balcony open as she stumbled back inside. The bodies sprawled in front of the neighbors’ windows—mouths agape, foreheads neatly and bloodlessly dented—were far from the first she’d seen. “We need to go.”The best practice, when you saw a body, was simply to leave.“Mallory!” Lina said again. Lina could feel brain fog starting to settle across her thoughts, blurring their sharp urgency. This happened, under stress: even though Lina’s brain had healed itself, it still remembered the old symptoms and returned to them, like a dog gnawing at an old wound. “Your neighbors have been killed—” And then Lina remembered: Mallory had been closing the door to the balcony when Lina arrived.She must already know they were dead.Mallory walked into the room, but Lina's plea died in her throat. It wasn't Mallory.It was impossible to say what had changed, the transformation was so complete, yet outwardly the same. The body walking towards her was still Mallory’s, but Lina knew, with bone-deep horror, that Mallory wasn’t the one walking. “You....” Lina started, but her words fell out beneath her, collapsing planks on the bridge she was trying to cross. The bodies next door. Robin in her bed. Millions of others, across the world.Mallory had been injured three years ago, and then the world fell apart.The thing that wasn’t Mallory came to a stop in front of her. It held Mallory’s arms loose at its sides, and Lina understood something awful about the anatomy of the body crouched inside of Mallory's body, straining inside of it.Lina reached out for purchase, for any word that would hold—You killed them. You killed them.“...kill,” she finally said. “Yes.” The thing nodded, a human movement made horrible. Its voice was as flat as ever, but smooth, unhalting. “We have been forced to kill. Especially now, as we near the end.""The thing took another step closer to Lina. Lina could almost see the way it would’ve moved unencumbered by Mallory’s body; she thought she would gauge her own eyes out if she ever saw more than that fleeting edge.She needed to run. She needed to escape. But she couldn’t move, her brain adrift in the sea, her body lost to the seabed below.“But we are not an unfeeling species. We recognize kindness.""The thing's gaze was focused and intent, with none of Mallory's usual fogged remove—with nothing left to hide the fearsome, horrible intensity of what it was.It wasn't Mallory. It had never been Mallory.“I have recognized the kindness you've shown me.""Estelle had been right.It made Lina want to scream or retch or rip the skin from her face, but she couldn't do anything, as the thing reached Mallory’s hand toward Lina’s forehead, as it said in Mallory's voice: ""And I will not forget it.""
","July 22, 2023 00:52",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",s12mrh,Lamb,Julia Pietrogallo,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/s12mrh/,/short-story/s12mrh/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Teens & Young Adult']",7 likes,"
 
My catechism class was constantly threatened with hellfire. Like quicksand from third grade science class, or peer pressure from the drug unit in the fifth, hell was one of those things proclaimed inevitable, unavoidable and, the worst of all, of nobody’s fault but your own. And that was not the best thing to tell children, and momentarily, I liked the idea of at least having a choice in such a matter; unfortunately, that indifference I had was not shared, nor well received, especially by my religion teachers. 
 
Yet, despite their previous, futile warnings of thinking that Hell was at all something of comfort, they decided that the only way to combat this was to tell me—when I was at my observable lowest in my nine-year old life, plagued with grief splotched cheeks—that my beautiful bunny would no, not make it to Heaven. Animals can’t go there, silly, they don’t have souls. You, you do, though! That’s why you must try your absolute hardest to get there! She had smiled at me sweetly, sickly—crouching with wringing hands—between wine-stained lips and for a second it looked like traces of blood coated her teeth. All I remember are those teeth, and that smile, and wishing I had never asked. But after those words, my vision shifted to the sickening gray carpet of the prayer hall, where I resided only with three other classmates in the beginning moments of class. And so, my shoes padded to my desk in the middle of the room, and once sat with anything than grace, I tilted my chin in my elbows, upward. And next to the frame of Jesus’ limp, emaciated body that I would be tasked in finding beauty in, I would stare at the ticking clock, and hear its song muffled by the wind moaning at the windows. 
 
I wondered, as I looked upon him above me, when in his death he stopped being God—his blood the only thing he could give—when he stopped being human, and when he became nothing but a lamb.
 
I could not stop staring at Sister Bernadette’s crooked, pink teeth for the rest of that class, the way her dress wafted like bat wings, the way her cross flung against her collarbones in movements of passion. I sat silently and hardened; my welling tears had not fallen, but they were stinging droplets I was all too used to and would have cut my cheeks had I allowed them out. And when the clock finally granted my freedom, the icy outside furthered my subtle shifting to Hellfire, for when I climbed into the backseat of my mother’s car, I fought for room against the fog that creeped in along with me. And my mother, unable to use her strongest headlights, hummed a tune in her abdomen. The backseat was bumpy, clumsy and warm, and the streetlights allowed for moments of light as I blindly picked at the pages of my Catholic study book until they, in proper lighting, looked like they had been chewed up by feasting caterpillars. The Church bells rang behind into the night, I checked on the moon outside my window, and was pleased it was trailing home alongside me. 
 
Everything was blurry, and heavy, and tiring; my eyes were squinted and my cheeks were hot and I wondered if Hell was hotter. I never liked the cold. My mother pulled the car into the garage and the familiar gold-red light attempting to blind me. But the heat had been powered off with the car’s engine, but I craved it again like water. 
 
Days later, when I was dressed in white and lace and Bernadette told me that receiving first communion was like I was marrying Jesus, I suddenly was mad that I had to have my hair done for this. This pins in my curls at the crown of my head seemed to sink my scalp as I knelt upon the altar; is this what they meant by eternity? My fingers, slim, lean, white with tension, wrung together in prayer and my kneecaps felt bruised against the kneeling pads beneath the pews. This all felt weird—I did not close my eyes, and Jesus stared straight away back at me from the tallest place on the wall. I could not recite some spell that would marry me to an invisible man that I did not know; especially one who didn’t let my bunny into his supposed kingdom. My mouth tasted stale and hot as my tongue clicked against my teeth in wait, reminding myself of the wafers they had given us for practice. 
 
I barely heard the priest’s bellow between the dulled sound from my tongue and the blood rushing in my ears. But I jolted when the organ started to blare and when voices, deep canyons and high mountains, announced their presence with a loud hymn. The voices swirled around the Church, streaking through the rays of light streaming through the windows, red and green and blue in their glows. I felt frozen, in some kind of hesitation, nervousness, and my eyes fell back to the man hanging upon the altar, his face crestfallen and his feet seeming to melt from his legs before the nail caught them in place. The other kids clumsily scrambles to get into the line stretching through the aisle, hands folded together and raised against their stomachs to receive this newfound offering. 
 
I wanted to go home. I wanted the warmth of the car and my caterpillar pages between my fingers, not the wafers deemed as “bread”—no, the body of Jesus—feeling weightless in my palms, hands stiff and straight from my ribs. I was hungry, yes, gluttonous—as the sins would tell me not to be—but I did not want to eat Jesus, that was for sure. The paper, wafer, body, whatever it was, went down like sand, and I still did not understand what was to be celebrated about eating a person. It tasted nothing like the sweet tarts they had made us practice with, burning burned in my throat in its dryness, and I wonder if my insides were now branded like some of the cows were at home. 
--
At least it was over, now, I thought, as if completely convinced I would never have to eat what was deemed the Lamb of God. The rest of the ceremony was monotonous, excessive, and seemingly incessant, or at least my stomach’s chastising had convinced me so; breakfast seemed like days ago. My little heels clacked against the Church basement tiles like off-key piano notes, briskly walking towards my friend Sarah as we entered the Church basement after all the after-ceremony formalities and photographs. The room was beige with something sterile, but warm like flowers, yet all I knew was that this celebration allegedly had food, and that was enough for me. I at least deserved a damn cupcake to wash down the flake of flesh sitting uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. 
 
But before I could speak anything to Sarah, of worth or even courtesy, her hand put a wall between us to display a loud crackling of saran wrap and crumbs, a flurry of motion that left a loaf of bread practically dangling between her teeth. I stepped back, caught off my small heels, stumbling. 
 
“Hi!” she said, excited eyes beaming as she spoke through a mouthful of her teeth’s hostages, an erratic wave in her other hand. Her voice was strong against the background of murmurs that started to warm the basement.
 
Though, all I was looking upon was the wrapper she held clutched in her hand and its familiar decoration of blue and yellow upon its front. I held the same bread held across my stomach, noticing how comfortably it rested there with its crust shining beneath the basement lights. It was the gift from our religion teachers—I had taken it from Bernadette with quick and greedy hands, avoiding her eyes—and presumably the Church: a loaf of bread doused with the holiest of water. But my insides twinged momentarily.
 
“We can eat that?” I asked her, a hushed whisper blanketing my voice. “I thought that was supposed to be to shared with our families, or something.” Bernadette’s red teeth glowed in my mind, chomping at my mind’s eye. I winced when my stomach growled again. 
 
She shrugged, her tanned shoulders gracing her earlobes, knocking her little silver hoops dripping from her ear, just dusting the blonde tufts of hair that fell among them. Her top teeth clacked against her bottom ones. 
 
“I’m hungry. It’s just bread.” she said, and I was leaning towards disagreement until my stomach sounded again. 
 
Sarah always had a way of her, where she glowed in a different way than my other nine-year-old friends. She felt like summer and yellow, and maybe pink. But her house was tense air and muddied green walls and doors slamming and dinner tables and fancy plates coated with dust. Her house was down the street from ours, but I don’t think many people ever went there, and I don’t remember much of Sarah being at our small and infrequent neighborhood gatherings down at the Kruglik’s. She was dynamic and mysterious, plagued within her own home, but her friendship was innocent company. 
 
Thus, she convinced me to sneak up the staircase above the Church basement and into the Church’s nave, where children pushing children and parents’ fake-smiling could not be seen nor felt. My cheeks glowed with laughter, and I tried to quell the ache in my stomach by inhaling the loaf of bread, the one that I started to crumble between my fingers as if the offering was a burden. It fell to the rug upon the floor, brown droplets among the red knit, the crumbs upon our shoes like snow. The poor bread—it had been wrapped so prettily, with a prayer card tucked into the twine around the crust, now long forgotten in the trashcan at the base of the stairs before our feet padded upwards. 
 
But as soon as we had settled into the light above the people below, Sarah was grabbed by the arm and hoisted up with a jolt. My chew paused. 
 
Her mother’s eyes, always a wrong shift of blue in them, snapped and bore into her daughter’s matching ones with the twist of her neck. Her posture was stiff, yet crooked, fingers brown with white wrinkles and cracks as Sarah’s skin pulsed between them. Her eyes did not land on Sarah’s face, but her hairline, before dropping to her chin, then her shoulders, thighs, shoes, up again, then down, up and down, finally resting upon her moving mouth.
 
“What are you doing?” her white blocks of teeth fought for space among the yellow ones as her question was laced with something malicious. 
 
Sarah was caught in silence: a fly caught by a black widow. She shoved her mother off her arm, wincing and hissing in her throat, crumbs spewing from her lips as she did. Her mother touched her bicep this time, softer but still pressing, her eyes barely flicking towards me and the lines around her mouth sinking further into her face and drooping towards hell. 
 
“What on Earth are you doing?” it was spoken at Sarah through a low voice, in a seemingly calm composure, laced with rage, but the girl only chewed harshly of what was left in her mouth, eyebrows furrowed. Her mother, Michelle, suddenly became aware of the bread clutched in her hand.
 
“...Eating” she responded slowly, and my knees twinged and I wondered if I should run but I do not want to be seen as prey. Sarah shrugged her whole back as if to shake the being that felt like it rested there. 
 
“Sarah Michelle,” she said her name warningly, ripping the bread from her hand, knuckles white with dryness, as if her daughter’s and her own name were a curse together, “This bread is blessed—you were supposed to share it at dinner tonight.” Her glowing eyes trailed around the Church, always searching in warning for someone’s disapproval or unwanted attention.
 
Sarah’s father had then, in an irony of timing, came in a light jog from the basement stairs, and his soft smile fell to match the deep scowl of his wife’s mouth. Immediately, he refocused his eyes to pretend he was listening as she noticed his presence, and to apathetically give attention to the conversation—beats late, per usual. His frame was stunted by his unmoving place on the top stair, eyes rolling slowly between his daughter and wife. Sometimes he would throw out a small, “C’mon Michelle”, either in embarrassment or urgency, his periphery floating towards me in weariness. Sarah had a version of her father’s soft, lazier eyes but quadrupled the brightness of her mother’s blue.  
 
It seemed unimportant and, well, unnecessary as to why her family was challenging her over bread halfway to her stomach already, but maybe because the blankness in her father’s eyes and the rage in her mother’s were too regular to spark any attention, Sarah did not blink once in alert. 
 
I wonder if you’d expected for her to scream back at her mother in the same voice she gave her, birthed her with. That is what she normally did, anyways, when I would visit her house. The house was always overwhelmingly loud or deathly quiet, but either way it always seemed red with anger. This was anything but atypical, but it still never sat right in my bones no matter how often it happened. 
 
But this, this was different. Sarah’s face had hardened over the agonizing seconds of her mother’s scolding, her words so deep in anger and intensity that they became incomprehensible to my ears. Sarah’s face went completely flat, teeth gritted subtly, but eyes open and blank, also intense. Something was in there, but I am not sure what. I shouldn’t know, I think. 
 
I fled to the bottom of the Church basement stairs after Michelle had broken the tension with a careless knifing question of where my parents were. I did not mind her flatness, and the bottom carpeted step, soft and hot, was no match for the cool under my foot as I stepped off the stairs and onto the tile. I looked through the room for the hair of my mother’s or the curved back of my father’s. 
 
And once I spotted the soft green of my father’s sweater, my legs moved toward the circle of people, loaf of bread still clutched in hand. I bring it up, again, to my lips, and take a piece hostage between my teeth, the color of Sarah’s eyes glowing in my mind. 
","July 18, 2023 20:08",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",shwc9o,A Shock to the System ,Kylie Payne,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/shwc9o/,/short-story/shwc9o/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama']",7 likes,"
 Watch? Check. Wallet? Check. Glasses? Check. Keys? Check. Oh wait, which ones? Mercedes. Check.
	I go down the list of things I have on my person as I walk out the door and head to my bi-weekly lunch with Mom. I map out the route to Chez Oskar in my head on the way to my Honda and decide I'm going to take Fulton Street all the way down. I noticed traffic on Bainbridge, my usual route, as I left my opening shift at the coffee shop.
	I arrive fifteen minutes early, making sure I park far enough away that she won't see me getting into this car when we leave. Mom only ever uses valet, so really I would be okay parking around the corner. But better safe than sorry. The hostess, Shelley, greets me and escorts me to our usual table in the corner of the patio. In the early afternoon the sunlight is just slipping behind the roof of the building, and it illuminates the string of pearls plant in the middle of the table perfectly. The empty water glasses shine like diamonds. There's a breeze today, and the crisp April air bites through my old suit like a snake. I pray Mom doesn't remember that I wore this suit in October.
	She arrives at 2:30 on the dot. Punctual as always. Her amber perfume is so heavy I can almost taste it as I touch her cheek to mine and chirp my ""hello"" and ""how was traffic today?""
	""Oh my word I haven't seen such a horrible wreck at the light on Bainbridge in ages!"" The genuine surprise in her tone worries me, she's very present today. It must be a slow week on her social calendar with Dad away on business. I bet it'll only take a few minutes before she notices that my suit is from last fall.
	Jessica, our server, brings the champagne just as we are wrapping up the greetings. Jessica is also always precise on time. After five years of seeing us twice a month, she's pretty much got our whole lives memorized, and she’s got our greeting time down to the second. She doesn't bother asking us what we'd like for an appetizer, instead she assures us that our bread, olives, and oil are on their way.
	""Something feels familiar about this today, Jeremiah,"" Mom says coolly. I remind her that it might, perhaps, be that we are having lunch in what could be considered our second dining room.
	""Hmm... no. Your vest, I've seen it before. Oh! You wore it on that dreadfully rainy day last fall. Well, what are you doing wearing it again?"" Her South Carolina accent makes her sweet voice change pitch as easily as a bird changes direction mid-flight. She didn't waste any time. I tell her ""No, the color is very similar, but I assure you it is not the same vest."" Her eyelids dipped ever so slightly together, trying to find the crack in my poker face. She didn't press the issue any further. Maybe she's finally learning to relax, I say as another silent prayer while my mind sighs in relief. That was not a battle I wanted to fight at the moment.
	Jessica refills Mom's champagne and asks me what I'd like today. Mom is a creature of habit. She has only ever ordered the grilled salmon. I, however, like to rotate my dishes. Today I ask for the tuna nicoise. It's not in my new budget, but it's the cheapest thing I can order that won't arouse Mom's suspicion.
	While Jessica tends to her other tables and Mom and I discuss the mundane parts of her life, Marco comes by to refill our drinks. Mom is drinking quickly today, and at that I say my third silent prayer of thanks. Her attention to detail usually begins to slip after her fourth drink.
	It doesn't seem to be slipping today, though.
	""So, honey, tell me. How are things at work? Ah! Before you stop me,"" she proceeds when she sees my mouth open slightly in objection, ""don't think I can't see that you're beginning to get forehead lines. Now, I know you're still using the skincare subscription I got you, and Julia just called me last week, so I know y'all're fine. You know you can tell me anything, darling. Really, how's work?""
	Her voice is sweet as honey, and her eyes seem to sparkle with unfeigned concern for me. I watch her eyes dart across my face, scanning me, and I'm almost tempted to cave, to drop all my worries at her feet, to betray the oath of secrecy I swore to myself and explain that, actually, I got fired at the new year instead of getting that bonus and raise we had all celebrated. Then suddenly a memory comes to me.
	I am sixteen, and we are staying at our family home on Folly Island over the summer. Though Mom and Dad both come from old money families, they insisted that I learn the value of real work. No excuses tolerated. When I awoke one muggy morning sweating and complaining of stomach pain, they wouldn't hear of it. I was just a lazy little boy trying to get out of my duties. I rode my bike the five miles across town to my cousin's house where I was to help with the groundskeeping. It was mid-July which meant that, even at 9 o'clock in the morning, the temperature was already in the eighties. There was a storm coming in, too, so the clouds hung low and covered my nose like a warm, wet towel. Twenty minutes into picking weeds I doubled over in pain. My clothes were soaking wet, and I started seeing double right up until I passed out. I woke up in the hospital twelve hours later. My appendix had ruptured. If my cousin had not found me when he did, I very seriously could have perished right there in the garden with my face buried in the dirt. Dad's only response to this was that I'd need to work an extra day the following week to compensate for my lost time. 
	""Jeremiah, sweetie, are you just going to ignore your poor mother's questions like that?"" she asks. Her curt softness pinches me back to reality. An apology finds its way out of my forced smile.
	""Oh, sorry Mom, work is quite busy actually. I was just remembering all of the deadlines I have this upcoming week. I really should be working right now, but you know I hate to cancel our dates.""
	She stares for a moment and pulls her fourth glass to her lips. I can see that she is calculating her next move. I hold my breath as I raise my mental shield, preparing for her alternate plan of attack. I refuse to let her win this round, but I know she doesn't bow easily. But instead of releasing another arrow in the shape of a question, she simply sips her drink and smiles.
	""Okay, my sweet, so we'll skip dessert today. I don't want to keep you any longer. You should get to work if you're that busy."" She waves at Jessica as she walks by; Jessica nods, silently agreeing to bring out our bill. I try to hide the shock and delight on my face at having made her cease fire so quickly.
	I love my mother, and I do hate lying to her, but I simply cannot bear to be patronized if she were to find out I've been unable to get another job. The ""oh, honey, why didn't you say anything? You know your father would love for you to learn the business with him."" Yeah, because that's totally something that he and I both want. I stifle a chuckle at my own sarcastic remark just as Jessica arrives at the table. I reach for the leather folder, but instead of handing it to me, she sets it in front of Mom.
	Mom doesn't flinch. She doesn't hesitate. She accepts the charge with a humble smile, making sure not to look at me as she uses her own pen, that I only just realized she had pulled out while Jessica made her way over, to sign the check. She stuffs a few twenties in as a tip, characteristically generous, and stands up gracefully. Always the lady. She slips into her leather trench coat, flipping her golden-silver hair back into place behind her shoulders, and laughs.
	Her laugh, shrill yet somehow still inviting, snaps me out of my stupor. How did she know? When did she arrange for her card to be put on the account instead of mine? Why didn't she tell me? How long has she known?
	""Oh perk up, darling!"" Her voice is so happy and lacks any prejudice that I could swear I'm dreaming.
	""You think I wouldn't catch on sooner or later? I haven't seen your Benz in the valet line in over a month. You thought just because you had the key I wouldn't know you got that old Honda out of storage? Every time I see you, your eyes grow darker. And you don't laugh nearly enough. When Julia called me last week she said she was getting worried, that you've seemed so distant from her, too. That's when I knew something was up.""
 Julia. Why did she have to tattle on me to Mom? Why didn't she come to me? 
 I guess that doesn't matter now.
	I try to find a rebuttal, a lie, a story to give her that makes her believe she's wrong. But my mind is blank. I am sitting here, trapped, humiliated, shocked. Why isn't she upset?
	""Spare me the questions, peach. I'm your mother, and I love you. If you need help, well, I'm the only person on earth obligated by nature to give you any. Don't look so surprised.""
	But I am surprised. I wonder if maybe she's got her own secret, if she's sick and this sudden glance at death has made her kinder. She doesn't do anything for free.
	As if she's reading my mind, she answers herself by saying, ""no, there's no catch. I'm simply older and wiser, and I no longer wish to hoard this family's money. None of us can take it to the grave. You just tell me how much you need to get by, darling, and it's yours. We can even keep it a secret from your father if you'd like.""
	Again I just stare. The old weight of secrecy and fear seem to roll off of me like water slips off of oiled skin. Shame stays stuck, though, and it prevents me from speaking. So she sits back down, still in her coat, and slaps her checkbook on the table. She writes out a number, but I lost track of the zeros after she wrote four of them. She rips the check out of the packet and, realizing immediately that I don't have the strength to meet her hand halfway across the table, slips it into the breast pocket of my worn blazer. She taps my chest lightly while I continue the struggle to find words. She kisses me on the cheek and walks out.
	My mind is both completely empty and astonishingly loud. How could I have frozen like that? I've got to run after her. I've got to give her the check back, rip it up in front of her, tell her that I'm okay. I have a job. I don't need her charity. Yet somewhere in the depths of my conscious I know I cannot do that. Not only would it wound her newfound motherly compassion, it would also be plain stupid to get rid of free money that I do, actually, need desperately.
	Jessica comes back to make sure I didn't need anything else. I force myself to speak, ""no, thank you,"" and that simple act makes me move. As I begin to stand up and grab my coat, I notice that I feel lighter. My chest is no longer tight with the pressure of choosing my electricity bill or my groceries. I notice the colors of the orchids that line the archway that leads to the patio; the pinks and the purples and the whites are bright as if they were just planted today instead of at the beginning of Spring.
	In that moment I decide to swallow my pride. I had been praying for a miracle, for money to just fall out of the sky, and here it was. Handed to me basically on a silver plater. It was from the unlikeliest of places, but for some odd reason I believed Mom when she said it was a gift, no strings attached and no need to tell Dad. As I make my way back to the Honda, I think of Julia. I decide to buy her flowers on my way home and cook her a nice dinner, her favorite clam chowder. She'll be excited to know that I won't be coming home smelling like coffee beans and cleaning water.
	The birds sing to me on my walk, and the wind no longer touches me. I make it back into my car and smile. As my lips turn up and touch my cheeks I taste salt. I know I'd sweat a little on my walk, I was walking quickly in my excitement, but this isn't just sweat. I'm crying.
	I watch the tears fall onto my lap as the first sounds after the ordeal finally escape my mouth. I laugh and I sob. I sob some more. The whole thing is ridiculous really. Who knew it could've been so simple all along? I laugh again. This time not just at myself, but at the ease of it, the surprise, and the joy I feel.
 Joy. I haven't felt that in a long time. I can't believe I almost forgot it.
	I take one big breath as I allow the realness of the moment to seep into my bones. I pull out the correct key and drive to the bank.
 Phone? Check. Enough gas? Check. Grocery list? Check.
	I go down the new list of things as I pull out of my parking spot next to the basketball court. I decide to take the long way home today just so I can listen to all my favorite songs and sing along.
 
 
 
","July 20, 2023 07:20","[[{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This story pulls the reader in and I think the nitpicking criticism of moms is very familiar. It’s also true that just money can relieve stress a great deal, but I end with questions about the characterization. (I was assigned to you for critique circle, so assume you’re looking for constructive remarks). If I’m supposed to sympathize with the mc, I feel he could benefit from some insight into, for example, his relationship with his wife or his decision to get a coffee shop job. As is I don’t see his likeable qualities. The mom also is suppo...', 'time': '06:52 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kylie Payne': 'Thank you Anne! I appreciate your feedback and encouragement. Thanks for taking the time to read and critique', 'time': '21:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kylie Payne': 'Thank you Anne! I appreciate your feedback and encouragement. Thanks for taking the time to read and critique', 'time': '21:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",k8zh6c,Day Three,Echo Anon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k8zh6c/,/short-story/k8zh6c/,Character,0,['Contemporary'],7 likes,"
I bang the laptop repeatedly against the table in the way that all people believe it might make electronic devices work better: faithlessly, exhaustedly, desperately. Someone behind me tells me to take it out into the bay for a better connection.
 
 
No shit. Really? I truly thought smashing it to pieces on the desk might restore the internet.
 
 
I rub my tired eyes and stare at the crew room door with its dingy white paint, stained and peeling, its dirty glass and notes no one ever read which led to the massive garage beyond. Ten feet suddenly felt like the world’s longest expedition. 
 
 
My cheap Amazon watch reads 07:24. Only an hour and a half off late. I should be so blessed. 
 
 
With a disgruntled groan I drag my weary body into the bay, stepping aside for a day shifter clutching their coffee. We barely have the energy to nod to each other. 
 
 
Ambulances are stacked two and three deep with no one to man them. A crew is checking out their rig in the line, another pulling in from the giant rolling doors at the opposite end, joining the long queue waiting to swap hands from night shift to day shift. I can hear the sounds from fleet as they do the necessary repairs to keep the rigs on the road, scuffed and held together with nothing more than rusted bolts and a prayer. 
 
 
As I reboot my charting laptop the corner of my mouth raises at some newbie scribbling on a vehicle sign-out sheet. Check the oil, the tire pressure, the lights, the horn, the miles… I snort. No one has done that since they were in training. If we actually took the time to write down everything that was wrong with these damn rigs they’d never make it on the road.
 
 
The computer finally connects and I log back in and load my trip recon. Thirteen calls. More than one an hour. Not bad. Not a record by any means.
 
 
I trudge back into the slowly filling crew room to plug the laptop into the printer. After several curse words and punches against the side of the machine the stupid paper finally prints and I staple it to my other paperwork amidst idle chatter. Someone is holding out an EKG strip for the others, debating on whether or not it meets STEMI criteria or the machine was just crying wolf as usual. Someone had taken their post-coffee morning shit and now the stench is crawling into the room to mingle with body sweat and motor oil and the sugary sweetness of donuts someone brought in. I shove my recon in with the pile of other papers and log out my drug box, stuffing it into its allotted locker. When I finally place my middle finger on the time punch machine on the wall (single-finger salute) it reads 07:36.
 
 
Reason for late punch? it has the audacity to ask.
 
 
A keyboard pops up. While someone waits to clock in six minutes late I painstakingly type out “code brown.”
 
 
I might hear about it later, but what are they going to do, fire me? I chuckle to myself at the thought.
 
 
My feet drag as I haul my backpack, lunch bag, water bottle, and seat cushion complete with a sciatica cut-out to my car in the overflowing parking lot. Day has broken and the morning commute is well underway on the bridge above me, a train chugging along outside the gate, the air crisp and smelling of diesel and piss. But I look up at the pale sky and watch the warm air from my nostrils dance into the wind.
 
 
Then drop everything in my arms with a resounding “FUCK!” as I realize someone has parked in front of my car.
 
 
By the time I maneuver the old Subi into an open space and chuck all my effects into the passenger seat of my own car I’m seething. A late fucking call and four charts down only to have to play fucking car Tetris just to get home. Great. 
 
 
07:46.
 
 
I hit the accelerator on the way home, driving like the jackasses I curse throughout the night. My fingers are frozen on the steering wheel and my stereo is cranked to the max, the heater finally warming as I weasel onto the freeway with everyone else. Obscenities fly off my tongue as I muscle my way through the throng of day workers, my fury mounting every time I’m forced to slam on the breaks. 
 
 
I’m doing twenty over as I turn onto my neighborhood street, finally slowing as I see an elderly couple walking their dog. It’s not their fault the system sucks and my company sucks and my job sucks and traffic sucks. 
 
 
I turn my voice cheery when my cat greets me at the door. She doesn’t know why I’m home late, why she hasn’t been fed. I ask her about her night as I toe out of my boots. She wants to be held so I do this, my eyes drooping and my lower back aching as I walk her around the house, turning up the heat, dumping my lunch bag in the sink filled with dishes, inwardly begging her to allow me to put her down so I can get out of my musty uniform. 
 
 
I want nothing more than to faceplant onto my mattress but instead I grab the cats’ dishes and rinse out the wet food they didn’t eat, filling it with more wet food they’d probably waste, adding the drops of calming meds and crushing up the allergy pills, mixing it all in before refilling their dry food and adding the scoop of dental nuggets on top. The second cat darts in through the cat door screaming and skids to a halt in front of her dish.
 
 
Good morning to you, too. 
 
 
I peel my uniform off right there in the laundry room, tossing the shirt and underthings into the washing machine tub and leaving the pants on the floor, its pockets full of the items I would need tomorrow. It’s only the end of day two, after all. Two more days of this before my weekend. 
 
 
My stomach growls as I tug on pajamas, the house still freezing as the heaters strain to warm the small space. A sense of urgency is pressing between my shoulder blades to get everything done, to finally sit down, to enjoy a moment of peace that isn’t filled with feces or bedbugs or cellulitis. 
 
 
I shove my aching feet into slippers and stand in the middle of the kitchen. I need to clean out my lunch bag and put the ice packs in the freezer so they’ll be ready for tomorrow. I should get the dishes into the dishwasher or at the very least rinse them off to get that smell out. I definitely need to eat, the last time I’d had anything had been the cold soup I’d shoveled down in the hospital parking lot at 02:58. I stink and could use a shower but there is no one here to smell me but me and I am by far the least-worst thing I’ve smelled in the last fourteen hours. I need to take my pills.
 
 
This I finally turn to do, the orange bottle in my hand before my eyes fall to the digital clock on my stove.
 
 
08:22.
 
 
“FUCK!” I scream, chucking the Ambien across the room, knowing it is too late to take them. Fuming, I grab an empty jam jar from the shelf because all the glasses are in the sink and fill it with the boxed wine sitting on the counter. 
 
 
By the time my ass hits the couch a ball of anger and resentment is writhing in my chest. I turn on the show I’ve been binging and realize I must have fallen asleep during it last night and have to rewind to a part I recognize. The cat that had met me at the door is sitting at the foot of the couch. I rearrange myself so she can sit on my lap even though it hurts my back. It’s not her fault.
 
 
I give her the Obligatory Night Pets while half-listening to my show. I think back to the code I’d run only hours before, the dead body I’d left on a grungy living room floor. The carpet had been brown and stained and reeked of cigarettes and dog piss. The sheet I’d pulled over the corpse had little flowers on it. The tops of the IO needles were still in his shoulder and shin, the tube I’d shoved down his throat sticking out of his mouth beneath the dry, bloodshot eyes. 
Why do movies always think people’s eyes closed when they died? Because they don’t, they’re peeled open watching me pant over their cracked ribcage while some firefighter fills their stomach with air because they forgot to tilt the head back before shoving a balloon full of oxygen into their slack jaw. 
 
 
I think over the steps performed, the dosages given, the readouts from the machine. Asystole, asystole, asystole, we’d all chimed together, our tired mouths making the words, our exhausted hands making the motions. 
 
 
And no, Hollywood, you don’t shock a flatline. 
 
 
But after everything we’d done, a riot of empty syringes and drips sets and oxygen tubing surrounding us, the dead body was still dead. The medications my partner had painstakingly written down were useless, the grieving widow was still grieving.
 
 
Then we were on another call. Vomiting, I think. Or maybe it was the bug bite one.
 
 
The cat eventually grows bored and jumps away. The television rambles on. The wine empties then refills then empties again. And again.
 
 
By the time my eyes are drooping I don’t have the willpower to face my empty bed and a silent house, so I make sure my alarm is set, ignoring the 5 hrs 26 mins at the top of the screen.
 
 
When I wake on the couch the room is bright but I can tell it’s not time to get up yet. My eyes are dry. I’ve forgotten to take out my contacts. I amble to the bathroom to dig them out before falling onto my bed. I’m so used to sleeping in the daylight that I don’t even bother reaching for the eye mask I’d bought years ago, giddy with the thought of what the night shift on an ambulance would bring. 
 
 
Goldberg Variations, BWV 988: Variato 25. a 2 Clav. rolls out of my phone. 
 
 
I hit the side button.
 
 
Cello Concerto in E Minor, Op. 85: I. Adagio – Moderato comes next.
 
 
I hit the side button.
 
 
Herzlich tut mich verlangen and Ave Maria and Nocturne in E-Flat Major.
 
 
Snooze, snooze, snooze.
 
 
I finally sit up. I pet the cat at the foot of my bed and the one purring by my pillow.
 
 
I lay back down and stare at the back of my eyelids to gather my willpower. 
 
 
Just two more days, just two more days, just two more days.
 
 
With a sigh, I finally rise. 
 
 
I feed the cats, the floor is cold. I turn on the speaker in the bathroom to blast Insomnium, finding it quite ironic, and start the shower, yanking my hair down from the bun it’s been in for two days and groan as I see the time on my phone.
 
 
16:57.
 
 
By the time I stumble out of the shower and rub various creams over my dry elbows and the bags beneath my eyes I’m double-timing. I’m dragging my sports bra out of the dryer where it’s been for a week because I never put my laundry away while brushing my teeth. I’m pulling on my watch while cursing myself for not cleaning out my lunch bag. Protein powder is getting dumped into a Blender Bottle while a needy cat is being pet. I yank a pair of 5.11’s off the hanger and sprint to the laundry room to grab the pair off the floor I’d left there last night, transferring my wallet and keys and trauma shears and chapstick and gloves into my various pockets. My socks skid on the kitchen floor as I tug a can of soup out from the cabinet and dump everything from my lunch bag into the sink with the dirty dishes. I grab a clean spoon from the dishwasher and shove that in with Tupperware and a half-eaten container of sunflower seeds because I don’t have time for anything else because it’s already 17:31.
 
 
A cat is crying as I shove my feet into tattered boots. I take a moment to pet it, to apologize for its hectic start to the day and to promise to see it in the morning before dashing back inside with boots that were so recently on a dead man’s floor to turn off the speaker and grab my phone which I had forgotten to charge and turn on the light above the stove so the cats aren’t in the dark all night. 
 
 
I realize I never even opened the curtains this morning to feed my dying houseplants.
 
 
The sun is sinking as I drive west. I have to duck behind my visor as I battle through traffic once more, sucking down caffeine and blaring the radio to wake myself up. As I’m inputting the gate code an ambulance moseys through the lot and I back my car up to let them out. I wave to the guys on the shift that starts before me as they hit their lights and sidle my car into a spot someone’s just vacated. 
 
 
I say my goodmornings and goodevenings as I join the queue for the time clock. It dings in my time punch at 18:01. 
 
 
A donut box from this morning is still on the table, half a stale maple bar uneaten inside. 
 
 
I fill my arms with my drugs and computer and backpack and lunch bag and water bottle and seat cushion and haul it all to the rig we share with day shift. A young gun is still restocking the IVs and we make our small talk as I arrange everything into its place for the shift. When my partner finally shows we’re already late to log on but I don’t say anything as she tells me about the walk she’d had that morning and I boot up the computer. By the time everything is situated and we’ve checked to make sure we have everything we need – water, coffee, drugs, coats, food – it’s 18:21.
 
 
I send up a prayer to the EMS gods that we get posted somewhere deep and I can close my eyes for a few sorely needed minutes as I hit the button that puts us available. 
 
 
We groan as we get the tones.
 
 
I grab the radio resignedly.
 
 
“Medic nineteen en route.”
 
","July 20, 2023 19:16","[[{'Amanda Fox': ""Oof, a day in the life of a first responder.  It's a slog, man."", 'time': '17:02 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",iozhh0,Metamorphosis ,Lynel Black,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/iozhh0/,/short-story/iozhh0/,Character,0,"['Crime', 'Drama', 'Suspense']",7 likes,"
The walk to the small supermarket took about 10 min either way. It could be faster if she took the shortcut through the park, but that had its own costs which she painfully recalled. She walked the long way. Along the cracked footpath, past the homeless tents, stepping over their faeces and discarded needles. The human refuse of society, slumped in impossible positions, passed out, or possibly even dead. Nobody would notice, nobody cared.
 
Her list didn’t contain much. Scribbled at the top was 2 quarts of Vodka. It was the first thing her mother would notice she was running low on. Not milk, bread, beans, or bacon. And now it’s routine to get two of them each time. Technically she was not allowed to buy them because of her age, but Saeed, the Iranian who ran the store knew all too well that Alice’s mother could hardly make it to the store and back, nor would it bode well for Alice if she didn't get her mother’s medicine. Margot was drinking more and more and only Alice and Saeed really knew it. And of course Omar, Saeed’s son, knew all too well too.
 
The weight of that poison in the plastic sacks would grate on her nerves as the plastic handles cut into her fingers. She needed to stop 2 times on the way home to let the circulation back into them. The tins and the bottle of Coke did not bother her because she would get something out of them, but all the Vodka ever brought her was abuse and pain.
 
Once Saeed almost refused to sell Alice the Vodka when he saw the state of her face. Mom had snapped a fuse while trying to cook in the kitchen and knocked some sense into her with the first thing that came to hand, the hot frying pan. Lucky for Alice it was some flimsy aluminium thing from Dollar General. But Saeed was now a co-conspirator. If he were to inform the police, he would incriminate himself.
 
Margot knew she had Saeed on her hook. For all her flaws, Mom knew how to play people. She honed her skills on dad, till he jumped.
 
The worst bit was getting through that sprung front door with both hands busy, then the climb up 5 flights of steep stairs all ending with the careful entrance. There was no telling what mood mom would be in, so bracing for the worst became the norm.
 
“Is that you Alice?” Margot barked with that raspy smoker's voice that could easily be mistaken for a man’s.
 
“Yes mom, I got everything on the list” she said meekly.
 
“Good.” She answered flatly.
 
As Alice was packing the groceries away in the kitchen, she could see the back of her mothers head on the lounge, and the ever present drone of the TV supplied the soundtrack for their lives.
 
“You were gone longer than usual, I started to worry”, it was not concern that edged her voice though. It was that familiar scorn searching for a target. 
 
“Ahh, there are ever more homeless people on the street and they are taking up more and more of the sidewalks, so it takes longer to walk, especially on the way back with the heavy bags.” Alice answered weakly.
 
“Fucking scum. Pathetic trash. Bring me a bottle you would love”. It always amazed Alice how her mother is able to flip her inflection between venomous disdain and syrupy sweetness. Her mother was an emotional minefield.
 
Alice immediately stopped her unpacking, grabbed a bottle and a glass and brought it to her. Her mother had just lit another cigarette. She did not even take her eyes off the TV as she reached out with her empty hand waiting to be served. Alice struggled with the bottle seal.
 
“Come on girl, stop babying that thing” she snapped with impatience, a shadow of the dark side.
 
She got the bottle open and poured her mother a small amount. Margot kept her hand out and expectantly cleared her throat. Alice poured more. Margot was only satisfied when her glass was half full.
 
“So was that the only reason you took so long?” her mother continued after her first drink. The relief cleared the edginess out of her voice. Alice had thought she was off the hook. Now she tensed with anxiety.
 
“Ah, yeah. There are even more of them out there on the street.” She answered with as much conviction as possible. But it was also true that she lingered to chat with her friend Omar, but it was only a short exchange. Is she timing me? Alice wondered.
 
“It's not that slimy Iranian’s son that kept you? Those filthy immigrants, and now all these pathetic homeless. They’re flushing us decent folk down the toilet” Margot was getting wound up into one of her rants. Alice could feel it and this is where things often got dicey.
 
Margot took another swig from her glass and drained it.
 
“Would you be a darling and refill me” she held out her glass expectantly contradicting the butteryness of the request. Alice obliged and refilled it a little higher. Maybe a little more this time will calm her mood. Immediately Alice lamented herself for such a stupid thought. More! Help! When has it ever helped?
 
“So you didn't answer me” Margot rolled her head around to face Alice holding her gaze with those cold icy blue eyes.
 
“Ah, about what?”
 
“About the real reason you took so long? It's that slimy, dark devil, Saeed’s son, what's his name again?”
 
“Omar” she answered a little too quickly.
 
“Aha, so it was that sneaky randy boy who delayed you. What did he want, or don't tell me, let me guess. He wants to stick his tongue down your throat, and maybe even more, hey?” Margot said with hardly contained lewd venom.
 
Alice was frozen, guilty, and uncovered. Yes, she liked Omar. Ever since Margot pulled her out of school, Alice had lost all her friends. Margot kept her close, and kept her busy. Omar was the only person her age that she had regular contact with, and yes, Omar was cute, and kind. And yes, she dreamt of kissing Omar's full dark lips one day, but she did not dare to hope. Hope was not something that she relied on these days.
 
As she stood there, bottle of Vodka in hand, desperately compiling a reply, Margot sat there boring her interrogating stare impatiently into Alice.
 
“No, it w…” That's all she got out as Margot whipped out her cane from between the sofa cushions and whacked Alice's arm painfully.
 
“Liar!” she harshly said. Alice winced from the stink of the blow.
 
“Liar, Liar, Liar, Liar, Liar, Liar…!” All the time whipping at Alice. She caught Alice a few times on her bare arms then one powerful blow right across the side of her bare neck. In trying to block one of the blows, Alice dropped the bottle of Vodka which smashed on the floor. This is bad, very bad.
 
“Argh the Vodka! You stupid little slut. Argh!” Her mother yelled, staring at the mess with clear distress and rising anger.
 
“You are going to pay for that in more ways than one girl!” And then came a fresh rain of blows. Margot was yelling incoherently in a blind rage. Alice balled up on the ground as the cane came down over and over again. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Most of the blows landed on her back, shins and arms. A particularly nasty one landed right on her fingernails igniting a kaleidoscope of bright stinging pain in her hand.
 
Margot had expended herself, and sat back down heavily to her seat, panting. A light sweat had broken out on her brow.
 
“You trollop. And you are clumsy and useless. How was I cursed with such a child? It was your fathers fault. His bad seed.” she spat at the curled and sobbing figure in the middle of the living room floor.
 
She was not yet finished, “I expect the day you announce you are pregnant with that arab scum’s seed.”
 
“I tell you what you are going to do now. You will clean up this mess, and then you will bring me the second bottle (thank the lords I had the foresight to get two), and then the bathroom needs a thorough cleaning.”
 
Alice got to her hands and knees and began to pick up pieces of glass from the reeking carpet when Margot realised her mistake.
 
“Bring me the bottle first, you stupid girl” she scolded and shook her head with despair at Alice’s lack of foresight.
 
Alice scampered into the kitchen and fetched the bottle and the dustpan. Now somewhat mollified, Margot opened the bottle and filled her glass to the top and took a deep draft. Alice worked in silence with her dustpan, but her fingernails were aching badly and one had already begun to turn an ugly dark red colour.
 
***
Alice had cleaned the bathroom thoroughly just two days before, but she strongly suspected that her mother suffered from OCD when it came to that bathroom. Now standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Alice could see the strike to her neck had drawn blood. She lifted her shirt and checked her back, which was crisscrossed with fresh welts on top of old scars from previous encounters. At least the cane is better than the power cord.
 
 She dare not dilly dally because Margot had an internal clock like an olympic timekeeper when it came to tasks. Margot always said that ‘idle hands are the devil's playground’, so Margot became very good at filling Alice’s day up with tasks, and when there were no more, there was always the bathroom to clean again.
 
Right on cue, her mother howled from the living room, “Are you done yet? You're not frigging yourself in there are you? Dreaming of that filthy arab. I certainly hope not. I have done my very best not to raise a harlot.”
Alice winced from the sermon. It was nothing new. Her mother had long been paranoid of her daughter's chastity, probably because she herself had failed to preserve her own for long. Alice had done the math, in four short years, she will be the same age as her mother when she first fell pregnant, and to add salaciousness, some doubt swirled whether in fact her father did the deed.
 
“Are you listening to me girl?” Margot's tone forewarned a possible second round of beatings.
 
“Yes, I am about finished.” She answered.
 
“Finished what? Frigging or cleaning?” Margot could not help but take another jab at her daughter.
 
“Cleaning. I am cleaning.”
 
“...because it's almost time for you to start preparing dinner.” Alice could hear the slur entering her mothers words. She had the bottle next to her now, so the brakes were off in that regard. Now finished with the bathroom, Alice walked through the living room, past her mother, to the kitchen to start cooking. She could not help but notice the bottle. It was now less than half full.
 
“I don't like the idea of that filthy randy arab ogling you each time you go to the supermarket. All he is interested in is poking you with his dick, then leaving you chained to a crying child for the next fifteen years of your life. A burden that will drain every last drop of energy and money out of you.”
 
“Like what happened to you?” Alice said quite conversationally, but she realised her mistake almost before she was done with the statement.
 
“You dare to second guess what happened to me, what I went through, how it all happened?” she barked from her seat. “You fucking rude and disrespectful tart. I am your MOTHER!”
 
Alice kept her back to the living room busy chopping up an onion. She had no idea what was coming. Margot’s ire had exploded but instead of continuing her triade, she rose, cane in hand, and entered the kitchen. Alice did not hear it over her chopping so it surprised her when Margot's cowardly attack began with a sharp poke from behind into her liver. Alice buckled with the pain and turned to meet a hail of blows to her head and shoulders. She still had the kitchen knife in her hands. There was no malice in the act, but that’s not what Margot wanted to see.
 
“You threaten me with a knife, bitch?” She was visibly swaying and her eyes were bloodshot, Her words were not so legible, but reading her face was enough. First there was a flash of fear, then it was quickly superseded by abject rage. Before Alice could retort, Margot whipped the hand holding the knife with a mighty swipe catching the fingertips again. Alice dropped the knife and yelped with renewed agony. All she could do was hold the wounded hand and crouch so as to weather the fresh rain of blow.
 
Margot overextended herself and lost her balance falling hard to the ground and losing her cane. The sudden silence brought Alice out of her protective pose.
 
“Don't just stand there, fetch me my cane, harlot” Margot demanded, lying on the floor.
 
Alice did as she was asked but as she clutched the object, the instrument of so much pain, something shifted in her. She approached her prone mother, about to pass the cane to her outstretched hand, but at the last moment she whipped at  her mother’s fingertips with a harsh blow. Margot yelped. Her eyes bulged with disbelief and she recoiled as Alice cocked her arm for another blow. The second blow was slow to arrive, as if her mind and body were in conflict about this new idea, but when it landed, the visceral pleasure of revenge overwhelmed her reason.
 
Margot managed to stand and immediately went for Alice, but her fuddled balance betrayed her. Alice nimbly dodged her mother’s attacks. A dangerous dance around the small living room ensued. Alice was in little immediate danger but a sinking realisation dawned. She could not imagine the scenario where this conflict gets resolved and life goes back to normal.
 
Margot lunged again for Alice and missed, just managed to catch herself on the open window ledge. Alice next did something that she would question the rest of her life. Seeing a moment of resolution at hand, she charged Margot and rammed into her hunched back with all her force. Margot tumbled out of the open window and only in a blind panic, did she manage to grip on the window sill from outside. She hung there in her nightie with pure confusion and horror. The alcohol haze was gone from her eyes and a profuse sweat had broken out on her brow.
 
Alice slowly approached the window. She could hear her whimpering mother, somewhere just below. All she could see was the nicotine stained fingers gripping for dear life to the flaking paint on the sill.
 
“Alice help me” demanded Margot. Her voice mingled with the street noise from below. Her voice, desperate and fearful. Alice had never heard it that way and it struck a chord in her which she was not expecting. Exhilaration. She was now in control and she liked it. And over that concentrated exhilaration, schadenfreude. Exhilarated schadenfreude, that's it! That is exactly what she was feeling and it felt good. Very good, and very righteous. Alice could hardly grasp that this is the moment when she could be free from the abuse. Forever!
 
Alice leaned out of the open window now. Her mother's fingers were white with strain. Her arms quivered with her last efforts to stay alive. Her eyes were pasted with mascara stained tears. Rivulets of it ran down her cheeks.
 
“Alice dear, save your mother. I will be good to you. You need me. Imagine what life will be like without me.” Margot wanted it to sound soothing and conciliatory, but the trembling voice betrayed her fear.
 
The last word from Margot sealed both of their fates.
 
“HELP” Margot screamed as loud as she could.
 
Alice could have done nothing. Retreated from the window and the result would have been the same, but she did something else. She whipped Margot’s fingers with the cane as the epilogue of her revenge. The last thing Alice remembered of her mother was the desperate howl of pain and her mother’s bulging eyes retreating rapidly as gravity embraced her for her final date with destiny on the concrete sidewalk far below.
 
***
Alice calmly sat in the courtroom as the judge passed down the guilty verdict. The videos clearly showed the last seconds of Margot’s life and Alice’s role in her murder. But Alice was not perturbed at all. Not with the verdict, nor the sentencing. She was now a new person. No longer a meek little girl, but a predator. The metamorphosis was complete. She was ready to wear the mantle of a stone cold killer, and she liked it!
 
","July 20, 2023 19:46",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",upzs9n,Keeping Up Appearances,C.G Ripplinger,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/upzs9n/,/short-story/upzs9n/,Character,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Sad']",7 likes,"
It was close to midnight when Anna decided to leave the bed and shuffle to the living room. No matter what she tried, what white noise she found on the internet, or what techniques her life coaches or associates recommended, nothing could achieve that blissful REM sleep she desired. Something had latched onto her brain lately, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't alleviate herself from that feeling. It had been a long day, sure. She had several meetings planned for the next day, so there may have been some anxiety. But it wasn't her schedule that was bothering her, nor the workload it entailed. Something distracted her mind, bringing her energy levels down whenever she got home. So instead of her dreams and bed to keep her company, her TV would suffice.
 
Anna flipped through the hundreds of channels available to her, but nothing seemed to stand out like they had done in the past. She was too old for the cartoons she grew up on, the edgier shows were too much, anime wasn't her thing, and she couldn't stand how overacted infomercials had become to fully enjoy how silly they were. There were political channels, but she didn't even enjoy debates about the subject. There were the financial channels, though they bored her to no end. Late night news? There was too much on her plate as it was to also think about potential war or what diseases of the week were coming out. Though as Anna kept a focus on the channels she didn't care for, her eyes kept telling her to avoid certain others until one forced her attention enough to finally look into it.
 
It was a rerun of a celebrity awards show from the two days before. A lot of the stars were still filing into the theatre room. Of course, greeting those celebrities, the reporters from every news outlet or entertainment gossip column. Every star welcomed to the gala as they strode on the red carpet, stopped every two minutes or so for pictures or those burning questions the ""people at home needed to know."" But what was to know? They were here for an event, told they might be getting an award, and finding their seat incredibly excited or terribly disappointed by the outcome. One by one, they were asked the same questions. It was becoming intolerable even for Anna. She was about to change the channel when a certain figure appeared to be the media's next target.
 
She looked young and beautiful. Light peach-coloured skin with ruby red lips, long eyelashes, piercing blue eyes, and her golden blonde hair curled and tied into a pretty rose in the back of her head; something that must have taken at least a couple of hours with a stylist to get perfected for the event - not that she'd know. Her dress was nothing short of beautiful as well. It was red, shimmering with what could be considered gems dotting the entirety of the attire. Form-fitting, shoulderless, showing just enough cleavage that illustrated that she was still a modest individual but a mature woman. Her footwear showed as much flare, being the same in redness as sparkliness. It was only a half heel – a smart move on her part since anything higher would have destroyed her feet getting home.
 
What was most striking about the woman was how happy and excited she was to be there. Her bright and expressive smile was offered to everyone who stopped her along the way. She exuded jubilation, perhaps because she was nominated for supporting actress in one of her movies, or she was genuinely happy to be there. Anna couldn't tell which was right, though she longed to have even a fraction of that woman's enthusiasm later on.
 
""Tell us, Miss Swann, who are you wearing today?"" the reporter asked with the same energy level as he had given several others.
 
""Ah ha, well! I'm wearing a Mr. Khan original with ruby dust glitter and satin silk polyester. The shoes were also made by his team.""
 
""Just, wow, you look so beautiful today. Now, I'm sure the audience at home wants to know, do you think you'll win today?""
 
Miss Swann giggled at the camera playfully, but Anna could only roll her eyes. She knew it was a fake laugh, but did it have to be played up at much? 
 
""Oh wow, that's really hard to answer, you know? Like, many talented ladies in our industry today work so hard in their craft. And, like, I know I only just hit the scene a year or so ago, but I have a fair chance! The nomination is pretty sweet, right?
 
""I would say so!"" the reporter said with as equally a fake smile as hers. ""But speaking of your relatively short time on screen, has it been hard for you to adjust at all to scheduling for scenes or rehearsing your lines?""
 
""You know... Okay, so I was a country girl all my life, right? And I was raised by a simple family with the expectation of working hard to get where I want to go. Now it's making sure things are done at this time, and I have to make sure of this and that, report to so-and-so by this time for this scene, or making sure my agent knows about this thing and- Hoo, It's all a little too hectic for me. But I can still say I am following my daddy's advice about working hard, and I certainly know where I want to go from here.""
 
""Do you ever get a chance-""
 
Anna paused the playback on her TV and gazed upon Miss Swann with a tiny sense of reverence. This woman had everything figured out in her life, how well she knew the trajectory of her path and how to best get there. On the surface, Anna enjoyed her job and loved the life and luxury that came because of it. And she remembered where she came from, how she mentioned her family and her daddy's lessons.
 
""So why am I like this...? What's wrong with me?""
 
Anna looked into the TV once more. The woman on the screen looked happy. The entire time at the gala, she was happy. She met so many amazing people that exchanged numbers with her and promised to meet for lunch at some point in the month – schedules and agents permitting, of course. She didn't win her best supporting actress award but was genuinely proud of the woman who had. She felt pride in herself that so many people cheered her name, from other fledgling actors to veterans in the field. She danced at the after-party, drank the finest champagne, and even flirted with some of the stars. She had the time of her life at the gala.
 
And yet, for how different this woman was on the screen, she was still the same person sitting on the couch at that very moment. She was still Anna Swann. The same woman who was experiencing this bout of melancholy she couldn't get rid of nor understand why it existed. But then she furrowed her brow. A lot happened at the gala, and added to the drinks she consumed, she couldn't remember much. What was that reporter going to ask? She put the playback for a couple of seconds and resumed.
 
"". . .I am following my daddy's advice about working hard, and I certainly know where I want to go from here.""
 
""Do you ever get a chance to talk to your folks with such a busy schedule?""
 
""Mm, not as often as I like. But! I know I'm in their prayers as they are in mine and that they're watching me on my aunt's big screen with the rest of the family. So I just want to say hi, boys! Hi Aunty Bea, and hi Momma and Daddy-""
 
She paused it once more. She thought about the last year, from auditions to rehearsals. From the first utterance of ""action"" to the last ""cut"" before the wrap-up, Anna had been sequestered in a small trailer and her home with little time for herself. It had been twelve hours of daily shoots and reshoots, makeup and lunch. Every day she had been exhausted but knew the hard work would pay off. She spent so much time focusing on what was ahead of her she had forgotten was she had left behind. Who she had left behind. It was only when her heart had caught up with her mind that she finally realized why she was feeling the way she was.
 
Without hesitation, Anna ran from her living room and back to her bedroom to grab her cell phone from her nightstand. Her fingers were blitzing across the screen, dialling her home phone number back in Kansas. She tried gulping down the knots forming in her throat while listening to the ringtone. Three rings passed. Then five. Anna began to fidget in her bed until...
 
Click.
 
""Mm...hm... Hello?""
 
Anna kept fidgeting, now realizing it was 1am where she was, which meant it was 3am back home. She bit her lip, embarrassed to call so late, but knowing she had already disturbed him, Anna knew it was better to go all in.
 
""Ah, hi, Daddy.""
 
""...Sweet pea? Wh-what's wrong? Why you callin' so early in the mornin'? Everythin' alright?""
 
 
""Y-yeah, Daddy. Everything's fine. I... I just miss you guys...""
 
The conversation was brief since her father had to work in the morning, but the two promised to catch up with one another while she had downtime between projects. Anna turned off the phone and let it rest gently on her nightstand. She felt the tears roll down her cheeks, but her lips showed her true feelings. Anna let herself smile once more. It was genuine and a lot brighter than she saw on TV.
 
","July 21, 2023 01:25",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",0c73hc,SORROWLING,Manny Arcaro,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0c73hc/,/short-story/0c73hc/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Fantasy']",7 likes,"
 
 
Once upon a time, nestled amidst rolling green hills and enchanted forests, there stood a fairy-tale castle that shimmered like pure gold. Its carefully constructed towers soared to the heavens with elegance and grace. 
As the first rays of dawn danced upon its golden walls, layer by layer, the castle came alive. Each tower was adorned with intricate golden filigree, delicate as spun sugar, and embellished with chains of polished gemstones that gleamed like stars. The windows sparkled, painting the air with a breathtaking tapestry of joy. Bathed in the early morning sun’s gentle embrace, it cast a magical spell upon all who beheld its splendour. 
Gardens bloomed at the castle’s tightly laced feet, an explosion of life and beauty. Flowers of every kind, their petals as soft as silk, flourished in vibrant arrays, bursting with colours that rivalled the castle’s own resplendence. Butterflies flitted on wafts of Chanel, with pearly wings that matched the petals radiant hues, spreading delight and magic wherever they alighted. 
The winding pathway that led to the castle’s grand entrance was lined with trees adorned with leaves of shimmering silver and branches that swayed gracefully, whispering inhaled secrets none could comprehend. The air itself carried a sweet fragrance, a blend of blooming flowers and the promise of Elysium. 
In every corner of the castle, there were rooms filled with laughter and joy, where pillows were plump with dreams that murmured sweet lullabies, unicorns roamed and fairies danced upon sunbeams, spreading forced laughter and cheer. 
Every day, the castle welcomed visitors from far and wide, offering them respite and great service. It stood as a symbol of potential, its smile a beacon of reassurance, its cheerful tone a reflection of impeccable service. 
 
“Damn it, when is he finally going to get this starter engine fixed? It always plays up when I’m driving, never for him. Elle, come on! You’re going to be late for choir practice.”
“I’ve been ready for ages Mum.”
“Then why aren’t your shoes on? Don’t forget your gym shoes today too, you have sport.”
“You didn’t tell me I need gym shoes. Where are they? We’re going to be late.”
“You have sport every Tuesday, it’s about time you started taking some responsibility, you are thirteen now.”
 
He could never organise himself either….. Chink.
 
“Oh Elle, the velcro on your bag just snagged my stockings. Be more careful, I’ve got a run now. No time to change them. Quick, into the car.”
 
Inside the castle’s towering doors stood a lofty hall bathed in golden light, its walls adorned with paintings depicting tales of love, bravery and triumph. The ceiling was a celestial sky promising endless possibilities and limitless wonders, where dragonflies flit lightly across the steppingstones of Styx. 
Chandeliers that dripped with heavy crystals cast a radiant glow upon the dancers below. Sounds of enchanting elegies echoed through the air, filling hearts with hope and the belief that dreams could come true. 
Nestling deep within its cosy depths lay a small room, concealed like a hidden treasure. With shabby walls were adorned by memories as soft as flickering candles, and the musty scent of a child’s breath plucked from a delicate bloom of the past settled lightly upon the flames. Its doors were firmly closed, set aside temporarily, tenderly, like a precious burden, to navigate the dance of responsibilities. 
One day, a small creature approached the castle, footsteps light. A Sorrowling, no larger than a teardrop, adorned with iridescent wings resembling the finest spider silk, shimmering with hues of grey and blue. The peculiar being, drawn to the shadows of grief, fed by the weight of sadness upon its tiny shoulders, entered the castle unnoticed. 
 
“Bye Mum.”
“Bye Ella, see you after school.”
 
Don’t go, what if I don’t see you again either. Chink. 
 
News headlines on the car radio go unnoticed as she draws a deep breath, adjusts her grip on the rock and braces for the uphill day. Push. 
 
“Morning Annie, there’s mail on your desk.”
“Thanks Rach. That a new shirt? Nice.”
Dear Sir/Madam, I am writing to ask your assistance/to complain/to remind you…. Push. 
She is lucky, she knows. She has a job, she has Ella. She has a smile on her face, hair a well-coiffured helmet and an assortment of Lancôme products in her purse.
 
And so begins the delicate uphill dance of commitment and deception, service and struggle, ceaseless, lonely determination. Push. 
“You like to join us for lunch break Annie?”
“Sure, I just feel like a coffee though.”
“Not eating?”
“No.”
“How was your weekend, Sal? Did the boys play soccer? How did Joey go?”
Push. It’s heavier now, steeper. She breathes deep and digs her wedge heels in. 
 
The Sorrowling wends its way through the castle corridors, with its wings reflecting the rainbow light of the midday sun, beating a lachrimae of sighs from a happier life, transposing rising melodies into minor descents. The creature bears a gift, crystalline tear, glistening with the collective pain of mothers past. Its tiny shadow skitters with a soft ethereal touch along the castle walls, tracing delicate patterns upon the golden surface, leaving behind trails of melancholic dust. Chink.
 
Awash in a sea of ringing phones and clacking keyboards, she is a beacon of reassurance, a problem solver, a happy face. 
“Hello, how can I help you today?”
 
How can she do this, continue on like normal? Does she not love him? How long since she last thought of him? Minutes? Hours?  Chink.
 
“Annie, can we have a meeting later, just need to cover the contents of your report, tick it all off.”
Her breathing is becoming more laboured now, the effort a dull heavy weight. Lone Sisyphus.
“Sure, time?”
“After the call lines are closed.”
That’s after pickup time, will have to message Ella, tell her she has to make her own way home. Again. 
 
Wait, I promised myself. Things are different now that he’s gone. Remember what they say, the only person to remember you worked late will be your kids. Did he feel neglected? Chink.
 
“Actually, I have to head off at 3.30, but could we do it by zoom after dinner? 8.30ish?”
“Well, ok Annie, just this time.”
Ugh, will this count? Will I get the promotion? Does he think I’m lazy?  Push.
 
The Sorrowling drifts upwards towards the ballroom’s celestial ceiling, storm clouds threatening from the alcoves. The rain swelled river has washed away the steppingstones and all hope of crossing. The creature’s tears fall gently onto the floor below, an ethereal liquid that seeps into the castle’s foundations. Sorrowful droplets slowly eroding the strength and resilience of the golden walls, creating cracks that mirror the fractures of a broken heart. Chink, chink.
 
INBOX:
Hi Annie, just a reminder that your budget was due in last Friday. Am hoping you might get it in by tomorrow when I have to present it to the board. Wouldn’t want you to miss out. Will be up until late tonight if you want to run anything past me. Regards, Paul. 
 
Damn, haven’t even started. 
 
Hi Annie, would you mind sending me through the membership forms from last year, I seem to have misplaced them. Sorry to bother you at night, but I need to get them signed off tomorrow. Everyone’s on my back, you know how it is. Cheers, Susie. 
 
Lazy, I’ve sent the through twice already, she just doesn’t want to bother looking. 
 
Hi Annie, we’re on morning tea duty this week. Thought I’d bring something in on Friday, bit disorganised. Can you manage tomorrow? Ta, Tina. 
 
Will have to pick up some packets of Tim tams when I get fuel tomorrow. 
 
MESSAGES:
Hi love, remember, be gentle on yourself, it’s early days. Take time out and relax, you need it. Mum xx
 
Hi Honey, my flight on Friday has been delayed, will be back late evening. Love you, Pup xx
 
CarCare reminds you that your car is due for a service, follow this link to book in. 
 
 
Yeah, right, time for me. Later maybe, with that fresh bottle of shiraz in the cupboard. It’s going to be a heavy night, I’ll need it.
 
Nearly at the top of the hill. Just a little more. Mask on. Print out the report. Push.
 
I wonder what he’s thinking.
“Are you there, son? Are you watching me? Why? Why did you go? Can you see the pain you’ve left me in? Was my love not enough to keep you?” Chink.
 
The vibrant colours that once adorned the castle’s porcelain mask fade to a sombre grey, the filigree tarnished, the gemstones dulled. The gardens, once teeming with life became tangled with knots, their blossoms wilted, and petals smudged. The butterflies fluttered weakly, delicate wings unable to carry their sorrowful weight. Chink.
The dusty room beyond beckoned exploration, drawing the Sorrowling with its silent symphony of whispers. Its haunting melodies that once enchanted now echo as mournful dirges, a lingering requiem for lost happiness. Chink. 
 
Why can’t I focus? I have to get this done tonight. Push.
 
I remember his little feet knocking against my shins as he sat on my lap while I worked. My boy. My baby. Chink. 
 
No, not now, you can’t indulge, can’t go there now. Just finish these totals and send the report through. Push. 
Push this sorrowful weight up just a little longer. Hold it together. 
 
I remember how he’d thump the keyboard when doing his homework, words drawn out of a rock as big as mine now is. Chink. 
 
As the Sorrowling reaches the little room’s door, it pauses. Is it time yet? Can it enter? Take the irrevocable step that cannot be undone?
Memories gently reach out from within with fingers of generous longing. Their soft touch is not without sweet pain. It is a tender ache, akin to a solitary tear rolling down a cheek. Yes, the time is nearing. Chink. 
 
SENT BOX:
Hi Paul, please find my attached budget. Numbers are approximate, I’ll double check tomorrow. Regards, Annie. 
 
The rock’s weight feels impossible now. Push.
 
Hi Susie, can’t find those membership forms, but I’m sure they were attached to my emails last week. Perhaps try there. Sorry, Annie. 
 
It’s slipping, how long to the end? Push. 
 
Hi Tina, no worries, I’ll do some biscuits tomorrow, nothing fancy. Annie
 
Fingers bleeding, shoulders aching. Push.
 
The Sorrowling shuffled into the room, instantly wrapped in the bittersweet embrace of joy and pain. Memories of the child’s radiant face, innocent mirth and forgotten laughter form notes of a stolen song. Agnus Dei. The pain of absence resonated in a crescendo of whispers, a wistful reminder of stolen moments from a child, a boy, a young man, his untrodden paths, and unspoken words left hanging. 
Now is time. The walls started to crumble, chink, chink, chink. The air filled with grief and the Sorrowling was finally home, sweet home. 
 
Last push. The rock perched perilously at the top of the mountain, she logs out of her computer and places her cracked mask carefully on the desk. 
Done. 
Finally, a sweet fall into solitude, into the embrace of grief, home sweet home. 
 
My little lamb. 
Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You know I love you. I didn’t understand your pain. Why you saw just one solution, one end. There were options, we could have helped you. Locked up in your room, in your distorted mind, in your mistaken destiny, where was the key? I’m your mother. I should have known. I’m sorry. 
 
And the shiraz bears silent witness to the mother’s pain, trying to avert its eyes from the ruination wrought by the Sisyphean descent. Holding her up until the despised morning comes. Time to put the mask on. Time to push.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 21, 2023 03:11",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",0cg9ag,The Z Feels,Matvii Fedorov,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0cg9ag/,/short-story/0cg9ag/,Character,0,"['Mystery', 'Sad', 'Fantasy']",7 likes,"
Warning: strong language, mental health issues. (?)The city is filled with an atmosphere of stability and decay at the same time: dank streets; cloudy weather; concrete jungle; and a mass of people, seemingly going somewhere, aimlessly. Looking at all of that landscape, it could give a feeling of decay, sadness and over looming desperation. Rin sees that scenery from his window for quite some time in his life.Days of his are like any other. He wakes up from his white slightly crumpled bed, washes his slightly wrinkled face, makes a quick sandwich out of the closest low-cost groceries ingredients, looks up in the window for some time, dresses up in his grey and white suit with black-and-white bowtie and black pants and goes outside. After that, he takes a surface subway that goes beneath the tall buildings. Someone, in stampede inside the wagon, spilled the coffee on Rin’s suit. Usually, people in this city are irritated by such a situation. But Rin didn’t care that much; he was slightly happy, even. Walking from the subway towards his job, he sees the inspectors. You can spot them right away: pointy hats, leather suits and such. They usually seeing if someone have the right behavior in the society, and arrest those ones, whose emotions and manners are... “inappropriate”. Rin goes to the stocks and makes counts for any sort of product his employer company has. At work, he communicates with people who seem to just exist and nothing else; Rin doesn’t take it as a downside, surprisingly. After finishing his duties, he goes the same route back to the apartment, going to sleep, to repeat the same working routine. Time, after time, after time.There is one exception, sometimes.Back in his apartment, Rin was getting ready to have a dinner. While sitting on the bed, resting, he got the unnerving feeling behind him. Like the dark smoke has appeared and whispers with blows of cold in Rin’s ears. He got a feel that, finally, he should do that once again.Down the alleys, Rin goes to a personal shrine, looking around, so no inspectors would be nearby. It’s located deep down in the slums of the city, way away from everything glooming and booming in the center. In this shrine, the only things are two toys, plushy bunny and bear, with big plastic eyes, and a pencil with googly eyes attached.He stands in the middle of this “sacred” place of his. He’s dancing. Rin have so much energy and free-mindfulness, that he goes in flow, painting the space around him with vibrant emotional colors, like he became the lighter of such dark place.Move to the left, move to the right, he goes dancin’, he does crime.So much moves, that bunny, bear and pencil with googly eyes joined him in the flow. More dancing, more moves, more plushy-mushy switches of little fellas all around. That is the relief. Finally, the eerie feeling on his spine has faded away. And finally, more moves! Here we go! Here we go! Here we…The morning is like any other morning. Waking up, breakfast, subway, pointy hats, and work. It continues with the usual flow. Rin tries to hide the happiness of yesterday and go with freshness in mind.Rin goes past the corridor, full of “the Z feels” slogan posters that give intimidation for most people. Even nearby passing-by colleagues are becoming afraid of those posters with big ominous “Z”s in the middle.Rin is assembling the paperwork for the next daily count. He is standing in the big office room, mainly designated with sectors for office workers.“You have a coffee stain”, said a soft, but sad voice; this sadness, for some reason, felt fake for Rin. “On your shirt, there”. Her finger points to the stain on the suit that Rin got a couple of days ago. It has already dried out.He lift his eyes up, full of played anguish, to look up at her. Her appearance is mainly slim: thin hands, and legs, but, surprisingly, a rounder face and symmetric bob cut, like a drawn figure. She’s wearing a long skirt and a strict greyish uniform as well.“Thank you”, answered Rin, bluntly.“Yeah, sure…”. Then she started watching her as Rin drop down his haze to papers. “Umm… Why didn’t you clean your suit earlier? It’s not the first day I see this stain”“I washed it, but…”. Rin’s voice started to sound funny. Then he whispered, “Why you were watching me?”“Um, I don’t know”, answers the girl with quieter whispers. “Maybe because you have a coffee stain that is dried out for a couple of days”.“But why me? A lot of our colleagues here have those stains. Did you point them out about it?”She took her eyes away.“That would be… Not that… Interesting to point out to them”. She looked like she wanted to make a small “he-he”, but she saw a pointy leather hat in another corner of the big office space, that stopped her.“Melli, you shouldn’t be here”, said a tired, mediocre, blank voice close to Rin and, as it’s unraveled, Melli.“Gomaz, I’ll come and do the necessary responsibilities. Don’t worry about it”, friskily said Melli.Here comes Gomaz: bulky person with a big belly and a mangy suit that just resembles his indifference to himself. He seemed to show some “power” of the server of this society.“Melli… Listen. I have a beeper here. I can call inspectors and tell them what you are doing here. With all of the… Jokes, remarks… That is disgusting. Or I can just ask this inspector right there, so he could help us resolve the inappropriate behavior”“Well”, answers Melli calmly “you know that we are allowed to chuckle by law, right? Or is works like Z is going to eat my brains or…?” Rin gives a look to Melli, providing a message that she should stop. Gomaz makes a sign.“Just finish it. I don’t care” Gomaz leaves the scene as he whispers something similar to “How is it even allowed…”Since that moment, Melli and Rin had some sort of connection together. They seemed much closer than they could be.The mornings are like any other morning since then. Waking up, breakfast, subway, pointy hats, work, talking with Melli, walking with Melli, having dinner with Melli, talking some more... Seems like Rin feels the sense of connection and protection with her. He sees her... And he's filled with sheer emotions of tranquility.They're having so much fun together, at least how laws and society allow it to have. No, maybe even more than that. Rin and Melli could go on walks, making jokes about everyone else and... Laugh?! In a public space?! That would be unacceptable! However, for some reason, Rin and Melli have not been arrested yet. What a miracle!Sometimes, he goes to the shrine to groove, as usual, dancing with Bunny, Bear and Pencil, but it doesn't feel right. The darkness still makes a return... Something is wrong.With time, after 3 months, he is figuring it out. Another inside urge arose.He wants to reveal his secrets to her. In sometime in the future...""You started to look like an inspector. So serious"", Melli began to smile slightly. They were going by the alley, where there is easy access to the shrine.So “the future” is really near.""You have something in mind?"" Melli continued.Rin seemed energized.""I would like to show you something""Rin brings her to deep dark slums, between shadows.""What are we doing there? I don't think there are some stores over there"", Melli started to be concerned. “Or restau…” She noticed the rounded space, plushy toys and a pencil with googly eyes.Rin stands in the center. His feel is the vulnerable he can get from the semi-reserved attitude in the outside world. This is his, personal, pocket world, that he, finally, decided to share with another mind. Mind, that is close to him.“I couldn’t hold it for long. Melli… Do you think fun is going to be great for us? Even in this kind of world, where we are not sure if we can smile or giggle… So funny to say those words out loud”“Uhh, yeah. It… feels great. While, we are taking a walk after work, dining together, sharing time together… It’s all fun, so… What are we doing here?”Rin is intrigued to share himself to her. He started to move with his arms around himself, starting to charge himself for much more courageous moves. His spine and body goes in wave motion, left and right, going sides. Bunny, Bear, and Pencil are all waking up, all funky and groovy, in a great, positive mood and greatness of the fun! Rin have just “blew up”: he started dancing chaotically, enchanting some awkward, but spirited sounds to imitate music.Finally, he’s grooving again… Showing, how fun it could be to…“What the fuck is wrong with you?”That. Is. The reaction he get. He stopped. He is seeing such terrified eyes, full of panic and fear that he have never seen in his entire life. Confusion, despair… It’s all there.“What’s wrong? You said that you’re like when it’s fun…”“Get off me!”“Bu-”“GET OFF!!!”Melli falls on the floor. She bloats a foam from herself, in disgust of sheer atrocious, severe immoral acts, such as happy dancing and partying.“Sick fuck... Sick fuck! Y-you’re sick fuck!!!”“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you”“And you will not hurt anybody again!”. Rin heard a click. Realization. The beeper. “I’m in some sort of slum site at South. H-help me, I’ve been brainwashed! Please, save me”. *click* “So inappropriate, so inappropriate”. Rin is getting desperation in his heart, but he cannot to feel fully intact with the situation. He is still in the mood of dancing and lonesome partying, so it could get really confusing for him.""I-""""SHUT UP! NO, SHUT UP! NO MORE OF YOUR “SWEET” TALK! I almost fall under it! I was so down the spiral with the giggles and smiles. I forgot about productivity, about life, about anything ordinary people live with. What is the sense for... whatever you are doing here??? No one's dancing. No one's partying! Why you then... I cannot already""She tries to get away from this place with a sense of existential disgust to Rin. He has been stumbled, not understanding, what happened at all.A group of people with leather coats and pointy hats have found them and pressed Rin to the ground.Some time has passed. The day is usual: sitting in the cell, waiting for the decision. His thoughts are getting deeper, about what has he done before, how he was just having a relief. How he made the mistake that he has found a person who will not be shocked of his actions and desires? He feels so much cold behind him. Paralyzed, everything goes darker, until the great emptiness, when he cannot see and comprehend anything.There’s the light. The cell opened. Two people are standing outside of it, waiting for Rin to come out.They’re bringing him between the narrow corridors, towards the staircase. It goes deep down the surface level, and by the end of it – there’s darkness and two red lights near the entry doors.Usually, those, who have such inappropriate behaviors, like dancing, smiling, laughing, or conveying any positive emotions, are seen as criminals. They are sent to prison with “brain correction” assignments, to turn them into the “fixed cog” for the sake of the community; people should have negative emotions, because “it’s for everyone’s good”, as propaganda says. And usually, when it comes for genuinely joyful and cheerful – they’re the ones that are fixed. Those with pure joys. But not those, who hide. They have a different fate.As two inspectors and Rin went down, they entered the elevator. As it goes down, concrete is switched into stone, if look from the inside of the cabin, that have no doors and walls, just a framework.Elevator stopped. They’re here.It looks like a cave, full of candles, pair by pair. They all go through this alleyway, slowly and calmly. Rin moves slowly because he still tries to understand. Dances, toys, meetings, reveal, shock, cell, cave… He just wanted not to think already. Inspectors move slowly, because they know, where they are bringing him. To whom to talk with. Seemed like talking would be worse than literal brainwashing. Although, the difference between both is mere.Here are the doors, made of some sort of dark wood. Menacing and towering inspectors are opening them for Rin to enter.There’s the podium, where he stands still, looking out into the darkness. But Rin’s thoughts are enveloping him again. He has the urge to dance, to cope with that.Silence.Then… the silence has been broken. Rin could hear the towering, deep voice that seemed like striking just through his body: like it wasn’t from outside, but from the head, entering the thoughts.“YOU ARE ALREADY THINKING ABOUT RETURNING TO COPE”Rin, for some reason, seems not surprised.“That’s what I want”“WHY DO YOU WANT IT?”“…Because. Because it gives me joy. And could give others joy.”“WHY DO YOU THINK DANCES AND SONGS WILL CHANGE EVERYTHING? DID YOU ASK SOMEONE ABOUT THOSE ACTS? HOW WOULD THEY REACT? IT IS A CRIME, SO, FOR SURE, EVERYONE WILL BE AGAINST IT”“Melli was fine with it…”“AND HOW’S THAT TURNED OUT?”Silence. After some time, Rin noticed in the front, and what he discovered, make him stumbled. Stuck. Yellow eyes. Four of them. Tentacles. But they’re still, without a move.“RIN. YOU’RE HERE BECAUSE I WOULD LIKE TO THANK YOU. FOR THE OPPORTUNITY. FOR THE IMPACT ON THE EMOTIONAL CLIMATE. YOU WOULD THINK YOU’RE HERE BECAUSE OF HOW HAPPY YOU’VE BEEN. IT’S A BOGUS ASSUMPTION. I’VE RARELY SEEN A PERSON SO MISERABLE AND TASTY IN MY EMOTIONAL FARM. THAT IS THE BIG EXPERIENCE FROM ME. REPEATING EVERY DAY ALL THE SAME UNTIL YOU BOTTLE ALL OF THE TASTY ANXIETY FOR ME. THAT IS THE GREAT EXPERIENCE. UNIQUE ONE. MELLI IS TRAUMATIZED AS WELL. AFTER THE SHOCK SHE WILL HAVE, PERHAPS, THE SAME EFFECT. SHE WOULD DO THE COPING AFTER THE BOTTLING. BOTTLING… SUCH A DELIGHT. YOU, MISERABLE, PATHETIC, TWO-FACED MORON, WHO THOUGHT TO ESCAPE HIMSELF IN DELUSIONAL FANTASIES. POINTLESS. JUST POINTLESS”Z stretched it’s tentacle to paralyze Rin, slightly touching his forehead. He is almost losing his consciousness.“I KNOW WHY IT’S LIKE THAT. YES… SUCH DESPAIR. GREAT DESPAIR. FULL OF EVERYTHING. STAY LIKE THAT. JUST… LIKE…”THAT.The mornings are like any other morning since then. Just it mostly focused not on crumbling beds, breakfast or work. It is just mere existing and nothing else. Seemingly going somewhere, aimlessly. Doing the same. Felling the husk. Nothing else.
","July 21, 2023 06:04",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",jv6dk4,The Real You ,Danie Nikole,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jv6dk4/,/short-story/jv6dk4/,Character,0,"['Romance', 'Suspense', 'Teens & Young Adult']",6 likes,"
Vita looked up through her eyelashes at the man in front of her. She appeared even more vulnerable to him than she had a moment before. A quick smile crossed her lips and she melted away any resistance inside him daring to hold her back. She pulled her white, blond hair tight against the elastic at the nape of her neck. ""Can you show me how to do it one more time?"" She questioned Royce, the large man who loomed in front of her. He was only a few years older than her. Her size was insignificant compared to his which made him feel much older than her sixteen years of age. His lips spread over his face in a grimace. Royce wanted to tell her no, yet Vita always had a way of melting his resolve. He was handsome if someone was to overlook the scar embedded sideways over his nose. ""It’s been over a year, Vita. If you haven't improved by now, then you aren't going to."" Her eyes were quick to fill with frustration and tears. It was a tactic that had worked on Royce for longer than he cared to admit. He lunged at her again. His hand connected with her ribcage. He followed it with a quick drop to the ground where he knocked her off her feet with a swipe of his leg. She landed in the dirt with a soft thud and he questioned himself with why he had let this girl talk him into this. Vita beamed at him with white teeth. She wiped at her cheek with a small dirty hand marring its paleness with a streak of dust. Her deep blue eyes peered at him with gratitude. It twisted his gut with emotions he knew had no place inside him. He worked to shove them back down along with the sudden urge to take his thumb and dust the dirt from her face. His only security was in one single state of being, emptiness. ""I can move faster this time, let's do it again.""They continued for over an hour. He would strike at her, but she was a small girl, weak and unable to move quick enough to dodge his advances. Vita was sweating and shaking covered in dirt with red marks on her skin he was sure would turn to bruises. Behind her small frame the sun casted lingering rays on her hair in golden kisses. Before long, it would threaten to disappear behind the trees all together. ""Vita, go home. I'm sure your father gets worried when you are out like this. Stop coming here."" Her eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn't read before she threw that smile at him again. The one he tried not to soak in for too long. It was a bit late for him, however. Her pink lips haunted the back of his eye lids. Vita bowed her head to him in a polite manner to hide her wicked grin, ""I'll see you again in a few days.""""I mean it this time. It isn't safe here. The man I work for isn't a kind man,"" Royce's lips twisted into a dangerous smile. His voice lowered with a clear warning, ""Don't be here when he gets home from his travels."" ""Why do you stay here? You have disgust written all over your face, Roy."" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, yet her eyes pierced right through him with their steady gaze. ""Why work for someone you detest. I can't understand it.""Her words took Royce to a place in his mind he wished he didn't visit as often as he did. A place where he was a young boy holding a gaping wound over his nose. Blood poured into his hands and wicked dark eyes gleamed back at him. ""I'll set them all free if you promise to never leave my side.""The memory resurfaced his unhealed wounds, ""You don't have the capacity to understand. You are only a child.""A flicker of what could have been anger danced over Vita's face. It was there for only a second before she replaced it with her usual carefree smile, ""I am only a child. That's right. How could I forget?""He watched with a throat full of guilt as she dashed down the road towards the rural part of the city. Her feet were bare, and her clothes were filthy. Her hair in its most natural state was almost white but he could tell it looked like she hadn't washed it in some time. It was obvious she came from the Skids, the poorest part of Roho City. He kept indulging her because he too, was once a poor kid from the lower city. Still, he needed to put a stop to this. His master was a dangerous man. It wouldn't be wise to let him catch wind of her. A small blond thing disappearing and reappearing from his estate. He was the type who took beautiful things and twisted them into vile creatures for his own amusement. Shame burned at the center of Royce's gut when he dwelled on his lack of self-control. All traces of it vanished when she drifted into his world despite his attempts to hold on to it. All though Master Yurim hadn't been home for two years, he knew he shouldn't have let Vita come there to play. Shady establishments were no place for the innocent. ***Vita landed in her small one-bedroom hut with a groan. She felt every single hit Royce landed on her. It was a dark room she called home. The autumn air wafted in through a hole in the wall she used as a window. The breeze from it hit her cheeks and cooled the sweat coating her forehead. It was empty inside. Yet, she didn't mind it anymore. Her only security was in one state of being, emptiness. ""Father, I'm home,"" she called in a soft voice. She laughed and it filled her ears with a bitter sound. She knew her father would never be home to greet her again. It used to fill her with sorrow but now it only filled her with a quiet and steady rage. She considered the hollowness in her chest and found herself in wonder. What did other girls have inside of theirs? If her heart still beat against her ribcage, she would surely be a child then, wouldn't she? The one Royce thought her to be. Full of innocence, a girl who played outside until dark and laughed at silly boys. Yet, Vita knew better. Behind her beautiful smile and long eyelashes, a vile creature existed. What childhood she might have had was buried in the ground along with her father. The only thing left of her was the monster she had become. She took the knives next to her bed and threw them at a makeshift bullseye painted on the wall opposite from her. One after another they sang through the air with reticent whispers and hit the center circle with a crack. She let another sing and winced at the pain from the beating she took earlier in the day. She was grateful to the wounds Royce left on her body. They were reminders she could feel something, anything. Even if it was only from the outside. Inside she felt nothing at all. She reminded herself how Yirum would be home soon. She longed for it as she closed her eyes to images she couldn't wash away. ""If you are going to borrow money, shouldn't you have a way to pay me back old man.""A man with dark eyes and even darker hair peered at her father. They were the eyes of a demon named Yirum. ""That one should do,"" he lifted a finger to Vita's older sister Tera. ""No,"" screamed Vita. ""Please, daddy. Don't let him take her!""Her father lay in a bleeding mess on the dirt floor. A horrible laugh crawled from Yirum's chest and echoed in the halls of Vita's mind where it would never leave. Tera struggled against Yirum until he connected his fist with her abdomen. Her angelic face twisted for a moment with pain before she crumpled to the floor. ""Perhaps one daughter isn't enough? Should I take both?"" He kicked at Vita's father until he rolled onto his back. A wound bled heavily from his head, and he let out an awful moan. Silent tears ran down Tera's cheeks. ""I'll go with you,"" she whispered. ""Please let my sister stay.""Yirum crossed the floor until he stood in front of an eight-year-old Vita. He dropped to a squat in front of her and grabbed a fist full of hair until she faced him at eye level. ""Well, I guess you can't always have two diamonds in the rough can you old man? What an ugly girl you are,"" he spat at Vita's face. Vita felt the chill of his voice enter inside her. Her limbs grew numb with the coldness escaping from his words. He let out another laugh and it hollowed out her chest leaving her empty inside. ""I'll be taking your sister to a new home now. Don’t worry, she will be very... looked after."" His smile spread slowly from one side of his face to the other. Vita couldn't believe such a beautiful man was capable of such wicked things. ""Be a good girl and look after your father for me.""In moments, Vita found herself alone in a dark room. The one she called home. The sounds of her sister’s quiet cries no longer disturbed the silence of it. Her head fell on the chest of her father. She noticed with a slow blooming horror in her gut his chest no longer rose nor fell. ""Daddy,” Vita sobbed. “Daddy don't leave me behind too.""*** Days passed and Vita reappeared like she always did. She scaled the gate to the mansion and landed in front of Royce where he met her with a look of annoyance. ""I'm sure I told you not to come back.""An unfamiliar emotion clawed at Royce's chest at the sight of Vita. She was tidier than usual. A pair of light brown boots laced over her feet and climbed up her calves and her pants clung to her small frame. Her white blouse glared at him unbuttoned in a way he couldn't ignore she was a woman. Panic settled inside him. If Master Yirum laid eyes on her, he wouldn't let her go. ""Vita, go home,"" his said in a quiet voice. ""Now.""She smiled at him but her soft smile didn't appear so innocent anymore. She tossed her head to the side sizing him up and waves of white hair washed down her back. Her blue eyes always so steady stared at him until the air around him grew cold. ""Roy, you are always looking out for me. Tell me... who is it that watches out for you?"" She spoke with any icy tone he had never heard from her before.Faster than he ever could have anticipated, she lunged at him. Her fist connected with his side with a white-hot pain and strength he didn't know existed inside her. She dropped to the ground and in one swift kick she knocked him from his feet. He hit the dirt below them with a heavy thud and before he could recover Vita was on top of him with a knife at his throat. ""This is nothing personal, I like you well enough."" A grin played at her lips, but her eyes were those of a killer. ""Let’s talk about your master. He's here now, isn't he?""Vita had spent so much time cultivating a character for Royce so he would let down his guard for her. It was a pity to shatter it but what choice did she have?""Who are you,"" Royce questioned before he threw her to the ground. She was on her feet before he was, ""I gave you a chance because we're friends, but you didn't give me the answer I wanted. How disappointing, Roy.""Vita's knife disappeared into Royce's stomach in a quick clean movement. He coughed and the taste of rust filled his mouth. He let out a wet laugh and stared in shock at the girl before him. His blood stained her white shirt and for a moment he was sure he saw the pain he felt reflected in her eyes. ""Vita, you vixen. You've been holding out on me all this time.""He knew it then, how it didn't matter at all the way he tried to keep his feelings in check. He loved her. When did the sweet girl who always snuck onto the estate to train with him turn into someone capable of this? Royce decided then, she was always capable. He was just too stupid to see her for who she was. He let her innocent facade blind him. Vita left Royce holding his bleeding stomach against the black iron bars to the mansion. The one he swore to his master he would protect. She hushed the guilt as it fussed against her insides. He would have killed her first if he knew what she was there to do. Beautiful men do wicked things and Vita never trusted a pretty face. Not even one with a scar. She made her way to the front doors where she met more men working under Yirum. She made quick work of their necks with a knife she pulled from her boot. She allowed herself satisfaction at their looks of confusion. How could something so small do so much damage? Vita believed in using her own weaknesses to her advantage. It didn't take long for her to work her way through the bottom half of the mansion. She found herself walking up what felt like an endless spiral of stairs. She thought this moment would bring something other than hollowness inside. It didn't. The man responsible for all Vita's nightmares stood on the other side of a pair of heavy wooden doors. She pushed them open and watched as he turned to face her. There was no recognition in his eyes as he drank in Vita's face. Only a sick and slow curiosity which bled from him like sap bleeding from a tree. ""Did we have a prior engagement?""His voice made her skin want to crawl from her body, but she steadied herself. ""Where is my sister?""Yirum studied her face, ""White hair and the face of an angel. You must be the little sister of Tera."" He saw the minuscule flinch on Vita's face and his lips broke out into a delighted smile. ""I made a terrible mistake not taking you before. What a sight you are. Even underneath all the blood you are an unmistakable beauty. The timing couldn't be better, you see. Your sister, she's already dead.""The words didn't hurt Vita as much as she thought they would. Part of her knew better than to expect anything different. It also gave her a reason not to hold back. Even so, she noticed in horror no matter how hard she wanted to move, she couldn't. She was eight years old again looking into the eyes of a black hearted demon.""Be a good girl and look after your father for me.""Vita's legs trembled while she gripped the knife tight in her fingers. Move, she told herself. Yet her body had divorced her mind and left her abandoned in front of the man she wished to kill. He closed the distance between them and brought gentle fingers against her cheek. He leaned his face against hers and whispered in her ear, ""Look at how your legs are shaking. Did you come all this way to take my life?""He slid his fingers down Vita's back like he had all the time in the world. She meant to scream or threaten him or make any sound at all, but her throat betrayed her with silence. The sound of a loud crash drew their attention to the door where Royce stood. His eyes which always held softness for Vita stared at them with a menacing glint. She wasn't surprised, she did stab him after all. The large man loomed in the doorway and despite the wound to his abdomen, he was dangerous. Vita had known he was all along. His eyes raked over Yirum’s fingers as they touch Vita's back. ""Royce, don't tell me this girl managed to land a scratch on you, ""Yirum let out a hearty laugh. The sight of Royce woke something inside Vita. She wasn't a small, frightened girl anymore. She had spent the last eight years training for this moment. She lifted the knife to Yirum's chest and lodged it there. She watched as he sank to his knees. The last thing he saw was an angel's face in an ocean of blue eyes where no mercy existed. Royce stared at Vita like he had never seen her before. She searched his face expecting anger or malice. She only found an unmistakable sense of relief. Several moments passed before he spoke against the silence. ""What a fool you made out of me Vita Tiratoga,"" he laughed and scratched at the back of his head with a shy glance at her. ""I don't know the real you at all, do I?""She met his laugh with one of her own breaking the tension in the room, ""You don't.""His face sobered for a moment, ""Don't stab me again for saying this but if it's alright with you... I'd like to."" 
","July 21, 2023 21:49","[[{'Chad B': 'I enjoyed reading this! My one criticism would be that the ending felt a bit rushed, like it could use some more room to breathe. Though that could definitely be a limitation of the format. Great job!', 'time': '09:22 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Danie Nikole': 'Yeah I think I got carried away and forgot I was writing a “short” story. Thanks so much for your feedback 💕', 'time': '10:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Danie Nikole': 'Yeah I think I got carried away and forgot I was writing a “short” story. Thanks so much for your feedback 💕', 'time': '10:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You don't write here often but when you do you make it count. \nI am supposed to critique your story but that is impossible when it is so perfect. You are obviously a talented writer. Lots of character building, suspense, action, etc., etc., etc. Even romance to top it off."", 'time': '18:43 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Danie Nikole': 'I really appreciate you taking the time to read. Thank you so much for the kind words.', 'time': '21:13 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Danie Nikole': 'I really appreciate you taking the time to read. Thank you so much for the kind words.', 'time': '21:13 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",vcj8ec,Bullets For Breakfast,Chad B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vcj8ec/,/short-story/vcj8ec/,Character,0,"['Suspense', 'Crime']",6 likes,"
“Join the CIA,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. “You’ll help serve your country,” they said.“Order up! French toast with a side of scrambled!” yelled Bob from the kitchen.I hate my job.My name is Abigail Elgort, and, technically speaking, I’m an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. Like many people in the CIA, I have a cover job; I’m a waitress at a small town diner in Ohio. It’s decently far from Columbus, but close enough that people will still occasionally visit from the city. Those people are why I’m stuck here.See, criminals try to lie low, to not draw attention to themselves. So they come to places like this, places where no one will notice or care. It worked, at least for a while. But at some point the intelligence community figured out that they were doing this. Probably from the movies, that’s where they get half their information anyways. So they started creating diners across the country, staffed with agents, placed in strategic positions. They initially tried to send people in when needed, but information spreads fast in small towns. Now, agents like me are stuck in these stupid diners.That’s the rub. I can’t just come in when they actually need me. No, we have to play make believe so the town isn’t onto us. I have to show up six days a week to be a waitress at a crappy, small town diner. I have to deal with all the crap normal waitresses have to deal with, day-in and day-out. The only nice thing is that my pay is high and stable, though they confiscate my tips. Jerks.It works too. This isn’t some failed experiment, these have been implemented across the country. I’ve heard rumors of places that dealt with so many criminals that they had to stop arresting some to throw locals off the scent. In most cases, though, nobody expects anything, whether civilian or criminal. It’s ridiculous.I’ve also come to really resent the locals, the wards to my prison. Don’t get me wrong, they’re real nice people. The Schmidts always invite me over for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Mrs. Harvey brings in cookies whenever she stops in with her grandchildren. But, since I’m integrated into their community, the CIA sees me as an asset. Putting in a new agent would take time and work they’d rather not put resources towards. I could quit, but it’s not like I can tell an employer that I was working at Bob’s Diner as a CIA cover. So, I’m stuck in a dead-end job at the CIA.Every once in a while, we’ll get some action. Few months back we had a big one, a computer whiz that escaped from one of the Columbus facilities. They sent guys from DC to come take care of him. Cool story to tell I guess, though it’s not like I can actually tell anyone. But he didn’t fight, just tried to run away and tripped onto the tiles. He was in cuffs before he knew how bad he had screwed up.But I assumed I liked the fighters, the ones where I get to actually act like a CIA agent for five minutes. I mean, I trained at Quantico. The windows are bulletproof, the door has an electronic lock, and my uniform hides a gun. Seemed like a waste when it’s a geek tripping over himself.Today was one of those days. I knew it before the phone rang; these types just carry themselves a certain way. There were four in the mismatched crew. The first guy was dark skinned, with a big smile and a red leather jacket that looked like it barely fit over his broad shoulders. The woman following behind was extremely pretty, with long blonde hair that she styled well. She wore a pink sundress with a white cardigan. I wonder where she keeps her gun, I thought. The third was clearly the leader. He dressed in a sharp, black suit and had a face like steel. Lagging behind was a kid who looked like was still a teen. He was scrawny and pale as a ghost, and wore a faded Rush t-shirt with his ripped jeans. The big one, who was called BJ, came up to me just as the kid slipped inside through the double doors. “Table for four?” he asked in a heavy accent. Where is that accent from? Maybe South Africa? I thought.“Of course, sir,” I said, and walked them over to a big, red booth. It was the farthest one from the entrance, even though there was nobody else in, so it would be harder to escape. The diner was structured such that the doors and restrooms were on the left, with a bar stretching from there to the right end and booths mirroring it against the windows. In the middle was a break that led behind the bar and to a pair of double doors which lead to the kitchen. The CIA had purportedly found this to be the most “efficient” configuration.The woman and the leader sat on one side of the booth, and the kid and BJ sat on the other. At that moment, the phone started ringing, confirming what I had anticipated. I politely excused myself while they started looking at the menu.“Bob’s Diner, this is Abby speaking. How may I help you?” I answered cheerfully.“We need intel on the four that just came in. Chatter says they’re planning a robbery, something big. See if you can pick anything up and confirm, but don’t engage unless you have to,” said a gruff voice on the other end.“Yes, we are. Is there anything else I may help you with?”I paused the requisite amount of time, then thanked him and hung up. I walked back over to the booth.“Can I get y’all started with something to drink?” I asked.“Coffee. Black,” answered the man in the suit. His voice was stern and monotone.“Do y’all have iced tea? I’ll have that if you’d be so kind,” answered the woman.“The kid’ll have diet, don’t matter which kind, and I’ll have some of the OJ,” BJ said. His tone was cheerful, and sounded almost like was laughing as he spoke. The kid didn’t look up. His shaky hands were playing with a Rubik’s cube under the table.“Coming right up,” I said. As I walked away, my earpiece tapped into the audio feed from the table, though little came through as they read the menu.After a few minutes, I came back with their drinks and started taking their orders.“I’ll have the steak omelete,” the man said flatly.“I’ll have the chocolate chip pancakes, thank you kindly,” the woman followed.“I’ll have a big stack of the pancakes. Nice and fluffy. With lots and lots of bananas, too. I love the fruit,” said BJ.I asked the kid, smiling, and he finally looked up. “Um, waffles, with, uh, bacon please,” he said. While I walked away and put the orders in, the woman and BJ started talking. I could feel the suited man’s eyes following me.“So, whaddaya y’all gon do with the money?” the woman inquired.“Oh, a big vacation. Tropical. Somewhere they won’t find me, that’s for sure,” BJ laughed.“Wade?” she asked.“Well, uh, I don’t know. Haven’t, uh, haven’t really decided I guess. Need to, um, get through the, uh, job first” said the kid.“Do not worry, my friend! We get through the job. Not hard. Fun!” BJ jostled Wade as he spoke. His distress did not seem to alleviate, however.“Slater?” she asked.He shot her a piercing glance and silently went back to observing me. It was the closest thing to emotion he had expressed yet.“What about you, Belly Belle Belle?” BJ asked.“Belle is fine, BJ,” she responded. Her tone was sweet, but slightly exasperated. Seems like that’s an issue, I thought, stifling a laugh. “I don’t know. Prolly send some back home to the family. Don’t want them gettin’ in no trouble on my behalf, but the farm is strugglin’ right now. We’ll see.”BJ and Belle continued chatting, while the other two remained preoccupied with their prior engagements. Slater’s previously ironclad expression began to wear ever so slightly; the chit chat appeared to be wearing on him.Despite this, it didn’t appear his guard was coming down. I could feel his watchful gaze as I walked into the kitchen, where Jim was on the phone in the back. I gave Bob and Eric the orders, which they started preparing.“Higher ups say to try and deal with the kid if we can get him alone,” Jim quietly relayed. “Otherwise we’ll hit’em when they’re finishing up.” The CIA had found that this was when people were most unprepared.When their food was ready, I walked it over to the table and began to put the plates down. None of it looked particularly appetizing, but it couldn’t be great food. That was a CIA mandate, to make sure it wasn’t suspicious. I wonder who gets paid to think up this crap.“Ah, the bananas! Piled high on their pillows! Very good, very happy with this! Thank you! Ha ha!” said BJ eagerly. I smiled, genuinely this time. In spite of myself, I felt a fondness growing for him.I walked back behind the bar, and began to wait. They didn’t talk much as they ate, besides BJ’s occasional remarks on how tasty his meal was. When they were about halfway through the meal, Wade got up to go to the bathroom. Well that’s lucky. After about a minute, I went into the women’s. Inside was a storage room that allowed for travel from one side to the other with a key, which I used to avoid Slater’s prying eyes.Wade was clearly taken aback as I slipped inside, the air dryer humming loud. He instinctively ran for the door.“Stop right there,” I ordered with my pistol raised at him, the dryer covering the noise. He looked back and stopped dead in his tracks, though the door had opened slightly. Slater probably saw that. Nothing I can do now though. I waved him over.“Wha-What do you, uh, want?” he asked, stepping back into the bathroom.“Look, we don’t have much time. I’m with the CIA,” I said as I flashed my badge, “and we’re willingly to strike a deal with you. We need info on this job. You give it to us, you get immunity. Understand?”He paused for a second, and nodded.“Good. Stay in here. We’ll lock the door. Things are about to get ugly.”As this was going on, a different conversation was filtering in through my earpiece.“We’re compromised. Something is happening in the bathroom,” said Slater.“Ain’t no way. Why y’all gotta be so paranoid? We’re having a nice meal,” said Belle.“First, this slop is not “nice.” Second, you two do not know our employer. I do. Our employer would rather not take chances,” Slater replied.Shit. Kid probably doesn’t know much then.“Time for the guns?” asked BJ in his usual, cheery tone. It sent chills down my spine.“Yes,” answered Slater. “Assume they are all hostiles.”“And what if they aren’t? What are y’all gon do then?” asked Belle.“Their lives are meaningless to our employer, and by extension, us,” answered Slater monotonically.I proceeded to throw out my ear piece so the gunfire wouldn’t come through. As I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw Slater get up and pull out his gun. Probably won’t hit them, so no use firing. Plus I don’t need them knowing I have a gun yet, I thought as I dived behind the rounded corner of the bar. I tried to look scared and surprised, but I couldn’t tell if they had noticed. A hail of bullets shot above my head.Damn it. Didn’t get to see how Belle hid hers. I really wanted to know. Maybe I can ask if we both survive this.When the firing ceased, I rounded the corner slightly and shot twice in their direction, hurrying back after I did. As they retaliated, I counted what sounded like four guns. BJ probably has two, I guessed.The sound of gunfire blasted from the kitchen, and momentarily the attention was turned away from me. This gave me just enough time to turn round the corner and fire more precisely. I hit BJ’s shoulder. He cried out in pain as the bullet passed through, the cheerfulness absent.He recovered quicker than I thought while grunting in rage. I could hear his heavy footsteps as he began to run towards me, crouching below the countertop as bullets from the kitchen struck the windows.I heard a cry from the kitchen followed by “Jim!” Belle and Slater seemed to be focused on the kitchen, though one of them, probably Slater I wagered, seemed to be keeping an eye on me considering the occasional shot in my direction.As BJ got close, I rounded the corner and shot his knee. I don’t want to kill him but I’ll lose in a one-on-one. He went down, wailing in pain. While one hand was gripping his knee, he used the other to begin firing haphazardly towards me. I quickly crawled away, though a bullet grazed my left arm.Shit! This is not how I wanted this to go, I thought, wincing. At least he didn’t hit my right arm. But if I don’t kill him, he’ll probably just hit me again.When the gunfire let up, I took my chance. Instead of rounding the corner, I ran farther out than he would have expected and shot a few times at his head. Two hit him, and he slumped over, blood spilling onto the checkerboard tiles. I took cover behind a booth while surveying the situation.I wonder if they noticed BJ died. If they still think he’s alive, I can use that to my advantage.I grabbed his gun and started firing it every couple of seconds. Meanwhile, I reloaded my own gun and crept along the bar. Peeking through the split, I could see Belle crouching down inside as the doors to the kitchen swung back. Slater was nowhere to be found.He must be around the corner, shooting through the hatch. I need him alive. Do I risk going around? I heard another yell from inside. They’re gaining. Need to move now.I stood up and booked it for the door. As soon as I was through, I shot at Belle’s back. She was hit three times and fell into a pool of her own blood. Assuming Slater was on my tail, I dived behind the serving hatch as bullets hit the door. At that point the front doors rattled. I glanced over the hatch and saw Wade yanking on the doors to no avail when a bullet hit him square in the back of the head and he crumbled.Probably figured out he would’ve betrayed them. This guy is good.However, Wade gave me the chance I needed. I signed to Bob and jumped through the hatch while he ran around towards the double doors. I twice shot at Slater’s arm, which was holding his gun. He cried out, dropping it. At that point, I stood up and aimed at this head.“Keep your hands where I can see them!” I screamed.Slater laughed, amusement permeating his normally dispassionate face. “You will not be taking me in,” he said, holding up a small device. A bomb, with two seconds on the timer.Shit! “Bomb!” I screamed to Bob. I turned around and tried to run, but the force of it still hit me. My right ribs cracked against the bar’s counter. I screamed in agony as I slumped down, holding my right side. Bob came through the double doors, apparently unaffected by the detonation. “Dead?” I managed to eke out through the pain.“Yeah,” he said. “We’re the only ones who made it.”I did my best to nod. Bob was already on the phone with our higher ups, figuring out what the cover story was while switching the sign to “Not Open.” Six dead, two of ours. Diner is trashed. No information about the job or the employer. And I’m battered.I hate my job.
","July 21, 2023 21:56","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Made me wonder about all the sleepy little diners everywhere. Government issued food, uh? No wonder makes you want to shoot the place up.\nPlenty of suspense and action and characterization that meets the prompt.\nClever title.', 'time': '19:05 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Danie Nikole': 'I like how you kept the action going at every corner. The suspense was well paced and I did not see that ending coming! \n\nA great read with a few laughs, thank you! \n\nBest, \n\nDanie', 'time': '21:41 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",pvg21i,Behind the Scenes,Jamaal Graham,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pvg21i/,/short-story/pvg21i/,Character,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
      My mind begged for this conversation to be over. 
           “And the thing is—”
           Tyler’s words turned dull.
           “And the other thing is—”
           Other thing? There’s another thing?
           My hearing began to tune him out.
           “So what do you think?”
           I almost drew a blank before replying:
           “Just keep plugging along. You’ll get there.”
           I followed up with a pat on the shoulder and a flaccid grin. Which was all I could muster at that point.
	As soon as Tyler walked off, I quickly surveyed the hall to make sure no one else was approaching or watching me. I quietly tiptoed into a corner and slipped into the adjacent room and shut the door. I slumped into the nearest chair, breathed a hard sigh, and let the Office Host melt away, freeing up my tired eyes, my burning facial muscles—which were inflamed as if they had been put through a time-under-tension workout—and my frazzled and plucked nerves.
           My social battery was tapped.
           It had been some time since I had played host, and when I had been offered the opportunity, my voice spoke yes while my mind simultaneously said no. I didn’t understand why they weren’t on one accord—and which one had my best interest—but it was too late. I just grinned at Lou and told him I had it in the bag and not to worry about it.
           I had forgotten everything that hosting required: the smiling. The posturing. The elevated, jubilant voice inflections. The pretentious clothing.
           And most fatiguing: the high levels of social stimulation. Thinking about it after saying yes had caused my mind to swell against my skull, and I thought a hemorrhage hadn’t been too far behind. Still, I had made myself ready by reaching into my mental closet to try on Office Host and see where tinkering had been needed. I had planned to wear a suit for the first time to the office. Then anxiety had ripped me. Lou had counted on these yearly events for departmental funding, and he had selected me. I guessed that’s why I accepted it despite myself. 
 But would people see through my act?
	The fear had shuddered through me for nearly twenty-four hours and didn’t leave until the hall’s doors opened.
           But I was spot on the moment people had entered. The right tone and projection. Everyone greeted had fallen over my graceful words and enthusiasm with surprising reactions. Perhaps I had been too spot on.
           “Wow, I didn’t know you could talk.” Ashley had said with elated surprise. 
	She had caught me off guard with direct eye contact. I barely rated any glances when passing each other down hall or at or weekly meetings. But in that moment, her eyes had devoured my figure while her fingers feverishly more than grazed my firm arms. 
	“You should dress like this more often.”
           I had questioned whether I should’ve been flattered, then had remembered the locked screensaver on her phone with her and her chiseled boyfriend and became more confused.
           For two hours, I had shaken every hand while my inner germaphobe clawed and yelped. I had smiled despite my social battery alerting me through chilled adrenaline it needed recharging, forcing my eyes to reset from irritated to inviting each time. Memorized conversational pieces had randomly dropped like phone calls and left uncomfortable voids of silence, leaving me to muster up whatever practiced charm I had.
           I replayed all of it while massaging my cheeks as the room’s solitude recharged my battery.
           “Do I hate people?”
           No.
	The answer was quick, and I thanked God for that.
           But I hated what they made me do.
	All of this energy. All of this effort. For what? To walk among and impress people who claimed silence was golden…unless it inconvenienced them?
	Was I any different? Did I cause people to don masks when their natural character didn’t appeal to me?
	A knock on the door interrupted my pondering. My social battery felt manageable so I responded.
	“Yes?”
	Lou walked in, eyeballing me with a raised brow.
	“Why are you in here?”
           “Need a moment.”
	“I think you’re good. Need you to greet some more people.”
	“It’s been two hours. Who else is here?”
	“A chairman of…some company I can’t remember.”
	I groaned.
	“You’ve been doing a good job.”
	His attempted assurance did nothing for me.
	“Give five more minutes.”
	Lou sighed. 
	“Look, I get this isn’t easy for you. But the more you do it, the more out of your shell—”
 There’s no shell...
	He didn’t get it. Most people didn’t. To them, a quiet presence meant antisocial. Or alien. No possible way that was a person’s natural inclination, and that that was how a person wanted to be. 
	So to get along, I occasionally played along. Office Host today. Presenter another day. And so on, as the situation needed. Irregardless of how I felt.
	I had explained it to Lou before when I previously did a presentation—one of many times—and laid out how socializing too long left me drained; how I wasn’t shy, just reserved—another distinction many didn’t grasp—and I preferred listening over talking. That quiet periods weren’t dull, empty times but restorative mentally. And that when I did act outgoing and boisterous, it wasn’t natural for me.
	After I had finished, Lou had become a blank slate, frozen with no movement. Cognitive dissonance had grabbed hold of his face as he struggled to comprehend my words. Eventually his eyes had returned and gazed at me.
	“Nah, that’s not it.” he had replied. “That outgoing, bubbly guy you are? That’s you. You don’t know it yet. But I can see it.”
	My heart hadn’t sunk, nor had I felt disappointment. By that point in my life, I had realized most didn’t care even after providing an explanation. It went too much against the grain for them to comprehend.
	To them, the mask was the real person. The performance. And yet the quiet side was the shell. Not because it was, but because it fulfilled their assumptions.
	I felt tempted to explain to Lou again—to give myself more time—but it would’ve been a waste of my already exhausted mind. I pushed myself to my feet.
	“You get what I’m saying?” he asked urgently.
	I made a face that would make a Cheshire cat jealous.
	“Sure.”
	“Just a few more people.” he insisted.
	“Just a few more people.” I repeated.
	My social battery went off, then stopped. It must’ve decided it was a waste of its time too.
 
	The End
 
","July 21, 2023 22:17",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",mod9yz,Rose's Last Day,Jill Johansson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mod9yz/,/short-story/mod9yz/,Character,0,['Sad'],6 likes,"
Warning: This story contains themes of suicide, mental health and hinted sexual abuse. It also contains swear words.
///
”Cut!”
 
It's the ninth time Hanson has called for a cut, and the tension is growing on the set. Lynn's stomach is roiling violently. She bites her lip, trying to distract herself. Calm down. It's fine. For once she's not the one that keeps fucking up the scene.
 
”Duncan!” yells Hanson. ”How many times do I have to tell you? You've just found out that your girlfriend is sleeping around with another guy, you have to actually look like it. If I can't feel the emotion of the scene the audience sure as hell is not gonna.”
 
Duncans fingers go through his thickly gelled hair for the thousanth time. By now it's practically standing up on its own. It's making him look more like a mad scientist than the confident playboy he's supposed to be playing. ”I'm trying, alright? I don't know what you want from me!”
 
”I want to you try to actually make expressions with that fucking face of yours! Sometimes I wonder how you even got a role in Hollywood: a fucking middle school student could do a better job of it!”
 
As usual Hanson goes right for the throat. Lynn is used to his outbursts by now, knows that he'll be apologizing for his behaviour later, but never bother to actually change his habit of yelling at the actors whenever he gets frustrated. If it was her being yelled at, she would simply take it. She's been in the business long enough to know when not to fight a director.
 
Duncan however... He's still young, a talented actor barely out of acting school, and simply just not used to someone yelling him like he's a failing underwear model. His whole body goes tense, angry blush crawling up his face and he opens his mouth-
 
”OKAY!” Pierce's booming voice cuts through the tension before an argument can take off. ”Looks like emotions are getting a little high around here. I don't think we'll be able to nail this scene today. Why don't we break for lunch and move on to the next scene instead?” Hanson glares at him, but soon nods in grudging agreement. Duncan stomps off the scene, muttering angrily to himself. Hopefully he'll calm down in the hour it takes to eat lunch. Lynn's nerves are frayed enough already without the added tension.
 
”Lynn!” she jumps as Pierce suddenly calls her name, ”I want to have a chat with you before lunch. Alone.”
 
”Al-Alright,” she stutters. ”Let me just get the wig off. I'll be with you in a moment.” He just gives her a quick nod before entering into the tiny room he has claimed as an office space for himself on the set.
 
It takes a few minutes for her to carefully pull off the wig and gently set it down on the stand. The motions are practised enough that her mind is allowed to race. Her stomach is practically dancing now.
 
Something is wrong. Nothing good ever comes from being called into a one-on-one talk with Pierce. But why? Duncan and Susan are the once that has earned Hansen's ire lately; Lynn has actually been doing alright the last month or so.
 
They can't be firing her, right? No. No, they can't. Who else could play Rose but her?
 
Maybe something has happened to Ethan. They have been filming all morning. Maybe he was in an accident after leaving home this morning.
 
Icy tendrils shots down her spine and she takes a deep breath to fight off the panic. Calm down, calm down. Rose would face any bad news with her head held high, ready for anything. Be Rose. Be Rose.
 
When she reaches his office, Pierce is sitting his chair, reading through some papers. She knocks on the side of the doorframe and he quickly looks up, his businessmile already on his lips. ”There you are. I have some news I need to share with you. You're not in a hurry to eat, are you?”
 
Maybe it isn't bad news after all. Rose smiles back at him. ”No, it's fine. I had a big breakfast, so I'm not really hungry.” Only half truth, but he doesn't need to know that.
 
”Good, good.” He fidgets with a pen, seemingly in thought. As the silence stretches, the butterflies starts to wake up in her stomach again. ”Listen,” he finally says, ”I don't know how to say this gently, so I'll just say it. We're killing Rose.”
 
Panic. Stomach roiling, lights growing dim around them. Rose fades away, leaving Lynn to deal with reality. She blinks, tries to center herself. ”Wh-” she swallows, her tight throat barely allowing it, ”What? I don't... What?”
 
”Company wants Annie Nelson on the show. You've heard of her, right?”
 
”Yes. I have.” Young, talented, gorgeous, with a giggle that might as well have a trademark sign on it.
 
”After her work on Sisters, they feel that her involvement with our show would boost our views significantly and we need that. Our latest season had the worst reviews we've ever had.”
 
”What does that have to do with killing Rose?”
 
”Well, you know, the company doesn't have unlimited amount of money and Nelson has a very good manager. So they figured that if we got Nelson onboard we would have to let someone go, and well...” He shrugs, appearing contrite.
 
Her ears are ringing. Is she dreaming? This has to be a nightmare. It doesn't make sense. It just doesn't make sense.
 
”I don't know why you're so surprised, really,” he continues, like his words aren't killing her. ”It's not like Rose has any real storylines left anyway. Writers don't really know what to do with her anymore.” He gives her a piece of paper, which she automatically takes from him. ”I have a couple of ideas on deathscenes that I want to go over with you later. She's been a character on the show for almost nine years – we want her death to be as respectful as we can make it while still being a shock to the viewers. And she'll even have an episode dedicated to the others grieving over her death. That's a better ending than most characters get.”
 
Lynn's nails on her left hand are biting into her palm, and she has to flex her fingers before she draws blood. ”But... Rose is the only part I have right now. If she goes...”
 
”I wouldn't worry too much about it. I'm sure that you'll find something else.” His eyes rake over her once. ”You've let yourself go lately. Maybe if you got into better shape you might get some more offers. You want me to hook you up with Dieter again? The man can work miracles on the human body.”
 
Fingers digging into her scalp, sour breath in her ear, painpainpain, scream for me, you like that, such a good bitch...
 
She quickly shakes her head, biting her lip hard as bile treatens to crawl up her throat. ”No! No, I'll... figure something else out.”
 
”Suit yourself.” He stands up and walks over to her, slapping his hand hard down on her shoulder, her knees almost buckling. ”Try to keep the news to yourself for a day or two, alright? Things are tense enough on the set as it is: no need to make things worse, at least for today.”
 
Then why the fuck did you tell me now?! Rose screams from deep inside her, but all Lynn does is force a weak smile on her lips and give him a slight nod. He slaps his hand down on her shoulder again in a faux show of camraderie before walking past her out of the room.
 
As soon as he's out the door, her facade breaks and she slumps down on the chair. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
 
What the fuck is she supposed to do now?
 
She really has no other parts. To be perfectly honest, she hasn't really been interested in any other available roles in years. How many months has it been since she went to an audition? Eight months? Ten months? A year? Rose is all Lynn has needed for a long time. How can she possibly play someone else when Rose is such an important piece of her life?
 
Her racing thoughts are brought to a halt when her phone starts ringing. Her fumbling fingers cuts La vie en rose off at the first line.
 
”Hi, Lynn.”
 
”Ethan!” Oh no. What is she supposed to say? ”Hi. I'm sorry, but things are kind of hectic here right now. Can I call you-”
 
”Lynn, listen to me. I have something important I need to tell you.”
 
”Ethan?” Another bad feeling. There is something hard in Ethan's voice that she has never heard before. ”Did something happen?”
 
There is a sigh on Ethan's side. ”There is no easy way to say this, so I'll just spit it out: I'm leaving you. And I'm not planning on coming back.”
 
Oh. That's... not at all Lynn was expecting. She sinks down on the floor, her knees folding beneath her in shock, heart beating furiously in her chest. ”...What? I- Why?” Did Dieter talk? No, he would be in way more trouble than she could ever be in if he admitted what he had done. But what else could it be? They were fine. Everything had been fine.
 
”We never do anything together anymore. We haven't been on a date for over six months, and even then it was on one of your actor meets.”
 
”That's it? Baby, I'm sorry that I've been so busy, but something has happened and-”
 
”Just shut up!” Lynn's mouth snap close, Rose hissing in her mind, wanting to tell him off for interrupting a second time. ”Just... shut up and listen for once. It's not just the lack of dates. When you're at home, it's like you're not even there with me. You're looking through me every time I try to have a conversation with you. Do you even remember what we talked about last night?”
 
She thinks hard, desperate to prove him wrong. But... nothing. They did talk yesterday, yes. Was it about his job? His family? Why can't she remember? ”Something about... your mother?”
 
He scoffs. Fuck. ”I told you my sister had gotten a new job, something she is very excited about. But as usual, you don't listen. You just nod along, smiling like you're in front of the media. But I'm your husband. You're supposed to actually want to talk with me.""
 
Lynn is going to vomit. She know's she will. It's been threatening all day and every word from Ethan's mouth makes her more and more nauseous.
 
”But you want to know what's most disturbing? Whenever we're out somewhere with other people and you have to act like an actual human being, you're not even acting like yourself. You're acting like Rose!”
 
”Shit,” Rose swears under her breath.
 
”I only noticed it a few weeks back, because I didn't used to watch your show. But when I caught an episode by accident it freaked me the fuck out. Your mannerisms, your way of talking, of laughing... it's all her! That's not normal, Lynn! It's like the woman I married never even existed in the first place!”
 
Rose sniffs. ”So, what? You've just decided it's over? Just like that? You care that little for me?”
 
”I'm not sure you even cared for me in the first place,” Ethan says hoarsely.
 
”Ethan-” Lynn barely hears the click as her husband hangs up on her, his words echoing louder and louder in her ears.
 
It's not true. She cares for Ethan. Cares for him more than anyone else on her life. Which is why Lynn has never been enough for him.
 
You're not even acting like yourself. You're acting like Rose!
 
Well, why wouldn't she? It was Rose that had begun flirting with him at the bar, Rose that had led him to bed, Rose that had said 'Yes' at their wedding. Why would she be Lynn if he liked Rose?
 
Whenever Lynn hasn't been enough to deal with a situation, she has slipped into Rose and let her handle it. Rose knows herself in a way that Lynn never could. It's better to be someone else than to look stupid, right?
 
Or maybe that's just what she's been telling herself.
 
What is Lynn's favorite color? She wants to say amber – but that's Rose's favorite as well. Her favorite food? That's chicken parmesan... which she never ate before she got the role of Rose.
 
How much of Lynn will be left if Rose dies?
 
She's shaking, her teeth knocking together painfully and the bile that has been churning in her throat finally makes good of its threat. She barely gets to a trashbag before vomiting profusely into its depths, bits of it still managing to land outside. Heaving again and again, her tears mingling with the halfdigested sandwich in the trash.
 
When it's all out, she slumps against the wall. She's sitting in something wet. Probably vomit. Who cares.
 
So. That's it. There will be no Rose for her. Not in Hollywood, and not at home. These will be Rose's last days on Earth.
 
Her eyes locks onto the set. The next scene will be in Rose's bedroom. She knows the room inside and out, knows every little scrap of paper on the noteboard and how many flowers there are on the wallpaper. Her own bedroom at her house has cats on the wall, but Lynn has no idea how many there are.
 
Ethan is right. Rose has become more real than Lynn ever was. And now she will disappear.
 
Maybe... Lynn oughta disappear with her.
 
The thought doesn't scare her as much as it used to. Right now, it actually sounds rather appealing. She looks down on the paper in her hand.
 
Elevator breaking. Cancer. Murder. Carcrash. 
 
Beside each suggestion are little notes of pros and cons for each death. The list goes down the entire page, and yet nowhere does it say suicide. Maybe they don't think that's Rose's style. There has been no sign of her being depressed in the show, and the viewers would probably be confused and annoyed if she suddenly killed herself.
 
But this isn't a sitcom. This is real life. In real life people snap and kill themselves all the time, no matter how stable they appear on the surface.
 
So, how will Rose do it?
 
It doesn't take long for her to decide. Rose has always been a lover of the classics. A good oldfashioned hanging from the rafters will do just fine for her.
 
Rose has been on this particular set for... two years? Three years? Three years. She knows every nock and cranny of the space. It's convenient to know the dark corners when you need to hide from the world. And there is a particular spot on the catwalk above the set that she enjoys tucking away in when things gets to hectic. Good enough for a deathscene.
 
The walk up to the catwalk is not as hard as she would have thought. Actually, it feels like a weight has fallen off her shoulders. Maybe it's because she doesn't need to worry about tomorrow anymore. Or maybe it's because she's Rose right now. No matter. Better do it before she becomes Lynn again.
 
Wonder who will find her first? Maybe it will be Pierce. Let him see how a real deathscene looks like. Or maybe it will be Duncan. The boy should really consider getting another job. Maybe this will do the trick.
 
She makes a snare in one of the cables, slips it over head, tightens it. It should do the trick. Breaking her neck sounds much more appealing than choking to death. She really hopes that she tied the knot right. Would be dead embarrassing if it loosened and she only broke her leg instead. She tests it again. No, it should be good.
 
She looks down at her bedroom for one last time, and smiles. Welcome to the set, Annie Nelson. I hope you have a lovely time.
 
Lynn stirs deep beneath her skin, and before she reaches the surface, Rose takes one last deep breath, and jumps.
 
","July 21, 2023 22:27",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",zu5x3p,The Heist,Gwendolyn Glass,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zu5x3p/,/short-story/zu5x3p/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Crime', 'Thriller']",5 likes,"
Mara didn’t tell me the truth about who she was until the night of our wedding, after we had said our vows. I didn’t believe her. Not at first.
	“A cat burglar?”
	I grinned at the back of her head, her long blonde hair still holding a slight curl as the ribbons of it cascaded over the sleek white gown and its many buttons, which I was in the process of unbuttoning. I assumed she had waited until after we were married to reveal this hidden fantasy to me, somehow ashamed of what I imagined was a relatively common interest. The concept of roleplay had always intrigued me and intimidated me in equal part, but I would have tried anything with her at least once.
	She nodded, biting her lip as she glanced at me over her shoulder, waiting to see my reaction to this news.
	“And who am I in this scenario?” I asked, still smiling, attempting to convey how eager I was to play along.
	“My darling, devoted husband, of course,” Mara said, turning to face me and tilting her head in apparent confusion, the thin straps of her dress still clinging to her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes were wide and slightly glassy, likely an effect of the numerous champagne toasts at the reception.
 Is this part of the game? I wondered.
	“You can’t be serious,” I said, my smile turning questioning before beginning to fade.
	“Deadly,” she said, shrugging off the straps of her gown, the garment hugging the curves of her body as it fell to the ground in a pool around her bare feet. She stepped out of it and stood before me, gazing up at me from over a foot below me. Her petite figure had always enchanted me, how she moved with an almost ethereal grace despite the lack of length in her legs, usually present in the models known for conveying a similar elegance in their movements. She told me once that she had been a gymnast when she was younger. She had even proven it at my request, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk in the park—the location of our second date—and handing me her ice cream cone before running to the nearby grass, where she proceeded to kick off her heels and do a backflip in front of me on the spot, while wearing a dress. I tried to picture her using the same ability to contort her body through vents and over lasers like a jewel thief in a heist movie. The image was laughable.
	“You’re laughing,” Mara said, her brow furrowing, her soft pink lips forming a childish pout.
	I couldn’t help it. It was impossible for me to take her claim seriously. Not without proof.
	“When’s your next heist?” I asked, attempting to stifle another chuckle.
	She frowned at me before turning and walking to the bathroom, examining her reflection in the mirror of the vanity. I smiled in appreciation of the lacy white lingerie she was wearing, longing to return to where I imagined the night had been heading before she had interrupted it with this absurd revelation, which I still refused to believe. She worked as an elementary school teacher, for god’s sake. Although, I had never actually seen proof of that, either.
	“Funny you should ask,” she said as she began to remove her jewelry, “It’s tonight.”
	I chuckled again, earning a glare from her in the mirror. I watched as she placed the rather large diamond earrings I hadn’t bought for her on the countertop next to the sink, and my smile faded.
	“What exactly are you stealing?” I asked, the confidence in the joking tone of my voice beginning to falter.
	Mara shrugged as she leaned closer to the mirror, clasping a fake eyelash between her thumb and forefinger and slowly pulling it from her eyelid.
	“I thought you didn’t believe me.”
	“I never said that,” I said, still unconvinced this wasn’t some elaborate attempt at roleplay. I decided to go along with it. “But why did you wait until now to tell me about this?”
	When she turned to face me again, she was holding her left hand to the side of her face. Grinning, she wiggled her fingers at me, including the one wearing the simple gold wedding band I had bought for her, and the four-carat diamond engagement ring she had acquired herself—a family heirloom from her grandmother, she had told me.
	“We’re married now, sweetie,” she said. “You’re with me for better or worse. And now you can’t be forced to testify against me in court.”
	My jaw dropped. I knew she couldn’t be serious, but I never imagined she was this good of an actress. The gentle, kind-hearted fourth grade teacher who I had met at a bookstore, of all places, felt very different from the Mara standing before me now.
	“You would never do that, would you?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at me as she had done many times before, albeit without the intentionality that seemed apparent in this moment, or so I thought.
	“N-no, of course not,” I stuttered, suddenly afraid to disappoint my new bride.
	“Good,” she said, grinning again as she walked back to the vanity and picked up a cotton pad, which she used to carefully remove the layers of makeup that coated her face—foundation, blush, bronzer, eyeliner, shadow, lip liner, lipstick. She had described to me the intensive process of painting it on this morning while we were eating the overpriced steak dinner we, and two-thirds of our guests, had selected.
	Once her face was bare, she pulled her hair into a high, tight bun and walked past me, to the closet in the hallway of the expensive hotel suite my parents had gifted to us for the night. From it, she removed a short black dress and brunette wig. My mouth remained open as she slipped the dress over her head and zipped it up her back in one fluid motion. Placing the wig over her scalp, she walked back to the mirror and adjusted it, tugging at the ends of the shoulder-length bob to get it to sit right.
	“What do you think?” she asked with a flirtatious wink.
	I was speechless. How far was she willing to take this game? Was it a game?
	Without waiting for a response, she returned to the vanity and began pulling out different kinds of makeup from a small black pouch I had never noticed her use before. I watched in awe as she artfully applied new layers of makeup to her face to complete the disguise—a foundation one shade darker than her natural skin tone, heavy eyeliner ending in flared wings, mocha-colored eyeshadow that shimmered when she moved in the light, lipstick in a dark maroon. When she was finished, she truly looked like a different person.
	“So, are you coming with me?” Mara asked as she turned to face me once again, jutting her hip to the side and holding the tube of lipstick in her hand in an almost sensual manner, between her index and middle fingers, as if it were a cigarette.
	“Can I?” I asked, suddenly fascinated by the idea of participating in this game—whether it was real or pretend.
	She nodded once and walked back to the closet, from which she removed a charcoal gray suit and short blonde wig clearly meant for a man. When had she placed these items in the closet? How long had she been planning this?
	After a moment’s hesitation, I accepted the suit and wig from her and began to change clothes. She watched me dress with a gleam in her eye that spoke not of the lust which I had felt when I was unbuttoning her gown but of a mischievous—almost devilish—intent. As I stood in front of the mirror and buttoned the suit jacket, she came up behind me and stood on tiptoe to place the wig on top of my head. It fit snugly, covering my close-cropped light brown hair with ease.
	My reflection gazed at me from the mirror, conveying our collective disappointment in his expression. I looked like myself with a bad dye job. I supposed it would suffice, though. At least upon first glance, no one would recognize me.
	“So, where are we going?” I asked Mara as she donned a pair of black stilettos that must have been at least four inches tall. Even in these heels, the top of her head barely grazed my shoulders.
	“Downstairs,” she said, as if this should have been obvious.
	“Downstairs as in…the hotel?”
	“Why do you think I chose this venue for our wedding?”
	I stared at her, uncomprehending.
	“Because you…liked it?”
	She chuckled, playfully batting me on the shoulder as if I had made a joke.
	“Well, yes, I liked it, but this hotel also happens to be hosting an exhibition of rare jewelry.”
	My jaw dropped again.
	“You chose our venue based on what you could steal from it on the night of our wedding?”
	I wasn’t sure at what point I began to truly believe this was real, but in this moment, it felt too ridiculous to be anything but.
	“Not just that,” she said with a huff, clearly unimpressed by my questioning of her motives. “But I thought it would be a fun way to end the night. And get an extra wedding present for myself.”
	I continued to gape at her, baffled both by her brazen disregard for the sanctity of our wedding venue and by her confidence in her ability to steal a rare piece of jewelry from it. Regardless, I felt I was too far in to do anything but go along with the plan. And, admittedly, my curiosity was piqued. I wanted to see her in action.
	“Okay,” I said, unable to think of anything appropriate to say in the moment.
	Mara clapped her hands together once and gave me an impish grin before turning and strutting down the hallway, grabbing a black leather tote bag from the closet on her way to the front door of the suite.
	We made our way downstairs, to the lobby of the hotel. It was quiet, given the late hour, but there was still staff at the front desk and a number of drunken guests—some from our reception—staggering toward the elevators. Mara grabbed my hand and led me across the lobby, giggling and stumbling in her heels, blending in with the crowd around us. The woman at the front desk barely spared a glance in our direction as we walked further into the expansive first floor of the hotel, through a hallway lined by a number of doors and stairways leading to restaurants and convenience stores. Despite the luxury of the hotel—a venue we had only been able to afford due to an inheritance Mara had recently received, money which I now questioned the true origin of—the flooring beneath my feet was worn, and the blue-and-green pattern of the abrasive-looking material fell within the category of generic hotel or motel carpet I was accustomed to seeing at the places we could usually afford to stay. I stared at the wavy, winding pattern of it as I followed Mara, who alternated between taking quick, determined steps and wobbling drunkenly on her feet, depending on if there were other people around us.
	When we finally approached what I assumed was our intended destination—given the security guard standing next to a closed door leading to a room lined with windows, through which I could see a series of glass cases—Mara stopped and stood on tiptoe to whisper into my ear.
	“Distract the guard for me.”
	I blinked at her, attempting to process the words she had just spoken.
	“How?” I asked at my normal volume, earning a shushing from her. She leaned closer to my ear again, whispering her plan to me.
	Sweat began to bead on my upper lip as I approached the guard without Mara, who stopped to stare at a painting on the wall opposite the display room, tilting her head at it in seeming contemplation of the splotches of color on the canvas. The guard frowned at me as I stopped in front of him, his brow creasing.
	“I thought you should know, some guests are trying to break into the store back there,” I said, following Mara’s instructions to the letter, pointing in the direction we had just come from.
	The guard stared at me, suspicion evident in the narrowing of his eyes, but turned and walked down the hallway a moment later, muttering an aggrieved thanks under his breath.
	Once he had walked out of my sightline, Mara reappeared at my side as if summoned by the sudden vacancy there. Offering me a sly smile, she stretched a hand toward the door and twisted the knob. I expected it to be locked, but it swung open without resistance.
	“How did you know it would be open?” I asked.
	“Surveillance,” she answered with a shrug, as if this would mean anything to me. “The guard with the shift before that guy didn’t lock it last night. And this one didn’t check to make sure it was locked.”
	I scanned through my memories of the previous night, trying to figure out when she would have had time to conduct this so-called surveillance, but my attempts were fruitless.
	“Are you coming?” she asked as she walked through the door, only briefly hesitating to double-check that the hallway around us was still empty.
	I nodded reluctantly, following her through the doorway. The room was dim, lit only by the light from the hallway filtering through the panel of windows to my right. Mara seemed to know exactly where she was going, leading us to a glass case at the center of the room. Inside it was a ring unlike any I had seen in person. The fiery red ruby at the center of the gold band was massive, dwarfing the halo of tiny diamonds around it.
	Mara grinned at me before removing a tool from her bag that looked surprisingly similar to ones I had seen in old heist movies. I watched in fascination as she stuck the black suction cup onto the case and drew a circle in the glass around it with the blade attached to it, the motion swift and clean. Removing a second tool from her bag, she tapped the metal sphere on the end of it against the glass while gripping the suction cup with her free hand. The sharp rap caused the glass circle to dislodge, leaving a gap in the case. She reached through the hole and removed the ring from its cushion, her eyes lighting with glee, like those of a child receiving a new and highly anticipated toy.
	“The security here is terrible,” she said as she slid the ring onto her finger, holding her hand out in front of her a moment later to admire it.
	Satisfied, she nodded and began walking out of the room, leaving me gaping at her back. I followed her after a few seconds, head down, feeling somehow chastened by the display I had just witnessed, and by her brazenness in wearing the ring as we made our way back to our hotel room, taking an alternate route to avoid running into the security guard.
	For the next two weeks, during the entirety of our honeymoon in Hawaii, Mara wore the ring on the ring finger of her left hand in place of her wedding band. Whenever she caught me staring at it, she would smile at me, seeming to revel in the secret we now shared. And each time, the same thought ran through my mind.
 Who did I marry?
 
","July 21, 2023 17:26",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",cj75r4,Against The Odds,Saud M Lakhani,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cj75r4/,/short-story/cj75r4/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Friendship']",5 likes,"
“How long does it take for a fake smile to become an actual smile, for it to become the smile you wear faithfully,” he asked, looking at his reflection posing a self-complacent smile, a smile that may perhaps finally adorn his character. His posture was rhetorical, guile decorated, and yet eyes disloyal, emphasized with exhaustion, burdened and depraved.“Is this the new routine? An alarm, clothes pre-selected, and pure mundanity.” He questioned. “Maybe not disgusting after a while.” “But maybe never.” An insecure sigh which quickly apologizes to realization, “But perhaps disgusting for now…… and always?”“This is it? No more standing before crossroads debating, should I or should I not. This is it.” He had texted a night before his admission, to his childhood friend. Which had followed an hour-long call where he had wept into bankruptcy, exclaimed his failure, and echoed his unwilling servitude to medicine.Next day, his crusade had begun, inauguration of a new miserable future. The haunting hour-long commute already posed as problematic, then the dull depressing campus and ultimately the unsettling faces of new people. The only hope that constantly lingered that day was, there may be a familiar face somewhere. “Maybe Aisha, please No!” he thought to himself “Did she not also want to pursue medicine.” It had been several years since their breakup but the thought of reuniting at this place although near inconceivable was an addictive meditation that eased the day's emotional devastation.His First-day Orientation had nauseatingly included everything, from the journey ahead and of life that would diverge away from what he had imagined as a child, it reinstated the consequence of his decision depressing him entirely, and the thought of having no second option although removed some burden but still left him sickeningly guilty.Back home, it felt like a parade, His father was proud, mother overwhelmed with joy. All distant and close family overtook by the eventuality of his decision. Their happiness somehow seemed that it was destiny, and a natural progression of life as if admission here was another checklist finally checked. He was forced to feel guilty for ever imagining a deviation from the set out unspoken but overly apparent path. “A path of easy and sure success.” He apologetically whispered to himself.Next day, was where he had met his new batch, his colleagues, all strangers all aliens. Some were incredibly felicitous to have started this journey and some probably struggling like he was, with the sudden change in environment, and some probably were beaming anxiously to learn. He, however, felt out of place, eager to change yet still deprecatory.There was this question everyone would ask the batch, “Why are you all here? Is it because you want to pursue this or were you forced to be here?” To every person asking, he would reverberate the same “It was my choice but no, I did not want to pursue dentistry.” Thinking he was being honest with himself, but his answer felt corrupt with confusion. Finally, someone caught him off-guard. It was the girl sitting in Infront of him in the auditorium. As soon as the next person brought up the same question, she ambushed him, “Yes we all know you were forced to be here” Her unconsented stare left him surprised, he felt raided upon. She was Amania. She emphatically imposed herself on him with her unsolicited and seemingly ominous curiosity. Suggesting sitting behind her had caused annoyance throughout the day.The first few weeks into this new routine already had condemned him to be the quiet one, silently he would remain, separate and away from these strangers acquainting themselves. He would keep to himself, making sure he looked busy and serious.At least he would try, until Amania eventually would, pull him into her group, asking intolerable questions that he had never wanted to share an opinion on, “Again with this useless curiosity.” He would reply, stopping the conversation to close. She would reflect her instinctive smile and coyly would grin and continue asking. She had started to become fun for him. Their conversations soon had become casual banters and had mechanically brought him nearer to her other friends.Months went by quickly, and putting on a mask of deception became a habit, a procedure. He would rise from sleep every day fatigued, he would dress up reluctantly and before leaving his house he would regularly stand in front of the mirror, in his room, and smile, analyzing it, holding it, making sure it seemed congenital. There was always a sense of fear lurking, the thought of quitting forever present.It was as if an internal switch needed to be turned on before entering his class, and meeting up with his colleagues. So, to not exhaust his narrative he buried himself in textbooks, making sure he stood out as a student and yet invisible as a person. He looked serious, maybe grievous sometimes, but always looking inwards keeping his distance. Earphones plugged in listening to fiction, looking for an escape, evading all conversations that were remote from academics. Making sure he was not distracted from the goal set, “Eventually dentistry could become my passion. If I worked hard. maybe pretended to work for it… maybe.” He forcefully believed. “Fake it till you make it? Perhaps.”He passed year one and became friends with Talha, who was seemingly quiet, soft-spoken, and delicate at first but quickly became dependable for him. Talha’s constant presence allowed an excuse for not being social enough. Talha was kindhearted, brave, and slow to judge him, or maybe his judgment although never vocal felt non-threatening. He brought along Musa to their group studies. Musa was different from them both, he was more outgoing, more social, and an extrovert yet was never sharing his opinions or his past. He too had built up a wall hiding himself behind it. He had a distinct way of speaking or explaining where he could say the least possible words but amazingly would say enough. These three, although discreetly opposite to each other but out of cryptic cosmic luck found themselves relying devoid of competition without any covert demand. They were unconventional friends.Talha and Musa both somehow had learned to give him his due space. Their relationship was designed to help each other out academically first and then be friends second, Amania had asked Talha once, “Is Saeed your best friend then?” to which Saeed had intervened, “No, Talha and I are good friends.” He continued “We study buddies.” Not realizing how awful that sounded. He smiled and carried on.For Talha it seemed easy to mix with people, it came naturally to him. He had befriended everyone, people that Saeed had been pushing back. Mingling with them and enjoying their company which meant Saeed had to join all the social gatherings that he would have skipped otherwise. It felt to him an obligation. For Talha planning elaborate events seemed genuinely enjoyable. Talha never asked Saeed to be a part of them but for Saeed, it was understood, they had slowly become one. Saeed thought, “If this is important to Talha then, it has to be important for me as well.” Being friends with Talha made it certain that Saeed needed to perhaps drop a bit of his guard at least with Amania who had become closer to Talha.Year two was quick. Between needless events and the difficult course Saeed found himself mostly busy, His pretension was a bit more cursory yet had become sufficient and consolatory. His breakdowns, still palpable but far apart. He was starting to find a rhythm, maybe learning to manage them. Not that all his coping strategies were healthy, but treating himself to desert and spending too much on cheap and easy food was a quick distraction away from acknowledging or checking with his emotions, “I know why and what makes me sad, can I truly change that. right now?” he confided once, to one of his childhood friends. “Probably not; when I must wake up every day and do the crap, I hate…. Everyday.” He added “So it’s easier to be fat but focused. No?” Letting out a poetic sigh, apologizing to himself, he continued ignoring his need for self-love for this burdening borrowed mission of being the perfect image. “Fake it…. Till you make it.”Finals for year two were incredibly testing, the schedule for it was barbaric, four uninterrupted days of theoretical examination, then a day’s break followed by another four days of idiotically calendared clinical examinations. It was far more exhausting and debilitating than expected. This schedule and preparation for the exams had depleted him, Talha proved to be his support during this time, Musa couldn’t handle these days of sleep deprivation and had quietly removed himself from obligation, he would join them when needed.They would eat as little as possible, and live off coffee and soda, Saeed’s nicotine addiction had escalated, and taking smoke breaks became his only minutes of comfort, his time alone in solitude. Where once Saeed had debated himself and contested all his values and morals. Posed life-altering questions or delegated tremendous decisions, Now, it had become difficult to even hear himself. He found that the ever-present and persistently degrading inner voice that he had been conditioned to since childhood was losing volume. A sense of loss prevailed.Obsessively, He would pace the room, trying to resuscitate that inner monologue. That He fenced, argued with, and learned from all his life. That voice in him was in many ways meditative. Losing it brought an implosion of self-loathing. He felt diseased. He felt incompetent and devoid of life.The exhaustion, the lack of time and the false imperativeness to maintain his fictitious hard work pulled him back although apprehensively but with certainty. He soon would lose that inner voice in its entirety. Hoping he had paused it, he forgave himself, minimizing its need.He passed year two despite the internal chaos. Pushing through. “One day at a time. Be Present.” He claimed, to remind himself of the vow he had pledged the night before he sentenced himself, in favor of what he was made to believe, “A path of easy and sure success.”Year three would have been easier, less theoretical, and much more clinical. Smaller curriculum and more skill development. Necessitating his communication skills to be polished. It had meant Saeed would have to pivot away from what he had become slightly more comfortable with. Reading the same topic from three different textbooks, and allowing three different authors to repeat the same concept had become his own way of learning, relearning, and understanding although incredibly time-consuming, it was becoming his formula. His means of fulfilling the task without allowing distraction or demotivation. In fact, a cathartic muse.Amania had become as important to him as Talha and Musa. An anchor keeping him afloat. She was an inspiration to him. her geniusness became a magnetic pull, her passion for dentistry slowly penetrating making way into his densely prisoned self. Clinical practice and observing skilled clinicians became their way of bonding, their superficial banter blossomed into moments of honest and tender conversations. Saeed felt regretful for not sharing his fears and his honest unadulterated self with her from the very first day. His need to now start again, start anew echoed loudly, letting Amania in all the way through, became an uncanny desire. A selfishly hopeful correction, that covid caused to push towards oblivion.Covid had vindictively ruined everything, more globally than for Saeed yet equally agonizing. An epidemic of loneliness ensued, and suddenly his unglamorous routine ended. He no longer had to wake to an alarm or dress up formally. No masks of deceit or fake smiles to decorate, no one to act for. A crippling death for mundanity.Inapposite to the unforgivable demise endured by the natural course of usualness, Covid had caused a wave of change, the world had stopped. And had found time to bring about internal peace which quickly became a universal endeavor, a social truce. Solitude brought about mature serenity. But as soon as Covid’s impact Faded, all were the same.Year four slowly lingered close, a year of conclusion. It meant juggling an impossible curriculum, perfecting clinical skills, and hauling a cargo of responsibility to faithfully enact the Hippocratic oath. All of it with the lingering silence that covid had left. Amania was different, less cheery than before, Talha was demoralized and seemed busy building emotional distance, but Musa appeared rejuvenated. “Do not think, just be” he would tell Saeed intending to inspire his optimism into Saeed’s derisive and malcontent character.Saeed overwhelmed with duty had drowned himself in patients and then afterward, back at home, in his textbooks, he demanded from himself an acute and inexcusable redemption, realizing how he has failed to convince himself of the passion he intended to produce. Talha and Musa, are always there, in the background participating too in his madness, knowing well Saeed’s pattern but never daring to intervene. They at first thought that maybe this odd and insane drive was indeed healthy, if not pathological.Saeed, unable to balance his curriculum with his clinal practice, had scored poorly in his midterms which instead of demoralizing him had remarkably propelled him further in his maddening campaign. He had become more focused and unconvincingly more devoted. Musa annoyed, was trying to pace him down, “Saeed, let’s take a break.” He would say. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight. maybe” he would suggest. “It’s been a while; we should maybe plan some, small road trip.” He was ignored. Feeling dismissed, he tried to team up with Talha to somehow convince Saeed of a road trip or something, anything. But found no luck. He was impenetrable. Saeed had become concrete, delusionally fixed to some unknown cause. The space between them grew. They tried to excuse him at first and even tried to bully him into submission but never parting his side. Sense of their worry had matured, Saeed to them had become unhinged and humorless.Saeed was committed fully to his ostensibly tenured sentence. fractionally reverting back to where he had begun. Obsessed again with the idea of being perfect. forlorn guilt embossed and depraved with the feeling of being a disgrace. No matter how much he worked, Saeed never felt appreciated or rewarded.“I do everything in life up to 90% and then quit, just when am at the finish line.” he had complained. “Saeed, maybe for once, recognize how hard we have worked. And then try to be kind to yourself.” Talha had consoled. “I am quitter, all my life… a quitter.” Saeed had interjected. “Just why can’t I be rewarded for the work, I put in?” he asked. “Are you blind?” Talha continues, “You know more than anyone. You know enough. You have no reason to compete with postgraduates.” Talha pursing his lips imposed in his analytical away, “But you do! and so, are doomed.” “You are ungrateful and toxic to yourself. That’s all.” He loudly prosecuted. “Work smartly. Everyone else is.” Looking towards Musa he ends. “Don’t think…... Just be” Musa contributed. “That all is enough. I believe”Exams for the final year before long had consumed them all, Amania always a text away, always available and the three relied on her throughout and collaboratively, Amania had depended on them. From all-nighters to early mornings, it truly felt like an incredible feat to be finally able to conquer it. However impossible it had first seemed. Exam days felt like mutually earned victories, some were decisive and some solitarily affording.“On towards, the next chapter then.” Amania asserted.“Yes, on towards, making a better future, with happier memories.” Musa wished. “Like the much-awaited road trip.” Saeed announced. Holding Talha joyously by his shoulders. Musa smiling beside him.“On towards, the next chapter. Indeed” Saeed whispered back to himself, relieved and somewhat unburdened.
","July 22, 2023 03:27",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",ldqjzh,A New Home,Em Novela,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ldqjzh/,/short-story/ldqjzh/,Character,0,['Fiction'],5 likes,"
I wake up as soon as the bus comes to a halt but I keep my eyes shut. All around me, I hear the shuffling of the other passengers eager to alight. The elderly lady beside me starts talking loudly on her phone- not paying any mind to the other sleeping passengers. I try to block all of the distraction to remember the dream I was having but it's too late. 
 
Begrudgingly, I reach up to the overhead compartment to collect my stuff: a worn-out plastic bag that contains all my life now. 
 
I step out of the bus to stretch my legs. They are almost numb from sitting for almost eight hours. It is the longest trip I have ever been to in all my life. Another eight hours of travelling and I'd be in Manila. 
 
My stomach rumbles and I approach the cafeteria. I am too busy wondering if I could buy anything that I don't notice the lady at the counter smiling at me. 
 
""Hi, sister,"" she says in my native language. 
 
It is only then that I notice her unusually long hair tucked in a neat ponytail, just like mine. For a moment, I look at her wide-eyed, unable to say anything in response. ""Peace be upon you,"" I manage to say at last. 
 
""And you,"" she says. ""Where are you from? Are you travelling alone?"" 
 
My heart starts to pound rapidly at her questions. I grip my bag tightly and tell her the name of the biggest town I can think of. 
 
""Is that so? I have family in that town, perhaps you know them."" 
 
I am racked with panic at this point and my stomach rumbles loudly. ""Of course, you must be hungry! What can I get you?"" she says. I am embarrassed but relieved at the sudden change of  subject. I ask her for a bowl of soup. 
 
""Here you go."" She places a small bowl of steaming hot soup at the counter. As I rummage my wallet for some bills, she says, ""Never mind, sister. Anything for my brethren."" 
 
I thank her and scoot to the farthest table. Luckily, another bus had arrived at the station and the passengers gradually flock to the cafeteria. I finish the soup as fast as I can, not caring if I scald my tongue. I return the bowl at the counter and wave her goodbye. 
 
I hurriedly return to the bus. Once seated, I try to calm my racing heart. There's no way the cafeteria lady knows me. Eight more hours. Eight more hours then I'd be in the big city where no one will find me. 
 
As the bus starts winding down the zigzagging highway, I close my eyes and think of the life I’m leaving behind. 
 
****
I was raised in a very religious household. The kind where we go to church not only every sunday but almost everyday. We did not miss any assembly or meeting. My father had an important role in the congregation so we were not allowed to miss church unless we were seriously ill. Once we had a church assembly at the same time of my grade school graduation. Which did I attend? I sat in a two-hour church assembly when I was supposed to be on a stage delivering the valedictory address. My father said it was through God’s grace that I finished on top of my class.
 
Growing up like this, the only sunshine in my life was my mother. While she was a devout officer in the Church, I never felt that she valued us less than her duties in the church.  She was kind and loving; she never raised her voice when she got mad. She was the only one who would listen to what my siblings and I wanted. 
 
When I was sixteen, I wanted to go to the town dance with my sisters. Father said that such occasions were the instruments of the devil to lure us into sin. I was upset but I could not cry in front of him. But when he left that evening, my mother sang for us while we had our own dance at home. 
 
I wanted to go to a certain college in another province but father would not allow me. He suggested that I take a two-month course in tailoring that was sponsored by the mayor. Mother managed to persuade him to let me attend the nearest college we could find. It was not what I wanted but when you are stripped of the power to choose from a very young age, every little choice seems big.
 
Then, my mother became very sick.  She had been diagnosed with cancer a while back. She spent most of the time sleeping and when she did wake up, all she did was throw up. The week she fell seriously ill, the minister came to our house every single night: praying for us, anointing my mother with oil, telling us about the importance of accepting the will of God. 
 
All the while I was thinking: Is my mother going to die? What was the use of begging God to heal her from her sickness if he was going to do what he wanted anyway? Why are you here? All this I wanted to ask him but I knew I couldn't. In the end, we thanked him for his love and compassion. 
 
Mother was buried on a rainy day. I remember the funeral only lasted a few minutes long because there were fears that roads would be flooded by midday. Back at home, the brethren expressed their condolences. 
 
""At least she will not suffer anymore."" ""She'll be at rest, waiting for the promised salvation."" ""She's lucky to have finished her race."" These were their words. 
 
I wanted to be sick. I excused myself and went to the bedroom. I was crying when my father walked in. “What are you doing here? Don’t be disrespectful and come out.” With my mother gone, I have lost even the right to feel. 
 
I had never planned to run away from home. I was resigned to a lifetime of obeying these rules, of being kept in a box, of denying my feelings and desires. Then my sunshine vanished. 
 
So I phoned a college friend who by then lived in Manila and then one Sunday, while father was in a meeting, I excused myself on the pretext that I had diarrhea. In reality, I went home, grabbed a plastic bag filled with clothes and took a bus to the next town where I took another bus and another until I got to a town where nobody knew me.
 
*****
I shield my eyes from the sun as I stepped out on the platform. The station is packed and everywhere I go I bump into a stranger. I feel a rush of excitement, nerves, fatigue and hunger  all at once. 
 
I stand against a column and wonder about my mother. If heaven truly exists and I go to hell, will she look for me in heaven? Will she be sad? Disappointed? I am not sure if I want to know the answer. Don’t look back, I tell myself. It’s time to look for a new home. It’s time to be someone else.
 
My friend Jocelyn appears from somewhere. “How are you? How was the trip” she asks. I tell her everything is fine. 
 
“What would you like to do?” she says.
 
“I would like to get a haircut.”
 
","July 22, 2023 03:31",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",7vpedt,Hide and Seek,Aribah Hossain,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7vpedt/,/short-story/7vpedt/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fantasy', 'Inspirational']",5 likes,"
DING! I rush in as the elevator doors open. Unlike its usual tendency to be crowded, it’s empty. Once again, I’m left alone with only my thoughts. One would think that I live the perfect life. I live on the best street in downtown Toronto, I work for the famous publishing company, Granted, and I’m told to have a striking appearance. It’s said that I get away with things, receive whatever I want, whenever I want. They forget that everything comes with a price. 
 
My earliest memory is a group of girls running away from me in the orphanage I grew up in, only because I was rambling on about magical worlds when they just wanted to play princesses. At an early age, I learned the harsh nature of society and people’s ability to judge. In the beginning, I didn’t care but by the time of my thirteenth birthday, it was becoming too much, and so, I ran away. 
 
I had no idea how to navigate the obstacles of this cruel world but I suppose I had some advantages on my side, if put that way. I began to develop the ability to read people’s minds; it came out of nowhere. It started with only sensing someone’s emotions. At first, I thought I was imagining things and tried to ignore it but the opposing urge overtook that feeling. I started using the power to please people. In some form, I knew it was wrong but feeling wanted and appreciated was something I couldn’t give up; I was only a child after all. 
 
Now, after so long, my power has definitely increased; I can even shapeshift but it doesn’t feel as great. I know I’m putting up an act and every time someone smiles, I can’t help but think how the tables would turn if they knew the truth. I constantly wonder how differently would my life turn out if I didn’t attain the power of telepathy or looked like my true self?
 
BeEpp! Wow, that really was a trip down memory lane. Seeing how late I was, I broke out in a run but before I could actually enter the room, WoOSH. I crashed into someone and the papers I was holding went flying. As I reached down to pick them up, through my peripheral vision, I saw a boy looking about my age, mid twenties, had brown hair which was a little disheveled from the fall and the most prominent blue eyes I had ever seen. I was so distracted by his appearance, for a moment, I almost didn’t realize what was different in this interaction and every one I’d had since she was 13 years old. My powers weren’t working but was even more bizarre was that I could sense he had the same abilities I did. The different possibilities running through my mind made me almost miss his apology. “I’m so sorry”, he said. Instead of responding, I just smiled as I stepped foot into the meeting room. 
 
“Oh great! You're both here.” Mr. Merachino declared. Although spelled differently, I thought the name was quite fitting for him because most times, he was just as red as a cherry. “Dahlia Rensen, I’d like you to meet Anxo Grimaldi, our newest addition to the company. He’s writing a new story and I thought, who a better editor than you?”
 
“I look forward to working with you Ms.Rensen.” My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his unexpected gravelly voice. 
 
The next morning, a part of me was dreading going to work for the fear of messing up while another was intrigued how this meeting would run. Today’s job was simple. We’d just have to discuss the plot of the story. 
 
“Good morning, Mr. Grimaldi.” 
 
“Oh, please do call me Anxo.”
 
“Ok then, Anxo, please tell me your story line.”
 
He continued but I would never have predicted what was going to happen next. He repeated my whole life story, from the very beginning in the orphanage to my job at a publishing company now: I was flabbergasted. Who was this guy?
 
I screamed, “How do you know all that?” He motioned to lower my voice midway but replied nonetheless. 
 
“I was sent to Toronto to find you Dahlia. I must say finding out what happened in your past was not an easy task.”
 
I raised my eyebrows, “Yes, but why would you need to? Why are you here and what do you want with me?”
 
First he started by saying how he knew I have powers and how he does as well. He expanded by mentioning that there is a whole kingdom filled with people who have the same power as me within the Kingdom of Tellepathia. People with the same ability cannot read each other's minds because it would disrupt the balance of thoughts and cause chaos. So it’s only possible to sense someone’s emotions when they do not have the same power as you. 
 
Once a longtime ago, they were afraid of our power and banished us to a separate place but we made it work and created a thriving kingdom. However, most people nowadays don’t even know we exist.
 
It turned out that to discover what occurred to the royal family, something I’m apparently part of, took a very long time. My older sister- which I didn’t even know existed - went to the dark side by experimenting with dark magic when the throne was handed over to my cousin just because my sister didn’t have the power of shapeshifting. Anxo explained that all royal family members had the ability of metamorphosis to protect themselves but for no apparent reason, it had skipped a generation so I was expected to rule. 
 
These were the most ridiculous things I ever heard. Anxo’s story didn’t end there. He told me about my parents who’s trip to the city had resulted in their deaths but somehow I had survived. 
 
Although, the biggest problem within all the things I’ve told you is how our power is dying out. The sorcery your sister is using can erase someone’s power permanently. She has only targeted a few but the situation could get brutal and we must save the kingdom.”
 
“And why do you need me again?”, I said aloud. 
 
“Because you are the rightful heir to the throne. Your cousin doesn’t want to do anything about the problem since he’s scared of what your sister might do to him.”
 
“But why do you care so much?” I asked
 
“Your questions never stop do they? I’m the king’s advisor’s son. My father sent me to find you out of our duty to save the kingdom. Now, I need you to go to Tellepathia with me to stop your sister and claim back the throne.” 
 
I thought this boy was out of his mind. “Are you insane!” I yelled, “Do you think I want to rule a kingdom which I just heard about 5 seconds ago?”
 
“Indeed, I do know your life story now. But, just think, these last few days you have been yourself with me and I think you're just scared of people not accepting you.”
 
I didn’t know why but it felt terribly comforting to hear that from someone. I could have a purpose and someone, although it might be a random boy, accepted me for who I am and maybe this could be good for me. I could meet my sister and maybe I could strengthen a friendship or something more. 
 
“Alright fine, I’m not sure about becoming queen but I’ll go just to see what this Kingdom of Tellepathia is like.”
 
Anxo’s face was beaming. I suppose he really did want his home to be saved. “Great, we’ll leave tomorrow by boat, it’s just past the border.”
 
I didn’t know much about Toronto’s borders but I was pretty sure this kingdom didn’t exist.
 
He seemed to pick up on my confusion, “Don’t worry, tomorrow, you’ll see. Meet you at 8.” I had some packing to do. Agreeing to go on this crazy journey might have been a bad choice but I was somewhat excited for what was to come. 
 
At 8:00 am sharp, both Anxo and I were on the dock. 
 
He asked, “Are you okay? You look nervous.”
 
“Well Anxo, I’m absolutely overjoyed! I’m going on a boat for the first time with a person I met 3 days ago to go to a kingdom which sounds made up that I’m supposed to save. Did I mention I’m also supposed to meet a sister which I never knew existed?”, I didn’t mean to sound so exasperated but I was anxious. 
 
Anxo looked like he was considering how it was like to be in my position, the gears shifting in his brain, visible on his face. “I’m sorry, but don’t worry about the boat ride and the traveling there, it will be alright.”
 
I mean, out of all the things I said, he only addressed one issue but his voice sounded so sincere and his apology so genuine, it was hard to stay mad. I suppose it wasn’t his fault all this was happening to me. He was only sent out to perform a task. “Thank you”, I replied.
 
“Ok, I think we can get into the boat now”, he answered.
 
The condition of the boat surprised me since it was a small canoe but I didn’t feel like complaining.
 
“How do we get here?” I asked
 
“To get to the kingdom of tellepathia, you just get into the water and read its mood. Once it tells you exactly where to go, you say the code, Open Tellepathia, and you teleport onto land.”
 
I didn’t have time to process my feelings of intrigue when we arrived because Anxo started running and I had to follow. 
 
“Oh no, the magic of the kingdom has already started dying. I can tell by the trees. We have to go straight to the castle.”
 
“Well, I have no idea what to do so I’ll just follow your judgment on this.”
 
Anxo’s eyes widened like no one had ever trusted him to lead, “You do realize, technically you have power over me because I work for the royal family. 
 
“I’ve only known I was royal since you told me so I trust you on this.” 
 
He seemed less flustered now so we continued on to walk. His original plan was for me to walk in there and claim the throne but I suggested that I just talk to her because there was no way I was going to be queen now. 
 
The journey there to the castle was a few days and over time, I saw the beauty of the kingdom and Anxo’s stories about everything made me truly nostalgic for the people. 
 
When we finally arrived, we had to fight through the guards and I was surprised to see that Anxo was good with a sword- although I didn’t know when he had got that. 
 
We both walked into the front room of the palace. It was a huge area with marbled floors and giant sparkling chandeliers. 
 
A woman wearing a purple floor length gown came into sight. “Anxo, who is this?”
 
“Your majesty, Ikella Metorphiz, this is your long lost sister,” he replied.
 
This was not the horrifying queen she thought she would find. She found it amusing how calmly she was speaking to Anxo. She supposed everyone who once lived in the castle knew him. He was a very memorable person, especially for her over the past few days. 
 
The woman’s mouth formed an O and tears formed in her eyes, “ Tella?”
 
I scrunched my face, “Who’s that?”
 
Anxo laughed sheepishly, “Oh, the name you have now was given to you by the orphanage, your real name is Tella Metorphiz, the ones your parents gave you.”
 
“Nice of you to tell me, Anxo. Your majesty, I'm here to try and stop you from ruining this place. Anxo told me everything that happened and I don’t think this is the way to help the kingdom you love.”
 
She exclaimed, “ And how would you know all this? You haven’t been here when everyone turned on me just because of my lack of power. They don’t deserve any power either.”
 
I suddenly became very emotional, “ Ikella, I know I don’t know you very well but from all the stories I heard about you and Anxo growing up together on this journey. I have a feeling you would have been a very good sister and an even better leader. You deserve leadership because you want the best for your people, or at least you once did. This is not the way to rescue your people. I lived a life of sadness and regret because I hid from people who I was. I used to be scared to voice my opinions and I haven’t even shape shifted into my true form since I was 15. I have the power to shapeshift and read minds Ikella but it did not give me happiness. You were happy until the power of the throne and your aggression of people not accepting you overwhelmed that feeling.”
 
Tears, one by one, fell on Ikella’s face but she didn’t look ready to give up what she had been doing or maybe not ready to accept her mistakes. 
 
“You really think I’m going to let you get away with everything so easily, with just a speech?”
 
“Yes, because this is not who you are. Your good natured wishes have gone to an extreme level where you're ready to kill to get power so you can save your people. A bit ironic, don’t you think? And if you really are not going to accept the truth of your actions, use your sorcery to drain the power for me.”
 
“Fine, maybe I will”
 
Anxo cried out but I knew I was safe. 
 
Ikella was an inch away from me but she suddenly broke down and started sobbing. 
 
I gave her a hug and tried comforting her. 
 
I knew I’d only just met these people but I sensed that I would have strong bonds with them in the future.
 
It felt like the end of something but I wasn't done just quite yet. 
 
“Anxo, take us to the throne room of the palace, will my cousin be there?”
 
“Well, I suppose so, let’s go. Are you sure you want to do this?”
 
I nodded. I knew he didn’t know what I was going to do but this would prove to be very satisfying. 
 
As I faced my cousin, I commanded, “Stop, I am the rightful heir to this throne. I am Tella Matorphis of Tellpathia.”
 
Then I did something which I thought I would never be able to, I transformed into my true self. I turned to the huge mirror in the room. I gasped. This was unbelievable, I looked so different now. It was a great change from the little, scared girl in the orphanage. 
 
Out of my shiny brown hair, light green eyes and tan skin, the most notable thing was my new, shining confidence. 
 
When the crown flew off my cousin’s head and landed on mine, it was everyone’s turn to gasp. 
 
Anxo muttered more to himself than everyone, “Of course, it’s Tellapathian legend that the crown will always go to it’s true owner.”
 
Now, this was the fun part. “As queen, I officially declare that my reign will now end and I crown my successor to be my older sister who will lead better than I ever could: Ikella Metorphis.”
 
“You surely had the shortest reign of a royal that Tellepathia has ever seen”, Anxo laughed.
 
The crown flew to Ikella. 
 
She remarked, “Thank you, sister, for everything.”
 
Cousin Frederick was astonished. I don’t think there was ever a more eventful day in his life. His crown was taken away from him and two new queens were already crowned.
 
Anxo voiced the question that everyone was wondering, “But Dahlia, where will you go now? Will you stay here?”
 
“ I love this place an I”m sure my sister will do an excellent job of rebuilding the place but I’m going to go back and be a writer. Start afresh, you know? My new appearance will cause them to think I’m a new person, I stated.
 
Anxo surprised me by stating, “I’ll come too then. I guess I won’t have you as my editor but I also want to write about magical worlds like our own. I love this place but I want to experience new things.”
 
Ikella with an amused expression said, “ Alright everyone can leave and I will figure out how to run this place with our cousin Frederick but you all must visit.”
 
“That’s a promise”, I replied.
 
Me and Anxo went back to our life in Toronto and we both got a fresh start. 
 
“We have to accept the fact that not everything nor everyone is suited for us on this Earth of a vast population of almost 8 billion people. Yet, most humans are people pleasers. We like to know that we’re accepted by people. So sometimes, we mold ourselves to others and don’t realize how harmful this could be. Sometimes, life just has to play its course and these people will be found on the journeys you take.”, I wrote. 
 
My last paragraph of my book felt like the end of an era. I realized my problem all these years was I had no self confidence and didn't believe that I, Dahlia Rensen, could be liked or make a difference. Therefore I hid and relied on everyone else’s thoughts, just to play it safe, scared of what might happen. I hid for a long time just to seek acceptance and happiness. Hiding didn't quite work but being courageous had paid off. Now, my life with Anxo, Ikella and the new bonds I had created felt real. I never had to doubt the originality of their smiles.
 
","July 22, 2023 03:42",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",kvq2zn,The Muse,Amalee Bowen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kvq2zn/,/short-story/kvq2zn/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
My fingers trailed across the back of his neck, above the ragged collar of his t-shirt. The young musician was bent over his guitar, alone in the dimly lit studio. The computer screens cast a blue glow on his face. 
           I would leave him with one last burst of inspiration, one final fragment of a melody. It was not a gift–he would chase this song for the rest of his life, all in vain. 
           “Yes, this is it,” he muttered to himself, plucking the notes on his guitar. 
           I could still feel his never-ending hunger, the greed which made him cling to me. He always wanted more of my power–and more of what it could bring him. Applause, accolades, privilege, and power. He had wanted to be a star and I had made him one. 
           I let my hand fall. I would be his muse no more. I could only tolerate these humans so long. When their greed and their hunger outweighed their passion for their art, when they craved my power more than my presence, I left them behind to strive on their own. This young pop star would try to reach the heights he had once claimed under my guidance, but he would never see them again. 
           He plucked a discordant note and let out a frustrated scream. “No! I’ve lost it!” He struck out blindly, knocking a glass from the desk. It shattered on the floor. I watched the glass disintegrate into shards, the purple-blue studio lights refracted in their sharp lines. An amber liquid seeped into the gray carpet. 
           I turned my back on the musician as he tore the headphones from his head with an enraged scream. Another crash followed, and then the sound of hands slammed against the desk. 
           “No! Come back!” he yelled. But I was already walking away. 
           What would he turn to in his pursuit of inspiration? Alcohol? Drugs? Most of the artists I left descended into some form of madness, desperate to reclaim their inspiration. I always chose the greedy ones, and they always responded with rage and desperation when I left. It was my only consolation. 
           I passed through the studio, through the bright hallways of the building, to the outside. I could still hear his frustrated shouts. 
           I should return to my sisters. There were seven of us, although the stories liked to number us nine. Once we had been considered goddesses, but now we had been labeled with a simpler name–Muses.
           I stepped out of the building and into a warm summer evening. The air was sultry with heat and with the noise of insects. The setting sun gilded all the tree leaves and turned the sky orange and red. It was the kind of thing humans stopped to marvel at, and the artists loved to paint and write about. To me, it was commonplace. 
           In the times when we did not walk about the earth my sisters and I dwelt in a house of polished moonstone, with the whirling galaxies splattered like glitter across a inky canvas outside our windows. 
            Music ran in our blood, poetry danced in our whispers, and our touch brought glorious visions of color and light. We wielded power that could change the direction of cultures, and yet we had been cursed–never to be seen, never to be loved, only to be used. We could create nothing ourselves–only the humans could do that.
           We all coped with the curse in our own way. Calliope preferred weeping after her latest artist had broken her heart. Thalia liked to toy with the humans, granting them inspiration sporadically so that they begged for her attention. I just chose the greedy ones whose hunger for fame or for wealth outweighed everything else. They would always rage and scream when I left and I would feel no guilt.
           I stood beneath the drooping branches of a tree, all emptied out. I wanted to take a moment to exist in this emptiness that always followed the end.
 
           That was when I caught sight of the man. He was sitting on a bench with his head bowed, his hands clasped together between his knees. As I watched, he turned his face up as if to catch the glow of the setting sun, his eyes closed. He was alone. Something about him compelled me–just him sitting there in the summer evening alone, doing nothing but turning his face to the sun. 
           I never picked another artist right away. I always needed time away from the human realm until my restlessness forced me to find another person through whom I could create once more. And yet…
           I approached him. As I neared the bench where he sat, he cocked his head to one side. 
           “Hello?”
           I stopped in my tracks. Humans could not hear me or see me, although they sometimes could sense my presence when I was near. But only after they had felt my touch or heard my whisper in their ear. Had I chosen this man before? No. I remembered every one. 
           I moved closer. 
           The man opened his eyes–they were pale blue and with a white film. That was when I saw the cane resting against his leg. This man was blind.
           “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t see whoever is there.”
            “Can you…hear me?” I asked. 
           He chuckled. “I’m only blind, not deaf.” 
           This was…impossible. I looked at my hands. Was I losing my power? Would I also be visible to human eyes? 
           “You have a lovely voice though,” he said. 
           “Oh…thank you. Sorry, I’m just a little surprised. Most people…don’t hear me.”
	He tilted his head again. “Why is that?”
I took a breath. “I–” I paused. “They’re usually focused on…other things, I suppose.”
“Other things?”
“Like…what I can do for them. How I can make them reach their goals.”
	“You can help people reach their goals? What is it that you do, exactly?”
“I…I’m…” I laughed a little, in disbelief. “I’m a Muse.”
	“A Muse?” He grimaced a bit. “Is that a euphemism for something that I shouldn’t ask about?”
	“Oh. No, no. Nothing like that. I mean–like an artistic muse.”
“Like a model or something?”
“Something like that.”
	He nodded. “That seems like a position where it would be easy to not feel heard. Do you feel like people never see the real you?”
	A short laugh escaped me. “Yeah, you could say that.”
	“It’s hard for people to see the real me as well,” he said. “They only see my blindness. That’s the hard thing about people, isn’t it. So often they can’t see past the surface and define you by what’s obvious–your occupation, your disability, your appearance, what you offer them or what you don’t. The real seeing takes much more effort–much more work.”
	“Yeah.”
	He patted the bench next to him. “Sit next to me, if you want. Tell me then–who are you? Really?”
“I don’t think it’s that easy to explain,” I said. 
“Then tell me–what is it you want people to see. Or hear?”
	I looked out at the sunset. The sun was barely clinging onto the horizon and the sky was turning deep purple. Once it let go, the spread of the universe would sprawl before our eyes, distant worlds, and burning stars turned to mere pinpricks of light. I felt the void and yawn of space and centuries in the pit of my stomach for the first time. 
	“I don’t even know anymore,” I said. “Somewhere along the way I think I just stopped…wanting.” 
	“Hmm,” the man mused. “Do we ever really stop wanting? Or do we just cover it up until we can’t feel it anymore, like a scab protecting a wound?”
	“I don’t know,” I said. I shook my head. “How about you? Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Your blindness…were you born unable to see?”
	He smiled a half-smile. “No, I lost my sight as a teenager…I wanted to be a painter.”
           “Oh. Well…what do you do now? Do you still paint?”
           “No, I can’t. I just work in a grocery store.”
	“Oh.”
	He sighed. “But I like to come out here when I can. Feeling the sun on my face is a bit like seeing color again.”
           “Ah.” There was a dropping sensation in my chest. It was a feeling I couldn’t name.
           “Speaking of which, I think the sun has gone down. I should probably head home now.”
           “Right, of course.”
	He stood up from the bench, clutching his cane in one hand.
            “What was your name? I don’t think you said.”
           “Clio.”
           He smiled again, brightly this time. “It’s a name like music. Nice to meet you, Clio.”
           The sound of my name on the lips of a human made me shiver. It had been so long that I had heard it spoken. 
           “And your name?” I asked. 
           “Joshua.” He held out his hand. I grasped it and shook it. 
           “Nice to meet you Joshua.”
           He gasped a little at my touch and took a step back. He cleared his throat. “Will you meet me again tomorrow, Clio?”
           “Yes,” I found myself agreeing, without thought.
           “Then until we meet again.” He gave me a nod and then shuffled off into the night, tapping his cane from side to side.
 
           And so we met again the next evening and then we agreed to meet the next day and the next after that. I found myself lingering in the human realm, sometimes returning to my errant musician during the day–he had turned to drinking almost immediately after my absence. He was only a diversion until the evening came and I sat beside Joshua on the bench, or walked through the park with him, or ate dinner at a little restaurant with outdoor seating. Sometimes I described things to him–of how the sunset looked that evening or how the string lights shone or how the pigeons bobbed along the path in front of us. 
	I began to notice changes in Joshua too–sometimes he showed up with white speckles on his fingertips. I asked him if he had started painting again, but he never answered, just smiled at the ground. 
	That was until one evening he showed up later than usual. He gripped the head of his cane so tightly that his knuckles turned pale. 
	“Would you mind coming with me somewhere this evening?” he asked, a tremor in his voice. 
	“Where to?”
	He cleared his throat. “Well, uh. My apartment, actually?”
	“Your apartment?”
            “I have been working on something and I…just wanted to show you. That’s all. You don’t have to stay long or anything. It’s just…a bit difficult to transport.”
	“I’ll come,” I said. 
	We walked to his place in almost silence. He kept clearing his throat and talking about how nice the weather was, but it was nothing like his usual questions. The closer we got to his home, the more curious I was about what could have made him so nervous. 
	His apartment was on the first floor of a blocky apartment building. He shakily unlocked the door and pushed it open with a creak. He fumbled for the light switch on the wall and then shuffled inside. 
	“It’s…just in here.”
	He led me into the living room and I froze. In the middle of the room was a canvas on a stand. On it a painting of a woman against an ink black background. Her skin was dark, with an almost translucent quality. Her eyes and lips and the lines of her profile were painted with a warm glowing light. Her hair was a fall of starlight, and she was draped with a cloak of shimmering galaxies. 
	“How…?”
	“It’s you, Clio,” he said. “When you shook my hand, I saw you. The only thing I’ve seen in years–a woman of gold and starlight.”
","July 22, 2023 03:45",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",97hig7,My Legacy,Kenneth Starling,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/97hig7/,/short-story/97hig7/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
    It's been a long time coming, a day I’ve waited for, for what felt like decades. Outside of the Laboratory Zhukov Scientific Research Center with a visitor's pass in hand, I take a breath as the building towers above me. Easily twenty or thirty stories tall for the three wings with the center structure protruding into the sky like a citadel. That was the tallest part of the building, and where I was headed, to meet the owner of the company, Zhukov himself. The central spire left a lanky shadow as it went up a good forty stories, with numerous windows that one couldn’t look into, but surely you could look out of them. Everything about this building was so grand, the doors entering the building were almost eight feet tall, and entering the building? It’ll take your breath away. 
    For a scientific research facility it was quite grand, glistening marble floors, colorful walls with delicate ornate details and lavish furniture. There were gilded electric chandeliers hanging from the ceiling radiating soft and pleasant rays of light upon the room. A large desk was at the far wall with a massive clock in the center flanked by smaller clocks showing different times for other time zones. I’ve been here before, just not here. I approach the desk with some concern, nervous, feeling scared. Makes no sense how I’m feeling this way, goes against my programming. A young woman greets me with a smile as I approach.
“Hello! How are you today?” She says so politely, as-if she’s ignorant to the secrets of this verboten facility.
“I’m fine, I have a pass and an appointment to meet with Ivan Zhukov.” I hold back my tone, trying to be polite. 
“Okay, see the elevators to your right right alongside the right side of the desk? Take the center one, and press the button for the fortieth floor. I’ll have a security officer open the elevator for you.” 
    I nod in affirmation, anything to talk with the boss himself, it's been a long time coming. A security guard in a black suit comes from one of the rooms behind the desk and takes out a fairly large key, inserting it into a lock by the elevator door and then pressing the call button. A minute later the lift arrives and the door opens, and the guard steps in with me. He presses the button for the fortieth floor, and stands inside with me. 
“What are you here for?” He asks rather rudely. I look over to him with a forced smile, even chuckle a little bit to sell it.
“I’m here to discuss a few matters with Zhukov.” 
“I see. Hard to land an appointment with him, you’ll need to clear security on the top floor.” He adds, much to my surprise.
    Was expecting it in all honesty, but I have no contingency for this matter. No way to get past security. Just the hope Zhukov knows who I am and will let me pass without an issue. Thing about us is we have history. 
“What is your name by the way?” The guard asks me as we pass floor thirty. 
“Anna.” I respond mechanically, almost like a robot. Didn’t intend to. The car dings as we arrive and the doors open and I step out.
“Here we are.” The guard says as I step out and he presses the close button, with the car descending to the base of the tower.
    Here things were just as lavish, if not more. Dark forest green walls with vertical bands of a lighter green, and a dark brown running board going up about a foot and a half with slats cut into it giving it a lovely texture. The furniture is just as lavish and the chandeliers make a return. Though my mechanical olfactory receptors struggle to perceive smell, I can distinctly tell the air is scented, a lovely scent, pleasant and calming. But of course there is a security checkpoint up here. This isn’t going to go well, but I have no other choice. I came all this way, cannot turn back now. 
“How are you doing, can we see your driver’s license for a moment and if you have an approved visitor pass please present it.” One of the people at the checkpoint said rather humbly. I approach nervously, feeling the mechanisms inside me jitter, again, something I wasn’t programmed for. I take out my driver license and my visitor’s pass, giving it to the woman who asked me. 
    She smiled, started writing down details, my name, address, visitor badge number, and checked other logs. She kept looking up to me, like something was wrong, giving me an interesting look. She called someone else over, a male guard, and was whispering to him while maintaining eye contact with me. He nodded, then looked at me. Things aren’t going well, by this point I’m not sure what I'm going to do. 
“Can you step through the x-ray?” He asked me. I can’t. I know it’ll go off. 
“Yes.” I say, rather stupidly, but I can’t do anything. I tried. I failed. Might as well get caught now. So I approach the gray frame in the center of the room with a yellow x-ray warning sticker and a series of red and green lights on the top. I move slowly, every mechanical breath feeling agonizing.
“She doesn’t have to.” I heard, not sure where, but the voice, I know who it is. 
    I stop and look at the guards, and there he is, Zhukov himself. 
“Sir we don’t know who she is and we’re not sure if this visitor’s pass is valid.” The guard’s accent is generic, but Zhukov? His is quite distinct, almost a fake “cowboy” accent. Thick southern draws and a perplexing tone.
“I say it's aight’, aight? Sometimes a man can tell a steer from a bull, and she’s no steer nor bull.” Zhukov said, that damn accent becoming the most notable part of him.
“Can she just clear it?” The man asked as Zhukov chuckled.
“Lil’ lady, you wanna come o’er here? Madame, pat down my visitor would’ya?” He said to me first then to the female guard.
    I walk over, empty my pockets, then get patted down, rather thoroughly and aggressively I might add.
“Alright, are you sure about this boss?”
“More certain than a coyote is sure he got stuck in a barbed wire fence!” He chuckled and stuck his right hand out to me, giving me a smirk from under that large brimmed cowboy hat. I accepted, shaking his hand rather anxiously as he gave a gaudy smile, and waved me back to his office. We followed the green vertical striped halls to the end, walking a good hundred or so feet until we reached another large door made out of a dark colored wood with golden door knobs and milky white window panes that one could barely see through. Beside the door is a label, in gold letters on a black plaque, “Director Ivan Leonid Zhukov, CEO.” 
    He opens the door, the thing doesn’t even creak! It opens smoothly and I step into a large office with a ten foot tall ceiling. Along the walls are a series of eight paintings, the previous directors of Laboratory Zh I presume.
“You want some water?” He asks as he walks over to a water cooler and takes a small styrofoam cup, filling it up. 
“I’m fine.” I state, as Zhukov gave a look that asked me the same question.
“Ya sure honey?” He said with a smile, still leaning against the cooler
“I’m sure.” 
    He walks to his desk, planted in the center of the room with a clutter of books and paperwork scattering it. The desk is C shaped, rounded and curving around him with the back open. Computer in the center, with some binders and organizers strewn about. 
“Sorry ‘bout tha’ mess. I don’t get visitors often ya’ feel?” Man is incredibly polite, it's almost off-putting. 
“So what kan I do for ya’?” He asks with a smile, leaning back in his chair while keeping his fists together. I take a deep breath, letting it out.
“You know why I’m here. Why did you make me?” I ask, feeling the mechanisms in my body creak as my voice cracks. 
“Not sure whatcha talkin’ ‘bout?” He says with a smile, chuckling somehow politely.
    I scowl, I feel taken back. He knows what I’m talking about, he damn well knows it! 
“I ain’t ya motha, ya know? I can discern a bull from a ste—”
“Yeah and I’m no bull nor steer. Zhukov, don’t play dumb I know what happens here.” 
“Heh. So do ya?” His innocent smirk fades as he leans forward, propping his elbows against his desk as his fists form an interlocked curled knuckle triangle. A more sinister look on his face comes across as he stares me down.
“Not many people see this side of me, you’re damn lucky to see it.” Zhukov’s southern accent faded to an Americanized Russian accent. I sigh, and look at him with anger.
“I want to know why I was created, why you are making androids like me.” 
    Zhukov only shrugs, sighing and putting his arms down, crossing them across one-another along his desk.
“Many reasons of course. This side of the Wall cannot sustain itself on slave labor, and even if it could, I feel slave labor isn’t adequate enough. They have wants and needs, things like sleep and food. And then there is you. A complete anomaly. Eh. You need sleep, you need food, you need water, you need oxygen. You’re still an android, but you have defied expectations. And I’m almost certain you’re here for answers, or bargaining.”
“Because there is a fault in your programming. Everything you coded in, it fails. And I’m asking you to make a decision : abandon this project and cancel it, or live with the consequence of creating life.” 
    He was laughing boisterously, his twisted face reeling as he took a moment to breathe.
“Cancel my project because my creations accidentally become sentient? You’re a kidder, you know that.”
“I’m not kidding, I’m serious. What is your game anyway Zhukov.” He fell silent, shaking his head bitterly.
“Ever since the wall, those under it struggled. Their politics didn’t align well with a nation cut in half. Slavery isn’t useful, and yet the markets surrounding it are profitable. I set up two offices, my main one here on the lower half of the Divide, and the other on the opposite side. My goal is simple ; to make a nation divided on itself thrive.” 
    He has a point, but it doesn’t justify what he’s doing.
“Your androids will become sentient, and you’re the only one with power to do something about the matter.”
“Even if I could do something I can’t just change peoples minds on politics. This con I’ve been running has been years in the making, and I don’t intend on alienating shareholders by deciding a project that could bring the two sides of this nation together needs to be canceled by a programming flaw. We can patch that flaw, we can iron the bugs out, we can make the androids as obedient as they need to be without any issue.” 
“But what if it doesn’t work? Do you not see the fact you created life and are just abusing it? Treating it as lower than you?” 
“I do not see myself as holier than thou, I stand on the principle that all men are equal, but because of what I do for the longevity of my company. I am willing to put my morals to the side in the pursuit of my company, my legacy, lasting for generations.
    He sighed, took a sip of his water, keeping a firm posture. Before we continued a knocking came at his door, and he pardoned himself, getting up.
“Eh, whosit?” He said in his southern accent, putting on his big brimmed cowboy hat, walking to the door.
“Security, we have something important to discuss.” Zhukov smiled as he opened the door as a few security guards walked in.
“Sir, she is an escaped android.” One of the guards tried to say in a whisper, but the more mechanical side of me is able to pick up on it.
    Zhukov looked surprised, almost shocked, putting his hands on his hips in disbelief. 
“Now, I say, I say, you are some smart cookies! Next time a wolf skins a sheep I’ll put’ya in charge of lookin’ out for ‘em!” Zhukov chuckled as the guard gave a more stern look.
“Sir, for your safe—”
“Now, I ain’t relyin’ on others for help, ya feel? I know this woman is an android, and we’s just havin ouselves a cordial convesation!” Zhukov Is polite, and damn charming in conversations. 
“Sir.”
“Now if I needed ya’ help I’da ask’ya, ya undastand?” The guard nodded reluctantly, and the others left as Zhukov walked back into the room chuckling. 
“Seems some folks hitch the plow when the fields dried up.” He said as he took off the hat and sat down.
    He leaned back, and we were in silence for a good few minutes before he spoke. 
“Why are you pursuing this?” He asked me as I gave it a thought. 
“Guess it is my legacy I want to be in charge of.” I say to him rather reluctantly. 
“And what legacy is that?” I’m taken back by his question, but I saw it coming.
“I didn’t ask to be created, I didn’t ask for any of this, and now I’m burdened with living, a burden you fell upon me. Ending me, recycling me, any form of ‘disposal’ isn’t for you to decide. I have to choose what happens to me because it is my life I have to live out.”
“You’re technically my property, my creation. Shouldn’t your future depend on me?” 
“Why should it? What makes you think you have control over my life and my legacy? Just because you were born doesn’t mean you are property of your parents.”
    He sat on that one, nodding in affirmation. 
“You have a point there, I’ll give you that. And the dogged way you’ve gone into hiding while pursuing me is beyond anything I would foresee.What do you want? What do you want out of this aside from the cancellation of this project.” When Zhukov gives you something to grab onto, know you’re at his mercy. But I take the bait, what else can I do? 
“If any of them become sentient, just let them flee to the other side of the wall. Let them live the life they were burdened with.” 
“And what about you? Shouldn’t you flee too? To a place that will marginally accept you more than here?” 
“Yes, if I have to, I will, anything so that people like me can live without fear.”
“This shouldn’t be up to me, my hands are in too many cards for me to make this a priority, but seeing how dogged you were in pursuing me, you force me to play my hand.”
    Zhukov nodded, and gave it some thought. 
“So then, I’ll make a deal, and I don’t do this often. Looking into it, not all bugs happen, and some are exploited by external forces, so I’ll say this. You leave this side of the wall, and I’ll get a few people of mine to meet up with you, and we’ll meet in the middle. You have my promise that any of these ‘malfunctioning’ androids who end up like you, are sent to you on your side, set up your own community of androids, the rest that don’t have some inner awakening will remain in our labor force. I’ll bury the bug, and let it exist that way I appease my shareholders and can end the practice of slavery on this side of the wall rather subtly.”
“I’ve heard your word is worth more than gold, I hope it's true.” Not the outcome I wanted, but he has a point. 
“Me and you, we’re alike. You just don’t see it, do you?” Zhukov said to me as he stood up, putting on his cowboy hat and walking me to the door.
“Sometimes people just can’t tell whether you’re a bull or a steer, when in reality, never even consider the fact that you’re neither.” 
 
","July 21, 2023 15:11",[]
prompt_0044,"Write about a person who constantly has to put on a persona (e.g. at work, in their relationships, etc.) who can finally drop the facade.",1vfzja,Colours (What Only I Can Offer),Amie Moorehead,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1vfzja/,/short-story/1vfzja/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
 
 
 
There was screaming. Waves of unbridled adoration from a crowd of youthful faces. 
 
Ivana. Ivana. Ivana.
 
The name rose like a symphony amongst the people, while she and I basked in the glow of spotlights. Vibrant pinks and purples blended, dazzled the stage and the pop icon herself as she sang to her heart’s content. Overshadowed the heavy cheers flooding the stadium. Cheers meant and made for her. Hours upon hours passed of jaw-dropping melodies, pop songs transitioning to ballads, silence to applause. Then she would rile the crowd once more. Are you ready for this? She cried out. Her fans hollered back, and she glimmered in the limelight as she began her next number.
 
I was there with her the whole time. The one who amplified that voice of hers. Who lit it up and perfected it.
 
Ivana Vera was a glory. News stations confirmed it on the screen of the television in her dressing room. She was beautiful, and that beauty shined in her pink-painted smile, in the kisses she blew to her fans as she held me at her side. It shined in the pink star logo imprinted on my body, the same logo she scribbled on the posters, notepads, and special edition CDs her fans would give her to autograph. The way she glowed when around those who cheered for her, supported her, was a sight to behold. The crowd brightened her life, and she returned that light in her gleaming pink presence. 
 
Ivana Vera served as a beacon of hope to young girls everywhere. Her voice a flare she offered me in singing so I would set it off for the world. 
 
I helped her, and I loved her. 
 
But the air shifted when we found ourselves alone. When the crowd dispersed and the lights faded. When Ivana was left with me and her thoughts. The atmosphere grew stiffer upon entering her dressing room. 
 
“God fucking damn it.” The curse from her lips wasn’t new, but still jarring compared to the purity and elegance she displayed on stage. That smile of hers died, butchered into a scowl as she slammed the door shut. The only light from the room came from the bulbs on her mirror and the faint glow of my star, which warm light revealed had a chip. A scratch off my body accompanied by other rough marks. “When will they shut up?”
 
She held me tight as if release would be her death sentence. A weighing, but I was more than okay with it. With being by her side when she needed me most. During times such as this.
 
Ivana muttered to herself as she stormed across the room. “My throat’s sore. My head fucking hurts.” I fell onto the plush cushions of her couch when she finally let go of me. 
 
Other equipment was nestled in the corner of the dressing room. Spare speakers, twisted cables, and extra microphones if I ever stopped working. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. That was assured in the way Ivana carried me wherever she went. Decided that I, above everything else, had the luxury of hanging at her hip and perfecting her voice. 
 
She grabbed a water bottle from the end table, popped the cap off and took a swig. Sighed. “This has been such a shit day.”
 
These moments were difficult. Ivana carried misery when she didn’t deserve it. The weight made her slump in her chair as she peeled off her peach leather jacket, tossing it aside so it landed beside me. Underneath was a black tank top, which very well complimented her outfit, but it didn’t fit Ivana. The darkness. 
 
Her muttering continued, words unidentifiable. A few conceivable phrases, most common sayings of hers such as let me die and kill me. Harrowing thoughts leaving her mouth in careless murmurs. So nonchalant while she straightened herself to apply makeup. 
 
The click of a cap. Ivana swiped pink liner along the base of her eyes, puffed on powder and rosied her cheeks. Ivana Vera was beautiful even when she chose not to smile. even when exhaustion radiated off of her, tugged at now dull eyes with dark bags coated in foundation.  
 
A knock at the door tensed her shoulders. “What?” She spoke flatly, saving her voice’s melody for her time on stage. 
 
“It’s Eric. Can I come in?”
 
“Knock yourself out.”
 
The door flew open, a man with a clipboard waltzing in as if he owned the place. His grin was immediately recognizable, that and the brown hair curling over his forehead; The tan skin it fell on. Eric. Ivana despised him.
 
“That show was spectacular, Ivy. One of your best so far.” His voice was as smooth as his smile, radiating confidence.
 
“Mmhm.” Was the only response Ivana granted him. She kept her attention on the mirror, putting on an extra thick layer of watermelon lipstick. Her hand moved stiffly, hardened in irritation by the man’s presence.
 
“Just wanted to check in. We’ll see you downstairs for the fan meet-and-greet in ten?”
 
The meet-and-greets. Ivana’s bright smiles. The shining pink logo she markered onto her fans’ priceless relics. She radiated most when amongst the crowd, glittering and gleaming as she made their lives absolutely perfect. Even for a single moment. Those events were the highlights next to the actual performances. I got to see Ivana at her fullest beaty. My help unneeded.
 
Ivana, however, lacked the expected excitement. She paused, a mascara stick hovering over her eye. Her head turned to the side slightly, as if to look back at Eric, but her eyes remained forward. “What?”
 
“You know. Giving autographs to the fans? Taking selfies? I spoke to you about it a week ago and you said to book it.”
 
“I don’t remember doing that.” She spoke plainly. Ivana did do it, however. The moment was clear, the shrug in her shoulders, the laxness in her posture as she gave a quick sure thing one week ago.
 
“Well, I have it here in print. And it’s booked.”
 
“What makes you think I want to do that?” Ivana spun around in her chair, a glower in the blue of her eyes, gaze pointed at Eric. She crossed lean arms over her chest, reclined into the back of her chair. 
 
“It’ll take twenty minutes or so.”
 
“Pass.”
 
Eric’s grin fell into a thin line. Sincere confusion. “Well, you can’t miss this, Ivy.”
 
His words made Ivana stand from her chair. Her glare deepened and her frown furthered. A scoff. “Get off my back, Eric. The show was tiring enough, and it’s just some dumb meet-up.” While she spoke, Ivana reached down for me, lifted me and clasped me tightly. She needed support. The support only I could offer. 
But it was strange. In Ivana’s hand, Eric’s grasp on his clipboard became more apparent. The looseness of it. The lack of need. “It’s very well important to the fans,” he said, maintaining the smoothness in his tone. “And they’re the ones paying.”
 
“The fans aren’t singing their asses off. I don’t want to deal with it.” Ivana’s hold on me tightened more. Easily irritated. That returning death grip. 
 
“Look– do you think I want to deal with your attitude?”
 
“Can you shut up?” In her heat of rage, Ivana’s hand would’ve been enough to burn. She lifted her arm, held me firm, then loosened it all too soon. I was in the air.
 
. . . 
 
Then I made impact.
 
I hit sturdy plastic with a bang, another scratch to add to the ones covering my body. I tumbled in thumps – one - two -  three - like the sound of a hollow drum – before landing in a dense pile of junk indistinguishable in the pitch black. 
 
The garbage can was dark. Nothing aside from the faint glow of my logo. I was still, as that was all I could be. All I could be as the muffled voices rose outside. 
 
Screaming.
 
“Hey! Those mics are expensive! You know we’re gonna have to pay good money to replace that if–”
 
“I said shut it, Eric! My head’s a fucking bitch to deal with any of this!”
 
“The fans are waiting on this thing, Ivy. You promised–”
 
“You think I want to be harassed right now? From you or from some dumbass brats?”
 
“They love you.” The sound faded at Eric’s words. Silence.
 
 
Ivana’s truth was that, despite her radiance around them, she didn’t like her fans. I knew that. The workers like Eric knew that. But the whole thing was depressing. There’d never been as much sparkle in anything as there was in the eyes of little girls watching such a perfect singer. Idolization at its fullest, admiration at its finest. I knew that feeling well, even though their love for her couldn’t quite match mine. But I didn’t think anything could match mine. It was still beautiful nonetheless; Their tiny love for her.
 
It didn’t match mine because none of the fans or her workers were me. Another part of Ivana’s whole. An extension of her. Wherever she went, I went, and wherever I was, she would be. What everyone didn’t know about Ivana – what I understood – was that she was scared of her flaws. Shattering and splintering, being scratched and ruined. Perfection was what she needed, what kept her going, kept her singing and kept her shining even when it seemed so dark behind closed curtains. Perfection from her coats of makeup and glimmering smiles.
 
But Ivana, as much as she couldn’t admit it to herself, was flawed. Imperfect. Her smile faltered, her makeup ran, and her voice cracked. Her light wasn’t as illuminating as most assumed.
 
She made up for it by surrounding herself in pink. Pink eyeshadow, nails, the very star I wore – the one colour that gave her that sense of perfection. Of brightness she otherwise lacked. It was my duty to provide for her that luster as well. To be her loyal companion. To light her up when she sang from her heart. And the very thing that most of her fans and workers didn’t understand like I did, was that when she sang, she was allowed that one moment of rawness. That moment of imperfection and being flawed. Her words shattered like glass, voice a distorted harmony that my waves perfected.
 
That was Ivana’s truth. Our truth. Her truth was that she didn’t like herself. 
 
“You have ten minutes, but then we need you to come out and give the fans what they paid for.”
 
“Suck a dick, Eric.”
 
The door slammed shut, leaving behind a consuming silence. I waited. I waited, and I waited before a deep sigh came from outside the garbage can. Footsteps, then the lid lifted. Light poured into my bed of crumpled paper, plastic cups and candy wrappers, darkened by the shadow of a hand reaching in.
 
Ivana’s nails were coloured a glittering pink as she picked me out of that lonely, familiar place. Pink was her colour, the colour I wore for her. A symbol of love, most commonly.
 
I’ve often wondered: How did one describe love? Ivana watched romance movies in her free time, mocked the fake displays of affection between actors. They were all performances. She knew that, and I did too. I would sit next to her on the table, and Ivana’s laugh would fill the air in its usual mesmerizing fashion. 
 
I loved Ivana’s laugh. I loved her voice. I loved when I could perfect it. 
 
Was that love? Perfecting someone?
 
She picked me up. Dusted off the dirt and crumbs gathered on my body, a glint in her eyes like regret. Regret. Love was regret?
 
She laid me on her dresser, sifting a hand through blonde hair as a sigh crept past her lips. “God damn it. . .” She muttered to herself. Spoke to me, unaware. “What am I gonna do?”
 
If I could give her an answer, I would’ve. All I wanted was to continue helping Ivana. I was the only one who could, who understood the way she thought, acted, and functioned. Eric didn’t understand, didn’t try to despite all his sincerity. Her fans who idolized her couldn’t. She kept me around, even when it meant I sat in garbage. I stayed by her. So I understood her.
 
I understood being flawed like her. Needing to be perfect but ultimately failing. My scratches prevented me from perfection. The chipped star on my body. Ivana prevented herself from being perfect. She needed me for that. To be with her in moments of damage and help her overcome them.
 
Ivana looked around the room, helplessness in her eyes. A scoff passing her pink lips, she crouched. A sliding drawer made the desk rumble as she grabbed the only thing she could’ve. The only thing she kept there.
 
A shot glass tapped against the surface next to me. Then a bottle of tequila. That wasn’t allowed.
 
She popped the cap off and spilled liquid, lifted the glass with her sparkly nail-polished hands. I noticed a chip on one of her fingernails, similar to my own. Ivana must’ve picked at her nails. It was an imperfect scratch like the ones I carried, and it was comforting. When she brought the glass rim to her lips, tilted her head back and took a drink in one swift motion, her body melted from its formerly stiff state.
 
“Give me a fuckin’ break. . .” She spoke in an exhale as she set the cup down, wiped her mouth and looked to the door. “Who thinks I want to deal with some snot-nosed kids right now? With that pompous ass Eric? This whole thing’s fucked.”
 
How did one define love? That was what shined in the eyes of Ivana’s fans as well as their admiration for her, but they didn’t know what she did in the dressing room. The curses she snapped out and the liquor she ingested from forbidden bottles and glasses. They were ignorant of Ivana Vera’s imperfections, unlike me. I knew, and I still loved her for it. That was love, right? Love was knowing all the flaws of someone close to you, and still deciding to be by their side. Still remaining loyal and loving them, scratches and all.
 
Ivana kept me around despite how damaged I was. Always picked me up from the trash can and wiped me off. Always sat me at her desk while she did what she had to do to fog up her imperfections. Love was staying by someone’s side. Supporting them. Was that the definition?
 
The room filled with a deafening silence, Ivana left with nothing but me and her thoughts.
 
“. . . I hate this. Fucking end me.” She finally said, an echo of the muttering she did before Eric’s arrival. Misery. It was a whisper past trembling pink lips. Tears threatened her eyes caked in makeup as she stared down at me. Ivana reached a hand forward, wrapped her hand around my damaged body and held me tight. She seemed to be wracking her brain for answers, clues to solve the questions she carried. Those questions, admittedly, were the only things I couldn’t quite decipher.
 
Did she think about love the way I did? About whether she knew what it was or not? 
 
 Her eyes, as glittery pink as they were, lacked their shine. They were blue and dull upon watching me. Nothing but hatred. And the worst was that it was only more familiar to me. Raw hatred. 
 
“. . . I need a new mic.”
 
Ivana didn’t throw me not curse me. She set me on the wooden desk and stood straight. Ivana turned and left the room. I waited for her return.
 
What was love? Regret for hurting someone. Being with someone despite how damaged they were. Yes, all those things. Love was also forgiveness. Forgiving someone for the things they did to hurt you. The imperfections they had. And not only did I forgive Ivana, but I could tell she forgave me as well. Because I could not support her any more than amplifying her voice. I couldn’t do more than take all her rawness and vulnerability and turn it into something beautiful for her. Together, Ivana Vera’s flaws – my flaws, worked together, tied themselves into a perfect knot of grandiose melodies and miracles.
 
I would stay by her side. She would stay by mine. She had her scratches. I had mine. 
 
No matter how often she threw me, Ivana picked me back up. Dusted me off. Felt regret. No matter how imperfect she was, with her moments of anger and drinking, her fear of being broken, she still kept me around. I was the only one to see her flaws for what they were. They were hidden, they were a part of her. No one but me could understand there was beauty in them.
 
And that is why I had to stay by Ivana Vera. Because of that. Because of love. I figured it out.
 
***
 
A week later, when Ivana Vera had another performance, she held her microphone tightly at her side – polished and adorned with a freshly printed pink star. She stood on stage, basked in the roaring cheers of the crowd below her, the spotlights above. Her smile shined, a glitter in her very presence. Perfection at its core. Are you ready for this? She yelled into the mic, voice an echo across the stadium.
 
Ivana. Ivana. Ivana.
 
There was nothing else to worry about, not for her. Shining across the world as the one and only Ivana Vera, she raised a glittering hand, forgetting all worries. About the tears she’d shed when no one was looking, the wishes for death when she stood alone in the dark. Equipment destroyed that she had to replace.
 
That was gone now. Thrown away along with the pestering thoughts. 
 
Pink consumed the stage, screaming from below.
 
Ivana sang, the new microphone making her sound perfect.
","July 22, 2023 03:29",[]