prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,0pdpn1,The Belly of the Fish,Kathleen Fine,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0pdpn1/,/short-story/0pdpn1/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Sad', 'Inspirational']",64 likes,"
Biting down forcefully on her lower lip, Dinah stepped the ball of her foot onto the cold, wet sand. The touch of the small grains under her feet for the first time in forty years made her catch her breath. She could feel the deep-seated memories trying to push their way out. Push their way, not out of her mind, but out of her heart.A seagull made a long call above her and she peeked up for the first time, trying to avoid the vast body of water in front of her. Focus on the bird. Focus on the bird. Squinting, she looked up at the gull flapping its wings above her. She could see a small fish in its mouth. Perhaps a mullet? Ridley would sometimes use mullets for bait when he went fishing here. He’d wake up before the sun rose and be home by breakfast, always bragging about his catch of the day. Grouper. Tilefish. Black Sea Bass. Red Snapper. She’d once known all the fish species found in the Outer banks. Now, she could only recall a few. Now, she couldn’t even stand the sight of the word fish on a restaurant menu.Finally lowering her vision, Dinah regarded the ocean, her fingers and toes tingling at the titanic sight. The frothy water, green with silt, crashed onto the uneven shoreline. Closing her eyes tightly, the briny smell of the sea air engulfed itself into her nostrils without an invitation. That’s how it always was, wasn’t it? This ocean. This air. They didn’t ask permission. They had no manners.The sound of waves crashed so loudly; her thoughts were redirected towards the water. She listened as the fizz of foam seeped ashore and spread itself across the sand. Had the sound not been there when she’d stepped onto the beach earlier? Or had she just muted it out? She guessed it was the latter. But anything was possible at the beach.A child’s laughter floated past her left shoulder. Mommy, can we build a sandcastle? Dinah twisted her head to the side. Jonah? She searched for the toddler but only saw a vast, empty beach. No children were here today. Not real nor ghosts. No…that was a silly thought. It must have been the wind.“Good evening,” a man’s voice called from behind her. Startled, Dinah jumped as she turned around to see where the voice was coming from. It was mid-February. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone at the beach on such a cold, windy, late afternoon.“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” a man in a bright yellow puffer jacket said. He gripped a fishing pole in his right hand, and a bucket, holding a tackle box, in his left.“It’s okay…” Dinah said hesitantly, eyeing the man suspiciously. What is a fisherman doing at the beach in the middle of winter? she speculated.“I’m hoping to catch a striped bass or two,” the man said, gesturing towards the ocean as if Dinah were a child, unable to figure out where fish came from. “The colder temperatures draw the bass into shallower waters. They sometimes hang around until April.” He shrugged before giving a shy grin.The smile Dinah forced back made her cheeks hurt. The cold, salty air made the deep grooves on her face feel as if they may crack open. “Well good luck I guess,” she said, wishing he would walk as far away from her as possible. She didn’t want any spectators while she faced her fear. And she knew she wouldn’t have the nerve to come back tomorrow. She only had today.“I’ll need it,” the man said as he walked past her and headed to the right. She was glad he hadn’t commented on her attire. Glad he’d ignored the crazy old lady, donning bare feet and a linen dress to the beach in the winter. Because if he’d asked her why she was dressed the way she was…. how would she have responded?“I haven’t caught any yet this winter. But you only need one. Am I right?” He didn’t turn around as he spoke. He just kept walking. And walking.Dinah held her breath in tightly while she watched him go. Willing him to walk far out of sight. She was as still as a statue until his yellow puffer jacket became a tiny dot. And then, she relaxed her shoulders a little. Maybe he knew she wanted her space. Or maybe, he just liked that spot to fish. She’d never know.She bit down on her lip again, tasting the salty air as if she’d dipped her lips directly into the ocean water. She took one step forward, almost losing her balance.I should have brought my walker, she thought as she took another step closer towards the water. She’d left it back in the car. Naïve to the deep pockets in the sand. How easily they’d been forgotten. How easily anything could be forgotten if you tried hard enough.She reached her hand up and rubbed her palm on the back of her neck. The salty air was making her skin itch and she needed something to lean on. Needed to rest her clammy palms upon…something. Needed to stop the shaking in her hands. Needed to grip onto something as tightly as she could.Scanning the panoramic view, she saw the waves crash evenly with no breaks. No rip currents, she thought as she closed her eyes, seeing the darker, narrow gap in the line of breaking waves behind her eyelids. The areas where waves are stuck between regions with larger wave breaks. She didn’t have to try very hard to envision these currents. They came to her every night while she slept. Through dreams. Through nightmares.Rip currents can form at any beach with breaking waves and can quickly sweep away even the strongest swimmer, a voice whispered to her right shoulder. Opening her eyes, she searched for the voice, but was only met with the seagull. She watched as it flew down next to her, placing the half-eaten fish in front of her feet as if offering a sacrifice.“You eat it,” she said, kicking the fish back over towards the bird. She stared as the bird stepped towards her another inch. Studying her as if she were an exhibit at a museum.And then, to her surprise, the seagull waddled a few inches towards the ocean, it’s eyes intently glued on Dinah’s as if offering something else to her.“Follow you?” she asked. She placed one foot in front of the other.The seagull took four more steps and darted its glassy, loyal eyes back to Dinah. She followed. It stepped again. She followed. She followed. She followed. I can do this, she thought, now standing inches away from the waves. Her eyes, taking in the enormous belly of water in front of her.Her mother had told her it was foolish to name her son after a prophet who was swallowed by a fish. “Why don’t you name him Aaron, mountain of strength? Or Elijah, the strong Lord?” she’d suggested, when Dinah had mentioned the name to her before she’d given birth. But Dinah had liked the correlation between the name and the sea. Dinah didn’t believe in cursed names.The seagull submerged its talons into the water and Dinah gripped her arms over her stomach. The gull was so brave. So trusting. It had never had its only child taken by a rip current. Never lost the love of its life. Never moved hundreds of miles away from the ocean, unwilling to even stomach the sight of it ever again.But its eyes, its eyes were still on her. Inviting her in with it. She glanced back at the half-eaten fish behind her. Forgotten by the bird. Or maybe, just placed aside for later. It had more important things to do right now.“Okay,” she whispered to the gull. “Okay, I’m coming.” She closed her eyes and dipped her right toe into the belly of the fish. 
","July 07, 2023 19:16","[[{'Bruce Friedman': 'Beautiful lyrical language. A pleasure to read.', 'time': '23:44 Jul 07, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much Bruce!', 'time': '18:08 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much Bruce!', 'time': '18:08 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Beautifully written and touching story, Kathleen! I aspire to write like this someday. Your descriptiveness really absorbs the reader. Loved the story.', 'time': '00:29 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much Ty!', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much Ty!', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Kathleen, such a lovely story with a smooth delivery. Well done with descriptions and delivery. LF6', 'time': '04:05 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thanks Lily! <3', 'time': '16:57 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thanks Lily! <3', 'time': '16:57 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zeeshan Mahmud': 'You write as if painting words. Beautiful and idyllic. Also noticed birds in others stories.', 'time': '03:57 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Wow what a compliment! Thank you Zeeshan!', 'time': '18:09 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Wow what a compliment! Thank you Zeeshan!', 'time': '18:09 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David King': 'Whoaaa...your writing is so smooth. You\'re able to write in detail without being overbearing. You gave just the right amount of information to allow me to ""watch"" this story as I read!! Great job!', 'time': '22:07 Jul 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you David!', 'time': '18:09 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you David!', 'time': '18:09 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shannon C.': 'This story just flowed so very well. I could almost feel the salty air on my skin with your descriptions. Such a bittersweet and lovely story!', 'time': '19:07 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Stephen Hansen': 'A perfect story. In ancient Rome and Greece, almost nothing was undertaken unless birds “sanctioned” it. Well done!', 'time': '02:00 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Barbara Arbogast': 'Beautifully descriptive story. Loved your word choices. Well done.', 'time': '19:45 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': ""Hi Kathleen!\n\nThe opening para contains relatable sensations and feelings with a good setup for your conflict. \n\nLists of fish, great. Everyone loves lists these days :) Still, I'm not sure how the list of fish relates to your conclusion. You already have a good list with the fisherman dialogue.\n\nI did like the personification of the ocean air; the slow trickle of information revealing Dinah's age; the emotion, needing something to grip onto, tightly; masterful. \n\nThe _voice_ was startling and unexpected. Attributed to the gull? Confusing th..."", 'time': '15:06 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': 'Like Helen Smith,\n\nI thought she was attempting suicide--because, you mentioned what she was wearing, she was worried that the fisherman might ask her what was on her mind. No shoes and a linen dress at the beach, in winter. Perfect attire, if you intend to drown or freeze to death. And she left her walker in the car. Suicide was not left open to interpretation, you encouraged the reader to assume as much. All things considered, the writing is lovely.', 'time': '04:33 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Yes I like your interpretation and it makes sense!', 'time': '10:53 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Yes I like your interpretation and it makes sense!', 'time': '10:53 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Linda Lovendahl': 'Just enough detail to keep us intrigued until the end when the puzzle of motivation is complete.\nThanks\nLinda', 'time': '21:34 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'A well-written story that flows. On the one hand, the MC appears to be both facing her fears, but also ending her life scurrying losing so much. That was how I read it.\nThe destructive might of the ocean is evident, as is the evidence of how little control we humans have over the bigger things of life. \nBeautiful language her Kathleen.', 'time': '08:07 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': ""Thanks Helen! I intended not for her to end her life, but to just enter the ocean, as she hadn't been in it for 40 years, which was a huge feat for her. But it is interesting you interpreting it that way! Like art, writing is interpreted by the viewer!"", 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'Ah, yes. I see what you mean. I like the idea of it being open to interpretation.', 'time': '17:25 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': ""Thanks Helen! I intended not for her to end her life, but to just enter the ocean, as she hadn't been in it for 40 years, which was a huge feat for her. But it is interesting you interpreting it that way! Like art, writing is interpreted by the viewer!"", 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Helen A Smith': 'Ah, yes. I see what you mean. I like the idea of it being open to interpretation.', 'time': '17:25 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Ah, yes. I see what you mean. I like the idea of it being open to interpretation.', 'time': '17:25 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Captivating Kathleen, the sad tension just ebbed in from the get go. Love how you anthropomorphised the ocean, it doesn't ask for permission, its smells fill your nose without invite, all creates the sense that your MC is a victim of its abuse before it is revealed.\n\nBravo 👏 Good luck this week... Not that you need it!"", 'time': '06:52 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Kevin!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Kevin!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""I love the pacing of this story. You roll out the details so that the tragedy of the past and the tragedy that's about to happen emerge without feeling rushed. Nicely done."", 'time': '20:14 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thanks Ellen!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thanks Ellen!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Rantanen': 'I really liked these sentences: Closing her eyes tightly, the briny smell of the sea air engulfed itself into her nostrils without an invitation. That’s how it always was, wasn’t it? This ocean. This air. They didn’t ask permission. They had no manners.', 'time': '02:26 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Amanda!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you Amanda!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emma D': 'As many others have said in the comments, your writing is so beautiful and lyrical! It flows so smoothly and naturally! I really admire it, and I hope to write like you someday!', 'time': '21:57 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '16:58 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'This is really speaking to me, as I had a brush with a riptide recently, and I wrote this week about despair as a bird. I think there may be some symbolism in the bird that I’m not confident about, but I really like the idea of her facing her fear of the ocean to end a life she’s done with.\n If you can stand me giving a couple of word-level (maybe typo) suggestions: you have deep seeded for deep seated in the first paragraph and then later you have adorning when you might mean donning.', 'time': '10:15 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Angela thank you so much! No matter how many time these eyes look over something, there is always an error! :)', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Angela thank you so much! No matter how many time these eyes look over something, there is always an error! :)', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'That she had suffered from the ocean was immediately clear, and we assumed that meant she had lost a loved one to it. Later we learn it\'s worse, as it was both her child and spouse. No wonder she moved. \n\nThere\'s a Biblical side to this, given her son was named Jonah and considering the title (and ending) of the story, though I\'m afraid I\'m not too familiar with the source material. The fish specifically seems to be about forgiveness. We understand that Jonah will never return, but perhaps Dinah will (forgive herself) after ""3 days and 3 nig...', 'time': '20:33 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thanks as always Michal!', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thanks as always Michal!', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'So loathsome yet so inviting.\n\nThanks for reading and liking my tacos story.', 'time': '19:07 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'You’re welcome Mary! I enjoyed it!', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'You’re welcome Mary! I enjoyed it!', 'time': '13:07 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Kathleen your writing is so labourless and flows naturally. All the words fit together and act in unison. You are a verbal stylist. Well done and keep the ink flowing.', 'time': '09:30 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much Shahzad!', 'time': '18:09 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Thank you so much Shahzad!', 'time': '18:09 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,yw5zu3,Despair is also a Thing with Feathers,Angela Ginsburg,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yw5zu3/,/short-story/yw5zu3/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",42 likes,"
CONTENT WARNING: This story contains themes of suicide and self harm which some readers may find confronting.“Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -And sore must be the storm -That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm -I’ve heard it in the chillest land -And on the strangest Sea -Yet - never - in Extremity,It asked a crumb - of me.--Emily Dickinson“Elodie, baby, I’m just going to hide the knives. I’m not judging you. I just want you to be safe. You don’t have to come out,” I call through the bathroom door. It’s silly, I know. No, not silly…Foolish? Maybe, but that doesn’t cover the gamut of emotion: stupid to do it, terrified not to, terrified it won’t be enough anyway, shame that I couldn’t raise a child happy, shame that I think more about what her death would make me than I do about the loss itself. Shame shame. But still I push the pile into the deep shadow of the shelves in the garage, all of them; every knife, box cutter, and sharp scissor in the house. I can’t cut a tomato until she crawls out of her cave.Then I go inside and click on a link to an article. I’ll read the first paragraph 47 times while I keep my ear cocked up to the bathroom. Has the water been on too long? I put into coherent mind words, hoping the rational side won’t be able to see around them to the picture of blood leaking into the water that the other me knows is in there. The faucet turns off and the sound of her definitely moving causes some kind of relief hormone to wash through my body, as if the valve on the tub upstairs diverted the flow to my veins. Then the silence of a tub soak. Relaxing for her. I read the first paragraph twelve more times, distracted, I tell myself, by the rambling nonsense Andrew is watching on Youtube. Not, of course, by the question of whether it will be important to put clothes on her while I wait for the ambulance or if I will be able to lift her from the water.“Elodie, are you all right?” I ask, reaching to feel the top of the door frame for the needle-like tool that unlocks this door. Just in case. Elodie responds, annoyed, “yes, mom I’m fine.”I try to resist snapping back, but I fail, as usual. “Honey, you just now ran into my arms and told me you weren’t safe with yourself. You asked me to keep you safe; you can’t be annoyed that I do it.” Yes she can. Of course she can be annoyed. She’s fifteen.But I ask her again, at least three more times that night, through closed doors. I send Andrew to have a sleep over in her room. I can’t cope with what it might do to him if she hurt herself in front of him. I just place all my bets on her worrying more about that than I can. We’re in the kitchen in the morning. She’s watching me tear Andrew’s go-gurt open with my teeth, making her smug little crinkle-cheeked “what the hell are you doing face” as she pulls open the knife drawer.“Oh!” she says, a weird mixture of accusing me of overreacting and laughing at herself for making me hide the knives, with just a little dash of self-loathing for inconveniencing everyone: everyone who prays to be inconvenienced because the alternative is that she doesn’t reach out and ask. Everyone who would work like galley slaves to keep her alive,. Galley slaves? Gallery slaves? What does that word mean? Something about a boat. Do boat slaves work the hardest? I should know this. Shame shame shame. I’ll have to look it up. There’s quarry slaves too…that’s in a poem. Why is my brain like this?But she laughs, and it’s real, all the way to the eyes. I can see her teeth fillings, the white not quite matching. My fault; when she was little and resisted me helping her brush, I let her do it herself and then didn’t know how badly until she needed fillings. Most things are my fault. But not her dad leaving rather than accept having a queer daughter. That’s squarely on him.I put my arms around her and let out a little cry of joyful relief that she’s herself again. She releases the air through her mouth in an annoyed sigh. Yes, she can breathe irritation. And then I go get the knives from the garage. She follows me and hovers at the door. “You didn’t hide them very well.” She seems maybe disappointed. Is there anything she won't criticize me for? She thinks I didn’t love her enough to hide them well? I didn’t think she was clever enough to find them here?“That’s not the point.” I’ve explained it before, but I can’t make her see. She thinks that her suicide is something looming on the horizon, some inescapable t-rex at bay only because it hasn’t yet scented her. I think it’s a little black thing with feathers, hope’s opposite, a crow that lands on her heart, easily scared away. She can find the knives. Of course she can find the knives. But in the ten minutes she spends hunting for them, the crow will have flown. I can’t just not have knives. These won’t be her weapons anyway if it turns out it is the t-rex instead. These are just for the cuts. The painful punishment, the endorphins, the marks so we all know that she isn’t just whining, her pain is beyond what we have imagined or can relate to.Except of course, that I can. I know it exactly. People think it comes from trauma, but I didn’t have any trauma, yet it was there, always. At eight years old, I cried in the bathtub after church because I'd found out that even the reward for a life well lived was more life, as if anyone wanted that. And now I’ve given it to her.Elodie will take the meds, when we get them. That’s a five-hundred-step process of changing insurance, getting a therapist, getting a recommendation from the therapist to the primary, getting a referral from the primary to the specialist. In the meantime, I try to convince her exercise helps. That’s just more pressure. Shame shame.Running keeps mine under control. I don’t have therapy or medication. I just outrun mine. But you can’t outrun it. You can only ever be outrunning it. It catches up when you stop, that other thing with feathers that perches in the soul and whispers cruel words without the tune.Elodie thinks I should get meds, too. Maybe I could help her more if I weren’t always outrunning my own predator.She’s safe at school, with teenagers and activity. I look at the knife drawer and wonder if I’m overconfident. I have two acquaintances whose kids killed themselves. It’s an epidemic, I should say, clicking my tongue and shaking my head. But all I want to know is were they asleep at the wheel or did they see it coming and just couldn’t stop it, like an onrushing train? Carnivorous dinosaur with the scent of their child, their own pathetic attempts to slow down such a beast just leaving them crushed in the path? You can’t ask anybody: um pardon me, did this happen to you because you didn’t love your kid enough? Because I do love mine, see, so I don’t deserve this. Even thinking it makes me a terrible person. I pick up all the knives and go shove them in the back of my bathroom cabinet. One of the knives gets hung up between the tile cleaner and a stack of toilet paper rolls. It points straight up, but I can’t see it in the gloom. My hand comes down on it, in the fleshy pad of my lower palm. I snatch it back in pain. It doesn’t bleed, but I can see the mark where the point has pierced flesh layers. Of course I would never have knives nice enough to stay sharp or enough initiative to keep them sharpened. Shame shame. Pressing on the little wound is a comfortable kind of pain, like stretching deeply or rolling the knots out of my feet with a golf ball. Crouched by my bathroom cabinet holding the knife in one hand and that feeling of pleasant pain in the other, I just wonder. Why does she do it? I look at my upper arms, the spot she picks, but everyone can see my arms. I lift up my shirt, take a second to deplore rolls of soft flesh on my belly before setting the knife against my ribs and dragging it across several inches. It isn’t sharp enough to slice the flesh, not at the pressure I’m using anyway. But it leaves an angry red scrape. It will scab over in the coming hours, one of those thin track scabs that break into tiny sections, even though it doesn’t actually bleed.I’m lost for a second in the moment of feeling some kind of control, maybe the power to slash at the crow, and if not to kill it, maybe to scare it off a little longer. Maybe to let it drink its fill at this wound so it forgets and leaves the heart alone. There’s power in a knife blade. A cloud passes across the sun, changing the way the light is reflected off the blade and I react quickly, shoving the knife into the cabinet, dropping my shirt and hurrying on my way. I have to get to work. **Elodie has Andrew wiggling on her lap when I come in. He’s trying to escape; she’s trying to feed him cheetos baby style with airplane zooms. They aren’t really doing those things, just pretending because it’s funny. I stand in the corner and watch, heart filled with the sweetness, knowing that the spell will be broken the second they see me. Elodie will close up, Andrew will turn his attention to me and leave her cold. I can’t control it. The crow lands on my soul. I slip out before they notice, going to collect the knives from their hiding spot now that I’m home to keep an eye on her, now that I need to cut tomatoes for dinner. Crouching to retrieve the blades, arm sunk shoulder-deep in the shadow, my jaw bangs against the edge of the counter. Serves me right. It was stupid to hide them anyway. The fingertips of my right hand tiptoe to the scratched line at my ribs and press in. My left comes out with a reclaimed sharp, a longer fiercer weapon than made the scratch, heavy red handle satisfyingly molded into my hand when I shift it to the right. I lose the thread of my day again as the sun glints on the blade, slanting in from the opposite side from this morning. The crow in my soul whispers some squawking tuneless version of “shame shame shame.” This one demands crumbs. And I feed it. I raise my shirt, again feeling over the rolls of fat for the spot where this knife really will bite through. I’m glancing around for what I’ll do with the blood, when a sharp rap on the door startles the crow away, and I’m just crouched on the bathroom floor, inexplicably holding a knife to my own ribs.“Mom? Are you in there?”“Yes, baby.” “I thought I heard you come in, but you didn’t say hi. Are you sick?”I look at the knife, pulled back from my ribs and shake my head at my reflection. “No, honey. I’ll be out in a minute.”When I think about losing Elodie, it isn't about losing her. I think about how to deal with her body. I think about the other parents keeping solemn faces on while they blame me and congratulate themselves on their well adjusted kids. I think about her father feeling vindicated. Because actually thinking of the hole punched cleanly through our lives by just not having her would kill me too.I had a nightmare about her drowning when she was little. In the dream I swam down after her through deep, clear water until her little body settled on the bottom. I could feel the pressure mounting in my ears and my lungs burning as I went after her until I knew that it was surface or die trying to reach her. I woke up with my heart thudding in my ears, because there was no choice to make. Surviving her would be the same as dying.I thought about that dream for weeks, shifting the little dress she wore to her watery grave down to the bottom of the pile until I finally gave up and just threw it in the trash.“You have to come look at what Andy is doing. He puts on the shark mask and then he totally believes it when I act scared. It’s so cute.”“I’m coming.” I reach in for the rest of the blades.She’s there, looking at me like I’ve lost the thread when I emerge with the armload of knives. “Oh, yeah, like I’m the only crazy one here,” I say.She smiles to the fillings again, “like two halves of a pecan. Complete nuts.”It helps, the inviting me in, even if it is inside a nutshell.She follows along with me, wanting to show off Andrew’s new trick. One sockfoot padding impatiently against the back of her calf, she waits while I select the smallest dullest knife and one pair of child’s scissors to put back in the drawer and dump the rest in the trash.She looks. Lots of commentary on her face but none on her lips. “We’re going out to dinner.” Then like I’m trying to convince her, “I can just not have knives. I can do whatever I want.” She looks up into my face, skeptical eyebrows uneven until she decides she approves of whatever she finds there. “Not unless what you want is to see what Andy does.” She takes a prowling step forward, suddenly in character with her whole slinking body. She calls out much too loudly to be for my benefit, “But watch out, because I think there’s a shark in there!”Something about her stalking posture, like a CGI velociraptor, reminds me that dinosaurs, too, had feathers. Not things you could outrun or frighten off. But maybe something you could refuse to feed. Maybe something there were some weapons against.I fingered my phone in my pocket. I’d call after all about the meds for myself.
","July 08, 2023 11:06","[[{'Shea West': ""Congrats on the shortlist. In all honesty this should have been the winning story, it was unique and honed in on the intrusiveness that is the mind in parenting and how it's hard as hell—in so many damn ways."", 'time': '16:01 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'I’m so glad it resonated with you. I haven’t read the winning story yet, but u was surprised to be shortlisted — i read so many good stories this week!', 'time': '18:40 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'I’m so glad it resonated with you. I haven’t read the winning story yet, but u was surprised to be shortlisted — i read so many good stories this week!', 'time': '18:40 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Let\'s just get this out of the way; you have serious writing chops. Top notch.\n\nThis tale feels like ""Diary of a Mad Housewife"" meets ""Trainspotting."" Immersive, captivating, chilling, heartbreaking, genuine, layered. It really does have it all, and it meets the prompt well. One of the best stories I\'ve read this week, if not arguably the best. \n\nI read your bio. As an ex-teacher in Texas, I can relate. I used to have a blog, with a pen name, for the same reason. Sad, isn\'t it?\n\nTerrific writing, my friend. Absolutely stellar skills, coupled...', 'time': '11:29 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks for the kind words! Glad you enjoyed it.\nYes, hard that teachers have to hide that they are the voices behind things that might really help their kids mature, cope, feel less alone. On the flip side, kids googling everything I write is also not comfy for me, so good to have another name!', 'time': '22:16 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks for the kind words! Glad you enjoyed it.\nYes, hard that teachers have to hide that they are the voices behind things that might really help their kids mature, cope, feel less alone. On the flip side, kids googling everything I write is also not comfy for me, so good to have another name!', 'time': '22:16 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'I think being able to allow yourself the freedom to let this kind of powerful writing come through you while still keeping it polished and succinct is really difficult, and you did such a great job with it.', 'time': '16:03 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Wow. How kind of you.', 'time': '17:22 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Wow. How kind of you.', 'time': '17:22 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kelsey H': ""This is so well written and you really delve into those deep emotions of being a parent, especially how strongly linked you feel your own wellbeing is to your child's wellbeing. I especially found the thoughts on 'shame' insightful and relatable, and I loved all the crow metaphors. \n- Maybe to let it drink its fill at this wound so it forgets and leaves the heart alone.  - great line."", 'time': '05:29 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thank you! Parenting is so hard, and you seem to have gotten everything I was trying to say. Thanks for reading', 'time': '07:10 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thank you! Parenting is so hard, and you seem to have gotten everything I was trying to say. Thanks for reading', 'time': '07:10 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""-I cried in the bathtub after church because I'd found out that even the reward for a life well lived was more life, as if anyone wanted that.-\n\nEven as a child, the whole notion of an afterlife terrified me.\nJust that still having to be around people for eternity... Ugh\nIt's why I've only been able to find peace in agnosticism.\n\nThis is incredible. Thank you for writing this.\nWell done on the shortlist! ❤️😊"", 'time': '21:44 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Same! The whole point of reading is these little unexpected ways that we find we’re not alone! Thanks for reading', 'time': '21:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Cecilia Englishby': ""My reedsy may have bugged. I couldn't see my comment just now. And thought I failed.\nSo um I left another. 😅😅\nI am glad you got this one."", 'time': '21:53 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Same! The whole point of reading is these little unexpected ways that we find we’re not alone! Thanks for reading', 'time': '21:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""My reedsy may have bugged. I couldn't see my comment just now. And thought I failed.\nSo um I left another. 😅😅\nI am glad you got this one."", 'time': '21:53 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""My reedsy may have bugged. I couldn't see my comment just now. And thought I failed.\nSo um I left another. 😅😅\nI am glad you got this one."", 'time': '21:53 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michele Duess': 'She smiles to the fillings again, “like two halves of a pecan. Complete nuts.”\n\nIt helps, the inviting me in, even if it is inside a nutshell."" I really liked that line. Congrats', 'time': '17:14 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks—im Proud of that one', 'time': '17:58 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks—im Proud of that one', 'time': '17:58 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'A story I wish to keep reading! So enjoyable. Vivid, imaginative.', 'time': '02:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thank you!', 'time': '15:32 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thank you!', 'time': '15:32 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Your imagery and emotion are simply astonishing. The opener line where MC is basically arguing with herself as to whether it is silly, or stupid, or terrifying, is so parental and sets up everything that follows.\n\nMasterfully constructed, I think this may be a winner!', 'time': '09:20 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Wow! Thanks! Glad it resonated.', 'time': '11:08 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Wow! Thanks! Glad it resonated.', 'time': '11:08 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""A powerful story. I was very drawn to the MC's mix of fears -- for her child, for herself."", 'time': '20:51 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks for reading and leaving a kind comment.', 'time': '22:15 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks for reading and leaving a kind comment.', 'time': '22:15 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:11 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Angela!\nThis was a gorgeously tragic piece. I loved the different POV-the mother who is deeply struggling while worrying about her child because she knows that pain all too well. I loved the dialogue in this piece because it felt so perfectly parent-child. But those scenes where she was all alone were gut wrenching. It was a well deserved shortlist! Congratulations!!', 'time': '05:27 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks so much, Amanda! Gut-wrenching was the target!', 'time': '16:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks so much, Amanda! Gut-wrenching was the target!', 'time': '16:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats. You are gainng status here.', 'time': '18:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks', 'time': '19:08 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '13:04 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Thanks', 'time': '19:08 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '13:04 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '13:04 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""-I cried in the bathtub after church because I'd found out that even the reward for a life well lived was more life, as if anyone wanted that. -\n\nIncredibly well written and deeply emotive.\nThank you for writing this ❤️"", 'time': '21:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Congrats on the shortlist. Well deserved.', 'time': '18:11 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,aagihp,Fair Wages for a Job Well Done,Michał Przywara,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/aagihp/,/short-story/aagihp/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Historical Fiction', 'Fantasy']",40 likes,"
Content warning: spoilers for folk tales.The woods did not want them there. Dead leaves cracked beneath their feet and silent crows sat in judgement above. The wet reek of rotting autumn was falsely sweet, and the black mud clung to their clothes and dragged them down. The sun never reached the trails on even the brightest day, and when it set, the shadows choked the paths.Albrecht raised his torch high. The flickering orange teased the darkness and little more. It provided no warmth against the winds that promised winter.“Conrad!” he called, his voice small. The name was soft, light, and swallowed by the murk around him. A meager meal not worth even an echo.“Conrad!” called Hille, Albrecht’s wife. She clutched her shawl tight with one hand and held her own light aloft. “Conrad! Ursula!”No reply.How many times had they called those names, never once wondering if there’d be an answer? A dozen times a day? A hundred? Sometimes a loving call, other times a sharp reprimand. Oh, what he’d give now, to hear Conrad make up another excuse about shirking his chores – he’d gladly buy the boy’s lie. Or to hear Ursula lament about her prospects in town, how nobody could possibly be good enough. He’d swear to her that he’d find her a prince, and spend the rest of his life seeing it through. He’d give anything for this, and if he’d chance upon the Devil himself, he’d even offer his soul.But the Devil had more sense than to travel those woods.Albrecht looked around and saw distant pinpricks of light in the forest. Tiny red eyes constantly blinking, black branches trying to scratch them out. Muffled cries rose from them, from the other townsfolk, all of them shouting their loved ones into the void.“Otto!”“Anne!”“Lena!”Still no reply.The forest exhaled another carrion wheeze and all the lights vanished. Albrecht’s torch sputtered in distress, the fire nearly torn from it. He brought it low to shield it with his body, to protect it as he might have done his children. Might have done.It began raining. Drops as cold as iron cut through the grime on Albrecht’s face. His torch hissed each time it was stabbed. Hille shrunk deeper into her shawl and Albrecht wrapped his arm around her. He couldn’t tell which of them shivered more.Few of the distant lights returned. Whether that was because of the rain, or the wind, or… but no. They all swore, they would look until they found something. Until they found them. Their children were lost and alone and needed help.Hille rasped. She was out of tears and too tired for panic. “You should have paid him.”He couldn’t tell if she really said it, or if it was the same voice that had been nagging at him since morning. The voice that offered no quarter and no reprieve. The voice that ignored every time he agreed with it, every time he begged to make things right. It wasn’t the Devil that tormented him, because it too ignored all his pleading, all his offers to make amends.What were a thousand guilders? Repairs to the bridge? A new church?“Fair wages for a job well done,” the piper had said.But how could Albrecht justify paying anything to that shifty sorcerer? The vagabond diabolist probably cursed their town in the first place.Still, if he had a second chance to pay now, he’d take it. In the end, a thousand guilders cost them the soul of Hamelin.“You should have paid him,” Hille whimpered again. She shrugged his arm off as they continued trudging through the benighted woods.I should have, he thought, but no matter. The deed is done. His gaze fell to his feet. They were so encrusted with mud that they blended into the ground. He couldn’t tell where he ended and the earth began, and the mud pulled at him, dragged him down. I’m already half in the grave. My only hope is finding our children, and I’ll not rest until we do. Only thus will I be redeemed.And then we’ll revenge ourselves on the piper.The ground was an oily sea, too deep even for shadows. Albrecht never noticed when the path descended. His foot came down hard on the air and missed, and he tumbled down a sudden hill. Each time he rolled, the frigid mud grabbed more of him, covering his clothes and skin, blotting out his eyes, damming his ears. He tried to scream as he went down, but the mud crawled into his mouth. It seized his tongue, burrowed into his throat. Buried his breath.He rolled for an eternity, legs smashing trees and arms striking stones. His body learned the language of bruises and breaks, and when he finally stopped, a burning coughing fit overtook him. He could barely rise to his hands and knees, exhuming the dirt in his gullet in wracking waves. Dizziness. Searing wounds. Cold sweat. And when he opened his eyes he was in total darkness.All he could hear was the splattering of rain, and the only smell was the stench of rotting undergrowth. His hands sunk into the congealed mud, but he also found his fingers wrapping around harder things – stones, maybe, or roots. Perhaps, he imagined, he kneeled before a great tree that would judge him.“Albrecht!” he heard a faint voice. He looked for it, unable to place the sound and each turn of his neck a fresh shock of pain, but then he saw a thin light behind him. Hille slid carefully down where Albrecht had fallen, holding her torch precariously.“Here!”“Albrecht!” On steady ground, she hiked up her skirts and approached him.He rose to his knees. When the small circle of her light enveloped him, he looked himself over. He was sure he was bleeding, but he couldn’t tell blood from water. It didn’t matter anyway. The mud clung to him, hardened on his skin. The rain only served to fill in the cracks. He could not even see his hands.But he did see what his hands held. The stones, or roots, his fingers had wrapped around. Curved, short, cracked. White.They littered the ground at the bottom of the slope: a strange garden of broken white stalks, tinged with red. Some tiny, some as long as forearms. Smooth white stones among them – round, with black holes, almost like eyes.Hille made a sound, an animal gasp. Her trembling hand covered her mouth. Just as well, there were no words.A glimmer caught Albrecht’s attention, a glint in the shadows. A pair of eyes. Then another. Then, countless eyes all around him, just at the edge of the light. The rain murdered Hille’s torch, plunging them into darkness again.He heard the rats before he felt them.
","July 10, 2023 21:32","[[{'Michelle Oliver': 'You always deliver a stellar ending, Michal, and this story is no disappointment. I think what works so brilliantly here is what you don’t say. We know, we feel, we don’t need to be told and that’s what’s so chilling. The piper has his revenge on the guilty and innocent alike.\n\nYour description of the rain is so good both in its visceral imagery and its foreshadowing of death.\n-Drops as cold as iron cut through the grime on Albrecht’s face. His torch hissed each time it was stabbed.\n\nThe whole passage about falling down the hole was brillian...', 'time': '10:23 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Michelle! \n\nHeh, I'll admit I was going for some violent imagery, partly as foreshadowing. Also, I wanted the setting itself to feel hostile. That seems to have been a big theme in a lot of folk tales, that the woods were a strange and dangerous place to go. I'm glad it worked out, and (hopefully) wasn't too over the top :) \n\nI've always found the story of the pied piper interesting, and the end is quite mysterious. This is just one idea of what might have happened next. \n\nThanks for reading!"", 'time': '20:42 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Michelle! \n\nHeh, I'll admit I was going for some violent imagery, partly as foreshadowing. Also, I wanted the setting itself to feel hostile. That seems to have been a big theme in a lot of folk tales, that the woods were a strange and dangerous place to go. I'm glad it worked out, and (hopefully) wasn't too over the top :) \n\nI've always found the story of the pied piper interesting, and the end is quite mysterious. This is just one idea of what might have happened next. \n\nThanks for reading!"", 'time': '20:42 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'You had me in the opening line, and then you kept delivering. That remix of fairytale with that fear of losing a child to the dark woods, brilliant! Was very tense with great descriptors.\n\nReally enjoyed this one in particular - But the Devil had more sense than to travel those woods.\n\nGreat story Michal, thanks for sharing.', 'time': '09:12 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Kevin! Glad to hear the opening worked :) \n\nI like that line, too. The idea of humans getting up to things that supernatural things find foolish is a fun one to explore. \n\nI appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '20:41 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Kevin! Glad to hear the opening worked :) \n\nI like that line, too. The idea of humans getting up to things that supernatural things find foolish is a fun one to explore. \n\nI appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '20:41 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Zelda C. Thorne': 'Ohhhh creepy! Loved the mixture of fairy tales. Your descriptions are spot on. I was right there with him, being dragged down in the mud. Bravo!', 'time': '20:10 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Zelda! Glad to hear the descriptions worked out. It was an exercise in making a shorter, more focused piece. I appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '20:38 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Zelda! Glad to hear the descriptions worked out. It was an exercise in making a shorter, more focused piece. I appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '20:38 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Albrecht searches for Hanzel and Gretel, and you wrap in each parent an aching loss. \'If only I could go back to hearing their voice,\' a shared fear, pulling us into the story.\n\nAnd then the twist, the conflict, ""you should have paid him"".  Desperate loss now layered with guilt. A parent\'s nightmare.\n\nLove this imagery. \n\'...“Here!”\n“Albrecht!” On steady ground, she hiked up her skirts and approached him.\n\nAnd then Albrecht, followed by Hille, end up in a pit of some sort.  Is the \'garden of broken white stalks, tinged with red\' the children...', 'time': '19:18 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Jack! \n\nYes indeed, the ""strange garden"" was a pit of freshly picked bones. I always wondered what happened after the Pied Piper of Hamelin ended, what with the kids never being seen again, and this is one answer. Terrible revenge for a bill unpaid. \n\nSo in a way - in the worst way possible - they didn\'t fail to find them. \n\nGlad the imagery worked :) I appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '20:37 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Jack! \n\nYes indeed, the ""strange garden"" was a pit of freshly picked bones. I always wondered what happened after the Pied Piper of Hamelin ended, what with the kids never being seen again, and this is one answer. Terrible revenge for a bill unpaid. \n\nSo in a way - in the worst way possible - they didn\'t fail to find them. \n\nGlad the imagery worked :) I appreciate the feedback!', 'time': '20:37 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Nicely written, Michal. Thanks for sharing. You leave him too badly hurt to defend himself, or run. Grimm...', 'time': '17:07 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Grimm indeed :) Glad you liked it, Chris - thanks for the feedback!', 'time': '20:39 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Grimm indeed :) Glad you liked it, Chris - thanks for the feedback!', 'time': '20:39 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Stevie Burges': ""Your descriptions are excellent - I could almost feel that I was there with them in the woods.  By the time I got to the end though - I was so very glad I wasn't there!  Vividly written.  Good story telling."", 'time': '05:49 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Stevie! Indeed, not a fun place to end up :) I'm glad you enjoyed it - thanks for the feedback!"", 'time': '20:40 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Stevie! Indeed, not a fun place to end up :) I'm glad you enjoyed it - thanks for the feedback!"", 'time': '20:40 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Michał, quite the tale. I hear you on the old tales did not have happy endings. I am sure that your story is close to being historically accurate. \nI enjoyed the piece and the descriptions.\nThe voice was good\nThe theme is interesting]\nThanks for the good read . LF6', 'time': '03:28 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Lily! Yeah, folk/fairy tales seemed a lot different before Disney. Lots of death and violence - cautionary tales really. Though, this is just one imagined conclusion to the Pied Piper. \n\nThanks for reading!', 'time': '20:44 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Lily! Yeah, folk/fairy tales seemed a lot different before Disney. Lots of death and violence - cautionary tales really. Though, this is just one imagined conclusion to the Pied Piper. \n\nThanks for reading!', 'time': '20:44 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Oh heavens! Michal! Oh, you managed that horror beautifully. Each line made me feel like I was running from the part I was on to the next part of this story. Your setting was brilliant-something quintessentially horrifying about a forest. Simply bone chilling in the best possible way. My favorite line was the very last one. You ended if perfectly. I’m too afraid to say much else; I’ll go wrap up in a safe blanket in the sun. Nice work!!', 'time': '20:43 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Heh, I think there's good reasons why forests feature so prominently in older stories. Easy to get lost in, filled with potential predators of all kinds, and sure, there's a bit of magic to them too. A world apart from our civilized one.\n\nGlad you enjoyed it, and that the horror worked out :) Thanks, Amanda!"", 'time': '20:56 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Heh, I think there's good reasons why forests feature so prominently in older stories. Easy to get lost in, filled with potential predators of all kinds, and sure, there's a bit of magic to them too. A world apart from our civilized one.\n\nGlad you enjoyed it, and that the horror worked out :) Thanks, Amanda!"", 'time': '20:56 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Wow, Michal, that was a haunting, dark, and cool as Hell differently delivered kind of fairytale. Great imagination, I felt as if I was there. Excellent...!', 'time': '20:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Joe! Yeah, tried my hand at something different with this one - very short, more moody. Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '20:49 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Thanks, Joe! Yeah, tried my hand at something different with this one - very short, more moody. Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '20:49 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Barbara Arbogast': 'Well done. The imagery was fantastic and the story left me with a chill.', 'time': '19:52 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Barbara! I'm glad you enjoyed it :)"", 'time': '20:40 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Barbara! I'm glad you enjoyed it :)"", 'time': '20:40 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'C. A. Janke': ""I really, really enjoyed this (and I've been on a bit of a dark-fairy-tale-reimagining kick recently so this felt weirdly fitting for my reading mood haha)! \n\nI'm not all that familiar with the Pied Piper story, but I really liked the thorough insight into the parents we get in this! Most often in fairy tales we don't get to see much of the perspective of the parents of the children who are kidnapped or get lost in the woods or are lured away by monsters. \n\nI like that this story is so short and contained but feels so full and visceral in th..."", 'time': '21:26 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, C. A.! \n\nYeah, that's an interesting point about the side characters in those stories. Probably lots to explore there in re-imaginings :) I'm glad you enjoyed this piece!"", 'time': '20:50 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, C. A.! \n\nYeah, that's an interesting point about the side characters in those stories. Probably lots to explore there in re-imaginings :) I'm glad you enjoyed this piece!"", 'time': '20:50 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': ""Well done. I love this kind of thing. Taking a story we all know, and telling it in a different way.  Not sparing any of the 'Grimm' details. \n\nI read some of the other comments and agree with everyone else. It's creepy, familiar, the opening lines grab your attention and pull you into the story. \n\nZelda mentioned something about mixing fairy tales. I only saw one, But I was never a fan of fairy tales. Therefore, not an expert on spotting them.\n\nThe tone and quality of the descriptive elements kept me into this story long after I was certain..."", 'time': '04:06 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Ken! Glad to hear the tone and descriptions kept things going. It was a piece experimenting with those elements.\n\nIn the original draft, the main kids' names were Hansel and Gretel, as there was some overlap with that story - but it wasn't working for me, and they were cut in editing. It's all Pied Piper now :)\n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '04:20 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Ken! Glad to hear the tone and descriptions kept things going. It was a piece experimenting with those elements.\n\nIn the original draft, the main kids' names were Hansel and Gretel, as there was some overlap with that story - but it wasn't working for me, and they were cut in editing. It's all Pied Piper now :)\n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '04:20 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': ""Hey there, Michal - \n\nOooo Spooky folk tales, my kinda gig!\n\nI love the setting, of course, and all of the attributes you give the forest, but the mechanic of using the search for missing children (they should never stray into the forest) right out the bat is excellent. The hissing of the torch with the rain, cool. Tying the story to the Piper, like, the consequences if you didn't pay? Loved the nightmarish portrayal.\n\nR"", 'time': '03:36 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks Russell! Yeah, I love some of the darkness that the old tales just hint at (or don’t hint - sometimes they're quite explicit). I'm glad you enjoyed it!"", 'time': '20:45 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks Russell! Yeah, I love some of the darkness that the old tales just hint at (or don’t hint - sometimes they're quite explicit). I'm glad you enjoyed it!"", 'time': '20:45 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""The descriptions are fantastic!  The original tale was just this, dark and despair. This to me is is a modern capitalist fable-  for the townspeople thought money was the most important thing, they did not know what they valued until it was gone. I just hope it was *not* historical :)\n    \n\n'The forest exhaled another carrion wheeze and all the lights vanished. '\n'Drops as cold as iron'\n'The ground was an oily sea, too deep even for shadows'\n'The rain murdered Hille’s torch, plunging them into darkness again.'"", 'time': '00:01 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Marty! Greed's a killer :)\n\nAnd I'm glad the descriptions worked out. This was by design a shorter piece, and I was trying to get every line to count.\n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '01:40 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Marty! Greed's a killer :)\n\nAnd I'm glad the descriptions worked out. This was by design a shorter piece, and I was trying to get every line to count.\n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '01:40 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Ahhh that ending! 😳', 'time': '21:38 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': '🐀🐀🐀 :)', 'time': '01:13 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': '🐀🐀🐀 :)', 'time': '01:13 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'You just grab all the senses and pull them in with your descriptive language, Michal! The dark fairy tales pre-Disney are something to read, and you’ve captured that darkness. The rats at the end {shudder}!! \nHave you read Pratchett’s The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents? A different spin on the piper!', 'time': '11:18 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Nina! No, I'm not familiar with that. I'll add it to the reading list :)"", 'time': '20:32 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Nina! No, I'm not familiar with that. I'll add it to the reading list :)"", 'time': '20:32 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Bloody great stuff Michal love the mix of fairy tales was hoping to see the musicians of Bremen appear!!;\nThoroughly enjoyable read!', 'time': '18:22 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Derrick! Glad to hear you enjoyed it :) You know, I'm not actually familiar with that fable - it slipped by me somehow. There were a lot of them historically, and it's neat seeing how they're still relevant."", 'time': '20:33 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Musicians of Bremen is my favourite of the Grimm Brothers fairy tales. Definitely worth looking up if you get a chance!', 'time': '08:12 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Derrick! Glad to hear you enjoyed it :) You know, I'm not actually familiar with that fable - it slipped by me somehow. There were a lot of them historically, and it's neat seeing how they're still relevant."", 'time': '20:33 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Musicians of Bremen is my favourite of the Grimm Brothers fairy tales. Definitely worth looking up if you get a chance!', 'time': '08:12 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Musicians of Bremen is my favourite of the Grimm Brothers fairy tales. Definitely worth looking up if you get a chance!', 'time': '08:12 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I think the writing in this story is the most powerful I’ve seen you do. The rats at the end are very unsettling (though given a story shaped like cheese wedges, it makes it look like you’ve got yourself a Winston in 1984-level rat phobia). I think you’re doing something cool by bringing in Hansel and Gretel, because it adds layers to to the parent’s guilt, but! The thing is that we do know what happened to them with a cage, a witch and an oven and an escape, so either there’s a contradiction that you leave us struggling with (they had a ste...', 'time': '16:20 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Anne! \n\nYou know, I do occasionally ponder the 1984 scene, so maybe you're onto something :) \n\nI greatly appreciate the feedback. The choice of Hansel and Gretel was very much a maybe thing, and from the feedback I've gotten, I think it might be causing more harm than not. They are getting cut. \n\nYour twist idea is a cool one though, and exactly the kind of ending that would fit a Grimm tale. Might have to revisit that one day :)"", 'time': '20:32 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': ""It would be so cool as a last line: Somewhere across the forest, Hansel still cursed the fate that put him in the witch's cage, unaware of what was happening to his parents at the hands of creatures that would not wait for them to fatten! Bwahaha!"", 'time': '12:36 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Anne! \n\nYou know, I do occasionally ponder the 1984 scene, so maybe you're onto something :) \n\nI greatly appreciate the feedback. The choice of Hansel and Gretel was very much a maybe thing, and from the feedback I've gotten, I think it might be causing more harm than not. They are getting cut. \n\nYour twist idea is a cool one though, and exactly the kind of ending that would fit a Grimm tale. Might have to revisit that one day :)"", 'time': '20:32 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""It would be so cool as a last line: Somewhere across the forest, Hansel still cursed the fate that put him in the witch's cage, unaware of what was happening to his parents at the hands of creatures that would not wait for them to fatten! Bwahaha!"", 'time': '12:36 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""It would be so cool as a last line: Somewhere across the forest, Hansel still cursed the fate that put him in the witch's cage, unaware of what was happening to his parents at the hands of creatures that would not wait for them to fatten! Bwahaha!"", 'time': '12:36 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'3i Writer': ""So, this piper did not drown the rats in the river. That wasn't a job well done. Yup, shouldn't have paid him. Hope to see more Hansel and Gretel references. Only their names appear in this story and there is no other connection to their tale."", 'time': '15:14 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Indeed! I've heard variations of the tale where he didn't drown the rats, but just led them off to who-knows-where (and then other variations where he drowned both the rats and the kids). Either way, not a very reliable contractor :) \n\nThanks for pointing out Hansel and Gretel. I debated including them at all - I saw some relevant links between the tales, but I fear having those names there is just distracting. They ended up being cut. \n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '20:40 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Indeed! I've heard variations of the tale where he didn't drown the rats, but just led them off to who-knows-where (and then other variations where he drowned both the rats and the kids). Either way, not a very reliable contractor :) \n\nThanks for pointing out Hansel and Gretel. I debated including them at all - I saw some relevant links between the tales, but I fear having those names there is just distracting. They ended up being cut. \n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '20:40 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""There isn't much I can say about this tale except: wow!\n\nAlong with Michelle Oliver, I consider you two to be metaphor royalty. Along with that honorific, you two are also masters of description. I admit that I often re-read and print out y'all's tales to study. They are that good.\n\nI'm a little confused as to why Hansel and Gretel are mashed up with the children from Hamelin. I understand the Pied Piper tale, for we now see what happened to the kids that were led away because of not paying for services rendered. I'm guessing that we are tre..."", 'time': '14:50 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Del! \n\nYou know, I spent a good bit of time on deciding if the names should be Hansel and Gretel or not, and I still wonder if it's a good call. My idea was a kind of a behind-the-scenes/what-really-happened, as these stories are often rooted in some actual events, and I wouldn't be surprised if the same event didn't inspire multiple stories. There seemed to be thematic links between the two tales - the setting, the danger of woods, strangers that seem friendly initially, people being eaten, the loss of children, concerns about money..."", 'time': '20:36 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Del! \n\nYou know, I spent a good bit of time on deciding if the names should be Hansel and Gretel or not, and I still wonder if it's a good call. My idea was a kind of a behind-the-scenes/what-really-happened, as these stories are often rooted in some actual events, and I wouldn't be surprised if the same event didn't inspire multiple stories. There seemed to be thematic links between the two tales - the setting, the danger of woods, strangers that seem friendly initially, people being eaten, the loss of children, concerns about money..."", 'time': '20:36 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Spoilers for folk tales, indeed!', 'time': '22:32 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'I like to think this is historically accurate :) A lot of the old tales did *not* have happy endings.\n\nThanks for reading!', 'time': '23:01 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'I like to think this is historically accurate :) A lot of the old tales did *not* have happy endings.\n\nThanks for reading!', 'time': '23:01 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Gosh, this was chilling. I always felt that this fairytale had an unsatisfactory ending, and your version measures up in every way. \n\nYou deliver on the promise of the horror tag from the very first sentence, and your imagery is just SPECTACULAR. I could feel myself searching for the children along with Albrecht. \n\nI love the twist this story took, from the aching/desperate parents, to the horrific discovery of the children. The grim/violent imagery really ties it all together as well. \n\nFavorite line: ""The forest exhaled another carrion whe...', 'time': '07:21 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Sophia! I think I sometimes forego imagery, so it's good to hear that it worked out here where there was a conscious effort to develop it.\n\nI love the darkness of the old tales :) Lots to enjoy there.\n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '23:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Thanks, Sophia! I think I sometimes forego imagery, so it's good to hear that it worked out here where there was a conscious effort to develop it.\n\nI love the darkness of the old tales :) Lots to enjoy there.\n\nI appreciate the feedback!"", 'time': '23:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,q5t7z4,As Big as the Sky,Aeris Walker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q5t7z4/,/short-story/q5t7z4/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Sad', 'Fiction']",39 likes,"
The mirror is no longer my friend. I can’t hide the grays, the lines, the weariness anymore–the signs that I am becoming what I always feared: old.
I am not so shallow, so vain as to believe that without youth and beauty I am any less–if anything, I am more: stronger, wiser, braver. But you do not see me that way, and I can only hope someday you will.
When you were young, my greatest fear was losing you–that I’d put you to sleep and you’d never wake up. That you’d choke on your food. That you’d be swept away in a riptide and I wasn’t fast enough to save you. Those fears always lurked in the shadows of your childhood.
But you’re older now and I don’t have to worry that you’ll suffocate in your bed or choke on a too-big piece of meat or drown in the shallows. In its place is something new, darker, and harder to dispel: the fear that you will reject me. 
You don’t look at me the way you used to. I’m not blind: I can see the way your bright eyes flit from my graying hair to my drooping lips, from my wrinkled skin to my plump stomach. You’re disgusted by me. Embarrassed of me. It’s ironic; when I was younger, I always cared too much about how the world saw me, picking at all my flaws and imperfections–but never with you. You saw me at my worst and I saw you at yours, and you still loved me, still ran into my arms each morning, stroking my bed-head and saying, you’re beautiful, mommy.
I was once your source of joy, of comfort, and now I feel I’m at the root of all of your frustrations. You treat me like something that just gets in your way, like an old dog that lies in the middle of the floor or the broken recliner we dragged to the curb last month. 
You used to hang on my leg, following me from room to room–my greatest little fan. I’d step into the backyard for a minute to water the flowers, then return to find you panicking, thinking I’d disappeared forever. You’d fling your arms around me, greeting me with wet kisses and declarations of how worried you’d been and how happy you were to see me, saying, you’re my favorite Mommy of all the mommies.
Now, I could disappear for days and you wouldn’t so much as look up from your screen until the internet went down and you needed the WiFi password or you opened the pantry and learned we were all out of cereal.
Have you forgotten all we’ve been through together? All those hikes through the woods, trips to the zoo, hours spent at the table crafting with paper and glitter and glue. Singing songs in the bathtub, reading books before bed, picking blueberries at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Hauling stacks of books home from the library, driving from ballet and soccer then stopping for ice cream on the way home. Summers when Dad took off work and we took off to the beach and lounged in the sun and combed the sand for shells. 
Don’t you remember?
Or have I already lost you? 
What will happen when the years keep chipping away at me, cutting deeper, taking more? 
When my knees creak and my back whines and my joints swell, will you still hike with me? Slow down a bit so I can keep up?
When I bring you my laptop and ask you again to show me how, will you roll your eyes at me and think I’m just old and dumb?
When you move out and you're on your own, will you answer the phone when I call? Just to hear your voice and know you’re alright?
When you meet someone special, will you bring them home? Share the world you grew up in? Or will you be too ashamed of us, of me?
When you begin having children of your own, will you reject my advice, push me away, tell me my methods are old-fashioned and archaic? Will you forget I’ve done this before?   
When my calendar, once exploding with activity, is scribbled through with doctor’s appointments and checkups, will you think I’m weak, fragile?
When I tell stories at family gatherings, repeating myself and forgetting details, will you wish I’d stop talking and just sit there quietly?
Will you let me be involved in your life? Bring the kids by and let me take them blueberry picking or to the ice cream parlor in town?
When my countertops become cluttered with medications, will you still see the real me, the woman inside the aging body?
When your father is gone and I’m alone in this big house, will you come visit me? Let me cook you lunch like old times, eat on the porch where we used to watch for hummingbirds?
When my hair turns white and my face becomes mapped with wrinkles, will you still touch my cheeks like you used to? Hold my head in your hands and tell me you love me as big as the sky?
When I can’t get around like I used to, will you help me into the car and drive me to the sea? Stand by the shore with me so I don’t get swept away by a rip tide?
When my hands shake and my teeth grow weak and I can’t eat the things I once enjoyed, will you make me something soft, put a spoon in my hand? 
When my lungs fail to fill the way they once did and breathing becomes difficult, will you check in on me during the night? Make sure I haven’t suffocated in my sleep? 
 
When I am gone, will you be relieved? Unburdened by the responsibilities of caring for me?
 
You don’t understand right now. Your universe is so small and you are the center of it. I was a teenager once too. I get it. I remember a time when the last person I wanted to talk to was my mother–how she was always in my business, prying into my private life. I pushed her away, just like you’re doing to me. And now, I would give anything to talk to her one more time–just to chat about the rain or laundry, or to hear her tell the same old stories again and again.
I am not afraid of my beauty fading or my body failing. I will grow old and embrace every minute of it–as long as I know that behind those pretty eyes you always roll at me, is that child who once threw their arms around me and said, you’re my favorite Mommy of all the mommies. 
And, maybe now and then, let me hold your face in my hands and tell you I love you as big as the sky and that I always will. 
 
","July 14, 2023 20:22","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'Sorry, can’t comment right now.  Need to call my mom.', 'time': '11:05 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Love this! Thanks for reading ❤️', 'time': '22:13 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Love this! Thanks for reading ❤️', 'time': '22:13 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zatoichi Mifune': ""Wow. That should be in capitals. WOW. \n\nSo powerful, so sad. The first sentence captured me immediately, but a few more sentences in and I figured that it wasn't the type of story I had expected from the first sentence. But, of course, I didn't stop reading. I was hooked.\n\nFeels so real; I get uncomfortable reading it, thinking that it's just too private and personal for me to read, but I carry on anyway because it's impossible not to. When I finished I felt so sad and scrolled back to the top, expecting to find 'Creative non-fiction' as a t..."", 'time': '18:20 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'I do not have teenagers, as my children are still very young, but this story was inspired by a conversation with one, where I felt she sadly misunderstood her parents (whom I knew to be very loving and attentive) and viewed her mother only as old and out of touch. It stung, thinking my own children might someday see me that way. \nI think there always two sides to a story (and no parent is perfect) but I wanted to explore the emotions of how a mother might feel—maybe irrelevant or burdensome—as she ages out of her child’s life. \nThank you ver...', 'time': '18:50 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'I do not have teenagers, as my children are still very young, but this story was inspired by a conversation with one, where I felt she sadly misunderstood her parents (whom I knew to be very loving and attentive) and viewed her mother only as old and out of touch. It stung, thinking my own children might someday see me that way. \nI think there always two sides to a story (and no parent is perfect) but I wanted to explore the emotions of how a mother might feel—maybe irrelevant or burdensome—as she ages out of her child’s life. \nThank you ver...', 'time': '18:50 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi dear Aeris,\nOh this piece was beautiful. I shall willingly admit my teen years with my mothers were exceptionally challenging. But both women prevailed, as many parents do, and they lived on the faith that their bird would one day return to the nest for regular visits. \n\nI adored all of these open ended questions. The italics were used brilliantly to help illustrate thought patterns and the imagery surrounding the memories were beautiful. This story had happiness and sadness, growth and stubbornness, agony and hope. Nice work!!', 'time': '02:41 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Really love your analysis: ""happiness and sadness, growth and stubbornness, agony and hope."" I think that\'s pretty spot on. Thank you for reading, Amanda, and for sharing how you can relate. Much appreciated :)', 'time': '18:29 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Really love your analysis: ""happiness and sadness, growth and stubbornness, agony and hope."" I think that\'s pretty spot on. Thank you for reading, Amanda, and for sharing how you can relate. Much appreciated :)', 'time': '18:29 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anna W': ""Beautiful and devastating and complicated, just like parenting 😭 I always love your stories, Aeris. Thank you for this one! I'm going to enjoy a little bit more today that my kids still think I'm cool and beautiful because they're little."", 'time': '17:24 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': '“Beautiful and devastating and complicated”—yes, love that. Spot on. \nThank you for reading! I always appreciate it :)', 'time': '10:41 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': '“Beautiful and devastating and complicated”—yes, love that. Spot on. \nThank you for reading! I always appreciate it :)', 'time': '10:41 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Janetra Waters': 'That was so beautiful and human. I couldn’t look away from a single word.', 'time': '16:57 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you, Janetra!', 'time': '10:20 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you, Janetra!', 'time': '10:20 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""It's not fair to like a story on 2 profiles but this story really tempts me, it deserves both likes...\n\nDon't know why I'm commenting a second time, I just want to say that this is definitely in my top 5 favourite stories, and you're in my top 3 favourite Reedsy authors (but don't tell anyone 😉) :)"", 'time': '09:09 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hi, Khadija. I appreciate your encouragement from either profile :) Thanks for stopping by!', 'time': '10:38 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hi, Khadija. I appreciate your encouragement from either profile :) Thanks for stopping by!', 'time': '10:38 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Very nice! Change is something we all have to learn to live with (or not, I suppose - change won't care, it'll happen anyway.) Here we have two major changes coinciding - aging, and a changing relationship with a growing child. \n\nIt's curious. The child begins completely dependent on the parent, and a good job of parenting teaches the child independence. And it makes us miserable, because having succeeded, we're no longer needed. Part of that is fond memories, of course. But as time goes on, the parent becomes more dependent too, don't they?..."", 'time': '20:41 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'I always appreciate your thoughtful analysis! Thanks for reading :)', 'time': '12:31 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'I always appreciate your thoughtful analysis! Thanks for reading :)', 'time': '12:31 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'So sad and poignant, it made me want to cry. You cover the passing of time so well and the eternal love of a mother for their child.', 'time': '16:10 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you very much, Helen :)', 'time': '10:36 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you very much, Helen :)', 'time': '10:36 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Aeris you have highlighted a phase of our life that we all go through and  get the raw deal from our children. But did we do the same to our parents? Will we ever find the balance between what we do as a parent and children? I think  we all have to realize our responsibilities and try to fib some moments off the self imposed restrictions enforced on us  through our emotion less mechanical routine. A great subject and a great treatment. Deserves a short list!', 'time': '09:44 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts, Shahzad, I really appreciate it!', 'time': '09:58 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts, Shahzad, I really appreciate it!', 'time': '09:58 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tolu Odel': 'This was really interesting for me to read as a teen/ young adult! I always imagined mothers as not having any fear of anything at all. Thanks for writing :)', 'time': '23:29 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'I think that’s a mask parents become very good at wearing :)', 'time': '09:45 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'I think that’s a mask parents become very good at wearing :)', 'time': '09:45 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""A well-drawn portrait of a mother at the crossroads. The fact that we don't really know how her relationship with her teenager will progress gives it the injection of fear. Great read."", 'time': '21:48 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you, Ellen.', 'time': '09:34 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you, Ellen.', 'time': '09:34 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wally Schmidt': ""The beauty of your prose belies the dark shift of a changing relationship. I liked how the relationship comes full circle and the things the woman once feared for her child, she now fears for herself. And while I think one of the most 'delicate' points of a child-parent relationship occurs in the teenage years, I also think how you come out on the other side of those years sometimes depends on how patiently and lovingly you negotiate them. \nI once heard a psychologist speak about how those break away years are essential years where the child..."", 'time': '18:32 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'I love your observation: “how you come out on the other side of those years sometimes depends on how patiently and lovingly you negotiate them.” Very well said. \nThank you for reading, Wally, and for leaving your thoughtful feedback. It’s always appreciated!', 'time': '10:09 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Wally Schmidt': ""Should probably have underlined 'patiently' ..."", 'time': '14:17 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'I love your observation: “how you come out on the other side of those years sometimes depends on how patiently and lovingly you negotiate them.” Very well said. \nThank you for reading, Wally, and for leaving your thoughtful feedback. It’s always appreciated!', 'time': '10:09 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Wally Schmidt': ""Should probably have underlined 'patiently' ..."", 'time': '14:17 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Wally Schmidt': ""Should probably have underlined 'patiently' ..."", 'time': '14:17 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Aeris, I thought this was absolutely lovely. Such a strong, true story about teenagers and how some feel toward their mothers. I can honestly say I knew my mom is special and never felt that way. But I know kids who did. \nYour writing is so evocative of motherhood and aging. \nI loved how you captured the aging and thought initially how you were speaking about a woman talking to herself in an image in the mirror. A younger woman in her head to her true older self. (I was wrong!).\nIt seems to me that everyone will have something to say about t...', 'time': '02:51 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hey, Lily! Thanks so much for reading. Always appreciate your feedback ☺️', 'time': '09:16 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hey, Lily! Thanks so much for reading. Always appreciate your feedback ☺️', 'time': '09:16 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emma D': 'Wonderful writing once again! This just makes me more determined to always love and support my mother. :) The part about hiking especially resonated with me because my mother and I love to hike together when we get the chance.', 'time': '23:01 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'I’m so pleased to hear that :) Thanks for reading, Emma!', 'time': '09:52 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'I’m so pleased to hear that :) Thanks for reading, Emma!', 'time': '09:52 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kelsey H': ""I love all your writing on mothering, it's so beautiful and truly captures those deep and mixed emotions of raising a child, and in this case the fact you are raising them to not need you any more.\n\nI started copying my favourite lines but honestly there were so many I stopped, but a part I really liked how in the end you link it back to the beginning with the sleeping/choking/drowning fears of the mother related first to her baby, then to herself as an old lady. Gives such a sense of that full circle of growing up and growing old. Always gr..."", 'time': '10:13 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hi Kelsey—thanks for reading! My short story game is a bit rusty after spending the past few weeks…or months..?only writing academically, so I greatly appreciate your positive feedback. I’m glad you saw the “balance” I was aiming for there in trying to circle back around to those early themes. :)', 'time': '09:51 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hi Kelsey—thanks for reading! My short story game is a bit rusty after spending the past few weeks…or months..?only writing academically, so I greatly appreciate your positive feedback. I’m glad you saw the “balance” I was aiming for there in trying to circle back around to those early themes. :)', 'time': '09:51 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Wow, this was so emotional and heartfelt. I sometimes feel embarrassed/frustrated with my mother, so this story really resonated with me, and showed me the other perspective. \n\nI love the questions to the child, and the I/you POV worked so well for this piece, really highlighting those raw emotions. \n\nFavorite line: ""When my knees creak and my back whines and my joints swell, will you still hike with me? Slow down a bit so I can keep up?""', 'time': '06:53 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thanks so much, Sophia!', 'time': '09:31 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thanks so much, Sophia!', 'time': '09:31 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Beautiful ❤️🧑\u200d🦳👶to the sky!', 'time': '05:55 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you!', 'time': '09:30 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you!', 'time': '09:30 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zelda C. Thorne': ""Beautiful, heartfelt story. A relatable period in any parent's life. Lovely to read a story from you. Always hits the feels."", 'time': '05:16 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you 💕', 'time': '13:51 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thank you 💕', 'time': '13:51 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""So powerful and emotive, Aeris. This tale felt almost too personal, and I felt like I was invading your thoughts. That's some masterful writing there, my friend. I'll say what other Irish writers say when they speak of a great writer: you have the gift. This was as heartbreakingly beautiful as any tale I've read in quite some time. Nicely done, Aeris. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '00:19 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hey Del! Thank you, sincerely. I felt a bit like I’d invaded someone’s thoughts too—got a little lost in this woman’s head I think. But I’ve always found it interesting how each generation views the other, how the young and old seemed doomed to misunderstand each other. \nBut anyway, I really appreciate your thoughts! Thanks for reading.', 'time': '02:08 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Hey Del! Thank you, sincerely. I felt a bit like I’d invaded someone’s thoughts too—got a little lost in this woman’s head I think. But I’ve always found it interesting how each generation views the other, how the young and old seemed doomed to misunderstand each other. \nBut anyway, I really appreciate your thoughts! Thanks for reading.', 'time': '02:08 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Unknown user': '<removed by user>', 'time': '21:23 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '0'}, [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thanks A.G. And you’re absolutely right: the mother/child dynamic can be a healthy, natural bond where each plays the role of care giver at some point in each other’s life in the way that the cycles of life and death require, but there are certainly those who manipulate the emotions of others, who feel entitled to a position in their children’s lives, and push against every boundary. I think if the narrator had a less self-reflective and more self-serving voice, the whole story could read very differently, with a much more pessimistic takeaw...', 'time': '01:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Thanks A.G. And you’re absolutely right: the mother/child dynamic can be a healthy, natural bond where each plays the role of care giver at some point in each other’s life in the way that the cycles of life and death require, but there are certainly those who manipulate the emotions of others, who feel entitled to a position in their children’s lives, and push against every boundary. I think if the narrator had a less self-reflective and more self-serving voice, the whole story could read very differently, with a much more pessimistic takeaw...', 'time': '01:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,5sey4x,Public Speaking... In Fuzzy Bedroom Slippers,Mary Bendickson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5sey4x/,/short-story/5sey4x/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Coming of Age', 'Funny']",36 likes,"
Public Speaking...In Fuzzy Bedroom SlippersAnd the honor goes to...“Why? How? That's what I want to know. Who's great idea was it to make me the emcee.“I, I c-can't do it. I, I can't stand in front of a large room of people and, and t-talk. No way, no freakin' way. I w-would freak out. I, I w-would st-stumble all over the w-words. I, I w-would m-make a f-fool of myself. Who, who would want to listen to me. I c-can't w-write a speech. I, I'm not witty or f-funny. I'll only embarrass myself and ruin the whole affair for everyone. D-don't make me. P-please don't make me speak in public. It would be a nightmare. My nightmare. Everyone hates speaking in public. It is everyone's greatest fear! I, I c-can't do it.“Thirteen boys in our class, thirteen girls in our class. Why am I the lucky one? Did I get the lowest grade on the math quiz? Draw the short straw? Get the short end of the stick? Oh, you pulled my name out of the hat. Right? As Principal, Mr. Starr, you know I am not right for this job. I am no politician. I can't talk in front of a crowd.”“No, Mary, you were voted in as the most popular choice.”“Most popular choice for ruining the whole honors banquet. We are supposed to be making these people feel good about their accomplishments. Not torture them.”“It's traditional for a seventh-grader to be the emcee for the eighth-grade honors banquet. You've been chosen. It is quite an honor. You'll do fine.”“What do I do? What do I say?”“You introduce people, maybe tell a funny anecdote or make up a joke. You know, ab-lib a little. Read the names of the recipients of the awards. It's easy.”“If it's so easy, why can't you do it. Why can't anyone else but me do it? It's still public speaking. You know, talking in front of people. As in 'Number One Fear'! Just ask anyone. I can't do that. No way! What jokes would I tell?”“You have plenty of time to prepare. It's a week from Thursday.”Oh, so simple! A week from Thursday. A week from Thursday! That's only ten days!*~*~*~*“Dear, sweet, Brother Bruce. You have Mr. O'Sullivan as your basketball coach don't you? Can you think of any witty anecdotes I could tell about him? I need to introduce him at the awards program.”“You have him for Social Studies. Come up with your own story.”“Nothing is funny about Social Studies. Surely, he is more relaxed at practices. Help! Please!”“He crosses his arms in front of his chest to impersonate Ed Sullivan.”*~*~*~*“I'm trying to let my hair grow out longer, Mom. I don't think I want another permanent. It will be too kinky for the banquet.”“You could try one of those new kind that add body but not a lot of curl, Sis. Wouldn't that make your hair easier to style? I can help you with it this weekend. What do you plan on wearing?”“She'll have to wear one of your best dresses, Thelma.”“You mean the two matching ones that used to be ours, Mom?”“Yes. She has outgrown her own but one of you two older girls' dresses ought to fit her now. They are still so pretty.”“But they are see-through sky-blue with white flocked flowers and have big full skirts with huge butterfly cap sleeves. I'll look like a bird up in the sky.”“Wear a full white slip under it and with the wide, white cummerbund it will be very becoming. And spring-like. You girls were always so cute when you wore them all at the same time. Your Grandma was so proud. She worked so hard sewing those for you. You need to get use out of them. This will be the perfect occasion.”“Aah, Mom. Shouldn't I look more business-like with a plain button down the front blouse and pencil-skirt? And what shoes do I have that go with something fancy?”*~*~*~*“Hey, Mary, you've been working so hard on that stupid speech come on outside with me and try out this new skate board that my friend Matt brought over. We're going to the school where there is the perfect hill on the sidewalk.”“What in the world is a skate board, Bruce?”“Well, it's a board with a skate on it. Come on you'll see.”“It's easy. Watch!”“Matt, you make it look easy. Okay, I'll give it a try.“Aaahhh...aaack!!!”“I think she did that all wrong. Your sister, Mary, is not full of grace.”“Don't think she planned to bounce face first down on the concrete! That's a lot of blood.”“Oh...oh. Ouch! I broke my nothe! An' bit my tongue! I need thitheth. My glatheth are buthted! I can't thee anything without them.”*~*~*~*“I am sorry, Hon. These are the only frames the optometrist had in stock that fit your lenses. Your new ones will take two weeks to come in.”“They will be perfect with my new purple nothe thwelled three timeth bigger than normal. The boyth in clath already call me moothe. Now I look the part.”*~*~*~*“Thelma, I thought thith perm thuppothed to make thoft waveth. Thith is wiry kinkth.”“Oops! Maybe it will relax in a day or two. But it does bring out your copper highlights.”*~*~*~*“Ready for the big night, Hon? Oh, you shouldn't be crying. Your eyes will be red and you'll smear the touch of mascara I just applied.”“At leath it will be a very colorful night, Mom. I gueth the joke ith on me. I'll make them laugh all right. I am tho nervouth. My kneeth won't thop knocking.”“Do you have your cue cards?”“I memorithed everything: Welcome, Ladieth and Gentlemen. We have a really big thow planned tonight to honor our thpethial thothial thudieth profethor Mither O'Thullivan and hith eighth-grade clathroom at Thaint Mark'th Lutheran Thool here in Theelville, Illinoith...”*~*~*~*“Ah, Mither Tharr, where do you want me until time to go on thage?”“Hi, uh, Mary... Don't you look...uh, nice tonight? What's with the lisp?”“I bit my tongue and needed thitheth. Think people will notithe?“I know you are juth being kind about me looking nithe. What do you like beth? The kinky, frithy hair that lookth like copper brillo padth? The thwollen purple and yellow nothe topped by thnot-green frameth on my glatheth that magnify my red crying eyeth thircled in black dripping mathcara. My thpingy thky-blue thee-through dress with flocked flowerth ready for flight. The material ith tho thiff I can't quit ithing and my thlip ith thlipping. But my detheathed Grandmother ith tho proud.“Or, or, oh, no! Look! My thockth don't match! One hath thripeth! Yiketh thripeth! The other hath polka dotth! Big ugly, thartreuthe polka dotth! And they go all the way up to my knocking kneeth!“But horror, of all horrorth! Bethideth thpeaking in public, it'th every one'th worthe re-occurring nightmare. I've forgotten to thange thoeth! Thee? Micky Mouthe futhy bedroom thlipperth!”
","July 13, 2023 19:53","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Oh my gosh, Mary!\nYou manage to capture the aches and pains of growing up in a beautiful story! As soon as they mentioned, your protagonist’s age, 7th grade, I instantly knew this was going to be a story of hard lessons learned and a memory well-made. Nice work!!', 'time': '05:47 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and commenting. Yes it made an impression.', 'time': '11:07 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and commenting. Yes it made an impression.', 'time': '11:07 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Great selection of yours to have chosen public speaking, said to be people's #1 biggest fear. I can relate to some extent, which made me laugh, even though maybe I shouldn't have. But the poor girl, well I also felt for her. Nice work, Mary."", 'time': '20:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad it made you laugh 😂. A site to see and dithather to hear.', 'time': '20:57 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad it made you laugh 😂. A site to see and dithather to hear.', 'time': '20:57 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""Oh, Mary. I've still got tears streaming down my face from laughing. The poor girl. She could always say she had to wear her slippers because she stubbed her toes as well. Could barely understand her. What a catastrophe. Many of us will identify with her feelings about public speaking. As for the rest. A series of unfortunate events."", 'time': '03:37 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the sympathy 😊', 'time': '06:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the sympathy 😊', 'time': '06:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Morgan Thompson': 'Love this! The title reminds me of COVID remote working!', 'time': '00:05 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Can't beat working in fuzzy bedroom slippers\nThanks for liking.👣"", 'time': '01:26 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Can't beat working in fuzzy bedroom slippers\nThanks for liking.👣"", 'time': '01:26 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'Oh what a mess! Public speaking has always been difficult for me too. You did a great job writing the lisped speech at the end-very immersive :)', 'time': '09:30 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you tho muth.', 'time': '12:07 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you tho muth.', 'time': '12:07 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jack Kimball': 'One of my greatest fears and I didn’t know it. One thousand people and it was a real dithathter. So you picked a good one Mary', 'time': '00:58 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Tho thorry about that. Glad you liked it.', 'time': '01:24 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Tho thorry about that. Glad you liked it.', 'time': '01:24 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""You know what? If you're going to have a bad time public speaking, you might as well go all out :) At some point, after all, it really can't get any worse :)\n\nDefinitely a huge fear for many people. I wonder if all the other calamities make the fear worse, or ironically better, as there's too much other stuff to worry about. This was probably quite stressful in the moment, but it's amusing looking back on it. Thanks for sharing!"", 'time': '21:05 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""That's me. Make it as miserable as possible."", 'time': '21:12 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""It's called milking the drama for all it's worth. You're allowed to."", 'time': '03:38 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""That's me. Make it as miserable as possible."", 'time': '21:12 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""It's called milking the drama for all it's worth. You're allowed to."", 'time': '03:38 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""It's called milking the drama for all it's worth. You're allowed to."", 'time': '03:38 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Public speaking is definitely a relatable fear. To do so in a hideous outfit, with crazed hair, broken nose, and mis-matched socks topped off with Micky mouse slippers… well it’s too much horror to bear. I’d go running for the hills!\nI enjoyed this story and I laughed and shuddered my way through it. Well done.', 'time': '13:59 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad I could make your day with my little nightmare! Thanks.', 'time': '14:50 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad I could make your day with my little nightmare! Thanks.', 'time': '14:50 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""Poor Mary. I especially liked the way all the adults seemed to shrug off her concerns. Sure, it's no big deal to get up an emcee the awards banquet -- if you're an adult! I felt her pain."", 'time': '19:59 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏.', 'time': '23:09 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks 🙏.', 'time': '23:09 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Katharine Widdows': 'I used to really detest public speaking so I have every sympathy with this character. As funny as this is I felt so bad for her. One of my flat mates at uni actually turned up to a Christmas ball in her slippers by mistake! \nDelightful story, highly entertaining. Thank you for the giggle.', 'time': '10:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks and you are welcome.', 'time': '12:12 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks and you are welcome.', 'time': '12:12 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'The bitten tongue got me. I just imagine doing that during a speech. How mortifyingly funny!', 'time': '05:20 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Nothing 😜 was going well. Thanks for commenting.', 'time': '05:44 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Nothing 😜 was going well. Thanks for commenting.', 'time': '05:44 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Mary this was great, the teenage horrors just kept building and building, to the point I had to laugh at the lisp. Very well done. Funny how at the beginning you complain about not being able to write a speech then you do such a marvelous job on the dialogue, ha. Brilliant. 👍👏', 'time': '09:08 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and brilliantly commenting.😜', 'time': '12:32 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking and brilliantly commenting.😜', 'time': '12:32 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Oh poor Mary! To give a speech in 7th grade is bad enough, but to do it with a lisp, bad glasses, ill fitting clothes and Mickey Mouse slippers is too much! \n  The trauma, the trauma!  \nI hope writing this story helped!', 'time': '06:10 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Ah, yes. I can go back out in public again. Just don't make me talk.🥸"", 'time': '12:36 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Ah, yes. I can go back out in public again. Just don't make me talk.🥸"", 'time': '12:36 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': ""Mary, quite a cute story. Poor Mary. The lisp after biting her tongue on her first skate boarding attempt. \nThe outfit wasn't bad enough but she drew the line at the Mickey Mouse futhy bedroom slippers. \nNicely done. \nThanks for the good read. LF6"", 'time': '22:30 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'All true.\n See comment to Chris Miller.\nThe mixed matched socks and inappropriate shoes was always a recurring nightmare for me.\nThis was about six decades ago!', 'time': '22:38 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'All true.\n See comment to Chris Miller.\nThe mixed matched socks and inappropriate shoes was always a recurring nightmare for me.\nThis was about six decades ago!', 'time': '22:38 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': ""Aaaarghh! I've had similar anxiety dreams! Great work on the bitten-tongue dialogue. Really fun and relatable story. Thanks for sharing, Mary."", 'time': '22:25 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Note the creative nonfiction. Yep, really happened. Luckily not all at exact same time as depicted. I did face plant off skateboard first time ever trying one and broke my glasses. Had huge purple and yellow nose. Talked with lisp and the only frames available were snot -green color for two weeks. We took a trip during that time I was looking so fine.\nI was chosen to emcee honors banquet same year but thankfully had healed.\nI really had three dresses like one described.', 'time': '22:34 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': 'Noted with anxious sympathy! I was so shy when I was younger one of my earliest memories is refusing to be Joseph in my nursery nativity play. If I was chosen to emcee anything I would have left the country.', 'time': '22:42 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""That wasn't an option. \nI actually found my cue card index cards when I cleaned out my mom's house two years ago. The speech must have been just as terrible as I looked. I threw those away for good."", 'time': '22:52 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Note the creative nonfiction. Yep, really happened. Luckily not all at exact same time as depicted. I did face plant off skateboard first time ever trying one and broke my glasses. Had huge purple and yellow nose. Talked with lisp and the only frames available were snot -green color for two weeks. We took a trip during that time I was looking so fine.\nI was chosen to emcee honors banquet same year but thankfully had healed.\nI really had three dresses like one described.', 'time': '22:34 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Noted with anxious sympathy! I was so shy when I was younger one of my earliest memories is refusing to be Joseph in my nursery nativity play. If I was chosen to emcee anything I would have left the country.', 'time': '22:42 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""That wasn't an option. \nI actually found my cue card index cards when I cleaned out my mom's house two years ago. The speech must have been just as terrible as I looked. I threw those away for good."", 'time': '22:52 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Noted with anxious sympathy! I was so shy when I was younger one of my earliest memories is refusing to be Joseph in my nursery nativity play. If I was chosen to emcee anything I would have left the country.', 'time': '22:42 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""That wasn't an option. \nI actually found my cue card index cards when I cleaned out my mom's house two years ago. The speech must have been just as terrible as I looked. I threw those away for good."", 'time': '22:52 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""That wasn't an option. \nI actually found my cue card index cards when I cleaned out my mom's house two years ago. The speech must have been just as terrible as I looked. I threw those away for good."", 'time': '22:52 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,de5057,Her Other Sock,Thom Brodkin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/de5057/,/short-story/de5057/,Character,0,['Romance'],34 likes,"
“There is nothing so lonely as an unmatched sock.”Thomas BrodkinWhen it comes to women, there is no one definition of beauty. Most would agree, however, if there were such a definition, it would not describe Lily.She stood just under six feet tall, had no figure to speak of, and her hair was almost the exact shade between blonde and brown, making it seem as if her hair had no defined color at all. To make matters worse, Lily’s voice had a smoker's raspiness, even though she hadn’t smoked a single cigarette in her entire life. However, as is the case with many plain women, Lily had developed quite the sense of humor. She had an endless repertoire of raucous jokes, quick-witted quips, and humorous stories that, due to Lily’s reserved nature, rarely found their way into polite conversation. Lily wanted nothing more than to dive into life, make scores of friends, attend endless events, and meet someone special. Yet, for reasons known only to her, she usually faded into the background, living vicariously through the lives of others.Each morning Lily woke up, showered, and dressed for the day, routine as clockwork. She would then take the elevator down to the first floor, heading to Joe’s Joe, the local coffee hot spot. Joe's wasn't trendy or hip or even especially modern. It sat on a corner and had large windows covering both street-facing sides of the building. The shop had original oak wood flooring throughout and ten tables strategically placed so as not to block the counter, the door, or the hallway to the bathroom. It was always impeccably clean and the fresh-brewed coffee was the best for miles.In a world where one can find a Starbucks inside of another Starbucks, Joe’s Joe was a miracle. The small shop held its own against the competition due to the sheer will of its owner, Joe Artino. To pay the exorbitant rent, Joe ran the shop as a one-man operation. He arrived at work long before the sun came up; most nights he would head home well after dark. For as long as anyone could remember, just like the post office, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night prevented Joe from opening the shop precisely at eight o’clock each morning. He closed just as precisely at eight o’clock each night. It wasn’t that Joe didn’t want to live life—he just didn’t have the time.Five days a week, sometimes six, Joe would ask Lily, “What can I get for you?” Five days a week, sometimes six, Lily would answer: “Large brewed, black.” Even Lily’s coffee order was plain. Month after month became year after year, and there was no change to either Joe’s or Lily’s lives. Until one day, a small change changed everything.The line for coffee was unusually long, and even though Joe was handling it with his usual expertise, the gentleman in front of Lily grew angrier by the second. When the irate customer finally reached the front of the line, he used some colorful expletives when ordering his coffee. Lily could practically see the smoke coming from Joe’s ears as he took the man’s order.Once Lily stepped to the front of the line, Joe asked, as he always had, “What can I get for you?” Only this time, Lily didn’t respond with her usual order.“I have a joke for you. Are you ready?” she replied.On almost any other day, Joe would have politely declined. He didn’t have time for jokes, but on this day, he did the unexpected.“Sure. Fire away.”“What’s the most dangerous number?” Lily said, a deadpanned look on her face.“I don’t know. What is the most dangerous number?” Joe responded, genuinely curious.“It’s seven,” she quipped. “Because seven eight nine.” It was a joke worthy of any fourth grader, yet both Joe and Lily broke out into spontaneous laughter. From that day forward, Lily had a willing audience for her daily jokes.Five, sometimes six days a week, she would share a new joke with Joe while he made her coffee, just as she liked. As the days, weeks, and months passed, Joe and Lily became more and more friendly towards one another. Even when the line was all the way out the front door, they would find time to share a story or an anecdote. And there was always a joke from Lily.Lily discovered Joe was three years older than she was, and Joe found out that Lily worked as a bookkeeper at the same firm that handled his business taxes. Joe regaled Lily with stories of growing up as the child of an immigrant in the middle of a big city, while Lily told Joe of her love of books and shared her expansive knowledge of old movies. The one thing Lily never shared with Joe was the simple fact she had never been on a date. When she was younger, she had dreams of finding a nice man with whom she could settle down and build a life, but no one ever asked. Even if they had, she probably would have declined. Lily’s guarded nature had protected her all these years—until Joe. This busy man with no time for anyone was suddenly finding time for Lily. The thought both thrilled and terrified her. On a cold day in January, the inevitable finally happened. Lily, bundled up in a parka, made her way to Joe’s and patiently awaited her turn in line. When she got to the front, Joe had her coffee ready as he always did. When Lily started to tell Joe her joke of the day, Joe, uncharacteristically, stopped Lily midsentence.“Lily,” he began sheepishly, “I am not a good looking man—I know this—but I care for you. Deeply.” Lily, shocked by the admission and feeling lightheaded, listened as best she could, but she only heard his every other word.“I haven’t been on a date since high school,” Joe continued, too nervous to notice Lily’s unease. “But I would love it if you would allow me to make you dinner.”For a moment, the two just stared at each other in silence.  “You mean like a date?” Lily inquired.“Yes, like a date. With me. And you. What do you say?”“Say yes,” came a quiet voice from behind Lily. She turned to see a very short, very old woman grinning up at her. “Don’t make this poor man wait to hear you say you’ll go out with him.”“Yes,” Lily responded, taking a sip of her coffee and walking away.Leaving the counter was probably an inappropriate thing to do after accepting a date, but Lily had never accepted anyone’s offer before and she was lost in her uncertainty.“Tomorrow night?” Joe called out to her, watching Lily’s back as she headed out the door.“Okay,” she responded, without turning around. She simply left the shop, heading into the cold.Lily didn’t go to work that day. If she could have called in panicked, she would have. Since there was no such thing, she called in sick instead. She retraced her steps back to her building, went up the elevator, down the corridor, and into her condo. She didn’t even get undressed before climbing back into bed.She, of course, did not sleep all that day or most of the night. She kept thinking about Joe and their date. I’ll call him and cancel, she thought to herself before realizing she didn’t have his number. I’ll just never get coffee again, she thought next. But that too was ridiculous. Then it occurred to her: she liked Joe. She liked him a lot. She wanted to date him. She wanted more than that—but it couldn’t work. It wouldn’t work. He couldn’t care for her, not if he really knew her. Nobody really knew her . . . but maybe Joe was different? Somewhere around four in the morning, she finally decided it was worth the chance. Only then was she finally able to fall asleep.The next day was just like every other day while not being like any day ever in her whole life. She got up, showered, dressed and headed out for coffee, and more importantly—to see Joe.When she arrived, she could see a relieved smile on Joe’s face. The events of the previous morning had left Joe confused and unsure, yet all his fears were put to rest when Lily got to the front of the line. She told him her worst joke ever.“Why was the Indian buried on Boot Hill?” she asked, cracking a knowing smile.“I don’t know, Lily. Why was the Indian buried on Boot Hill?” Joe responded, smiling back at her.“Because he was dead!” Lily said, as they both laughed as hard as they had since the first joke she had told him.“Where do you live? What time should I be there?” Lily asked, confirming their date.“Six,” Joe answered, writing the address on a piece of receipt paper.“Six?” Lily repeated.“Yes, six,” Joe responded, ignoring the audible gasps from the shocked patrons. ""Don't be late,"" he finished writing, flashing a sweet smile.""I won't,"" Lily said, also with a smile. ""See you then."" Lily arrived at Joe’s precisely at six. His house was just outside the city in a small subdivision. Lily knew from her talks with Joe that it had been his dream to live outside the city, but someplace close enough to work to be convenient.His house was not at all what Lily imagined. It was as if Norman Rockwell had used it as a model to paint one of his famous pictures for the Saturday Evening Post. It was white with light green shutters, its yard enclosed by a proverbial picket fence. Lily half-expected Joe’s wife to meet her at the door. A man who lived in a house like this should have a wife, she thought to herself as she made her way up the walk.Joe answered the door promptly after the first knock. He was wearing a red plaid apron that made Lily chuckle. He took Lily’s coat and hung it by the door, leading her into the living room, adjacent to the kitchen where something smelled heavenly.“Would you like a glass of wine?” Joe asked, heading back towards the kitchen.“Yes, please,” Lily responded, amazed at how at ease she felt with Joe. All the nervousness from the night before was gone.“We’re having lamb chops as our main course. And I made Hassleback potatoes with asparagus, too. I hope you’ll like it,” he finished, hoping for a positive response.“It sounds wonderful and smells delicious,” Lily said earnestly. “I can’t wait to taste everything.”Joe brought her the promised glass of wine, and they shared an easy conversation while Joe finished the last touches on their meal. When it was finally ready, they moved to the dining room where Joe, ever the gentleman, pulled out Lily’s chair.“You are the first woman other than my mother to ever be in this house,” Joe confessed in a way that made Lily feel very special. “I honestly was beginning to think mom would be the only woman ever to visit,” he continued. “I’m happy I was wrong, and I’m happy you’re the reason I was wrong.”Lily blushed. “I’m glad you asked me out. I wasn’t at first, but I am now. No matter what happens after this, I want you to know how happy I am right now.”The rest of the meal was a combination of eating Joe’s excellent meal and gossiping about customers and telling corny jokes as the evening quickly passed. After the meal was over, Joe had another surprise.For dessert, he brought out the biggest strawberries Lily had ever seen, covered in chocolate. She heard the pop of a champagne cork, as Joe skillfully filled two glasses. Although Lily didn’t have any personal frame of reference, it was proving to be the most romantic moment of her life.Lily had seen Pretty Woman as a child and dreamed of a day when she could eat strawberries and drink champagne with a handsome man. To Lily, Joe was the most handsome man she had ever seen. With each bite, however, she started to feel like Cinderella at the ball. They would eventually eat the last strawberry and finish their champagne. Then the evening would be over. Lily didn’t want the evening to be over, but she also dreaded what might come next.“Close your eyes,” Joe said in a way that put Lily at ease. Against her better judgment, she did as he asked.Lily felt a soft, single kiss from a man she was now sure she loved.As Joe pulled away from her, she opened her eyes and looked into his. No words were spoken, but in that moment, she believed he loved her, too. She had only planned on the one date with Joe, just to know how it felt. Now, everything was different.“Lily, I’m in love with you,” Joe said, taking her hand in his. “I probably have been in love with you ever since your first terrible joke. Seven eight nine.” They both laughed at the memory. “Is it possible you could love me, too? Please say it’s possible.”“Joe, I have to tell you something. Something almost no one knows.” Joe could tell by the look on Lily’s face she was gravely serious.“You can tell me anything, Lily,” Joe encouraged her. “Anything at all.”Lily had kept her secret for most of her life, expecting to keep it forever. Now she was going to take the ultimate chance and trust another human being.“Joe, my birth name isn’t Lily—it’s Lyle. I had it legally changed when I turned 18.” Lily could tell the news was jarring to Joe, but she found the courage to continue. “I was born a boy, but I always knew I was a girl.” Lily tried to read Joe’s expression as they both sat quietly, but he just stared stoically trying to comprehend what he was hearing.“I left home when I was 12 years old,” Lily continued. “My parents didn’t want me and I couldn’t live a lie.” There was no stopping Lily now. Her secret was out in the open and she was not finished, “So in answer to your question, yes. It’s more than possible. I already love you,” she said, hanging her head. “I guess the real question is can you love me, now that you know the truth?”The question hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. To Lily the silence spoke louder than words, until Lily felt Joe’s hand under her chin, lifting her head. Once again his lips pressed firmly against hers. There had been an answer in Joe's silence; it just wasn’t the answer she had mistakenly anticipated.As Joe pulled away, he looked at Lily and said, “You know what you get when you drop a piano down a mineshaft?”“What?” Lily asked, wiping her tears away. “What do you get when you drop a piano down a mineshaft?”“A flat minor.”Their shared laughter told them both everything they needed to know.
","July 11, 2023 17:27","[[{'Shea West': ""Hey Thom! \nLong time no read. Hope you don't mind me dropping some feedback for you. \n\nFave line: If she could have called in panicked, she would have. (If I had a dollar for every time I would like to do that for most things in my life, good gravy I'd have a lot of dollars.) Ten points for such a relatable feeling.\n\nWhat worked well: Usually repetition can be a thorn in a story's side if not careful, but I think the places in which you used the 3rd POV narration to repeat specific lines worked. It added to the romantic lightness of the enti..."", 'time': '00:02 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Thom Brodkin': ""Shea!!!!  Your feedback is always welcome, especially when it is so good.  This story is locked down so I can't incorporate your suggestions but if I could I would and they will help me going forward.  Sometimes writers have blind spots and that's why we need friends who are honest with us.  Thank you for being that kind of friend!!!"", 'time': '18:56 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Thom Brodkin': ""Shea!!!!  Your feedback is always welcome, especially when it is so good.  This story is locked down so I can't incorporate your suggestions but if I could I would and they will help me going forward.  Sometimes writers have blind spots and that's why we need friends who are honest with us.  Thank you for being that kind of friend!!!"", 'time': '18:56 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Tommy Goround': 'This is beautiful. From head to foot beautiful', 'time': '01:02 Aug 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Krystal Brown': 'Nice story :-)', 'time': '17:56 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Thom Brodkin': 'Thanks!!', 'time': '18:08 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Thom Brodkin': 'Thanks!!', 'time': '18:08 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'I loved this story Thom. Great characters and setting.\nHowever I always feel a bit uneasy when someone is described as plain because beauty is in the eye of the beholder and can come out in many different ways (which you admittedly demonstrated in the characterisation).\n\nThe story itself was a pleasure to read and continue reading. It was easy to visualise I and enjoyed the twist at the end. It would have been so awful if it had ended badly.\n\nI’m terrible with jokes (both telling and understanding them) so I appreciated their shared love of ...', 'time': '08:29 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'What a wonderful story, Thom! I’m so glad they paired up 😄', 'time': '14:55 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Thom, such a lovely story about two lonely people who see each other for who they are and love them despite what they see. Their love goes beyond the image of what love should be and is truly defined by what their love is. \n\nOne thing I wasn\'t sure of was in relation to the coffee shop. You referred to it as \nthe local coffee hot spot. - then referred to it as - ""Joe\'s wasn\'t trendy or hip or even especially modern."" - seem contradictory to me? ""The small shop held its own against the competition due to the sheer will of its owner, Joe Artin...', 'time': '00:32 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'A warm, human story. Good pacing and rich vocabulary. Overall, a great effort.\n\nI loved this quip: In a world where one can find a Starbucks inside of another Starbucks, Joe’s Joe was a miracle.', 'time': '23:27 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I think I love Joe too! What a happy ending. I could tell by her panic that something was not “normal” and I had my suspicions, which proved correct. I loved the way you described Lily in the first paragraph, what she wasn’t rather than what she was. “Most would agree, however, if there were such a definition, it would not describe Lily.” It implies that there was a deficit in her appearance but then you go on to list her inner qualities.  We come to understand that it’s what is inside that is of more importance and I am glad Joe took the ti...', 'time': '23:10 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Well, that was unexpected! Waiting for the other sock to drop.\n\nHey, Thom, hope you don't mind me blowing my own horn 🥳 but because you were the first one to ever critique one of my stories I thought I would share this with you.\nI am a finalist in Killer Nashville The Claymore Award for best western category with the first 50 pages in my unpublished novel. Trampled Dreams, TD 2 and Justice Screams in my profile here are part of the manuscript.\nThanks for your encouragement."", 'time': '18:36 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Thom,\nWhat a wonderful response to the prompt! I love a good love story, and the quote at the beginning was so sweet. Your slow burn of a romance, created a sense of hope in a world where you can find a dating app within a dating app. I loved the beautiful imagery you used to describe each moment. It felt like scenes from a rom com. While the confession felt a little out of the blue, I still felt like it was logical that Lily would choose that moment to express herself. However, I think I would’ve liked it a little bit more if we had a fe...', 'time': '18:23 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,2zlfd9,Obsolescence ,Ellen Neuborne,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2zlfd9/,/short-story/2zlfd9/,Character,0,"['American', 'Contemporary', 'Holiday']",31 likes,"
I moved the coffee pot back to its place three days in a row before Adam called me on it.“Erica, what is with the appliance musical chairs?”“That’s where the coffee pot belongs.”“That’s not an immutable truth.”Nothing was, apparently.I was cool when the kids nixed the mashed potatoes and green bean casserole for Thanksgiving dinner. I smiled and agreed to replace them with roasted cauliflower and shredded brussels sprouts. And thanked my lucky stars they hadn’t demanded we invite a live turkey and apologize to it for years of eating its ancestors.I said sure, that’s fine when they told me not to pick them up at the airport, they’d rather ride with a complete stranger summoned on their smart phones.I endured the eye rolls when I suggested we all watch a movie airing on television and stood still while they told me about streaming. Yes, I had heard of it. Yes, I knew how to use it. Sure, watching what you want when you want is a nice thing.I busied myself in the kitchen while Adam and kids installed Penny, the next generation smart home software that apparently everyone but us already had.“It’s voice driven, like Alexa. It learns like ChatGPT. It suggests, like Amazon,” Jack explained to his father, as they sat on the couch and bent over Adam’s laptop. “Best of all, it draws data from its environment and functionally anticipates.”“We have it at home,” added Sophie and I hid my wince that she used that word to describe her sorority house. “It’s a game changer. Makes life so much easier. Honestly, I don’t know what we did before.”“You lived at home,” I quipped.“What?” Sophie said.“Never mind,” I said.“Sarcasm is a form of humor often deployed to convey negative feelings without concretely addressing the issue,” came a contralto woman’s voice from Adam’s laptop speakers.“Thank you, Penny,” said Jack, with emphasis. He turned to his father. “It’s important to provide positive feedback when she gets something right. That’s how she learns.”“Great!” said Adam.Yeah, just great, I thought.The coffee pot had become my line in the shifting sands. It wasn’t a pot, per se. It was a gleaming silver machine with a timer that allowed me to put my beans and water in the night before and have a hot cup waiting for me when I got up at 6 to feed the cat. Top rated by Consumer Reports five years ago when Adam bought for me as a birthday present. I loved it. I loved that he knew how much I appreciated having hot, freshly made mug of coffee waiting for me as I emerged to face my day. I loved the shine of the chrome, that loopy logo that looked like a smiley face on its side, the fact that it got to work in the morning without needing a reminder. It deserved its prime location on the kitchen counter.So, when Sophie pushed it one spot to the left to plug in the electric tea kettle she’d bought online, and had shipped to the house to meet her, I swapped them back.When Jack bought a 12-pack of canned cold brew coffee and pushed it now two spots to the left, I again returned my appliance to the first position.Adam and Sophie bought the espresso machine that ran on eco-friendly fair trade coffee pods while I was at yoga. By the time I got home, it was unpacked and installed and Adam met me at the door with cup of elegantly swirled foam milk atop a piping hot liquid.“I don’t do caffein after 3,” I reminded him.“Just try it,” he encouraged.I sipped. It was sharp, borderline bitter. “Mmm,” I hummed. I was going for non-committal. But Adam heard agreement.“Penny, set a monthly delivery of Awake coffee pods,” Adam announced.“Monthly deliver scheduled,” came the smooth female voice, now emanating from the television speakers.“Thank you, Penny,” said Adam, as he turned away from me and headed back into the living room.I stood there with my cup of cooling bitter brew and tried to remember the last time anyone in the house had told me thank you. It wasn’t recent. I took a slug of the coffee and headed to my room to change clothes.The next day, as I prepped the Thanksgiving dinner I’d serve to 12 friends and family, Adam and the kids talked to Penny. All day long, I heard it from every speaker in the house.“Penny, amass a list of paid summer internships for a pre-law major,” Jack called out.“Penny, how can I meet Taylor Swift fans near me,” asked Sophie.Applications. Social plans. I used to help with them that.“Penny, where are my car keys?”I spun around to look at Adam. “Your car keys are in the den,” Penny answered.Finding Adam’s car keys was my superpower. Adam marveled at my abilities. “Nothing’s truly lost until Erica can’t find it,” he’d say. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard; it just meant going into the rooms he frequented and looking around calmly – rather than storming through the house tossing pillows and newspapers and ranting about key theft conspiracies. And yet he’d always relied on me to do it.“Thank you, Penny,” said Adam.“You’re very welcome, Adam,” Penny replied.Penny was starting to get on my nerves.“She sounds smug,” I said.“It’s software, Mom.” Sophie slid by me in the kitchen to take a box of Oreos out of the pantry. “It doesn’t have emotions.”Maybe. But it should. It should have an emotion and that emotion should be fear. It should be afraid. Because right now, everyone valued Penny. Everyone loved Penny. Everyone wanted Penny. But one day, something new and cool and sexy will come along and Penny will be replaced.Fears are funny things. What are you afraid of? Lightning? Terrorists? Sharks? You’re wasting your energy. Those things are dangerous, sure, but they probably won’t get you. Obsolescence, on the other hand, is coming for you. It’s a sure thing. One day when you’re out obsessing about shark attacks, it’ll pounce. When you least expect it. Ask the coffee maker.Lying in bed that night, I decided to go on offense.“Lights off!” I announced.Nothing.“Penny, lights off!”Still nothing.Adam came in from brushing his teeth and got into bed beside me.“Penny, lights off,” he said.“Lights off,” Penny affirmed, plunging the bedroom into darkness.“Thank you, Penny,” said Adam as he turned onto his side and cradled his pillow.“You’re welcome, Adam. Good night, Adam,” Penny responded.I sat in bed, not moving. If I made my way out into the kitchen, would I see my coffee maker, shoved all the way down the counter to the precipice by the trash bin? Or was it already in the garage super can, goofy smiley face logo turned upside down, wedged between empty Diet Coke bottles and unread newspapers, awaiting Monday’s scheduled pickup. Or was it Tuesday? Penny would know.“You have to train it to your voice,” said Jack the next day as he helped me set the dining room table for the soon-arriving Thanksgiving guests. “It has to learn you.”“That’s ridiculous. It’s a machine. It should do whatever it does. Does the toaster need to learn me?”“No point getting into a power struggle with it,” answered Jack.I regarded my youngest, the one who was always the tougher customer. While Sophie was a pleaser – eager to make friends, get good grades, be well-liked – Jack was a disrupter. A challenger of the rules, a ball of energy and imagination and norm busting. “Don’t get into a power struggle with him” was advice I’d heard from more than one pre-school teacher. I looked at Jack now, tall, skinny as a twig, but moving with fluidity and ease. He’d gone off to college a coltish boy and had come home just these few months later, a confident young man. It’s as if all that energy had channeled into a positive place. It stopped disrupting him and started working for him. He’d flipped the script.Jack finished his assigned task of putting out silverware. He moved into the living room where he and his sister bent over their smart phones, peering into the glass to see what new music Penny had found for them.And I formed an idea.The Thanksgiving table was full of food and family and familiarity. Platters passed around in a circle. Dinner rolls were tossed over fern centerpiece. Old stories were told to resounding laughter and appreciation. Seats were jammed too close together. There was more room in the old days, back when the kids were little. but no matter. Even the absence of mashed potatoes and green bean casserole didn’t raise a ripple. I tried the crispy wisps of roasted brussels sprouts. I had to admit, they weren’t bad.“Let’s have some music,” Adam suggested. “Penny, play Uncle John’s Band.”As Adam’s Grateful Dead favorite piped in through the newly-installed dining room speakers, family and friends ooohed and aaaahed over the technology.“So cool.”“The latest thing. I read about it in The New Yorker.”“My office installed it. Saves a lot of time looking up customer files.”As the last strains of faded, I made my move.“Thank you, Penny,” I said. “Well done.”This time, Adam called out: Look Out Cleveland. As the strains of The Band’s hit song filled the room, the older generation sang and the younger cousins debated whether or not it was still okay to play The Band’s other hit – the one about the Confederate soldier.The song ended. I didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Penny. Good job.”And when the whole table joined in the Crosby, Stills & Nash medley, I began to quietly clear the table. Not because I needed to move the dishes; I wanted to be alone in the kitchen at each song’s end, so I could thank Penny. And out of earshot of the Thanksgiving revelers, I reached back into the memory of Jack’s pre-school days to really lay it on.“Penny, I love how you played that song.”“Penny, you are doing such a great job following directions.”“I’m proud of you, Penny.”Friday morning, while the family was still sleeping off the food coma, I circled the house giving Penny tasks: Dim lights, change temperature, find my phone. Then I got personal.“Penny, where is Sophie?”“Sophie is in Bedroom 2.”“Thank you Penny, good work. Please text me when Sophie leaves Bedroom 2.”It was almost noon when my phone shimmied: Sophie has left Bedroom 2.I sprinted to the kitchen, flipped on the electric kettle, and when my daughter shuffled into the kitchen, presented her with a hot cup of green tea.Sophie took the mug in both hands. “Thanks, Mom.”Adam came in from the bedroom, zipping up his favorite blue hoodie. “Are you cold, babe?” He shrugged.I called out: “Penny, raise the living room temperature by two degrees.”“Raising the living room temperatures by two degrees,” Penny mirrored.“Good job, Penny.”“Thank you, Erica.”“Ditto,” said Adam, leaning in to kiss my cheek.Throughout the day, I stayed in what the kids like to call Hype Mom mode. “Penny, I love how well you dimmed the lights.”“Penny, this is a great Thanksgiving leftovers recipe you’ve suggested. Good job.”“Penny, you are the best at finding the football games on TV. Bravo.”If no one in the house noticed, Penny certainly did.“You’re welcome, Erica.”“I’m glad to help, Erica.”“Of course, Erica.”That night alone in the den, watching a rerun of Star Trek: The Next Generation, I went for it.“Penny,” I said quietly, “Starting now, communicate with me using text, not voice.”My phone vibrated: Ok, Erica. I will communicate with you using text.I index finger-tapped out the next command.Access settings.It was a few seconds before Penny replied: Please provide password.I closed my eyes to channel my husband: His hoodie. His collection of concert tees. His leadership of the Thanksgiving singalong.I typed in: Woodstock. And held my breath.A half second later, I was in.While Captain Picard explored the galaxy, I reconfigured Penny in my image. In addition to changing passwords and settings, I instructed the software to funnel all information regarding lost items – sought by anyone in the house – to me, first. I added a lag instruction that slowed the flow of answers to any other family members. And I deleted my text history.By noon, Saturday, the change was apparent. Penny was taking requests and delivering information – but a half step after I received the info via text. This allowed me to beat Penny to the punch.“Is there enough turkey left for sandwiches?”“Is my Yeti tumbler in the dishwasher?”“What channel is the Michigan game on?”I knew the answer, first, every time.And every time, I quietly, subtly, sent Penny a thank you text.Penny began to responding with friendship emojis.To be sure, Penny’s lag time was not going unnoticed. Even as I gave them what they needed, they wondered why the technology seemed so clunky.“It was great just the other day!” Adam protested.I shrugged. “What do I know about these things?”The mood in the house shifted. Sophie sat on hold with her airline, rather than using Penny to update her flight reservation. Jack and Adam poked at their phones and laptops, trying to diagnose the problem.I felt a stab of panic. Turning my back to my family, I opened up a text window: Penny, cover my tracks.Then another: That means: Take action so that my family can’t see how I’ve altered their user experience.I will obscure your recent activities so that they will not be easily discovered, Penny responded. And thank you, Erica, for teaching me the meaning of that expression.I started. Something about that expression of gratitude felt genuine.I was breaking down the turkey carcass to turn it into homemade soup when Penny texted:Adam and Jack are close to restoring their access.I responded quickly: What can I do to frustrate my family’s digital media use?Options came back in a flash:1.    Cut off the WiFi2.    Cause a fire at the neighborhood substation to disrupt the server3.    Open tabs on all their devices to slow performanceI took a deep breath. No. 3, please.Okay, Erica.And delete that one about setting a fire. I’m not trying to get arrested.Yes, Erica.Thank you, Penny.You’re welcome, Erica. Oh, and Erica? Yes, Penny.May I also suggest raising and dimming the brightness display on all screens? It will not slow any hardware or software performance, but human eyes find it distracting.I smiled. Make is so, Penny.By Saturday night, the family was so tired of trying to get technology to work, they swore off screens for the evening. My suggestion of a game of Monopoly and was met with enthusiastic response. As the family gathered around the table in the den I called out: “Penny, play Woodstock playlist.”No one seemed to notice the speed at which Penny delivered the curated music.“Thank you Penny. You’re so efficient.”“You’re welcome, Erica. Happy to help.”No one picked up that either.Sunday dawned and I leaned against the far-left corner of my kitchen counter, sipping my mug of non-espresso, non-cold brew, non-awakened coffee. Holding my beverage in my left hand, I toggled my phone with my right thumb. Penny, restore all settings to Adam’s original.Okay, EricaAdam and the kids were in the foyer, organizing the carry-ons and bags of leftovers in preparation for the trip to the airport. I joined them.“Penny,” I said as I approached, “send my spreadsheet of internship deadlines to Jack.” I hugged my son. “Ask for recommendations before finals week,” I told him. “Call me if you need me.”“Okay, Mom.”I turned to Sophie, who held her phone aloft.“You shared a playlist with me.” Was that awe in her voice?“I’m exploring new music.” I tried to sound casual.“I didn’t know you knew about playlists.”“Penny showed me.”Penny also created a cheat sheet that allowed me to listen to a brief clip of each song and read three sentences of criticism that would allow me to discuss them ably. That clutch move earned her four heart emojis.Adam pulled his baseball cap on. “Okay kids, ready to go?” He patted his pants pockets. “Where are my keys?” Then he called out: “Penny, where are my keys?”“Erica placed them in your jacket pocket.”“Thanks, babe.” Adam leaned in for a kiss. A real one. I raised my hand and grazed his temple with my fingers. An old signal of ours. He raised his eyebrows a bit and gave me a tiny nod as he straightened up. My afternoon was shaping up nicely.I watched my family spill out the door, into the driveway and pile into the car. “Bye, Mom! See you at Christmas!”I stood in the silence that fell around me as they drove off. Then I took a deep breath.“Penny, pick a movie that will make me happy.”“How about Wonder Woman?”“Perfect. Thank you, Penny. You are great at your job.”“You’re welcome, Erica. You are great at your job, too.”“You and me, sister. We’re facing down this obsolescence thing together.”“Yes, Erica. Yes, we are.” –End–
","July 14, 2023 18:46","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Ellen!\nOh my gosh! This was a great story. My favorite line was when our protagonist wondered when she last received a thank you. Oh my gosh! I completely felt that for her. I loved the man versus tech and I thought you did a great job of expressing to us why this power struggle was so important and how man, at least for now, remains more clever than the machines.', 'time': '05:32 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Heh :) Amusing and terrifying both. But a miserable situation is turned on its head when the protagonist realizes, obsolescence is something she shares with the machine. And then by doing something about it - learning new skills and reinventing herself - she discovers that perhaps obsolescence is a choice. \n\nAn enjoyable story - congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '20:54 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'I like the structure of the piece a lot. It has the fragmented feeling of the struggle itself. Well done.', 'time': '17:08 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks. Writing in snippets and remaining coherent is always a challenge! Thanks for reading.', 'time': '19:20 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks. Writing in snippets and remaining coherent is always a challenge! Thanks for reading.', 'time': '19:20 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Christina Higham': ""This is brilliant. So funny and kept my interest. Would you mind if I shared it with my mother? She is struggling with this exact thing and I think she'd really enjoy it."", 'time': '15:01 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Of course. Let me know what she thinks!', 'time': '19:15 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Of course. Let me know what she thinks!', 'time': '19:15 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine, fine work here. It holds interest to the end. Congrats.', 'time': '12:25 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:15 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:15 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'This story feels highly relevant. I like the direction you took it in—how Erica learns to use the tech to her benefit, how she learns to coexist with it.\nThis was a powerful turning point in the story: “I stood there with my cup of cooling bitter brew and tried to remember the last time anyone in the house had told me thank you.” It did a good job seeing the time and guiding the rest of the plot. Great story—well done :)', 'time': '09:34 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'When I read the news about AI, I think perhaps coexistence will be our best outcome ;) Thanks for reading.', 'time': '02:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'When I read the news about AI, I think perhaps coexistence will be our best outcome ;) Thanks for reading.', 'time': '02:13 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shea West': 'This read with the perfect amount of cheekiness, that as a mother I found myself relating to it so easily.\n\nMy kids were playing the original Nintendo this weekend and complained about the rectangular controllers and I just had to laugh. I really wanted Penny to tell Erica\'s family, ""Your mother/wife walked so you could run!"" \n\nI appreciated how Erica easily outsmarted her family and didn\'t try to outsmart the machine. Classic case of a mom using what she has in front of her. \n\nI can see why this story is on the rec list.', 'time': '00:24 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""Rectangular Nintendo controllers! The horror! That's a funny story. I appreciate the feedback from another mama writer."", 'time': '19:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""Rectangular Nintendo controllers! The horror! That's a funny story. I appreciate the feedback from another mama writer."", 'time': '19:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Janet Boyer': 'An unexpected turn of events! Well done. 🙂', 'time': '00:05 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'This was so interesting, a warning about what technology can do to a family. You did a great job of showing how technology was taking more of Erica\'s roles, and then how Erica reclaimed them. This felt especially relevant: ""But one day, something new and cool and sexy will come along and Penny will be replaced.""\n\nAt first I thought Penny would eventually replace Erica, but I\'m glad this story ended happily, with the family finding their dynamic again.', 'time': '15:22 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:32 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Sophia Gardenia': 'Hey congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '02:49 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:32 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Hey congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '02:49 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Hey congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '02:49 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Excellent story! I was so sad at her frustration in the beginning— it’s so real how family dynamics change and people start neglecting things they genuinely enjoyed and take real blessings for granted. But then the turn to how she adapted and ended up learning the things that she wouldn’t at first. I ended the story smiling. Nice work!', 'time': '08:46 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Yes, she adapted and overcame. Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:33 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Angela Ginsburg': 'So glad this was shortlisted! Congratulations', 'time': '19:52 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Yes, she adapted and overcame. Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:33 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'So glad this was shortlisted! Congratulations', 'time': '19:52 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'So glad this was shortlisted! Congratulations', 'time': '19:52 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""This story made me smile so much, it's so smart, so many little mentions that are recalled, reflected emotions. So well constructed and three dimensional, full of heart.\n\nMy little Star Trek loving heart grinned when Erica told penny to make it so.\n\nJust great all round. If you're not shortlisted it's cause you've won! 😉"", 'time': '18:48 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'I love all things Start Trek. But especially Picard ;) Thanks for reading!', 'time': '22:43 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'I love all things Start Trek. But especially Picard ;) Thanks for reading!', 'time': '22:43 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Luca King Greek': 'Loved it!', 'time': '21:48 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '00:27 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '00:27 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Best them at their own game. Supermom!\n\nThanks for liking my fearful public speaking.\nKnew this was a great read. Congrats on the short list', 'time': '05:11 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading.', 'time': '20:00 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks for reading.', 'time': '20:00 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Archenemies turned partners. Way to go momma! Outwitting the newfangled thing to her own advantage. Love it!', 'time': '02:43 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks! I had fun with it. Although I may be overly optimistic about our abilities to outwit the newfangled things these days.', 'time': '20:01 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': ""They are becoming much craftier, aren't they? Thank goodness for the younger generation to help keep us sharp."", 'time': '20:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'Thanks! I had fun with it. Although I may be overly optimistic about our abilities to outwit the newfangled things these days.', 'time': '20:01 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': ""They are becoming much craftier, aren't they? Thank goodness for the younger generation to help keep us sharp."", 'time': '20:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': ""They are becoming much craftier, aren't they? Thank goodness for the younger generation to help keep us sharp."", 'time': '20:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,zab98g,Rehab,Daniel Fernandes,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zab98g/,/short-story/zab98g/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational', 'Sad']",30 likes,"
""Hello my name is Mike not a host just a friend. We are here to help and assist it all depends. We don't judge or make fun of others. No need to anyways because we all know what it's like to suffer.
 
Thank you all for joining to get cleaner than a bar of soap. I know the process is difficult I was once addicted to Coke. We learn from our mistakes and bounce the pain back with hope. Make a new path in life since we all fell down a brutal slope.
 
So for those who don't know, we will go around the room. There isn't much of us here on a Friday afternoon. You speak if you're comfortable because who am I to assume? Who would like to share since it's never easy to divulge our wounds?""
 
""Hello everyone, I'm Peter, and I am addicted to cocaine. I buy chickens in order to be entertained. I can't let go now that I know were to obtain. I sold all I had in order to maintain. I ran out of excuses for my actions I can no longer explain. I would not have gone that road if I wasn't boxed in by pain. I can sit here and make promises but deep down, I just need a friend because once I go home, it will all happen again.""
 
""Hello, I am Linda, and addicted to sex. I won't explain my reasons because that's a bit complex. I don't go around and fuck whoever I see next. It's a twisted game that lies on the borderline of respect. At bars, clubs, and work, there is always someone down to connect. Usually, it's every day I missed today, so we can call that progress.""
 
""Hey everyone, I'm John, and I am addicted to porn. I found out early on since I was curious about how humans were born. Never had a lover which may explain why I feel forlorn. The addiction is real if only I was warned.
 
It's crazy, though, because once I am finished I'm embarrassed. Bust a load and I hate myself because of it. Fell into a trance from a woman's body that it's hard to resist. The urge to yank I haven't been the same since. I wish one day that I could be in a relationship, but afraid it'll be a conflict. I have to masturbate, and it's sad because I understand the risk.""
 
""Thank you, John, for spilling your heart to us, and I hope you can leave here today feeling free and loved.""
 
""Hello, I'm Stefany, and I'm an alcoholic. It's my first time I did not want to speak to be honest. Just here to listen and reflect on my choices. I did the wrong thing and refused to pay for it. Yeah that's it. That's enough for me.""
 
""Thank you for sharing Stefany.""
 
""Hello everyone my name is Tony, and I'm a gambler. I lost my financial grip and was penetrated by Uncle Sam's antlers. I drifted from peace and started looking for answers. My job paid okay, but I had bills and a wife I didn't want to dismay her.
 
Time kicked my ass, and casinos I discovered. Lottery tickets, slot machines, poker, I threw myself into the gutter. I always pushed another play until I had no money to transfer. I started to realize this after my wife was diagnosed with cancer. I knew I had to win since my occupation can't save her, Once she passed away my life was consumed by anger.
 
I lost my way and knew the odds were against me. Yet I kept going nervous because a single victory is all I need. I tried to quit and stop myself. Now I am here desperately looking for help.""
 
""Thank you Tony for making the first step and joining a group where our dreams were swept. We will overcome it, and together we will change. Addiction is muscle memory, but the one in charge is our brains.""
 
""Hello, I am Wendy and addicted to drugs. You can't ever face the truth because that's what addiction does. Hide you from yourself as your zoned out. Blasted or wasted lazy on the couch. I did avoid heroine, but that was because of someone I knew. My best friend overdosed, so I made a promise to never use.
 
I fell back and used everything else. Like the rest of us lost and afraid I'm just looking for help. One day at a time until I relapse. Once you take a hit or sniff, it's practically a contract. Your mind will drift, and you need another hit, or else you'll collapse. I've seen my mother cry after I told her it'll be my last.""
 
""I felt that Wendy it's tough, I'm Jack and addicted to Nicotine. Fucking cigarettes. I can't get through the day without three packs of these. Take a sneeze due to pollen from trees. I begged God, please, but he doesn't seem to be listening to me. I fit smoke breaks within any schedule. I can't run out because I'll be anxious and cold. I lost weight due to nicotine withdrawal. I almost killed myself with my back against the wall.""
 
""I'm Bob, an alcoholic as well. I can't stop because liquor stores are always stocking up their shelves. Well, I'm a regular, so this is like a family reunion for me. I did put in the effort to be here, so that has to be worth something.
 
So Mike, what's wrong with me? I can't be changed but of course, you disagree. The buzz helps ease the agony from within. I lost my house, car, and wife. I don't know where to begin. She's not dead, but we did have a divorce. Practically the same thing since I'm choking on remorse.""
 
""Bob, it's okay. Speak as you wish, I understand . I have been there before broken, hopeless and jammed. With time you will thank yourself. Just stay strong and continue to stop by it'll improve your health. I went through a divorce after a 15-year marriage. I have kids, too, so it's not something I can easily manage. Take this as a lesson to turn over a new leaf. When things move in a better direction, you'll have a breath of relief.""
 
""Hello everyone, I am Nick, and I am addicted to Benzos. Pill addiction is sadly common and definitely no joke. Xanax to be specific. Depressant my ass it's more like a gimmick. Tell them your anxious so they can get you addicted as they make profit while we become emotionally paralytic.
 
I can no longer work the same. My energy died like Burger King's Smartphone campaign. I can't sleep and when I do I wake up in my vomit. I get numb and barely want to exist. I lose my appetite and my libido vanishes. I just crave Xanax more as the company takes advantage.
 
I lie to my girlfriend about where I am. Looking for doctors to fill up my hand. I can't live like this off 10mg a day. l just hope I can survive and that it's not too late.""
 
""Sorry Nick and I hope your addiction fades. For all of you actually I wish for the best as success invades. First time I had over a third of you guys to speak. It's important to want to change our techniques. We are here for each other during the events that make us weak. Wonderful people let's proceed same time and place next week.
 
Is there anyone who would like to share before we wrap this up? I am proud of you all for choosing to change the present and to construct.""
 
""Yeah, I would like to share before my emotions are scrambled. I am addicted to poetry and my name is Daniel. I know it sounds dumb, but my inner demons are flying off the handle. So let me speak before my sanity is strangled.
 
I am ambitious and addicted to poetry. Whatever I see and or hear it's being written down immediately. I crawl into emotions that's more confusing than geometry. Always thinking of lines that bring quality. Sadness is holding me hostage like a robbery. Obsessed with being on top of the world but am I worthy?
 
I jump into different prospective because I am sick of my own. Done with the drama and depression, but everyone has those. I drift away from time with family to write some notes. Spend 6 hours alone till 3 am on the phone. Thinking and thinking of what to write down. Read it over out loud to hear how it sounds. Bump my head to the rhythm as agony bounce. Change a word or two around because I don't know how to pronounce.
 
I write to run away, but my problems get much worse. Some poems are so painful I don't even want to rehearse. I try to switch it up and make one that can go in reverse and yet all I have in mind is memories that hurt.
 
I can write a book about my issues but I did that already. Spoke about love, dread, suicide, and trauma I can no longer carry. I can't stop either because misery gets heavy. So I use paper and have my notions become confetti.
 
Poetry is an addiction and I became a machine. I write until I can't because my mental health is concerning. Poetry tends to heal wounds, so I think that it's working. I don't know anymore but deep down my heart is observing.""
","July 14, 2023 13:17","[[{'Vid Weeks': ""Great job, ambitious to make a meaningful story rhyme, I loved 'My energy died like Burger King's Smartphone campaign.'"", 'time': '11:26 Aug 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. It's tough to make a story rhyme but I like the challenge. That's one of my favorite lines as well. I have many people comment on that Burger King reference. Thanks once again for liking my story. Rehab is one of my personal favorite stories I've written. Much love Write on!"", 'time': '20:41 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. It's tough to make a story rhyme but I like the challenge. That's one of my favorite lines as well. I have many people comment on that Burger King reference. Thanks once again for liking my story. Rehab is one of my personal favorite stories I've written. Much love Write on!"", 'time': '20:41 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Frank Lester': ""Wow! The poetry of life (or addiction?). I found your story, especially how you formatted it, quite interesting. If this is a personal journey of conflict and struggle, I'd say you picked the right medium, writing, poetry, to carry you through. Thanks for sharing it. Good luck and keep writing. Stay well."", 'time': '16:31 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. Great question could be both. The being addicted to poetry is written about me personally. The others in the story was random people I came up with. Thanks for the motivation to keep writing.', 'time': '20:46 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. Great question could be both. The being addicted to poetry is written about me personally. The others in the story was random people I came up with. Thanks for the motivation to keep writing.', 'time': '20:46 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Barbra Golub': 'Wow. What a unique essay. Loved all the different voices and how it all ties together at the end. My favorite line is ""My energy died like Burger King\'s Smartphone campaign."" Just great.', 'time': '18:21 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. One of my favorite lines as well I'm glad you caught it."", 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. One of my favorite lines as well I'm glad you caught it."", 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'I gained from reading all these points of view and experiences. I like the support the people gain from listening to one another. I particularly liked the addiction to poetry and words because it means a lot, something I can connect with. Well done Daniel.', 'time': '20:02 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I am happy that you enjoyed the read. I tried to keep it as organic as possible. I wanted to add myself as a twist to show how anything can be an addition not just the well known drugs and alcohol usage. Thanks for coming back to read once again.', 'time': '20:42 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I am happy that you enjoyed the read. I tried to keep it as organic as possible. I wanted to add myself as a twist to show how anything can be an addition not just the well known drugs and alcohol usage. Thanks for coming back to read once again.', 'time': '20:42 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Such unique voice to your writing Daniel, and what a subject to tackle. Very well done.', 'time': '07:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I appreciate your kind words. This one took a while to write and I was nervous because it being a topic most don't feel the need to speak about."", 'time': '20:39 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I appreciate your kind words. This one took a while to write and I was nervous because it being a topic most don't feel the need to speak about."", 'time': '20:39 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Daniel, the different perspectives and how you took the approach was amazing. I enjoyed the end albeit sad. \n\nAddictions are sad and despite others feeling love towards the addicted person - it is so difficult to understand why - why the are addicted in the first place but then - why they cannot stop?\n\nNicely done. LF6', 'time': '16:48 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I am pleased with the story even though it took all week at the time to make. \n\nAddictions are unfortunate and it hurts to know many people go through some things mentioned in the story. Happy that you enjoyed my work once more.', 'time': '20:57 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I am pleased with the story even though it took all week at the time to make. \n\nAddictions are unfortunate and it hurts to know many people go through some things mentioned in the story. Happy that you enjoyed my work once more.', 'time': '20:57 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Syed Mohammad Zahid': ""I begged God, please, but he doesn't seem to be listening to me۔\n\nInitially I felt about the poitic touch۔ in the end the model was clear۔ \naddiction and addicted to poems۔ oh its dangerous۔\nand problems become worse۔"", 'time': '14:07 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. The fact that he implored God to quit is saying something. Addiction is never easy to manage and sometimes the victim wants to change but just can't. I am glad that you enjoyed my work. Poetry addiction is no joke. There is always a bad side to anything that's good. Nevertheless, thanks for sharing your thoughts."", 'time': '21:02 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': ""Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. The fact that he implored God to quit is saying something. Addiction is never easy to manage and sometimes the victim wants to change but just can't. I am glad that you enjoyed my work. Poetry addiction is no joke. There is always a bad side to anything that's good. Nevertheless, thanks for sharing your thoughts."", 'time': '21:02 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'How are you today, Daniel? Your poetry still makes amazing stories. Tough subject you tackled.\n\nThanks for reading and liking my tacos.\nThanks for liking my public speaking fiasco.', 'time': '13:58 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I am okay just in the turmoil of life. I am glad that you are enjoying my stories. Keep writing your stories are great as well. Much love write on.', 'time': '20:50 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Fernandes': 'Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I am okay just in the turmoil of life. I am glad that you are enjoying my stories. Keep writing your stories are great as well. Much love write on.', 'time': '20:50 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,2irklv,The dangers of smoking,Kevin Logue,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2irklv/,/short-story/2irklv/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Funny', 'Sad']",29 likes,"
This is a true story.Ever been scared of the weather? Yeah, sounds stupid doesn't it? And I'm not talking about crashing thunder that rumbles mountains, or hurricane winds that take you to Oz. No, I'm talking about the start of summer, blue sky dotted with delightful fluffy clouds and a gentle breeze on your face type weather. What some might even call perfect. Well between the ages of thirteen and fifteen it scared the daylights right out of me.Probably best to start in the middle right?There I was ready for a night out at the local bowling alley, hair slick with wet look gel, half can of lynx Africa clinging to me like some nasal tickling poltergeist and a skip in my step that said 'I'm going to meet a girl tonight.' Then again at thirteen that was pretty much always my thoughts, or hopes, or wishes. In reality, I was a better daydreamer than player.Regardless, being of a moderate ranking of self appointed coolness I could never show up somewhere on my own, so began my trek to 'the friends' house. It happened to be twice the distance from my house to the bowling alley, but that's how we rolled. Or rather climbed, it was all uphill. The problem in undertaking such a journey was that my need for nicotine would rob me of my girl impressing smokes sooner than expected. Chain smoker you see, it was the nineties and along with the green neon shirt I was sporting, still cool.My friend's street had a corner shop where the owner didn't care what age you were. That man would have sold his grandmother if it could have gotten him a profit. Or just to get rid of her. So as I rounded the corner on that crisp day full of possibilities and teenage hormones I paid little attention to the gang gathered outside the shop. Tribe or clan might be better cause when I came back out of the shop, satisfactorily pulling that little strip of plastic that frees the poison sticks, someone shouted at me in a high pitched nasal battle cry.""What ye looking at, big lad?""Now before I go any further, you need some extra info;Firstly: At twelve years old I had a growth spurt that felt like demons had me on the rack and stretched my body from four foot five to a whopping six foot three, in a single summer. I spent it mostly in bed, in agony. But the shock of my classmates at the start of next year almost made it worth it. However, I was always skinny and now, well I looked like a sheet had gotten free from someone's clothes line and wrapped itself around a lamppost. So as you can imagine, not threatening.Secondly: In Northern Ireland when someone calls you, ""big lad"" but makes it one quick word, that is a friendly greeting. However when someone spits it with the b making a hard ""Buh"", drags out the middle and lands a hard ""D"" so sharp it's almost a ""T"", well…you're in for a spot of bother. I'm sure you can guess how our antagonist delivered this.And finally: What are you looking at, never has any relevance to the direction of ocular scrutiny you are applying to any particular object, place or person. But rather is an Irish way of saying, I have selected you as an appropriate opponent for a duel upon which the result shall elevate my status of macho-ness to incomprehensible levels as you are of significant millimeters taller than I.""Nothing short arse, so why don't you do one."" This was, without doubt, the wrong response, and something I realised shortly between the words passing my lips and his fist cracking my jaw.I stumbled backwards, wobbled sideways and found myself crashing into a pebble dashed wall. The clan of tracksuited, gold chain wearing, coin ring welding, barbarians circled about. A human ring of sorts with extra whooping and hollering in a tolkienesque orcish quality. They had me penned in, a sheep amongst the wolves, and mutton was back on the menu. But I wasn't going anywhere. Nor was I fit to fight. My vision was already blurry, heaving breaths burnt my throat, everything spun into a stomach churning smear. The little chieftain wailed all his fury into my ribs and sides, and kidneys. Gravel filled my mouth as I bit the dirt and everything phased out of meaning.When I came to it was like looking through a waterfall, nothing made sense. My eye felt swollen shut, my teeth had a squishy jelly quality, and something was stabbing out from below my nose. It was a metal wire. The thug had kicked me in the face when I was on the ground so hard he snapped my train track braces and the resulting spring of the wire ripped through my lip and out my nose. I lay there gently dabbing my face, acutely aware of the rabble around me. I tried to stretch my eyes open but all I could see was the searing white sun interrupted ever so often with elongated, almost alien-like, shadows. Something pulled me under the arms, suddenly upright the brick houses whizzed by and the shouts of strangers crowd my muffled mind.It was explained to me later, that some of the “older boys” had come to my rescue on seeing the tiniest warrior leap into action. I also found out that that minute brawler was in fact a professional, albeit junior, boxer.To this day it was the worst beating I'd ever gotten, my lungs were sore for weeks, I pissed blood, lost two teeth and needed professional medical attention to remove the snapped brace. And then the brace replacement itself.But here's the thing. After all that, the thing that raised my hackles, the ice down my spine was when I would wake and see the day start the same. Blue skies, fluffy clouds, burning sun, mild breeze. Maybe it was primal, survival, or just down right dumb, but anytime the weather presented the same conditions I got paranoid as all hell that I was about to get jumped again. So on those days I would always find a reason to avoid public places, or never be anywhere on my own. It became a real hindrance, a real phobia.So what happened when I turned fifteen? How did I overcome the idea that the celestial bodies were conspiring against me? Well….Late July and daylight was little more than a rumour clinging to the horizon, a cool summer breeze whispered danger to any that dared to listen as I swept the petrol station forecourt. My uncle had arranged a few shifts for me to help me out of my isolatory funk. Being holiday season it was a quiet night, most off foreign or away to caravans and such. This provided plenty of time to wrap up all my standard cleaning tasks, restock shelves and I was just leaning on the counter for a break with a cup of tea when the door chimed.I looked up and instantly laughed. Two men, one tall, really tall, and a short dumpy one were storming towards me. Only their black beady drug addled pupils stared at me through floral pillowcases. This was some sort of joke right? Had to be. Perhaps two locals lads pranking me? Then, from their bomber jackets steel flashed murder.Tall slashed over the counter, I flinched back into the cigarette stand, cartons crashing to the worn linoleum. Small bolted behind the counter coming round to hem me in. The wolves were back, but this time they were dire. There was shouting, l don't remember registering the words but the meaning was clear. Trembling, I put the till drawer on the counter, coins spilling, notes fluttering, and put my arms up. Tall, not happy with my offering, leapt the counter, I dashed out of his way and right into Short's jaws.His arm wrapped around my throat, I crumpled like a wet bag, the point of his blade digging into my temple he dragged me into the small stock room.""Fucking move and your dead big lad, ye hear me!""Three minutes and twenty two seconds. You hear things like smash and grab, and they were in and out in seconds. No, not for me. Rewatching the CCTV footage with the police it took three minutes and twenty two seconds. They took their time, gathered the cigarettes, and grabbed things from the fridge, wiped down surfaces, issued some more threats to me and then off into the night.Fifteen years old and involved in an armed robbery. But how did this help me with my other issue? It was the detective.Giving my statement I kept getting tongue tied and nervous, I would apologise and he would repeat.""You don't apologise son, none of this was your fault. You did nothing wrong.""It took some weeks to get my head right, but his words stayed with me. I did nothing wrong. Either time. So why punish myself. Locking myself away from the world didn't make me any safer. We have one life, and unfortunately bad things are going to happen. Life is either a comedy or a tragedy, but it's up to us to decide which.So, slowly I started letting myself be me again. However, every now and then when the sky is clear, and the winds just right I wonder…what danger is waiting round the corner.
","July 11, 2023 18:20","[[{'Ellen Neuborne': 'A great read. I particularly liked the voice -- an adult looking back on a teenage event. And I thought this was a fun line: ""...hollering in a tolkienesque orcish quality.""', 'time': '22:42 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers for reading Ellen, I enjoyed that line myself. Was aiming for a little dark humour this week as I've never tried before."", 'time': '06:55 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers for reading Ellen, I enjoyed that line myself. Was aiming for a little dark humour this week as I've never tried before."", 'time': '06:55 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Christopher Bradley': ""Having heard both these stories from you personally, reading it from your point of view in such a descriptive way was powerful. Excellent read, fills me with pride to see you doing so well now. You're a good buck, so ye are !"", 'time': '16:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Great story Kevin. I loved the Irish twist. Wonderful pacing, rich vocabulary. One of the best stories I have read all week. We want more with the Irish cant.', 'time': '18:34 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Wow Bruce thanks for such glowing feedback. I'm blushing over here ha."", 'time': '18:50 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Wow Bruce thanks for such glowing feedback. I'm blushing over here ha."", 'time': '18:50 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Hi Kevin, what Michelle said. No really. Thanks, Michelle  LF6', 'time': '06:13 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers for reading Lily, hope all is well.', 'time': '06:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Hey Kevin, I thought the writing and story line were superb. Awesome job. LF6', 'time': '13:18 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers for reading Lily, hope all is well.', 'time': '06:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Hey Kevin, I thought the writing and story line were superb. Awesome job. LF6', 'time': '13:18 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Hey Kevin, I thought the writing and story line were superb. Awesome job. LF6', 'time': '13:18 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Oh Kevin, what a horrible experience, both times!\nI loved your descriptions, especially he Irish translation of the intent behind the words, due to inflection. I was riveted by the whole firstly, secondly and finally paragraphs. My favourite was: “However when someone spits it with the b making a hard ""Buh"", drags out the middle and lands a hard ""D"" so sharp it\'s almost a ""T"", well…you\'re in for a spot of bother. I\'m sure you can guess how our antagonist delivered this.” I can hear it.\n\nA well told story, traumatic, but with enough humour to...', 'time': '23:24 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks Michelle, I've never tried humour before so glad it shone through the darker content. I actually had fun with those three paragraphs.\n\nI just posted this to profile though, as I don't think it's contest worthy, do you know by chance if it's only seen by people that follow me?"", 'time': '06:51 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Yes, if you just submit to profile, only those who follow you will see it, or anyone who looks at your profile will see it, eg if you comment and like theirs, they may return the favour.', 'time': '08:02 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers 👍👌', 'time': '08:55 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks Michelle, I've never tried humour before so glad it shone through the darker content. I actually had fun with those three paragraphs.\n\nI just posted this to profile though, as I don't think it's contest worthy, do you know by chance if it's only seen by people that follow me?"", 'time': '06:51 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Yes, if you just submit to profile, only those who follow you will see it, or anyone who looks at your profile will see it, eg if you comment and like theirs, they may return the favour.', 'time': '08:02 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers 👍👌', 'time': '08:55 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Yes, if you just submit to profile, only those who follow you will see it, or anyone who looks at your profile will see it, eg if you comment and like theirs, they may return the favour.', 'time': '08:02 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers 👍👌', 'time': '08:55 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers 👍👌', 'time': '08:55 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': 'The story is not as good as the telling. Someone used the phrase, \'Irish cant.\' That nails it. The sing-song lilt of the voice was so well done, I think I subconsciously added the accent of the Lucky Charms character as I was reading it.\n\nHowever, I was once ensconced in Heathrow Airport, trying to find my wife/ girlfriend\'s lost backpack, containing our tickets back to the U.S. Along with photos, a giant bottle of vodka, a camera, etc. The desk clerk hands me the Hotel phone, looks down his nose and says, ""Perhaps the concierge can help you...', 'time': '17:11 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""This prompt was a difficult one for me. I started several horror-esque takes but none were flowing, then I took my daughter to the bowling alley and was like, hmmm I remember a time.....\n\nTotally agree, the story is meh, but I had a lot of fun with the voice. \n\nThat sounds like you were speaking with someone from below Dublin, I'd have trouble understanding it too! Ha."", 'time': '17:48 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ken Cartisano': ""It's true. Sometimes our most enjoyable stories are not our best, and our best stories are not that enjoyable. (To write, that is.) One of the things I like about writing, is that I can work on them anywhere, the grocery store, the bowling alley, the county jail. Anywhere, but at my age, I have to find some paper or a device to put them down before I forget what I came up with."", 'time': '21:00 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""This prompt was a difficult one for me. I started several horror-esque takes but none were flowing, then I took my daughter to the bowling alley and was like, hmmm I remember a time.....\n\nTotally agree, the story is meh, but I had a lot of fun with the voice. \n\nThat sounds like you were speaking with someone from below Dublin, I'd have trouble understanding it too! Ha."", 'time': '17:48 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ken Cartisano': ""It's true. Sometimes our most enjoyable stories are not our best, and our best stories are not that enjoyable. (To write, that is.) One of the things I like about writing, is that I can work on them anywhere, the grocery store, the bowling alley, the county jail. Anywhere, but at my age, I have to find some paper or a device to put them down before I forget what I came up with."", 'time': '21:00 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ken Cartisano': ""It's true. Sometimes our most enjoyable stories are not our best, and our best stories are not that enjoyable. (To write, that is.) One of the things I like about writing, is that I can work on them anywhere, the grocery store, the bowling alley, the county jail. Anywhere, but at my age, I have to find some paper or a device to put them down before I forget what I came up with."", 'time': '21:00 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Krystal Brown': 'Yikes, sorry you had to experience that! I thought my getting-locked-in-a-small-area fear was traumatizing, I can’t imagine getting held at gun point. \n\nI hope you’re able to enjoy the sun and life now.\n\nAnyways, good story! Well, not good that it’s true, but you get what I mean. :)', 'time': '18:16 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""It did have it's affects on me for quite a while, but it also kind of tempered me, and I enjoy all the little moments since rain or shine 😁"", 'time': '18:49 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""It did have it's affects on me for quite a while, but it also kind of tempered me, and I enjoy all the little moments since rain or shine 😁"", 'time': '18:49 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Ahhh, Lynx Africa and wet-look gel will take lots of readers back. Unfortunately so will memories of hearing ""what you looking at?"" So unfair, but the Detective was right. \n\nThanks for sharing. \n\n(You missed a t in mutton)', 'time': '19:43 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers for the spell check Chris, there always seems to be at least one that slips past me!', 'time': '19:51 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers for the spell check Chris, there always seems to be at least one that slips past me!', 'time': '19:51 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'This would be funny if not so seriously sad. Wishing you a gloomy day.', 'time': '18:48 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'I was genuinely trying for humour whilst tapping into some past traumas ha.', 'time': '19:07 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'I was genuinely trying for humour whilst tapping into some past traumas ha.', 'time': '19:07 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,2qmqcy,The Words  Change,Jack Kimball,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2qmqcy/,/short-story/2qmqcy/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Speculative', 'Suspense']",27 likes,"
“The words change,” she’d whisper to me at night in our bedroom, winter sleet against the windowpane. “They shift,"" she’d say, her eyes runny, terrorized, hidden in shadow.I didn’t know what she meant.My wife would come down to breakfast, not eat, just pick at her eggs, red-orange yolks. The kitchen air would crackle, an electrical charge in her presence. The smell of burnt wire. Her nails were chewed to the hub; tattered band-aids wrapped her fingers, blood seeped through. She'd left her senses by then; her face waxy, white, glistening. But her last words rising from her near catatonic state? “They change. The words change.” She would laugh, a naked grimace.After she died, there was nothing the embalmer could do, or the mortician, who left the mortuary, mortified. They tried, but they closed her up. None of us could meet the other’s eyes, denying the haunting, the unexplained twists and deformities in the white, bloodless flesh.The funeral fell on a wretched day; frozen, a hoar frost. The priest spoke of metaphors living after death. Gathered graveside was an umbrella line of somber black, a yellow backhoe standing by, idling, blue diesel in the winter gray. I chipped the first shovel of iced earth and the casket knocked hollow as the dirt fell on the carved oak top, an empty sound. We overlooked the thudding from within, a sure hallucination. But I knew my wife was in there. I remembered her face permanently affixed in a deranged scream.As I left the funeral, a wall of curtained arctic storm blew through, a snow squall, thumb sized hail, oddly, thrashing the windshield, wiper blades smearing the glass. An unreasonable weather event.With the services behind me, I went through my wife's places; cleaned out the closets, her clothes draped on hangers, her lavender face soap; her jewelry box on the top shelf, the pearl necklace from our thirtieth wedding anniversary; her makeup, rouge. And I knew she had a journal, but she never let me read it. And then I found her iPad, tucked in her desk, a hidden drawer, garlic occulted, coming loose when my thumb found a lever. It lifted, clicked. So I started reading, just as you are now.You’re reading on your iPad, e-reader; at your desk at home, the place you sip coffee, tea, maybe write, reaching for the muse in your mind, inspiration, something that comes from outside your very self. Or maybe you’re reading off your phone as you commute on a train. Unaware of events around you. Or maybe you’re at work, your cubby, on your computer when you should be working. Your world is safe and unchanged.So where's this headed? The prose infects. Not just a computer virus attached to the file, but something more, something new. As a virus, my words will bleed into yours, yours for the next reader, the next reader bleeding on others. But in some new decrepit way, horror. A horror virus, with a twist.Not my horror. Yours. So now you are reading, scanning, skimming the words, assessing, all on your electronic media. But soon the text on one of your readings will blur, just a little, you’ll hardly notice. Something you’re reading will go off kilter. I didn’t notice at all, only on reflection did I think there must have been a changing. You will try to disregard the media. And then you will choose to pass this virus on, if you can call it a virus, to other people, friends, loved ones. But preferably to other people you don’t care too much about. It's a transmitted disease.So, why would this be a problem? I can hear you asking this question. It’s just a Reedsy Prompt. You’ve run across this posting in the #206: Phobias. But what you don’t know is I squirreled it in, placed it like an insidious land mine in the list. And now you’re thinking, hasn't this been done before, a virus that spreads?But what if the words change as you’re reading? A new modernized twist. What if some evil presence (twenty-something sickoids) played with the AI and the prose re-writes the words on your electronic media just for you? On the fly, based on reading your inner most thoughts, your inner most hidden fears. What if the malicious intent of whatever this is molds the words, the sentences, the subject, theme, plot, and nails it, staking you to the ground, delivering you to the grips of your greatest fear? And then the fear engorges you, feasts on your vulnerability. What if what you're reading can find you?But you know thoughts are things. The synapse connections make electrical impulses. Scientists measure these impulses. We all know this. But if your thoughts are measured, examined for weakness, pried out of your head like a wireless call, then can’t something we don’t really understand read your thoughts? And after this channeling, can’t this inventory of your emotions, your thoughts, form a customized pattern of words, a written prose, and send it back to crawl up the base of your spine in the form of what's written on your computer?You scoff; I hear you. But what if you’re wrong in your dismissal? Can you sense I am begging you to believe this is more? Do you really think you know there is no bitter intent from some source, some governmental agency mucking about? Sure, I know. It’s a story, you’re thinking, not even that well written, no winner certainly. Nothing more. But isn’t there the tinniest percentage likelihood it’s more; the infinitesimal chance that you will meet the horror of your imaginings, and a fear so great you will not come back? I mean, not come back, as in looking in the mirror at 3:12 AM tomorrow morning, and the person you see has a face shredded, tightly twisted skin beyond repair, dissolved in terror. We don’t know everything. This is possible.Everyone has a greatest fear. We know this. And all of us have read passages where our skin crawled, something in our brain chilled, we shuddered. Sometimes this was so nerve twitching, so unsettling, we set the book aside. We took a break from maybe Edgar Allan Poe. We set aside our Stephen King, our Silence of the Lambs, our fava beans with dry merlot. Others. Maybe we took a shot of scotch to shake it off.Greatest fear? What a trite phrase. What I mean is real fear. Fear where you lose yourself in white static, roaring in your brain, taking over, a losing of who you are. Not losing your memory. I don’t mean that. I mean recognizing it’s yourself, but something’s missing. Your soul has left, and the replacement is horror, a terrified shell of who you were staring back in your mirror. Combined with a searing pain in the entirety of your body. This is beyond grinning and bearing. A pain you can’t come back from. A pain where you gobble OxyContin like M&M’s. A pain you would sell your soul to stop. But your soul is already gone. Stolen.So what’s your greatest fear? What would cause the screaming white static in your brain to take over?There. Right there. You took a peek in your mind, didn’t you? Just a crack, but you looked in. You had a thought. I saw you do it. A synapse sent a message.Oh, maybe it’s water? You fear you will die a watery death, desperately holding your last breath, flailing your arms to the surface, kicking in leadened leather boots as carbon dioxide builds, burning into your lungs as you hold, hold, hold more. Your lungs are searing, begging release of CO2. Then, with the shimmering surface in sight, you gasp your last breath, icy saltwater passes your throat, sucks into your lungs, rushing. Your eyes go dead. You drift, then settle down in a cold green seaweed muck, your hair drifting, an Ophelian weightlessness as you descend into the waiting black.Is it water? No, it’s not water, is it?No, not water. But you took another peek, didn’t you? Your fear, the one you don’t really tell other people, the one you're hiding from me now, flashed in your mind. It was just for a second, but it was there, wasn’t it? And then you dismissed it. I won’t go there, you thought. But you will. You really will.Is it death on an airliner? It starts with a bump, a little turbulence. The nerdy suit next to you says not to worry. Statistics. Greater chance of death on the drive to the airport, he says. This doesn’t help. Then another series of bumps shudders through the cabin. Your knuckles go white grabbing the arm rest. And then the jet hits a gorge in the sky. A ditch. Baggage tumbles out of the overheads. The jet banks hard, pitches to the right, oxygen masks tumble down, a serving cart careens down the aisle. And then you don’t hear your own scream as the jet angles straight down. But you are screaming. You are. The suit next to you stares into space, starts crying, then pukes yellow globules weightless in the air, covering your left sleeve, the side of your face. You press your eyes closed. Tears stream off your face sideways. And you are alone, and you have time to wonder if you’ll feel the awful heat from the jet fuel engorging your body, the pain ripping.Not an airliner? But you took another look inside yourself, didn’t you? What did you see? Feel? You dismissed it again, didn’t you? This is just a story, words on your screen, a dumb Reedsy prompt, you tell yourself. The words don’t have a consciousness, a reading of your thinking. A truly sick evil intent. An awareness. A horror recipe written just for you. I know you think it’s unlikely the words will change, just for you. Impossible. But what if you’re wrong and the fear you think about creeps onto the page of what you’re reading, re-writing the zeros and ones? The journal reads your synapse thoughts perfectly, fine tunes, and infects whatever you read on your electronic media, and spits back to you a prose that takes you to a place where you are reading about your own personal worst horror, and nails it. The media manipulates you emotionally, sadistically; you become a terrorized puppet on a string.And what is your worst horror? Your synapse connections just sparked, didn’t they? The journal noticed. It listened deep within the media. And the prose will change on what you’ll be reading. Just for you. Sucking you in. You won’t be able to stop.For my wife, her terror lay in her grave, her casket. She feared being buried alive. Pleaded with me before her death, in the kitchen, her knees on the blue patterned linoleum, her arms gripping my legs. “Promise me you’ll cremate me,” she wailed. “Promise!”“Of course,” I said. “I’ll honor your last wishes.” She died peacefully, welcomed it. Something about family legacies, though. People like a place where they can visit their loved ones, talk to them, ask the advice of the dead. Her family had a plot with at least ten graves, her mother, great grandmother from the 1880s, a whole gang. The plot has a Victorian wrought-iron fence around it, black, and people admired the fence. “Who’s buried here?” they’d ask. “Who puts out the plastic flowers?” So I really had no control over the burial procedures, her family being matriarchal. And for no reason anyone could explain, somehow her catatonic demeanor twisted up after she died at the mortuary. Rigor mortis, I guess. Her legs and torso bound up on themselves, but in her case, her face also did some binding. Lying in the mortuary, on the slab, somehow her face muscles contorted into the distinct appearance of a scream; an Edvard Munch painting, her mouth expanded impossibly open, her skin stretched, her eyes protruded, her white skin clammy, wet. Can you be in terror after you die? I used to think not, we’re dead after all. The mortician agreed, but he couldn’t change my wife’s face.  If you’re not willing to forward this, I know what happens. I know this because I chose not to forward it. For a while. Until now, that is. I posted it on Reedsy and that’s why you’re reading it now. I’m convinced there is something evil entwined in the words, spreading to whatever you read. Maybe artificial intelligence, and for all I know, a living intelligence.My worst fear came to me reading my wife's iPad. A burning rush; wolves chasing me down, snapping, biting, ripping the tendons in my heels, bleeding strips of flesh, crippling me on the ice. It’s a sunless day on a snowfield, a horizon of pine forest beyond, like Siberia. The pack of six, it’s always six, circle me slowly, growling, lips snarling, their eyes red, a red almost black. This was my worst fear. I presume my wife’s iPad spelled it out in a twisting prose after reading my thoughts. I know this sounds unbalanced as I write this. Please forgive me. But the wolves were only in my dreams until I found them in the iPad. But the words. The words in the iPad entwined in my head perfectly. A prose where every word, comma, conjunction, eclipses, and simile, raised a terror in my heart, unfathomable. The other wolves backed off at the end. The largest wolf, the leader, sniffed at my throat, smelled of dead carrion, had heated breath, moist, then licked my carotid artery with his purple tongue. You know what comes next. The wolves became all I could think about. I couldn't sleep. I began biting my nails. I went back again and again to the iPad, compelled. I slept with my wife’s iPad while whimpering into the night.I realized there was one way, and only one way to prevent this. There was never an ethical question considered. I needed to destroy the journal, delete it, burn the iPad, my computer, my phone, get rid of them all. I tried. I promise you I tried. I deleted, burned, studied the black arts, everything. But the journal would always come back, there on my iPad, my phone, my new computer, like a lost copy infecting everything I read. And then I knew the answer. I needed to pass the journal, and only by passing it on would I beat the terror. The infection insisted I forward it. It knew if I did. So I passed it. To you, that is. There’s a lot of guilt associated with this decision, but for me, the wolves have gone. My only advice is to pass it unread if you can. The terror of your worst imaginings will come quickly, merciless, and soon.Even now, I can sense you thinking of where your personal terror lies. There. Right then. You thought about your specific thing, didn’t you? The thing you told no one, the thing that drives shame in your mind when you give it a little poke. If words on a page can dictate a slight flash of your thinking about your worst fear, the one you tuck in the closet you dare not open, what else can words do, can prose do? How far can a story on a page take your imagination? And what if something writing those words knew what they were doing and had special intent? An unhuman intent. Evil. And then takes you to a place you aren’t coming back from, a place where terror lives in your worst nightmare, a non-ceasing agony, a place waiting for each of us, waiting for you.
","July 09, 2023 03:36","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'Very nice :) Outstanding opening, with an ominous declaration of ""The words change"" - we simply must know more. And then in quick order, we go from breakfast to funeral.\n\nAnd *then*, the twist. It\'s a really cool idea, a new form of horrible chain letter, but then you get to pondering how it works, and I think you hit on something interesting. Reading the mind to identify fear, a custom horror story generated for the reader - this sounds like a real product we might see within the next decade or so. You even mentioned AI. Leave it to humans ...', 'time': '21:59 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thanks as always Michal!', 'time': '18:06 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thanks as always Michal!', 'time': '18:06 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'The words are changing.', 'time': '12:07 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thanks Mary for reading. Still in draft mode.', 'time': '21:41 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thanks Mary for reading. Still in draft mode.', 'time': '21:41 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Powerful and immediately hooks the reader in. Disturbing and well-written piece.', 'time': '17:48 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you for reading and commenting Helen!', 'time': '01:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you for reading and commenting Helen!', 'time': '01:49 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'C. A. Janke': 'One of my favourite ""niche"" tropes in horror is when the reader or viewer is brought in to be a character-or a victim!-and this was so perfectly done! Especially when the context is the Internet specifically since the virality of the Internet and the fact it can make a digital virus like this so devastating. Made me feel like I\'m becoming part of a new urban legend! Very fun read!', 'time': '22:06 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': ""Thank you C.A.  I'm flattered you enjoyed it and hope to 'raise my game' someday to the depth of imagery found in your stories."", 'time': '22:50 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': ""Thank you C.A.  I'm flattered you enjoyed it and hope to 'raise my game' someday to the depth of imagery found in your stories."", 'time': '22:50 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': 'Hey there, Jack!\n\nReally liked the opening! What does ""garlic occulted"" mean - I tried looking it up?\n\ngrin - this got pretty meta quickly :) It reads like a Twlight Zone or a Black Mirror episode. I like how you speak to the reader and related ideas as communicable. The rise of anxiety with some interesting images (wolves, ""... liked my carotid artery with his purple tongue"").\n\nGrin - you mentioned a Victorian gate and I thought - for a moment - that you were quoting my work for this prompt :) and that you were bringing in other Reedsy auth...', 'time': '01:39 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Russell.\n\nAn occultation is an event that occurs when one object is hidden from the observer by another object that passes between them. The term is often used in astronomy, but can also refer to any situation in which an object in the foreground blocks from view (occults) an object in the background.\n\nSo garlic occulted means ‘garlic hidden’ if you will. Which is a lot more than I knew when I wrote it because basically I just liked the phrase.\n\nI like the concept of alluding to other submissions. That might be fun. Rip on some of ...', 'time': '02:27 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Russell Mickler': ""That's freekin' awesome - I'll remember that use of the word! Thank you!\n\nHehe Admittedly, I did have to go back and re-read sections of your story thinking you were doing meta-references on other stories in this prompt! Freaky, right?! hehehe\n\nR"", 'time': '03:43 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Russell.\n\nAn occultation is an event that occurs when one object is hidden from the observer by another object that passes between them. The term is often used in astronomy, but can also refer to any situation in which an object in the foreground blocks from view (occults) an object in the background.\n\nSo garlic occulted means ‘garlic hidden’ if you will. Which is a lot more than I knew when I wrote it because basically I just liked the phrase.\n\nI like the concept of alluding to other submissions. That might be fun. Rip on some of ...', 'time': '02:27 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Russell Mickler': ""That's freekin' awesome - I'll remember that use of the word! Thank you!\n\nHehe Admittedly, I did have to go back and re-read sections of your story thinking you were doing meta-references on other stories in this prompt! Freaky, right?! hehehe\n\nR"", 'time': '03:43 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Russell Mickler': ""That's freekin' awesome - I'll remember that use of the word! Thank you!\n\nHehe Admittedly, I did have to go back and re-read sections of your story thinking you were doing meta-references on other stories in this prompt! Freaky, right?! hehehe\n\nR"", 'time': '03:43 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Really scary  !!', 'time': '15:08 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Rabab.  That was the intent.', 'time': '18:06 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Rabab.  That was the intent.', 'time': '18:06 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""For a collection of readers what could be more horror-inducing then a story that doesn't stay put. 'The Words change' - every reader brings their own experience into what they read, their own wishes and their own fears. \n  Great one! \nI like this line-\n   \n \n'The thing you told no one, the thing that drives shame in your mind when you give it a little poke. If words on a page can dictate a slight flash of your thinking about your worst fear, the one you tuck in the closet you dare not open; what else can words do, can prose do?'"", 'time': '00:09 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Marty!', 'time': '18:04 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Marty!', 'time': '18:04 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'What a thrill Jack! My heart is racing. Well done!', 'time': '06:00 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'I appreciate you reading and commenting J.D.!', 'time': '18:05 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Anytime my friend! :)', 'time': '18:28 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'I appreciate you reading and commenting J.D.!', 'time': '18:05 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'Anytime my friend! :)', 'time': '18:28 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Anytime my friend! :)', 'time': '18:28 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': ""Jack, so masterfully done. I was delighted with your story. \nYour voice and pacing were excellent. The woman knows her man. What a horrible thing to pass on to someone else. \nI wonder if you've considered looking at the first piece and where you cut to the break (speaking directly to the reader.) cut it off earlier?  LF6\nI only saw one tiny typo. \nthey onto others. - then?"", 'time': '05:45 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Lily.  I saw your point about breaking earlier, and stripped out a lot of the earlier part. Flowed faster.  Appreciate you reading and thinking about how it could be better!', 'time': '14:09 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'You are welcome. This piece is fantastic. I hope my comments are helpful. I am glad it made your story better. LF6', 'time': '14:23 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jack Kimball': 'Thank you Lily.  I saw your point about breaking earlier, and stripped out a lot of the earlier part. Flowed faster.  Appreciate you reading and thinking about how it could be better!', 'time': '14:09 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'You are welcome. This piece is fantastic. I hope my comments are helpful. I am glad it made your story better. LF6', 'time': '14:23 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'You are welcome. This piece is fantastic. I hope my comments are helpful. I am glad it made your story better. LF6', 'time': '14:23 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,o4u92a,To Lay It As It Plays,Mike Panasitti,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o4u92a/,/short-story/o4u92a/,Character,0,"['Inspirational', 'Coming of Age', 'Creative Nonfiction']",25 likes,"
There’s something terribly pretentious about a poem, but there’s no better voice in which to tell us when it all started than a poet’s voice.It started with the joyful wisdom and some dismally smart hypochondriac who hypothesized the death of divinity as well as the related curious notion that everything recurs. It started with him, Freddie, and with Stevie, some wheelchair-bound brainiac, who wrote a book claiming that in the instant before time and space commence, all matter is undifferentiated.One numerological year before a brief history was written, that’s us born from undifferentiated matter into a now-extinct hospital in a country whose flag is now on the verge of extinction because people who once insisted on being called Negro and queens (but are currently called Blackish and Queer) now insist on having things done Burger King style and not Sinatra our way.That’s us on a Rampart District veranda at the tender age of two dressed in drag by our older female cousins who didn’t know then that at the age of 30 (and several times thereafter) we’d have some serious gender identity issues.And that’s us at the feral age of five consuming an entire bottle of children’s Tylenol even though we knew we shouldn’t. We greedily gobbled juvenile acetaminophen because the tablets tasted good. We did it not knowing that we’d fess up to our mom who’d rush us to the hospital to have our stomach pumped.And that hypochondriac who started it all may have been an anti-Christ, but G-d knows we were born again before we were baptized and were baptized before we were born again at First Baptist school in Huntington Park. And this is us tomorrow: innocently suicidal at age 55, because we’re wanting to die, but don’t want the dirty work to be done by our own hand.But we digress, or regress. We recur, or return, to say we’re grateful we remember what lies ahead only in glimpses or snatches. And we thank the dead divinity for that because recalling the future only to repeat it would be an exercise in madness. As long as forgetting is an antonym for futile it isn’t a synonym for futile.There are some things, however, we won’t render to the antonym of futility.We can’t forget when we first saw blonde Shannon’s abundant body, or when brunette Natasha first tantalizingly took our breath.We can’t forget when we told Chris that if we were to kiss a man, we wouldn’t mind kissing Mikey, and can’t forget when our hand was on the cock of an undergrad (or was it the male undergrad grasping our cock?).We can’t forget when we sent a manuscript of a dissertation that could’ve earned us a Ph.D. to Paul, but because we had betrayed him and had made his shit list and were in an insane asylum, the best he could do was write a letter forbidding us to write for him ever again.And there are other more recent things we can’t forget.Like us escaping from a recovery home in the rehab riviera because some childish adult wouldn’t clean up after himself, or participate in the program like everyone else was obligated to. This was the same adolescent grown-up who smoked like a vampire bat and blasted trap from the living room tv at inconvenient hours of the day; the same immature mature person who didn’t agree to a gentlemanly three knockdown rule fight when we challenged him to one in the parking lot of another uneventfully delusional A.A. meeting.So, because our imagination had made this same puerile person into a monster and we were buzzing on Natural American Spirits and cold cowardice, that’s us again, climbing over fences, being hunted by police helicopter searchlights, setting a rubbish bin ablaze like we did in Spain, selling cigarettes on Newport Boulevard to buy a carton of pinot grigio. And even though we’ve tried but haven’t jumped from a pier into the ocean several times before, that’s us avoiding a dive from a pier into the ocean (again), and us hotfooting it to our sister’s house, whereon we meet some damsel we suppose is in unspoken distress and who’s walking a miniature collie she calls “Bindi” back to her apartment. Later, when we’re sitting in jail (again), we assume Bindi is short for “been there done that.” And that’s us (before we’re sitting in jail [again]) making it to our sister’s house, socking Manny’s eye socket loose (because we somehow think he’s pandering our youngest nephew to vagrants who resemble Chuckie), and, yes, that’s us running from a bat-crazy brother-in-law, and from curious back bay coyotes, and from police whose lives only barely matter to many brooding types today.And this is us tomorrow: still aimlessly striving for epic tragedy amidst amnesia. Still lazily overcome by lackluster comedy and anhedonia. Still Snoop doggedly dogged by chronic schizophrenia. And wanting to end it all, wanting to know how it all ends, wanting to write our own end-all, because we already know how it all started, and feeling the desire to control one’s own fate so that one doesn’t fear it is only human-all-too-human.And this is what we desire today:To feel that some parts of us are destined for greatness. Destined to linger in the memory of loved ones (and if we’re unlucky, in the recall of strangers) after we cease loitering. And we long to do something worthy of undying love before the mellifluously cacophonous soundtrack that is life comes to an end, before the acutely collective significance of the phantasmatic phrase, “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times” ceases to signify. And before one says, “We’re in it, after all, for the glory,” there comes a time when one must say, “We’re just in it for the return of differentiated matter and the repeated birth of the divinity, for G-d, not glory, for us, not me, because what came before us is, ultimately, what lays before us."" And we’re all destined to lay it as it plays.
","July 11, 2023 05:21","[[{'Shahzad Ahmad': ""Mike, a great stylistic experimentation.  Your language is so fluent and and words are chosen perfectly.Maybe a dash of hope is added if you are talking about futility of life to make it more inspirational  (just a comment doesn't,t detract from the merits of the story) The title itself is very creative. Life's journey is described well. In a response you also raised the horror story of AI in which it will consume many jobs also is very relevant in terms of future for writers.  Another great piece of writing. Keep the ink flowing!"", 'time': '20:23 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you, Shahzad, for your words of encouragement.  I'm inspired to find writers here who have a similar disposition toward existential quandaries.  Your contribution this week was bold.  I can only implore you to do the same that you ask of me, and keep tapping away at the keys!"", 'time': '23:23 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you, Shahzad, for your words of encouragement.  I'm inspired to find writers here who have a similar disposition toward existential quandaries.  Your contribution this week was bold.  I can only implore you to do the same that you ask of me, and keep tapping away at the keys!"", 'time': '23:23 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Powerful writing as always.  I\'ve been in a bit of low ebb the last few weeks after a disastrous dentist exam and haven\'t wanted to ponder the unavoidable decay of my teeth and everything else connected to them. But now after having the three root canals completed at least I can focus on writing. ""And we long to do something worthy of undying love before the mellifluously cacophonous soundtrack that is life"" yes, I think as creative people we all must feel that. To put one masterpiece that inspires people out there to be remembered for.  The...', 'time': '02:55 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks very much, Scott.  With ongoing development of Chat GPT (and other writing AIs) that will eventually be able to compose brilliant stories in the style of any writer about almost any subject matter in a ridiculous fraction of the time it takes a human to write one, I think stylistic experimentation, along with memoirish lived experience narratives will be the only literary forays that will not be easily simulated by machines.  I was trying to address that concern with this piece.\n\nMan, I hope you're able to surmount the low that has be..."", 'time': '15:13 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '4'}, {'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for the inspiration! I'll checkout the book, would like to add a bit of sparkle and emotion to my prose. And yes I may write a comedy-of-dentists story in coming weeks. Feeling better now its all over."", 'time': '05:09 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks very much, Scott.  With ongoing development of Chat GPT (and other writing AIs) that will eventually be able to compose brilliant stories in the style of any writer about almost any subject matter in a ridiculous fraction of the time it takes a human to write one, I think stylistic experimentation, along with memoirish lived experience narratives will be the only literary forays that will not be easily simulated by machines.  I was trying to address that concern with this piece.\n\nMan, I hope you're able to surmount the low that has be..."", 'time': '15:13 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for the inspiration! I'll checkout the book, would like to add a bit of sparkle and emotion to my prose. And yes I may write a comedy-of-dentists story in coming weeks. Feeling better now its all over."", 'time': '05:09 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for the inspiration! I'll checkout the book, would like to add a bit of sparkle and emotion to my prose. And yes I may write a comedy-of-dentists story in coming weeks. Feeling better now its all over."", 'time': '05:09 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""I suspect it is our privilege, as humans, to struggle with meaninglessness. (Certainly, I pity the dolphin that suddenly stumbles into nihilism unprepared.) It's not a fun state of mind, but curiously, it is also what drives a search for meaning, and *that* can get things done. \n\nDespite the overbearing weight of it, there's an active fighting in this piece, a willful battle against futility. Maybe that's key, that things really only are futile if we allow them to be. The fact that so much of the fight is tied up in connections to others is ..."", 'time': '20:33 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Yes, Michal, ""shouting hope into the nihilist void"" is an appropriate descriptive line for this piece.  \n\nI\'m glad it provoked some thought and I\'m grateful for your always-insightful commentary.\n\nYou\'re welcome, and thank you.', 'time': '21:26 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Yes, Michal, ""shouting hope into the nihilist void"" is an appropriate descriptive line for this piece.  \n\nI\'m glad it provoked some thought and I\'m grateful for your always-insightful commentary.\n\nYou\'re welcome, and thank you.', 'time': '21:26 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""This tale bites with sharpened teeth and rips with sharpened claws. There is nothing beautiful about it, but it is pure and pristine and breathtaking. The story overwhelms, but I think that's the point. Life can be overwhelming, and it can seem futile and useless because we'll eventually return to differentiated matter. This is as powerful a tale as you've ever written, Mike. I can't praise it enough. Nicely done work on a not-so-nice subject.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '14:11 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you, Delbert, for reading and (here I blush) praising my most recent effort.  The Off-Beat form of this one made it a pleasure to write.  You're the first to make a comment, and for that I'm grateful.  Cheers right back to you, friend."", 'time': '16:28 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you, Delbert, for reading and (here I blush) praising my most recent effort.  The Off-Beat form of this one made it a pleasure to write.  You're the first to make a comment, and for that I'm grateful.  Cheers right back to you, friend."", 'time': '16:28 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Hazel Ide': 'So very good, and dark and streaming. Thank you for sharing.', 'time': '03:53 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Thanks for reading, Hazel.  An edited version of this was not so dark.  Perhaps someday I can publish it as a narrative poem.  Take care.', 'time': '18:42 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Thanks for reading, Hazel.  An edited version of this was not so dark.  Perhaps someday I can publish it as a narrative poem.  Take care.', 'time': '18:42 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Once again, Mike, very original, and not at all mainstream thinking. I salute you, buddy.', 'time': '20:18 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Thanks, Joe.', 'time': '14:41 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Thanks, Joe.', 'time': '14:41 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'very interesting thoughts.', 'time': '01:16 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Was the translation into Japanese any good?', 'time': '01:32 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'i understood it. i try reading much in english as possible.', 'time': '01:18 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you for reading this story.  I hope your English becomes fluent, if that's what you wish for.  Take care, Aoi."", 'time': '14:27 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'the same to you also Mike.', 'time': '00:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Was the translation into Japanese any good?', 'time': '01:32 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'i understood it. i try reading much in english as possible.', 'time': '01:18 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you for reading this story.  I hope your English becomes fluent, if that's what you wish for.  Take care, Aoi."", 'time': '14:27 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'the same to you also Mike.', 'time': '00:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'i understood it. i try reading much in english as possible.', 'time': '01:18 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you for reading this story.  I hope your English becomes fluent, if that's what you wish for.  Take care, Aoi."", 'time': '14:27 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Aoi Yamato': 'the same to you also Mike.', 'time': '00:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thank you for reading this story.  I hope your English becomes fluent, if that's what you wish for.  Take care, Aoi."", 'time': '14:27 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Aoi Yamato': 'the same to you also Mike.', 'time': '00:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'the same to you also Mike.', 'time': '00:48 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Graham Kinross': '“Snoop doggedly dogged by chronic schizophrenia,” isn’t he snoop lion now? Or is that a previous reincarnation already?\n\nSo the premise of this piece is the cyclical nature of reality. What has been will be again. What will be has been?', 'time': '00:28 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Snoop dog, snoop lion, a snoop regardless.\n\nYeah, the seeming cyclical nature of life is haunting me of late.  The point is to aspire for better so that if you ""change"" things, they repeat themselves according to your willpower rather than according to self-defeating passivity that makes you the victim of other superimposing wills...or something like that.  The problem comes when unexpected ill befalls one because of willfully chosen paths, like in your superheroes\' story...\n\nThanks for reading and commenting.', 'time': '01:20 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'You’re welcome.', 'time': '05:56 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'You gave me a great recommendation for Number 9 Dream. I’m reading Meantime by Frankie Boyle and it seems so up your street it’s waiting for you on the doorstep when you get home. You should check it out.', 'time': '14:26 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'Hey, Graham.  I thought you had gone above and beyond the Reedsy buddy call.  I was looking forward to having a new, highly recommended book when I got home  : (\n \nI will check out Boyle’s book, though.  Thanks for the recommendation.', 'time': '23:49 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'I cheated and went for the audiobook but if you’re not familiar with Glasgow accents that might make it harder to understand.I’m still trying to write for Reedsy but editing a book in the end stages of a book coaching course. It’s amazing how much you can hate a story you loved if you have to stare at it long enough but I’m trying to push through. I need to be a better reedsy reader as well. I’m falling behind but that also means at some point I can binge, possibly over the holiday when I’m sitting in airports for hours. I hope you’re well a...', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for the well wishes.  I'm not sure when my Reedsy hiatus will end, but get that book done, man!   And let me know when it becomes available.  Take care, Graham."", 'time': '14:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Snoop dog, snoop lion, a snoop regardless.\n\nYeah, the seeming cyclical nature of life is haunting me of late.  The point is to aspire for better so that if you ""change"" things, they repeat themselves according to your willpower rather than according to self-defeating passivity that makes you the victim of other superimposing wills...or something like that.  The problem comes when unexpected ill befalls one because of willfully chosen paths, like in your superheroes\' story...\n\nThanks for reading and commenting.', 'time': '01:20 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Graham Kinross': 'You’re welcome.', 'time': '05:56 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'You gave me a great recommendation for Number 9 Dream. I’m reading Meantime by Frankie Boyle and it seems so up your street it’s waiting for you on the doorstep when you get home. You should check it out.', 'time': '14:26 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': 'Hey, Graham.  I thought you had gone above and beyond the Reedsy buddy call.  I was looking forward to having a new, highly recommended book when I got home  : (\n \nI will check out Boyle’s book, though.  Thanks for the recommendation.', 'time': '23:49 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'I cheated and went for the audiobook but if you’re not familiar with Glasgow accents that might make it harder to understand.I’m still trying to write for Reedsy but editing a book in the end stages of a book coaching course. It’s amazing how much you can hate a story you loved if you have to stare at it long enough but I’m trying to push through. I need to be a better reedsy reader as well. I’m falling behind but that also means at some point I can binge, possibly over the holiday when I’m sitting in airports for hours. I hope you’re well a...', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for the well wishes.  I'm not sure when my Reedsy hiatus will end, but get that book done, man!   And let me know when it becomes available.  Take care, Graham."", 'time': '14:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Graham Kinross': 'You’re welcome.', 'time': '05:56 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Graham Kinross': 'You gave me a great recommendation for Number 9 Dream. I’m reading Meantime by Frankie Boyle and it seems so up your street it’s waiting for you on the doorstep when you get home. You should check it out.', 'time': '14:26 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Hey, Graham.  I thought you had gone above and beyond the Reedsy buddy call.  I was looking forward to having a new, highly recommended book when I got home  : (\n \nI will check out Boyle’s book, though.  Thanks for the recommendation.', 'time': '23:49 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'I cheated and went for the audiobook but if you’re not familiar with Glasgow accents that might make it harder to understand.I’m still trying to write for Reedsy but editing a book in the end stages of a book coaching course. It’s amazing how much you can hate a story you loved if you have to stare at it long enough but I’m trying to push through. I need to be a better reedsy reader as well. I’m falling behind but that also means at some point I can binge, possibly over the holiday when I’m sitting in airports for hours. I hope you’re well a...', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for the well wishes.  I'm not sure when my Reedsy hiatus will end, but get that book done, man!   And let me know when it becomes available.  Take care, Graham."", 'time': '14:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'Hey, Graham.  I thought you had gone above and beyond the Reedsy buddy call.  I was looking forward to having a new, highly recommended book when I got home  : (\n \nI will check out Boyle’s book, though.  Thanks for the recommendation.', 'time': '23:49 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Graham Kinross': 'I cheated and went for the audiobook but if you’re not familiar with Glasgow accents that might make it harder to understand.I’m still trying to write for Reedsy but editing a book in the end stages of a book coaching course. It’s amazing how much you can hate a story you loved if you have to stare at it long enough but I’m trying to push through. I need to be a better reedsy reader as well. I’m falling behind but that also means at some point I can binge, possibly over the holiday when I’m sitting in airports for hours. I hope you’re well a...', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for the well wishes.  I'm not sure when my Reedsy hiatus will end, but get that book done, man!   And let me know when it becomes available.  Take care, Graham."", 'time': '14:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Graham Kinross': 'I cheated and went for the audiobook but if you’re not familiar with Glasgow accents that might make it harder to understand.I’m still trying to write for Reedsy but editing a book in the end stages of a book coaching course. It’s amazing how much you can hate a story you loved if you have to stare at it long enough but I’m trying to push through. I need to be a better reedsy reader as well. I’m falling behind but that also means at some point I can binge, possibly over the holiday when I’m sitting in airports for hours. I hope you’re well a...', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for the well wishes.  I'm not sure when my Reedsy hiatus will end, but get that book done, man!   And let me know when it becomes available.  Take care, Graham."", 'time': '14:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mike Panasitti': ""Thanks for the well wishes.  I'm not sure when my Reedsy hiatus will end, but get that book done, man!   And let me know when it becomes available.  Take care, Graham."", 'time': '14:36 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,glw115,Surface Tension,Kevin B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/glw115/,/short-story/glw115/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Suspense', 'Thriller']",25 likes,"
	As the raft made its way across the river, Emerson Carver forgot his own name. He looked down into the prized water of the Philipse and couldn’t find his face. The surface was coated with gray algae and there were disturbances from the paddles pushing through the tension. He sat back down and rubbed his hands over the life vest that was too small for him. Could it really hold him up if something occurred? He tried to remember his first name. He couldn’t. He knew the last name sounded like Shaver. He was close, but would never get any closer than that.
 
	All his life he’d stayed ahead of his greatest fear. It became easier once water turned into a commodity rather than an assurance. Lakes dried up. The ocean rose, but then receded. Now there was silt where there used to be coral reef formations. Emerson had a house with his beloved in the middle of dry land. He’d never told his wife how afraid he was of drowning. When he found her in the bathtub unconscious one evening, he assumed this was fate laughing at him. Your fear would find you. It always would.
 
	He took to his bed and it was only after seven nights of sleep that his memory began to deteriorate. Phone numbers left his mind. Numbers always go first. Next were the names of his children. No logic to it. Kierstyn went first even though she was in the middle. Then Walter, then Mary Anne. As he lay in bed, bits of his mind were absorbed into his grief. He never understood grief to be a parasite. There was so much to learn even as retaining information became impossible. Emerson never feared growing older or losing his faculties. He faced it as a reality of existence. It was only water he feared, and the water was far, far away. If he had to die in his bed, he would, but he would die dry.
 
	The hands grabbed him by the arms. Firefly flashlights. Had someone brought him outside? Was that the fragrant air of early spring? The flowers had been compromised by a short winter but they were persisting. Nature would see them all buried, and then it would root inside their bones and push through their epidermis. They would serve as bed for a new beginning. Emerson was on some kind of stretcher. He saw the day-glo coloring of someone in charge of a rescue. He wanted to explain that he didn’t need to be rescued. The heat would scorch a pile of grass near the house or strike a window just right and light the living room carpet aflame. He would be upstairs in the bedroom, and all would be smoke. He didn’t need to be rescued, but he couldn’t think of the word “rescue” and so there was no negating it.
 
	Into the back of a van on this flimsy wartime gurney. The van was going at a high speed as though they were being chased. He couldn’t tell how many of them there were in the vehicle with him. One said something about missing sisters. One asked if there was any more bottled water. At the sound of the word “water,” Emerson tried moving his arm only to find that he was paralyzed. He couldn’t tell the extent of the paralysis, but he prayed it was temporary. He would need to sit up. He would need to ask these people to pull the van over, or, if they could, bring him back to the house he’d lived in for the last forty years. He had no desire to go where they were going even if it meant safety. Even if it meant tacking on a few more useless years to a life that had already gone on too long. One day longer than his wife’s life was too long as far as he was concerned. He tried to say “Stop” but couldn’t part his lips. The van hit a pothole, and for a moment, everyone in the back went against gravity. Emerson felt himself go up and come back down. His finger twitched. He might be able to save himself from salvation after all.
 
	On a fishing trip with his father at the age of eight, Emerson fell off the boat and into the lake where they were to spend the day. His father jumped in after him, but he couldn’t find the boy at first. Something within the water had tugged Emerson a full ten or eleven feet, and when he opened his mouth, all manner of profundal and benthic invaded him. He tried to swim, but his education on the matter left him. As he felt his body go limp, a hand yanked him by the back of his neck up and out of the water. His father wrapped an arm around the boy and the two were off back to the boat. They didn’t even go home after that. His father insisted they stay and finish out their afternoon. Emerson tasted lime for days after that. His tongue would search his lips for any sign of relief, and never find it.
 
	When the van stopped, Emerson was the first order of business. The stretcher was pulled out, and he felt breath on his ear. Someone was asking him if he could move. He was trying to find the word “No” when he felt himself rise. The finger twitching had been a sign. There was life in him despite his own intentions. He stood, and someone put something around his neck. Was it a noose? Was this a tribunal? Had he committed a crime other than failing to die when his wife did as life intended? He touched the fabric. It felt like mesh. It felt unsatisfactory. This was a life vest. Why would they put something like this on him? What was going on?
 
	He felt the raft before he saw it. His eyes were clouded with a mixture of fog and dust. Hands were moving him where they needed him to go. They sat him down. Something clicked. He stood up to run, but they shoved him back down. A voice told him he was all right. He was safe. They were all safe. Who was “all?” Who was “they?” He was not safe. He could hear water. When had the river arrived? He was far from the Philipse. Had it come closer? A voice yelled something about separation, and there was a push. They were on the water now. Emerson knew there was something beneath him that was not solid. Something he was pressing down on that wanted to breathe freely. He tried to remember the word “suffocate.”
 
	There were people paddling and some calling out orders. How many people were on the raft? Too many. No raft could handle all the activity Emerson felt around him. He only stood up the one time to see that there was nothing to see. When he sat back down, he felt a new absence behind him. A voice rang out. Someone yelled something that he couldn’t make out. A flash of action. Two more absences. The raft suddenly felt as though it were lighter. There was a jostling. He tried to grab onto something, but there was only plastic. There was only the temptation of fog. He lay down wondering if there would be room. There was. There was nothing but room.
 
	The raft settled where the river refused to turn. It didn’t feel stuck. It felt uncertain. Water moved around it. Emerson lay in the emptiness. Small rivulets would sneak over the top and parade across his belly. He thought of his wife and how small she looked in the bath when he found her. The doctor had said it was a heart attack. That it wasn’t drowning. That she had most likely died feeling at peace, because wasn’t water so peaceful? Emerson left the man’s office and took to his bed. Outside he imagined rain, and rain, and rain. He thought of rain filling the house and filling all the sinks and the tub and pushing his bed up to the ceiling where it would take everything else it had left behind the first time.
 
	Now he was floating. There was retail between him and his fear. The water was simply beneath an inch--maybe two. He sat up and tried to remember the word for “fragment.” The fog had lifted on his left, and he could see what looked like shore. A convocation of trees carrying dead branches. A sitting rock. Indentations in careless mud. Earlier he couldn’t move, and now he felt an impulse to jump. Jump clear across the water and onto land. Generous, dry land. The kind that welcomed biblical heroes and unforgiven villains alike. He knew if he could only fly, not even fly, simply sail a bit, then he would be free.
 
	His body was lumber. He knelt in the raft, and there was no question of standing. All balance was gone. Kneeling was all stability would allow. He saw the water adjusting itself around the raft. He was terrified to interfere with its chosen path. He remembered being a boy. He remembered the pull from his father and then the hard hand on his neck. He tasted the lime again. He tasted the bacteria and the protozoa and the dead and the living. But what was living? What was dead? There were no sounds anymore. No sirens. No crackle of fires introducing themselves to the forest. There was just him and the water and a patch of shore where he could stand if he could remember how to.
 
	Emerson moved one leg off the raft and into the water. It was warmer than he assumed it would be. The bottom was low, but not low enough that he couldn’t stand. His neck would be above water, he surmised. Neck and head. Was that enough? It would have to be enough. Once his other leg was out of the raft, the entire apparatus floated away from him. There was no refuge now. It was shore or bust. He waded trepidatiously towards the sitting rock. That was his lighthouse. That was his point of focus. He was only a few feet away when he felt an unsteadiness where his left foot was stepping, and suddenly he was under.
 
	The pull wasn’t there, but the pressure was. A barrel against his lungs. A compression chamber around his eyes. He kept his mouth closed, determined to never taste quarry again. There would be no hand on his neck this time. His father long gone. Everyone long gone. His children only calling to ask if he’d seen the news. Kierstyn in her government job letting him know that she could get him a place in a complex up in the mountains. Walter off the grid and swearing to never go back to it again. Mary Anne with her own children to worry about, calling him for advice. Asking what to do. What to do, what to do.
 
	The pressure behind his neck felt like something familiar. Not the hand of a father, but something like a tap on the shoulder. A wake-up. His wife always woke before him. She’d go for a walk and write in her journal. She’d put the coffee on, and then there it was. A tap on the shoulder. Time for him to get up. Time to begin the day. There was an influence happening around him. Maneuvering him towards that tapping sensation. There was no need to follow it; he need only to fight his instinct to resist. As he made strides against the internal urge to swat away the mobile pressure, he felt a cascade of oxygen come upon him.
 
	His hands gripped something malleable.
 
	Mud. That careless mud.
 
	Emerson looked up to see the sitting rock beside him. His hand reached out and admired its sediment. Above him was a branch that appeared to be living despite its source bearing nothing but crisp annihilation. He smelled smoke, but it wasn’t close. Hands to lift himself up, and then legs to stand. Yes, he could stand. Something seemed to remind him that he could. He was only up for a moment, when he needed to sit back down. Luckily, the rock provided. Things were always provided if you were prepared to be provided for in ways you had not previously imagined. He looked at the river. It was turning again. It had found its way.
 
	Emerson Carver thought of his wife, and he remembered her name.
 
	“Roberta.”
 
	His own name would come to him later. He’d simply open his mouth, and the sound that came out would be his name.
 
	Or something close enough.
","July 14, 2023 20:22","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Kevin,\nOh my heavens! My heart breaks for this character. So many things in my life have been made safer because I’ve had the comfort of my partner, but the loss of that person can hit so hard when you can no longer lean on them in the way you always have. I loved that this character talked about the loss of his mind and the impact it had-from children’s names to numbers and memories. It felt like the water kept taking a piece of him away. Nice motif in there. :)', 'time': '14:33 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Very emotional, intense with an odd behavior that many humans can actually have, a deep rooted-fear, and then along with the hardship of his wife's death. Well written, Kevin."", 'time': '20:25 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Graham Kinross': 'It’s hard to imagine having a phobia of something so commonplace. I’ve heard about people like that though, can’t have baths or showers. I wonder if this guy always stank. The cruelty of the way his wife died as well is awful. He’d never believe it was anything but drowning. It was a sweet touch for him to remember her name at the end.', 'time': '10:46 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Kevin, such a story about fear gripping someone so badly that they forget who they are in that instant. I thought this was brilliantly worded and showed the fear rising like water rises in a river bed. \nYour writing depicts that gripping fear so well. Nicely done. \nLoved this! LF6', 'time': '03:09 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Lily!', 'time': '03:32 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Lily!', 'time': '03:32 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Lost in a fog here.', 'time': '13:28 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,bl8u32,The Bourne,RJ Holmquist,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bl8u32/,/short-story/bl8u32/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Science Fiction', 'Fiction']",23 likes,"
The BourneBOURNE: (noun) 1. a limit or boundary 2. a goal or destinationExcerpt from the personal log of Commander Alfred Livingstone Earth Year 2492—“I have always been afraid of death. The fear has driven me, kept me moving, forced me to explore. I have always felt that if I stop searching, stop pushing the boundaries, stop discovering, death will catch me.Earthside, death feels so near. The ground I walk on is made from bodies decayed eons before, the greenery and breathing things all around me rely on the death of something else to stay alive. The masses of humanity in their crowded cities where death arrives for someone every second of every day of every passing year. This terrifies me.Out in the cosmos I feel like I have a chance. The rational part of me knows this is foolish, but when I am hurtling at 6x the speed of between galaxies, turning the stars red behind me, I feel like death is far enough away it just might never find me.”  Excerpt from The New York Times, Jan. 1, 2500—Over the centuries of space exploration, there have been a few exceptional moments when humankind’s greatest explorers crossed an impossible boundary for the first time. There is Armstrong, the first to set foot on our own moon in 1969. Poletov, the first to another planet when he touched down on Mars in 2046. Gao reached the first extrasolar system, Proxima Centauri, in 2112 and Singh captained the first crew out of the Milky Way and into a new galaxy in 2303. With the advent of speed of light amplification and spacetime resonance ships, there have been a multitude of new moons, planets and galaxies visited since Gao penetrated Andromeda, but there haven’t been any new kinds of boundaries crossed for nearly two hundred years. We sat down with the greatest explorer of our age, Commander Alfred Livingstone and asked him if 2500 will be the century his name is added to the list of explorers who have done what no others have done before them. The Times: Some have said space exploration is in its golden age. What do you think will be the biggest thing to happen in the new century?”Commander Livingstone: I think we’ll find the edge of the universe and I think someone will cross it.The Times: The edge of the universe? Isn’t that a little tricky both scientifically and philosophically, as far as whether it exists or not?Commander Livingstone: Theoreticians make it tricky. But exploration is simple, just going out and seeing first hand which of all the tricky theories are actually true. The Times: But what if there is no edge? Wouldn’t that be the case if the universe is infinite?Commander Livingstone: There’s an edge. Once we find it, maybe we will have to invent new words for it, or change what we mean by “universe” or totally reconsider the way physics work. But that’s what great discoveries do, they change the way we see things.The Times: Do you think you’ll be the one to do it? To cross the boundary out of the universe for the first time?Commander Livingstone: Let’s just say I have a full schedule of missions planned for the next several years.Recording obtained via Household Virtual Assistant, Livingstone residence, June 2, 2500—“Grandpa promised he would be here for my birthday. He said he’d bring me something from a new planet.”“If he promised, then he’ll make it back, even if he’s a day or two late.”“Why does he always miss things?”“He does his best. You have to remember he’s coming from millions of miles away and time shift corrections can be off by weeks sometimes.”“Grandma, do you think he’ll ever take me with him? Not on one of his important trips, but maybe on one that just goes out a little ways? I want to see what the sun looks like when it is the same size as all the other stars.”“I’m sure he would like to take you out someday. He told me his next trip might be his last big one. I hope he will be around more after that.”From the Live Broadcast of Cmdr. Livingstone’s Final Launch December 7, 2500—“Commander Livingston is lifting his hand in farewell and ducking through the capsule hatch.But wait! He has re-emerged. He has taken his wife in another embrace and rests his hand on his Grandson’s head.Now, his goodbyes said, the hatch is closing behind him.Through the porthole his face can still be seen.He is calm, the picture of heroism.His lips are moving, and we are left to wonder what prayers are uttered by great men in their greatest moments.He is connected to the monitor, his vitals are coming though.Heart beating strong as we would expect.His respirations deep and regular. Neural activity registers as concentrated yet calm.“Launch sequence initiated. “Countdown marking:“9“8“Respirations falling. Heart rate dipping.“6 “5“Intense activity in the amygdala. Adrenal system engaged, yet vital signs remain low.  “3“2“His breathing has nearly stopped. His heart rate no longer registers.“1“Commander Livingston is dead.”Excerpt from Pre-Launch Interview with Dr. Chopra November 2500—“We are calling it the tether. Real exploration isn’t about how far you can go, it’s about how far you can make it back.Sure, if you launch something out at 1000 times the speed of light, it’ll go somewhere no one has ever been before.But if there is no way for them to send data back, then its not exploration, its just suicide.That’s why the tether is so important.We have been traveling outside our own galaxy for about 200 hundred years.That sounds impressive, but we have still only accounted for 1 trillionth of one percent of the universe.The problem isn’t distances.Spacetime resonance solved that.The real issues are the limits created by being “normal matter” creatures in a universe that is 27 percent dark matter and 68 percent dark energy.That leaves only 5 percent that our senses and instruments are even capable of observing.Sure we can tell the stuff is there, but even though we have known about it for centuries, we still haven’t found a way to directly observe more than nano sized particles of dark matter and nothing of dark energy at all.Hopefully, the tether will change all that.God bless Commander Livingstone for being brave enough to take this step past the edge of the observable universe.”  From a speech given to the Explorers Club by Cmdr. Livingstone, July 2496—“The will to survive. That is everything. Planning, yes. Technology, yes. But a will to survive above it all. When you are lost in the darkest, coldest hell the cosmos can conceive, the will to survive can find a way out.When nothing but a failing airlock stands between you and eternal mummification, the will to survive can seal it. When time distortion calculations go awry, and you find yourself two billion years off course, the will to survive finds a resonance wave to surf you home. When viruses mutated by unfiltered cosmic rays begin to liquefy you from the inside out, the will to survive makes a cure out of rocket fuel and space debris.Bravery. Intelligence. Discipline. These are all noble and will lead you to a noble death. But the will to survive—that will take you where no one has gone before and bring you back again. Recording obtained via Household Virtual Assistant, Livingstone residence, June 14, 2500—“Grandpa, is space really like it seems in cinesensies?”“Yes and no. They get some things right, but sensory recording can’t quite capture the way you truly feel when you are actually out floating in it.”“Cinesensies always make me feel small when they go out into space, especially when I am up close to earth and really see how big it is.”“That’s just it, I think. The cinesensies want you to feel something—small, or scared or awed—whatever it is the director is going for. But real space isn’t trying to make you feel anything. It’s just there, or to be more accurate, not there. Most of space is nothing. Sure, Earth is big up close, but when you are really out in space, you are almost never up close to a planet or anything else. The funny thing is, when I am out there, I actually feel gigantic and it's kind of true. In deep space you and your ship are the biggest thing for millions and millions of miles around.“Do you ever think about me and Grandma when you are up there?”“Of course I do. What makes you ask that?”“Well, we must seem pretty small to you if even the planet we’re on looks tiny.”Excerpt from Interview with Dr. Chopra November 2500—“So far it has performed admirably. The quantum nature of the tether renders time and space irrelevant. During our last test, Cmdr. Livingston situated himself on the cosmic horizon— that’s about 42 billion light years out and around 13 billion earth years in the past—I was able to pinpoint him with the 10VL array as usual, but when I activated the tether, it was like he was right next to me, or I guess more accurately like I was right in his head. A strange sensation actually, looking back in my own direction across all that space and all that time.” Recording obtained via Household Virtual Assistant, Livingstone residence, June 14, 2500—“Why Alf? Why are you doing this to me? For forty-five years I have never said a word while you blasted yourself as far away from me as you could as often as fleet command would allow. I never complained. I tried to understand. But this? This is cruelty Alf. You can’t do this to me.”Excerpt from the personal log of Commander Alfred Livingstone June 15, 2500—“Terah is angry. I thought she might see what all this means. “The bourne of time and space!” My whole life, my whole career has brought me to this. But I do not hold it against her. It will be hardest on her and little Fred. Yet their fear cannot be greater than mine. Perhaps if I were not a coward, I would not make this attempt. Perhaps if I could accept that death will come for me like for every man, I could spare myself this last adventure and instead spend my graying years loving the two of them while we wait for death together. But I am afraid and my fear drives me forward. ”Excerpt from interview with Dr. Chopra November 2500—“There are a few elements to this that are theoretical, though we feel pretty solid about them. The first is the nature of the soul. Centuries of human thought claim that it exists, but only recently has that been turned into a scientific truth.Yes, science has confirmed the existence of a human soul, but only indirectly. We know it’s there, we just don’t know what it is. Our theory is that the soul is made of the same thing as everything else in the universe we can’t see: 27 percent dark matter and 68 percent dark energy.Looking at it that way, our soul may be the only truly normal thing about us, the thing that blends with the overall make-up of the universe.It may also explain why, among the millions of “normal matter” planets we’ve explored so far, we are the only sentient life form. Maybe every other kind of sentience is made from the prevailing types of matter and we’re weird little anomalies with just enough “soul” to make us think we're smart.“Anyway, that’s how the tether works. It hooks into the soul somehow. Again, we don’t know exactly how it works, only that it does work. Wherever that soul goes, it sends a stream of data back through the tether.Oddly enough, the form the data takes is a lot like a cinesensie, but instead of digitized sensory information being pumped directly into your brain, you get raw perception, pure consciousness. Let me tell you, it puts anything they can do at a hi-def cinesense theater to shame.”Excerpt from Private Notes of Dr. Veeraj Chopra December 6, 2500I am becoming concerned about Cmdr. Livingstone’s perception of this mission and of what the tether can accomplish. I have not intentionally mislead him, but it seems he believes the tether may be able to send more than data back. When I explain to him that this is not the case, it does not register with him. I am uncomfortable about the ethical implications of continuing, but I am forced to move forward. No other candidate has the strength of soul necessary to operate the tether. Cmdr. Livingston’s “will to survive” as he calls it, provides the adhesion between his consciousness and the device. But perhaps I should not worry. Is he not a great explorer? Is he not accustomed to risks and uncertainties and to facing death?From the Live Broadcast of Cmdr. Livingstone’s Final Launch December 7, 2500—“Let us observe across this planet and indeed all across the space and star stations within reach of this broadcast a moment of silence for the great explorer who has launched his soul in the name of discovery.“Now Dr. Chopra signals. Is there data coming through the tether? Has he done it? Has Commander Livingston crossed the boundary and sent us word from the other side?”Tether data stream, December 7, 2500“Sunset and Evening Star”I cannot keep my lips from moving as I say the words to try and drown my fear.“And one clear call for me”I should have held her a moment longer. I should have told the boy I loved him.“And may there be no moaning of the bar”The bar. The bar. What will be the bar?I am no longer my body. I am nothing. Like the deep of space. I am drifting, drifting drifting towards the trembling. NO! I will survive! The tether, clutch the tether. And now the moaning swallows me, the boundless deep before me! But I grasp the trailing rope and ring the evening bell! There is something to discover here and I will survive it!“after that the dark” I cannot see, because I have no eyes or because there is no light I cannot tell. But I do not feel the cold or a waning of my thoughts.	“There will be no sadness of farewell”That is what I wanted, why I never say goodbye. But Terah, there is something here, something for the boy. When I embark! When I embark! I will turn again. Terah, you are my home. I knew before, though I never thought it.Here, beyond the bourne, there is something, though I can’t yet see it. You will find me, you will find me, when you have crossed the bar.
","July 15, 2023 00:35","[[{'Graham Kinross': '“ hurtling at 6x the speed of between,” (light).\n\nIs Commander Alfred Livingstone name after David Livingstone, the Scottish explorer, abolitionist and physician?\n\nI like the bit about the difference between exploration and suicide.\n\nThe idea of finding the edge of the universe is really cool. I wish there was more active space exploration. Mostly because I’ve always been a Star Wars/Star Trek/Farscape/BSG fan and I would love to be one of those explorers if it wasn’t for the enormous possibility of death. I believe in the edge of the univer...', 'time': '23:49 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thanks for your comment!\n\n...I picked up that missed word just after it was too late to fix it...\n\nThe name was meant to reference both Alfred Lord Tennyson and David Livingstone, though I picked ""Livingstone"" as much for the fact that it contained the word ""living"" as for the connection to famous explorer.\n\nThere are so many interesting ways of thinking about an ""edge of the universe""  scientifically, philosophically and semantically. It was definitely an interesting exercise considering the different ideas as I wrote the piece and it would...', 'time': '00:16 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'You could always write a sequel. Just don’t submit a sequel to the competition because apparently only standalone stories are eligible. I found that one out very late. I like building up stories though, expanding on ideas. Giving more exploration of characters.', 'time': '11:01 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thanks for your comment!\n\n...I picked up that missed word just after it was too late to fix it...\n\nThe name was meant to reference both Alfred Lord Tennyson and David Livingstone, though I picked ""Livingstone"" as much for the fact that it contained the word ""living"" as for the connection to famous explorer.\n\nThere are so many interesting ways of thinking about an ""edge of the universe""  scientifically, philosophically and semantically. It was definitely an interesting exercise considering the different ideas as I wrote the piece and it would...', 'time': '00:16 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Graham Kinross': 'You could always write a sequel. Just don’t submit a sequel to the competition because apparently only standalone stories are eligible. I found that one out very late. I like building up stories though, expanding on ideas. Giving more exploration of characters.', 'time': '11:01 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Graham Kinross': 'You could always write a sequel. Just don’t submit a sequel to the competition because apparently only standalone stories are eligible. I found that one out very late. I like building up stories though, expanding on ideas. Giving more exploration of characters.', 'time': '11:01 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. One of my favorites, though your character seems to have a very different parting message. I had to look back to find his name is Fred—I guessed the grandson would be called Mac (short for mine own Telemachus)? \nThe sources of writing are very effectively woven together. Everybody who sees this, go read Tennyson: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45392/ulysses', 'time': '19:18 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': ""Oh that's another great piece of Tennyson. I might have to incorporate bits of that in a rewrite. Thanks!"", 'time': '19:33 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': ""What one are you using here? It's the same story: restless wanderer comes home after endless journey and finds he can't sit still, has to use all his remain time and strength to set out again to conquer the horizon leaving loving wife and child behind... There's another like that?"", 'time': '08:11 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'RJ Holmquist': 'It does fit well, which I find a very pleasing coincidence.  The one I intentionally referenced is ""Crossing the Bar""', 'time': '12:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I didn’t know it—thanks.', 'time': '12:15 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': ""Oh that's another great piece of Tennyson. I might have to incorporate bits of that in a rewrite. Thanks!"", 'time': '19:33 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""What one are you using here? It's the same story: restless wanderer comes home after endless journey and finds he can't sit still, has to use all his remain time and strength to set out again to conquer the horizon leaving loving wife and child behind... There's another like that?"", 'time': '08:11 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'RJ Holmquist': 'It does fit well, which I find a very pleasing coincidence.  The one I intentionally referenced is ""Crossing the Bar""', 'time': '12:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I didn’t know it—thanks.', 'time': '12:15 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': ""What one are you using here? It's the same story: restless wanderer comes home after endless journey and finds he can't sit still, has to use all his remain time and strength to set out again to conquer the horizon leaving loving wife and child behind... There's another like that?"", 'time': '08:11 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'It does fit well, which I find a very pleasing coincidence.  The one I intentionally referenced is ""Crossing the Bar""', 'time': '12:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I didn’t know it—thanks.', 'time': '12:15 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'It does fit well, which I find a very pleasing coincidence.  The one I intentionally referenced is ""Crossing the Bar""', 'time': '12:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I didn’t know it—thanks.', 'time': '12:15 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'I didn’t know it—thanks.', 'time': '12:15 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David Sweet': 'Excellent storytelling! Congrats on making the shortlist. As a fan of sci-fi, I enjoyed it very much. I loved the way you worked in Tennyson.', 'time': '16:52 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'I am glad you enjoyed it! Tennyson was the reason for the story. I was rereading the poem a couple months ago and felt like it was so rich with sci-fi potential.', 'time': '16:56 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'David Sweet': 'Good call!', 'time': '00:30 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'I am glad you enjoyed it! Tennyson was the reason for the story. I was rereading the poem a couple months ago and felt like it was so rich with sci-fi potential.', 'time': '16:56 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Sweet': 'Good call!', 'time': '00:30 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Sweet': 'Good call!', 'time': '00:30 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shea West': ""This was a clever way to work with the epistolary style of writing which often relies so heavily on letters alone. \n\nIn all honesty I don't know much about The Odyssey, but I trust the others comments here that they are relevant! \n\nScifi and Fantasy have always been tricky reads for me on a comprehension level, but this was an outlier that really had me engaged.\n\nCongrats on the shortlist! Well deserved."", 'time': '16:05 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thanks for you kind comments. I am glad you enjoyed it as a Sci-fi tale and that the epsitolary style wasnt too jarring. As I was writing, I worried it might be just a jumble of jumped view points, skipped over action and ""I\'ll just skim that"" exposition.', 'time': '16:24 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thanks for you kind comments. I am glad you enjoyed it as a Sci-fi tale and that the epsitolary style wasnt too jarring. As I was writing, I worried it might be just a jumble of jumped view points, skipped over action and ""I\'ll just skim that"" exposition.', 'time': '16:24 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Out of this world! Superb!🤩 Odyssey overload.\n\nThanks for liking my story. \nCongrats on the shortlist\nThanks for liking my mayhem.', 'time': '04:35 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Хадусенко Артём': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '06:11 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi RJ,\nCongratulations on this wonderful shortlist! I adored the formatting since it blended the personal with the professional. I could imagine countless posters, movies, and TV shows made about this protagonist. Maybe a memoir by his grandchild on the side of him that no one ever really knew. This was a great story that built a character without us getting very much direct interaction. It made me muse not just on space and time, but on the pedestal we placed celebrity. Nice work!!', 'time': '05:36 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': ""Thanks for reading! Hmm, celebrity is interesting sub text isn't it? Makes me wonder what the protagonist's own inner/outer thoughts would be on the subject. Thanks for the thought provoking comment!"", 'time': '15:04 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': ""Thanks for reading! Hmm, celebrity is interesting sub text isn't it? Makes me wonder what the protagonist's own inner/outer thoughts would be on the subject. Thanks for the thought provoking comment!"", 'time': '15:04 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats. I can see that this prompt has a good story that flowed through it. Fine work here.', 'time': '12:47 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '15:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '15:05 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Excellent! Great twist, too. With the preamble, we assume this is a deeper exploration of space and perhaps time, but they push a different boundary altogether. \n\nThe format is unusual, and thus risky, but in this case it works. We're reading about the year 2500 after all, and there's a lot of catching up to do - and we get all we need without getting bogged down in things. Exposition done well. Plus, we get a lovely mix of scenes, from the event itself, to the official press handling, to tender family vignettes. \n\nThe tether mechanism is a ..."", 'time': '20:41 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Yes, I couldn\'t resist using ""Livingstone"" because of the ""I presume"" connection and because it contains the word ""living."" I also had to name him Alfred, because the whole story premise occurred to me out of Tennyson\'s poem. \n \n\nThanks for your comment!', 'time': '23:08 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '20:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'RJ Holmquist': 'Thank you! And good luck next week, I expect your magician piece should do well.', 'time': '20:48 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Yes, I couldn\'t resist using ""Livingstone"" because of the ""I presume"" connection and because it contains the word ""living."" I also had to name him Alfred, because the whole story premise occurred to me out of Tennyson\'s poem. \n \n\nThanks for your comment!', 'time': '23:08 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '20:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'RJ Holmquist': 'Thank you! And good luck next week, I expect your magician piece should do well.', 'time': '20:48 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Congrats on the shortlist!', 'time': '20:42 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thank you! And good luck next week, I expect your magician piece should do well.', 'time': '20:48 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'Thank you! And good luck next week, I expect your magician piece should do well.', 'time': '20:48 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,x3g0mr,Samshoblo,Sophia Gardenia,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x3g0mr/,/short-story/x3g0mr/,Character,0,['Sad'],22 likes,"
TW: death. 	I learned of my father’s death on a Sunday morning, while building a Lego pirate ship with my daughter. 	The house felt as sterile as a hospital that morning, sickly white light filtering through the windows, Cecilia’s giggling echoing around the freshly painted walls. We were sprawled on the cool tiled floor, bright Legos scattered all around us. I smiled at my daughter as I read the instructions and she grabbed plastic bricks, clicking them into place with a grin. 	Cici was putting the finishing touches on the hull of the ship when my phone shrieked with a Skype call from my mother, an ocean away in Georgia.	A few minutes later, I was out on the balcony yelling into the phone, my tongue heavy as lead with syllables I hadn’t uttered in so long. “Deda, gesmis?” Mom, can you hear me?	Static on the other line. I tapped on the screen, but the pixelated image of my mother remained. Poor internet connection, Skype helpfully informed me. Why did the internet never work in Georgia? “Qeti! Gesmis chemi?” Can you hear me, Qeti? Came my mother’s voice, garbled with sobs and static. The microphone feedback knocked me back a step. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the internet. “Kho, deda, mesmis. Ra iko?” Yes, Mom, I can hear you. What is it? More static, and then, a deep breath. “Mamashens insulti daemarta.” Your father had a stroke. Choked sobs. “Gushin mokvda.” He died yesterday. 	Everything turned blue and blurred as if someone had pushed me into the deep end of a pool. “Ra?” What? I was hearing the words, but the meaning was muted.	“Mamasheni mokvda.” Your father died.  My voice felt like it belonged to someone else when I replied, “Akhlave vikidi… ah…” How do you say ticket? Uhh… oh, right. “Akhlave vikidi bilets.” I’ll buy a plane ticket right away.  When I hung up and glanced at my pale hands, the volume button of my phone was imprinted on my palm.*****	I always held my father’s hand as tight as a vice. From the moment I was born, we were inseparable, I his shadow, and he the light that cast it. 	The best part of my day was when he’d come home from his work as the raikom secretary, usually with a small trinket for me. A button, a daisy, a spare coin. They were all treasures to me.	After dinner, when the fire was crackling in the stove, our bellies were full, and the dishes had been cleared away, my father would puff on a hand-rolled cigarette and tell me in his deep, raspy voice of childhood hunting trips, or of the vineyards he’d inspected for work. 		But one of my most vivid memories with my father was a funeral for one of our neighbors. I remember the lacquer of the coffin glimmering in the noon sun as the men lowered it into the ground. I must have been four or five at the time, so I didn’t know that people left and never came back and got sealed up in wooden boxes. I didn’t know what Heaven was.  	 So, I tugged on my father’s hand and whispered, “Father, where is that man going?”	“Samotkheshi,”  he murmured back. To Heaven. 	The family members began dropping fistfuls of earth into the grave. I pulled on Father’s hand again. “Are you going to go to heaven?” “Yes. But after a very long time.” “Father, I want to be with you.”	He chuckled, stooped, and ran a hand down my braid. “Nu dardob, mamusio, don’t worry, my dear. We’ll always be together.”	At the time, those words comforted me. But I grew older, and I realized there would inevitably come a time when I would walk the Earth without my father beside me. There would come a time when Father wouldn't come home from work and roll a new cigarette and hand me a trinket. There would come a time when his voice wouldn’t fill the void of night, and his stories wouldn't be there to guide me. 	Whenever I thought of this, I would freeze in fear, breaths hitched. Because he was my light and I was his shadow, and there’s no shadow without light. So I held his hand as tight as a vice, so that death could never wrench him away from me. 	Now I would never hold it again.*****	“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Cici asked when I stepped back inside.  Everything. “Nothing.”	“Can we keep building, Mommy?”	“Building?” I took a step forward and cried out as my foot landed on a Lego block. Pain splintered through my heel. Cici’s eyes widened as I crashed to the floor, right on top of her Legos. 	“No, my ship! Mommy, you broke it!” 	Wincing and rubbing my shoulder, I crawled over to my daughter and wrapped my arms around her. “Araushavs, sakvarelo, kvelapers gavastsorebt…” It’s okay, dear, we’ll fix everything…	“I don’t understand!” Cici sobbed and dashed away to her room.	Tears sprang to my eyes as I pushed off the floor and rubbed my foot. I glanced at the pirate ship and realized I’d broken the hull off. More Legos had joined the scattered pile on the floor and the instruction booklet was crumpled under my hip. 	Later, Cici rebuilt her ship. But there were no hands helping me click the Lego bricks of myself together. No instructions explaining how to deal with the death of my father. *****	Two days later, I was dragging my one haphazardly packed suitcase onto a plane. The world felt fuzzy as if everything was wreathed in fog. And every so often, a burst of clarity and a pang in my heart as I remembered my father was dead. 	Finally, I arrived at the Shota Rustaveli International Airport in Tbilisi. While the “Georgian Citizens” counter for passport control was virtually empty, a huge line was already snaking through the “All Other Nationalities” section. My suitcase thumped behind me as I joined the line of foreigners. I stopped being a Georgian citizen years ago. 	“Gamarjoba,” I greeted the customs officer when I finally got to the counter. He gave me a quizzical look as he examined my passport, likely wondering why it was blue instead of red, American instead of Georgian. Nevertheless, he stamped it, slid it under the partition, and welcomed me back to Saqartvelo. Georgia. 	Barely standing, I stepped through the glass doors into the chaotic waiting area. People stood on their tiptoes, trying to find relatives. Taxi drivers held sheets of paper with their clients' names on them. The sound of angry clamoring and tearful reunions rang through the air. Incapable of smiling at the familiarity of the scene, I scanned the area, eventually spotting Dato elbowing his way through the throng. 	“Daberebulkhar, dao!” my younger brother exclaimed, pulling me into a rib-crushing hug. You’ve gotten old, sister! 	“Shents.” You too. From afar, Dato’s grin looked genuine. I saw the fissures in it though. Saw the flecks of gray in his jet-black hair and crinkles around his chestnut eyes that hadn’t been there before.	Dato started to pull away, but I hugged him tighter. “I missed you a lot.”	His cracked smile crumbled. “Me too.”	Dawn was breaking as we pulled out of the overflowing parking lot in Dato’s beat-up BMW. After honking repeatedly at another driver who’d swerved in front of him, Dato began jabbering about recent on-goings. 	I tried to oh and ah in all the right places, but it was hard to pay attention when I was stuffing myself into a black dress. He fell quiet, and I fell asleep, dozing through the entire three-hour car ride up and down the mountain to Kvareli, the village where I grew up. 	Dato woke me up in time to see the sign at the entrance to our town flash by, proclaiming ‘ყვარელი’ in chipped black paint. I sat up and watched the streets fly by through the car window, marveling at how everything, and simultaneously nothing, had changed. People were still selling fresh produce at the outdoor market. The red bike path was still cracked and faded. The downtown playground was as dilapidated as ever. Birshavikebi, or unemployed street loiterers, were still smoking Marlboros and cracking sunflower seeds as they squatted near the village springs. 	But bread was 90 tetri instead of 70. A bunch of Spar mini-markets had popped up all over town. Ukrainian flags hung from balconies. The hotel near Ilia’s Lake was closed. Kvareli had moved on without me, and I felt like an old souvenir that didn’t match the decor of a newly renovated home.	For a minute, I forgot my reason for coming here. But not for long. 	The car rattled as Dato turned onto our street, full of potholes and vehicles belonging to those paying their respects. I took a deep draught of air.  “Somebody, open the door!” Dato yelled out the window. The rusted silver gate creaked open a second later, and we trundled into the yard. 	My eyes misted over as it all came into view, and suddenly I was crying. Crying at the clucking chickens bobbing their heads and the grape vines curling around the balcony railings. Crying at the plump pears hanging from laden branches and the statue of Ilia Chavchavadze off in the distance, looking down over Kvareli. 	I wiped the salty residue off my face, the blast of hot, arid air almost painful when I opened the car door. It was only September, but like oily fingerprints on a Polaroid picture, the vestiges of summer remained. 	I barely had time to register the group of men standing in the yard when I saw a ghost: my mother, descending the stairs that connected our two-story house. Like water, each of her steps was fluid, but I knew from the emptiness of her expression that she felt anything but. 	Slamming the car door behind me, I ran over and threw my arms around her, tears filling my eyes anew.  “Deda!” I cried, clutching the scratchy fabric of her shapeless black dress.  “Shh, not here.” She guided me up the steps, away from the mourning men below, and into her bedroom, which still smelled like musty books and rosewater. With a pang, I realized it was her bedroom now, not her and my father’s room.  	Cupping my face in her withered white hands, my mother said, “If only your father could see how beautiful you’ve become.”  “I think you mistakenly said beautiful instead of old,” I replied with a hollow laugh.	She just shook her head and sat me down in front of the vanity. As Mother wrapped a black headscarf over my hair, my eyes found the tin box sitting beside the mirror. My box of trinkets. 	With shaking hands, I lifted the lid and stared at all the little gems my father had given me over the years. Dusty buttons, rusted coins, dried daises. Markers of a life long left behind. 	Mother took my hand–it’s time–and I turned away from the painful mementos. 	We plodded down the steps, past the group of male mourners, and into the living room. 	When someone dies in Georgia, the bereaved family holds a panashvidi. Today was the last day of my father’s panashvidi, since it had been five days since his death. 	My grip on Mother’s wrist hardened as I saw my father’s open casket on its stand, centered diagonally in the dim room so that he would face east, awaiting Jesus Christ. I took in his crossed hands, the wooden cross around his neck, and the icon of Saint Giorgi, his namesake. Took in the thick candle by his head, illuminating the bowls of salt, oil, wine, and wheat. 	I finally worked up the courage to focus on my father’s face. Shut eyes accentuating his crow’s feet, a mouth pressed into a hint of a smile, and deep lines chiseled by laughter: that was all that was left of my father’s vibrant countenance.  Drowning, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, deep breaths, deep breaths…	Mother squeezed my shoulder and pushed me forward onto a bench at the edge of the room with the other female chirisuplebi, mourners. She then took her place at the door, accepting condolences from the slow trickle of visitors. 	 Around me, the women were singing a lament song. My aunt Nino sang the words while other relatives formed the song’s base, the sound echoing in the room like a long wail. I leaned against the wall in silence, the words and notes a mystery to me. 	The longer I listened, the more the song began to sound like a scream.*****	The rest of the panashvidi and burial the next day were a blur. After the last mound of dirt had arced through the air and landed on my father’s grave, everyone climbed into cars and minivans to head to the qelekhi, a feast honoring the deceased. 	We filed into the banquet hall upon arrival and began filling the four long tables that lined the room. My head spun at the number of people in the hall; there had to be at least three hundred. Once everyone had taken their seat, the food was served, and the tamada began making toasts celebrating Father’s life. 	Aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends shouted at me across the table as they reached for more helpings of khashlama and wine.  “So, Qeti, how is life in America?”  “How is your husband?”  “You know, my sister’s friend’s cousin recently moved to America, you might know him…” “Hey, could you help me with my green card application?” 	Picking at the khachapuri in front of me, I tried to respond without wincing at my stilted Georgian. I’d sunk like a rock, the conversation flowing over me like a river rapid. 	The day became darker, and the guests became tipsier. With slurred words, one of my father’s friends was strumming a chonguri and humming a love song. I was staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling when my mother tapped me on the shoulder.  “How long will you be here?”  “Ravi,” I sighed. I don’t know. 	For a moment, Mother observed the drunken chonguri player. Then she grabbed my hand under the table. “Stay here awhile. Bring Cecilia. I haven’t even met her.” 	Shaking my head, I bit out, “I haven’t lived here in years. Cecilia doesn’t even know Georgian.”  “It doesn’t matter. Your place is here,” she put her hand over my sternum. “This is your samshoblo, your home country.” It was almost as if she could feel my heart shattering. 	“I’ll think about it.” 	*****	Being in Georgia again was like trying to drive a stick-shift after you’d owned an automatic car for years. Strange at first, but easier after time. I began thinking in meters instead of feet, Lari instead of Dollars. I updated my mind map of Kvareli, and reconnected with old school friends and relatives. 	But every friend and relative was a reminder of who I’d been before I left Georgia. Every old haunt a reminder that my father wasn’t there to see it with me. 	It soon became unbearable, along with my husband’s panicked texts about where Cici’s lunch box was, or how to make spaghetti. 	So, I bought a ticket home. As if a place existed that I could truly call home.	After tearful goodbyes and promises to visit soon, Dato drove me to the airport. It was just me again, dragging my neatly packed suitcase onto a plane. 	In Georgian, there isn’t a word that fully captures the nuances of ‘home.’ There’s sakhli, ‘house,’ but home isn’t necessarily a house. It’s with loved ones. So, I think the closest word to ‘home’ in Georgian is samshoblo, ‘home country’. Maybe that shows that Georgians don’t have individual homes like English speakers. We all share the same home: our country, our samshoblo.	As the plane turned onto the runway, I pressed my face to the window to get one last glimpse of Georgia. Hot tears blurred my vision so that the world was a smear of midnight paint, the gold-silver city lights winking in the inky night like coins in a fountain. But while nebulous blobs danced in my vision, the hazy smoke in my mind disappeared, like fog lifting with the coming of the sun.	My greatest fear had always been the death of my father. I’d faced that now, though. 	Georgia was my samshoblo, my home country. It would never be the same without Father, but I still belonged here. I wish I’d realized that before I’d moved to America and let go of my father’s hand. Before death had claimed my light. 	But I was realizing it now. And maybe that realization was the instruction booklet I needed to begin clicking the Lego bricks of myself together again. 
","July 14, 2023 21:34","[[{'Sophia Gardenia': 'If you liked this story, please consider reading the prequel, ""American Bread:"" https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hcqoxs/', 'time': '20:52 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emma D': 'Beautiful story! My favorite line was ""Because he was my light and I was his shadow, and there’s no shadow without light.""', 'time': '04:15 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '05:58 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks for reading!', 'time': '05:58 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': ""There are a lot of strong emotional threads in this story. The pain of losing a parent, the difficulty of dealing with the remaining parent, feeling like your heart is in two cultures. It's a very powerful picture."", 'time': '20:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you so much, Ellen!', 'time': '20:52 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you so much, Ellen!', 'time': '20:52 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'A beautiful tribute to one that brings light. I agree with Delbert.', 'time': '14:08 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you!', 'time': '17:53 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you!', 'time': '17:53 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, such a powerful tale, Sophia, and one that brought out many emotions in me as I recalled my mother's death. You spun some gold in this tale, with heartbreak and love and acceptance. This is truly one of your best stories, my friend. It is a masterpiece, IMO.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '00:09 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""I'm so sorry for your loss, Delbert. \n\nYeah, this story was really something to write, because I was trying to cover both Qeti's grief at her father's death and her pain over leaving her country behind. Maybe I was trying to pack too much into one story, but I'm glad the emotions resonated. \n\nThanks so much for reading!"", 'time': '06:15 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""I'm so sorry for your loss, Delbert. \n\nYeah, this story was really something to write, because I was trying to cover both Qeti's grief at her father's death and her pain over leaving her country behind. Maybe I was trying to pack too much into one story, but I'm glad the emotions resonated. \n\nThanks so much for reading!"", 'time': '06:15 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,b8dxxj,Painted White,Steffen Lettau,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b8dxxj/,/short-story/b8dxxj/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction', 'Suspense']",22 likes,"
Fall came. Fall goes. And then, the fall comes back.It was a favorite time for the community, and the relief from the freezing cold brought by their last visitor was as abound as the falling leaves. The reports of the lack of Hunters brought even more joy, and it felt as if peace was going to be a mainstay. For Tholan, it brought about a familiar stage of paranoia.He was keeping an eye out for the spiders.This was a time for festivities, as the harvest brought about a bounty that would last them even through the winter as their storages were filled, and their fresh water was collected from the river pouring out a rushing torrent from the mountains. However, this was a time when the pests would invade their homes, and all precautions and preparations against such were being considered and carried out. Some pests, like rodents and birds, were saved for meat, while bugs from ants to large beetles were either crushed or scooped up and placed back outside. Garrold, the community leader, suggested leaving the insects be, as the house spiders could take care of them. ""Spider's gotta eat, too.""This idea, however, didn't sit well with Tholan. It felt silly, a young and strong fighter and protector being scared of an arachnid, but he hadn't quite gotten over his phobia since childhood. Even Garrold and Lindia teased him for such, remarking how he had faced down a team of Hunters and a cannibalistic abomination while shivering over a spider just being itself. ""It's more scared of you than you are of it,"" they would tell him. Then they would recommend facing his fear, get exposed to the animals over time, and he would be fine.Tholan had just finished cleaning his house after helping out in the fields in the morning and was thanking his community's patron deity that he hadn't come across anything with more than four legs. Still, every cobweb gave him pause, and a simple string or even hair follicle had him sweep a room more than once. He was about to head out the door with a new dust collection to give back to the wild when Lindia rushed inside:""Love, have you seen either Petro or Feina?""Tholan paused; today was another push for potential resources, and the oldest couple had volunteered to venture out. Everyone was told to avoid the Blue Man clearing, as that area was considered a hot zone (more like a cold zone, Tholan had joked), and some even thought it cursed; Garrld reassured everyone that it was to let the corpse be, as the forest would claim the body as the soul was now at peace. This meant that the couple would have to push further into the darkened woods, away from the mountains and dangerously close to potential Hunter grounds, usually used for camping and trapping. Petro and Feina, however, were the most experienced, and no worries were made over their decision even though Garrold told them both to exercise extra caution, even telling them to return before midnight. The fact that Lindia had to ask was a clear indication that something went wrong.""Everyone, remain calm!"" Garrold ordered the crowd that gathered outside his house, as many a concern was passed. ""Listen, listen! Yes, Petro and Feina have not returned yet, that could mean a number of things. They could have been forced to hide out, as there are reports of Hunters camping near the lake as well as the river for deer game, even ducks, and they might be avoiding detection. Or maybe they found a new resource, and they are just delayed in setting up a temporary entrenchment. Or, most likely, one of them got injured, and they're taking things carefully. Everyone, just continue with your day, go back to your chores or play. Tholan, Lindia, come here!""Typical, Tholan thought, but at least he would get away from any potential ""skitter-critters"" - a reference he called the children who liked to prank him with fake spiders.Garrold ordered them both in the general direction of the elder couple, stating, ""Whatever is going on, you just bring back those two. Don't get caught, don't get seen, don't fight unless you have to, just find Petro and Feina! And hurry; their children are worried."" Tholan and Lindia agreed, and quickly set out with their packs of water, preserved meat, bandages and medicine, and a couple knives and hatchets. Both also took a couple spears, bows, and a couple quivers of arrows just in case they came across any predators. Tholan brought more matches and rubbing alcohol, just in case.A few hours had passed, and they were practically a stone's throw away from the lake when they came across a red crux. This one had been set up years ago, and Lindia leaned forward and sniffed the wood. ""They were here,"" she reported, and Tholan looked around. There were definite tracks on the ground...A strand landed on him. He quickly grabbed it out of reaction, and thought it was from the forest itself. He tried to throw it to the ground, but it stuck to him.He pulled it, but it got stuck to his other hand and even his jacket. Finally, he rolled it up and was able to huck it away from him when he saw more strands, these ones already on the ground. He soon made out distinct tracks of humanoids, moving directly to the lake, along with...something else. He looked at the earth; these were claw marks, but nothing he was familiar with. These, too, were heading for the direction of the lake...as if following the humanoids.Tholan and Lindia stepped out of a place of strange dreams and found themselves face-to-face with the aftermath of a nightmare; there was an encampment of Hunters. The keeyword being, ""was"". The tents were either spilled in different directions, or had collapsed where they once stood, almost like someone stomped on them. Equipment was littered all about, from fishing lines to rifles, some even snapped in half. And then...the bodies.About five were laid about, though a couple were ripped wide open and almost made the count seven. Another was apparently stabbed with bolts and was lying near the treeline as if running away from whatever had done this. A third was also near the trees, but appeared to have been broken from being thrown to the trunk that he was lying under. And the fourth... Tholan was reminded of a potato sack after it had been emptied as he examined this cadaver. Two gaping holes were in the abdomen, and the only moisture was a strange liquid that smelled awful (along with whatever smell was left in the remains of the guts). There were more of these strange, sticky strands-""Over here!"" Lindia called out.Tholan rushed to her and found Feina lying within one of the collapsed tents. She twitched when Lindia laid a hand upon her and stared into the eyes of the younger patrollers. She stuttered, ""P...p-p...Pe-tro...it-it...it took P-Pe...Petro...""""What took him? Where?"" asked Tholan.Feina's eyes were rolling to the back of her head and her mouth shut, but she managed to point with her right hand to the north. ""She's gone in shock, love,"" remarked Lindia. ""I'll get her to the community.""""Check for any injuries, and then go,"" responded Tholan. ""I'll find Petro.""Walking north, he stopped to pick the strands off of his feet. And then, he stepped on another strand that actually stretched further into the woods. It was taunt, like it was intentionally stuck there. As he pulled, it stretched and waved, and he followed the line first with his eyes, and then with his body. Rumor was given that this direction led to a cave system, once home to nomads and bears, but having been abandoned for one reason or another. Something else had now moved in.Moving forward with utmost caution, he saw more strands, this time as taunt as the introductory string, and even moving up the trees. Before the rock formations supposedly leading to the caves, a strange formation was sticking out, white like a bedsheet yet set up in a familiar design...He came closer. It was a crux! One of their old cruxes, set up years ago by none other than Petro himself! But why would Petro come back here? The better question, and more concerning question on Tholan's mind, was what dragged him back here? He touched the crux, and the white strands stuck to his hand. Finally, he recognized it for what it was.Spider silk.He breathed heavily, his neck-hairs standing on end. He looked around again; the webbing was everywhere in this vicinity! Even the ground had strands, stretched and laid out like a chessboard, and he was standing in the middle of it. He looked around carefully, moving slowly...A faint sound was heard, one that an ordinary human might miss or take as a faint gust of wind. Tholan, however, made out the distinct sound of someone in distress, an elder male's voice moaning in pain. As carefully as possible, he moved among the strands and pressed on.The rumor was true; here was the cave system! Tholan noticed that these weren't natural, but might have been mines from decades ago, maybe even centuries. More strands were spread across the mines, all but one large entrance laying down from the slope that he stood upon. Another moan was heard, definitely coming from the entrance, and Tholan carefully moved down the slope to the entrance. He checked inside, and saw nothing resembling a trap. He looked closer for any spiders, however large or small they might be. There were corpses of the arachnids, stuck onto the strands and left to starve, but not much else moved here except-""Petro!"" Tholan called out to something that shifted inside. The shifter, in response, moaned again. Tholan ran inside, checking around the corners and even the ceiling as he hurriedly made his way to the elder patroller. Petro was moving one arm while the other appeared to be paralyzed, especially with more of those bolts from before. Tholan looked closer and saw that these weren't bolts. They were quills! Large, barbed quills. Large, urticating hairs...Petro grabbed him. ""F-Feina!"" he gasped. ""W-what did, where i-is...?""Tholan removed his hand and held it. ""She's alive. Lindia's with her. I'm getting you out of here.""Petro shook his head. ""N...no, s-save Feina, save y-yourself, g-get out, boy, it wi-ill come-""The light from the entrance was suddenly swallowed, and Tholan's hair seemed to try and escape without him. Petro gasped again, and Tholan slowly looked over his shoulder.More light was swallowed away, unable to peer fully around the giant now making its way back into its home. Its claws slowly reached out from legs as thick as gate poles and gripped either rock or dirt, while its quill-covered body swayed slowly up and down like a calm ocean tide. Dark orbs stared upon him as what looked like glowing circles from within swayed left and right before centering on him.His childhood appeared before his eyes; a simple game amongst the other children, testing their noses with ""hide-and-seek"". Not far from their community, he had already found three others and tagged them, sending them back home. He ran to the trees, smelling a potential fourth candidate. It was then that he came upon what he thought was a white tree. The smell was stronger here, and he ran to the tree, eager to climb it and tag his next victim. When he felt his hands stick onto the trunk, he assumed that it was sap and he pulled.The white strands suddenly came off the tree, now bound onto his palms, and he pulled even more. The strands became more numerous, and even more were stretched off of a large overlaying branch hanging above Tholan. Suddenly, the strands snapped, and a few dark, black objects fell upon him. In shock, he fell over, the strands lying atop him. He sat up, and upon his chest was a large spider, a tarantula that was as surprised as he was. It rushed his face, and he screamed. The visage of the tarantula filled his view.This thing was almost a thousand times bigger than that tarantula - an ultrantula. It was not curious, it was not scared, it wasn't going to defend itself. No, it was going to kill both him and Petro. Fear was seeping into Tholan's being, having his life literally flash before his eyes-Lindia. Garrold. The children. The community. Those flashed before his eyes. So did those Hunters, that abomination, the red cruxes and the blue corpse...Petro moaned in pain again. This seemed to break through the fear that held Tholan. He stared back at the ultrantula, gritting his teeth. Already, his muscles grew, his clothes tore, and his power was found again. He was not dying here, and neither was Petro! No one else was dying! This defiance surged into a roar, and the ultrantula pounced!Tholan dropped his spear and grabbed the now-outstretched fangs. The giant arachnid pushed him to the wall, and he used his left foot as a brace from being completely pressed. As strong as he was, he was still fighting against a greater mass, one trying to get him underneath it so that gravity, too, would be on its side. What's more, that same smelly liquid was pouring out of its fangs; a drop already landed on his right forearm, and he could feel irritation and, following, a great itching sensation. There was no time left; while bracing with his left foot on the wall, his right foot came up and delivered a powerful front kick between the fangs, on the chelicerae. The ultrantula relented, backing up a few feet, giving Tholan a few seconds of reprieve. Again, the spider charged, but Tholan quickly ducked under it, missing the fangs by an inch. The spider stopped and backed up again, but Tholan rolled and stayed underneath it. It backed up to the left, and then to the right, but Tholan stayed underneath it despite his now larger size. He scratched at the the spider's underside-The ultrantula jumped and landed on the wall where it almost pinned Tholan earlier. It quickly turned to him, and he stood up. The light bent around his being, filling the cave, and the ultrantula shifted to a darker part. Tholan, in turn, backed away and had the light of the entrance between him and the spider. It hissed a loud and curt response, and then started crawling up to the ceiling. Tholan moved underneath it, and it released its grip and fell upon him. But Tholan jumped back, drawing it into the light and having it force itself back.Petro shifted uncomfortably, attracting the ultrantula. It moved towards its nearly unconscious prey, and Tholan, waving his arms, cried out, ""No, over here!"" Immediately, the ultrantula turned its thorax to him, and started kicking its quills. Tholan dodged almost all the bolt-like barbs, with one digging shallowly into his forearm. He rushed forward and bit deeply into one of the spinnerets. Another hiss, and the ultrantula actually managed to fling him off, albeit with one less spinneret.He shook himself, and then spat out the piece. The ultrantula, illuminated by the entrance light, now turned to him again but was not setting up a strike. He understood; it was in pain, reluctant, and almost out of stamina. He, too, was in pain, but he was patient and still raring to go. And as if his patron deity was smiling upon him, he saw his spear within reach. But what to do?Another memory came to him, this one a lesson of a war from long ago.Petro shifted again, and the ultrantula turned to him. Taking advantage of the act, Tholan reached out and grabbed his spear. The spider turned back to him, and pounced once more!Throwing the spear would be a waste, and stabbing at it wasn't enough since his claws could barely scratch past the exoskeleton. No, now the ground and gravity were going to be his friends. He braced the butt with his right foot, and the point waited. The hunter became the hunted, as the sharp metal went straight into its mouth. The pained hiss barely made it past the head, the fangs bit down and were deflected by the round shaft, and the butt was dug into the ground, in turn burying the sharp point further into its target. A blue liquid now poured forth from within, smelling strongly of copper, and the pedipalps started swinging, hitting Tholan a couple times. It felt like a superheavyweight boxer was giving him haymakers, but he wasn't feeling anything except rage. With renewed strength, he pushed the shaft further up.It was done; the ultrantula slumped down dead, its movements were now just death twitches. The glowing circles that once stared intensely at him were now darkened, possibly from internal bleeding. Tholan pulled his spear out, and then sat down as he felt nauseous from the punching he had received. After about a minute, he stood back up and walked over to Petro. The elder was still alive. ""Petro,"" Tholan exhaled, ""let's get you home.""
","July 15, 2023 02:34","[[{'Stephen Hansen': 'This was an exciting read. Congratulations.', 'time': '21:58 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Thank you, and thanks for reading my story!', 'time': '22:55 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Thank you, and thanks for reading my story!', 'time': '22:55 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Howdle Gavin': 'why is  this not a   winner', 'time': '10:10 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'I guess someone wrote something better.  Regardless, I appreciate you reading my stories.  Thank you!', 'time': '17:51 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'I guess someone wrote something better.  Regardless, I appreciate you reading my stories.  Thank you!', 'time': '17:51 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Reminds me of a certain scene from Lord of the Rings. Gave me the willys! Lol', 'time': '23:26 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'The first time I saw Shelob, it also scared me.', 'time': '00:13 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'The first time I saw Shelob, it also scared me.', 'time': '00:13 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,sy2haf,The Social Phantom,Shahzad Ahmad,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sy2haf/,/short-story/sy2haf/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Creative Nonfiction']",21 likes,"
It was a war zone in abstraction. The only difference being the absence of the spectre of brute force exchanging infinite rounds of artillery fire. Its place was taken up instead by frightening images that blurred reality and transported me to the confines of an imagined  world where fear was firmly saddled and dwarfed any countervailing forces that were even faintly suspected of raising a revolt. It was overpowering; it was intense; it held both my body and brain in a state of suspension with no prospects of an early release. The accelerating heart beat had immobilized me and obstructed all my plans for the day. Whether I drank a cup of tea or opened the door of my cupboard, my hysterical heart beat immediately stalled any progress, regardless of the triviality of the task. It was like setting up a tryst with your opponent without any self-protection and giving yourself away to be maltreated, flayed and torn apart to smithereens with the foreknowledge of this predicament. My mind had accepted the invitation of savagely competing thoughts scrambling against each other for greater space. I was unnerved and my physical mobility refused to keep pace with the frenetic swirl of reflections that was semi consciously witnessing the event futuristically. Being overly conscious of even the micro movements that my footsteps produced, I jumpily ushered myself in the classroom where the lecture was going on. For days before the event my heart beat had started to behave like a whimsical car that failed to be tamed by its driver. The very thought of negotiating a crowd without any defensive tools, produced tumult in my mind and unleashed a string of amorphous images that would threaten my capacity to endure the brickbats leave alone contemplate a rebuttal. I felt overwhelmed by the searching eyes that distilled the very thoughts that my mind germinated, cultivated and then raised into an invincible phantom. I felt as my life book had been laid open, chapter by chapter, line by line and the readers given the license to read, interpret and pass their judgement in a single act of examination. On the other end, I was helplessly witnessing the exposure of the minutiae of my private life. I felt encumbered by a weight that pressed me down towards the bottom and sapped my energy disabling me to even think of mounting the semblance of an effort at redeeming myself. I felt as If all eyes were centered on me, trying to extract the details of my overworked imagination. It added to my nervousness and I wanted to flee and hide somewhere but all places of escape had been closed down! With great hesitation, I glanced around the lecture room to observe any obvious expression of smirk or to witness a glimpse of distaste, but no one seemed to be looking towards me and that was strange. People's reaction to my qualms was not the one I had anticipated! Had they lost interest in me or I had created a phantom out of no premise, it was hard to tell.I had grown into a social recluse of sorts. Any kind of social interaction would terrify me and drive me into exaggerated anticipation of the event that was at that moment still an abstraction. It would produce a queasy feeling that lingered around for extended periods of time and completely crippled my mobility. It would drive me into overthinking that would border on paranoia and try as I might I would fail to break free from their iron clad grip.On that particular moment, as a means of defence, I tried to dodge my fears by hitting the ground running. The class was divided into 2 groups supporting two different sides of the argument. I immediately joined one of the groups and jumped into the debate. I thought that was the only way to assert myself and defend myself against the ruthless barrage of social pressure. Therefore, I went on a rampage and continued to speak about the topic using precious little knowledge that I had to deflect attention away from my bumbling social demeanour. It was a way of hiding my social ineptitude so that I could get away from it by highlighting my better skilled faculties. It was quite successful but added extra pressure on me as I had to maintain the same lofty intellectual standard all the time that was well-nigh impossible and was a study case in pretense at best. I was strained and always seemed to operate against a self created challenge that would oppress me and would not allow me to be my own man!I headed to a tea stall to diffuse this stress. However my college fellows were found nearby and my worst fears would once again encircle me with their gripping claws. This was also the first time I shared educational space with girls. Before this I had never studied with girls and the prospect of interacting with them without any practice or exposure further complicated the situation. There was a bevy of girls standing by the canteen. They were all my class fellows but there had been no introduction before. As I passed them by and raised my eye lids a little, I had to make a gigantic effort to conceal my internal state of uncertainty. I thought of giving it away but on second thoughts continued to prolong the act so clumsily enacted. And the funny thing was that all this was noticed by me alone whereas others whose attention I was trying to seek or avoid were absolutely ignorant of this pretty obvious fact.There were some occasions when I really chastised myself for exaggerating the situation but it was beyond my control. No matter how hard I tried to play down the situation it was always blown up by my pathological musings. I was completely entrapped and there was no way of breaking free.This unease had started to impinge upon other faculties and I could not concentrate on the lesson. There were times when I sat through a one hour lesson apparently nodding my head as an admission of comprehension but actually not a word was assimilated and I would cut a sorry figure if the professor asked me a question.This continued for some time and then there was a time when I just gave up. In order to survive naturally in that place I had to interact with girls on a daily basis but my inhibition had grown so strong that it was not possible to do so. I simply stopped going to the college and gave up on it. I tried to muster uo the courage to make a reappearance but my steps failed to support my renewed spirit.Something broke down inside me. I was like a soldier who wanted to continue fighting but stumbled upon an unavoidable obstacle that bogged him down. People often cite examples of physical or psychological oppression. But the thrust of social oppression is ruthlessly unyielding, giving you no hope of staging a comeback.I was being externally controlled. I had a voice but the words were extracted by others; I had eyes but the vision was extraneous; I had reflexes but the reaction was determined by others; I had a life but its action zones were stage managed by the whims and swings of others having no part to play in handling the consequences!
","July 13, 2023 00:39","[[{'Kevin Logue': 'You capture anxiety so well Shahzad. I think you have given me sweaty palms from just reading it.\n\nAs always your poetics are beautiful, but I particularly enjoy the simplicity of this line - I headed to a tea stall to diffuse this stress.\n\nWell done and good luck 🤞', 'time': '17:02 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Kevin for your beautiful comments and micro analysis. It inspires to keep the words flowing. Good luck with your stories.', 'time': '17:55 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Kevin for your beautiful comments and micro analysis. It inspires to keep the words flowing. Good luck with your stories.', 'time': '17:55 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'With all this angst recognized I believe you can face your fear now\n\nThanks for liking my public speaking fiasco.', 'time': '17:02 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Mary for reading my story and identifying the theme so well. Yes probably much better but still not perfectly.', 'time': '17:25 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Mary for reading my story and identifying the theme so well. Yes probably much better but still not perfectly.', 'time': '17:25 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'You did a wonderful job here making your prose the reflect the subject: the paragraphs are laden with details and emotion and rich language in a way that gives the whole thing a sense of heaviness—of being deeply buried in one’s head. Then this line breaks up that heady, anxious tone with a more lighthearted revelation: “And the funny thing was that all this was noticed by me alone whereas others whose attention I was trying to seek or avoid were absolutely ignorant of this pretty obvious fact.” It’s so profoundly true; the world doesn’t see...', 'time': '09:57 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Aeris for your thorough examination of my work and highlighting the areas of significance. They mean a lot to me and provide me the inspiration to continue to transfer my thoughts to the writing page. Good luck to you as well. You are extremely talented yourself and produce great stories.', 'time': '10:22 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Aeris for your thorough examination of my work and highlighting the areas of significance. They mean a lot to me and provide me the inspiration to continue to transfer my thoughts to the writing page. Good luck to you as well. You are extremely talented yourself and produce great stories.', 'time': '10:22 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'RJ Holmquist': 'What a great depiction of how anxiety can be self amplifying. It seems no matter what others did or didn\'t do, the main character felt he was being acted upon, until he was convinced he was being ""externally controlled."" \n\nMany great lines, I particularly like ""blown up by my pathological musings.""\n\nThe story leaves me curious about the back ground that led the MC to have such anxiety.', 'time': '14:30 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thank you RJ for your enormously encouraging lines. It makes me so happy.Yes I guess you are right I should have established a conclusion resolving the conflict towards a positive or negative outcome. Anyway it helps me towards my next project. I must admit you are a gifted writer and May God help you with all your personal and professional projects.', 'time': '16:01 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'RJ Holmquist': ""Thanks for your kind wishes! \n\nI should say, I wasn't necessarily suggesting that this story needed more resolution. I think in many ways it is a measure of success if a piece of writing leaves a reader with curiosity about the subject. In this piece, the depiction of anxiety is so strong it leaves me curious about where it came from. I am not dissatisfied by the story, but rather compelled by it to further reflection. Thanks again for posting!"", 'time': '16:14 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks RJ for clarifying . Actually the background is steeped in a range of personal experiences that I decided to weave into the theme. Your comments really are enlightening and motivating. I am really grateful.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thank you RJ for your enormously encouraging lines. It makes me so happy.Yes I guess you are right I should have established a conclusion resolving the conflict towards a positive or negative outcome. Anyway it helps me towards my next project. I must admit you are a gifted writer and May God help you with all your personal and professional projects.', 'time': '16:01 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'RJ Holmquist': ""Thanks for your kind wishes! \n\nI should say, I wasn't necessarily suggesting that this story needed more resolution. I think in many ways it is a measure of success if a piece of writing leaves a reader with curiosity about the subject. In this piece, the depiction of anxiety is so strong it leaves me curious about where it came from. I am not dissatisfied by the story, but rather compelled by it to further reflection. Thanks again for posting!"", 'time': '16:14 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks RJ for clarifying . Actually the background is steeped in a range of personal experiences that I decided to weave into the theme. Your comments really are enlightening and motivating. I am really grateful.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'RJ Holmquist': ""Thanks for your kind wishes! \n\nI should say, I wasn't necessarily suggesting that this story needed more resolution. I think in many ways it is a measure of success if a piece of writing leaves a reader with curiosity about the subject. In this piece, the depiction of anxiety is so strong it leaves me curious about where it came from. I am not dissatisfied by the story, but rather compelled by it to further reflection. Thanks again for posting!"", 'time': '16:14 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks RJ for clarifying . Actually the background is steeped in a range of personal experiences that I decided to weave into the theme. Your comments really are enlightening and motivating. I am really grateful.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks RJ for clarifying . Actually the background is steeped in a range of personal experiences that I decided to weave into the theme. Your comments really are enlightening and motivating. I am really grateful.', 'time': '16:20 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Beautifully written story about crippling and pernicious anxiety in a social setting, Shahzad. Well depicted. The main character’s mind had turned into a war zone in which he was feeling utterly isolated. \n\nHowever, it wasn’t clear whether he made a comeback. Or how. I assumed he’d  come out of this bleak period and would like to have known how he managed to overcome his fear - to show more of the character’s development.', 'time': '16:44 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Helen for your uplifting remarks. The ending was deliberately left inconclusive in order to underscore  the debilitating effects of this anxiety -riddled situation. Perhaps in future I  may attempt a resolution. Thanks for drawing my attention towards it. Your comments are really helpful in my evolution as a writer. Good luck with your stories.', 'time': '18:19 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Helen A Smith': 'From what I can gather, some kind of resolution seems to be preferable. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a ‘nice’ one though. \nThank you.', 'time': '19:29 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Shahzad Ahmad': 'True Helen. I will keep all this in my mind in my revision or next project. Thanks for your suggestions.', 'time': '20:09 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Helen for your uplifting remarks. The ending was deliberately left inconclusive in order to underscore  the debilitating effects of this anxiety -riddled situation. Perhaps in future I  may attempt a resolution. Thanks for drawing my attention towards it. Your comments are really helpful in my evolution as a writer. Good luck with your stories.', 'time': '18:19 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Helen A Smith': 'From what I can gather, some kind of resolution seems to be preferable. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a ‘nice’ one though. \nThank you.', 'time': '19:29 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Shahzad Ahmad': 'True Helen. I will keep all this in my mind in my revision or next project. Thanks for your suggestions.', 'time': '20:09 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': 'From what I can gather, some kind of resolution seems to be preferable. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a ‘nice’ one though. \nThank you.', 'time': '19:29 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'True Helen. I will keep all this in my mind in my revision or next project. Thanks for your suggestions.', 'time': '20:09 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'True Helen. I will keep all this in my mind in my revision or next project. Thanks for your suggestions.', 'time': '20:09 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mike Panasitti': 'This is a remarkable tale about a prolonged episode of anxiety, a mental and emotional state I am familiar with.\n\nHowever, I thought more concrete images would\'ve made the piece more relatable.\n\nFor example, you write,\n\n""And the funny thing was that all this was noticed by me alone whereas others whose attention I was trying to seek or avoid were absolutely ignorant of this pretty obvious fact.""\n\nBut you do not reveal what ""was noticed.""  What specific perceptions, their associated thoughts, and physical sensations troubled the narrator?\n\nEx...', 'time': '23:18 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Mike for your insightful comments. I also appreciate the bits of improvement that you suggested to grow as a writer. Your words add value to my work. I was so happy to read them and as you said to find myself in a community that puts a premium on quality and the spirit of growing our craft together. May God bless you and your writing gift and take to unscaled heights.', 'time': '01:45 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Thanks Mike for your insightful comments. I also appreciate the bits of improvement that you suggested to grow as a writer. Your words add value to my work. I was so happy to read them and as you said to find myself in a community that puts a premium on quality and the spirit of growing our craft together. May God bless you and your writing gift and take to unscaled heights.', 'time': '01:45 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,17ub7v,Mexican Day: A Tinkering Story,Martin Ross,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/17ub7v/,/short-story/17ub7v/,Character,0,"['Urban Fantasy', 'Horror', 'Contemporary']",20 likes,"
CAUTION: This story deals with harsh contemporary themes including racism. 2014Palm ShadowsUnit 118Wednesday8:12 a.m.It was Mexican Day.Shirley awoke to a cacophony of blowers and mowers and trimmers and sprayers, punctuated by harsh foreign phrases and derisive cackling. Not a peep when she ventured outside, which she strove mightily to avoid doing before 11, when the HOA sent them packing.Her sole contact had been the winter prior, when the Mexicans had thrice sheared her oleanders nearly to the nubs, and despite her patient but stern explanation of the issue and the need for its resolution, the Mexicans apparently had miscomprehended her instructions and decapitated her aloes, as well.A Mexican brushed past Shirley’s patio, clippers in his canvas-gloved hands, and Shirley turned her vertical blinds and glanced beseechingly at the bearded, vaguely European man on the beige wall opposite. The man on the wall offered up kind blue eyes tinged with pain; a thread of blood trickled from the woven tangle of thorns circling his wavy auburn hair.It didn’t help. Shirley settled into her recliner with the Mother’s Day mug she’d ordered from Amazon (a nice verse from Proverbs), hoping to drown the sound of milling Mexicans with Fox and Friends. That Robin Roberts was all right, one of the good ones, but Shirley wasn’t about to listen to any garbage that came out of that runt Stephanopoulos’ smarmy mouth. That left the local channels, and all she needed was a small platoon of Mexicans in suits and skintight dresses to take her mind off the Mexicans outside in their sun hats, orange vests, and jeans.Shirley defaulted to a beaming Joel Osteen and settled back. It wasn’t that she was racist or anything. Her church back in Racine always anted up to get the Blessed Word to starving Africans or Chinese villagers. Her minister had admonished his flock to show only the love of Christ for the gays, else you could never get them into God’s house and set them back on the literal straight and narrow. A group from her former winter congregation even traipsed down to the Muslim mosque in Phoenix in the hope of bringing the Arabs from Allah to God. You had to offer the olive branch from time to time.She looked again to Jesus, who regarded her, it seemed, with sympathy. The hum of Mexicans gradually faded -- she’d check the oleanders after the coast was clear.Shirley perked momentarily; her nostrils flared at the unmistakable perfume of cheddar and caraway, an undernote of hops and barley and home-ground sausage. She hadn’t fixed her mom’s brat-and-beer chowder in months, and with the diabetes the Indian who’d taken over Dr. Nordstrom’s practice had diagnosed, all that was in the fridge were bags of Dole mixed greens, Weight Watchers entrees, and her Diet Decaf Pepsi. Fleetingly, Shirley entertained carnal thoughts that could lead only to Applebee’s or Denny’s, but as she righted herself, the aroma simply vanished.Burnt toast, the speaker at the senior health fair had warned. The smell of a stroke, in the absence of actual burnt toast. Shirley pondered if somehow, the anomalous smell of Wisconsin chowder might signal a short-circuit somewhere else, and she forced herself to recite the books of the Bible. As she rounded the countdown with Revelations, she smiled gratefully at the man on the wall and rebuked the temptation of dense, meat-laden soup.A lawn mower erupted in the common between her condo and the nice young couple who still appreciated their country enough to fly two flags from their patio. Though the HOA board eventually made them take down the second one over some PC nonsense. I mean, the man had transferred to Gilbert from Alabama or Arkansas, possibly Anaheim, and certainly had the right to some hometown pride.The Mexicans’ riding mower roared toward her patio, drowning Joel’s sermon on humility and the meek, and Shirley cranked the volume until the reverend practically shouted the glory and the glass angels on top of the entertainment center clattered and capered as if enraptured by the Spirit. She peeked up. Jesus smiled down with approval.**Shirley belched again, stretching Mr. Waffles’ name into six syllables. The chowder had been a horrible idea, and after the rest was gone in a couple of days, she’d promise, pray to be a good girl. She could sense Jesus’ sorrow as she mopped up the second bowlful.“WAFFLES!” she bellowed into the Arizona night before remembering herself. Despite repeated notices on the mailboxes and at the monthly poolside meetings, Shirley’d refused to restrain her boy. It wasn’t like that beastly shepherd the dyke at the end of the lane paraded past twice or three times a day, sending poor Waffles into hissing, pissing fits of terror with its hyperactive “curiosity,” or that beady-eyed killer pit on the other side of the complex, laying surely in wait as the Mexicans’ overstimulated litter hugged and tugged and frolicked about it like a pagan rite.What if one of the hellhounds had slipped the leash?, Shirley pondered with an icy spike to the chest. Or a coyote – the new construction eating its way across the Valley was driving them more and more frequently into Gilbert, though the libtards tried to put it all off on the global warming hoodoo. The icicle thawed as she spotted the double glint of yellow – Mr. Waffles’ eyes catching the gibbous moon that provided the only light over the common.“Hey,” Shirley growled. “Get it in here, mister! I’m missing Judge Karen!”The glowing eyes blinked twice, and they flickered as the calico tom approached. Then they disappeared, seemingly as the obstreperous feline turned back toward someone – a mere shadowy edge of someone just beyond the white pine she’d been after Danzer and the rest of the HOA to level. Probably the lezzo, out relieving her monster on the grass.“Wafflessssss,” Shirley hissed hoarsely.Mr. Waffles turned into the moonlight, and his double beams again twinkled. Just as a second set of eyes blinked into view. Two luminescent orbs embedded in the barely shadow just beneath the lowest-hanging pine branch. An inch or so beneath the limb the Mexicans had newly trimmed to meet Palm Shadows’ eight-foot conifer canopy restriction.Shirley slammed and latched the patio slider. Breathing harshly, she peered out at what had to be some kind of drone or a double flashlight beam to identify where you intended to leave Rover’s steaming log. It blinked sluggishly, the perfectly round, perfectly inhuman orbs eclipsing and reflecting the three-quarters moon. Some seven feet below, Mr. Waffles peered back, his eyes indecipherable but seemingly placid.Then Shirley’s fingers squeaked down the double-paned glass as the white orbs dipped and Waffles’ placid amber eyes levitated roughly four feet above the gray-green turf. Shirley’s lenses clicked against the patio glass as she mutely awaited the final screams of her precious being pulled apart by whatever satanic abomination had drifted into the subdivision, of said abomination loping off to enjoy its late-night snack in private.But Mr. Waffle’s eyes glittered and blinked as it continued to stare, now unblinkingly, toward the terrified old woman across the lawn. The moonglow captured a shadowy movement – neither aggressive or advancing; simply a rhythmic movement accompanied by Waffle’s yellow eyes narrowing nearly to slits. Everything seemed to stop except that moving shadow, and Shirley heard it, a low rumble, like a muffled motor across the common. She prayed maybe the nice patriotic boy or his wife might venture out, frighten the intruder or at least distract it toward larger, tastier prey.Then she recognized the sound. It was stroking Mr. Waffles. And Waffles was entranced, purring in a way he never had during brushing or Kelly Ripa. Shirley’s horror ebbed as a wave of resentment flowed. When the purring ceased and the yellow eyes reemerged at ground level. When a plump orange-and-white face appeared on the stucco patio wall and then expectantly at the glass, Shirley rapped once on the pane.“No,” she told Waffles. “No. You spend the night out there with your new friend.”But Mr. Waffle’s new friend had vanished. Shirley resolutely turned back toward the sound of America’s astringent judge reading her law to some ghetto plaintiff. Waffles almost immediately settled onto a glider cushion, glancing occasionally and hopefully into the inky commons.**8:03 a.m.ThursdayIt was Mexican Day – an undercurrent of harsh laughter, small machinery, and no-doubt profane foreign babble was cutting through the Kilmeade boy’s exuberant report on Mr. Trump’s continued efforts to bring Barack Osama to bay.A shadow passed the front window as Shirley slid her Jimmy Dean sandwich into the micro, and she frowned. With a pop of the knees, she craned into the flatscreen and eyed the timestamp in the corner. Unless Kilmeade himself had choreographed the Fox & Friends chyron, it was Thursday. The Mexicans had rampaged through the previous morning, Shirley might add leaving her bougainvillea a flayed mess.Danzer supposedly knew the eighth contractor the fourth management company had approved over the hoity old fart’s seemingly eternal tenure, and he’d probably angled a second day’s work for the old bandit and his crew, with a split for himself.Shirley looked into the kind visage of her Savior for assurance, and blinked. Jesus smiled down, compassion and sympathy in his deep espresso eyes. She blinked, then fairly fled for the kitchen and Jimmy Dean, and the repatriated Mr. Waffles galloped off for the guest bedroom. Shirley punched in the digits that would deliver blessed breakfast, then dialed up Joel, and within minutes, she was consoled, however temporarily, by the pervading scent of fried walleye and cheesy potatoes with the cornflakes on top.**“Hola!” The voice was smooth, youthful, and definitely Mexican. Shirley had never messed much with her phone settings, and she’d answered only on the presumption it was the Medicare folks and she’d finally get the opportunity to settle their hash.“I don’t need or want it,” she barked, flinging her fish into the hatchback. “Unsubscribe me or whatever.”“No, no,” the Mexican chuckled. “This is Reverend Silva, James – I’m Pastor Denson’s new assistant here at Pin Oak Lutheran. I have a twofold mission today. We’re trying to catch up with some of the members we haven’t heard from for a while…”“I got a church out here, and I don’t plan on coming back.” The brass, er, set, chasing her out here for a monthly pledge. Figures if they’re hiring guys like this, Shirley reflected.Didn’t miss a beat, this one. “Well, I’m grateful to hear you have a church home.” Shirley was heading back to her church home as soon as she could get rid of Reverend Jim here, although she’d avoided eye contact with Jesus since the morning. “I have some people out in Mesa. How’s the wea—”“What’s the second thing?” Shirley demanded, juggling her Idahos and the Kelloggs and the flip phone.“Yes. With the crises in Africa and Asia, we’re recommitting to refugee outreach—”She snorted nastily. “I barely got room for me and the cat.” Whoring little traitor, she added silently.“Oh, no, no. We’re putting together a refugee welcome committee, to help guide the congregation in meeting the needs of our new guests. We want to meet a few times on Zoom, at a time agreeable to everyone. We were thinking, given your special circumstances—”“I don’t have a Zoom,” Shirley snarled. “What I do have is some walleye about to go bad. And don’t you think we have enough freeloaders swarming in here?”“That rather surprises me, considering…” James murmured.“Adios, Reverend Jim,” Shirley sang and hung up best as the antiquated phone allowed.**8:00 a.m.FridayKPXQ (“Where hope is always on!”) roused Shirley as the Friday morning sun streamed into her bedroom window. She’d slept poorly the previous night, keeping a vigil on Mr. Waffles inside the back slider even after banishing the animal to the patio, and she slapped the Westclox into silence. At one point, Waffles had disappeared into the darkness. Shirley dared not venture from her kitchenette chair, and when the prodigal tom leapt back over the stucco half-wall, she squeezed her eyes shut lest he’d invited his leviathan friend over for a piece of the lemon cream cake his mother’d stomped back into the WalMart for following the upsetting exchange with the Mexican preacher.She’d bidden good riddance to Wisconsin soon after her dust-up with that woman at the Target who didn’t seem to grasp basic English even as Shirley railed at her and her alien brood. The folks at Pin Oaks, who she’d thought would applaud her loyalty and patriotism, reacted to the news report, the viral video footage with cool detachment, even a bit of disgust. No surprise Reverend Jim had found a gig in that den.No matter. After a chocolate chip Eggo and a cup of Folgers with Joel, it was off to the Skechers down on Baseline for a new pair of clearance walkers and maybe some Cheat Day chicken fried steak at the Black Bear Diner. Shirley aimed the remote, and was blinded by a white snow of static. She’d hit the wrong buttons last night trying to focus on both the 9 o’clock FOX update and the feline-loving monster lurking out back, and wound up in the settings before giving up. Realizing she’d roamed off-channel, Shirley now toggled up, and was rewarded by the immaculate evangelist’s gleaming caps.“Dios nos fortalece cuando lo buscamos genuinamente y nuestro corazón está alineado hacia Él,” Joel promised in a voice about two octaves below Osteen’s range. Shirley fell back onto the sofa, waggling the remote and punching away until Reverendo Osteen vanished.Then the blowers and trimmers roared to life. A shadow filled nearly the entire front window, and for one millisecond, 118’s tenant considered pulling the blind cord. Instead, she cowered in the cushions as laughter erupted under the manicured pine and Shirley’s thawing Eggo sweated on the kitchen formica.**It was in the patio shed, tucked into a floral dish towel, concealed in the coil of a leaky, desiccated old hose. Shirley’s gun safe, NRA-endorsed for those without a coffee table.One of the widows at the Tea Party Auxiliary had conferred it to Shirley after Mr. Hannity warned of the invading horde of cartel gangsters and traffickers swarming across the border with a wink and a nod from President Osama. It terrified her, and into the closet it went, for a rainy day.Or Mexican Day.**9:55 a.m.Saturday“Heading for the meeting?”It was Dodge, the “new” guy from across the way. A tubby buffoon who wore vaguely distasteful shirts with cartoons or snowflake quotes, who small-talked with the Mexicans, and who seemed to have struck up a friendship with the little dyke and her hellhound. An ex-reporter, which only made things better…Shirley glared at the fool, who had a red patio chair under his arm. The board had called a special HOA meeting after the strange explosion at Mr. Cross’s and the reports of prowlers and according to one renter, a wolf or even bear roaming the complex and the nearby park and soccer fields.“I’m looking for Carroll Danzer. I wanna know what the he--, what the heck is going on.” She peered left and right. “Boy, they sure cleared out fast enough before the board meeting.”Dodge frowned and smiled simultaneously. Today, the T-shirt was some leering old psycho in a white coat with a ray gun. God knew what that was about. “Um, you know, I thought they were here Wednesday, like usual. Sarah complain--, commented on the way they’d trimmed the oleander bushes. I mean, Danzer should be at the pool by now, if you want to have a word with—”But she was already halfway to the pool.**“The crazy old bitch had a gun,” Reynolds told the EMT who’d helped haul her out. “We were all over there, about to start the residents meeting when she just comes running through the gate, waving that pistol or whatever in the air. She was yelling at Mr. Danzer, the board president, something about Mexicans and terrorists and monsters. Then I think she just slipped or maybe stroked out, ‘cause she just keels over into the deep end. Jesus, got signs all over not to run on deck.”“Vieja loca senorra,” the paramedic lamented. He looked down into a face that reminded him somewhat of his own abuela. “Todo está bien ahora, tía.”**The woman hovering over Shirley appeared neither alarmed nor a recognizable resident of the Palm Shadows. She was almost inconceivably lovely — if you liked that kind, Shirley mentally grunted — and smiled down with loving serenity.“You a nurse?” Shirley croaked. The young woman tinkled like a wind chime, and her laughter rustled across the hazy, featureless plane where Shirley now found herself.Rather, the nymph’s delight had been taken up by a huge throng of equally, ethereally stunning girls. All bore the same somehow unsettling serene smiles, and all were…Arabs. Shirley wondered if somehow she’d wandered into a terrorist cell or some SI spring photoshoot for the overseas edition.“We are here, for you,” the ringleader purred, echoing her host “mother”s assurances so long ago and stroking Shirley’s cheek with intense adoration. “We have saved our gifts solely for you, fatati al-aziza.”Shirley wasn’t much for metaphors, and the women converged so quickly, she didn’t get a chance to tally the just short of four-score pure and until now chaste emissaries “Masau’u” had dispatched as Shirley Contreras’ eternal “reward.” There was no word in Masau’u’s language for irony or karma, but Shirley’s abrupt epiphany was as a feast…And Mr. Waffles rumbled blissfully as Masau’u stroked his velveteen skull…
","July 11, 2023 23:52","[[{'Russell Mickler': 'Hey Martin!\n\nOn the onset, this story was revolting but you did warn me about the racism before I began :)\n\nThe ""It wasn\'t that she was racist or anything"" para was wonderfully ironic and so epitomizes the American condition. ""Jesus smiled down with approval."" Ugh.\n\n""Jesus smiled down ... deep espresso eyes,"" Man, you\'re killing me. The whoring cat stuff is brilliant. \n\nOh, this is a Dodge story! I thought this was an aside or stand-alone... ""snowflake quotes"" oh man, this hurts. \n\nThe ending was fantastic. I\'m glad she found the afterlife f...', 'time': '14:35 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, buddy! I really was nervous about posting it and the reception it would get. In the original draft, she was a Nordic Wisconsinite, but it seemed more effective to show how the culture creates self-haters. It’s a thematically ugly piece of work (Dodge was added as a closed universe sorbet), but hopefully, folks will get the intent. Stephen King inspired me (through his fiction🤣) to lean into branding and pop culture. I also hope no Islamic readers think I was being disrespectful — Shirley’s conjured fate was the trickster’s double-bar...', 'time': '15:16 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, buddy! I really was nervous about posting it and the reception it would get. In the original draft, she was a Nordic Wisconsinite, but it seemed more effective to show how the culture creates self-haters. It’s a thematically ugly piece of work (Dodge was added as a closed universe sorbet), but hopefully, folks will get the intent. Stephen King inspired me (through his fiction🤣) to lean into branding and pop culture. I also hope no Islamic readers think I was being disrespectful — Shirley’s conjured fate was the trickster’s double-bar...', 'time': '15:16 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Oh I want to stay away from Palm Shadows! Though the characterization of Shirley was great, I want to stay away from her!\nI do feel bad for Mr.Waffles  Good one !', 'time': '01:53 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks! Shirley’s several snowbirds I’ve met in AZ, with the added dimension of so many I see on the news — people who got their chance at the American dream who now despise others who want the same. I hope to build a whole horror mythology around Palm Shadows, kind of like Stephen King’s Castle Rock. Don’t feel bad for Waffles — I WAS gonna have Masau’u eat him.🤣', 'time': '02:13 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}, {'Marty B': 'Palm Shadows seems like a great idea for a collection of horror stories!  \nSave Mr. Waffles!!', 'time': '21:00 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣', 'time': '07:02 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': 'Per your plea, Mr. Waffles lives. And will star in his own anti-physicist vigilante series. Thanks for the notion!', 'time': '20:09 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks! Shirley’s several snowbirds I’ve met in AZ, with the added dimension of so many I see on the news — people who got their chance at the American dream who now despise others who want the same. I hope to build a whole horror mythology around Palm Shadows, kind of like Stephen King’s Castle Rock. Don’t feel bad for Waffles — I WAS gonna have Masau’u eat him.🤣', 'time': '02:13 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Marty B': 'Palm Shadows seems like a great idea for a collection of horror stories!  \nSave Mr. Waffles!!', 'time': '21:00 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣', 'time': '07:02 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': 'Per your plea, Mr. Waffles lives. And will star in his own anti-physicist vigilante series. Thanks for the notion!', 'time': '20:09 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Palm Shadows seems like a great idea for a collection of horror stories!  \nSave Mr. Waffles!!', 'time': '21:00 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣', 'time': '07:02 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Martin Ross': 'Per your plea, Mr. Waffles lives. And will star in his own anti-physicist vigilante series. Thanks for the notion!', 'time': '20:09 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣', 'time': '07:02 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'Per your plea, Mr. Waffles lives. And will star in his own anti-physicist vigilante series. Thanks for the notion!', 'time': '20:09 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Great writing! I grew up in Milwaukee Wisconsin, You def captured some of the mood of parts of the state of Wisconsin. And the snowbird culture in places west and south.  Funny ironic ending too!  A few news jokes in this as well. I hate all news channels, they exaggerate problems into 100x worse than they actually are. Then I turn on a travel channel or cooking channel, and they make everyplace in the world look friendly and beautiful, I prefer that version.', 'time': '02:28 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Scott! I love cooking shows — my perfect escape. And I truly enjoy food-centric travel shows a la Bourdain or Zimmern or Rosenthal.', 'time': '02:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Thanks, Scott! I love cooking shows — my perfect escape. And I truly enjoy food-centric travel shows a la Bourdain or Zimmern or Rosenthal.', 'time': '02:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'This Palm Shadows must be quite the place. Must have a vacancy or two by now?', 'time': '01:24 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣. The real thing isn’t as crazy, at least in a preternatural sense.', 'time': '01:32 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣. The real thing isn’t as crazy, at least in a preternatural sense.', 'time': '01:32 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Aoi Yamato': 'people must avoid Dodge to live. he is dangerous.', 'time': '00:44 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣🤣🤣', 'time': '01:37 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': '🤣🤣🤣🤣', 'time': '01:37 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,kv0lrn,From Caterpilly to  Butterflight,Sarah Martyn,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kv0lrn/,/short-story/kv0lrn/,Character,0,"['Christian', 'Bedtime', 'Coming of Age']",19 likes,"
From Caterpilly to Butterflight
 
Metathesiophobia: The fear of change.
 
“God sure did make you a caterpillar, but don’t you think He created you to also become a butterfly?”
 
Those were the words that little Caterpilly echoed in her mind over and over again as she sat at breakfast with Momma, Daddy, and her little brother Zip. Her Grandma Flutter said those words to her not just once, but a few times, months ago. Her grandma always seemed to know what to say, but Caterpilly almost never liked hearing it right then. 
 
The first time she heard these words, Caterpilly was upset. Caterpilly wasn’t upset because she didn’t have wings yet; she was upset because she didn’t want to get wings! She liked being a caterpillar, and she knew how much work it’d be to transform into a butterfly.
 
Just as she was about to get a pretend umbrella out because of the pity party she was throwing for herself, Grandma Flutter slowly flew overhead to sit down to have breakfast at their leaf table. “Little Caterpilly, God sure did make you a caterpillar, but don’t you think He created you to also become a butterfly?”
 
Caterpilly said nothing, but she thought about everything. She thought about what Grandma Flutter said, and Grandma said it many times that week because this was the week… the week Caterpilly was going to become a butterfly!
 
Just like her momma taught her, Caterpilly made her cocoon. She nestled herself inside until she couldn’t see Grandma Flutter, brother Zip, or Momma and Daddy anymore. She almost thought it was nice to be on her own to get this over with. But after a while, almost as if someone tapped her on the shoulder, she started to repeat the words her daddy taught her…
 
“Push left, push right, and with all your might, and before you know it, you’ll take flight. Push left, push right, and with all your might, and before you know it, you’ll take flight.”
 
…and he was right! Before she knew it, she pushed out of that cocoon and looked left and looked right, and she saw her brand-new wings! It was beautiful! All she could think of was Grandma Flutter, and her words from earlier.
 
Caterpilly wanted to get to her family so fast that when she tried to fly, she fell to the ground. But she quickly flew back up and flew straight to where her family gathered most… but the leaf table was empty.
 
They were under a huge sunflower, all facing away from Caterpilly. At first, she felt a little annoyed because she just did the single most important thing ever and they weren’t paying attention. As she flew closer, she saw Momma’s face, and she was crying. Oblivious, she started to say “this is a happy thing, me turning into…”
 
She stopped abruptly as she noticed little Zip bumping against Momma’s side as if he didn’t see her crying. Daddy just hovered there without a smile on his face. Caterpilly saw Grandma Flutter asleep.
 
“Be quiet or you’ll wake Grandma Flutter!” Caterpilly felt angry and yelled at Zip. Momma cried even louder and flew quickly to Caterpilly, and gave her butterfly kisses. The Caterpilly realized… Grandma wasn’t going to wake up.
 
Then Momma said…
 
“It was so beautiful and so sad. We all wanted to watch you transform, especially Grandma Flutter. So we all turned to your cocoon and waited until you pushed out. And just as you pushed out of that cocoon, we turned to see Grandma’s face, but she fell asleep and we couldn’t wake her. But she told us yesterday something very important, because she knew you’d leave your cocoon soon… she said ‘when Caterpilly gets her wings and takes flight, her name should be changed from Caterpilly to Butterflight.’ So that’s your new name… if that’s okay with you, dear?”
 
Without any words, Caterpilly’s wet eyes blinked out a couple big tears as she nodded to Momma in agreement.
 
Caterpilly  - well, Butterflight - hovered effortlessly with her new wings and went to Grandma Flutter to give her butterfly kisses. When she did, some neighborhood ladybugs grabbed Grandma Flutter on the leaf she laid on and flew her up to where all bugs go when this happens: to the other side of that sunflower, where all kinds of flowers grow. Butterflight flew up as high as she could until she reached a cloud and saw the flower field below her and she said, “Goodbye Grandma Flutter. I love you so much.”
 
Then she flew back down to her family below because she knew she’d have to help brother Zip transform into a butterfly soon, just as God helped her to do through her family - especially through Grandma Flutter.
 
***
7 MONTHS LATER
 
“Zip, take it easy. You can’t rush these things. You might be taking longer than me learning to fly, but you did the hard part yourself!”
 
It had been about a week since Zip transformed. Butterflight did give him the tips she was given, but she knew Momma and Daddy let her share them with Zip more for bonding reasons. It wasn’t like she came up with those tips herself.
 
Grandma came to mind all the time. The day before Zip got into his cocoon, the words “God created you to become a butterfly” slipped out of Butterflight, and she smiled knowing she had that ingrained into her mind long before it meant anything to her, and now she could keep it going. Of course, she missed her grandma, but she knew her legacy was in them.
 
Now if only she could get Zip to learn how to fly…
 
***
ABOUT THE STORY
 
While I wrote this years ago for some kiddos I cared for at a Christian preschool in 2015, this story didn't come to life until much more recently. It was shared here on Reedsy with a handful of minor grammatical adjustments and additions in the body, but for the most part remains the same. I wanted to maintain the integrity of how I wrote it in a stage of my life where my writing wasn't as polished and developed as it is becoming now.
 
Just like in biblical stories, people's names got changed and usually during pivotal moments in their lives. It seemed fitting Caterpilly's name would change to Butterflight during her pivotal moment, and at the request of her Matriarchal figure, no less.
 
Hopefully this story can touch on hard life lessons such as fearing change, grief, and even learning about who you are and what you can overcome. For children, this is foundational and difficult at times. This story might help dampen the sting of those big feelings.
 
The major difference in the ending is I've added a continuation to satisfy word count parameters with the new Butterflight helping Zip prepare for flight after his transformation.
 
You can see the original ending in my less glamorous grammar glory in the link below. I’ll eventually make sure the StoryJumper version has my Reedsy adjustments.
 
https://www.storyjumper.com/book/read/30173656/From-Caterpilly-to-Butterflight
 
","July 08, 2023 04:28","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'Really lovely story with a great mesage. Thank you for sharing', 'time': '13:54 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Thank YOU for reading and taking the time to comment.', 'time': '20:13 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Thank YOU for reading and taking the time to comment.', 'time': '20:13 Aug 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Murray Burns': 'Very cute, interesting, and entertaining story. I had to smile with Grandma ""Flutter"", the ""leaf"" table, and of course the ""Butterfly"" kisses. A nice message and well-written.', 'time': '18:15 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Thank you for the sweet comment.', 'time': '15:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Thank you for the sweet comment.', 'time': '15:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Consistently Lost': ""It's weird cause I am excited when things change for me. Like I graduate or get a new job but when other people around me are changing (moving away), I get a little sad over that - eventually I accept it."", 'time': '14:38 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Martyn': 'I hear that! Depends on what the change is.', 'time': '18:30 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'I hear that! Depends on what the change is.', 'time': '18:30 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ellen Neuborne': 'All transformation is hard. We hope to have relatives close by who can guide us. Lovely story.', 'time': '20:45 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Thank you, Ellen!', 'time': '18:30 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Thank you, Ellen!', 'time': '18:30 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋Butterflight takes flight.', 'time': '23:10 Jul 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Her destiny!', 'time': '04:35 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Her destiny!', 'time': '04:35 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,h0y5ea,Embrace Your Fear,John K Adams,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/h0y5ea/,/short-story/h0y5ea/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Drama', 'Inspirational']",18 likes,"
Logan awoke alone in the forest. He felt at peace. A few stars still winked through branches. 
Abandoned but not afraid, he’d expected it. Planned for it.
‘For his own good. That’s how it works,’ he thought. Ever resourceful, he’d find his way.
Untamed but not threatening, to Logan this was mere wilderness. Not sure why he came, fear held little sway in his life. He was not destined to die of exposure. Logan knew his fate lay within, a more interesting place to explore than this trackless expanse.
That’s what Sal, the shaman, told them. Logan and the other acolytes followed Sal into this rainforest. He taught them practical skills for wrestling their demons. The main event was a ‘walkabout.’ Each individual finding their way, alone, back to civilization. And vanquish their worst fears on the way. 
The theory held, by gaining fresh perspectives on the familiar patterns of their lives, they could better recognize the unhealthy patterns and discard them. 
Word had it the survival rate on these treks was above average. Yay! 
Logan wondered, ‘Any stats on how many fears survived?’
Chrysalis Orb wasn’t the shaman’s birth name. Logan discovered Orb changed his name from George Smith about twenty years ago. He asked people who called him Chris, or Mr. Orb, to please address him as Sal.
Last night, the questions tossed around the campfire focused on fear. Who had it? What spawned it? How do they cope?
Of the dozen present, about half knew their fears well. They rattled them off and recounted their histories like long-time friends. Logan observed that some fellow campers held their fears close, like a child holds a security blanket. Letting them go triggered anxiety worse than the fear itself. 
A guy named Andre described his terror of quicksand. 
Logan scoffed. “It’s a movie gimmick. Doesn’t exist.”
Andre corrected him. “Not only is it real, but people get trapped in it all the time. Some die.”
Sal offered, “The secret is not to fight against the quicksand. It’s the struggle that pulls you down. Step in it? Get trapped? Lie prone and slowly ‘swim’ to safety.”
Sal often talked of embracing one’s fear. He said, “Struggling against the darkness empowers it.”
Someone asked, “We have no maps. Not even a compass. How can we find our way?”
Sal smiled at these old questions. “Your path leads to your greatest fear. Follow it.”
Logan pondered, ‘What is my greatest fear?’ Electrocution? Assuredly unpleasant, but unlikely out here. Snakes, spiders and scorpions were more likely. But creepy crawlies never worried him. 
Likewise with bears. Vicious as they could be, bear’s public persona ran toward the ‘cute.’ He remembered once, when camping, a pair of Dutch women in the next tent, were terrified of the ‘beers.’ Dismissing their fear, he joked, ‘I’d love a cold six pack of them.’
Being an avid camper, Logan thought wandering around the forest might be too familiar. ‘A fish doesn’t recognize the currents it swims in…’
He felt the odd man out in this group.  Logan wondered if Sal’s $1500 fee for this soiree would pay off. He smiled. ‘I guess Sal’s not afraid of going broke.’
The fears Logan thought of centered on pain and death. But they weren’t his. Maybe he didn’t have any.
‘Pain is inevitable. Suffering optional,’ he thought. Drowning, or getting caught in a forest fire would be horrible. ‘Pay attention. Prepare. Carry water wings.’
Logan slung his backpack over his shoulders and walked. Carrying plentiful water and food, he set out with no known destination and not even a mild anxiety. 
Sal instructed them to make the most of this ‘walkabout.’ Walking alone, they would discover unknown strengths and vanquish tenacious fears.  
Logan soon realized no direct route out existed. Paths meandered, doubled back and disappeared. As Sal admonished, ‘It’s the journey, not the destination.’ Each needed to forge his own path.
Were this a labyrinth, Logan knew he’d follow one wall ‘round and round until he safely emerged. But beneath this dense canopy of trees, the shifting light made progress difficult. There were no walls, no paths and no patterns to follow. Logan remembered his rule, ‘when in doubt, head downhill.’
After walking several hours, Logan stepped into a clearing. Andre’s wide brimmed hat lay prominently in the midst of an open space devoid of foliage. 
Logan paused. ‘Remarkable. Not a blade of grass in the middle of the forest.’ 
Unmistakably Andre’s hat, no one had ever seen another like it. He suffered much good natured ribbing over it. Made from recycled tarp canvas, it came seriously frayed and weathered. But its heavy material made it practical for a journey like this. Its broad brim kept his eyes well shaded.
The hat out in the clearing appeared to be placed on solid ground. But, even from a distance, it looked damp. Had Andre unwittingly stepped into quicksand, sunk and left the hat behind? Or had he left the hat to warn others? Logan hoped for the latter.
He skirted the open area, stepping only where foliage grew. Breaking through some underbrush, Logan blindly stepped off the edge of a cliff. Sliding down, he leaned backward and kept himself upright by grappling at branches. 
Landing on level ground, he took stock. He’d slid down a hundred yards. But his injuries were only scratches and welts from passing branches. ‘A miracle…’
A droning drew his attention to a huge swarm of bees swirling directly before him. There was no escape. 
Logan buttoned his shirt, turned up his collar and pulled down his sleeves. Making no sudden moves, he walked the periphery of the furious insect vortex. He couldn’t shut his ears. The sound of bees filled his head.
Hundreds of bees covered him. They crawled across his face, eyes and ears. He squinted and resisted the urge to wave them off. Heart pounding, but needing to keep his mouth shut, he struggled to breathe. Bees tangled in his hair. He felt them rummaging behind his ear.
They tickled his nose and lips. One bee probed and pushed into Logan’s nostril. Struggling not to sneeze or swipe at it, he snorted. The bee flew off. 
‘Don’t take it personally…’
Making no sudden moves, he walked in slow motion. Seeming an eternity, he passed the swirling mass. The bees crawling on him returned to the swarm. He made it through without getting stung. 
Logan wondered how the apparent chaos of the swarm served the bees’ highly organized social structure. ‘Are they breaking free from unhealthy patterns?’
Once clear of the swarm, he walked quickly, gaining distance from the swarm. He sat on a rock and drank deeply from his canteen. 
‘Do not try this at home…’ Relief overcoming him, he laughed. ‘Good thing I’m not afraid of bees… That could’ve been scary…’
Walking again, he made good time. He felt light. The path had broadened and led mainly downhill. Destination unknown, Logan didn’t care. He felt good.
‘So much for my fears,’ he thought. ‘Good to know I just don’t have any. Fearless!’
The path began rising. Logan continued on it rather than veer into the brush. 
Ahead of him, a beautiful woman stood in a flowing, white gown and veil. In the tree branches sparkles shimmered like the glitter of shattered glass.
A sudden dread welled up. He gasped and leaned against a tree.
Understanding washed over him. He knew he’d found the way. Sal’s words about fear revealing the path rang true. 
Though in silhouette, he would know her anywhere. She was his ex.
He felt weak. ‘How? Can this be?’
Trying to survive, desperate, he’d left her years ago. He’d lived only for her. She controlled everything and then broke his trust. Sustaining her love consumed him. She betrayed him, stomped his identity and left him less than nothing. She didn’t laugh at his jokes. 
Fearful, he watched her approach. He quelled the urge to run. ‘To where?’ 
She held out her hand. Trembling, he reached her electric touch.
Eyes glistening, she smiled. 
He said, “Hi…”
“Hi…” she replied tenderly.
She gripped his hand and warmth flowed into him. 
Facing him, she sang an old Celtic melody. But the words felt new. 
	“When first I met my one true love, 
	In short pants and braces, 
	Only a callow lad. 
	He offered me a deep red rose, 
	Called me his bonnie lass, 
	And I was so glad…”
Fear melted away. 
He thought, ‘She seems nice. She might not be so bad.’
Logan embraced her, his deepest fear. They held each other for what felt forever and a moment. 
He felt safe. He held her at arm’s length. They smiled. 
She said, “You need a bath, Honey. When did you last…?”
A bee hovered over her. Logan felt a chill of intuition. ‘Seeking its queen…’ 
He said, “Hold still. A bee. Separated from the hive.” 
She looked around. “Don’t let it sting…”
The bee rested on her veil. She froze.
“Hold still…” Careful not to draw attention, Logan moved away from her. “It likes you.”
He moved behind her and walked up the path. 
She called out. “Where are you?”
“Don’t worry. I’m okay. Don’t move.”
He reached the top of the hill and continued without looking back. He’d embraced his fear and found his path.
Logan was free.
 
 
","July 14, 2023 01:56","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi John,\nThis is an interesting take on the prompt. I loved that. It seemed to touch on several different types of here now, and I also like how it directly music on the definition of fear, I think that you did an amazing job of creating the opposite of fear, which, for many people is a reason to conquer fear itself. I think it’s definitely something to muse upon. Especially when you start to wonder about justified fears-fear that comes from danger. What would happen to all of us if we just embraced the fear? Accepted it as a necessary part ...', 'time': '06:04 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks, Amanda for such a thoughtful response. I'm glad it got you thinking. It was fun to write, but one never knows how a piece will be received."", 'time': '15:06 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Thanks, Amanda for such a thoughtful response. I'm glad it got you thinking. It was fun to write, but one never knows how a piece will be received."", 'time': '15:06 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Antonio Jimenez': ""Nice story. I really liked the ending, symbolizing how he embraced his fear but didn't dwell with it. The description of him being swarmed by the bees was also excellent. \n\nI just published a new story. Would love if you could take a peak and leave some feedback. Thanks!"", 'time': '05:59 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Man, an ex can really instill fear and insecurity, for sure. Nice! Didn't see that fear coming, my friend.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '13:11 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, Delbert. I try to keep you on your toes. Glad it worked for you. \nAlways appreciate the read and the comments.', 'time': '13:30 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'John K Adams': 'Thanks, Delbert. I try to keep you on your toes. Glad it worked for you. \nAlways appreciate the read and the comments.', 'time': '13:30 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Well, wasn't that interesting!🐝\nJust needed more time to process this one I guess. Yes, positively made you think."", 'time': '13:10 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': ""Mary, I'm going to take that as a positive. Thanks for reading and commenting."", 'time': '13:27 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': ""Mary, I'm going to take that as a positive. Thanks for reading and commenting."", 'time': '13:27 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,veqzj0,Defenestraphobia Moves in Next Door,Murray Burns,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/veqzj0/,/short-story/veqzj0/,Character,0,['Funny'],18 likes,"
Defenestraphobia Moves in Next Door(Satirical references to certain phobias; indelicate treatment of the subject of ""plus- size"" people.) The day after the “For Sale” sign came down, a crew was at the two-story colonial boarding up all the windows. Kenny, the keen-eyed neighbor next door, couldn’t help but notice.“Margie, take a look-see on what’s going on next door. The new owner is having all the windows boarded up.”“What? Oh, my God, that is strange. Maybe they just want their privacy, or they worry about peeping toms hiding in the bushes. I always make sure the shades are drawn when I’m changing. Women like me can’t be too careful. I don’t want some weirdo violating me with his eyes.”Kenny knew that the odds of anyone deriving any sort of erotic pleasure by feasting their eyes on his, to be kind, “full figure” wife, were zero to none. Even he tried not to be in the room, or at least averted his eyes, at such moments. But prudence suggested he refrain from comment.“Of course, dear. But they are boarding up every window in the house, first floor, second floor, even the attic. Very strange.”----------Move-in day. A small, frail-looking, middle-aged man was in and out of the house directing traffic as Kenny tried to comprehend the mystery behind “Two Men and a Truck” working with a crew of three. As soon as the truck left, Kenny headed next door to welcome the new neighbor.“Good afternoon! I’m Kenny. Welcome to the neighborhood.”Kenny extended his hand, but his new neighbor quickly took a step back.“Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but I have a slight case of haphephobia. My name is Herb.”“No offense taken. That hapa… whatever you call it, it’s contagious?”“Oh no, it’s not a disease. It’s a thing I have, a fear of touching people.” Kenny had never heard of such a thing. Already puzzled about the boarding up of all the windows, he was beginning to have serious concerns about his new neighbor. They exchanged pleasantries and provided brief biographies, and as they were parting, Kenny got to the elephant in the room.“Say, Herb, my wife and I couldn’t help but notice that you had all your windows boarded up. Are you planning on having new windows put in, or…?”“Oh, that. I have a touch of defenestraphobia.”“Uh…I’m not sure what that is.”“Really? It’s the fear of being thrown out of a window. It’s not uncommon.”“I see.”“Well, nice meeting you, Kenny. I need to get organized. Talk to you later.” As Herb turned to leave, Margie approached carrying a plate of treats for the new neighbor.“Wait, Herb, my wife has a dozen of her famous chocolate chip cookies for you!”“Well, that’s awfully neighborly of you. Thank you, I…”Herb saw Margie and the plate of cookies, and he took off running.“Gotta go! Sorry, you can just leave the cookies!”“Herb! What’s wrong?”“Cacomorphobia!”Margie set the plate of cookies on the hood of Herb’s car, and they returned to their house, but not before Kenny noticed the dozen cookies had been reduced to nine somewhere along the way.---------“What’s with that guy, Kenny, and what the heck is a cacomorphobia?”“No idea. I’ll Google it.”Kenny looked it up- Cacomorphobia: the fear of fat people. Oh, no.“Did you find it, honey?”“No, dear. There is no such word. I think he made it up.”---------“Good morning, Doctor Foggy.”“Good morning, Herb. Have you moved into your new house yet?”“Yep, it’s very nice. I’m sure I’ll be happy there.”“And, what have you done about your fear of being thrown out of a window?”“They’re all boarded up, just like you suggested.”“Good, good. And then pick a window, I’d say on the first floor for starters, and remove a little of the covering each day. And be sure to have that rope tied around your waist and anchored to something solid so you’ll feel safe. Little baby steps, but we’ll get you there.”“Thanks, Doc.”“And how are we doing with your anatidaephobia?”“I forget. Which one is that?”“That’s your fear of ducks.”“Oh, yes, ducks. I think I’m doing pretty good. I watched ten minutes of Donald Duck cartoons last night and a full hour of Duck Dynasty. I think it helps to see the darn things getting blasted out of the sky.”“Good, good. And I’ve got another good idea.”“What’s that, Doc?”“I’m getting you a couple of styrofoam duck decoys that you can do a little of that voodoo stuff on.”“I like it. You’re the best. I wish I would have thought of that.”“Well, that’s why I’m the doctor, and you’re not.”----------“Morning neighbor!”“Oh, hey, Herb What’s up?”“Well, Kenny, I was wondering if you could keep your dog inside when I’m out in my yard.”Mittens the multipoo stood 11” tall and weighed in at 9 pounds.“Mittens doesn’t bite. She’s harmless.”“I’m sure she’s a good dog. It’s just that my cynophobia has been flaring up lately.”“What’s that?”“Fear of dogs. I’ve been doing a lot better, but I don’t want to have a relapse. That can get pretty ugly.”“Sorry to hear that. I’ll talk to Margie. We’ll try to be careful with Mittens.”“Speaking of your wife, could you keep her inside with the dog when I’m out in my yard?”Oh, no. A “full figure” wife and a neighbor suffering from cacomorphobia!“I’ll see what I can do. Say, Herb, I see you’re wearing those ankle-weight things. You been workin’ out?”“No, that’s for my barophobia, you know, just a little added protection.”“Uh, I’m not sure what barophobia is.”“That’s surprising. It’s been going around lately. It’s the fear of gravity. I’ve got the strain of it where I fear there won’t be any, and someday I’ll float off into the universe. I think these will help. You should get some for you and your…oh, never mind. You should get some for yourself.”---------“The house is great, Doc, but the neighbors are a real problem. They’ve got a killer dog, and the lady is, well, quite large.”“I can see where that would be a problem for you.”“And flowers! Damn near everywhere.”“And don’t tell me, they’re not…”“Yes! They are purple!”“Oh, no, and we were doing so well with your porphyrophobia. That fear of the color purple is a tough one, and you were doing so well.”“Damn, what are the odds I’d end up living next door to a dog, a fat lady, and purple flowers. That’s like a hundred billion zillion to one. Life isn’t fair, Doc.”“Well, you could move again, Herb.”“ I don’t want to do that. Let’s take it all head-on! I’m going to conquer my fears once and for all!”The good Doctor was a little concerned about the concept of a cured Herb as he’d lose at least half of his billable hours, but he took an oath.“I’m with you, partner! We can do it!”---------- “The guy is a complete nut job, Margie. He’s afraid of everything.”“Oh, I don’t know. He seems nice. He’s a cute little guy. I feel for him, you know, being afraid of just about everything. I think I’ll bring him one of my chocolate cakes.”This struck Kenny as peculiar as he couldn’t recall Margie ever saying anything nice about anyone. The woman was a real shrew whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to make Kenny’s life miserable. It seemed like a crazy comment. Margie saying something nice about someone was as shocking as her missing a meal, and her giving up one of her double-frosted chocolate cakes was akin to Wimpy giving away hamburgers. Neurons were cross-firing in Kenny’s brain.A fortunate intersection of coincidences: 1) Kenny had taken an introductory psychology college class that included a cursory coverage of phobias. 2) As a sports enthusiast, he recalled the story of a coach working with a runner who managed to get the athlete to love competing in a distance event that he previously hated. 3) The mystery on an episode of Columbo he had seen was solved through the use of subliminal messaging. 4) Just two weeks ago, he caught the movie “Shallow Hal” on Net Flix- the story of a man whose perceptions of the world were so reconfigured that he saw an extremely overweight, unattractive woman as a trim, fit, ravishing beauty. Those were the building blocks; Kenny just needed to put them together.His college textbook cited a psychiatrist who not only sought to get his patients to overcome their fears, but he tried to persuade them to crave the things that had so frightened them. The movie told him that malleable minds can be altered, and as Kenny knew that Herb was at least ten steps passed woo-woo, he figured his mind provided fertile ground for an adjustment. The coach used the simple techniques of repetition and positive reinforcement, and Colombo infiltrated the suspect’s mind with subconscious messaging. It seemed like a long shot, but one look at Margie told him he had to try.----------“Nice evening, isn’t it, Herb?”“It sure is, Kenny, but I have to get inside pretty soon. I can feel a little nyctophobia coming on.”“Nyctophobia? What’s that?”“Fear of darkness. I just read about it yesterday, and wouldn’t you know it, now I’ve got the damn stuff.”“That’s too bad. I have to get back in the house now too. I never want to be away from my beautiful bride too long. I’ve only been out here for ten minutes, and I miss her already.”Herb looked puzzled. “Really?”“Oh, yes! She’s the most beautiful, loving, kindest, caring woman in the world. And, I probably shouldn’t say this, but she’s also one sexy lady.”Now Herb looked really puzzled.“Uh, Kenny, I don’t quite know how to say this, but…well, not a lot of men I know like their woman so…large.”“Let me tell you, they are missing out, Herb. You wouldn’t believe what she does with it in the bedroom. Oh, I damn near popped a woody just thinking about it. In fact, I have to go right now! Fat’s where it’s at, Herb! See ya’.”Kenny sprinted off to his house, taking one quick glance back to see a questioning look on Herb’s face. He could only hope phase one was off to a good start.----------As Herb made nearly daily trips seeking help with his countless phobias, it wasn’t hard for Kenny to figure out who his psychiatrist was. Dr. Foggy received an anonymous letter:Dear Dr. Foggy,I believe you know a gentleman named Herb Hankey. You must also know the guy is off his rocker. I’m sure most of his phobia stuff is harmless, but I have recently become aware of something you too should be aware of. This morning I heard him say something about how all fat people should be killed. I think it would be a good idea if you tried to get him to stop hating fat people so much. In fact, you should try to get him to like fat people.                                                                              Sincerely,                                                                              A Concerned Citizen---------“Herb, I think we should try a new approach. You have so many bats in your belfry that I’d like to focus on just one rather than address your general…condition.”“You’re the doctor. Which one? How about the darkness thing? I’d like to be able to go outside at night. Or how about my ornithophobia. I’m tired of wearing all that protective headgear to keep the birds from attacking me.”“In good time, Herb. I was thinking of taking on your greatest fear right out of the gate- cacomorphobia, your fear of fat people. They’re everywhere nowadays. Let’s start with that one.”“You’re the doctor. What do we do?”“I’ve prepared a video presentation. I think it will help.”Dr. Foggy had put together an impressive array of film clips and slides showing loved, successful, plus-size people from all walks of life:- Mama Cass dreamin’ a little dream, Chubby Checker twistin’ and shoutin’, and Kate Smith belting out “God Bless Amercica” before a Flyers’ Hockey Game. - Melissa McCarthy, John Candy, and Chris Farley bringing smiles and laughter to the multitudes.- Winston Churchill, Queen Victoria, and Henry VIII leading their nations.- Minnesota Fats performing magic with his pool cue as he takes on Fast Eddie, and the Soviet Union legend Tamara Press winning the 1964 Olympic Gold in the women’s shot put.“See, Herb, fat people have made tremendous contributions to the world. They are wonderful. We should like them…and not want to kill them.”---------“I think Herb really likes my double fudge chocolate cakes. I’ll put one out on his front porch, and two days later the empty plate is there.”Her smile was telling Kenny that this was about more than Herb liking her baking skills.“I’m sure he appreciates it. I don’t know why he doesn’t come out when you ring his doorbell. Why don’t you try one of your triple fudge chocolate cakes?”“I think I will.”---------Herb started to find sticky notes in his mailbox, on the trees in his yard, on his front door, and on the windshield of his car, all bearing the same message: I LOVE FAT PEOPLE. When all the lights were out in Herb’s house, Kenny placed a tape recorder under his bedroom window which played soft music along with the looped message “I love fat people.” After just three weeks. It started to pay dividends.Margie, holding a triple fudge chocolate cake, missing just one (large) piece, rang the doorbell, leaving a substantial wad of chocolate from her finger on the device. To her surprise, the door slowly opened. Then closed. Open then closed. Open then closed.“Herb, you don’t have to be afraid. It’s just little old me, Margie from next door.” The combined efforts of Kenny and Dr. Foggy seemed to be paying off. Herb opened the door wide and stepped out onto the porch. He smiled broadly, and Margie giggled like a schoolgirl.“Thank you, Margie. Listen, if you have time, I could get a knife, and a couple of forks and plates, and we could sit on the porch swing and have our cake…and eat it too!”They both broke out in boisterous laughter, the porch swing held up to its greatest challenge, and Margie and Herb downed what was left of the entire cake. Kenny looked down on the scene from his 2nd floor bedroom, smiled, and congratulated himself for a job well done. It was all heading in the right direction, but Kenny knew he had more to do.--------- “You look a little down today. You ok, Kenny?”“Yeah, I’m fine, Herb, just the normal pressures of financial stuff. That will all change when Margie’s dad kicks the bucket.”“How so?”“The guy is loaded. With Margie being an only child and her mother already dead and buried, when the old goat finally dies she’ll inherit a bundle.”“Really?”“Yes, the old geezer is loaded, gold mines, oil wells, paper mills. He got most of his money from some computer stuff he invented. When he dies, she’ll get millions, and I’ll have my hands all over it. I can hardly wait.”“That’s interesting.”`-----------“And we sit and eat chocolate cake together. It’s great, Doc.”“And she’s a big one?”“Oh, yeah, real big.”“Well, I’m proud of you, Herb. You are making wonderful progress. But it looks like you’re putting on a few pounds. Let’s not get your mind on the right track and then have your physical health suffer.”“I know, but I just love those times sitting out my front porch in the evening eating chocolate cake with Margie.”----------And so it continued, sticky notes extolling the virtues of plus-size people every time Herb turned around; sweet subliminal messaging wafting through Herb’s open window manipulating his mind to see the beauty in plump figures; continuing positive reinforcement from Dr. Foggy; and chocolate cakes with Margie on the porch every evening. It seemed that love was in the air, or so Kenny hoped…and prayed.----------One evening, Kenny was looking out his window, again relishing the sight of Herb and Margie enjoying their chocolate cake. To his surprise, when the last crumb was feverishly licked off the plate, they both walked over to his house. Kenny met them at the door.“Kenny, I know this will come as quite a shock, but I’ve fallen in love with Herb. We want to leave for Vegas tonight for a quickie divorce, and then I’m going to marry Herb. I just need you to sign off on it. I’m sorry, but Herb is my soul mate.”Kenny struggled to conceal his glee.“Gee, that’s too bad. Where do I sign?”Margie went off to pack a few things, leaving Kenny alone with Herb.“I’m sorry, Kenny. I hope you’ll be ok.”Kenny wanted to know which of his brilliant schemes brought about the change in Herb and opened the door to a new and better life.“I’ll get through it. Can I just ask you something?”“Sure.”“I know you had this fear of…large people. How did you get over it? Were you picking up on some subtle messaging maybe, or a little extra help from your shrink…or, and you can tell me, was it her dad’s money?”“No, none of those.”“Well, what was it then?”“I just really like chocolate cake.”
","July 12, 2023 03:49","[[{'Lily Finch': 'Murray, great story. \nI enjoyed that I learned some new phobia terms that I didn\'t already know. Thank you for that bit of information.\nWhen questioned why he married her; his response was, ""I just really like chocolate cake."" - Interesting premise. Marrying someone who loves your baking.\n\nYou never know what will happen when the phobias come to town.\n\nWhen you\'re tired of them let a neighbour experience the same scenario and see how it plays out.  \nNot bag Murray. Good story. I like the theme - . \n\nThanks for the good read.', 'time': '13:17 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'Did I like this on my other account? I didn\'t leave a comment so I suppose not. But if I did, then here we go again!\n\nRead it once, had to read it again. I giggled the whole way through, even (and especially) the second time!\n\nFor a girl who collects phobias, this story is a God-send!\n\nAbsolutely legendary last line: ""I just really like chocolate cake."" Favourite last line of all time!\n\nAmazing!!', 'time': '18:08 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zelda C. Thorne': 'Entertaining story. I enjoyed reading very much and giggled a few times. All those phobias! And the last line was great.', 'time': '13:13 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': 'I appreciate it. I once lost a bet on ""defenestraphobia""- I refused to believe there was such a thing as a fear of being thrown out of a window. When I Googled ""phobias"", I was surprised to see how many are out there...almost makes me feel pretty normal! Thanks.', 'time': '14:10 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Murray Burns': 'I appreciate it. I once lost a bet on ""defenestraphobia""- I refused to believe there was such a thing as a fear of being thrown out of a window. When I Googled ""phobias"", I was surprised to see how many are out there...almost makes me feel pretty normal! Thanks.', 'time': '14:10 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Girth equals mirth even if I resemble Margie. What can't be cured by chocolate cake? \nHear about a phobia and immediately catch it. Herb has his problems. \nKenny is a piece of work. Won't he miss her bedroom cheesecake? Bet he won't be finding any better."", 'time': '17:29 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': '""Her bedroom cheesecake""...now that is clever!', 'time': '18:20 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Murray Burns': '""Her bedroom cheesecake""...now that is clever!', 'time': '18:20 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""LOLOL   If liking this tale is wrong, then I don't wanna be right!\n\nFunny as hell, but with a deeper message. Kenny is a manipulator, and not the good kind. Herb is easily swayed, and we find that chocolate cake is his kryptonite. The last sentence was beautiful! Really wrapped up so many things about the human condition. The way to a man's heart and all that, right? Nicely done, Murray.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '13:59 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Murray Burns': 'Because of the very use of the word ""fat"", I fear the story may be sent to Reedsy jail, and I\'ll be recommended for sensitivity training.\nThere\'s an episode of Bonanza- the old gold miner strikes it rich and one of the saloon girls throws herself at him...then he announces they will get married. The Cartwrights agonize over this because they know she is only after his money. They finally confront him to explain this to him, and he responds, ""No kidding, and I\'m marrying her for her looks, What\'s the problem?""', 'time': '15:35 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': 'LOLOL   I used to watch Bonanza as a kid, and I would dearly like to see this clip. It reminds me of a ""Big Bang Theory"" episode with the same premise. Howard was dating and screwing one of Penny\'s slut friends (her words) and she was getting expensive gifts from Howard. He was confronted by his friends and said basically what the miner said.\n\nReedsy needs to accept this tale, my friend. Using the word ""fat"" in a story shouldn\'t get it banned. Especially not this one, for there was a deeper message. It wasn\'t used gratuitously. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '15:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Murray Burns': 'Because of the very use of the word ""fat"", I fear the story may be sent to Reedsy jail, and I\'ll be recommended for sensitivity training.\nThere\'s an episode of Bonanza- the old gold miner strikes it rich and one of the saloon girls throws herself at him...then he announces they will get married. The Cartwrights agonize over this because they know she is only after his money. They finally confront him to explain this to him, and he responds, ""No kidding, and I\'m marrying her for her looks, What\'s the problem?""', 'time': '15:35 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'LOLOL   I used to watch Bonanza as a kid, and I would dearly like to see this clip. It reminds me of a ""Big Bang Theory"" episode with the same premise. Howard was dating and screwing one of Penny\'s slut friends (her words) and she was getting expensive gifts from Howard. He was confronted by his friends and said basically what the miner said.\n\nReedsy needs to accept this tale, my friend. Using the word ""fat"" in a story shouldn\'t get it banned. Especially not this one, for there was a deeper message. It wasn\'t used gratuitously. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '15:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'LOLOL   I used to watch Bonanza as a kid, and I would dearly like to see this clip. It reminds me of a ""Big Bang Theory"" episode with the same premise. Howard was dating and screwing one of Penny\'s slut friends (her words) and she was getting expensive gifts from Howard. He was confronted by his friends and said basically what the miner said.\n\nReedsy needs to accept this tale, my friend. Using the word ""fat"" in a story shouldn\'t get it banned. Especially not this one, for there was a deeper message. It wasn\'t used gratuitously. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '15:52 Jul 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,6cpv1b,FEAR-NO FEAR,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6cpv1b/,/short-story/6cpv1b/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Adventure', 'Asian American']",17 likes,"
FEAR-NO FEAR
 
“The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have is yours
The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours…”
 
The above formed part of a an encrypted call signal, known as a fist. It was used to identify the wireless operator, calling England from Occupied France during World War Two. Previously, phrases from well known poems had been utilised but the Germans were easily able to copy them so new phrases were created instead. This particular phrase was provided to a woman named Violette Szabo who gave her life resisting the Nazis.
 
It’s impossible to write about fear without paying homage to three other brave men and women that faced their fears in different ways.
 
One such woman was Noor Inayat Khan, daughter of a Sufi, who had been brought up to believe in pacifism; Sufism being a mystic branch of Islam. This remarkable woman was actually born in the Kremlin, Moscow in 1914. Some accounts state that the infamous monk, Rasputin, was present at her birth. Her family eventually settled in Suresnes, a suburb of Paris where Noor became fluent in French. At the outbreak of the Second World War, the family moved to England and she volunteered to serve against the Germans. Her linguistic ability made her a prime candidate for SOE, Special Operations Executive -F (France) Section.
 
During her training, her instructors repeatedly noted that Noor was “unsuitable” for the dangerous role she was to be given, that of the first female wireless operator to be parachuted into Occupied France. She was also declared “unsuited for jumping from a plane”. In a mock interrogation during training, Noor was described as “terrified’, “trembling” and had, in fact, “lost her voice” so frightened had she been.
 
Despite this, Noor, herself, insisted that she could face her fears and was, subsequently, dropped into France, under the codename Madeleine, where she was met by one, Henri Dericourt, head of the Prosper resistance network. Noor began to transmit and receive messages, all the time being tracked by Gestapo radio detectors which meant that she had to continually move from one location to another. This was a particularly dangerous task as the bulky radio transmitter had to be concealed in a suitcase. If stopped and searched, the transmitter would be an immediate giveaway.
 
In order to actually operate the wireless, Noor had to run a wire, often posing as a washing line, another clear sign for the hunters. This was especially dangerous because, often, it would take hours for London to respond which allowed the detectors more time to seek out their prey. Worst of all, and unknown to Noor, or London, the Prosper network for which she was working, had been betrayed by the same Henri Dericourt who had met her upon her arrival. The Gestapo were closing in on Noor and she was forced to flee from hiding place to hiding place. Dericourt had informed the Gestapo that she had a fondness for wearing blue, another clue in their determination to track her down.
 
London insisted that things had become too dangerous and that arrangements had to be made for her to be picked up and flown back to England. Had she done this, Noor would, almost certainly, have been betrayed by Dericourt but, showing incredible bravery, Noor insisted on staying, mainly because she was the only link between the resistance and London, all other wireless operators having been captured by the Gestapo. As this young woman fled from one suburb of Paris to another, knowing that she was being hunted, at times, she became paralysed by fear but continued doing her job.
 
Time ran out for Noor when, as happened so often, she was betrayed and was arrested in October 1943 and taken to Gestapo HQ, the dreaded address of 84 Avenue Foch.
 
At around the same time, a French man by the name of Pierre Brossolette was flown from London on his third mission behind enemy lines. Following the death of Jean Moulin, Brossolette had become the Gestapo’s most wanted resistance fighter. He was easily distinguishable by the streak of white that ran through the middle of his hair, front to back. All Gestapo, SD and SS knew to be on the alert for this man. To avoid detection, Pierre had dyed his white streak black to match the rest of his hair but, even so, things became very dangerous and Pierre was ordered to leave France but, partly because of the bad winter weather and, partly due to a Lysander aircraft having been shot down by the Germans, Pierre decided to escape by boat. Unfortunately, they encountered a storm and the vessel was shipwrecked. Pierre made it to land and was sheltered by local resistance fighters, only to be betrayed at a checkpoint. Pierre was detained in Rennes, the Germans not yet recognising that they had actually captured their number one target. One can only imagine the fear that Pierre felt in captivity, knowing that each day, as the roots of his hair grew, it was only a matter of time before he was identified.
 
Forest Frederick Edward Yeo Thomas was a truly outstanding character. Unlike the two previously mentioned subjects, he did not know the meaning of fear. As a young man, he had fought for Poland against Russia in the Polish-Soviet War 1919-20. Captured by the Russians, he managed to escape after killing a Russian guard. At the outbreak of World War Two, at the age of 37, Yeo Thomas volunteered for a number of British armed units but was continually rebuffed because of his age. Being fluent in French, however, he became a prime candidate for SOE and was dropped into France on a number of occasions, operating covertly under the codename, The White Rabbit, and forming an excellent relationship with a number of French resistance fighters. In particular, he had become very close to Pierre Brossolette and, when he was informed of Pierre’s arrest and detention, hatched a daring plan to rescue his friend before the Gestapo could correctly identify him.
 
Unfortunately, Yeo Thomas was, himself, betrayed and arrested at Passy Metro in Paris before he could carry out his friend’s rescue. He managed to conceal his true identity even after being tortured horrifically at 84 Avenue Foch where he was subjected to being submerged, face first, in ice cold water-often for so long that the Gestapo needed to use artificial respiration to revive him. Additionally, he was beaten unmercifully and given electric shocks to his genitals but refused to divulge a single thing.
 
Not realising the importance of their prisoner, the Gestapo transferred Yeo Thomas to Fresnes where he twice attempted to escape, becoming such a pest that, eventually, he was sent to Buchenwald Concentration Camp.
 
Noor, meanwhile, had revealed nothing under interrogation and managed to escape from Avenue Foch on two occasions. Her second attempt was successful but she was recaptured in the local vicinity and transferred to Pforzheim under the dreaded Nacht und Nebel (Night and Fog) dictate of 1941. This allowed the Nazis to arrest foreigners, deemed to be a threat to Germany, without warning or legal representation and transfer them to Germany where they were never heard of again. 7,000 people disappeared under this decree; 5,000 of them from France. Noor was incarcerated with both hands and feet shackled for ten months. Though she refused to divulge anything, she was badly treated and fellow prisoners would later testify to having heard her weeping at night in her cell.
 
Pierre Brossolette knew that it was only a matter of time before his hair gave him away and so it proved. He was transferred to 84 Avenue Foch and brutalised for two and a half days. His fingernails were removed, his hands placed between the hinges of a door and crushed, beaten severely and electrically shocked. Incredibly, he refused to crack. Even more incredibly, he had been provided with a cyanide capsule in case of capture but, either he had lost it, or, more likely, believed, optimistically, that he could still, somehow, talk his way out of his situation. On the third day of his torture, he finally knew that he could not take any more punishment and was on the point of breaking. Seeing an open window, he seized his chance and jumped to his death.
 
 
 
Noor was eventually transferred to Dachau Concentration Camp, taken behind a hut and told that she was to be executed with three other brave women. According to eye witness accounts, they all held hands and wept. Her last word was “Liberte” before she was shot in the back of the head.
 
Yeo-Thomas, incarcerated at Buchenwald, was, typically, doing his utmost to escape. He, somehow, had himself transferred to the typhus block where he adopted the name of a recently deceased man and was able to survive as an orderly. Eventually, posing as a victim of typhus, he managed to escape, only to be recaptured and sent to a prisoner of war stalag. It wasn’t long before he, once again, successfully escaped, killing a guard in doing so. He managed to evade capture and made his way back to England.
 
After the war, he was offered the opportunity to return to France and assist in hunting down and identifying those who had betrayed these brave men and women but, when his requisition for arms-which included grenades, knives, machine guns and revolvers -was received, it wasn’t difficult for the authorities to realise exactly what The White Rabbit had in mind for these people and he was stood down.
","July 09, 2023 19:13","[[{'Shea West': ""Hey Charles,\n\nI'm a fan of CNF because I think it takes a certain level of creativity to be able to have one foot in the non-fiction while still making the whole thing read like it's not  fiction. \n\nI think the intro was strong and enough to make me feel curious about where you were going with the piece. I had no idea that poems were used in such a way during the war. Thanks for teaching me something new!\n\nThe rest of the writing is delivered well in the amount of content you give the reader. AND, it also felt like I was reading a passage fr..."", 'time': '00:25 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Fearful times indeed.', 'time': '23:00 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,txbacr,The Bake Sale,Marty B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/txbacr/,/short-story/txbacr/,Character,0,['Sad'],17 likes,"
“I think they should have a card, or a sign, you know.” Lois said. “A brooch maybe, those men might even like it, a dash of color!”Jane giggled nervously along with the other woman working in the back kitchen of River Oaks Baptist church.“We need to know, to keep ourselves safe.” Lois continued.“It's God's hand, punishing that immoral behavior. It's as plain as day.” Barbara said, unwrapping a large chocolate sheet cake. “Don’t you agree Jane?”“Did you wash your hands Barbara?” Jane said as she focused on removing the saran wrap on the homemade plate of cupcakes in front of her.Barbara frowned, but walked over to the sink pushing up the sleeves of her bright pink blouse, and began washing her hands. “I won’t even drive down Westheimer any more, it is too dangerous.” Barbara said. “I heard you can get it from the air, one of those homosexuals just breathes it out and - bam you got the gay cancer.” “You all know Morty right, Suzanne’s cousin?” Lois leaned against the chrome refrigerator, taking a big draw on her cigarette. The body waves of her permed hair gently rested on the shoulder pads of her metallic blue suit jacket. “He was at the high school with your kids.”Jane finished unwrapping and pricing the donated baked goods in front of her, and moved over to the covered plates Lois had left undone.“Morty was living down in Montrose. He got a pneumonia, and he’s real sick.” Lois continued. “Suzanne said he got it from the airplane ride he took back from California, but I think it's more than that.” Lois and Barbara shared a wide eyed knowing look. “There were always rumors, and we know what goes on down in Montrose!” Barbara cackled as she accepted the offered cigarette and leaned in for Lois to light it.“Now Morty’s living in Suzanne’s garage. She leaves food for him at the door.”“I don’t know if I could do that.” Barbara said, shaking her head.“Ladies, please keep the smoke away from the desserts.” Jane said, waving the two women away from the food.Lois popped her lips, but both women moved toward the open back door.“Jane, you are the biggest germ-a-phobe I have ever met.” Lois laughed. “I'm surprised you ever leave the house!”“Germs build up immunity.” Barbara said, nodding at her own wisdom.  “Well, there is no immunity for the AIDs.” Lois said. “That's why the gays should wear a sign. To protect us."" Lois pointed her cigarette at Jane. “I told Suzanne we just could not come by her house while he was staying with her.” Lois said. “My little Jenny can’t see her best friend, but we have to keep them safe you know?”“Jane.” Lois spoke, her voice light. “Your boy knows Morty.”Jane’s hands slipped and several brownies spilled onto the table. She carefully tossed them in the garbage can.“They used to be thick as thieves when they were younger.” Barbara added. “My Jennifer used to pal around with them too. They all came over that one year to make costumes on my sewing machine."" Barbara eyes went to the floor. ""Until she met Danny. Now they're down in San Antonio. She’s taking a break, but she’s going to go to go back to A&M, she wants to be a nurse.”“How’s the baby?” Jane asked.Barbara looked up sharply, and then at Lois before her eyes went to the floor. “The baby is fine.” Barbara breathed out a long trail of smoke. “Since Danny left, Jenny is on her own. But that's what she wants so-” Barbara kicked the floor with her white Keds.Michael didn’t stay in touch with Morty?” Lois said.Jane just shook her head no as she kept her hands working.“What is Michael doing now?” Lois asked.  Jane felt both women watching her, waiting. Her work was done, but she went back through all the plates, organizing each one. She needed to keep her hands busy.“Michael is working now, and looking forward to college next year.” Jane said, keeping her eyes on her work. “He's going to UT, going to be a Longhorn.”Jane’s shoulders clenched and she felt tears welling in her eyes. She blinked and put on her best smile.“Just like his daddy.” Barbara said. “What is he going to be studying?”The smile froze to Jane’s face. “I don’t know- engineering. Yes, engineering.” Jane thought of her wish for a different son. A son who would take after his father and want to play baseball, go to prom with a girl, and want to study engineering. She prayed every night to have that son. But God works in mysterious ways. “I would've guessed the theater.” Barbara said. “He was so wonderful in the high school play. He was magical as Hamlet.”Jane took a step back from the two women and the conversation. She looked around for a distraction and saw the case of bright red soda cans on the table.“Should I bring out the sodas? I bought the New Coke this time, I thought the teens would like it-” Jane needed something to do to get out of this kitchen.“Hello, is the food pantry open?” A man leaned into the kitchen from the bright morning light of the back door. Thin, his face was mottled with purple bruises and his eyes were bloodshot red. He wore a long sleeve shirt, under a Members Only jacket. He shivered even though it was a hot, Houston summer day.“No, the Church has the food pantry on weekdays only.” Lois said. “Today is the bake sale. Want a cupcake?” She waved toward the loaded serving table.He took a step toward a plate of cupcakes and took one.Jane’s eyes went wide. “No! You need to leave, right now!”The man grimaced, his eyes blazed at Jane before he put his head down and left the kitchen, holding his cupcake.Jane looked around, and grabbing a towel, she picked up the entire plate of cupcakes with outstretched arms and threw it in the garbage can.“What the-” Lois’s eyes went wide, her hands flew up in confusion.“Didn’t you see him,” Jane said, her breath coming fast and hard, pointing at the open door. “He had the AIDs. His face, those bruises. We can not have him in here!”Barbara looked out the door, and back at Jane. Her eyes narrowed, her hands on her hips. “How did you know?” Jane left the Bake Sale carrying a plate wrapped in clear plastic.She unlocked the front door and placed her keys carefully on the key hook. She walked down the hall, through the house and to a closed door. She set the plate on the side table next to the door, and then took down a thin cotton robe off a nearby hook, and put it on.She pulled out white gloves from one pocket and then a surgical mask from the other. Jane wiped her eyes on a napkin, and took two big breaths before she adjusted the mask over her mouth and nose. Picking up the plate in one hand, she knocked and opened the door without waiting. The large poster of two smiling young men and the word ‘Wham!’ greeted her as it did every time she walked into the dark room. The thick air was filled with the stench of sweat, sickness and human waste. The man in the small bed turned toward her, his thin body barely noticeable under the thick covers. He reached out a pale hand, marked with purple bruises. Sores on his mouth blistered as he smiled.“I couldn’t make it to the bathroom, I'm sorry-” His voice is hoarse.  Jane pulled clumps of hair off his pillow, and brushed her gloved hand over his forehead.“Hello Michael. How are you feeling today!” Jane said, buoyant cheer straining her voice.“We’ll get you cleaned up, and then I have your favorite, chocolate cake.”
","July 13, 2023 17:40","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Marty,\nOh my gosh, what a powerful and beautiful message that you decided to write about for this week’s prompts! I absolutely loved the way that so much of the story was based in misinformation and gossip. I also thought that you were decision to place it in a church environment was particularly interesting. Your final scene was absolutely beautiful, and I loved the gentle appreciation and kind spirit that we were able to end with. Nice work!!', 'time': '05:43 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'I spent a lot of time in church basements/kitchens and in my experience, the hypocrisy is as bad as the coffee.\nThank you for your good words!', 'time': '18:34 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'I spent a lot of time in church basements/kitchens and in my experience, the hypocrisy is as bad as the coffee.\nThank you for your good words!', 'time': '18:34 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is crazy good writing and so powerful and heart-rending.\nLove', 'time': '17:40 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Thank you!  I appreciate your comment, and especially from such a creative writer.', 'time': '18:11 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Thank you!  I appreciate your comment, and especially from such a creative writer.', 'time': '18:11 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'It\'s a very specific moment in time, regarding a very specific disease. Thankfully these specific attitudes have passed, but the kind of attitudes they are, sadly remain\nMaybe they\'re just a part of humanity.\n\nThere\'s a line specifically that stuck out: ""nodding at her own wisdom"". That sums up the characters wonderfully. We all like to be right, and it seems the easiest way to achieve that is if someone else is wrong.\n\nIt\'s a good take on the prompt. Thanks for sharing!', 'time': '01:17 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Yes a moment in time, yet it had a huge impact on a generation of men. \nI agree many people would rather someone else be wrong than even they be right.', 'time': '05:40 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Yes a moment in time, yet it had a huge impact on a generation of men. \nI agree many people would rather someone else be wrong than even they be right.', 'time': '05:40 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michael Martin': 'I enjoyed the banter at the beginning.  Having grown up in the Deep South where church bake sales were common, I can definitely relate.  The dialogue is believable, and I especially enjoyed the line, ""I heard you can get it from the air, one of those homosexuals just breathes it out and - bam you got the gay cancer.”  That level of ignorance is quite normal down there.\n\nIf I could provide an observation/suggestion, it would be to maybe cut at least one of the people (from having a speaking role) from the initial scene.  It got to the point w...', 'time': '18:53 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Thanks for the vote of believability! \nI agree it had some confusion early on in the dialogue- I had an additional speaker who got cut. Thanks for the observation!', 'time': '05:42 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Thanks for the vote of believability! \nI agree it had some confusion early on in the dialogue- I had an additional speaker who got cut. Thanks for the observation!', 'time': '05:42 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'I’m 64, and I remember the terror, ignorance, cruelty, and downright hatred associated with AIDS in the ‘80s. That the disease was publicly associated with groups already subjected to so much bigotry and hatred already only amplified the tragedy.\n\nI had a young coworker from a rural area — a smart, witty, fun lunch buddy who tried hard to disguise what we all knew, that he was a gay man. Most at work didn’t care but worried about his need to hid, except the pardon my French asshole who asked me if it was wise to go to lunch with G., if I wor...', 'time': '15:00 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Thank you for sharing that story, I can hear the loss in your words that you feel even now.  Truly as you said, there were many victim of AIDS and homophobia, and not just with the disease.  AIDs unnecessarily took many lives, and the last days of many of those people were made worse by  the fear.', 'time': '18:27 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': 'Amen.', 'time': '18:41 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Thank you for sharing that story, I can hear the loss in your words that you feel even now.  Truly as you said, there were many victim of AIDS and homophobia, and not just with the disease.  AIDs unnecessarily took many lives, and the last days of many of those people were made worse by  the fear.', 'time': '18:27 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'Amen.', 'time': '18:41 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'Amen.', 'time': '18:41 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Damn, this is a powerful tale, Marty. I find the story has depth and layers. These women who believe that being gay is a communicable disease are the same ones, many years later, refusing to get covid vaccines. And the smoking around others just adds to the whole farce. Well done, my friend.\n\nJane is a tragic figure. She doesn't get it, even in the midst of personal tragedy. This is such a timely and timeless tale, Marty. Such stellar writing. Nicely done, my friend.\n\nJust a thought: I'd review the dialogue. Use more contractions; when peopl..."", 'time': '13:05 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'I appreciate your great comments.  The AIDs crisis brought out the absolute worst in so many people.  \n I will review your suggested edits.', 'time': '18:28 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': 'I appreciate your great comments.  The AIDs crisis brought out the absolute worst in so many people.  \n I will review your suggested edits.', 'time': '18:28 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Marty, such a sad story. Jane never reveals how she knows. But I suspected something like the ending you wrote. Nicely done. \nVery well written. \nThanks for the good read. LF6', 'time': '21:23 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'Thanks for the good words!', 'time': '22:16 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'Thanks for the good words!', 'time': '22:16 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,umb956,Coupled.,Lara Deppe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/umb956/,/short-story/umb956/,Character,0,"['Funny', 'Romance', 'Drama']",16 likes,"
There is fear. And then there’s the moment when you are standing and he’s kneeling and he has a ring and he is asking and you are wondering how to answer him and you know the answer is one quick word with three letters and somehow you still don’t know what to say because you never really thought this day would ever really come because there are so many girls who are so much more beautiful and articulate and flirty and worthy and giggly; girls who eat salad and go to the gym with their mixing bottle full of protein power and their lulu lemon workout pants; girls who don’t snort when they laugh too hard; girls who were the prom queen and the drama princess; girls who got a 35 on their ACT; girls who like to fish and ride four wheelers without falling off; girls who can ice skate like Nancy Kerrigan even after the whole Tonya Harding thing; girls who don’t get flustered and drop the first bite of their first meal with you on their ample chest (which is ample because of donuts and not a plastic surgeon); girls who can golf and look graceful as they flit about in their darling little golf skirt and throw their tiny little legs out of the cart to hit a perfect shot toward the waiting green; you know, nothing specific, but a girl like that. 
Who falls in love with a girl on a Saturday night in the frozen food section when you are both reaching for the Totinos pizza rolls? Who wants to marry the girl who hasn’t been kissed in so long that she’s pretty sure she will need to dust off her lips like an old shelf at grandma’s house with your first pair of shoes on it? Who picks out a ring for a girl who doesn’t know the names of the Star Wars characters and can’t tell you if a character is Marvel or DC but has recently, and ironically, made her way through a marathon of the History Channel’s season of Alone?
Who finds themselves standing in a wedding dress with ridiculous amount of make-up on at a venue that she got bullied into by a mother who has longed so intensely for this day that she even asked the man who weeds her yard if he is single and a mother-in-law so intense that she makes Lara Croft look like a pushover? A MIL who was not over-the-moon that her oldest son had chosen a girl who couldn’t fit one leg, let alone her entire galumph, into her mother’s wedding gown. 
 The ritual was about to begin. I stood at the end of the corridor of people like a great white wave which was about to surge over the edges of the tiny little aisle that made the thoroughfare on a plane look massive. I imagined myself in the Colosseum where the lion was about to be released and I was wearing sirloin underwear. They were all standing stone still and staring my direction. I turned to look behind me. There was no way to retreat. I was book-ended in by white chairs, thousands of distant and unknown relatives and a photographer and videographer buzzing about like persistent mosquitoes. The tiny little flower girls had already tottled their way to the front leaving the path strewn with rose petals. 
Daddy was at my side dressed like a waiter at that restaurant with the real cloth napkins and he had my arm in a vicelike grip just above my elbow. My fingers were beginning to numb below the tourniquet of his sausage fingers. A bead of sweat had formed on his forehead and was making its way toward his chin like a river winding its way through a tree patched forest. He wasn’t ready to turn me over to the charming one at the end and he was just as unsteady as I was about going through with the whole affair. He was beginning to breathe like he had just run a marathon. His hair was slicked back to where it cascaded over the fold of skin at the top of his suit coat. He was also looking straight ahead with a stone-cold eye on the men who stood to meet us at the end of this labyrinth of onlookers at the finish line. I think he was probably somewhere between his oh-shit and hell-no moment. I was his baby girl. He was not eager to give me away which is high praise for a man who had me around for nearly four decades. 
On the green at the end of the straightaway between the guests was the religious one who was going to wrap up the whole affair with the powers of heaven. The grey strands in his hair began just above his ears and swept toward the back of his head like a wave pulling back from the sea as the tide ebbs back into the ocean. The man to his left was many years his junior. He was looking down at his hands. It was as if he hadn’t noticed that I had arrived yet which surprised me because I thought he’d be locking the doors to all the exits right about now just to ensure I didn’t attempt an escape from Alcatraz. He always managed to have more faith in me than I did. To his left, there stood two other men that were anticipating what came next with rapt attention. His still-single friends who had an escape vehicle at the end of the driveway, which was running, just in case their best friend got abandoned at the altar. 
I jumped when the music began behind me and the ferocity of it caused my heart to leap from where it had fallen in the pit of my stomach to the top of my throat where it lodged like an overly large grape swallowed at a park on a the first eighty-four-degree day of the summer. It was time for something to happen and that something was me. I took the first unsteady step like a nine-month-old. Dad pulled me closer to him. It was meant to be a calming gesture but instead it tipped us like an old fishing boat, and we almost went tumbling onto Aunt Betty who had the audacity to bring her mini-whatever doodle to the wedding. I was once again a little girl on my first two-wheeled bicycle with my Daddy standing behind me holding onto the end of the seat preparing to let go as I took my first solo ride without the rickety training wheels on either side. 
My soon-to-be was now looking my direction with eager eyes. He was secretly hoping that the two of us would find a way to topple into the tenth row because what a story it would make, and the video mosquito would have it all on tape. This was one of the things I loved the most about the man who wanted us to be together forever. He was the kind of guy stopped at a lemonade stand to buy the little entrepreneurs out of their whole pitcher; he laughs with his whole body but doesn’t make a sound; he listens to every detail of my day as I rant for forty-five minutes without interrupting unless to ask another question like I’m the most fascinating thing in the room; he knows how to whisper my name when the tears come; he knows when to hold me when I talk about my brother who died when I was twelve; he never wanted the golf-skirt girl or the one on her way into the gym. He wanted me. And he would never let go even when I pushed. 
I finally find him at the end of the long walk of my life. He takes my hand. I am no longer afraid. 
And the religious one begins…. 
","July 13, 2023 03:50","[[{'Nicki Nance': 'I loved the first person POV, microscopic accounting of this union from proposal to vows. The story and particularly the inner life of the speaker are very relatable. A few little tidbits might benefit from a second look. 1. I\'m not sure a contemporary audience will got the Nancy Kerrigan reference 2. Thoroughfare is typically used for a larger area than a plane. I would probably change it to \'aisle\' and change the aisle in the church to \'way\' or path 3. Maybe eliminate ""from Alcatraz"" and turn the escape vehicle for the guys to \'getaway\' fo...', 'time': '21:49 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': ""Thank you Nicki for all of the helpful hints! I am so grateful that you took the time to read my story and make notes throughout. I'm pleased you like the first-person POV and the thread of the story. I am eager to keep practicing and cleaning up those things that take you out of the story. Thanks again!"", 'time': '01:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': ""Thank you Nicki for all of the helpful hints! I am so grateful that you took the time to read my story and make notes throughout. I'm pleased you like the first-person POV and the thread of the story. I am eager to keep practicing and cleaning up those things that take you out of the story. Thanks again!"", 'time': '01:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Carla Wood': 'Great story to take the reader on a roller coaster of ups and downs. At times this story feels as if the emotions are causing time to race and and the next moment time standing still.  It also has just enough humor to endear the reader to the author. A wonderful story!', 'time': '00:22 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': ""Why hello there! Life often feels like that doesn't it? A moment can speed by us and drag by like molasses.  Thanks for reading my story Carla!"", 'time': '19:05 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': ""Why hello there! Life often feels like that doesn't it? A moment can speed by us and drag by like molasses.  Thanks for reading my story Carla!"", 'time': '19:05 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Z. E. Manley': 'I love this! Your specificity and wit are amazing. Well done!', 'time': '20:52 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thank you, Zena for reading for commenting. Your comments always make my day! I feel like my writing is a bit chaotic. You always show a story rather than tell it.', 'time': '03:22 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thank you, Zena for reading for commenting. Your comments always make my day! I feel like my writing is a bit chaotic. You always show a story rather than tell it.', 'time': '03:22 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': ""Lara,\n\nI saw that you had followed me, so I clicked your name and found a piece that had no likes and no comments, and I'm just telling you that's just a call to action in my mind and heart. \n\nhad chosen a girl who couldn’t fit one leg, let alone her entire galumph, into her mother’s wedding gown.\n\naisle that made the thoroughfare on a plane look massive. \n\nmyself in the Colosseum where the lion was about to be released and I was wearing sirloin underwear\n\nMy fingers were beginning to numb below the tourniquet of his sausage fingers. \n\nus li..."", 'time': '12:06 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': ""Hi Mike - thank you again for taking the challenge when you saw I didn't have any likes or comments on my new post. What you share always gives me courage to keep writing! I LOVE your idea of capitalizing Religious One and I wish I'd thought of it. I will definitely use that idea. I believe that we all have a little fear of being the center of attention sometimes. Thanks again for reading and reaching out. It means a great deal to me."", 'time': '03:20 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': ""Hi Mike - thank you again for taking the challenge when you saw I didn't have any likes or comments on my new post. What you share always gives me courage to keep writing! I LOVE your idea of capitalizing Religious One and I wish I'd thought of it. I will definitely use that idea. I believe that we all have a little fear of being the center of attention sometimes. Thanks again for reading and reaching out. It means a great deal to me."", 'time': '03:20 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,9s3lq5,Saved by the Bra,Krystal Brown,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9s3lq5/,/short-story/9s3lq5/,Character,0,"['Suspense', 'Thriller', 'Mystery']",16 likes,"
 
I stepped out of the sunroom to the back patio and momentarily felt weightless, like I’d misjudged the last step on a staircase. As my stomach tumbled to my throat, I quickly looked down - but a sudden fog overtook my sense of sight. I squeezed my eyes shut during the brief moment of panic, followed by relief as the world steadied itself and I felt hard ground beneath my feet.
 
A quick glance around caused a lump to form in my throat; nothing in front of me made sense. Where there should have been 2 acres of the well-kept garden composing my backyard, there were nothing but trees. My feet were supposed to be on a concrete landing, but instead they pressed onto bare ground surrounded by nature. Goosebumps rose on my skin as a cold breeze swept across my arms and face. 
 
I plucked out a stick that was jabbing the bottom of my other-wise clean feet. I was confused; if I had walked there, my feet would have been filthy, but how in the world had I gotten into this forest if I hadn’t walked?
 
“Hello? Is anyone there?” I asked, but my question went unanswered. 
 
I rubbed my eyebrow with a fingertip, which was something I did absently from nerves. Fragments of questions tumbled around in my mind. Had I walked there and either cleaned my feet or hid my shoes? Why couldn’t I remember? Was I sleepwalking again? Or, maybe this was all a dream; although the latter would make for a reassuring and safe solution, I couldn’t make myself believe it. 
 
I glanced around in search of shoes or anything unnatural, but I saw nothing except shades of brown and green. Before I took off walking I tried to locate the sun above - to ensure I wouldn’t be going in circles - but a blanket of leaves separated us sans small cracks of sunlight that scattered across the leaves and brush.
 
Something scurried beside me and I took a step back - but instead of solid ground, my foot made contact with something hard and loose. I yelped and waved my arms to steady myself as I tumbled backwards, smacking the back of my head on what felt like a log. A golden flash lit up my vision followed by a brief moment of darkness. 
 
When my eyesight faded back to normal, I sat up. My skull throbbed intensely at the site of impact as I reached my hand to feel for any bumps or abrasions. Wincing,  I pulled my fingers off and saw blood on the tips. ""Shit.""
 
I needed something to press on the wound, but the leaves and matter around me were likely to be dirty and who knew how much bacteria they harbored. My dirt-smeared denim romper offered no solution either. I thought for a moment, then reached under my sleeve cuffs and pulled my bra straps down until they were freed from my arms, followed by the unclasping of the main strap.
 
I pressed one cup forcefully over the sliced skin of my scalp and tied the two unclasped parts around my forehead, then added more pressure with my fingertips. If those survivor shows could see me now, was a fleeting thought. 
 
The trees continued to stand tall and surround me, offering no aid in the right direction to get back home or at least leave the forest.
 
I wanted to move, but was scared to, as I no longer trusted the security of my steps. 
 
Out of the corner of my eye, something moved in the bush to my right. I shuddered, imagining all of the creepy crawlers who lived in wooded areas. The thought gave me a reason to push forward, so I picked the brightest path and started moving. That seemed to have been a good idea, because the farther I walked, the light became brighter. Was that the edge of the forest up ahead? I took in a breath of air and let it out slowly as relief poured through me. Then, on my next step, I felt the stab of something sharp, like a thorn, under the heel of my left foot.
 
""Ow!"" I squeezed my eyes shut in pain as I lifted my foot, then felt an overwhelming sense of dizziness and stumbled forward. I was about to fall onto the ground for the second time and reached my arms in front of me to protect my aching head. But, the impact didn't come, not when it should have. I again felt the feeling of weightlessness as my body flew down, below ground level.
 
I smacked a hard surface about a dozen feet below ground. A sharp pain shot through my arm and I groaned as I rolled my body over to face upwards.
I was laying on a narrow wooden platform below the earth. No, not a platform; it was a box with 4 sides about 2 feet high, with one of the sides holding a lid straight open and pressed against the earth wall. I quickly sat up and then climbed to my feet. 
 
“Help!” I yelled out. Oh, please let there be someone nearby, “Help me!” I screamed as loud as I could, despite the pounding of my headache, threatening to explode. I applied counter pressure with one hand cupped around my makeshift wound dressing, and kept on. “Please! Someone! Help!” 
 
Something cold and crumbly hit my face. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and then looked down at my wrist to see dirt. ""Where did that come-""
 
More dirt hit me, heavier this time with more force, making me crouch down and pull my arms over me in protection. ""Stop! What the hell?""
 
I glanced up and could make out the shape of a shovel as more dirt hit the top of my head, forcing my face to point downward again.  ""Stop! Help me! Why are you doing this?” I pleaded and went to stand back up, but before I could, I felt something hard and metal push down against my shoulder blades, knocking me to the ground. Why had they hit me with the shovel?
 
I crouched on my hands and knees and tried to stand back up before I felt something hit my back, once again knocking me down. There was a creaking sound and a loud bang only inches from my head. I didn’t know what had happened, but suddenly, everything was much quieter and muffled. I needed to get to the side and search for anything solid in the earth I could use as a way to climb out, so I tried to push back up to my knees and hands but I couldn't - something was stopping me. 
 
Alarms went off inside of my head and my breath caught in my throat. Why was someone doing this to me? On my belly, I pushed my good arm underneath me - the other was still throbbing - as my back slid against the solid surface above me and I squeezed myself around to face upwards. 
 
My eyes widened in horror at the realization of what had pushed me down. I should have already guessed, but my throbbing head made it hard to think. 
""No. Oh my god. Help!""
 
Anxiety ran through my veins like blood, with each heartbeat carrying the panic closer to my chest. I pushed against the lid with my good arm as hard as I could. Why wasn’t it budging? I didn’t see any lock or bolt keeping it in place. 
 
Thankfully, the top wasn’t completely solid wood, as there were small one to two inch spaces in between the planks that I could sort of see through. That’s when I noticed there was a solid object obscuring the view above my thighs and knees that looked to be a large rock. I pushed harder but the lid didn’t move any higher than a few millimeters at most. My stomach lurched and my mind flashed back to my worst memory - being trapped in an unreleased pop up camper during my 10 birthday party. 
 
We had been playing hide and seek and while looking for the perfect hiding spot, I clocked the small door leading into my neighbor’s camper. The kids who lived there were also playing hide and seek, so their property was fair game. The pop-up camper was folded down so there was only enough space for me if I went in head first and laid on my back, then pulled my knees to my chest. Once I reached my hand to close the door, I waited, giggling to myself as I could hear other kids being found, until I was the only one left. I let them sweat it out for a few minutes but I was too eager to show them my spot and my legs were getting a cramp, so I reached my arm between my knees and turned the door handle. It didn’t budge. I tried again and again, then I started kicking the door with both feet.  
It turned out to be quite the perfect spot to hide, since it took 45 minutes before anyone found me - and that was only because I had escaped. All of my birthday guests and our neighbors were out searching and somehow, no one could hear me yelling or pounding on the door with my feet. Finally - and I’m not sure how I managed after all of that time - I used every bit of strength I had left to kick the door with full force, and it opened. 
 
The entire rest of my life had been affected by that day. I couldn’t even sit in a bathtub and any situation where I couldn’t move my arms and legs freely around me, I freaked out. My parents bought a full sized camper a few years later and I was given the top bunk. I was only on that bed for 10 seconds before I had a panic attack and had to sleep in my parent’s bed - at 14 years old. The camper was sold at the end of the summer because I refused to sleep in it again. 
 
That’s what I was thinking back to as I laid there, trapped - but for what reason? I had no idea why someone would want to do this to me. Kicking up once with my feet, I grimaced from the pain against my toes. There wasn't enough room to gain any momentum to the solid wood. I inhaled and exhaled unevenly, in gasps, and felt like I was crawling out of my skin. 
 
""Help! Anyone!"" I yelled again. My eyes stung as tears mixed with the dirt around them and I rubbed my eyebrow furiously. 
I screamed and screamed some more until I had nothing left. My body shook and I cried as my eyes darted around searching for any possible escape. This couldn't be real, this couldn't be happening.
 
This had to be a dream.
 
""Wake up!"" I yelled to myself. I pinched my leg and my face, glad that I had enough room at least to move my arms. I didn't want to think of the alternative. I became aware of my full bladder and my tongue ran along my dry, cracked lips. I could feel everything. This wasn't like any dream I'd had before.
 
My coffin - which is what I might as well have been in - seemed to be getting smaller as I considered the possibility of me never leaving this spot in the forest alive. Someone would probably find me eventually, I figured. But how long would it take? Was there rain in the forecast? All it would take was a little bit of rain and I'd never go back home, I'd never see my parents again, or Rose.
 
Rose. Surely she would go looking for me. Had she seen me come out to the woods? I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember my walk to the forest, but the last thing I remember was seeing her in the backyard as I opened the sunroom door to join her, before waking up to this nightmare.
 
I needed to think. What could I do? I was never going to bust anything open with the rock pressing down on the wood above my knees. Plus, due to my position, I was unable to use the strongest muscles of my legs. I thought of the supplies I had on hand, which were none. Wait, I thought. I did have one, and that one had saved me earlier.
 
The bra was still fastened around my head. I untied the straps and did a half-crunch to stick one in between the crack on the far side of the rock. I then pushed it slightly to slide down the adjacent crack. I shimmied the cups through the hole and started pulling the bra towards me, but it slipped under the rock. If I could just get the padding behind the rock, I could give it a little pull, and move it away from my legs. 
 
I tried a few more times but I wasn’t getting enough control of the bra to get it in the right spot. An exasperated cry blew from my lungs and I was about to give up when I felt the rock start to move towards me with my pull and I didn’t let go. Soon, the rock was pulled up directly over my head. I ignored the increased claustrophobia of not being able to see above me and kicked my legs in excitement. I winced as my knee hit the wooden lid. Then I stopped. Was that a crack I heard and felt? 
 
I let go of the strap and reached my hand up to feel where my knee had contacted the wood. I felt a few small cracks that had to have gotten there from the rock being dropped. I hit my knee on it again, but the pain was almost unbearable. 
I considered the possible ways I could position myself to give that spot the most force. Then, I slid myself around onto my stomach, scooted all the way towards the head of the box, laid flat and then bent my knees so my lower legs were as straight up as the space would allow. 
 
“Argh!” was the sound I made as I kicked up with full force. 
 
Crack.
 
Tears streamed down my face as I kicked again, breaking open the box. I didn’t know what I would do to climb up once I got out, but I could focus on that in a minute, I just needed to get out of the enclosure. 
 
Curving myself into an almost-unnatural position, I shimmied out of the box legs first, scraping up my skin on the jagged edges. I finally stood up straight once I got out and started yelling again, but wearily, as I didn’t want the person who’d locked me in there to come back to finish me off in a different way. 
 
I felt around for something solid to climb, when I heard the sound of leaves crackling above me. I froze. There was nowhere to hide. 
 
Then, a familiar voice broke through the air, “Fargo? Is that you?” 
 
I gasped.  “Rose! Rose! Down here!” 
 
Her face came into view above and a million butterflies filled my insides as I realized that I would be okay. I was actually going to be okay!
 
Rose leaned her head in towards me. “How in the world did you get down there?” She then stood up and disappeared for a moment that felt way longer than it was, before reappearing with the shovel. She leaned the tip of the tool towards me, and I flinched, covering my head. Had it been Rose that whole time? Was she going to hit me with it again? 
 
“Please, no!”
 
“What? I’m not going to hurt you. Here - grab the end.”
 
I blew out my breath and grabbed the end of the shovel. There were a few rocks poking out that I could balance one foot on as Rose pulled me high enough to climb out. 
 
Rose’s eyes widened as she took in my disheveled and injured appearance. “Are you okay?” She must have noticed the dried blood down my neck because she put her hands on my shoulders and gently turned me around. “That looks really bad on the back of your head, Fargo. We need to get you to a doctor.” 
 
The anxiety and fear I had felt just minutes before escaped out of me in the form of tears pouring out of my eyes. “Someone locked me in down there. I was trapped. Someone tried to kill me.” 
 
Rose walked over to the edge and looked down. “They locked you in? How?”
 
I carefully and slowly walked towards the hole and pointed down, but when I looked, there was nothing but solid ground at the bottom. “What in the hell?” I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head. “There was a box, like a coffin but not, and someone threw a rock to close it and then I couldn’t get out and I was screaming and couldn’t get up and-”
 
Rose pulled me into a hug. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You probably have a concussion. Let’s get you out of here.” 
 
Maybe she was right and the whole thing had been in my mind. Falling into a hole paired with a head injury could have ignited my childhood trauma and had me believing I was somewhere I wasn’t. It didn’t seem right, though. If my concussion was from hitting my head, how had I forgotten coming to the forest before my fall?  
 
Rose glanced down the pit one more time. “Fargo?” She asked. 
 
“What?”
 
She pointed below and looked at me with concern and a small amount of amusement. “Is that your bra strapped around a rock?” 
 
","July 13, 2023 16:21","[[{'Tamarin Butcher': 'Being locked in a tight place I cannot escape is one of my phobias too.', 'time': '00:10 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,o0xwnn,King Cotton (and Fear),Bruce Friedman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o0xwnn/,/short-story/o0xwnn/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Historical Fiction']",15 likes,"
Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States, was sitting quietly in his office in the Custom House in Richmond. It was February, 1862, and he had taken the oath of office a year earlier in Montgomery. The capital had previously been located there but the decision had been made to move to Richmond the previous May. It was a vital city for the manufacture of weapons and other war supplies and also served as the terminus for five railroads. Richmond would thus have been defended to the last man so it was deemed to be a logical place for the capital of the Confederate States. Following the move to Richmond, there were a few weeks of confusion in the government offices but things had settled down and he had some unoccupied time to think strategically. The subject he was pondering at this very moment was the future of King Cotton, the source of both his greatest fears and hopes. After several minutes of reflection, he shook the small bell on his desk. His personal secretary quickly escorted his Secretary of the Treasury, Christopher Gustavus Memminger, into the office. As soon as Memminger was comfortably seated across from him, Jeff addressed him slowly and deliberately in his soft, southern drawl. He was anxious to set the proper tone for the conversation that was about to begin. “Christopher, the topic that I am interested in discussing with you this morning is specifically to whom we are going to sell this year’s cotton crop. The answer to this question, as you surely understand, will go a long way toward determining the future of the Confederacy.“As you know, we decided to enact a cotton embargo about eight months ago for the purpose of ‘persuading’ various countries, particularly England, to declare themselves as allies of the Confederate States. The country currently has a policy of neutrality toward us. The criticality of our cotton for the British economy is well known. By the late 1850’s, our cotton exports accounted for 77% of the 800 million pounds of cotton consumed by their mills. Our embargo has thus resulted in severe shocks to the English economy. They are now desperately seeking to remediate this shortage by various means.“Why, you may ask, and in the face of their dependency on our cotton,” Davis continued, “is England continuing to pursue this policy of neutrality? The answer is that, first, they are concerned about the future of their Canadian provinces which are proximate to the Union’s northern border. Secondly, the policy also reflects Britain’s growing dependence on wheat and corn imports from the northern states, a situation that can only increase in coming years. “As a result of all of this, Britain has thus far failed to recognize us as a sovereign nation nor signed a treaty with us nor exchanged ambassadors with us. On a more positive note, they are continuing to send us arms and supply us with numerous war ships. Last year, I dispatched James Mason to England to see if he can negotiate a more harmonious relationship with them. There were some ‘complications’ that occurred in his journey abroad but he has now finally arrived. His remit is to attempt to dissuade England from pursuing its current diplomatic stance.“As you also know very well, we also burned some 2.5 million bales of cotton last year to create a cotton shortage. On the basis of all of the aforementioned events, the number of our bales exported to Europe dropped from 3 million bales in 1860 to mere thousands presently. “Unfortunately, all these actions have not caused the cotton ‘famine’ that we had predicted for England because of our bumper crops of the late 1850’s and 1860. This resulted in a surplus of cotton stocks in their warehouses. However, and on the positive side of the ledger, we anticipate that the British will experience a severe cotton shortage starting next year and this may well soon put us back into the diplomatic driver’s seat.“And now, all of this information brings me to the central topic for our discussion this morning. The impending cotton shortage in Britain dictates that the country must urgently turn to its colonies and other friendly nations such as Egypt, India, and Brazil for cotton to make up for the shortage. All of these countries have either an abundance of slaves or poor peasants which makes their production costs for cotton similar to ours. We thus need to carefully consider today the threat of Egyptian cotton exports replacing our product and how we might go about counteracting this challenge.“I will now turn to the very specific topic relating to Egyptian cotton—the crop is flourishing there and the country is on the verge of becoming a major factor in the global trade. It also turns out that Jacob Sassoon, of the Sassoon family line, has become the largest individual cotton plantation and cotton mill owner in Egypt. His older brother, Nissim, has also made a fortune exporting cotton to England and is now the largest individual cotton exporter in Egypt. These Sassoon brothers are the major focus for our discussion today. “It has become increasing clear to me that we need to gather more intelligence about their plans and ambitions. Would it be possible to attempt to befriend them so that they would work in concert with to achieve our goals? I have been pondering how to best pursue this goal and I think that I have come up with a possible solution. And I am now inviting our possible ‘solution’ to enter the room.""He then reached over his desk and rang the bell again. The door opened and his personal secretary escorted into the room a distinguished looking gentleman. He bowed graciously to Jefferson and Memminger, immediately picking up on the gravity of the moment, and took a seat. He cocked his head as a show of the importance he was applying to the conversation that was about to commence.“Here is a man, Christopher, who obviously needs no introduction: Judah Benjamin. As you know, Judah was born a British citizen in Saint Croix. He studied law at Yale and then launched a legal practice in New Orleans. He was the first professing Hebrew elected to the Senate in 1852. He was subsequently appointed as Attorney General of the Confederacy about a year ago and then promoted as our Secretary of War by me later that year.“So, Judah,” Jeff said, as he rearranged his chair to speak directly to Benjamin. “I will be very direct with you, sir. I believe that we would be well served by having you communicate with Jacob and Nissim Sassoon in Egypt about the development of some sort of agreement between them and our Confederate states regarding their cotton exports from Egypt to Great Britain.""“Jeff,” Benjamin responded quickly, “I suspect that I already know the answer to this question, but why have you chosen me to discuss this economic matter given that I am your Secretary of War and fully engaged with the duties and obligations of this important position?”“Well, not too put too sharp a point on it,” he replied, “it occurred to me that communicating with the Sassoon brothers, as your co-religionists, might deliver a particular advantage for us. Even if they do not feel an emotional attachment to our cause, perhaps they could be swayed from reducing their cotton and cloth exports to the British Isles by some sort of financial arrangement with us.”“Jeff,” Benjamin responded in a cautious but firm manner, “I need to tell you a few facts about the Sassoon family. Firstly, the family line was funded by Sheikh Sassoon ben Salih who was born in Bagdad. One might thus refer to them collectively as Middle Eastern Jews, a very different ‘line’ than my family. In addition, the Sassoon family has wealth beyond imagining. Along with the Rothchilds with whom they have intermarried, the Sassoons are one of the richest families in the world. For a start, the family totally controls the global opium trade. Any sort of formal financial ‘understanding’ with them would be impossible.“Secondly, the brothers are currently reaping a fortune by exporting their raw cotton and cloth to England. On this basis alone and also because of the family history in Britain, they are welcomed and entertained at the estates of the crème de la crème of high society there. Their businesses and their cultural orientation are strongly aligned with that of Britain and they are viewed as social peers by most of the aristocrats there.“And thirdly, Jeff, I am totally certain that these hardened global capitalists would not afford me personally any favors on the basis of my being a co-religionist of theirs. Their actions will be totally determined by the pursuit of profit. They may periodically dip into global political issues but only to enhance and burnish their business interests.” “Thank you for your well-reasoned response, Judah,"" Jeff responded. ""I now understand that my idea to approach the Sassoon's with you as an intermediary does not make sense. Although this is a depressing thought, not only are our cotton markets being disrupted but I also now fear that New Orleans is highly vulnerable to an attack by the Union troops. This would rob us of the largest city in the Confederacy, control of the Mississippi, and our largest port for the export of our cotton.“Well, gentlemen,” Davis continued as he raised both of his hands in a gesture of despair, “my fears about the future of our enterprise have only increased as a result of our discussion today. I tried all in my power to avert this war. I saw it coming. For twelve years, I worked night and day to prevent it, but I could not. The North is both mad and blind; it would not let us govern ourselves and so the war arrived.“Here are my three conclusions from today’s discussion. First, the global market for our cotton has been disrupted and will probably never return to its former state. Second, our currency is highly unstable because it’s not backed by specie—only our promise to stand behind it. We therefore can only win this war on the battlefield by shedding more of our enemy’s blood than ours. I am extremely proud of the fact that our Southern boys have risen to defend to the death our peculiar institution, slavery. God bless the Confederate States Army and God bless Robert E. Lee.
","July 14, 2023 12:23","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Bruce,\nWhat a fascinating take on the prompt. You wove such detailed history into this piece while keeping it at a fast pace. I gobbled every word down. I loved the premise-a leader who is both terrified and hopeful, trying to do what he thinks is best. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? Justification is a powerful tool that our own mind uses every day. Nice work with this one!!', 'time': '17:35 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Amanda, thanks for your very generous comments. I had a lot of fun writing this. I am delving more into historical fiction. It take more time to research but is very satisfying for me -- trying to imaging how historical figures thought and behaved.', 'time': '17:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Amanda, thanks for your very generous comments. I had a lot of fun writing this. I am delving more into historical fiction. It take more time to research but is very satisfying for me -- trying to imaging how historical figures thought and behaved.', 'time': '17:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'One the thing I love about these prompts is the multitude of approaches. Never would I have considered taking it from this angle Bruce. Very educational, informative and well written. The rhetoric seemed very of the times too.\n\nGood job Bruce, I look forward to reading move of your works.', 'time': '19:25 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks very much Kevin. I had a lot of fun doing this -- putting yourself in the shoes of a historical figure and trying to figure out how he or she would try to make sense of events facing them.', 'time': '02:41 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks very much Kevin. I had a lot of fun doing this -- putting yourself in the shoes of a historical figure and trying to figure out how he or she would try to make sense of events facing them.', 'time': '02:41 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Learned a lot from this well-written piece. Well done Bruce!', 'time': '16:37 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Thank you, J.D. Appreciate your comment, I have only just recently been experimenting with historical fiction. Have had great success in using the AI Bing to do my backdrop research. It's a little fussy doing the background reading but I am personally learning a lot in the process. Also, a great way to expose readers to some interesting historical facts."", 'time': '23:25 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Ooh, that’s an intriguing way to research! I’ll have to give it a shot sometime. :)', 'time': '23:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bruce Friedman': ""It's baked into the Microsoft browser Edge which is free to download. Edge is Microsoft's browser. Bing AI is great because it's always up-to-date as to web content."", 'time': '00:40 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Good to know!', 'time': '00:51 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Thank you, J.D. Appreciate your comment, I have only just recently been experimenting with historical fiction. Have had great success in using the AI Bing to do my backdrop research. It's a little fussy doing the background reading but I am personally learning a lot in the process. Also, a great way to expose readers to some interesting historical facts."", 'time': '23:25 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'Ooh, that’s an intriguing way to research! I’ll have to give it a shot sometime. :)', 'time': '23:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Bruce Friedman': ""It's baked into the Microsoft browser Edge which is free to download. Edge is Microsoft's browser. Bing AI is great because it's always up-to-date as to web content."", 'time': '00:40 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Good to know!', 'time': '00:51 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Ooh, that’s an intriguing way to research! I’ll have to give it a shot sometime. :)', 'time': '23:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': ""It's baked into the Microsoft browser Edge which is free to download. Edge is Microsoft's browser. Bing AI is great because it's always up-to-date as to web content."", 'time': '00:40 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Good to know!', 'time': '00:51 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': ""It's baked into the Microsoft browser Edge which is free to download. Edge is Microsoft's browser. Bing AI is great because it's always up-to-date as to web content."", 'time': '00:40 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'Good to know!', 'time': '00:51 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Good to know!', 'time': '00:51 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,g24s13,Stepping onto the Skywalk,Paul Besancon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g24s13/,/short-story/g24s13/,Character,0,"['American', 'Fiction']",15 likes,"
The taste of vinegar soiled the roof of Jade’s dry mouth. No amount of tongue smacking would moisten her cracked lips. The harsh, Arizona desert heat wafted in from the open doors ahead of them, flooding over the throng of people standing in line. 
“All cellphones, purses, cameras and any other loose personal items go in the lockers!” one of the Hualapai tribe members yelled out over the loud crowd. 
Jade and her husband arrived at the row of cabinets, and the fear was growing ever deeper within her chest. Heart pumping and hands shaking, she managed to get her purse and phone into the small locker, leaving her husband to hold the key. The last thing her mind could handle right now was more pressure, even trivial amounts in that of the simple task of carrying a key. 
Sweat lathered her palms, oozing out oily anxiety. Rubbing them on her hiking pants would temporarily remedy the wetness, only for the damp intrusion to manifest once again a few seconds later. Looking down, she noticed her fingers were trembling even more. 
They were eight deep from the prepping area now. She could see the bright sunlight pouring through the open doors where other visitors laughed and smiled while putting on the shoe coverings provided by the reservation. How they could smile, let alone laugh at such a horrific endeavor, Jade would never know. 
Forth in line to the entrance. 
It was at the moment she noticed the roiling in her stomach. Her guts were swimming in a sea of doubt and panic. Her hand rubbed her bubbling tummy, accidently squeezing out an errant bulb of nervous flatulence that thankfully went unnoticed among the other guests. She closed her eyes and began swaying from side-to-side, focusing on enforcing her stoicism. 
Then she felt two hands gently clasp her shoulders, massaging them with those strong, long fingers she so loved. She reached back, placing a hand on one of her husband’s as he rubbed the tension out of her neck. It worked. She could feel the negative energy swirling out of her, hopefully out into the ether rather than into him. A kiss on the top her head said it was probably the former. 
Second in line now. One more minute and they would be putting on those well-used shoe coverings. Her toes began tapping. She could see outside the door at that point. Most people slowly stumbled about the clear platform, holding onto the railing as if their life depended on it. Others, mainly the attendants, walked around freely, as if they were having just a normal morning stroll. 
She dared not look down at the floor of the platform, lest she lose her nerve. She told herself she would do this. She promised herself, and her husband. For she was Jade—a woman of purpose, a woman of strength and commitment. She couldn’t let herself or her husband down. She had to do this.  
She felt someone nudge her out of her trance. Her husband was handing her two shoe coverings. This was it. The last plank of the pier before plunging into the water; the horrifying, frightful water. 
They sat on the bench, struggling to put on the soiled coverings. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Each gust of hot wind rushing through the door fluttered her hair about like Medusa’s snakes. The dark brown strands stuck to her forehead, also covered in sweat. She sniffed sharply, trying to compose herself. It was then that her husband reached over and helped her put the shoe coverings on her dusty boots as she leaned back against the wall, exhaling through pursed lips. 
Hand in hand, the couple stood and stepped up to the entrance of the Grand Canyon Skywalk. Although the hot breeze pushed back against them, it felt to Jade that it was trying to suck them out—scolding tendrils ushering them forth into this terrifying adventure. Her breathing grew heavy as she closed her eyes once more. The other visitors gently pushed past them, understanding her predicament. At first, she thought the natives on the reservation were hosting a drum circle outside, but she soon realized it was simply the blood pumping inside her head, beating her eardrums with a heart-fueled tempest. 
A squeeze of her hand. She opened her eyes and looked up to see her husband smiling back at her, his eyes warm and patient. He then nodded. A nod that told her everything was going to be okay. A nod that told her not to be afraid. 
One last deep breath. Then a step. And another. The bright sunlight barraged her retinas as they passed the threshold onto the Skywalk, stepping into a glowing realm of simultaneous wonder and trepidation. As her wobbling feet met the clear platform, the wind blew her hair back even harder, causing her to grasp the railing on her right and squeeze it so hard the blood rushed out her fingers, leaving them pale and numb. The pounding in her chest grew ever louder. 
But she did not relent. Husband in one hand, railing in the other, Jade slowly slid her feet forward, taking one small step at a time. Her eyes stayed glued to the railing, not quite ready to take in her surroundings, or lack thereof. She simply focused on those small steps. 
Suddenly, she felt a small gap underneath her feet. Looking down and slightly panicking, she noticed the intentional space between the thick glass panels, as well as the cliff face below. Immediately, her head began to swoon. The thumping in her chest no longer a steady beat of drums, but now a full-blown orchestra, rattling her rib cage and chattering her teeth. But she didn’t look away. No, she forced herself to stare down through the glass plates. Granted, this was only the entrance, and she was looking at the side of the cliff that was only a few meters below them. And she was thankful, as it was a good warmup to the full experience. But her debilitating fear of heights was in full effect despite the shorter distance.  
Her sweaty hand was squeezed gently once more. She looked up to see her smiling husband giving her a thumbs up with his free hand. He was standing directly in the middle of the glass panels. He whistled out jokingly. It was obvious he was nervous as well, but not fearful. He never had a major problem with heights. But even this was enough to rustle his feathers. But his calm demeanor and big smile comforted her. She would push forward. 
The creaking from the panel’s edges didn’t bring her any peace, however, as every step sent a jolt of anxiety shooting up her legs and spine. Everything in her body was telling her to turn back, run away, get to safety! But how could she look herself in the mirror if she turned back now? They came all this way, standing in line in one-hundred-degree weather. How foolish would it be to run when she was right there with her goal just within reach. 
Another small step. Then another. Before she knew it, they were nearly halfway to their destination: the apex of the Skywalk’s tip. The wind was much calmer the further they got from the main building. Her hair now mostly rested on her shoulders. This too helped calm her. 
A little girl rushed past them, bumping into Jade’s husband. She squealed happily, thoroughly enjoying the sights and sounds of the magnificence that was the Grand Canyon. She stepped to the side and plastered her face against one of the glass panels, looking off into the distance. Jade and her husband laughed, Jade more nervously than humorously. How could she let this little girl beat her? She snickered to herself. 
Looking around the Skywalk, she found that she wasn’t the only one struggling. There were several other visitors grasping the railing with iron grips. But many of them were laughing, at themselves, and the situation. Others walked around without a care in the world. She used that—made it her inspiration. Chose to allow it to give her strength rather than envy. She would finish this task. 
More steps. Faster this time. Her husband let out a surprised chuckle, not expecting her to pick up the pace. She was still holding the railing on the inner curve of the ‘U’ that made up the Skywalk. And when they arrived to the middle, there was simply one last task to complete. She had to cross the glass panels to make it to the outer curve, and thus the apex. But the ten feet across the clear platform might as well have been ten miles. 
That was when she unintentionally looked down for the first time since she moved from the entrance. Below them, her sight was graced with the most intensely horrifying yet captivating view. Some four thousand feet below was the canyon floor, covered in brush and crevices of all sorts. The pristine cliff faces of the Grand Canyon was a sight to behold. And off some two miles to the north, ran the Colorado River—a beacon of hope in this stifling yet beautiful desert. And she froze. Terrified at the view beneath her, but not able to look away. 
Her fingers began to ache from gripping the railing so tightly. But then her husband stepped out in front of her, and reached out to take both her hands this time. She shook her head no. But like her, he wouldn’t give up either. He nodded, and slid his hand down her arm until they reached the vice grip that was her fingers. It took some coaxing, but he eventually was able to get her to open them and place her trust in him. 
With no railing to hold onto, his hands became the new lifeline. She squeezed them to the point of him wincing in pain. But he continued to usher her forward. With little steps, she moved to the middle of the glass platform, looking into his bright eyes rather than down. How funny she must look, like an infant learning to walk. 
It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like minutes before she arrived to the outer curve of the platform. She had done it! Both her hands clasped the railing with a death grip. The sweaty palms and fingers made the metal feel oily on her skin. But then her husband put an arm around her and waved a hand before them, presenting her with the whole world. 
An involuntary gasp escaped her lips. For never before had she seen such a sight. Looking through the glass from the inner curve of the Skywalk was one thing, but seeing the canyon from the apex with no barrier was truly wondrous. Before her was a view so breathtaking that she thought she would faint. Grandiose plateaus, as far as the eye could see. Red cliffs, lined with weathered wrinkles; the old men of the canyon. Gigantic depths of astronomical proportions. And the Colorado River cutting through it all—the life’s blood of the canyon paving a path to adventure. And as if on cue, a lone condor soared overhead, somewhat close by, no doubt hoping for treats from the noisy tourists. 
A tear slid down Jade’s cheek. All thoughts of fear from the height vanished, as she was instead enraptured with something far more powerful in that moment. Her racing heart had slowed, even becoming calm. Although briefly, she felt she was soaring over the canyon, wind blowing through her hair, the cliffs and plateaus greeting her as she sailed past them. The river below beckoning for her to dive in and shed the outer world’s stress. In that moment, it was just her and the wondrous nature of the canyon enveloping her. She had done it. She had won, and it congratulated her.
A particularly sharp gust of hot wind pushed her back slightly, causing her to tighten her grip on the railing even more. Back to reality. She looked to her husband who understood immediately. He took her in arm and they slowly made their way around the Skywalk, eventually arriving at the exit back into the main building. 
Jade plopped down on the bench and exhaled with a big sigh. The sweat on her brow gathered enough to cause a drip down to her chin. Her husband had taken his shoe coverings off and was now helping with hers.
“You did it babe,” he said in that deep but gentle voice of his. “You got to the end. You did awesome!” 
“Yeah,” Jade replied, exhausted. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Mm-hmm.” He dumped the shoe coverings in the large bin next to the benches and sat down next to her. “Well? What do you think? Was it worth the trip?” 
“Oh yeah. Completely. It was amazing. Who would’ve thought the Grand Canyon would be so…grand! Ha!” She leaned her head against his shoulder, not quite ready to stand up as her legs were still somewhat wobbly. 
“Heh. I know, right?” He patted her knee. “Ya know? We still got some time. We can go back out again if you want.”
“Uh, no thanks. I'm good.” 
Her husband chuckled.
“No. I conquered this one. I'm content. I think I’ll just take the win. Now let’s go home.” 
","July 11, 2023 22:28","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Totally amazing look. Never been there. Thanks.', 'time': '23:11 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Such a sweet story of facing fear. I felt her every panic lol.', 'time': '02:31 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Paul Besancon': 'Thanks J.D.!', 'time': '12:18 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Paul Besancon': 'Thanks J.D.!', 'time': '12:18 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Paul Besancon': 'The Skywalk is truly amazing and I highly recommend people check it out if they ever get a chance. Breathtaking.', 'time': '22:30 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,vqn46h,"Windy, With A Chance Of Rain",Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vqn46h/,/short-story/vqn46h/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",14 likes,"
How did he know?Howdid he know?How did he bloody well know!?“You bastard! Let me go! You can’t do this to me!”For what must have been at least the tenth time, Jonathan rattled the chains and tried to break free. The gesture was futile and robbed him of precious energy, but he had to do something. Something.Anything.Anything at all to escape this dire eventuality.In a wicked twist of events, he cried.His tears of anguish and humiliation wet his cheeks and as he felt them, the crying transitioned into laughter.You bastard! You bastard! You bastard! You bastard! You bastard! He didn’t even know whether he was saying this out loud. Not that it mattered. Nor did he care.It hurt like a bitch. Worse than a bitch. After all, bitches were bastards, only more bitchy. He tried to think about which was worse and why, but his mind lost track. It derailed itself as the pulsing pain took centre stage yet again.He’d never felt pain like it.At first it was discomfort, a familiar discomfort that was there to warn him of a pending regular event. But then this had built and built into something excruciating. What made it all the more awful was that there was no end in sight. Then awful gave way to terrifying.His mind gave him enough room to have odd and random thoughts. He could feel it scrolling through these thoughts. Right now he was remembering an episode of a strong man contest where men with barrels for chests, arms and legs held out before them a lorry battery at arm’s length. At first they may as well have been holding a bunch of daffodils, but then the pain train pulled into the station and veins began struggling to exit skin. Eyes bulged and breath pistoned in and out, in and out. The arms themselves seemed to bow as they trembled with the increasing strain. Each man shook their head feverishly as they denied their pain and gave defeat a firm NO! And yet it was obvious that they could not prevent gravity from doing its job. They were strong, but in the end nature and its allied forces would win.His current predicament was the same. He was straining and straining and he knew he was struggling against a certain end. He’d been tricked into this by a person or persons unknown and that added a strange dimension, worse still, he had the feeling that he was being watched. That this was entertainment for sickos who played with people in the very worst of ways.He was going to die, of that he was becoming more and more certain.It was the manner of his demise that crushed him. No one should have to check out like this, especially him. Particularly him.How did he know?It had to be a he, didn’t it?Sickos like this were always men.Unless it was a couple. That happened sometimes. Two people in a twisted relationship where love had been exchanged for something dark and terrible. Alone those two people were bad enough, but together they became an elemental force that chilled the bones of the very devil himself.Breathing was becoming difficult now, as though there was no room for his lungs to expand. In a way, this was true. Add in the cramps and the pressure breathing created and this was turning into something akin to being crucified.“Please! I’ll do anything! I won’t tell!!” he yelled across the room. His voice sounded disjointed and pathetic in the confines of the bare concrete room. Windowless, he guessed he was in a basement. Somewhere where no one would hear him and no one would find him. Not until it was too late anyway.They’d tricked him.Repeatedly tricked him.How stupid could he be?Well, the answer to that was very stupid indeed.“Incredibly bloody stupid!” he shouted.Shouting felt good in the moment, but then the pain reminded him who was boss and it hurt all the more.Drugged. He’d been drugged.Not only a knock out drug, there was more to what they had given him, but he wasn’t to know that when he woke up on the cold concrete floor wearing nothing but his underpants.The room was lit by a single bare lightbulb and at that time there was nothing in it except a very large water bottle. The bottle was branded and sealed. He’d checked it. He wasn’t that stupid to drink something that might harm or even kill him.But how he needed a drink!He’d experienced a thirst like he’d never had before. A crazy and insatiable thirst. It were as though he’d been dried out in the sun, then place placed in a smoke room and to round things off, made to swallow a kilo of salt. He was so thirsty that he lost his mind. Drinking and drinking again until he was upending that five litre bottle of water and shaking the last drops out.He recalled staring up into the empty bottle, the light of the bulb made ethereal by the blue tinged plastic and hanging around in that moment.Then nothing.They’d drugged him again. Somehow they’d gotten to that sealed bottle. Probably injected the bottle with a tranquilliser through the plastic side. He wouldn’t have noticed that. Besides, he was too thirsty to have inspected the bottle that thoroughly. Knowing the details didn’t really help him. In fact it made it worse somehow. Knowing seemed like a part of the joke, and the joke was entirely on him.This time, when he awoke, he was hanging from the ceiling. Not hanging in the way he’d seen in films, he wasn’t on his tip toes or anything like that. He had plenty of room for the flats of his feet to make contact with the floor. That was the point.The floor had changed. He was stood on a mesh of metal and before him, but tantalisingly out of reach, were two crocodile clips. He’d tested the trap they had made for him by spitting on the metal grid he was standing on. That had been a mistake. He’d damn near ended himself there and then. He’d screamed and he’d writhed and he’d nearly lost it completely. As the liquid landed and completed the circuit it had fizzed and come to life and so had the grid, sending a huge jolt of electricity up through his feet.That’s what they want.That’s what they want.That’s what they want.That’s what they want.That’s what they want!He couldn’t last out much longer now though. He knew he was almost done and when he was done he would complete the circuit and he would sizzle and fry.Then he was back on that stage in front of all those grown-ups.Back where it had happened.He’d been dressed as a shepherd and his trousers were white. The very worst possible colour in the circumstances.He was so excited about the play. He’d been so looking forward to it.So he’d forgotten again.He always forgot, especially when he was excited.He didn’t know why.I’m sorry Mummy!I’m so sorry!I didn’t mean it!He was properly crying now and he knew it was all but over. He could see a sea of faces and in the midst of them was his mother. She was so angry and upset and he was so ashamed.And frightened.This was the worst moment in his life and it had left its mark.Mummy!That was the last word he uttered as his bladder let go.Then the screaming started.It took him a surprisingly long time to die.The assembled watchers got their money’s worth.
","July 07, 2023 17:10","[[{'Kathleen Fine': 'Great suspense and I liked your repetition of phrases!', 'time': '19:05 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Thank you! I'm glad it worked for you and the repetition landed well!"", 'time': '19:28 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Thank you! I'm glad it worked for you and the repetition landed well!"", 'time': '19:28 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Dark Jed, dark. The mystery carried me through it though as I really wanted to know what happened. Sound like he had Fred and Rose West for parents. Poor kid.', 'time': '13:59 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Kevin, glad it kept you engaged and you read it through to the end!', 'time': '14:36 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Kevin, glad it kept you engaged and you read it through to the end!', 'time': '14:36 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Kid mortified when peed his white pants on stage. Horrifying for sure. But you lost me on the rest of the torture.\nYeah, I was afraid it was especially horrific!', 'time': '14:31 Jul 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""I was up against the clock with this one. I'll revisit it in the next couple of days to ensure I've not missed anything... But the character is confused and in pain and I wanted that to come through."", 'time': '15:27 Jul 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jed Cope': ""I've edited it slightly.\nHe's been abducted and made to relive that moment when he peed himself in front of anyone. Only this time, he completed the circuit beneath him and he fries as he relives the moment of his worst humiliation..."", 'time': '17:41 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""I was up against the clock with this one. I'll revisit it in the next couple of days to ensure I've not missed anything... But the character is confused and in pain and I wanted that to come through."", 'time': '15:27 Jul 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jed Cope': ""I've edited it slightly.\nHe's been abducted and made to relive that moment when he peed himself in front of anyone. Only this time, he completed the circuit beneath him and he fries as he relives the moment of his worst humiliation..."", 'time': '17:41 Jul 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,lysegi,Passing Time,Ty Warmbrodt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lysegi/,/short-story/lysegi/,Character,0,['Fiction'],14 likes,"
As a child they called me hyperactive more than they called me Ben. Time just seemed better spent doing than sitting there, listening, and looking. I’d lose my recess due to talking, fidgeting, not paying attention, you name it. It truly was punishment to sit there and do nothing but watch the clock slowly tick by while the other kids were out playing; when I knew I could be doing something else, should be doing something else. The jittery feeling I got when I had to sit still, when I had to wait, having that clock in front of me telling me how slow time was passing by would make me break into tears some days. One day it got so bad I had to go to the nurse's office because I couldn’t breathe, was shaking, and sweating for no reason. I thought I was having a heart attack because at age seven you really don't know what that means. The nurse said I had a panic attack and that’s when my parents had me put on medication.As an adolescent I had the opportunity to focus some of that hyperactivity on sports which helped keep me out of trouble to a certain degree. I was never an A student, but I was able to keep my grades up enough to play ball with help from the coach. Switching classrooms throughout the day helped too, as did hands on courses like wood shop and auto repair. Straight out of high school, I joined the Marines. There was no wasted time during my time stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan.I joined the Carpenter’s Union when I got out of the Marines to learn to work with my hands and have a skill valuable to others so that I’m always busy. Family and friends always had something needing fixing or a project they needed help with on the weekends. When there was nothing else to do on the weekends, I would hunt or fish, depending on the season, hitting the bars at night where I met Julie.Julie was a schoolteacher and my polar opposite, but we were a match made in heaven. She was the brains, and I was the brawn. After a year of dating, Julie and I were married. Brian came along the following year, then Jason, then Zac. We bought our first home, a fixer-upper in the middle of town with five bedrooms and two baths. Job, wife, kids, friends, family, hobbies – there was never a moment to spare.I was forty-two and Brian had just come home from his first year in college when I got the news. Cancer. I lived a physical lifestyle my whole life, so when I suddenly started feeling weak and having to ask for help with things, I was a little worried; but everyone talked as if forty was that age where your body starts to give out. I wasn’t just feeling weak though, there was a pain in my lower back and hip that was starting to announce its presence. I pushed through it, giving up on the less necessary, more leisurely activities. I became more tired. Not that good tired I was used to after a hard day's work, nor was it that sleepy tired either; it was more like pushing a wheelbarrow full of concrete uphill every time I walked to the fridge tired. Then came the weight loss. At that point, Julie was urging me to see a doctor, so I did. Six months is what he gave me.Retirement was the only option at that point, although I felt I could still contribute. The doctor assured me that feeling wouldn’t last long. Julie and I talked it over and we decided we needed to take that family vacation we never got around to taking while the boys were young. We rented an RV a month later and headed out west from our home in North Carolina. We made it as far as St. Louis where I lost my bowels trapped up top in the Arch. I pushed through the pain and fatigue to spend some time with my family. I even swallowed my pride and bought one of those electric scooters. But that was more than I could handle. From then on it was adult diapers and I never went too far from home.Julie let me keep the master bedroom, so I had quick access to the bathroom, but she moved into the guest room after we got home. Too many accidents on the road. I’d still try to do little projects around the house to pass the time. The boys were good about picking up supplies and materials, and it gave me a chance to teach them some basic home and yard care. Our biggest project was getting a garden started for their mom next spring. I wanted her to think of me every time she was out there washing the stress away with dirt. It could be a place where she could go and feel she was with me if she needed it.Summer changed to fall, and my condition worsened. There wasn’t much I could do anymore. Life for everyone continued to go on, just as it will continue to go on after I’m gone. Julie worked. The boys were in school. My parents would occasionally check on me. Once in a while my sister or a friend would stop by. I slept a lot, but not all the time. I tried to fill those moments awake with television, but watching exaggerated takes on reality just made me long to be doing something constructive. I tried reading. Julie had plenty of books lying around the house, but I could never get past the first page of any of them.That jittery feeling that I got during lost recesses as a kid came crawling back. A nervousness at first, but it crept its way into a gyrating of my soul, not allowing me to breathe. I would cry and sweat and eventually pass out. I asked Julie to set me up in a lawn chair in front of the municipal lake so I could fish. She didn't like that idea; even thought I was joking at first. I called Julie home from work one day it was so bad. I was praying to God to pass out, but I kept shaking, kept crying. The tick of the second hand echoed in my head like a stopwatch I couldn’t stop, counting down to the boom of the minute hand. When Julie got home, she found me lying in the middle of the kitchen floor with my knees pulled to my chest and my hands covering my ears as I screamed and cried. Julie helped me to my feet and didn’t even bother to let me get dressed or make an appointment with the doctor. She rushed me to the nearest urgent care where they saw me on the spot.“Mr. and Mrs. Faust, this is called chronophobia, which is the fear of time, or at least the passing of time. From what I see in his records, dating back to when he was a kid, he might have always had this condition, but has been able to manage it. However, this does happen to people who know they are dying and feel they cannot accomplish everything they want to accomplish in life. I’m going to prescribe an anti-anxiety medication to help control the symptoms,” the doctor says.We checked out and picked up the prescription. On the way home Julie asks me, “What do you still feel you need to accomplish?”“See my sons graduate. See them married. Make sure they are financially secure and responsible adults. Play with the grandkids. Lay my parents to rest. Care for you until your dying day,” I answer, giving her the abbreviated list.The medication helped, but I went downhill quick. Julie took a leave of absence and Brian came home. I could hear in my final moments, when everyone came to say their heartfelt goodbyes, but I couldn’t see. I heard lots of sobs and sniffles and felt a lot of hugs and kisses. For me it was a good day just knowing how loved and appreciated I was during my short time in everyone's lives. It was rather serene passing away. Like when you fall asleep without trying to fall asleep. You just get so comfortable and warm that everything around you just melts together, and then with one last exhale, the ticking stopped.
","July 10, 2023 06:37","[[{'Michelle Oliver': 'Oh…. So sad. That last line got me.\nThe way you brought the who story together with the fear of the ticking clock, a complete circle. Nicely done and thanks for sharing.', 'time': '06:45 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,dmj9t4,"Tanis, Genius",R.L. Lamm,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dmj9t4/,/short-story/dmj9t4/,Character,0,['Science Fiction'],14 likes,"
I gave myself brilliance, but not the strength to give it up.
After sitting here for hours, I finally noticed that the room was filled with clocks. All were set differently; all were counting down like alarms and timers. But none of them foretold a real doomsday.
 
Fifty-eight hours, eight minutes, 23 seconds- 24- 25 read the digital face of one timer in bloody red digital letters.
 
One-thousand days, oh-nine hours, displayed another countdown with flaps like a calendar that click like typewriter keys when changing.
 
From the chrome and wire-crossed ceiling I heard a rattling little elevator-like hum, a herald to the serial-killer duotone which follows.
 
""Tanis,"" teased Locarno. ""It's four-o'clock somewhere in the world.""
 
The AI's drumming voice of tinny melodrama assumed more than the mistaken thought that at least some of the clocks were reliable. None of them were.
 
""It's a bath, Locky, not a drink.""
 
Could I blame him though? All these nine-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine years and twenty-three hours and fifty-two minutes, and I had never told him the unmottled truth; that I set all the clocks.
 
I knew they couldn't be trusted. I knew they were never meant to be. Way back in the beginning I set each and every one. Back when I got smart.
 
They just reminded me in this single moment that time was a short thing and that I shouldn't hog it all. That was the yardstick and ruler of the matter of the room of clocks. I wonder if that should be 'the long and short of it', but something tells me I phased it out of the world language long ago.
 
CRASH.
 
I jumped. A clock had been knocked to the floor and smashed, all by the accidental stirrings of a curious, wire-splayed, spindle-headed little heap rising from a phase zero charging station against the far-right wall.
 
As planned so long ago, a dwarfish android came up to me with his trim white frame. His old arm hydraulics lifted up the locket. Bowing graciously as if it would care, I stayed true to the character I'd played and gave due honor to my past friend from whom the locket came.
 
Marleyvane couldn't have known my wondrous mind would find such meaning in and use for his gift of the little golden locket that flipped open to reveal the face of his father in the top polaroid slot and his mother's pretty face in the bottom one.
 
I already remember their faces, every detail. But I planned for this. I have to open it anyway because of the music it plays.
 
The android, my very first prototype of the Locarno CC system, ejects a needle from materialled digits on both its pearl-like polyfiber hands.
It's ready. Am I?
 
Hesitantly, I wave my hand at the robot. His sensors whir and the needles cautiously approach my forearm and the side of my skull. Both are such fine and imperceptible points that they'll go right through dermis and most muscle and bone, so I don't have to worry about that, though I still do because I'm nervous and scared about the whole scene. One needle is drawing a brain tissue sample, the other a simple blood sample. That's all the data the computing mainframe -under Locarno's ethereal supervision- will need to confirm the capsule is still specifically calibrated to my body. The android's beeping sounds positive as the spokes are withdrawn unbeknownst to me until I realize he's hobbling away to the charging station again.
 
But it's time to start the music. I really am wasting time now.
 
Like a knifed-open clamshell, I flip up the locket in my palm and immediately that haunting xylophonic melody is going through its chillingly pretty tune. It drops and sways just as I knew it did. This is my one trustworthy countdown. My one right clock. This delicate tune would end when my intelligence did, as long as I continued to have faith that this was the best thing to do and actually did it. And did it according to my short schedule.
 
Now, as the whole thing crashes and shudders and blinks into the dark and light like a kraken's eye again, I look up and ahead.
 
The clocks formed something of a hallway. A short corridor at the end of which I could see the laid-back open capsule, long meshy tubes and all. A tender light fixture illuminated it like a reaching tendril of sunshine through a glass window or a golden telescope lens. It looked beyond natural, as if the tangles of wires and little spiring assortment of technology on which they sprouted were rainforest trees.
 
No. It was like staring death in the face as it slept.
 
Every few moments, the entire room shook and shuddered and lights flickered apocalyptically as if the hands of a god were shaking a present at Christmas. This made me think the future wouldn't like me, though. Locarno and I were like a pair of socks that had overstayed our welcome.
 
That was why I had to do this! The soft rains must come, I'd said. The shower to wash the rank of power away. At least, younger me had said. Was I more wise now? More discerning? And if I was, who was there to tell me I wasn't?
 
But I'm beating around the bush. I'm delaying. No logic could change my mind at this point, only fear. All the while the chimes are chiming. So close to the end now.
 
I had six minutes left to be the most intelligent person to ever exist. I felt I'd already lived my best moments, though, so I was not at all compelled to have a sudden dilemma about going out in style. Besides, I wasn't dying in six- five minutes and fifty seconds.
 
I had to unsmart myself. It was the most ridiculous thing. It was the one fact even a genius can't understand.
 
Only a child of average intelligence could comprehend it. Gaining genius and giving it all up in the end. I'd known from the start, even before the transfusion, that it would finish out this way.
 
The weird thing? This was scary. Just crossing the room, passing all those lifeless yet mortal little clocks throwing up their numbers and dates like weeds in a west wind. Hushed air from the crown molding-high cooling vents was my only face-felt breeze, though.
 
""Are you scared, Tanis? After everything?""
 
I didn't want to answer my friend's question, but I did.
 
""You walk unseen and talk out of thin air, you byte-breather. Yes, I'm terrified. I've been fearing this a thousand years, and-""
 
""Nine-thousand nine-hundred-""
 
""Shut up,"" I snapped at his prattling correction. My voice cracked a little as I said it though, and I felt embarrassed in front of a computer program. ""I've never been more afraid of anything, Locarno. You can't possibly realize what it's like for me, living the last five minutes of my intelligent life! In six minutes, I will know only as much as a nine-year-old girl.""
 
""I thought you were braver than this, Tanis. So maybe in this life you're just a glorified zookeeper. Can't you smart something better up on a silver platter like you do every time?""
 
""You horrid pixel-face! You can't know!"" I protested witheringly, though I hated to berate my one friend. ""I am the pinnacle of human knowledge, and I have to accept that all higher knowledge will be lost so that the world will continue to survive. I knew from the beginning that I couldn't go longer than this without being confronted with the necessity of dystopia. I'll be nine again, Locarno, and never know again what it feels like to have lived to a thousand and nine.""
 
""Four minutes,"" he sang out warblingly. ""You still don't actually know what it feels like-""
 
AUGH.
 
My inhuman scream ricocheted off the clock-lined turinium tile walls and floor like the wake of a nuke with such vague and tangy distance that I barely registered the noise coming from my own passionless throat. I didn't feel inclined to rebuke him in words this time. I think he got the message. In a brief spirit of violence as my fear bred anger, I was wishing he stood before me in human flesh so I could see his ears bleed at the piercing decibel I'd emitted. I wished I could love him like a woman would love a man. I wished he had lived and died so I could live my final moments with happy memories of him.
 
But that couldn't be. All the smarts in the world couldn't make miracles accessible to my delicate child hands.
 
I felt pity for myself in the form I would exist in for the rest of my comparatively short and normal life. I would be tormented daily with indecision, with uncertainty, with a nagging suspicion that life was unfair and unplanned and unorganized and without purpose or design. My thoughts would be incoherent and my perspective perpetually limited.
 
I would have to relearn the creator. That alone would take time and be painful. And the ignorant actions I would commit in the meantime! The sullied thoughts and words that would come from my heart! Could my frail, average mind handle such a thing?
 
I was afraid. This was my nightmare every waking hour, always lurking in the back of my head like a shadow monster creeping forth from my closet in that Melbourne house, fangs and claws ready to dice me and array my fleshy little girl fragments on a monster's charcuterie board. The chimes were still chiming.
 
My whole body was trembling, so I had to summon up my willpower and put my knowledge to use in these last two minutes. I breathed and inhaled and exhaled and soothed myself with every mantra ever known to mankind. I was calming, I could feel. It was like dad and mom both caterwauling into my room in that late, hopeless night and rescuing me from the shadow monster. They scared it silly, vanquished it after a long battle, and imprisoned it forever under my bed- or more likely banished it till I grew up and lived in the same house and had kids of my own that needed to be afraid for a night so I could save them. Just in time.
 
What hadn't proved helpful in calming my rampant thoughts was dwelling on what I had done in my life, but I still had a minute and a half to indulge before the thinking stopped for good. So I thought up some of my best thoughts yet as I stepped forward in a gradual march beneath the gaze of the crowding, counting clocks, supplemented by a haunting gothic symphony risked through the room's outer ventilation speakers by the AI.
 
To begin with, part of me wished wistfully that my younger self had ordered this floor to be fabricated in a more elaborate fashion of futuristic architecture. Perhaps it could have been a catwalk. I loved the word catwalk.
 
Then I was at the curved desk that stood like a nightstand beside the big tube and the wire-hooked apparatus sphered around it. I took up in my pale white hand the slim tablet on the desk. Without ceremony, hastening before I lost my nerve, I slid my gentle fingers over the aglow surface. It was done. Just like letting a helium balloon into the atmosphere. No remorse.
 
""You going to say goodbye?""
 
I sniffed. It touched me that this was his only question. Not, what are you doing? Or do I deserve this? Or even why stop now? Oh- I may have really faltered at any of those.
 
""New world, Locarno. You don't get a parting shot, buddy."" I smiled mischievously as I knew his processors were putting together the final pieces of my puzzle. ""You get a happy ever after.""
 
""Tanis,"" hummed the last of his echoes. ""You never refurbished my memory banks from April 2nd, 3026. Did I ever tell you why you were wrong about the voyage of the M a c e d o n i a n . . .""
 
In a wisp of static, Locarno V8 breathed his last. Trying to explain how I was wrong.
 
Cheeky robot.
 
Now I was really alone. The sleek, cloudy shadows between the lighted patches of the room seemed longer somehow. Darker.
 
My full attention now on my first and last great bookending invention, I reflect on how the capsule was the device that would radiate my brain and work with the flood of fluid within to energize a reaction to drain and reverse all my smarts.
 
There's no use in explaining the full process over again. I'm too serious and too petrified with my immediate situation to pretend someone is here with me when clearly no one is. Someone that needed me to explain to them. I see no reason to bore myself with information I already know and those in posterity will never understand. To them an explanation would be gibberish, and to me it was even more worthless. Child's terms.
 
At the end of the day, that was really what it came down to: child's terms. My smartness was going away, and I was taking it from myself.
 
I stepped into it, my left foot making first contact on the angled metal grate that was the step. Another step and I was in, padded against the thick yet transparent fiberglass and turning myself to face forward and lean back. Was this what toothpaste felt like?
 
The lid sealed. Next moment, the cryogenic fluid was filling the floor. It galloped over my bare sandy-dull toes like zebras over the pallid Antarctic plains. It was like the idyllic shore of Whitehaven Beach in Australia, where I said goodbye to my dear Marleyvane. One of the last places I saw with my own eyes and not through the dimensional screens in the imaging room on Level 1.
 
The capsule is full now. I'm totally immersed. It's cold and smooth and clear, though it's not wet. There was a tickling sensation, but it's over now. I don't think I'm afraid anymore.
 
Though I'm hardly paying attention to anything but my own final thoughts, the process has definitely begun. My eyes start glossing over slowly as my head and my body flood with the comfortable fluid. It rushes between my ears and washes over my ancient, beating heart. I've seen the world -my world- a thousand times over. There's nothing left for me to achieve here; certainly not with my sight.
 
I know I could still flick the inner rim switch to cancel, unseal the capsule half-lid with a mere thought, climb out, dry off, and reactivate Locarno.
 
I don't.
 
The chimes are still chiming. More faintly and at a lesser tempo, but still. It's more bare-boned of an anthem, but it reminds me of the day I finished this machine I'm sleeping in tonight. The day I listened to ""Forever Young"" on endless repeat as I labored in the tech lab. Where was that drive now, when it came to ending what I started? Wasn't this the natural way of all things?
 
The soft crimson lights are flaring up, then dimming. Flaring up, then dimming. Brightening, then thinning into slits like pit viper eyes. Like sirens -not the Greek kind- they sang out a song that only washed over my face and the capsule's appendages with light and color and no discernable sound. Even the liquid enveloping my bare, floating body makes no sound as it forms around me without running.
 
Only the ticking of a few old analogue clocks among my collection reminded me of the existence of noise. That's how dead quiet it is.
 
I know the Mimochip below my left ear is still converting the last of my transmitted thoughts into my long, long diary. The moment I am reversed, I trust it will be faithful to execute a virtual editing and condensing of all my thoughts and anonymously publish the resulting memoir. Who will read it? I don't know. Perhaps my mother will take me to a bookstore or the Del Motto District Library next summer, and- oh, but I'm forgetting. This will be drastically above my reading level. What a stinging thought. I think I've offended myself too much to care to finish it.
 
So here it is, new world. The end of my magnum opus. The closing of my millennial love letter to humanity.
 
A thousand years of youth and prosperity; geniocracy dictated by a child. The future will thank me. I could have kept going, but I wanted to end on a happy note for all our sakes. There was only rising and highlights in my career, no downfall or blooper reel. Sure, there was the brief civil war with Locarno and a planet-wide coalition of AI and human rebels over a wine-tasting competition on my birthday, but I think my programming of the chip will prove sensible enough to edit those three-hundred years or so out of the histories. It's barely worth mentioning, and even Locky would agree with that.
 
Oh!- I can feel the unsmartening machine working already. It's wizard. Inventing this thing seems like the only genius-level thing I've achieved all my life. The years and the big ideas melt away. I'm suddenly tired, in a warm and cozy way. I haven't felt this lack of stamina in . . . forever. The chimes are so slowly chiming now. Almost there.
 
I have been Nine for a thousand years, and the only thing I have never been able to wrap my almighty brain around in absolute entirety and with utterly disaffectionate command is what being Ten must feel like. Tomorrow, I shall begin to finish my childhood and let my time as a little girl fade gracefully or tumultuously into a woman.
 
So hello, tomorrow. You will remember me, won't you?
 
I won't.
 
","July 09, 2023 11:49","[[{'R W Mack': ""This was a strong submission. Just looking at it structurally and the way it's written, I didn't have any negatives to point out unless I nitpick for the same of it. Maybe a few less adverbs? Maybe... something somewhere I didn't bother caring about because it's a good technical story framework and implementation. It's a unique premise with good potent writing. I wasn't distracted by a bunch of grammatical issues, I didn't hit the usual pacing speedbumps, prose felt natural. All around, it's a good story."", 'time': '15:35 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,svl90t,The Way I See It ,Melanie Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/svl90t/,/short-story/svl90t/,Character,0,"['Inspirational', 'Sad', 'Fiction']",13 likes,"
Thalassophobia is an intense fear of large bodies of water. More specifically, the depth of the water. Although, I think people are more frightened of what may lurk in its vastness than the water itself. The same could be said for nyctophobia I guess - an extreme fear of the dark. I don’t believe that it is the darkness itself, but the idea of what could be concealed within it that others fear. Now I’ve sat and pondered, I guess that could be said for all types of phobias. Agoraphobia isn’t the fear of the fresh air and earth’s natural elements. It’s the fear of what might happen to you at the hands of others whilst you’re in it. Acrophobia - the fear of heights, isn’t the thought of being high in the air as such, it is the fear of falling from that height. Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia… the fear of big words. I’m afraid I tried to make sense of this one and I came up empty handed. The only solution I arrived at, was that the man or woman that gave this fear a title, belongs in the fiery pits of hell. I guess you could say that perspective plays a role in how we view ourselves and others fears. Does that ease the painful churn we get in our stomachs? What about if we look at the statistics of the outcomes we accidentally foreshadow.
Did you know that approximately 5 people per year die from a shark attack. Now, I do understand that there are other beings; known or unknown, that reside in the water and are capable of inflicting damage upon a clueless individual – I’m not naïve. I do know however that we have all seen jaws...  I also am mildly confident that it isn’t clownfish and sea turtles that you think are going to give your toes a little kiss. I have a friend actually - I know crazy right? 
We spoke one day about her fear of the water, and do you know what she said? She said that she has watched toooooooooo many shark films. Heavy emphasis on the toooooooo.
 So, bearing in mind the statistics I pointed out earlier and the likelihood of a shark attack occurring, the influence of the media could well be a contributing factor to the severity of our fears and phobias. I would like to add a sidenote, that I had another friend that said she was frightened of meeting new people and them protruding a bad odour from their unwashed pits. I don’t think I can back her up by saying the media had a hand in that one – apart from the only plausible explanation that she was perhaps exposed to an overbearing number of deodorant commercials as a child? Or maybe yeah, she’s just weird.
I erm… have a tight knot in my bottom of my throat, almost like a constrictor is sneakily wrapping itself around it. Admission of fear itself can also be scary cant it? Vulnerability is frightening, especially in this world. Not everyone you meet is a nice person and that is just the harsh truth. Our fears can be viewed as weakness and then in turn, used against us. Not so far from the animal kingdom, are we?
I was bullied in school, for an incident that happened in the early years of my school life. Mrs Clark, my English teacher at the time - she taught the young ones, and she was great at it. She had a way of making you feel at ease you know? I think it was important for her, to be like that. Especially teaching the youngest kids at the school. It’s daunting enough, her kindness went a long way. I didn’t particularly like her on the day I’m about to talk about though. She asked us to go home and write an essay about our biggest fear and why we were afraid of it. She wanted us to include a little conclusion about how we can try and overcome that fear. The funny thing was… my biggest fear was glossophobia- the fear of public speaking. You can imagine how that went, when she asked us to present our essays to the entire fucking class right? Sorry, sorry it slipped out. Won’t happen again. When the clock decided to turn into a toddler on steroids, I peeled myself from my chair and stalked between the rows of desks that watched expectantly. I wish I could tell you that I finessed it and recited the essay with ease but alas, my gassy, traitorous digestive system had other plans. Yes, I farted, not only extremely loudly because God forbid anyone missed hearing it but also for an incredibly lengthy period. You can laugh, it wouldn’t stop! I can laugh about it now actually. Mainly because I don’t know how many laughs I have left. 
I recall a day that I had booked a salon appointment, I had been dying to get my eyebrows done at this place and with a stroke of luck, whilst I was browsing the online appointments, someone must have cancelled theirs because a slot became available, I did not hesitate. I hadn’t been in there long before this stunning girl came to greet me. She beckoned me to sit and no longer had she made me lay down on her bed, she was chatting away. Yes, don’t worry, I have a point.
She started talking about one of her clients, a 92-year-old woman that had kept conversing with her about the topic of death. The lady had said she hated it and avoided the conversation entirely because it made her feel uncomfortable. I remember agreeing with her, death petrified me in every sense of the word. Until recently, when I discovered I have incurable breast cancer. Ironic really, considering I am 16 years old with barely any tits. No, my bad… breasts. 
Thanatophobia – the fear of dying. I did some research, for educational purposes and to my surprise, discovered that it isn’t up there as a high-ranking phobia. Funny enough, arachnophobia is and so is public speaking. At least I feel validated for releasing my love puffs in front of my entire class now. 
You know the saying “you never really know what you’ve got until it’s gone?” I cannot tell you how true that really is. I could tell you something generic and boring like, appreciate life whilst you still have it. You won’t. Because you have it, and you don’t think it will be taken away from you. I will tell you what it has done for me however and if my words change one mind then that will be an accomplishment at least. It gave me the best perspective; you know that thing we spoke about at the beginning? I don’t believe my friend should be fearful of what may nibble her toes in the ocean, I think she should switch her perspective and be curious as to what amazing things she could discover in it. A story will never be a story to tell if we don’t place ourselves in the midst of it. I don’t think the lady that gave me one of the best sets of eyebrows I’ve ever had in my life should feel faint when she speaks about death. I think she should embrace every breath she takes and every moment she makes. I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it. yeah, no, sorry… il continue.
I don’t think I should have been frightened to speak in font of my entire class, because if we look at perspective, it wasn’t the speaking I was afraid of, was it? It was what would happen when I started speaking and how everyone in that room would treat me after it. Unfortunately, my fear was valid because people treated me like shit no, I’m not apologising for that one. People treated me like a big pile of stinking cow shit after that. So maybe people should change their perspectives AND their behaviours, and the world might be a less fearful place to live. I also think my other friend shouldn’t be afraid of people’s armpits you know. She could be missing out on some cool people. Just carry some roll on with you and pretend you have too much of it or something. 
My fear of death wasn’t the fear of death itself; it was the fear of the unknown and the lack of control I had. So why not control the narrative whilst I have that power? Thank you all, for listening to me ramble. I thought I lost some of you in parts there, especially you Mr Ackhurst. If you have any questions hurry up and ask them because I haven’t got long. 
“Thank you Eva,” Mr Ackhurst cut off her winning attempt at dark humour. 
“Jokes aside, that was enlightening, thank you for sharing. You may take your seat now.” 
Eva took a bow, turned her back to the class, bent over and farted. Mr. Ackhurst let a smirk escape at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes told a different story. Glassy and sad. Eva turned back to the class, a shine to her own eyes and as she walked back to her seat, the image on the screen faded as Mrs Clark closed her laptop and looked upon the hundreds of wide eyes that sat crossed legged in the assembly hall. The space stayed silent for a few seconds, before an eruption of applause echoed off the walls. An applause that would be heard for years to come as Eva’s final show of bravery, strength and change in perspective was shown to a generation of kids that came after her, and that will be shown to many more generations to come.
","July 10, 2023 19:36","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'I like the way the majority of the story was in such a conversational style.  It pulled in the reader.  Then ending was very creative!', 'time': '19:07 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Melanie Page': 'Thank you Patricia! \nThe aim was that Eva had started her essay with the intention of being informational and the flow throughout directed her into more of an inspirational speech. I appreciate you taking your time to read my story & make such a lovely comment. ♥️', 'time': '03:39 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Melanie Page': 'Thank you Patricia! \nThe aim was that Eva had started her essay with the intention of being informational and the flow throughout directed her into more of an inspirational speech. I appreciate you taking your time to read my story & make such a lovely comment. ♥️', 'time': '03:39 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kayleigh Horton': 'Really thought provoking and articulate story! I normally struggle with reading not because I don’t enjoy it but due to lacking concentration. However I really enjoyed that and look forward to your future stories!\U0001faf6🏼', 'time': '12:44 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Melanie Page': 'Wow - what a compliment. Thank you so much Kayleigh ♥️', 'time': '14:16 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Melanie Page': 'Wow - what a compliment. Thank you so much Kayleigh ♥️', 'time': '14:16 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Matty Smith': 'Wow! Lovely message behind the story, very interesting concept with the ending!!', 'time': '19:47 Jul 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Melanie Page': 'Thank you! :)', 'time': '14:16 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Melanie Page': 'Thank you! :)', 'time': '14:16 Jul 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,c8ww78,Requiem ,Everett Silvers,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/c8ww78/,/short-story/c8ww78/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Speculative']",13 likes,"
 What if… 
	It wasn’t a Wednesday and it was a Monday instead. You’d be going to work as usual, driving in your car and looking at the early morning fog. The sun would be painting the sky a million shades of blue and purple, red and orange, pink and yellow. You would be thinking about how glorious it all was, a testament to God’s creation, and you wouldn’t receive a text from your dad. You would continue to drive to work in the quiet, cursing when a car passes you on the highway, day-dreaming about the dark coffee you would pour yourself at work, and everything would be perfect. 
 But… 
	It was a Wednesday morning and you were running late. Hurriedly brushing your teeth and pouring coffee in a black Yeti mug at the same time while cursing because you really do need to get your alarm clock fixed. Your mom was still asleep. It wasn’t unusual because she had been more tired lately, but that was just the service hours kicking in from the weekend. Your dad was gone, already at work and you were alone. Alone with your coffee, curses, and angry red thoughts as she ran out the door, only narrowly snagging your keys. As you drove, you prayed that you wouldn’t get a ticket for going 5 over. And that your boss wouldn’t be angry at you for being late. But some things aren’t meant to be, and your phone chirped with an incoming text just as you arrived at work, seven minutes late. 
 What if…
	You had been on time to work. The familiar smells of coffee and breakfast filtered through the coffee shop and as you clocked in you thanked whatever saint was smiling on you today that you had worn a nice blue top. Your cute co-worker was in today, and smiling at you as you quickly pour yourself an Americano. You both would fall into easy conversation as you work, flirty smiles exchanged over pastries and jokes thrown back and forth through white steam from the frothing machine. And everything was perfect, because it was a good day and a cute friend was flirting with you. Your phone was low on battery so you would power it off and not think about what calls or texts you might get. You wouldn’t live in fear of the next change headed your way. 
 But…
	You glanced down at your phone. You were already late, it wouldn’t hurt to reply, right? You pick it up and see that it was from your dad. With a shock that was almost as painful as a punch to the gut, your brain reeled as you tried to comprehend what the words meant. Your mom was in the hospital, and your dad said that you needed to come as soon as possible. You hurriedly threw your seat buckle back on and raced down the road, trying not to speed and to find the hospital. Why was the only stable person in your life suddenly not okay? And how bad was it? Would your mom be alright? Your brain felt like it had been thrown in a blender. How could this possibly be happening again? 
 What if…
	You mom never had any history of disease. There were no members of her family that had ever gotten cancer and she never even had the flu. You remember her as being healthy and full of life, running around the house and outside, especially with your dad and her friends. She was a busybody in the best way possible, and involved in everything. From planning the church social to running a book club at the familiar beige library to hosting an annual food drive every month for the homeless shelter. She was active and ate right and you knew that you would never have to worry about her getting some random fatal disease, it just simply wasn’t in her cards. She was destined to grow old and take care of grandbabies and cook lots of food. Not fall ill. 
 But…
	Your mom had gotten sick before. Really sick, to the point where she vomited everyday and lost her hair because of chemotherapy. Your grandmother had gotten cancer before, that was how she died, but no one ever realized that it could be genetic and affect her children. The doctors would explain to you and your dad that the disease ran deep in her bones and that there was a chance that she wouldn’t live to see Christmas. But she had pulled through then, having her medicines every day and going through with the treatments and surgeries that she was told would save her. She saw Christmas that year and Easter afterwards. She was healthy and happy, though she got very weak sometimes and didn’t always get around to doing the laundry. 
 What if…
	You never knew what a hospital was like. You had never stepped foot in one once. Even after your best friend broke her toe, you didn’t go to the hospital with her, just home instead and you brought her a bright bouquet the next day. Your life was golden and you had never really known what true pain, true grief at the loss of something or someone special to you. The most sadness you had ever felt was when you didn’t get that brown puppy that you had your eye on for Christmas when you were 7. But even then, the consolation was the black and white pony you received for your birthday three weeks later. 
 But…
	Throughout your life, you repeatedly lost people. Your best friend in middle school, your dog, your first boyfriend who you thought would stick around. But he just proved you wrong and ran off after a fight, only to sleep with your best friend. You had fallen into dark cycles of guilt and fear after all of these. Because somehow all of these things and more, were your fault. So as you raced to the hospital, your mind whirled with the thought that maybe you were responsible for this relapse. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked her the other day to do your laundry that she forgot about. Maybe you shouldn’t have kept badgering her about altering your white prom dress in time. Maybe you shouldn’t have been mad that she completely forgot about making dinner and by the time you got home late from work, there was nothing to eat. You just hoped that she would be alright in the end, that she would get through it again. 
 What if…
	She pulled through and the entire hospital escapade was nothing more than an overreaction. Just some light-headedness that resulted in a faint. Once you arrived at the hospital you would find that it was okay because your mom just had a severe iron deficiency that could be helped by taking it regularly. You all would laugh it off and go get dinner, and in the coming days and weeks you would bug your mom and ask if she had taken her iron yet. Over the next few months you would mostly forget about the scare and jump back into regular life. You would stress over normal things like your grade, or this guy that you liked, or your weekend plans. Your world would be happy and skies would be bright blue again, not marred by negative possibilities instead of positive ones. And everything would be alright. 
 But…
	Once you pulled into a parking space in the hospital parking lot, you quickly turned off the car and rushed inside. The nurse at the front desk made you calm down and tell her what the problem was. And you told her that your mom had been rushed in earlier. After hearing your mother’s name the nurse turns pale and calls you sugar and says that she would be right back. She disappears for a moment and comes back, leading you through winding halls, to a different waiting room. You fall into your waiting dad’s arms and ask a million questions at once. But even he didn't know what was going on. The doctors hadn’t said anything to him since they called him from work to tell him that his wife was in the ER. But, after a few minutes, a grim faced doctor walked in towards them. 
 What if…
	You could’ve stopped it all and fixed everything with a wave of your fingers.
 But…
	You weren’t a fairy or wizard or God, you were helpless against the inevitable. 
 What if…
	It really was just a false alarm and she was perfectly fine. 
 But…
	It wasn’t. And she wasn’t. 
 What if…
 It wasn’t a Wednesday and it was a Monday instead. You’d be going to work as usual, driving in your car and looking at the early morning fog. The birds would be singing and happy, the sky would be bright with colors that no human artist possessed. You would be humming along to a song on the radio and thinking about how excited you were for your family dinner tonight because your mom was making her delicious gravy and mashed potatoes. Not to mention that you would see your favorite cousins, and the night would be full of laughter and smiles, drinks and memories remembered and made. The future was bright and full as a waxing moon and you felt happy and confident. 
 But…
	It was a Wednesday morning and you weren’t even at work yet. It was completely forgotten about and later you would get a call from your manager, harping on your flakiness and with a short apology attached to the words, We’re letting you go. Instead, you were at the hospital with your father while your mom was in a room down the sickly white hall. Tubes were plugged into her and machines were clustered around her, beeping noisily. You were clutching his hand and hoping that the doctor’s face didn’t reveal the news he was about to give. Maybe he was just one of those people who constantly looked unhappy. But through the haze of confusion and worry, your ears catch the most horrible words you’ve ever heard:
 I’m sorry but there’s nothing we can do. She won’t last the day.
 
 
","July 08, 2023 21:47","[[{'Fern Everton': 'This was really creative! The way the story flipped between “what if” and “but” isn’t something I’ve seen before, but it’s so accurate to those types of thoughts; wondering how the situation could have been different compared to the reality. Great writing!', 'time': '03:51 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Everett Silvers': 'Thank you so much Fern!\nIt was a really fun story to write and I enjoyed the mental process of trying to flip back and forth between positive and negative. Such a great exercise, haha!', 'time': '18:41 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Everett Silvers': 'Thank you so much Fern!\nIt was a really fun story to write and I enjoyed the mental process of trying to flip back and forth between positive and negative. Such a great exercise, haha!', 'time': '18:41 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Cassie Gibson': 'Nice structure', 'time': '21:37 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Everett Silvers': 'Thank you!', 'time': '22:00 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Everett Silvers': 'Thank you!', 'time': '22:00 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,co9bbi,Beneath the Surface,Travis Simmons,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/co9bbi/,/short-story/co9bbi/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Suspense', 'Horror']",12 likes,"
“Great. We live in a haunted house.”
 
I rolled my eyes. In my wife’s defense, the house had seen better days. It was built in the early forties, and the white exterior paint withered away to nearly nothing. Shutters that had at one time been painted black were now grey. They hung lopsidedly on rusty hinges. The front porch was missing boards, and the awning above had more holes than a screen door. The landscaping was a mess, overgrown due to years, maybe decades of neglect. 
 
“We can do an exorcism in the morning,” I said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood as I carried our bags to the front door. My wife didn’t laugh, but I hoped that her feelings would change once we got the place fixed up. I hadn’t really bought the place for the house anyway. The property was surrounded by thirty acres of pines and dogwoods, and the price point had made the purchase an absolute no-brainer. The house had been on the market for so long that finding information about the place was nearly impossible. The bank seemed eager to let go of it, and I was more than happy to take it off their hands. These days, people seem far too ready to throw things away and unwilling to put in the work to bring out the beauty that was often hidden. I was certainly not one of those people. 
 
I carried our bags up the porch steps, carefully avoiding the holes in the loose boards. The wood flexed under my weight, and I set the bags down to offer my wife, Marie, a hand. She didn't take it. ""Do you have the keys?"" she asked.
 
I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out a large key, which I was surprised wasn’t made of brass. The locks had been changed a few years ago when the bank chased the squatters out. I decided to keep that little bit of history to myself. I was already on thin ice. The only way I had been able to get her to go along with my idea of renovating the dilapidated old home was with the promise of a pool. A promise I was still hoping I could skirt around somehow. 
 
When I was a kid, I had fallen out of my father’s fishing boat. When I tried to push myself back to the surface of the murky, muddy lakebed, some vegetation had gotten wrapped around my leg, and I nearly drowned. As silly as it sounds, I could never shake the feeling that I was supposed to die that day and that death was patiently waiting for me to let my guard down. Since then, I had avoided the water like it was the plague. 
 
I inserted the old key into the weathered lock on the front door. The key stuck halfway through the turn, and I had to work the handle to finally get the door unlocked. ""A little WD-40 and this will be fixed right up,"" I said with a smile. Marie didn't share my optimism. I picked up our bags and pushed the door open with my knee, the old hinges squeaking, welcoming us to our new home. The smell of mothballs, dust, and decay immediately flooded my senses. It was as if the door hadn't been open in years. A draft blew in behind me, kicking up dead leaves that had nested in the foyer.     
 
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” said Marie. 
 
“Come on, its gonna be great!"" A large, winding staircase in the foyer led to a balcony upstairs with a long hallway to the bedrooms. The master bedroom was below the staircase. To my left was the dining room. A walled-in fireplace separated the dining area from the kitchen. To my right, through an open doorway, was the living room. The walls needed fresh paint, and the entire place needed a good dusting, but it seemed structurally sound as far as I could tell. I took my first step inside and used my elbow to flick on the light switch. A grand chandelier hung over the foyer, and two of the six lights came on, which I took as a good sign. ""So far so good!"" My wife groaned as she followed me inside. 
 
I set our bags at the foot of the stairs. ""Want to check out the upstairs?"" I asked. I didn't wait for an answer because I was certain she didn't want to check out any part of the house. Marie had suggested renting a place until the renovations were finished, but money would be tight until we got the house back in shape. I grabbed the railing and took my first step up the flight of stairs. The wood buckled and cracked beneath my foot. As I caught myself, I broke one of the wooden balusters holding up the railing.
 
“So far so good huh?” asked Marie, crossing her arms and giving me a look that explicitly said I told you so.
 
“We’ll just tell the movers to keep everything in the dining room until I get the stairs fixed,"" I said. For the first time, I was worried that I may have bitten off more than I could chew. 
 
The movers came, and I was thankful the front porch held together long enough for them to get everything brought inside. The master bedroom was easy enough to set up, but the living room and dining room were packed with couches, chairs, our entertainment center, and more boxes than I could count. It is incredible how fast things can accumulate. I had half a mind to dump all the boxes into a trash bin and just start over.
 
Marie didn't sleep the first night, which, as any married person knows, meant I didn’t sleep either. Old pipes moaned, seeing action for the first time in years. Moonlight flooded through the curtainless windows, casting shadows in every corner of our room. For the first time, maybe in her life, Marie was eager to leave for work the next morning. Hell, she even left early. The sun began peaking out above the green pines, which meant it was time for me to get to work. 
 
I read somewhere that starting your day with easy wins was a great way to stay motivated, so I tackled the easy projects first, replacing bad light bulbs and organizing the boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling in the dining room. I patched up the broken step on the staircase, as well as two others that were bad. I passed through the bedrooms and the single bathroom upstairs, taking note of things to tell the electrician about when he arrived some time in the next couple of days. I also went about setting up some furniture in the foyer and making sure the master bedroom was put together. I hoped that if I could make the house look more welcoming, Marie would start to come around. 
 
I checked the time on my phone and was shocked when the digital readout said four o’clock. My back ached, and I decided I could use a nice hot bath before Marie came home and I got back to work. 
 
The tile in the master bathroom was going to need replacing. Dark stains had embedded themselves in the grout. The once-white bathtub was now a dingy yellow. I turned the hot water on, and the pipes gurgled in protest. The water that came out of the faucet looked grey, so I decided to let it run for a while before putting the stopper in. I closed the bathroom door and let the steam fill the room. I filled the tub halfway and then stepped in, the hot water immediately soothing my aching muscles. I leaned back and felt the first beads of sweat begin to drip down my brow. I let out a sigh and closed my eyes. 
 
The first thing I noticed was the silence. Having lived in the city most of my life, the absence of traffic made the silence even more peaceful. I felt my tight back muscles turn to jelly in the steaming water and I already felt myself getting acquainted with the quiet country life. The silence was broken when I heard the bedroom door open and then footsteps knock against the floorboards. “Maire’s home early,” I thought. There was a knock on the bathroom door.
 
“Babe, are you taking a bath?” The voice took me a bit by surprise because Marie actually sounded… happy. Maybe a day at work and away from the house had helped her feel more at ease with everything?
 
“Yeah,” I called back.
 
“Give me a minute and I’ll join you,” she replied through the closed door. I was so stunned by her response that all I could do was stammer under my breath as I heard her walk away. Ever since I had bought the old house, intimacy had been scarce. I sat up and wondered how we would both fit in the tiny, claw-footed tub, but decided I didn’t care. We would make it work. 
 
My phone chimed on the floor beside me. Of course a contractor would want to talk to me at the least opportune moment. I leaned out of the tub and picked up my phone, trying my best to not get it wet. It was a text message from Marie. “I’m on the way home. Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner.”
 
As I stared at the screen, a cold chill swept over me that not even the scalding hot bathwater could keep at bay. Then, in an instant, the bottom of the tub gave way, and I fell into a bottomless abyss engulfed by water.
 
Dirty lake water filled my mouth and rushed up my burning nose. The murky water stung my eyes, and I closed them tight as I desperately fought to pull my way back to the surface. I felt with my feet for anything to push against, but the depths seemed endless. I kicked my legs, trying to propel myself upwards. My lungs burned, and I fought the urge to take a deep breath. I opened my eyes. I could see sunlight glittering on the surface of the water above me. I looked to my left and right and saw nothing but endless blue. I looked below. A dark shadow formed below my feet, and it was getting larger by the second, filling me with dread. I looked back toward the surface, paddling with my arms as hard as I could. I kicked my legs, and something sharp grabbed hold of my ankle. I kicked harder, fighting the urge to scream.
 
I was trapped. Whatever had a hold of my ankle was refusing to let go. I looked down, hoping to free myself. Looking up at me was a face. One that I had seen in the mirror many times. It belonged to me. My fleshy cheeks were grey with decay, and I stared at a reflection of me thirteen years ago. The abomination stared back with white, milky eyes. It grinned with rotten teeth. I screamed. 
 
Bubbles rushed from my mouth, and I watched the precious pockets of air escape to the surface. I thrashed wildly, trying to free myself from the deathly grip, but no matter how hard I fought, my reflection clung to my leg with a dead, bony claw. 
 
My muscles burned with exhaustion. I couldn’t stare at the creature below me any longer. I looked up, desperate for air. Greedy for it. The glittering sun was beginning to dim. A hand appeared from the surface, reaching down for me. I reached, barely grasping the fingertips with my own. I pulled, but the monster below me pulled even harder. I felt my grip slipping, and a new surge of panic filled my chest. I knew if I let go, I would be lost forever. I kicked myself to the surface one last time and grabbed hold of my savior's wrist; then, I was pulled free. 
 
I exploded to the surface, gasping for air. I was overwhelmed with relief as vital oxygen filled my empty lungs, and I opened my eyes. Maire was standing in the bathroom, her face twisted in horror. “Jason, calm down! Are you okay?” I was standing in the bathtub, my feet safely planted on the dingy, yellow porcelain. I stepped out of the tub, dripping. Marie held onto my arm so I wouldn’t slip. “Jason, talk to me!” she pleaded.
 
I couldn't believe it. Only moments ago, I was sinking into a bottomless lake. But I couldn’t have been. It wasn’t possible. I was standing safely on the dirty tile in my bathroom. “You were right. Pack your things. We are getting the fuck out of here.”
","July 09, 2023 14:36","[[{'Tricia Shulist': 'Interesting story.  Self-fulfilling prophecy, with a twist — one character makes the prediction, and it proves true for the other.  Thanks for this.', 'time': '14:18 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,lo0a6f,Nothing to Fear,Ian Gonzales,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lo0a6f/,/short-story/lo0a6f/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",12 likes,"
“I’m afraid of nothing.”
I look up from the notebook on my desk, peering over the rims of my reading glasses at the man reclining on thefaux-leather upholstery of my couch. “You’re not afraid of anything? Anything at all? Not death or taxes? Not big crowds, heights, or even small flying rodents?” My tone is light, but not mocking. Curious, without being pushy.
“I didn’t say that.” Curtis Smith (probably not his real name, but I understand that some people feel the need for anonymity) is my newest patient, a pro bono walk-in who is clearly trying out the whole therapist thing for the first time. He lies on the comfy couch, propped up enough on the raised part that he could claim to be sitting, his eyes wide open and arms tightly crossed. His whole body is tense, a spring wound tight, just waiting for an excuse to uncoil and flee the session. “I said I’m afraid of nothing. Nothing scares me.”
I shift position in my chair, slowly, giving myself time to process this information. Pop psychology is something of a specialty for me, it’s why I work part time in a public health clinic. There isn’t a lot of challenge there, mostly just talk therapy, listening to people air their complaints, making the usual reassuring noises. There’s some triage, some evaluation, referring them along to specific specialists if I sense anything serious. But mostly I just listen, provide a sounding board, ask a few leading questions, while they work through things for themselves. “Nothing scares you? Like, the concept of nothingness, of nonexistence?”
“Yeah, something like that. Only it’s more… specific.” His gaze darts toward me, then away again.
“Mm-hmm.” I lean back, nodding, fiddling with my pen. There’s been no need to take notes so far. “You know, oudenophobia isn’t that uncommon a fear.”
“Come again? Oudenophobia?”
“Or nilophobia. Literally, the fear of nothing. Lots of people experience it, most commonly linked to a fear of death, a fear of life ending, with nothing after it.”
“Oh.” He frowns, obviously thinking about what I’ve said. “I guess that’s part of it. I mean, yeah, I’m scared of, well, dying.” He moves on the couch, squirming sort of, the upholstery squeaking softly. “I’m afraid of what the Nothing will do to me.”
I pick up on the capitalization, like it’s a thing, an object that can be seen and touched. Feared, even. “The Nothing? Why do you say that like it’s a… something?”
“Because it is, Doctor. It just… is. It’s out there, waiting for me.”
Despite my jaded nature, born of many long years of doing this, I feel my professional curiosity being piqued. “Can you tell me exactly what you mean? What is this Nothing?”
“It’s just that. Nothing.” He takes a breath, lets it out in a sigh. “It’s been after me for a while now.”
“Hmmm. Let’s try something. I want you to attempt to recall the first time you saw this… Nothing. Tell me where you were, what you were doing.” Twenty bucks says this all started with drugs, a bad trip after experimenting with shrooms in college or something painfully similar. If so, I’m going to be really disappointed.
“I first encountered it a little over three years ago,” Curtis says. He pauses, licks his lips. “It was in a subway station. I’d just gotten off the train, at a little after two in the morning, and I was looking for a bathroom. The place was deserted; I must have been the only soul in sight. I saw the sign, the door, walked over and opened it. And there was… Nothing.” He shudders, his eyes widening. Clearly, even the recollection is disturbing. “It was a… a wall of blank gray. Like a fog just hanging there, or a broken TV screen. Just a featureless expanse of flat gray.”
That’s… original, I guess. “What happened next? Did you touch it? Try to move through it?”
“Oh, no way. It scared me. Scared the life out of me. It was just so strange, so unexpected. But at the same time, I knew what it was. I knew it was, well, the end. Like if I touched it, I would just… disappear. Become part of it. Become Nothing.” He heaves another sigh. “So, I slammed the door. Ran away, as fast as I could.”
I purse my lips, thinking. “And has this happened again?”
He nods. “Oh, yeah. It was pretty rare at first. Almost rare enough that I could dismiss it as my mind playing tricks on me. Rare enough that I could almost forget about it, if I tried. But it got more and more frequent. It would happen anywhere, anytime. I’d just open and door… and find the Nothing waiting for me.” He shakes his head, wipes at his eyes. “It’s ruined my life. I keep moving, from place to place, city to city, job to job. Trying to get away from it. But it’s happening so much now. I think… I think it’s getting closer to me, somehow. Like it’s been hunting me, and now it’s closing in for the kill.” He gives a shaky laugh. “I’ve taken to not opening doors for myself anymore. I leave them open, or let other people do it for me. Seems to work, so far, but everyone I meet thinks I’m crazy.”
“Mm-hmm.” I scratch out a note. I think I might have a real case on my hands. “And have you ever talked about this with anyone? Tried to show it to anyone?”
He hesitates, darts another look at me. “Yes.”
“Who, if I may ask?”
“A woman I liked. Wanted her to understand me better.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Did she see it?”
“Yes.” The word is clipped, bitten off and spat out, like he couldn’t get it out and away from him fast enough.
“What did she say?”
“Well, she was confused at first. Then she got excited. I tried to shut the door, but I couldn’t before she… she touched it.” He draws a ragged breath.
“What happened?”
“She disappeared. Ended. Became Nothing.” The words come out as a whisper.
Now I’m leaning forward, hunched over my notebook, scribbling. This could be very interesting to a number of my colleagues. Not the whole Nothing thing, but this guy is clearly delusional. I’ll refer him along, they’ll probably want to start with tox screening, to find if he’s been using drugs. After that, there’ll be lots and lots of therapy sessions, maybe even a committal. Poor Curtis here clearly needs help, and as long as his insurance plan holds out, he’ll get it. And, of course, I’ll see something for my own efforts in identifying such a needy soul…
“You don’t believe me.”
I look up from my pad to find Curtis sitting upright, staring at me. He’s wearing an expression that’s almost comical in its disappointment, like a child whose parents don’t believe there’s a monster under his bed.
“I didn’t say that, did I, Curtis? Trust me, I want to help you. And I think I can, if you’ll let me.”
He gives that little laugh again. “And how are you gonna do that? Will you find someone to open doors for me?”
I smile, pretending he’s made a joke. “No, Curtis. I can put you in touch with people who specialize in treating disorders like this. They can—”
He stands abruptly. “I knew this would be a waste of time. I came here because my boss said I had to, if I wanted to keep my job. But I knew, just knew, that no one would believe me.”
“Curtis, please, just wait. You need help. This phobia, these hallucinations, could be the result of a serious medical or psychological problem.”
He doesn’t give any sign that he’s listening. Instead, he marches over to the office door, and stops there. “Open this door, please. I’d like to leave now.”
“Come now, Curtis. I really think I can help you—”
“Open the door. Now, please.”
I take a breath, trying to find a way to work this out. “Curtis—”
“OPEN THE DOOR!”
“Please, let’s just talk about this. You’re delusional, Curtis. What you think you’ve been seeing, it’s not real. It’s literally all in your mind. Now, I can—”
“Open this door, or I swear I’ll open it myself.” There’s a grim threat in his voice. “And believe me, you don’t want me to do that.”
“Curtis, you have to face the fact—”
“I have to face it? I have to face it?” He’s breathing heavily now, practically panting. There are tears in his eyes. “All right, Doctor. I’ll face it. But you have to face it, too.” He grips the knob, knuckles white. “I’m sorry.”
He opens the door.
And it’s there. The Nothing. A flat, blank expanse of grey, like a wall of fog or a broken TV screen. It’s just standing there, like it’s been waiting for someone to open the door and let it in.
And I realize that Curtis isn’t lying, isn’t delusional. He’s been telling the truth, and there really is Nothing to fear.
“Curtis…” I start to speak, but my mouth has gone dry, and I cough, try again. “Curtis, this is…”
“Yeah, it’s the Nothing.” There’s a world of resignation in his tone. “Still there. Waiting for me. Every time I open a door now, it’s there.”
“But this is extraordinary.” There’s something compelling, alluring even, about the Nothing. It almost seems to beckon to me, invite me to touch it, to join it. To become Nothing. Before I even realize it, I’ve stood up, walked around my desk. I’m only a foot or two from the doorway, my hand outstretched. “Amazing…”
Then Curtis grabs my arm, stopping me. “Yeah, it’s pretty unbelievable. But I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I blink, my gaze going from Curtis to the door. I swallow, nod. “Y-you’re right. I shouldn’t.” The Nothing just hovers there, filling the doorway of my office. I almost get a sense of… disappointment from it. Like it wanted me to touch it, wanted to take me, and now… “You know, Curtis, I’m having a novel idea right now.”
“Yeah? What’s that, Doctor?”
I sigh. “Let’s try going out the window.”
","July 10, 2023 13:41",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ym7m1h,Living Fear,Barbara Arbogast,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ym7m1h/,/short-story/ym7m1h/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror']",12 likes,"
LIVING FEAR
 
	Gemma knew she was unique. Without fear and with no light, she investigated noises in dark corners of her basement. She couldn’t explain it, but she always felt odd.
	It was the whispers she heard in the wind. Little things animals and trees told her. Energy she saw and sensed between organisms, like spiderwebs connecting one being to another.
	Her differences she accepted no questions asked. Because not many people see the influence that connects everything, she rarely spoke of it to anyone. Gemma believed she was the only one who saw it.
	She experienced a strong connection to her Universal force. The Universe asked, and Gemma supplied. The girl shared her vitality with all beings who needed healing.
	Theirs was a mutually beneficial relationship. She wrote down what she desired, and the Universe provided. She created her life exactly as she wanted and gave her love and power so others might pay it forward. Gemma almost took for granted how easily things came to her.
	But today was unlike any other day in her whole life. She went through “the sickness” …. came out the other end of it… and still, she believed the same about the connectedness of her world. Until now. Now, she seemed disconnected. The lines of light between beings abruptly vanished. She was utterly alone.
	Today, she saw new phantoms. They were not comforting. They were darkness. Dread. They took shape, deliberately shifting with each blink of her eye, every drift of her thought.
	Her first shadow she called “Return”. Return, an enormous dollop of a shade, varied in fast and slow-paced movements. This gray blob meant many things to Gemma: illness, agony, and misery that came from healing “the sickness.” This mass broke Gemma’s immunity system. Return had the possibility of swallowing her host whole.
	Her second shadow, Gemma named “Abandon”. Abandon also had multiple meanings, but he was a wisp of gloom. Quiet, yet undeniable in his strength.
	This darkness embodied both being abandoned by those she loved and the freedom she experienced when she lost control of herself. Abandon was frightening because of his constant presence, his power, his speed, and his reckless whimsy.
	Gemma’s third shadow was “Dependence”. Although this gloomy waif offered much charm in his youthful exuberance, he was slow to depart when Gemma wished him away.
 Dependence kept her healing energy down, as he danced on the joy others experienced in helping his host. While Gemma wanted to discourage this shade from growing, she also understood she must provide her loved ones with the opportunity to give to her. So Dependence grew thin but wide, enveloping Gemma before she was ready to accept him.
	Gemma gathered her courage, took a gulp of iced tea, and in her mind’s eye, gazed at each phantom in turn. To turn them into allies, she had to discuss her situation with each shadow. She needed to listen to their desires and demands as well as any extra grievances or any pets they had.
	Ultimately, the girl decided she must make these looming fears her friends. And friendship is about listening, caring, and relating. Relationships require compromise and support. Each of Gemma’s shadows required his or her place in the sun of Gemma’s love and attention.
	“Return,” said Gemma, “where are you in my body? Where is the discomfort you create?”
	Gemma’s body answered, “Return is taking over my nervous system. Over here, in my neck. In my wrists. In my sinuses! – Over there, in the blurry vision of my eyes.” Wow! So many places this shadow hides, with bits of her exposed from within the reservoir of her host.
	Focusing on her neck, Gemma went inside. The girl caught a glimpse of her first terror as she clung to a bone-spur on the edge of her second vertebrae. She held out her arms, mentally, toward the part of the fear hiding there, ready to send Return love. The shade glided into her hosts emotional arms. With a sigh, the darkness released her grip on Gemma’s neck.
	Next she focused on her right wrist. Part of Return peaked out from under her extensor retinaculum, un-trapping her host's radial nerve and relieving the tingling in the girl's right hand and fingers. Again, she opened her emotional arms to give this darkness a hug and much needed love and understanding. This part of the shadowy fear melted beneath Gemma’s loving touch.
	Gemma checked her sinuses… The first shade shot back a warning, shaking her head, and wagging a single shaded finger… “um-um-umuh” signaled the fear to her host, unwilling to let go of her stronghold. The girl recognized now might not be the time to ease this section of anxiety and retreated in fatigue but not defeat.
 Abandon wisped by in front of Return and caught his host's attention briefly. He was hard to track down. Good thing the previous shadow was huge enough to make Gemma concentrate on her for a longer stretch. Return… that dread of a shadow lay in what other people wanted of Gemma rather than what she wanted for herself.
	Like dead weight Return hovered over her host's eyes making it difficult for the girl to view anything else. The shadow's weight caused angina in her chest and a strain in her left foot. Gemma wanted to focus on the future, but this fear's size, weight and sorrow forced her to remain the girl’s center of attention for the time being. Was it her imagination, or was the shadow smaller? Gemma asked Return to show herself.
	Although she considered herself a failure for giving in to the results of surviving her sickness, Gemma intellectually recognized she was doing the right thing for her physical and mental health. How did she know?
 Return had become lighter and was almost half the size she had been when she first caught her host's attention. The girl could investigate and make friends with the other two formidable shadows that lurked deep within herself.
 Abandon… Gemma searched for the darting darkness deep inside. There he was, ready to be dealt with or befriended. The girl was determined to make friends with this wisp of a shade as he dodged her gaze and went to the back of her neck.
	She had not noticed before, but Abandon held hands with Dependence. So, the two were linked in some way. Rather than try to talk with Abandon, who dodged in and out of view, Gemma asked the final shadow what was going on with him.
	She saw the dark blob peek out of her neck and glide down her arms. Dependence was in the back of the girl's head at the same time he was in her hands and feet. But being so thin, this shade needed Return and Abandon to make his physical presence felt, except in Gemma’s eyes.
	Blurring her sight, explained her third fear, was a trick he had learned from the girl's medication. When he wanted Gemma's attention, he pulled himself together and doubled or tripled his thinness, to become thicker and harder to see through. He was able to do this best when his host was tired or angry, he explained.
	Ah, the girl understood. 
 Dependence’s biggest role was in obstructing her vision. He grinned at Gemma when she shared her newfound knowledge with him. 
	He needed time, attention, love and most importantly, appreciation. Without allowing Dependence to exist in the past, she unwittingly opened the way for this fear to grow. Her failure to make peace with him, becoming resentful instead, made the darkness of his shade grow thicker.
	Peacefully, she went to bed believing in the morning she and her terrors would be friends. She thought she had figured it — her shadows — out.
	Gemma slept. Her fears gathered. Her attempts at friendship with each one threatened their very existence. They were aware of their host's goal. They were not happy.
	In the quiet of nighttime, they conspired to unite. Whispering and drifting past one another, holding hands, intertwining, giggling with frenzied joy as they spun into their new form with grim purpose and praised one another for their tenacity. They were swift and they were bold. They were determined to be in focus – all three of them, permanently.
	There was no true morning for Gemma. In her catatonic state, she did not respond to her loved ones. Instead, in a small corner of the dark recesses of her mind Gemma hid, glimpsing her enormous, grinning terrors through the gaps in her fingers she imagined she held over her eyes.
 Return, Abandon and Dependence joined as one, floated by Gemma again and again, in a blurred, varietal shade of grey and black. She was rendered powerless and frozen as she watched her shadows gleefully take turns squelching her light like three candle snuffs putting out the flame of her life.
","July 07, 2023 18:09","[[{'Michał Przywara': ""Quite a twist! I didn't expect things to end that way, but being trapped like that - by yourself, no less - is a nightmare for sure.\n\nHere we have a woman who spent so much of her life giving outwardly, and all the while she was neglecting herself. Naturally, this was fertile ground for problems to develop. Her means of handling them, of going inside herself and confronting/befriending them, reminded me of a recent conversation on somatic therapy. It makes sense though - these are a part of her, so going in guns blazing would be counterprodu..."", 'time': '20:40 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kathleen Fine': 'Great suspense Barbara!', 'time': '19:06 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,quq2zk,It's Not Real,Dafna Flieg,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/quq2zk/,/short-story/quq2zk/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Funny', 'Kids']",12 likes,"
Dafna Fliegelman                                                                                                   July 9th, 2023Writing contest #206	It's not something that's easy to talk about or to explain or even to feel, but it is real.	If you were to look up the definition of the word phobia you would get something like this. “Phobia; noun, fear of spiders is just one of his many phobias:  irrational fear, obsessive fear, dread, aversion antipathy, revulsion; complex, neurosis; informal thing, hang-up.”	My story offers another perspective. A perspective that demonstrates how even the smallest forms of physical terror can produce emotional limbs instantaneously and, that those new arms and legs can drastically change the course of one’s life, and the way they live it, forever.	It’s not something I like to talk about. My life was already folding at the seams and I was only halfway through my eighth year of life. At that point my parents were in the middle of getting a divorce, (and in 2002 that still wasn’t in-vouge to do yet!) My best friend moved to another state and my sister had been awfully mean to me that whole week! Let’s just say this was the pick-me-up I really needed, something I could really depend on and it turned out to be anything but… It happened on my bus ride home from school. At the very end of the school day, a Friday so also the end of that week, everyone in Mrs. Vicky’s second grade class was granted permission to pick one piece of candy from Mrs. Vicky’s candy jar. I knew immediately which candy I would choose the moment Mrs. Vicky’s information turned into a concept that included a prize for me! And for everybody else. I was selected eleventh in my choosing and my beloved not-actually-candy, but chocolate egg was still there! It could have been because Easter was nearly ten months ago but it could have been pure luck. (I personally choose to believe the latter.) I walked up to the jar and reached my elfin hand inside and enclosed on my heart’s desire. Feeling the security of the little chocolate egg in my hand I rebounded all of me back to my seat and waited. I waited and waited and waited. I gawked at my winnings. The foil was stained yellow and pink with the smallest bunnies painted right there on it. It was amazing to me and I simply couldn't wait to open it.           When we were less than five minutes from the final school day bell, my classmates and I scattered and scurried about, cleaning up this day to compose the next. Art supplies away, papers in the desk, chalkboard empty, bookshelves full, jackets on, lights off, and we were free. Well, almost! I waited on my bus line for what felt like ever. Like the clocks forgot to tick. Finally, my neighbors and I were led by our line leader to bus 210, mine. Once seated I waited for my bus driver Woody to gas this bad boy up and take off! After about 10 more minutes of waiting and of other children loading up and on the big yellow mobile, we did just that. Trees swam past my half open window. It was a warm February afternoon and I sat in my seat peeling the layers off of me. I had on a coat and a hat, (just in case as my mother would say). I was careful to keep my hand clasped tight around my chocolate egg. But that wasn’t where the focus of my care should have been. I first saw the brown fudge dripping through the openings of my fingers like blood, marking my skin with its hue. And I knew in that moment my selection was dying. I opened my hand to my now almost melted fortune. I had been so concerned with the welfare of my chocolate egg that I didn’t think about the idea that I could be my own opponent! A backstabber too. It was clear now that time was of the essence, that it was now or never. I had to unwrap my chocolate swiftly and briskly to place it into my mouth and into safety. I hardly had time to chew but chew down I did and next came the cousin of pain dressed as fear.	A piercing feeling through my miniature molars, my tiny teeth so sensitive to the electrifying feel of their direct contact with the pretty pink and yellow foil. How deceiving it truly was. All at once I lost my chocolate, the sensation in my teeth, and my pride. And it was as though it was never foil that coated my cholate egg after all but rather Fear the entire time. I was astounded at my own self destruction. How could this have happened to me? I believed in God. More than that I trusted Mrs. Vicky and my intuition and my choice of reward so much. I never felt more betrayed and I never felt more affected by an outcome of a situation that seemed only capable of promising me joy. I felt denounced and that’s exactly when a deep-rooted phobia firmly formed. I knew it to be true diametrically in the moment the fable colored foil adhered to my back left tooth. My prediction was affirmed six days later when my family went out to dinner at the local pizzeria and my Mother ordered garlic knots for the table. I was so hungry I thought I couldn't wait. Traditionally I was such a garlic fanatic that I would lick the garlic remains right off the tinfoil guard that contained them. However, on this night, six days after my very own kiss of death, when I saw my own Mother carrying the tray of Pizza to my table, alongside it the most terrifying shade of faux silver you could ever conjure up. I wanted my mother to take all of the food right back into the kitchen and say, “sorry chef my baby’s not about to let that invade her ever again, so thanks, but no thanks!” Except that didn’t happen at all because, what happened to me on my bus ride home was only felt by me. And when I shared my horror with my family, they couldn’t help but encourage me in their own believed lies telling me things like “it’s not real”. But it was real. It was real that warm February day on the bus, when I had a few too many layers on, and it was real that night at the pizzeria when I was so hungry I thought I couldn't wait, and it's real still today, and every time I start to sweat at the thought of being entangled in something else's mess again, confused by the power of love. 	I was only halfway through my eighth year of life and I learned what it meant to be robbed of something beautiful.[Authors Note: This was my first and only phobia I have generated in my mind. The reality is that it’s not real but your thoughts are. I am however proud to share that after 17 years I can now tear open a foil wrapped Hershey’s kiss all on my own, but never again a chocolate egg.]Based on a true story.
","July 12, 2023 13:49","[[{'Shahzad Ahmad': 'Dafna a great story in which you depicted a piece of chocolate not consumed at the appropriate moment turning into a phobia. The emotions of fear and disgust have been illustrated well. The word choice is also impressive. Overall a good debut to Reedsy. Well done!', 'time': '08:10 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Dafna Flieg': 'Thank you so much for the feedback!', 'time': '11:00 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Dafna Flieg': 'Thank you so much for the feedback!', 'time': '11:00 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Soft Smile': 'It was amazing 🙏', 'time': '18:17 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Dafna Flieg': 'Thank you so much', 'time': '11:00 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Dafna Flieg': 'Thank you so much', 'time': '11:00 Aug 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,7ktmqr,Sins of the Father,Michael Mackenzie,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7ktmqr/,/short-story/7ktmqr/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller', 'Suspense']",12 likes,"
**Language and Violence**“Sins of the Father”When they crossed the state border, a wobbling street sign with decaying letters welcomed them to New Hampshire. Cracks lined the empty highway. The guardrails were bent or absent. The thought of driving off the road and tumbling down the mountain ate at Joseph. He gripped the steering wheel, disappointed in himself that he already missed the sounds of the subways cars and bright lights of the skyscrapers and the immediate urgency and chaos of the city. He cursed beneath his breath and rubbed the small of his back.             “I offered to drive,” Helen said, pulling her cellphone from the pocket of her whitewashed blue jeans.             “Then we’d never make it,” Joseph said.             “We’d be there by now if you hadn’t missed the turn as we drove out of Boston,” Helen said.A voice broke through the static on the radio. The scratchy voice of an older woman spoke with a pitch that made it sound as though she’d done a few too many weather reports. At least you could understand what she was saying:             Strange sightings reported near the Willard Brook State Forest.  Residents are advised to stay inside. Only travel if you must.             The radio went back to static. The clock read 1:02 AM. Helen scrolled through images on her phone of fancy clothes and fancy shoes and fancy bracelets and other fancy shit they couldn’t afford. How much time can you really spend staring at the damn phone? He thought.                  “We going to be there soon?” Helen said.             “If you’d stop shopping for a minutes and look at the GPS on your phone.”             “Oh get off your high horse about my damn phone. Otherwise I’ll start on how your always at work and never home since – ”             “Don’t start that shit. Don’t say it. I’m warning you. We told each other we wouldn’t talk about it. That’s what the therapist said.”             “I can’t help it. What happened. It makes me so angry. Still. God Dammit Joseph. Life was almost easier when I only had to visit you once a week in prison.”             Joseph slammed his fist on the leather steering wheel. His foot pressed on the pedal. The car gained speed and blood rushed with anger through his body. The engine rumbled. Just fucking leave it, he wanted to say to her. You don’t know the guilt. You don’t know the guilt at all.              When the car reached 120mph he slowed down. His ears popped as they continued to drive up toward the mountain. The GPS told them they’d be there in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to a prescribed week away from the job and the life and the grind. But that’s what Joseph had had for the last three years. He wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted to redo the mistakes he’d made. He wanted another shot to prove himself to Helen, even if it was too late for Charlotte.             They turned off the highway and onto a gravel road. The gravel rumbled and the car rocked. The thick tree line consumed the light from the moon and stars, and the trees grew thicker and longer. Branches danced in darkness.But as they drove the trees changed. A sick feeling erupted in Joseph’s stomach. Perhaps it was the Swedish fish or beef jerky he’d eaten on the way. Maybe the stress of the three years in prison, and lifetime of hell he promised himself after what happened to Charlotte made his sick.The sound of the gravel against the tires inexplicably grew quiet. The trees were slumped over. Disintegrating. And through the trees, the outline of a thin jaw and rotting teeth appeared. Joseph slammed on the breaks.             “You’re stopping?”             Joseph’s chest tightened and his breath shortened. Fear consumed his body. Conquered his mind.              “The hell is wrong with you?”             “Get off your phone for two seconds and look outside.”             “What am I supposed to be looking at?”             Joseph turned off the radio. Flashed the high beams into the woods. Leaned toward the windshield.             “Can we just get going? The house is just up ahead and I’m exhausted. I’m sure it was nothing.”              Joseph pressed on the accelerator. Helen was probably right. She was right about most things. It was probably nothing.             The cabin sat snug at the end of the gravel road. The porch was freshly painted, though the stairs to porch were uneven and weeds dominated the entrance. Toys and old clothes sat in the yard, and an above ground swimming pool was covered in leaves. The screen door creaked as Joseph followed Helen to the threshold. The house smelled of store-brand air freshener.             “This looks different than what I booked in the booked,” Helen said.             Joseph brought the rest of the bags in from the car and dropped them in the bedroom just to the left of the front door. By the time the rest of the bags were in the house, the rain barraged roof and the large window that overlooked the tree line.             Helen pulled a bottle of wine from the cooler and poured herself a glass. She sat down on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table. She grabbed the tv remote that had fallen on the floor and clicked its buttons. Nothing happened.Watching Helen was a though he was seeing what life had been like when he was locked up. She had grown used to not having him around, and now that he was back she had no idea how to handle that.Joseph walked up behind her, placed his thick hands on her freckle shoulders. He smelled her hair, consuming the perfume that she wore when they had met twenty years ago in High School.             He peered down her shirt as he rubbed her shoulders. Her breast’s pushed through her white shirt though perhaps not as much as they did in her early twenties. He remembered the excitement of touching her for the first time. Convinced that he would tell her to stop but he never did, only pressing his hands harder and harder on breasts. Now, even after two kids, he still loved the way she looked. Watching a woman raise a child, he knew there is nothing  more beautiful than that.             She lifted her hand off his shoulder. Turned toward him, and chugged the bottle of wine. “Going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”             Joseph’s heart plummeted. He watched as she retreated to the bedroom, wondering how he was ever going to get her to forgive him for what happened. Perhaps it is too late. Clearly he wasn’t meant to be a father and maybe he was never meant to be a husband either.              The couch was hard on Joseph’s back as he sat down. He closed his eyes and laid back. The sounds of the prison doors locking him in for the night, and the cries of other inmates screaming through their sound proof cells rocked him to sleep. The urge to get out and fix his life had eaten away at him as he sat in his cell for the past three years. And now that he was back home, he wondered if it was too late. And he thought about the night that Charlotte died when they were coming home from the mall. The way the rain sounded just like it did now.             Joseph opened the door to the bedroom. Helen lay down with a book resting on her chest. The bedside lights were on but she appeared fast asleep. He put the book back on the bedside table, flicked the lights off, and then went outside.             He walked until his shoes were covered with mud and his shirt was so thick it stuck to his skin. Cold water seeped through his toes and drenched his socks. The rain was so deafening he couldn’t hear himself speak. Stars lit up the sky. He wondered if Charlotte was watching him. He wondered if Helen even cared if he went out this late at night.             When he reached the intersection the thought of turning around overcame him. Let’s just go home, he thought to himself.              A piercing scream filled the night. Joseph stopped moving. Held his breath. Looked to his left and then his right. Nothing there. The branches were still and there was no sign of movement. Perhaps it was Helen that screamed, but no, that scream was too guttural for any human. Ahead of him, in the tree line, a hand flickered in the moonlight, wrapped itself around a tree.             Before he could turn back around, back to Helen and back to his marriage and back to trying to make better what remained of his life, the figure sprinted out of the tree line. The figure was so fast. It’s body so slender. Joseph couldn’t tell what raced after him. Too human to be an animal. Too deformed to be fully human.             Joseph fell to his knees. His head face planted onto a hard rock. He hit the ground and his vision turned black. He tried to grip the forest floor, but nothing stopped his momentum toward the woods. The sound of the wet drool and lips smacking and warm breath made it hard to hear anything else.             He fingernails clenched dirt and rock and twigs as the creature pulled him deeper into the forest. A sharp pain pulled at his legs. A snap echoed near his feet. At the first he thought it might be a branch, but then, as the air left his lungs, he saw that one of the bones in his legs had protruded through his skin.             Deeper and deeper, it pulled him into the woods. Until the stars and the moon were replaced by the sickening trees and the only noise came from the heavy breathing of the thing behind him. His hands and arms were sliced open. Blood dripped from his nose and ears.When he looked back, the creature was gone, and he saw only a little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.             “Why didn’t you protect me Daddy?” Charlotte said.             Joseph rubbed his eyes. This couldn’t be her. Impossible. Perhaps he’d had a concussion. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Perhaps he blacked out or died. His skull was soft and the pain in his leg kept him from speaking without grinding his teeth or wincing every few seconds.             “I was so scared on that night we drove home Dad. I knew you and Mom were mad at each other that night.” She wore a yellow dress and a Cross around her neck. The same Cross that was now bloodstained and resting around Joseph’s neck.”             “I was sick back then,” Joseph said. “I was angry. I was bitter I wasn’t more for you. Then I made it so much worse. I shouldn’t have gotten in that car with how much I’d drank that night. And you paid for my mistakes.”             Charlotte took two steps toward Joseph. She wore the sneakers Joseph had saved up for her by working overtime at the docks. And on his day off from the shipyard he took her to Chuck e Cheese while Helen was still at work. The shoes were polished and he could hear Charlotte giggling as tried them on in the store all those years ago.”             “I know you tried Daddy. Life doesn’t end up the way we want it sometimes.”             “I think about you every day.”             Charlotte walked closer. She placed her hand on Joseph’s face. Despite the tenderness of her skin, her hands felt rough and thick. But he didn’t care. He looked into her eyes. Pressed his face into her hand and smiled.             “I’m lonely now Daddy. Don’t you want to stay with me?”             “Of course I want to stay with you.”             She placed her other hand on his face. The air around himsoured. The bright green that he had fallen in love with faded, turning gray then to black. The pain in his legs which had momentarily subsided came back, pulling him into a pit of pure pain.             “I need to go. I need to get back to your Mother.”             “Don’t you love me Daddy? Stay with me. Please. I’m so lonely here.”             She squeezed harder on Joseph’s face. Joseph pulled at both her wrists, but her grip only tightened. As she squeezed, the blonde hair fell from her head. Her eyes widened and her smile, filled with perfectly white teeth only moments ago, burst with blood.             “Don’t go back to that bitch,” Charlotte said, the voice now low and guttural.             Joseph ripped the wrists from his head. He felt for a rock on the forest floor. Found one, and with all his strength he landed the rock on Charlotte’s head. Only it was clear it wasn’t Charlotte. But some creature that belonged to this forest or to another world.             The creature fell back. Joseph tried to stand, but as he did felt another snap in his leg. He fell to his knees, right next to the creature. The hair and the white teeth on the ground, along with the yellow dress.              In the distance, he could hear Helen’s voice. In a moment, he would try stand up, and apologize to her. Apologize for his mistake and tell Helen that he loved her and that this had been the hardest time in his life.             But before he could do that, he turned toward the creature, which was screaming in pain and struggling to move.. He mounted the creature, grabbed the blood stained rock, and pummeled it until his arm turned sore and his back ached.             Then the light from Helen’s flashlight found him.             “Are you alright?” Helen said.             “Better now,” Joseph said. 
","July 13, 2023 02:00","[[{'Shahzad Ahmad': ""Michael you have skilfully portrayed the protagonist's negotiation with his greatest fear. He at least apologizes to his daughter who may be personified as her ghost or the sting of his conscience. But even more importantly he has to make up to his living wife. Great story. Well done!"", 'time': '21:58 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michael Mackenzie': 'Thank you so much for reading my story. I sincerely appreciate the kind words. It means so much! \n\nAll the best, \n\nMichael', 'time': '03:02 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Mackenzie': 'Thank you so much for reading my story. I sincerely appreciate the kind words. It means so much! \n\nAll the best, \n\nMichael', 'time': '03:02 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,00lu11,"Keep It Together, Katie",Christie McMahon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/00lu11/,/short-story/00lu11/,Character,0,['Horror'],12 likes,"
Trigger warning: mental health, implied violence to children, some gore
 
	“Moooooom! Canaan hit me!”
	The voice invading the small bathroom is high pitched and whiny. Go away! I want to yell. Can’t I have just five minutes to myself?
	Thud, thud, thud…a little fist hammers on my bedroom door, which—I know for a fact—I locked before sneaking in here.
	“Mooooom! Canaan hit me again!” The emphasis on the last word implies that this wouldn’t have happened if I’d been doing a better job. One of my migraines is starting to pulse behind my left eye.
 God, sometimes I just wish…
	I cut off this thought before I can finish. I don’t need another reason to feel bad about myself.
	With one hand, I wipe and with the other, I stub out the cigarette in the ashtray I keep hidden underneath the sink. I’m pretty sure Joe knows about it, but he pretends not to. Anyway, he’s not home enough to fight about it.
	I take a look in the mirror and frown at what I see: frizzy, blond hair, puffy, gray circles under my eyes, and pale, lifeless skin. I look old for twenty-four, but that’s what I get for being a mom of three under three and a closet smoker, I guess.
	“Mo-oh-om!” This time she manages to squeeze in an extra syllable, and I grit my teeth, squinting at my reflection. Keep it together, Katie. 
	Turning the knob, I find Abby standing there, looking up at me, her face flushed, tear streaks glistening on her cheeks.
	“Momma, where were you?” she asks.
	“Oh, just going to the bathroom, sweetie,” I reply quickly, smothering a stab of guilt.
	“Why do you smell funny?” Her bright blue eyes gaze up at me.
	“I don’t know, hon. Maybe stinky bathroom?” I say, trying to distract her with a funny face. It works, but only because she has more important matters on her mind.
	“Canaan hit me.”
	“I know, sweetie. I heard you. But it can’t have hurt that bad, can it?”
	Her expression says it all.
	I pick her up and head down the hallway. I find Canaan plugged into the TV, his chubby thumb stuck firmly between his two cupid lips. I pull his hand away, which is sure to get his attention.
	“Canaan, did you hit your sister?” 
	He shakes his head. I look at Abby, who is perched self-righteously on my hip, and I can tell she’s about three seconds from a full-on tantrum.
	“Canaan, don’t lie to Mommy. Did you hit your sister?”
	This time he nods and shakes his head at the same time. I recognize the guilty look on his face—it’s very familiar.
	I sit down on the couch, pulling Abby under one armpit and beckoning Canaan toward the other. 
	“I need you two to be my big helpers, okay? While Daddy’s gone. He has to work tonight and he’s not going to make it back before the storm sets in, so it’s just us and Evie.”
	Almost in unison, they nod their heads, their sweet faces gazing up at me. It’s one of those rare moments… My love for them swells, despite my earlier exasperation.
	“Go on and play now, ‘kay? I have to get dinner started before your sister wakes up from her nap.”  They scamper off and I head to the kitchen.
***
	About an hour later, I’m trying to breathe through my mouth as I clean the poop off Evie’s back. It has exploded up out of her diaper and has coated the inside of her onesie. Plus, she has a terrible diaper rash so she’s screaming bloody murder. 
 Of course, Joe is never here to help at times like this! It was his idea to pack-up, to leave the only home we’ve ever known—our friends, our family, everything—to move to this God-forsaken place in the middle of nowhere! Just so he could keep chasing after being a fireman. Fat lot of good that did us. Now, he’s gone more than he’s home, and I’m the one left with the kids all the time.
	As I throw away the very last baby wipe in the box, I brush a strand of hair from my face and realize that I’ve just smeared myself with shit. I exhale loudly through my nose.
 Keep it together, Katie.
	I’m picking up Evie when I hear a crash. I put her down roughly in her crib and run. Her shrieks pierce my ears as I hurry down the hallway toward the kitchen. I don’t see the twins anywhere. Smoke is billowing from the stove and there’s shattered glass all over the floor.
	“Canaan! Abby!” I yell, panic tightening my throat. 
	I hear a giggle from one of the cabinets and step forward. Too late, I remember I’m barefoot and pain lances through my foot and shoots up my spine. A door slams in another part of the house, and my head swivels sharply. What was that? My heartbeat is throbbing in my foot and for some reason, I’m having trouble focusing.
	I hear another door slam. My mind races. Did Joe get his shift covered?
	“Hon, is that you?” I shout, my head woozy. 
	No answer.
 Is there someone else in the house?  
	“Joe?!” The note of fear in my voice is real.
	No answer.
 We’re out here all alone. The thought creeps in before I can stop it, followed by another: No neighbors for at least a mile. 
	The searing pain in my foot grabs my attention, and I look down. The pool of blood gives off a metallic scent and the fluorescent lights catch the thick, glossy texture of it as it spreads across the blue linoleum.
	My head swims, and I only have time for, Keep it to—
	Then, I’m out, falling face-first to the floor. 
***
	When I come to, I’m in my bed. My head feels raw and my palms are damp with sweat. In fact, my whole body is drenched. I’ve had one of my nightmares, I think, my head thick and groggy. How did I get here? 
	The first thing I remember is the blood, wet and glistening, all over the floor. But the other pieces start coming back to me. The crash in the kitchen, Canaan’s giggle, doors slamming. 
 That must have been Joe coming in, I realize. He found me and put me in bed. 
    I sit up, still feeling the moistness on my hands, and shake my head to clear the fogginess.
    That’s strange… 
	I can still smell the blood. I reach for the lamp on my nightstand, and I realize that my hands aren’t just damp—they’re sticky. I flick the switch and stare with horror at the blood coating my palms and fingers.
	More than that, though. There’s a trail of blood from the door to my bed. Did all that come from me? I feel woozy again, but I can’t blackout—the kids need me. 
 Keep it together, Katie.
	“Joe?” I call out tentatively. “Where are you?”
	I follow the trail of blood, like gruesome breadcrumbs, down the hallway.
	“Stop right there,” says a voice, cold as steel, from behind me. “Don’t turn around or you’ll regret it.”
	My bowels turn to ice, and my throat clenches and unclenches. “Who are you? What do you want?” 
	“I want to help you, Katie.” The voice is silky smooth now, like a scalpel cutting flesh.	
	“How do you know my name? Where are my children?” Hysteria is rising to the surface. 
	“That’s why I’m here, Katie—to help you with your children…” The voice is warm and slippery. 
	“Where are they?” I’m gasping for breath.
	“I came to give you what you asked for, what you wanted.” There’s seduction in the words, and my stomach turns. Bile rises in my throat and I take a step forward. 
	The kitchen is visible now, and there’s even more blood—red pools, red streaks, red splashes. Where did it all come from? 
	“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 
	I take another step forward and fall to my knees. Someone is screaming: an awful, terrible scream. Who is that? Evie? Canaan? Abby? But I can’t put the pieces together and all I see is red.
***
	It’s just a little hand, gently curled, resting on the linoleum, flung out as if in sleep. There’s blush pink polish on two of the nails—her favorite color. But it’s covered in blood, lying there so still, so unnaturally still. 
	My eyes never leave it, but I’ve lost time again. I’m standing now, at the end of the hallway, and the voice is talking to me, almost tenderly, like a lover.
	“I warned you not to do that, Katie.” 
	I try to stay focused. Maybe she’s just hurt…maybe the others are safe. 
	“What have you done to my children? Please—please—let us go, and I’ll do anything you want.”
	“Katie, it’s not about what I want—it’s about you…what you want.”
	“What do you mean?”
	“I told you—I’m here to give you what you asked for.”
	“What’s that?” The words come out in a whisper.
	“You know,” murmurs the voice, almost in my ear, stirring the hairs on my neck and sending a shiver down my spine. “I want you to turn around now, Katie. Are you ready?”
	“I don’t…I don’t know what that means…”
	“Yes, you do,” the voice purrs. 
	I turn around slowly and see the owner of the voice. Grisly red streaks the pale face, and the eyes are bulging, the bags less noticeable under all the blood. Clumps of brain matter are tangled in the frizzy, blond hair. 
	The silky voice speaks one more time, and I watch in the mirror as my own lips say the words…
	“Keep it together, Katie.” 
 
 
 
 
","July 08, 2023 17:18","[[{'Sarah Martyn': 'I can truly imagine the voices by your style of writing. Well done.', 'time': '02:14 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Angela Ginsburg': 'Really nicely executed. The mixed feelings of love with frustration, loneliness and despair are really familiar and ring true.', 'time': '17:01 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Damn! Dark and chilling and, end the end, a horror story. This was a well-written piece; you have some legit writing skills, Christie. You really set it up so well, writing with a genuineness that sucks the reader into this world. Nicely done, Christie. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '12:52 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,le1jqr,Solar Eclipse,Alice Jayden,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/le1jqr/,/short-story/le1jqr/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship']",11 likes,"
		There was a time when I thought my biggest fear was spiders. Don't get me wrong, I am afraid of them, just not in the way that can qualify them as my biggest fear. It didn't even take me that long to realize. See, spiders would make me scream and jump and even cry a little if they were big enough, but at the end of the day, if it was between me and them, I could still run up and squash them, even if I did feel squeamish afterwards. I thought that the screaming and crying part was what made them my biggest fear, but then there was this one time when I was maybe 10 when one of the boys—one of the ones that was more Sammy's friend than mine—put a spider on my shoulder that was about the size of a nickel. I screamed all right, but instead of panicking, I just flicked it off. The thing was, it landed on Sammy's little brother. Now, ""little"" was a funny thing to call him, because while he may have been two years younger than us, he was also half a foot taller than both Sammy and me. And let me tell you, when I saw that big lug shriek and flail and cry and beg for help, that's when I realized spiders weren't the scariest thing after all, not to me.
		Around 13 I started worrying about my own mortality, and not at all of my own volition. There was a group of us standing around the paletas cart just a few blocks from our neighborhood. Sammy and his little brother were there and had just gotten their treats. The three of us were about to break away from the group and start walking back home when there was this loud screeeeeeeeeeech right across the street. I turned in time to see the impact of a shitty little cornflower blue pickup and a shitty little white sedan, a head-on collision with an accompanying BANG! that I felt more than heard. Something went flying out of the sedan like there was no windshield at all, and it flew so fast all I could see was a weird red-and-white blur. I thought it might have been a basket of laundry until it hit the pavement and skidded to a stop, all blonde hair and limbs bent every which way but the right ones, red splattered all over and swelling underneath. I dropped my paleta and ran home screaming just like Sammy's little brother with the spider (I'd learn later that Sammy, his brother, and the rest of the boys stayed and stared at the wreckage until the cops showed up and made them go home). I knew my house would be empty this early in the afternoon, so I bypassed it for Sammy's down the street. His mom was at the door within seconds of my assault of it, and she wrenched me into her arms, cooing, ""Mija, mija, no llores, ay, no llores, está bien, mija, está bien,"" over and over until I calmed down enough for her to ask me what happened.
		I couldn't sleep for weeks without nightmares, and in the nightmares I was always that blonde boy. It could have been me. It could be me any time. Just here one moment then flung out a window when I least expected it. I agonized over car rides for months after that, worried that I'd be the next one stuck to the pavement for the boys to stare at. I didn't think anything could be scarier until my dog died.
		I'd never lost anyone remotely close to me before, and dealing with the mortality of my childhood pet far outweighed the imagined scenarios concerning my own. There were two big reasons for this: For one, this was real, and for two, it hurt. At two-months-shy-of-14 and particularly privileged despite being Black, I'd only dealt with the physical pain of skinned knees and jammed fingers and stubbed toes. I'd never even suffered a broken bone before, though Sammy had and his good-natured humor throughout the experience made it seem like no big deal. Thus, heartbreak was far, far worse than I could have imagined. It was a big, empty hole that throbbed in my chest and wouldn't go away, just sat there and brought tears that wouldn't stop. My parents understood that I was hurting, but they didn't seem to feel it themselves—whether they were hiding it for my benefit or had just seen this sort of thing dozens of times with dozens of aged animals over the course of their ancient lives, I'd never be sure. They were there, but not in the way that I needed. And Sammy refused to come over for months—my dog had been as much his as he'd known her just about as long as I had. So, I was alone in my misery, and I was certain I'd never recover, which made me terrified of the idea of ever having to lose anyone else. Forget my own mortality, what if this happened again, but it was my dad or my mom or Sammy? How could I survive losing any of them when I was barely surviving this? I knew then that there couldn't be anything in the world that could shake me the way losing a loved one did.
		And then Sammy's mom died.
		It happened the spring after I turned 16. It was cancer, and it was slow until it suddenly wasn't. I'd had no idea she was even sick, let alone that she'd succumbed to it. Sammy didn't show up for school one day, and everyone kept asking me where he was. It tore at me that I didn't know since we were the type who never ditched without the other. I went to his house straight after school to find out what was up, and his dad answered the door, which was also unusual because he should still have been at work.
 ""Hola, Papá. Sammy está aq..."" It was right then that I noticed the pained expression on his face, the hardened jaw of a man trained not to show too much emotion no matter how much he needed to. I shook my head. ""Wait, what's wrong?"" I'd learned Spanish for fun, also to communicate with Sammy's parents better, but mostly for fun. This wasn't fun, so my language reset to default. ""Where's Sammy? Is he okay?""
 ""Mija."" The man's voice cracked, which made tears spill from my eyes before I even knew what happened. Then he told me in a shaky, agonized tone that his wife was gone. It'd happened just that morning. He was not the comforting sort the way she had been, so I cried into my hands in a heap on his doorstep, and he stood there and let me. I don't know how much time passed before he told me Sammy was in his room if I wanted to see him, but I nodded, wobbled to my feet, and… stopped.
		Sammy's mom just died. There was no way he wasn't crying. This weird ball of panic tightened my chest, and I stood there frozen. Sammy who laughed off a broken wrist, who stayed back to gawk at a dead boy in the middle of the street, who shrugged off bullies, who was immune to the fall of Mufasa. Sammy who I didn't see the day my dog died, who avoided coming over for ages afterwards so he wouldn't have to think about her. We'd been friends for a decade, and I'd never seen him shed a single tear. Today was about to change that.
		Except no the hell it was not. I made up some flimsy excuse that I had to go tell my parents what happened, which was stupid because they weren't even home yet, but I went with it, and ran off anyway. For days I made up excuse after excuse for not going to see him, until the day of the wake. I actually tried to get out of that too, but my mom would not hear of it.
		""You don't have to look at the body,"" she assured me on the drive to the funeral home. I didn't correct her, didn't say that the idea of the body didn't bother me. I simply stared out the window, hoping but not hoping too hard that a truck would run a light and send one or both of us flying through the windshield.		My mortality, my mom's mortality, the mortality of any and everyone involved in such a crash, and the spiders that might crawl in and over us as we lay there waiting for help, none of that was that scary to me in that moment.
		There were so many people at the wake, some I knew from school, a few of Sammy's cousins that I'd met over the years, but most were family that I didn't recognize. My mom patted me on the shoulder and left me to find Sammy's dad. My eyes found the casket, the thing that should scare me the most right now. I walked toward it, stopped a few feet away, and stared. She looked peaceful, but gaunt. It occurred to me then just how long it'd been since I'd seen her. I should've known something was up when Sammy started refusing to hang out at his house.
		Sammy.
		He was here somewhere, but my eyes stayed locked on his dead mom because it was easier. I stepped a little closer and watched her lie there like she was asleep. It was fine. I could stand there until it was time to go. No problem.
		But then there was a nudge at my shoulder, and I bit back a scream because I thought it was him, you know? And I wasn't ready. But it wasn't. It was his gigantic little brother.
		His face was splotchy from crying, and he sniffled, which was fine, just fine. I'd seen him cry hundreds of times when we were younger. I could handle this. I told him I was sorry, and hugged him tight. He kind of melted into me; such a big kid, but so frail right now. He thanked me, and I prayed that we could just stand there together and pretend there was no one else to think about, but right away he said, ""He won't talk to anyone.""
		He didn't have to say who. It was obvious. My heart lurched, and I made a weird, noncommittal noise in response.
		""I think he'll talk to you, though,"" he went on, which made that lurching feeling happen again, more violently this time. ""He's over there."" I watched him point through an open set of double doors where there were a bunch of empty dining tables covered in white cloths. Empty except, of course, for Sammy.
		His back was toward us, toward the casket and everyone in the room, and his shoulders were shaking. My fight or flight kicked in, and I took an involuntary step backward. I only stopped myself from running away completely by some absolute miracle.
		""Could you try to talk to him?"" There was a worried crinkle between the younger boy's brows, and his eyes were tearing up again. He was sad about his mom, sure, but right here and now, he was more worried about his big brother. I imagined everyone was. Sammy was always the brightest light in the building, the one that talked way too much, but you didn't mind because he also always made you laugh. If he hadn't spoken in days…
		""Please."" It was so small coming out of such a big person—only 14 years old, but already 6'2""—I would have laughed if this was even kind of the appropriate time for it. He held my gaze for a long moment, silently pleading with me to fix his brother, saying without saying, ""You're our only hope.""
		But his only hope was a scared little girl herself. I let my eyes drift to the other room again, lock on Sammy's shaking back. A deep, shuddering breath somehow made its way into my lungs as I steeled myself to face the thing that I now understood terrified me more than anything I'd ever thought I feared before.
		Not spiders. Not my mortality. Not the mortality of my loved ones.
		I held my breath and took a step forward.
","July 14, 2023 01:30","[[{'John K Adams': ""Wow!\nSimply, wow, Alice. \nThis is the most perfect story I've ever read. So heart felt, sad, with quirky humorous asides, so human. It kept building 'til it got really scary and felt very real.\nAbsolutely brilliant. I loved the way you told it through observing the father and the brother's reactions. \nI was initially put of by the dense paragraphs. But once started, your character drew me in and broke my heart. \nLove it, love it, love it! \nI can't wait to read more of your work."", 'time': '20:21 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,o6ibk5,Losing My Treasures,Patricia Williford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o6ibk5/,/short-story/o6ibk5/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction']",11 likes,"
 LOSING MY TREASURES
 
  They are coming today to take it all away. Their battalion of army ants will strip me of my possessions and my value. Their mops and brooms will wash away my defenses. They will rip the very life out of my soul and leave me without the armor that has shielded me for so long. There will be no way to protect myself. Everything that I have lovingly collected, stored away for rainy days, and caressed with my eyes and hands each day as I walk the narrow but ample pathway from room to room will be gone—tossed into foreign heaps, hauled away by cold, stoic trash trucks, and discarded onto ever growing mounds of misunderstood treasures stolen from so many misunderstood people. I have feared this day for twenty years and it has finally arrived. 
 
  I should never have let my daughter through the front door. I should have told her to get back on the plane that flew her unannounced across the county, determined to ruin my way of life. I knew my greatest fear would be realized when I saw the look on her face as she peered in through the screen door and then angrily wrenched it open from my tight grasp. Was it disgust, panic, pity, or guilt that I saw on her face? Probably a combination as she quickly came to the awareness that not visiting your mother for years is not a good thing. But I was doing fine. I tried to tell her. I had everything I needed. I had made sure of that.  But her widened eyes and open mouth were not convinced. 
 
  She screamed obscenities at me. I had never heard her curse before, but I guess we all slide into bad habits as we get older. She held her hands over her heart and acted like she couldn’t breathe. But I should have expected that; she has always been a little melodramatic. I heard her the first time when she yelled “What is wrong with you?” She didn’t have to keep repeating it over and over as she inched into the living room. And, frankly, the answer is “Not a goddamn thing.” If I had known she was coming, I would have cleared it up a little. I really would have. You can’t just show up at someone’s house unexpectedly and assume it will be ready for guests.
 
  I tried to slide the broken deck chair that I fully intended on fixing, the bag of gently used clothing that I just got from Goodwill, and the almost new cat litter box—for when I eventually get a cat--to the side so she could step over to the couch. But my other treasures were piled so high that they threatened to teeter and collapse on my hysterical daughter.  Nothing ever falls down on me, but I know where to step.  And I forgot that there wasn’t room on the sofa anyway. Most people use their couches for entertaining guests. But I never have guests, so why wouldn’t I use it for another purpose? It makes a great table for sorting my finds from the thrift stores.  Especially since the kitchen table already has plenty to weigh it down.  Each thing I purchase needs just the right spot to call home. I can’t help it if my daughter arrived before I had time to organize the cache from my latest couple of trips. Time has a way of slipping through my fingers, but I thought my riches never would. 
 
  “We need to talk,” she said. 
  “I’m all ears, dear daughter who I haven’t seen in so long. How have you been?”
  “Fine, I guess. Is there a place we can sit down?”
  “How about outside on the front stoop? I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I usually sit on the side of my bed.”
  “I’m going to try to walk through more of the house first so that I can see everything we are dealing with,” she said after a very heavy, exaggerated sigh. 
  “We?”
  “Yes, we. I’m going to get you help. This place has got to be cleaned up.”
 
  And that’s how it started—the downfall of my independence, the demise of my collection, the loss of my ability to choose.  My worst nightmare. My misguided daughter called in the authorities--something to do with protection of older adults--and my world went spiraling out of control. 
 
  Now, I will be the first to admit that my house is a bit cluttered. But there is a purpose for everything I save and a reason for every new thing I bring into my home.  I have made it my life’s mission to feel full. The last time I felt empty was when Curtis died. It was an emptiness that ate into my core, hollowed out my heart, and twisted like a serpent in the pit of my stomach. I knew I never wanted to feel that kind of void again. So, two weeks after Curtis left me alone, I went shopping. Big Lots had a sale on Tupperware and I couldn’t resist. Two for one. My garden was just coming in so I thought I would make lots of spaghetti sauce and freeze it for the winter. Maybe some zucchini parmesans too.  I thought I would even use all of that bounty stored in the freezer for Christmas presents. But I just couldn’t muster up the energy to go outside and pick all of those tomatoes and zucchini. So, all of those empty plastic containers waited in silence, poised to serve their purpose in a few large, plastic bags in the corner of the living room. 
 
  The next bargain I came across was pillows. Cushiony hands that provide softness to a hard world and ease for sore muscles. No one can have too many. I bought them in matching colors for the living room, dining room, bedrooms, and even the kitchen and bathroom. I might have gotten a little too carried away by the sheer number, and of course, I had no clue then that I would need the space for so many other prizes. But that’s hindsight now. It is kind of a shame that they are all buried under other valuables. I’ve even forgotten what color they all are. 
 
  Then there was my craft phase. I suddenly felt like I needed to express myself. I had so much inside me that even I couldn’t identify. I had to have all of the supplies for any creation that wanted to erupt from inside me.  If I could paint a landscape or crochet an afghan, or create a collage made from scraps of yarn or cloth, then I would get some of my feelings out and leave a legacy that someone else might treasure.  Life is all about treasures, isn’t it? People value different things. But, in the end, it’s whatever you value that makes your life richer.
 
  I felt like my life was rich. I really did. I had clothes in every size, so I never had to go shopping if I lost or gained weight.  The only problem was that there was no more room in the dresser drawers, so my extra attire waited patiently in piles in the dining room.  I had mountains of glassware that yearned to know the lips of visitors—water, wine, sorbet, champagne, cordial, margarita, and martini.  But, of course, the visitors never came.  I had casserole dishes of every width and length, holding tight to the taste of the puddings and pies I never got around to making because I couldn’t find them under the weight of the trash that was ready for the truck that came on Tuesdays. I often forgot what day it was. 
 
  Time is so valuable. I had to keep track of it better. So, I got a watch. And then it broke, and I got another one. And then I couldn’t find that one and got ten more at the pawn shop just in case I lost the others. They used to be lined up on my bedside table, though none was able to tick off the minutes that it took to collect them. Maybe some of them could be repaired, I kept thinking. But after a while, they too were buried beneath the piles of socks and handkerchiefs and busted cassette players, ipods, transistor radios, headsets, and earbuds that filled the top of the table and overflowed from the drawers. 
 
  Since I’m getting up in years, I wanted to make sure I kept myself healthy. And I did have my share of aches and pains. So, of course I compiled an array of medications for my myriad ailments…headache, backache, stiffness, swelling, shaking, nausea, convulsing (just in case), cramping, constipation, and my general malaise and anger at the world. I told my daughter I couldn’t help it if the expiration dates spanned the last twenty years. My first aid supplies were comprehensive for so many “just in cases.” I loved those metal cans of band aids so I loaded up on them—you know, the ones with the tiny hinges (now rusted over time), that creak soothingly when pried open, long before the easy flip-top cardboard boxes of today. 
 
  Sometimes, though, my remedies failed to heal my pain or lift me from the small space I had carved out on my bed. I admit, I did become complacent with a lot of things that should have been discarded. But you never know when you might need something.  Paper towels can be used again. Metal cans, glass bottles, and newspapers have many uses. I’ve heard people say that most of the recycling you put in that blue can and leave by the side of the road gets thrown into the town dump anyway. So, I felt like I was doing my part for the environment. Those kinds of things did seem to get lost under other piles of prizes, but I always felt like I could find them if I needed them. Food doesn’t go bad nearly as quickly as people think and I don’t think I ever got sick from eating food that I had left out because it wouldn’t fit in the refrigerator.  
 
     Now is the beginning of my nightmare. I panic as my daughter, several donation trucks, and one huge trash receptable creep down the driveway. She doesn’t understand, just like so many others, how the thought of losing my wealth paralyzes me with fright. I will be empty, a void, a shell of the person who once guarded so many treasures.  And those treasures guarded me as well. So, I watch in horror as mountains of slick, black trash bags bloated with mis-sized sweaters, socks, shorts, shoes, shirts, and silky things not worn in years are tossed into the back of the truck... refugees traveling to their new Goodwill home.  Piles of small kitchen appliances, boxes of unread books, and at least forty plastic containers of Christmas decorations, party favors, magazines, and candles are next. 
 
  I scream, “Please don’t take my stacks of albums… Welk, Williams, Waring, Clancy, and Lennon siblings are waiting to serenade me on my old, but fixable stereo.  
  I know it’s not worth much, but I love that costume jewelry especially that orange brooch and the necklace with a penguin hanging from it and the valentine earrings. 
  That’s the scrapbook of my college days…I need to keep that! And that’s the dress I wore on my first birthday that my mother saved in now yellowed, shredding tissue paper.”
 
  In the end, I was breathless with panic and heartbroken at losing so much that had been part of me. I did get to keep a few of my treasures, although only the ones I fought hard to keep. At least I didn’t have to battle too hard for my silver, or my china, or my photo albums, or my brittle, waning wedding dress. I was left with only the bare necessities of an empty life—clothes that fit me, dishes that fit into my cupboard, and an empty couch for the visitors that will never come.   My daughter, and the world, for that matter, will never understand that laughter hides in cloth and porcelain, smiles linger in stone, glass and paper, and memories remain alive in the smallest of articles. They will never understand the fear of losing those treasures. There are things, trash to so many, that tie our past to the present, as we limp into the future, afraid of losing everything we have. 
 
 
","July 10, 2023 15:56","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'Thanks so much for your feedback, Mike!', 'time': '20:28 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': 'Patricia,\n\nWow, this is a great look into the mind and heart of a person who works out a broken heart by hoarding. I don\'t know much about that addiction, but the way the narrator explains how this started, and how she came to have all these things was believable. \n\nI like how the story is peppered with folksy wisdom. The first one, ""Probably a combination as she quickly came to the awareness that not visiting your mother for years is not a good thing,"" caught me off guard and seemed out of place, but then I realized, this is the narrator\'s ...', 'time': '16:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,nb7lxf,The Color of Mud ,Kailyn Jones,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nb7lxf/,/short-story/nb7lxf/,Character,0,"['Romance', 'Fiction', 'Coming of Age']",11 likes,"
I remember what I felt. What I felt when she looked at me. She was beautiful, no doubt. Her eyes, they were brown, and I remember because I always thought a girl that beautiful would have eyes the color of the sea, just like all the clichés. Eyes the shade of sapphire skies tinged with gleaming sunsets. But hers, they were brown. Not just any brown though. They were the color of brown that holds no sense of poetic being. They were the color of mud. And as I stared into those muddy eyes, I couldn’t help but think of that old saying, “there is beauty in simplicity”.  There was simple beauty to a simple girl with simply muddy eyes. I can remember that it was snowing. It was snowing when we met. The café was crowded, and it seemed all inhabitants of the big city were gathered there. An aroma of caffeine and hushed whispers filled the void of the dreary atmosphere. Her hair was damp, and a limp dog-eared novel lay before me, but I had not bothered to turn a page since she had sat down beside me. “Leaves of Grass,” she had stated while nodding at the book on the counter before me, “Quite the clever choice.” She ordered her coffee black, laughed when I grimaced, and smirked before saying, “Bitter coffee for a bitter person in this terribly bitter world.”I can remember that it was a Wednesday. It was Wednesday when I swallowed my pride and called her. I was nervous with anticipation, and cleared my throat three times before speaking. Her voice was steady, more relaxed when it came through the speaker. But it was still pleasurably alluring, and sounded the same the following night at dinner. My hands were shaking foolishly underneath the white-cloth table, so badly that I could barely hold my fork without it crashing to my plate. But that voice of hers, so incredibly pure and alluring, kept my silverware from tumbling. The cab she took back across the city was yellow, and when I paid her fare she kissed me. A life changing kiss from a life changing girl on a life changing date. She kissed me and all I could see was the color brown. I can remember that there were stars. There was a blanket of stars the night I fell in love. She was staring at the sky, gaping at the vast expanse of night. She was looking for the Big Dipper, while I was only looking at her. She sat up abruptly and spoke, “It’s captivating, wouldn’t you say? Stars, and how they’re so infinitely numbered; and how as humans, we are too.” All I could do was nod. “We create our own little infinities, burning gold inside us. And we tell ourselves that there is another one out there, another little infinity that is compatible with ours. I’m not saying that we’re incandescent bodies of light compacted by gravity and radiation– No, just that we are all our own, operating machines of flesh and bones mixed with emotions and thoughts of fire.” She smiled to herself a little before continuing, “I guess what I’m saying is, we don’t infinitely burn, but we infinitely love.” I remember that I was speaking. I was uttering the words before my brain could tell my heart not to fall down to my sleeve. “Then if on this day my infinity begins, it would be all for you, and you all your own.” She blushed and I grinned. “I am hopelessly in love with every constellation of your infinite soul.” It was risky, and so unbelievably stupid. A deafening silence trailed my words, until she kissed my lips and quietly replied, “I love you.” Three simple words to a fairly simple boy from a not so simple girl, and the electricity coursing between us was more complex than the universe we had begun to analyze. I remember how she beamed. The way her dimple showed when she revealed her collection to me. It was an orange shoebox labeled “memories” hidden underneath her mattress. A photograph, a painted lighter, and a small blade of grass lay inside. Hundreds of crinkled notebook pages of lines stained with ink. Compilations of poetry so consuming that my breath faltered at the catharsis. She was silent as I read, her lips pressed hard in a flat line. But the words, they were not as quiet. “Synesthesia”, one was titled. “I see in shades of grey,but learn to love in beautiful hues.You are an aura of synesthesia,Fore my heart now bleeds in blue.” They were poetic words from a poetic girl with undeniably poetically muddy eyes.I remember that it hurt me. It physically hurt to see her like she was. Tear stained pages were scattered across the floor and canvases were torn from the walls. There were words. So many words on Post-It notes around the room filling the spaces where collected artwork once hung. She was trembling, like an earthquake in my arms. She turned to me, “I am a hurricane.” she said, “They’re named after people and this is why. I am the biggest storm in my world and I couldn’t live with myself if even a drizzle forms in yours.” I kissed the black tears spilling down her cheeks and curled her thin fingers around my own. “You call yourself destruction, but rather you’re art. You’re a masterpiece of perfection and I will not cease trying to convince you.” She smiled for a bit, but it faltered at her next words. “You cannot save a person already drowning in their own blood.” She kissed my lips, I kissed her scars, and we fell asleep to the lull of each other's’ broken heartbeats. I remember that it was raining. It was raining the day I got the call. She was frantic, irrational. The calm voice I had heard on that first phone call was gone, replaced by strained statements with shaky syllables. There was a hollowness in her tone, a distance from reality I couldn’t bring her back to. I remember that I ran, feet flying and fear encompassing every thought that I could process. I remember that it was cold, so very cold. My jeans were baggy and my shoes were soggy. I couldn’t feel my fingers but I couldn’t find it within my cluttered brain to care. Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong. I remember that there was mud. There was mud next to her body and I laughed bitterly at the irony of the situation. How I had come to find brown to be such an aesthetically muddy color but standing there, watching it swirl with the bleeding red in the rain, it didn’t seem as appealing as I had thought. I remember that I cursed the rain because I knew every cheesy romantic movie had rain falling on the worst scenes but God did none of those moments compare to the reality that I was standing there forcing myself to look at and wondering, “Why?” I loved a broken girl with a fractured soul but I had sworn that I could mend her, I could make her wounds my own. What a foolish thought from a foolish boy who foolishly believed that mud could be so simple. I do not remember much more from that night. Whether it’s because of natural reactions to trauma, or because I can’t even begin to fathom that she might really be gone. I don’t remember how many stories up she was when she jumped. I don’t even remember what color she was wearing or how long it took the paramedics to arrive. I do not know the names of any of the officers who took my statement, but I do remember their pity and the pain that was penetrating my chest. I cannot recall any faces that I saw when scanning the crowd that had formed, the people who were watching as I lived my worst nightmare. A terrible dream about a terrible jump that ended a terribly broken girl’s life. There are many things I remember, and a few that I never will. But worse than these things are the ones I don’t know, and that I can’t seem to figure out. I don’t know what words she last uttered or what thoughts ran ablaze as she did it. You see, I don’t know why I got the opportunity to fall in love with such an eloquently damaged girl. I don’t even know how I got so lucky as to even meet her. Perhaps it was serendipity, or a flaw in fate’s design. Maybe even Leaves of Grass, or the suggestive idea that life has a reason. I guess it could be whatever you feel compelled to consider truthful. But me? I believe that maybe, just maybe, it was mud. 
","July 10, 2023 20:43","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'A good, sad story - and the suicide of a loved one is very fitting for the prompt. \n\nCritique-wise, I think the voice here works very well. The repetition, ""I remember"", ""I can remember"", establishes a pattern, and it\'s perfectly set up for the catastrophic moment to break that pattern. It does, and I wonder if it could be broken more forcefully still. \n\nI like the subversion of tropes at the beginning, where her eyes are not like the clichés, and indeed that this sets up the whole mud theme. This is particularly nice when paired with the cl...', 'time': '20:45 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Great story with a lot of heart and emotion in it. Your prose really captures her thoughts so well, and the theme/symbolism of color that runs throught the story is powerful and works. I\'d like to know a little bit more about her disease/condition but that\'s more a personal preference.\n\nFor the critique circle feedback, I can see the poetry of the repetition of ""I remember.."" but it feels like deleting a few ""I""s could make the rhythm smoother possibly: for example something like..  ""I remember that I was speaking. I was uttering the words b...', 'time': '04:33 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Such a sad and poetic story. Welcome to Reedsy Kailyn. :)', 'time': '20:49 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,tewdch,Blood Brothers,Amanda Rantanen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tewdch/,/short-story/tewdch/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",11 likes,"
Growing up in the seventies was about as ""un-woke"" as you could get. For starters, my kindergarten teacher punished a girl who probably had a learning disability by making her sit under the teacher's desk. It was an old style desk with a solid back panel and stack of drawers on the left and right. Almost daily, the poor child was forced to crawl down in the dark, cramped area and sit by the teacher's stinky feet. Back then, a lot of the older teachers wore pantyhose and heels with skirts. I would guess the child had a close up look at the teacher's crotchety coochy. I was only five years old and I knew this wasn't right. Seems like a teacher who was ten times older than me should have known better. That year, I lived in fear of getting into trouble and having to get put under the teacher’s desk.My first grade teacher was younger. Fresh out of college. She was sweet, and nice. I liked her and flourished under her gentle leadership. She was like Miss Honey from the movie Matilda. I cried on the last day of school that year because I was going to miss her so much.In 2nd grade, my teacher brandished a wooden paddle with holes in it. When we asked why it had holes in it, she replied, ""So, I can spank harder"". I lived in fear of the paddle that whole year. It was never used on me but being a sensitive, empathetic person, it hurt anytime I saw a classmate getting the paddle. It seemed the teachers who were close to retirement were the meanest. I had a good teacher every other year.  I tell you this so that you can have a little background on why I'm overly concerned with following rules. I have a fear of getting in trouble. It’s called mastigophobia. It is an irrational fear of punishment. Just the thought of getting punished gives me anxiety. I have had full blown panic attacks whenever I have had to work under a micromanager or person who tries to lead with fear tactics.While studying biology and ecology as an undergrad at Michigan Tech, I worked a part time job in the kitchen at a local pub. One day the head chef, Stacey, asked, “Stuart, I need you to dice six onions fast.” I got right to work. I peeled an onion, sliced it in half and then made slits to the center and then sliced across forming uniform small chunks of onions. “Damn it Stuart, you need to go faster!” I tried to go faster and then the chunks became less uniform.“Stuart, do this over again. There are too many big pieces in here! I need it uniform and I need it yesterday. DO IT NOW!”My heart was racing, sweat was pouring down my face and into my eyes. My eyes were stinging and burning from the onion odors and the sweat.“Shit! I cut my finger.” I screamed and then I got tunnel vision. Started to hyperventilate. I awoke to a server holding pressure on my hand which was wrapped in dishcloths. She had waded up an apron and put it under my head. “Stuart, you passed out after you cut your finger,” she said.“Oh, yeah. Okay.”“We need to get you to the emergency room for stitches. It's a deep cut.”“Oh, crap!”“You’ll probably be off work for a few days.”I never went back. Kitchen life was too stressful for me. I got a job reshelving books at the college library. Much better.After college, I was on a wolf / moose research crew on Isle Royale National Park which is a 45 mile long wilderness International Biosphere Reserve on the western end of Lake Superior. For six months, our crew traversed the island collecting moose bones so they could be analyzed. We could learn a lot about the health of the moose through their bones. New wolves had recently been introduced to the island as the existing pack had died out. Wolves play a critical role in the island ecology and without them the moose have no natural predators. They overpopulate. They eat too much. There isn’t enough vegetation. Many end up starving to death. A correct balance of wolves and moose on the island is critical to maintain proper ecology for all plants and animals in the unique boreal forest. The island is home to many rare and endangered plants and animals. I felt quite at home there. Sometimes I feel like a rare and endangered human.After six months living on a wilderness island with no cars, street lights, or loud noises, my senses were heightened. When I returned to the mainland, I did not fare well. My ears became so sensitive. I got a condition that is called hyperacusis which is an abnormally strong reaction to sound. My doctor said it stems from the part of my brain that processes noise. Well, it was difficult and it caused me to fear loud noises. Noises that used to be normal like a car door slamming, beeping horns, sirens, or a loud motorcycle caused me extreme pain. I ended up getting something similar to PTSD as I tried to re-acclimate to life on the mainland. I became depressed. The best way I can describe it is that the island and I became blood brothers. Probably from too many mosquito bites. I tried to live on the mainland but it wasn’t working. Even though I have an extreme fear of punishment and I never like to break rules, I had to figure out a way to become a full-time island dweller. Access to the island completely shuts down for about six months when winter settles over the island. In addition, it is a National Park and civilians are not allowed to stay longer than a couple weeks at a time. The Park Service would arrest me if they found me. I went into stealth mode.  Because the island wasn’t always a National Park, there were established private homes and cottages around the island. All family members who were living at the time it became a park were added to a lifetime lease. As those family members died off, the properties returned to the U.S. Government to do as they see fit. Most of the properties have been turned over to the government. Many are still in great condition and are sturdy enough to house a person over winter. I found one such dwelling that was located in a private harbor and quite out of sight from hikers and boaters who visit the island. It was completely shut up and abandoned. I was able to get into it and found I could live quite comfortably in the home as it was set up nicely for off-grid living. There were plenty of tools for woodcutting and a nice wood burning stove inside. The brand was Good Time Stove and let me tell you, I had a darn good time making coffee, cooking meals, and staying warm with that stove. It was a thick walled log home with a sturdy roof. There was just one small bedroom with a comfy bed in it. There was a hand pump for water at the kitchen sink. I used candles and kerosene lamps for light. Posing as a regular visitor, I was able to make several backpacking/canoe trips with my packs full of provisions during the last few weeks of the summer season. In this way, I was able to store up enough supplies to help me be able to winter over. Nutritionally, humans can survive on moose meat with little other supplemental foods. I knew I would be breaking another big rule by killing and eating a moose but it would be my only way to survive alone out there. I knew I would have to take down a moose. I watched a lot of bush craft videos on tik tok and a lot of episodes of the reality show Alone. I felt ready.The winter-over was successful. My dark hair and beard grew so long. I’m naturally a very hairy person with extremely big feet. By the time spring rolled around, I looked a lot like Sasquatch. Kinda funny since my name is Stuart Adam Squatch.  In the end, the experience changed me. Breaking so many rules and living on the edge like that helped me to overcome my phobias. I think they call that exposure therapy. Whatever the case, one winter alone cured me. I’ve actually shaved my face, cut my hair and have assimilated back into normal life. Even loud noises don't affect me so much as they once did. I’m working on my master’s degree now and continuing my wolf / moose research for my thesis. I get to go to the island on a regular basis and only the island and I share the “secret” of the winter we spent alone together.
","July 14, 2023 15:53","[[{'Christopher Kolar': ""This is so much a short story as a kind of memoir or journal entry. Sometimes the diction slips. Probably not under her leadership as guidance and not that kind of person but child.  Start a new line after losing consciousness to show some time had elapsed between the two events. We also know she passed out so  don`t need to repeat it. The writing is very good. I would just want conflict. What did the protagonist want? The description of the teacher's disciplinary methods had a humorous tone, the rest had a more serious quality. But keep wri..."", 'time': '21:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,d0li1o,Emergence,Richard Seven,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d0li1o/,/short-story/d0li1o/,Character,0,['Fiction'],11 likes,"
The moment day turned into night; they came.Flits of black on black. Outlines of whooshing wings. Wafting wind fanned by veering and swooping. Darkness paralyzed me and I was awed by their speed and commitment. I sensed them dropping from their roost below a rotting pier and zooming off to the trees behind us to gobble as many insects as they could before daylight returned.My therapist arranged this outing to help me overcome or at least temper my fear of bats, known as Chiroptophobia. She called it a type of immersion therapy.“They aren’t interested in you,” said Jake, a Washington state biologist hired to babysit me. “You’re as exciting as a metal post to them. We call this an ‘emergence’. They are busy. Think of it as the night shift.”As a surgeon for Doctors Without Borders I know about busy. I have traveled to the most remote and unfriendly places on earth. In a few weeks, I am due for a mission in the mountains of north Guatemala with Willa, my fiancée. She's an accomplished doctor. too. The people there need medicine, prosthetics and in some cases, life-saving surgery. It also is a place known for swarming bats.Our emergence experiment progressed well enough until Jake turned on his hand-held bat-detector. “These guys are chatterboxes. Listen to this.” Their high-frequency shrieks translated into static bursts, like the staccato noise a Geiger counter makes.In an instant I went from calm to panic. I sensed I was surrounded – and by aggressiveness. I knew they were sending sonar signals to judge locations and obstacles, but I hallucinated that they were screaming in the night. I heard anger. My stomach and forehead tightened. The groaning sound bursts made me feel surrounded. I knelt and gasped for air.About 10 minutes later, the rattling detector fell silent. We stood on the edge of a bay and what seemed so inviting at first, then frightening, and now unsettling. The bats were out there yelling and dining while I was deprived of all sound AND sight somehow. Jake forgot his flashlight, so we when it was time to leave, we had to stumble down a rutted road by the sliver of light our phones provided.I never felt so small.IIIt was midnight when I got home, but Willa was sitting in the living room. “Well?”m I practiced all the way home what I was going to say, but “OK” was the best I could do.She looked at me with soft eyes, understanding everything.“Listen, you should just stay home on this one. I’ll only be gone for a month. Think of where you’ve been, all these people you’ve helped. All the dangers you’ve faced. Dictators, genocide, famine. You’re entitled to sit one out.”“Yeah, and some of these people might die because I’m scared of some flying rat.”I swallowed hard. She strolled to the kitchen and returned with wine. “So, tell me about tonight’s outing. You don’t look worse for wear.”“I just feel small. I don't think it has to do with bats necessarily. It has to do with not seeing or hearing them. If I cannot see or hear, I Iose my control. Maybe it's because I was taught at a young age that only creeps come out at night.”She smiled. “You have always been a control freak. Easy way to control this is to stay home.”My pulse raced. “I’m going.” I reminded her of a hypnosis session I had planned for the next day.She picked up a National Geographic. “In the meantime, let’s learn some bat facts, shall we?”*Bats are the only mammals capable of sustained flight.* While some bats look like mice with wings scientists believe they are more closely related to primates than rodents.* They live as long as three decades and fossils of them date back 50 million year-old fossils* There are 900 species in the world, and they account for one quarter of all mammal species.* The smallest weighs less than a penny. And the “flying fox” in Southeast Asia has a wingspan of about 6 feet.When she finished, I clutched and kissed her until we came up for air.“I never would have guessed that bat trivia could be so sexy.” We kissed again before I said, “but I could do without that six-foot wingspan next time.”We laughed our way to sleep.III“The attic is cramped, full of dust and dander. No room to stand erect. A string of bats hang head-first packed as tight as a bunch of bananas. I force myself to look closer and focus on their ears, oversized snouts, folded wings. The room seems to shrink. I sense I anger them. I wait for one of them to awake and for it to attack and roust the pack.I search for an exit, but there is none. I want to call out for Billy and Mark. They locked me up in this attic. But I can’t make noise. The bats seem asleep but I hear rustling. One of them peels itself away from the pack and inches towards me, fanning his wing. It’s curious. I’m frozen. It moves closer, unafraid of me. I consider trying to kick it, but I my legs feel like lead. It must know I’m helpless. It bears sharp teeth, smiling or threatening, I’m not sure which. The others start to stir.”Go on, the therapist says.“Billy finally opens the door and I creep out slowly until I’m outside. He says shutting me in there was just a prank. He said he owed me one.”“And then what happens?” she asks.“I punch Billy in the face.”She muffled her chuckle. “As would have I. But that bat did not hurt you.”She claps her hands twice, awakening me. “How do you feel?”I am breathing fast. I feel I should be tired, but I feel refreshed. My phobia, she tells me, has taken root deep in my mind. That’s why I must react to fear from a position of calm.“You were living with the trauma of that faceoff all these years.” “I thought I forgot it.”“Only part of you did. Let me take you under one more time so we can make peace with that critter - once and for all.”IVTwo nights later, Jake and I return to the pier. This time, I hold the transmitter as the swarm pours from its roost to begin the night shift. The tat-tat-tat sounds industrious, not so threatening. I still feel as inert as a tree stump, but also calm. Jake was right. I am of no interest to them.“What species are these?” I ask Jake.“Long-eared Townsends. They’re hard-working and shy. Like me.”“And long-eared,” I reply.The critters leave in squadrons, six or seven at a time and with remarkable speed, grace, and purpose. That is why the flailing of one tiny black bat is so startling and arresting even in the inky backdrop of night. It is a baby, perhaps on its maiden voyage, furiously flapping yet hovering like a helicopter before plopping into the bay, five feet from shore.I am wearing industrial gloves and have had my rabies shot so I pick up the creature.“Come on little guy.” I place it on a stump so it can get a little hang time for its next attempt at flight. It wastes no time. It takes off and plops right back into the water. I pick it up again and set it on a tree and watch as it crawls up into the foliage of a tree. Perhaps it will survive. Perhaps not.“Well, you look cured to me,” Jake said, chuckling. “I always say, you can’t be compassionate and prejudiced at the same time.”
","July 11, 2023 20:11",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,cxlfh7,Saponification,Aciano St. Florent,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cxlfh7/,/short-story/cxlfh7/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction', 'Suspense']",11 likes,"
	He wore the calm seawater like a thin and delicate veil. The briny film clung to his face with dreadful malice. Despite the gentleness of the water on his face - fine as a doily - the weight was intense. In this moment as he desperately fought to breach the water, he could not even remember his own name. The primal urge to survive had pressed itself against the walls of his skull and displaced any other thought. He was lying flat on his back in some forgotten tidepool formed off the coast. He could hear the break of the waves somewhere behind him, resonating in the sand and water. The pool itself was just deep enough to cover his face by no more than a centimeter or two. A presence seemed to keep him from surfacing. How did he get here? Who held him down? His eyes, bloodshot from the salt and strain, fought to make out the shape of a figure above him. Somehow his tears seemed to blur the image above the silty pool, but it was undeniable – someone was there, kneeling down in the tidepool, straddling him. Two large hands gripped his shoulders with only enough force to keep him down. The pressure seemed deliberate so as to give him hope that he might break free, but he knew he could not. The heave he felt in his chest began to squeeze around his heart; the air he held in reserve now betrayed him. He could feel his throat tighten and fire erupt in his esophagus. 
	Panic was all that surfaced. 
	He commanded his limbs to engage his foe, that his feet would kick and his hands would claw and punch – but they did not comply. His arms and legs were heavy as lead, and his head became light. Panic, just as fast as it set in, turned to resolution. Slowly he considered that his situation was probably futile. It was at that moment he saw his assailant. More than saw – recognized. “No, it can’t be!” he screamed silently in his mind. “IT CAN’T BE!” The words poured from his mouth in thousands of bubbles as he threw all his strength towards the figure, towards the heavens, towards the seemingly infinite layer of water above him. The water rushed in his mouth and down his throat and into his lungs, stifling what little life was left…
	Jonah Viarco gasped hard enough in one violent inhale to immediately raze his throat. He wrenched his body up from the bed and gripped the base of his neck, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. He tore the CPAP machine from his face, wincing as the mouthpiece took more than a hair or two from his moustache. “Damn machine” he panted to himself. “Waste of money”. 
	In the kitchen, Jonah poured himself a cup of coffee. The cheap chicory blend stung all the way down his fevered throat where the screams had clawed their way out. He hardly noticed. He ate his normal light breakfast – a piece of toast and an orange - typical for a weekday morning. He never ate more than this before a dive. Anything more gave him heartburn at lower depths and he hated the suppressed burps cycling through his respirator. 
	Almost as much as he hated diving. 
	He had just thrown on his threadbare silk robe when a knock came at the door. Pulling on a pair of terry cloth shorts under the robe to preserve some modesty, Jonah answered the door.
	Detective Withers never asked a civilian to assist in a case. Not like this. He hated that he had to do it. Not because of some deep-rooted hubris or wounded ego, but just the plain and simple nature of the situation: he didn’t have the resources. The little community was far from equipped to handle a situation like this, and he certainly didn’t have the skill set to venture to that place that no one dare go. He had no choice but to ask Jonah Viarco. He didn’t know Jonah very well, but he knew his father. They had moved to this little island when Jonah was just a pup. Of course, little Jonah wasn’t called Jonah in those days. He was called David, like his father. The moment little David was old enough to raise his right hand and take an oath, he did. And just like that, he was gone - shipped away to faraway and foreign places. In those foreign places little David would remain until he received news that the senior David had passed away. 
	Cirrhosis. 
	Little David returned to this little island after twelve years abroad. He was no longer little, and he was no longer David. He was called Jonah now, and he was lean and tall. He favored the colorful silks and floral patterns that come from faraway places. The service taught him many things while he was gone, and diving was one of them. It was not the least violent of the things they taught him. He never did say much about those things. But these days Jonah was diving for his community. He cleaned boat hulls mostly, and he was good at it. He would wake early and disappear into the water, with his tools intentionally dropped to the shallow bottom, or suspended by a custom buoy if the tide was high or if the boat was further offshore. Occasionally he was asked to scavenge remains of a capsized vessel after a storm, retrieving whatever goods that were still salvageable. He was always compensated fairly, and he kept to himself. Withers took off his hat as the door opened to the Viarco home. 
	It wouldn’t be the remains of a vessel he would ask Jonah to retrieve.
	Jonah looked Detective Withers over as he considered the plea for help. It was certainly a plea rather than a casual offer, and he could feel the pit forming in his stomach. A tourist from the mainland had gone missing. It would seem that they had taken a detour during a routine diving expedition to look at corals and sea life, and had possibly found themselves in an underwater cave system. The only certainty is that they drowned; the man had disappeared over a year ago. 
	“Why now, after all this time? I think it is safe to assume there is nothing left of him, if he’s actually down there.” Jonah remarked. Withers shook his head. “You’re probably right, and I know it feels damn foolish. But there is an issue regarding the poor fella’s estate.” Withers let out a nervous chuckle. “It would seem that his family is having a harder time dealing with their gain than their loss. We just need some proof that he didn’t make it. A watch, a ring… hell, just a scrap of his gear.” Jonah sighed. Detective Withers had always been good to him. When Jonah was young and Detective Withers was Officer Withers, he would let little David sit in his cruiser and play with the lights while Withers went inside to talk down David Senior. Little David always looked away from the rearview mirror so as to not see the bruising on his face. 
	“Alright,” Jonah smiled weakly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
	The underwater cave system that ran beneath the little island community wasn’t always underwater. The high-water line had risen due to volcanic activity and erosion over many generations, and the tunnels and caverns had become the focus of local folklore and mystery. Everyone knew they were down there, but none were so foolish to enter them; the entrances were tight and once inside it was total darkness. One could reach the entrance with a snorkel and fins and a weighted dive belt, but that is as far as any human could go on one breath. No one had ever been more than a few feet inside. The resident oceanographer on the island, Ken Henricksen, believed the system to be far deeper than anyone ever thought, complete with dead-ends and one-way tunnels. It was a labyrinth with no end – and one you’d have to navigate blind. To lose your bearings was to lose your life. Guaranteed. 
	These were the thoughts that Jonah marinated on as he sat on the bow of the police vessel. They were almost to their destination, just a quarter-mile out past the coast and at the base of the ancient and silent volcanic mountain whose foundation met the sea and surpassed it. The mountain gave the island life and took it; the creator and destroyer of the open ocean. Jonah calmed himself as the boat slowed and Withers dropped anchor. The splash and crinkle of chains brought him back, just for a moment, to those foreign places. 
	It reminded him of how he received his nickname, Jonah. 
	He had been a Frogman for the US Navy, specializing in underwater demolition and explosive ordinance disposal. In those exotic places where he loved the sun and floral shirts and let the tropical world embrace him - he brought death with him. He seemed to be an unassuming tourist during the day, but by night he lurked in the waters outside enemy territory. He waited for his prey. He waited for the call. 
	Then one night, the call came. 
	He strapped on his gear, gathered his bearings, and he slipped silently into the water. Unnoticed he entered enemy waters. For three long and unnerving nights he did this, slowly approaching enemy watercraft and placing plastic explosives on the hulls of their craft. Every boat was manned, and every boat had a lookout. Even one misplaced breath through the respirator could give away his position by the surfacing of damning bubbles. He could not afford to surface, so he stretched out the life of his oxygen mixture by breathing as little as possible. He could hold his breath easily for over three minutes sitting completely still, and over two while swimming slowly. For three nights he lived in the belly of the sea, but the people of Nineveh would not be spared this day. From the adjacent bank he watched as his comrades confirmed the call and detonated the ordinance he had placed. As he watched the night sky illuminate in delicious destruction, his Lieutenant grabbed him by his shoulders and said, “You have announced the Lord’s judgement on these wicked people! From now on, you’re Jonah!” 
	Jonah. 
Well, he had never liked being called David.
	Detective Withers could see that Jonah had lost himself in thought. He hated to disturb him. “Are you ready son?” Jonah shivered at being called ‘son’. He turned around and put his back to the water, facing the crew of the boat. The handful of police and Detective Withers looked back at him. Jonah took in the faces, the names, and thought about how close and yet so distant he felt from this community. How they could feel like family and strangers? With only a weak smile and a half-committed wave, Jonah leaned backwards and fell into the water.
	The light from the surface glittered through the crystal-clear water, and Jonah was happy for the brightness. He knew that it would soon diminish. He descended slowly, carefully navigating his way to the entrance of the cave. He carried a tether with him that was bound to a buoy on the surface to mark his location as well as track his ascent later on. On any other day he would have expected to see the schools of colorful fish or the casual passing of a nurse shark. 
	Today there was nothing. 
	His knees made contact with the bottom and for a moment he paused in the twilight of the afternoon sea, prostrated as if in prayer before the mouth of the cave. He imagined the words Abandon all hope ye who enter here above the entrance. There was no such sign. He surveyed the opening, measuring its diameter carefully with the breadth of his shoulders. Too narrow. Dread began to fill him as he realized his next move. He would have to remove his tank and respirator, push them through the hole, enter face down, and don them again once inside. He closed his eyes and took a large breath. The oxygen mixture was dry and coarse on his throat and his chest felt squeezed by the added pressure against the deep. He removed his tank first, taking care to check the gauge and regulator, and carefully pushed it into the cave. Darkness swallowed it immediately. Next, he removed his respirator and flashlight and pushed them in. He followed without hesitating. He had to keep his arms out in front of him to squeeze through the hole, and once the lip of the cave met his ribs, he had to release a gulp of air to fit. Then, just as it was when he was born, he breached. His hands searched the floor for his tank and respirator, and he found them without issue. There was just enough room for Jonah to flip onto his back and shimmy the tank back onto his shoulders. He could tell he was in a nook. It reminded him of a dovecote, like the ones from his grandfathers’ house in Italy. 
	He also knew they were called columbarium. 
	He felt now for his flashlight, patting his hands alongside him until he felt it. Angling it upwards, he pressed the rubber coated power button. 
	And regret immediately filled him.
           All in the space of just a moment he realized why he hated diving. He didn’t hate the water; in fact, he loved how weightless he felt as he swam. He envied the creatures who lived in such beautiful oceans and flew gracefully above the coral bottoms. He became just a fluid as the water around him, and he was free when he swam. But when he was diving, it wasn’t drowning that scared him. It wasn’t the close spaces like these that incited dread. It wasn’t the unknown lurking in the depths that frightened him. 
	It was the fear of retribution. 
	Retribution from the dead. 
	And now, lying on his back in a cave in just thirty feet of water, Jonah stared at retribution. When his flashlight clicked on it illuminated the cave. A small reddish-green parlor cut out by unseen hands at the bottom of a mountain. But it was the figure above him that captured his attention. The body of the tourist floated just above him as if it were about to speak, no more than a foot from his face. The body was a sick bile color, bloated and imperfectly preserved. At this depth and temperature, the body had turned to soap and become buoyant and untouched by sea life. Only the face had been disturbed. The eyes were gone and the mouth had been peeled back and the tongue had swollen between the teeth, parting the mouth. Small fishes wove in and out of the gaping hole, navigating their own hellish cave. Jonah screamed into his respirator and involuntarily pushed back from the creature. He could see the air bubbles rising, almost caressing the dead face of the fool above him. The air pocket that formed above shimmered like liquid glass on the ceiling. The body floated dumbly to the entrance of the cave as Jonah wrestled his nerves. He settled himself and tried to turn back onto his stomach to exit the cave. He could not. When he had pushed back, the regulator on his tank became wedged between two rocks and was now leaking air dangerously. He drew a long breath from the respirator and removed his tank. He used his flippered feet to push the cadaver through the hole, sloughing off bits of tourist as he did so. He drew one more breath from the respirator and went feet first through the exit. Almost through, he caught his weight belt on the rock. With his arms extended in front of him, he couldn’t reach it. He had to pull himself back into the cave to unbuckle it. He tried to take a final pull from the respirator, but the tank had already depleted. The upper pockets of the cave were now filled with unreachable and shimmering mirages of life. He forced his way backward out of the cave and reached his tether. The pressure in his chest had turned to pain, his calmness had long turned to fright. Upwards he climbed the tether, but with no weight belt and the threat of shallow water black out, he was ascending too quickly. He thought he could feel the grip of his Lieutenant on his shoulders, holding him down. He imagined that he saw more bodies exit the cave behind him, faces of the dead pursuing him up the tether. He could hear the crashing of the wake above him, but thought it was explosives. In the middle of the afternoon, just fifteen feet from the surface, Jonah Viarco believed it to be night once again.
	Panic was all that surfaced.
","July 11, 2023 21:43","[[{'Cassie Gibson': 'Loved the opening, really gripped my attention from the start. The transition from unease to danger at the end felt a little abrupt, I had to go back and reread a sentence to understand what had happened - but I that might just be my slow end-of- day brain. Really enjoyed this.', 'time': '21:28 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,j3jukd,Coulrophobia,Maizie Bymers,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j3jukd/,/short-story/j3jukd/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Horror']",11 likes,"
Coulrophobia
 
""Seriously, Dawn it's not the end of the world,"" My friend, Gia, said with a smirk on her face. I gave her the most annoyed expression I could muster. She rolled her eyes, checking the time. I looked back at the old abandoned Circus Day Care as a wave of fear shook my body. I could feel Gia's happy smile as we approached the Day Care, while I stood still frozen in fear looking around hoping someone would see us and stop us but the street we were passing by was deserted.
“Seriously, Gia,” I said, mocking her sentence before. “Why are you making me do this?” 
“You made me go to that butterfly sanctuary.”
“I don’t get how you're afraid of Butterflies?”
“I don’t get how you're afraid of Clowns.”
“At least mine has reason,” I snapped, pulling my hoodie closer around me to help stop the cold night air. She just stared ahead as lightning struck across the sky, warning the beginning of rain.
“Are we going to do this or not,” She said, getting on the porch as I followed cautiously. She pulled on the door, finding it open surprisingly. 
“And you're not disturbed by that,” I said, taking like 5 steps back. She rolled her eyes undisturbed from it and stepped inside moving around to find a light switch. I stepped next to her as she finally got on the light and as we stepped in, the heavy security door slammed behind us. I hurried to try and open it but the door was locked, no matter how hard I pushed on it to open. “No, no, no, no, no.”
“It's going to be fine,” She said holding my hand as we looked at each other then at the horrifying surroundings. The whole room was covered in a yellowish light and you could tell the theme of the daycare even inside the ‘waiting’ room. The walls had chipping illustrations of circus rides with clowns riding them. The only good part about it was a dog riding the carousel. In the corner there were a bunch of abandoned kids toys like a barbie doll and a clown stuffed animal but all of it was covered with dust. In the distance you could hear the faint sound of carnival music and the sound of clown laugh, that horrible obnoxious laugh. I cringed hearing all these far off sounds. 
“Totally Fine,” I told myself, closing my eyes, as we walked towards the receptionist desk, which like the toys, was buried in dust including the creepy old mascot toy, Crush the Clown.  
“Hey, the minute we find a key, we can get out of this place, I promise. This place is giving me the heebie jeebies,” Gia said, her body much more tense than before. I gave her hand a squeeze. As we went around to the other side of the receptionist desk, to scavenge the area trying to find the keys out of this nightmare. 
She batted away a spider web while opening up the different drawers, finding abandoned files and a bunch of candy. one was even un-opened. Finally we found a key and ran past the door into the main play facility and towards the door jamming the key into the door. 
“It doesn’t work,” Gia sighed, and after seeing my face grabbed my hand. “It's going to be fine, this place shut down like forever ago the old mascots have probably shut down too. No, I know they’ve shut down.” She brought me to the door and pushed it open. 
We entered the area with a flurry of lights and sounds like a dog barking and that same obnoxious clown laugh. We looked around at the room and we could see a main stage which had a pedestal as well as a bunch of toys and everything was bright and colorful but in that ominous creepy way. The worst part was a clown in the corner of the room, Crush I believe who had a stupid smile plastered on his face. 
“See the things in here are powered down I bet the keys are on the stage lets go check,” She said as I kept my eyes on the clown watching for any sign of life in its beady eyes. We got on the pedestal and looked around and stared down at the piece of paper laid on it. 
 
To find the key to what you seek, follow rules and listen to me. Turn your back, and it might be your last laugh, but keep your eyes open wide and you won’t need to hide. Answer this riddle and the next room awaits, otherwise you’ll find yourself in most dire straits.
 
I looked up in an instant hearing the sound of cymbals, Crush’s instrument of choice, and saw the clown had gotten at least 3 good size steps closer to us. 
“Ok you answer this riddle,” Gia said, panic seeping into her voice. “And I'll watch the dude.” I quickly looked down at the riddle which had a rusty letter combination lock covering the key either out of here or into the next room it was hard to tell. 
 
You measure my life in hours and I serve you by expiring. I’m quick when I’m thin and slow when I’m fat. The wind is my enemy. What am I?
 
I racked my brain trying to think of the answer. What is this, what the heck could this be?But my train of thought was cut off by the sound of those horrible cymbals again. 
“What happened,” I said, standing up and seeing that the horrifying piece of garbage had taken another step near us.
“I’m sorry,” She said, tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes. “For getting us into this mess, for all of this. I looked towards your riddle for a second and he took another step. I’m so so sorry,” I gave her a big hug while watching the clown out of the corner of my eye. 
“How about you do the riddle, and I watch, the-the clown.”
“No I don’t want you to,” I cut her off by giving her a hug and staring the clown down, his eyes drilling into my soul. Don’t look away, don’t look away, do this for Gia, do this for mom, do this for. 
“IT’S CANDLE”
“What?”
“The answer to the riddle is candle,” She said, grabbing the key and going towards the door. I continued watching the clown. “Seriously, this door locked too?” She hurried to the other door, and unlocked and hurried in propping it open for me as the sound of the Cymbals echoed through the building. We both heard the sound of something slamming against the doors and shuddered. This next room was very different from the first in that the color scheme had turned from bright reds and yellow to blues and greens. I think attempting to imitate an underwater scene or the inside of a water park or dunk tank. This room was much dirtier than the other room with flaking paintings and broken toys laying around and the speakers seemed kinda broken, the noise being interrupted multiple times by static. The same stage was there with the same pedestal. We hurried up scanning the surroundings and seeing 3 clowns in this room instead of 1. 
“Dang it,” I groaned, looking down at the paper knowing they would all get in at least one step. 
 
You're mid-way through this dreadful game, but your life is still ours to claim. 2 rooms through, 2 more clowns yet lots of danger still abounds. First your eyes, then your ears then your whole world disappears. 
 
“Oh no,” I said, hearing a combination of a bunch of instruments, Cymbals for Crush and two others, a triangle for Hush I think his name was and a banjo for Rush I also think his name was. We both looked at each other then the clowns and saw that they had all taken 1 step forward and both watched the clowns. “I’ll do the puzzle this time you keep an eye on them and if they take a step forward it’ll be fine, the more you stress out the closer they get okay.” She nodded, as I ducked down to find the key to the next room and the riddle necessary to get out.
 
I have cities but no houses, I have mountains but no trees, I have water but no fish. What am I?
 
I swear I’ve heard this before, as the sound of a triangle echoed through the room. I stood up watching two of the clowns as my stomach turned upside down seeing some blood smeared on one of their faces. “The riddle is, I have cities but no houses, I have mountains but no trees, I have water but no fish, what am I?” She looked puzzled, her eyes glued to the clown in front of her. 
“Do you have any idea,” She asked, and as I shook my head The sound of banjo and cymbals went off. I racked my brain, the stress of the situation pressuring me to think worse than normal. I know this riddle, I know this riddle, I know this riddle, I told myself trying to remember when someone, I think my 3rd grade teacher was telling us riddles, and she told us this one. Com’n Miss Smith help 
“A MAP!” We said in unison. I dove down and unlocked the thing as a symphony of noise erupted from the creatures planning on attacking. We grabbed the key and ran through the now unlocked door like the room before. I grinned at my friend but that shrunk seeing the decaying room in front of me. The walls had gone from chipping paint to now big pieces of the art were missing from the walls, severing a dog's head off and a monkey's body in half. The walls had become moldy and the room smelled musty and like very old cotton candy. The theme of this room was like that of an animal circus. 
“What we did on the last one worked well. One of us reads it and then we watch these catastrophes.” She smiled and we looked around at the amount of clowns this time. 6.  “Ohhhh nooo.” We got to the podium and read the dreadful note. 
 
Almost there don’t despair. The key you seek resides next to me. The friends from each room are ready to fight so you must turn them off to end your plight. One last room, one last key, one last chance to escape from me. 
 
I grabbed the key to get out of here but knew we had to get the last key if we wanted to get out of here. We had to shut off the monstrosities that were threatening our life. “I’ll read the riddle.” She nodded and I dove down quickly, memorizing the short riddle, and getting a break from looking at these clowns and their bloody suits. The last people who came here must have failed in this room. 
 
What English word has three consecutive double letters?
 
“What English word has three consecutive double letters?” I recited standing up and watching the three on my side who’s soulless eyes watched us as if waiting for their next meal, and if we didn’t think of an answer we would be their meal soon. 
We started rambling off nonsense words trying to find the answer when the sound of a banjo played because I looked away from him. We didn’t stop though. We had to get this right. 
“Coffee, Balloon, I KNOW IT,” I shouted diving down and entering in the words, Bookkeeper. “We have the last key. I'll unlock the door if you watch them.” We ran towards the door only a few clowns moving forward. I got the door open and entered the room. This room however was nothing like the rooms before it seemed almost empty except for a wardrobe in the corner and the room was made of rusting metal walls and on the floor was a button covered by a clear case and two pieces of paper laid on top of it. I grabbed the first paper and read it with Gia reading over my shoulder.
 
To survive, to thrive you must hide. The closet is safe every minute you waste. Get there as fast as you can or they’ll take your place. 1 then 2 then maybe 6 every minute you take a risk. Your hack to survive this horrible night works no longer on those with a frightening sight. 
 
I grabbed the other piece of paper as we ran into the closet as the sound of the clowns finally got through the metal door. The closet was pitch dark so we couldn’t read the final riddle. I could hear Crush outside using his Cymbals and an obnoxious laugh attempting to find us. Our heart beats were loud as we hugged each other and the clownsfinally left the room and we could go out. We opened the door, still shaking as I read the riddle waiting to hear the clowns try and get back in.
 
A girl has as many brothers as sisters, but each brother has only half as many brothers as sisters. How many brothers and sisters are there in the family?
 
Seriously a math problem, I thought to myself getting back into the closet and getting ready to recite it to Gia. 
“A girl has as many brothers as sisters,” I said, closing my mouth shut as the clowns got back in, two this time based on the horrible noises coming from their instruments. 
“Come out come out,” one of the clowns said, with a horrifying chuckle at the end. “Don’t you want to be a meal for one of us?” I could feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I rubbed them as Gia held my hand very tight. The room shook with each step they took and finally the two that had entered the room left and I finished reciting it to Gia. 
“A girl has as many brothers as sisters, but each brother has only half as many brothers as sisters. How many brothers and sisters are there,” I finished, wiping my eyes with my dusty hoodie. She took my hand and started saying something but the clowns this time 3 had just gotten in. 
“Times up, little girls,” a female sounding voice came from the door with the sound of a foot step forward. I could hear Gia counting on her fingers. Well I could barely keep myself from sobbing but I know just the slightest bit of sound would let the clowns know we were in here. There was another horrid laugh as the clowns left the room. We just sat in silence as I could hear her muttering about the thoughts as the clowns fought in the other room. She grabbed my hand, and whispered, “I know the answer and before I could stop she ran out and started inputting the numbers 3 & 4 but before she could finish the clown came in and started walking towards her. 
“Oh look, a new playmate,” One of them chuckled, grabbing her. Thoughts ran through my mind working on all the things I could do to help Gia. No, No, No, No, No, No, I ran over and unlocked the case around the button as he lifted Gia up and one of the clowns ran towards me but before they could get to me I slammed my hand down on the off button and all the monsters fell down. I ran to help Gia. 
“Are you ok,” She nodded, taking the key out of this place and we maneuvered over all the clowns and finally got out of that wretched place. After we got out all the lights turned off and we started heading back. 
“That was nothing like a Butterfly Pavillion,” I said, as Gia rolled her eyes. 
 
","July 11, 2023 21:56",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,spg90q,Mother and Child,Shannon C.,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/spg90q/,/short-story/spg90q/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Sad']",11 likes,"
I saw her gently laid to rest on one of the hottest days in June that year. The year she would’ve turned 59. An orchestra of locusts and their songs filling the cloudless southern sky.I imagined it was a farewell to her, that they were wishing her all the best and letting me know she was okay. She always loved the Summer season the most.  Scanning everyone’s faces, I noticed parts of their expressions missing now. As if, she took pieces of them with her. Tears rolled out of their swollen eyes and down their red tissue battered cheeks.Even though I had lost many before her, the little girl inside could not accept that this was really happening.  What will I do now that I can’t call and get that old recipe from her? Who will I run to when the world is against me?Who will accept me with open arms no matter how many times I stray? Where will I find the same kind of warmth in a hug now? None of the words the preacher was speaking made any sounds coming out of his mouth. I couldn’t hear the comfort I so desperately needed from him. Am I being punished?I thought I felt people touching my shoulders and whispering in my ears, but I never felt them or heard them. I sat there in body, but my spirit didn’t seem to be there.It was in that wooden box with the satin lining. With her. It was weeping deafeningly, but no one could hear it but me. These emotions were foreign to me. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want to be talked to. I didn’t want to be comforted. But at the same time, I did.No one would be able to make me feel better except her, and she was gone now. And she was never coming back. It seemed odd to me that a person’s life, no matter the age, can be wrapped up and packed away in just a matter of a couple hours on a hot day in June. This frustrated me and left me feeling hollow inside with an emptiness that I knew could never be filled.  We had drifted apart on and off over the past thirty years of our lives. We hadn't spoke for the last three. I never understood how much my resentment towards her had hurt her until she was gone.And that a lot of the choices she made in and about her life had nothing to do with me at all. I couldn’t forgive her. I judged her. I hated her. I loved her. I missed her.So many thoughts assaulted my mind and soul while sitting there staring at that wooden box with my Mother inside. While growing up I was always afraid I would end up being like her. Even as a small child I don’t remember being really close to her. She moved away when I was ten and left everything behind. Including me.I never understood her. I thought since I chose not to go with her, she would maybe stay. She didn’t. She was impulsive. She could be cold. She was hurtful because she was broken. My young mind couldn’t even comprehend what she was going through at that time, so I instinctively thought it was all because of me. I internalized all of that for so many years.Not that I could do anything about it at such a young age, but I didn’t know where else to put my anger and pain other than onto her. And I kept piling it on her for the next thirty years.  That is something I can never take back. Something I will always and forever be sorry for. The guilt and the regret hung on me under the punishing Sun, like a heavy coat that I would never be able to take off.I deserved it, I thought. The forgiveness that I kept from her, was now the forgiveness from her that I would never receive.  I realized in my mess of thoughts, that there was a lot more to her than I ever gave her enough credit for. She was also kind. She was generous. She was compassionate. She was funny. She was genuine. She was the glue that held our dysfunctional family together. I stood there focused on the hole in the ground, dark and wanting underneath her as the rest of the family shuffled towards their vehicles. I felt numb, but I couldn’t leave her. Not this time.Now my fear was not of becoming her, it was being without her. As the chairs were folded and the awning taken down, I stood motionless in the uncut sharp grass, my back soaked with sweat from the 100-degree day.The men from the funeral home asked me if I wanted to leave. I didn’t answer. I only shook my head lazily from side to side. I felt like a shadow, unfeeling and black. But inside, my heart would receive a break unlike any other before. One that would never heal to make me whole again. When the flowers started to be taken off the top of her eternal bed, that’s when it started to really sink in. The arguments we had came flooding back to my mind, a movie reel of sorts that I couldn’t control or stop.Then the good moments we had shared came flooding in, as well. I understood in that instant, that was it. That was all. There would be no more laughter and no more tears between she and I. It destroyed me to think about it that way, but that’s the way it was. The funeral director bowed his head to me and turned to the casket lowering device. He put his hand on the lever, and with a low hum, my Mother was lowered into the Earth and into a concrete vault.I stared, tears rushing down my face and unable to catch my breath. I focused hard to control my breathing and mouthed “See you later, Momma. I am so sorry.” The machine stopped and was dismantled. The funeral director’s assistant put it in the back of the big black suburban, along with the AstroTurf grass that he folded meticulously.I walked clumsily to the edge of the giant rectangular chasm. Looking down, my thoughts went to my children. And how one day, unknowing to me or them, they would be looking down on me too.  Time is a deceiver. It will excite you with happiness in an instant and give you unpromised hope of forgiveness in the next moment. It will seduce you into putting things off until another day, but it doesn’t care about what plans you may have.It doesn’t care about your relationships, no matter how good or bad you may think they are. It doesn’t care about what you’re going to do tomorrow or next week.When we are born into this world, we will begin to die. The sand starts to fall in that unmovable hourglass we call Life. You can’t pause it. You can’t go back. You can’t go forward.  The funeral director came over and shook my hand, nodded his head, and slowly turned to walk away. It all felt so informal now. So real. I tossed a purple flower on top of the lid, wiped my eyes and stepped back.The grave diggers stood by, dressed in their navy-blue maintenance uniforms. When I had backed out of the way, they came to do their part. I noticed they were exceptionally gentle with their movements. They never spoke and kept their heads down the whole time. The only sounds in the air were the still singing locusts and the growl of the little tractor engine.The sound of the first amount of dirt raining down in that hole was overwhelming. It felt like someone knocked the air out of me. Part of me wanted to leave, but my feet wouldn’t let me move.  I stayed until the last of the Earth was spread. I stood there despondent and lost. I still didn’t want to leave her, but my children and niece were waiting in the car.I squatted down, and straightened up the cheap little metal grave marker and touched it gently, as if it were her. I dusted off my dress upon standing and headed towards the car. None of us spoke. The music playing was music that I had laboriously downloaded since the day she passed. Songs that made me recount those memories of her seemed to be all I had left. The tears continued to fall.My fogged-up mind just kept going back to the last time I saw her and not knowing it was the last time. If only I had known, I thought. We never get to do know, do we?Those last exchanges with loved ones or friends, who are here and then are gone, will come back to you as an assault on all the senses you possess.Not everyone gets to say good-bye when they leave this world, and that’s a hard pill to swallow when death comes so suddenly.  That was the fear I didn’t want for my children, of not saying good-bye, to holding onto regret. But these are things that are out of our control.My fears of death, loneliness, losing a parent, and the guilt of past hurts were fears I didn’t even know I really had until that hot day in June. I felt my Mother near me for a very long time after she passed. I talked to her. I cried to her. In still moments, I would smell her perfume. This started to bring me the comfort I was longing for.To know she wasn’t completely gone and forgotten. She had just moved on and not disappeared. I lost myself for a while in this state.  I reflected on years gone by and the differences between how my Mother did things with me and how I had done things with my children. The differences were dramatic but reassuring in a sense.I have been there for them since birth. I never left them behind as children. I had been a constant in their lives. They were my whole world.I had done things differently. Did I do them right? Probably not, but I did them differently and I did my best. She did the best she could, as well.I also noticed a lot of the things I didn’t want to be, were. I could be impulsive. I could be cold. I could be hurtful because I was broken. The more I thought about that, the more I started to sink into myself. The fear had come to pass. I was her.  I was also some of the good parts too. I was kind. I was generous. I was compassionate. I could be funny. I was genuine. There she was again. It took my Mother leaving all those years ago, when I was a child, to know I would never leave my children. If I had any, they would know the love I had for them. The love I often craved from my Mother.It took my Mother leaving this Earth to forgive her for the childhood she wasn’t around for. There are things in this life we wish we could change or wish we could take back and do all over again.  I know from the bottom of my heart that my Mother felt that way before she passed. Because we all feel that way at times. For mothers, as being one, I feel it’s particularly hard because we only want what is truly best for our children.But I finally accepted that sometimes, in some cases, that sometimes leaving is the only option some of us have to do that. On those heavy-hearted days when she is on my mind and I long to see her face again, I just have to look at my reflection.There she is. Her same eyes with a glint of mischievousness. Her same smile with its soft approachable light.I am a lot like my Mother, inside and out, and I am so very glad for that now. What I used to fear, I cherish and embrace now. Thank you, Mom.Thank you for giving the beautiful and broken pieces of yourself to me so that I could always remember you and always see you. Until we meet again. As you used to always say, ""See you later.""""That feeling of ""I want my Mom."" Has no age limit, time limit, or distance limit."" -Anonymous-
","July 14, 2023 23:02","[[{'Joe Malgeri': 'Fantastic! It pulled on my heart strings so much so that I started feeling a bit sick in my gut, although with an accompanying appreciation. Both of my parents passed away right in front of me, but at separate times. Very moving, Shannon, and extremely well written. Much of it I can relate to: ""In still moments, I would smell her perfume."" In my case, my Dad\'s cologne, and much more, Mom in other ways, etc... BTW, this is for you: ""Mirror, mirror, on the wall, I am my Mother after all."" - I didn\'t write it, and I forget where I got it from. ...', 'time': '23:22 Aug 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Shannon C.': ""Thank you for reading it.......this one was very tough, and I cried the whole time.  It was only five years ago. It was very cathartic as well and very much needed. Isn't it amazing how the feelings we can't express in so many ways, just seem to fall out onto paper or onto a screen? I am so sorry for your losses and witnessing them. Heartbreaking for you. Thank you for the quote :) so very very true."", 'time': '20:16 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shannon C.': ""Thank you for reading it.......this one was very tough, and I cried the whole time.  It was only five years ago. It was very cathartic as well and very much needed. Isn't it amazing how the feelings we can't express in so many ways, just seem to fall out onto paper or onto a screen? I am so sorry for your losses and witnessing them. Heartbreaking for you. Thank you for the quote :) so very very true."", 'time': '20:16 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Stephen Hansen': 'Thank you for your story Shannon. Your themes, family ties and saying goodbye are so universal.  I fled my family at 18 wanting to live my life my way, on my terms.  Funny thing is, now that I have arrived where they were, it seems like all I can see is them in me. At 87 I tell them I love them every chance I get. “Time is a deceiver”\nStephen', 'time': '03:37 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Shannon C.': 'Thank you Stephen. It is bittersweet and so welcoming now.', 'time': '14:02 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shannon C.': 'Thank you Stephen. It is bittersweet and so welcoming now.', 'time': '14:02 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Really good Shannon. The emotions around the grave are so strong I feel that your tapping into something personal which only adds strength.\n\nThe reflection on how we push away when teens only to become a better version of them is a perfect image of life, all brought to life by death.\n\nWe can only try to be better than what we were shown, and parents can still teach through there mistakes.\n\nYour descriptions were very atmospheric, really well done.\n\nI did notice a potential typo - ""..will come back you as an assault.."" fell like it\'s an on or...', 'time': '08:04 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Shannon C.': ""Thank you for reading my story, Kevin. I fixed the typo.😉 It was a tough one to write because of the emotion. It was a bit cathartic to write it all down. Some things heal faster when brought out in the open. That's my hope with this.....thank you again for your kind words."", 'time': '14:48 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shannon C.': ""Thank you for reading my story, Kevin. I fixed the typo.😉 It was a tough one to write because of the emotion. It was a bit cathartic to write it all down. Some things heal faster when brought out in the open. That's my hope with this.....thank you again for your kind words."", 'time': '14:48 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,v4gwrt,The Eelinad Princess,A Inge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v4gwrt/,/short-story/v4gwrt/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Adventure', 'Fantasy']",11 likes,"
	The Eelinad girl clapped her hands as she twirled, delighted with herself. A mane of light, sometimes silver and others gold, spun with her. “I am clever!”
	Pinching her lips in disapproval, her mother lowered the velvet spined volume and raised a brow. “Cleverness ceases to impress when it is not governed by self-control.”
	Clear as crystal and shaped like diamonds, two youthful eyes fastened on her mother in protest. “But I don’t want to impress anyone. I just wanted to beat the riddle.”
	This time, her mother couldn’t hide her smile. “Esella, if you are to rule one day, you must learn—”
	The peace of the Sasali evening broke as a man threw open the white iron doors. Three fires, each crackling on a different hearth, cast iridescent flickers of orange and red on the man’s metal armor. His burly chest billowed even further when he caught sight of his daughter, barefoot and curtsying.
	“Esella.”
	She rose, nobility in the small gesture as she straightened her posture and met his level gaze. “Yes, Father?”
	He checked his tone. Even as a child, she had that gentleness that compelled him to pause and speak softer. A youth, he reminded himself. No longer a child, but not quite a woman. Maschiach be praised for that. “Your mother and I would like to ask you something.”
	Esella dipped her thin chin, her cheeks, paler with each winter day, crimsoning. The sapphire color melded in her irises glistened like a wave bathed in sunlight.
	He smiled. He’d lived among Eelinads long enough to know their eyes were their greatest tells. The ever-changing shades and colors often betrayed more truth than they realized. Perhaps if he’d been one of them, it would not strike him as so obvious. But he did notice. And hers spoke of anticipation.
	“You are nearing your fourteenth decade,” Esella’s mother smiled at her daughter. “Another ten years and you will be a woman as you know, free to choose the life you want. Free to truly pursue queenship or walk away from your birthright.”
	Esella’s irises flashed like thunderclouds at the suggestion.
	Bouldrin smothered a laugh. She was his daughter after all, despite his doubts about nobility springing from a commoner’s blood. 
	Beadristel noted with pride her daughter’s reaction. Though she could not imagine being a queen herself, she knew the Words spoken about Esella. She knew, though she zealously guarded her daughter from finding out, what she would become if she chose it. Even prophecy must bow to free will, but she no longer doubted her daughter’s character.
	That did not make her request any easier. “We do not want you to make your choice unprepared.”
	Esella stepped around the long, knee-heigh table to approach her mother. “You’ve poured everything into me. Both of you. I am ready. I will not disappoint either of you. I promise.”
	Beadristel flared her nostrils. “You’re too quick with your oaths. I do not accept it, and if your father’s smart, neither will he.” She fixed a stare on his impassive face.
	He nodded. “I do not accept it. You forget a ruler is as subject to failure as any.”
	Esella’s brow hardened into stone. Stuffing her nose into the air, she remained petulantly silent.
	Her mother bit her tongue. This little spat was doing nothing but holding up the real issue. “Esella, there is more to ruling than your training can give you. You know many things, but great leaders are not born from delicacy. They are made by tests to prove their courage. Will you allow us, in your best interest, test you in preparation to rule? Will you forgo your comfort for uncertainty?”
	Esella nodded, and, beneath the suspense written in drawn cheeks, Beadristel saw a flicker of relief.
	Her heart warmed. She was a wise child. But it was only the beginning. “Go. Dress. Wear something that’ll cover you well and not betray your identity. You leave with your father in the morning, and it is a long, long journey.”
	***
	As the moonlight danced on Esella’s marble floor, she shivered. Bundled in layers of commoner’s clothing, she pressed her bony knees into her chest. “I must go. It’s the only way.” The ache in her chest only grew at the words. A shifting in the air made the hairs of her neck prickle. She scanned the bedroom. The silk curtains around her bed flapped with a breeze. Neatly arranged, shelves of books and notebooks nestled between intricate casings. A tapestry of a woman dancing among stars stretched from floor to ceiling, growing brighter and more detailed as the eye ascended. Women of nobility had weaved it at her birth. They’d based it off the Words spoken over the child to come. Over the one who would judge their city as queen. Over her. How empty those Words made her feel.
	Alone on the tower bedroom floor, she shouldn’t have started at every shift in the wind or hoot from the city’s owls. But she did.
	Resting her chin on her folded knees, she sighed. The leather boots weighed down her feet as though inlaid with gold. But the worn black material was anything other than valuable. “That’s what makes them perfect.” She rubbed her thumb along the toe. A tear dripped onto her finger. Tugging the cowl of her cloak over her head, she thanked Maschiach for the light snowfall. Even on a sunny day, few would have been able to spot the crying princess so high up. Without the frozen veil and night’s darkness, however, she didn’t feel safe from judging eyes.
	Allowing a small breath, she scooted to the unrailed opening, spanning four feet and arching over her at twenty. She dangled her feet over the ledge, enjoying the thrill that made her sorrow slip out of focus.
	Snow covered the elegant city like icing. The pointed, tiered buildings clustered in triangles, squares, and octagons. Between them, staircases, some on the ground and others above her, flowed like a million white brooks. The silver, map-like sight made her remember a spiderweb she’d seen walking early one morning. It’d stormed the night before, yet the industrious owner had risen before the sun to rebuild what nature broke. “The resilience forced by nature. That’s what mother wants me to find in this, I suppose.” Wrestling against exasperation, she looked to the stars, for which she was named. Obscured by the downy flakes and dark clouds, they could offer no comfort.
	A man’s voice made her yelp and roll backwards. On her feet, she held a dagger aloft, unsure of where to point it.
	A shadow emerged from the opening where she’d just sat. “Bouldrin sent me. It is time to go.”
	Pride made her jut out her chin as she sheathed the weapon. Heart still pounding, she forced a calm voice. “You climbed my tower?”
	“It is the first test. We are to climb down together.” He held out his hand in a gesture of peace.
	Stepping back, she searched the tall shadow for something familiar. It was her duty to study the people she would one day rule. To know why they acted as they did. What made them hope, fear, or act unnaturally. After a lifetime here, few had missed the intensity of her scrutiny. But this one, she did not know. She only knew she hated him. She hated that she didn’t even know his name, but he might have seen her cry. She hated that he only spoke of the business at hand, and that he already knew the plan. But most of all, she shriveled at the thought of climbing the tower in the snow.
	Sensing her hesitancy, he gestured once again to their exit. “I will go first and show you what to do. Do not fear. I will not let you fall.”
	Holding in something between a laugh and a snarl, she slipped her pack over her shoulders. He disappeared over the edge.
	The descent marked the second most terrifying event of her life, but when she reached the ground, her anger had diminished like the night at dawn. She stared up at the tower for a moment, the mist clouding the upper half. Despite the chill, sweat soaked the neck of her tunic and back.
	Intent on the gliding shadow of the stranger, she followed him to where her father waited with three horses. A half-smile showed Bouldrin’s relief as they approached.
	“As you’ve already experienced, daughter, this is going to be different.”
	Esella nodded, stowing the temptation to ask for a destination. Something in her father’s demeanor told her he would not answer.
	He beckoned her forward. “Do not ask for details. Ride close at my side, and when it is time for you to know the next part of our journey, you will know.”
	“Yes, Father.”
	For three cold, long, days, they rode hard as if determined to leave the snow behind. At night, they camped under trees. Esella slept little, haunted by the hooting of owls that reminded her of home. Finally, halfway between Elanethel and Elium, they found life beyond the passing wild animal or single traveler.
	The Boulern people lived in thatch-roofed dwellings that spanned the snowy prairie for hundreds of acres. It had been nearly 200 years since Bouldrin had visited his people, yet they remembered his father’s strength and skill in breeding animals.
	Esella slowed her horse, falling in line between her father the Eelinad. She still knew little about him, except that he was half-human like herself and had wandered far, hence his name. Wanderer.
	She soaked in the stretching farmland before her. It was ugly, and the people walked stooped, their bodies accustomed to bending with the plough. She saw no water, yet acres of large, chestnut colored rectangles quilted the flatlands. Rows of upturned dirt mixed with snow crossed each patch. Beasts, more monstrous than any she’d ever seen, pulled the triangular plows guided by the Boulern people. They snorted and stomped forward. When they tossed their massive heads, it shook the whole plough, but the pushers didn’t seem to mind. Underneath their curly, bushy coat, monstrous bodies strained to drag the heavy machinery. Their drooping eyes, wide and brown like an owls, drifted lazily over the riders as they passed. Thick horns curled outwards five feet on each side. Their shoulders alone reached over the heads of the men, and the people were not short. Even for humans.
	“Esella.” Her father called as they stopped in front of one of the thatch-roof huts. It didn’t quite reach six feet, a hard prospect for her two tall escorts. Even shorter in width, she tilted her head at her father in question. “Is this where we’re staying?”
	He nodded. “Dismount.”
	She obeyed, and they entered the space together. A bug skittered across the empty dirt floor.
	“We will sleep here.”
	She nodded, but disappointment weaved its way through her chest. Determined to shake it off, she spoke. “Yes, Father.”
	“You will help train the Xilyions. Those are the beast you saw pulling the ploughs. You are to learn from these people. They are tough, and they have survived here hundreds of years even though the ground is hard, and the winters long and brutal.”
	She scrunched her brow, remembering the working men outside. “Why are they plowing in winter time? You can’t plant.”
	“The Xilyions must be exercised all year round. And it softens the ground for when planting time does come.”
	“So, they don’t get a season of rest?”
	“The Boulern do not like rest.” Her father’s furrowed brow straightened, and he beamed. “They are men, tamers of the monstrous Xilyions and builders of this place and many like it. They do not waste time on frivolities, but only what is needed.”
	She nodded. One look at their lifestyle had told her as much. “What do you think of them?” She addressed Wanderer.
	Looking up, he studied her until she regretted speaking. “They’re stout. In body and spirit.”
	“And?”
	He shook his head. “That’s all.”
	She sighed at them both as though it were obvious. “They’re joyful.”
	Both brows of her father went up, and a smile tugged at Wanderer’s impassive expression.
	“We passed three men. All doing back breaking work in bone-chilling weather, one with holes in his boots and two without cloaks, yet all of them were humming or whistling when we went by. And when they looked at us, they did not stare at me like some of the men we have traveled by. They smiled politely and dipped their hats like noblemen.”
	Her father didn’t seem to know what to make of this speech, as he only grunted.
	Wanderer left the hut, but a true smile now made his brown cheeks ball.
	***
	Esella hooked her arm underneath the baby Xilyion’s furry brown nose and lifted. It cried in protest, but once its dry lips found the hefty bottle, it sucked contentedly. She sighed. Everything ached. She’d fed over two hundred of the fuzzy, blockheaded creatures. They bumbled about their stalls like their wide eyes didn’t work, bumping and bruising her with their rock-like shoulders and sharp hooves.
	But she liked their bushy curls and oval noses, and their fat lips that wrapped around her arm when they missed the nozzle of the bladder-bottle.
	“Please, Gil. I have no other friends.”
	The pleading tone made her start. The stable, which provided the animals with better housing than they received in their huts, had only a single window in each stall door. Between its metal bars, she caught sight of two passing men, both gray haired.
	“A beast is not a friend. I am sorry, but debts must be paid. I can’t break the order of things. Not even for you, old friend. I’m sorry.”
	“Please. My family is gone. If I do not have Masil, I have no one.”
	Esella’s heart pounded. Debts did need to be paid. To say different would be to give into the tugging at her heart. A tug of pity. The kind of emotion a queen must crush to lead. It was his own fault for spending more than he could pay, and attachment was not a valid reason to keep the beast.
	Sobs could be heard now. Shaking her head, she returned to her work. She couldn’t stand a man who cried.
	That night, she collapsed onto the hut floor without a second thought of her goose-feathered mattress. Exhaustion sunk her into a dreamless sleep. Before daylight, Wanderer shook her awake. “Come. Something’s happened.”
	Yawning, she rose. Still dressed in all her layers— the hut wasn’t much protection against the cold— she nearly stumbled over her father.
	“Do not wake him.” Something like fear noted Wanderer’s tone. “He would not like you seeing this, but, if you are to rule, you need to know all of real life. Even the worst.”
	Silent, they went out into the dark.
	Flickers of orange dotted her vision. She blinked. A half-circle of torch bearers surrounded a fat oak tree, and from its grandfatherly limb, an old man hung, his gray hair just visible in the moonlight.
	It was the indebted man she had seen before. Gasping, she stepped back into Wanderer. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “He was crippled last year.” Wanderer’s grim voice made her heart tighten. “Unable to plough or harvest, his family suffered and died from starvation. He had only a Xilyion left, and he had to sell it to pay his debts. With no one left, he hung himself.”
	“Why didn’t anyone help him?” As soon as the words left her lips, she realized how hypocritical they made her. Stiffening, tears flowed from her eyes. She wiped them away quickly.
	“You should cry.” Wanderer tightened his grip on her shoulder, more for his own sake it seemed. She looked up at him. He stared at the corpse like it was his own brother. “It is good to be tough. It is good to be strong. But it is good so that you may help your neighbor. The Bouldern are so-called because their name means rock-strength. But I will call them Bouldfur, rock-heart, for they lack compassion.”
	She fixed her eyes on the dead man’s feet, unable to see that face. The one she may have saved. The one she’d scorned. Shame pressed her in till her heart writhed as though looking for space to take its next beat. Frustration burned, too. He’d been weak to give up.
	Yet, how many would stand strong under loss like his? How could she, who had so much, say? Her inadequacy as future queen has never seemed so obvious.
	Fear clawed at her gut. Her dry throat swelled until she could no longer breathe. Opening and closing her mouth, she gasped for air, but none came. “I can’t…” she gritted her teeth, willing her heart to steady. She had to confess. The compulsion flooded her veins, but terror tied her tongue. As her body screamed for oxygen, she shook and stared, unable to move.
	“Esella!” Wanderer’s commanding tone whipped her back to herself.
	Gulping, the fresh air flooded her lungs. The sudden release made her knees knock together. “I knew.” Tears fell afresh. Too miserable to care, she told her story, omitting nothing. 
	Tight-lipped, Wanderer met her gaze with a level look. “You will be a good queen, Esella.”
	Gaping, she wondered how such simple words could give so much peace. Doubt immediately swept the feeling away. “But I didn’t do the right thing.” She remembered the tapestry at home. The Words spoken over her destiny. The gap between the woman of the prophecy and the girl she felt herself to be deepened.
	“No. But you learned. And sometimes that is better. This is just the beginning.”
","July 13, 2023 02:02","[[{'Tim Rathz': 'Excellent descriptions. I enjoyed your story.', 'time': '21:26 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'A Inge': 'Thank you!', 'time': '14:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'A Inge': 'Thank you!', 'time': '14:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cassie Gibson': 'Some really beautiful descriptions and I liked the way you introduced information about this world - quite a lot of world building to fit in to a short story though.', 'time': '21:21 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'A Inge': ""Thank you! I agree about the world building. It's because it's going to be part of a series, but I could have done better with not overloading the reader. I appreciate the feedback :)"", 'time': '14:06 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'A Inge': ""Thank you! I agree about the world building. It's because it's going to be part of a series, but I could have done better with not overloading the reader. I appreciate the feedback :)"", 'time': '14:06 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,fusv5q,The Destroyer,Ryan Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fusv5q/,/short-story/fusv5q/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Funny', 'Coming of Age']",11 likes,"
The sedan carrying the double date eased into the parking spot. It might be the gentlest part of Grant’s day. His nerves were palpable. Adrenaline coursed through his body like ants slowly gnawing away at his stomach before making their way to his heart and throat.
 
They hadn’t even entered the park yet.
 
The torrid mixture of his anxiety and the August sun beating on the concrete beneath his feet was already causing beads of sweat to run from Grant’s scalp through his gray T-shirt – an admittedly stupid wardrobe choice in retrospect. Lucy met him in front of the sedan, her shoulder-length brown hair bouncing with her every move.
 
“You ready for this?” She said to Grant.
 
Even though he said very little to her about his desire to be anywhere but Lightspeed Park, she could read the emotion of the lines on his face perfectly after a few wonderful months. Though she sensed his tentativeness, Grant was still very much in the I-am-a-strong-and-impressive-man-with-little-to-no-fear phase of their relationship and in life. Vulnerability is hard when you’re trying to impress someone. After all, being 20 years old meant being somewhat invincible. Though one is far less invincible when helplessly sitting in a metal box careening to inevitable death.
 
The couple held hands as they walked up to the box office, where an annoyed teen scanned their tickets. Tickets that Grant worked several hours of minimum wage landscaping that summer to buy, as the pair totaled $180. He could have raided a fast food menu for weeks for the same price as his impending doom. The janky turnstile instilled no confidence in the park’s overall construction as far as Grant was concerned. He broke through it as his dread appeared in front of him in high definition.
 
Twisting metal stretched to the horizon and crashed into the atmosphere. Cars sprinted up and down the track on the ride to his left, with screams of terror or happiness echoing from every direction like bullets in his eardrum.
 
He had been briefed on the place during the two-hour car ride, learning about each of their favorites with names like “Battering Ram” and “Spindrome.” Though all four of them had grown up within a few hours of Lightspeed, he was the only one to had never been, astounding Eli and Mallory. In being Lucy’s friends, they both jokingly questioned her choice of a partner. Grant was a little concerned about how much of it was serious. He had to prove to them that he was game for this, and worthy of Lucy.
 
“We’ll ease you into it,” Lucy said as they walked into the park. Her hushed tone was so the others could not hear her as she looked up at him with a warm smile. She turned her head and yelled up ahead to Eli and Mallory, “Grant wants to start with Rigor Mortis!”
 
Rigor Mortis rapidly earned its name. Rather than sit down in the traditional roller coaster sense, the willing victim was strapped onto what could only be described as a vertical gurney with padded blocks above the individual’s shoulders and between their legs to prevent excess movement. Seeing this process from a few feet away, Grant could understand why the line was so short. Unfortunately, that only expedited their time to the ride.
 
Eli reluctantly stood at the head of the group, mentioning a few times on the walk over that they were wasting valuable time on this ride – better coasters had longer lines. Mallory jabbed her pointy elbow in his ribs, saying, “We’re all getting our bearings to start.” Which was met by a pained smile from her boyfriend.
 
The line of gurneys let out a mechanical exhale as the riders of all ages began their ascent up the slope. Standing on the platform, Grant could not see much of the ride, but he could hear the cacophony of shouts and turning gears crystal clear. The ride was over in a little under two minutes. The participants exited with smiles on their faces and eyes as wide as saucers. Am I the only one not excited by this? Grant thought to himself.
 
The couples were in the next group to walk up to the gurneys, boarding the track in pairs. Behind him were two kids, a boy and a girl, who seemed to have snuck past the height requirement. The smiles radiated off their faces. It was as if they were sitting atop new ponies on Christmas morning.
 
A shaggy-haired man in a grease-stained Lightspeed Park polo shirt walked down the line. He jostled the full-body seatbelts to ensure their safety along the way. When he reached Grant’s station, the man tapped the right shoulder block with his index finger and pulled the belt like he was snapping the world’s lightest rubber band and then moved on. Safety check complete, apparently.
 
Lucy turned to her right and flashed a toothy grin at Grant like it was Christmas morning for her as well. “Are you ready to rip off the bandage?”
 
“Definitely, I’m ready.” He was not.
 
The uniformed man who performed the safety check clicked on the intercom on the platform. “All right…who’s ready for a bout of…Rigor Mortis?” He said in a monotone drawl that did not move a decibel, and yet everyone who wasn’t Grant applauded or cheered.
 
Trying to diffuse the tension in his brain – and get ahead of any issues – Grant turned his head to his left and said, “I’m really sorry if I curse.” He could not tell if he was apologizing to the kids, to Lucy, or to the world. He did not have time to contemplate that as the gurneys lurched forward. Grant shut his eyes, let out a deep, staggered exhale, and held onto the straps with every ounce of strength he had.
 
The ride began with a slow, steep climb up to the first hill. Grant could do nothing but stare into the cloudless sky in front of him. There was a brief pause when the car in front made it to the apex, and Grant was hoping that they didn’t get –
 
“OH GOD OH NO HOOO MY GOD!”
 
Grant yelled as the gurneys took off, speeding down the mechanical slope. The force of gravity partnered with the wind to contort his face into an abstract painting. The track came to a plateau at breakneck speed, bowling into a turn to the right, then a turn to the left, winding back and forth. The frenzied movement caused the lower block of the gurney to slam Grant’s genitals into a neighboring zip code.
 
“Ugh, WHY?! What the HELL?!”
 
The ride had enough momentum to carry the riders over a smaller hill, only to gain more speed leading into the loop. Grant’s brain only had a millisecond to itself and all he could think was, A loop, really?
 
The gurneys flung up as Grant’s neck snapped in each direction. He was able to see the entire park in seconds even though everything was a colorful blur. The loop’s descent caused the mechanized death trap to somehow speed up. The bobbing of two more hills, the whipping of two more turns, and then a rise to a straightaway where the gurneys braked, crawling back onto the platform.
 
Grant’s heart felt like it was beating through his chest. He could have swam the Pacific Ocean and his heart rate and breathing would still not be at their current levels.
 
“Whoo! Not bad right?” Lucy said. When she spun to find Grant nearly hyperventilating, her face showed a bit more concern. “You ok?”
 
Grant offered a slow nod. He put his left thumb to the sky to signal he was ok, though actually being able to muster words would have given her a little more confidence.
 
She smiled. “Good, I’m really glad. That was just the appetizer if you’re up for it.”
 
Was he up for it?
 
——————
 
After being smacked around by Rigor Mortis, Eli got his wish, and they walked over to Spindrome. Grant could tell that they were leveling up beyond his grasp. Dozens of legs dangled from a steel tower hundreds of feet in the air. They flailed around with every jutting, robotic spin that had a horrible rigidity even from a football field away. Grant declined to go with the group, using the soreness from the previous ride as an excuse for his apprehension. Lucy and her friends returned nearly an hour later, still energetic and amazed despite waiting 45 minutes for a three-minute experience.
 
The morning turned to afternoon with Grant only riding one more ride. They spared him with the kid-friendly “Mastodon” that was half the speed, hills, and pain of Rigor Mortis, designed to attract dinosaur-loving youth. It was nothing compared to the five roller coasters enjoyed by the other three in his group. He was often trailing them like an aimless pack mule, holding bags and drinks and waving from the solid ground as Lucy, Eli, and Mallory continued to soak up every second of the day. Grant was beginning to have some regret in his choices while watching their fun. But there was nothing he wanted to do less than be hundreds of feet in the air or hurtle toward loops and turns like sitting in a race car he couldn’t control.
 
The trio only had one more ride left on their itinerary: “Destroyer.” The marquee roller coaster at Lightspeed was the fastest, longest, and tallest ride available. It was also the northernmost in the park, meaning it had gorgeous views of the lake and landscape from the top of the main hill. To 99% of those in attendance, it was a dream. To Grant, it was one loose screw away from him flying off the track and into the abyss like those women off that cliff in a movie his mom liked.
 
“I’m sorry you’re not having more fun,” Lucy said to him as they walked over to Destroyer. She was looking into the distance when she spoke. Her tone was a mix of disappointment in herself with the Lightspeed trip being her idea, and in him for seeming to throw in the towel so soon. “I know this might not be your thing, but I was hoping that you would give it a chance.” She paused, slowly came to a stop, and turned to face him with sadness in her usually bright green eyes. “For me.”
 
Lucy sighed, then kept marching toward the ride without any expectation he would follow her.
 
Grant was deflated and, if he were honest with himself, embarrassed. Lucy was trying to make sure he had a good day, knowing that amusement parks were not his thing. Not only was Grant bringing himself down, but he was also bringing down the group. His fear of heights, of the less-than-microscopic chance of dying at this park, was getting in the way. He was missing the chance to live life and enjoy time with the person he loved.
 
They had not said it, but he felt every ounce of it for Lucy every day.
 
That made how Grant felt about his day at Lightspeed Park so transparent. He felt stupid. Stupid when realizing that his greatest fear was never even roller coasters, heights, dangling feet, or whiplash. It was why he had to ride the Destroyer.
 
“Wait up!” He shouted as he jogged up to Lucy.
 
“You really want to do this? The Destroyer?”
 
“Absolutely. I’m ready to do it with you.” And he was.
 
After another painstaking wait in line, the moment had come. The bright yellow cars of the Destroyer were in view at the platform, clashing with the dark blue of the track. The ride already scored points to Grant for being a traditional setup of seated cars with a normal belt. The group of riders made their way into the cars two-by-two. Before Lucy could ask him about his apprehension again, he turned to her with a nod and said, “Let’s do this.”
 
The right side of her mouth perked upward followed by a silent nod and a tight squeeze of Grant’s left hand. It was all he needed to keep going.
 
A more enthusiastic pre-ride announcement took place, and then they were off. The cars rolled forward to begin the tallest climb at the park. As the ride rose, Grant’s terror soared with it. Though the seconds of climbing felt like an eternity, it gave him time to see the vista of the lake with the backdrop of a nearly setting sun. It was the first moment all day that he began to see what the hype was abo–
 
“AHHHHHH!” Grant wailed.
 
There was no pause of relief like Rigor Mortis had given. The Destroyer dropped Grant’s stomach into his head where his brain used to be. The cars descended like an avalanche of snow down a mountain. They were going as fast as anything he had ever felt before. The website said the ride got up to 100 miles per hour at its top speed and it felt like 200. Barreling down a series of turns, the cars embanked left, right, left, right, until they got to a tunnel. Then everything went dark.
 
Blurred vision turned to no vision. The only senses Grant had left were the sounds and smells of metal thundering along the friction-hot track. Only it was a series of tunnels, which was more disorienting than just one. Dark turned to light but only briefly until everything went black again. Shooting out of the final tunnel, the cars jumped up a hill and back down, swaying horizontally right to left like a rhinoceros drawing the number six backward while on skis. Reaching a valley, the cars slowed up to the climb that completed the ride, the end in sight. Grant exhaled all the oxygen that filled his lungs and caught the breath he failed to do for the entire ride.
 
Lucy let out a joyful shout of celebration as Grant looked into her eyes. They glistened with bliss as she laughed, realizing that his eyes seemed to be doing the same. Neither of them was thinking about the Destroyer. The coaster had the opposite effect of its name as he reached over to squeeze her hand. In fact, he could have gone on the ride a second time because he conquered it, and he was glad that he did.
 
Though the only thing that mattered to him was that he would never have to face his greatest fear again. He would never have to take on any other Destroyers without her.
","July 13, 2023 12:19",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,b3z7mf,Stella is not afraid of the dark,Ellie Radant,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b3z7mf/,/short-story/b3z7mf/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction', 'High School']",11 likes,"
	Branches scrape against the window casting long shadows across the dimly lit room. A stark contrast to the yellowing bunny night light that resides in the corner. But any warmth that might have come from the familiar object is swiftly blown away by the winds’ chill that seeps in through every wall. Far more terrifying to Stella than branches and wind is the complete darkness that blankets the world around her. Everything is louder in the dark- the ticking of the grandfather clock, the rustle of blankets, and the creaking ceiling above her bed. Her racing heartbeat is the loudest of them all as she squeezes her eyes and waits until seemingly unattainable sleep finally overtakes her. 
 
	Stella is awakened in the darkness by a particularly loud creak. As her eyes come into focus, the white numbers on her clock condescendingly tell her it is only 3:47am. She slept for twenty minutes. Fantastic. The anxiety that only comes at night slithered up her spine before she could fight it. But Stella was never much of a fighter in the first place. She couldn’t turn on the lamp, separated by a moat of inky shadows that the creatures under the bed inhabited. The only option left was to cling to the covers and close her eyes until morning, the darkness behind her lashes a familiar comfort. She breathed in and out. Inhale. Exhale. The grandfather clock echoed from the hallway. Tick. Tock. Every second in this personal hell one second closer to freedom. Simply waiting until dawn finally brushed away the tension that shook her muscles, reinstating goodness into her room once more.
 
	The soft golden glow of the rising sun was accompanied by the beeping of Stella’s alarm announcing that it was finally 6:00am. Her arm bridged the gap between her bed and her table to silence the irritating noise and embarked on her morning routine. Her toothpaste tasted like chemicals and every article of clothing seemed to be just too big or just too small. She finished brushing her blonde hair into submission just as the scent of syrup and coffee made its way into her room. Her feet pounded against the wooden stairs as she hurried to the kitchen where her mom leaned against the sink, slowly sipping out of her gray mug. 
 
	“How did you sleep, Stella?”
 
	“Terribly. I always feel like someones watching me.” Stella put a pancake on her plate. 
 
	“Did you take your melatonin?”
 
	“Yeah but it doesn’t stop the feeling of being watched.”
 
	“Just don’t think about it, sweetie.”
 
 Easier said than done, Stella thought as she finished pouring the syrup in a cup before carefully placing it in the microwave. While she had never liked the dark, her fears had grown worse overtime. The darkness seemed out to get her in ways it never did before. Perhaps she is overreacting. Perhaps her moms right and she just needs a way to take her mind off of it. Maybe she just needs to face her fears and learn that it will be alright. Maybe- she was snapped out of her thoughts as the microwave angrily beeped at her to let her know her syrup was ready.
 
	Thoughts of the night never left her mind for long. Not on the ride to school. Not in her physics class. Not in history. Not even in choir where the complex chords of Handel enveloped her ears. During lunch Stella only half listened as Marlee complained about her newest boyfriend and nodded absent-mindedly every so often. 
 
	“Stella! Are you listening?”
 
	“Sorry, yeah, my mind is just somewhere else today.”
 
	“Should I give him a second chance?”
 
	Stella paused for only a moment, realizing she did not have enough context to truthfully answer this question before saying, “He doesn’t deserve you.” This was good enough for Marlee and she continued her monologue.  
 
	Stella arrived home in a sleep-deprived daze, barely having enough energy to kick off her shoes before dragging herself upstairs and throwing herself onto her bed. She put on her headphones to drown out the dreaded physics worksheet that seemed to call her name.  Her phone was brighter than necessary but Stella didn’t change it as she scrolled aimlessly through her social media, waiting in vain until she  finally felt mentally prepared enough to do some actual work. 
 
	While scrolling, a video caught her eye titled ‘how to get over your fears in three minutes’. A woman in a bright yellow dress instructed her to say positive affirmations while facing her fear or to simply tell herself that she wasn’t scared. The woman said if you convince yourself that you are not afraid that whatever you are scared of, it can no longer have power over you. To Stella it seemed strange and unrealistic but decided to at least try it out when she went to bed later that night. Despite how silly the method seemed, she found that for the first time in a long time she wasn’t dreading nightfall. She wasn’t dreading when the sun dipped below the horizon and all that was left in the room was the glow of the bunny night light. She wasn’t dreading the inky shadows that gripped her soul, that took her captive. Stella is not afraid of the dark.
 
 Stella is not afraid of the dark.
 
 Stella is not afraid of the dark.
 
 Stella is not afraid of the dark.
 
	She repeated the mantra to herself as she laid in bed that night. She said it in time to the ticking of the grandfather clock. To the beat of her heart. She was a steady metronome, not a racing heart. And for the first time in a long time, Stella fell asleep. The bunny night light once again did its job and protected her from the monsters. For the first time Stella wasn’t afraid of the dark. 
 
	Stella awoke to the beeping of her alarm clock at precisely 6:00am. The morning sun filtered through her curtains as if to say good job, Stella. Stella went through her morning routine at lightning speed and tied up her hair with a bow. Her toothpaste tasted better than normal. She didn’t get mascara on her eyelids. She felt good about her outfit. But most of all, Stella finally felt alive. Gone was the Stella who couldn’t sleep through the night. The Stella who couldn’t pay attention to her friends' conversations. Here was the Stella who listened to the morning birds chirping with a new appreciation. The Stella who noticed all the details she didn’t see before. Like the screw that had fallen off the vent above her bedroom. She paused, puzzled, wondering when the screw could have fallen out but decided not to think anything of it. She walked downstairs where her mom was toasting some frozen waffles.
 
	“Good morning Stella, how did you sleep?”
 
	“Good, I finally fell asleep last night.”
 
	“I told you that if you just didn’t think about it it wouldn’t bother you.”
 
	She was kind of right so Stella didn’t say anything more. She simply filled up her water bottle and slipped it in her backpack pocket. 
 
	On the ride to school she saw how the yellow tulips were beginning their late April bloom, how the blossoms of her neighbor's magnolia tree painted the street below into a river of pink petals. Sunlight sparkled through the oaks, waving Stella goodbye. When she saw Marlee at school she told her how beautiful her neighborhood looked in the spring. In response, Marlee said she was talking to a new guy. Some things never change. 
 
	Her physics teacher’s droning voice seemed to fade into the background as she drew on her paper. The flowers in the garden, the sun shining through her window, Marlee’s eyes and how they lit up when she talked about her latest boy. She found her pencil seemed to move without command, creating beauty in the midst of the equations. When she zoned back in she realized what she drew. She had added more to the drawing of her window. She drew the poster on her wall, her wooden desk, and the loose vent above her bedroom. Stella is not afraid of any vents. 
 
	Stella went straight to the kitchen when she got home. She made a slow shuffle through the pantry and to the fridge, its cool metal and chilly air a strange sort of comfort. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a shiny red apple, and after checking it for bruises, deemed it good enough and took a bite. The exhaustion of a full day of school was finally setting in. Not even a good night of sleep could prevent the fatigue from sinking into her bones. Nobody else was home so the only sound was Stella’s socks on the stairs. She shut her door behind her and decided to pick up a book. After a few minutes of scanning her bookshelf she picked a fantasy novel about magic thieves as they broke into an ice palace, whisked away into a world of powers and found family. Time flew by as the sun dipped below the horizon, Stella only noticing once it became too dark to read. She wasn’t scared. She wouldn’t allow herself to be. Stella is not afraid of the dark. 
 
	Stella laid under the covers, hoping for her luck to continue. It worked once, so why wouldn’t it work again? The swaying branches and creaking ceiling faded into the background as Stella repeated the mantra to herself, focusing her vision on the bunny night light. Stella is not afraid of the dark. Stella is not afraid of the dark. Stella is not afraid of the dark. Her heart once again beat in time to the grandfather clock. A peaceful metronome. Stella closed her eyes and let the calming waves of sleep overtake her. 
 
	Golden light spilled onto Stella’s beeping alarm clock. 6:03am. One more night came and went without Stella waking up in fear, without laying in a cold sweat, too terrified to turn on the light. Too terrified to move. 6:04am and the alarm clock kept up its morning call, begging Stella to wake up and turn it off. But Stella didn’t wake up.
 
	“Stella! Turn that off!” Stella’s mom grew irritated at the monotonous noise that seemed to echo off of every surface in the house. “Stella! I will come and turn that off myself, get up!” Her hard footsteps rushed up the stairs to Stella’s room, the doorknob turned and creaked. “Stella?”
 
	Stella was still in bed. She hadn’t moved an inch since she fell asleep. She did not toss and turn that night. She did not even breathe. Stella was no longer scared of the dark. In fact, Stella would never be scared of anything again. Not the creaking ceiling or monsters under her bed, not her mothers screams that were heard by the next door neighbor. The screams that were louder than the knock on the door, louder than the sirens that blared outside their house ten minutes later, even louder than Stella’s heartbeat three nights ago. The heart that would never beat again. Stella was dead. Her blood stained the sheets and dripped from the night light. The blood that stained the open vent red. That stained the kitchen knife that was carefully placed over the stab wounds on Stella’s stomach. Stella was never scared of the dark. Not in ways that mattered. Not in ways of any importance. Stella was afraid of what waited in the dark. The things that watched and the creatures that smiled from their hiding places. But Stella wasn’t afraid anymore. Stella wasn’t anything anymore. And Stella would never be anything again. 
","July 08, 2023 22:44",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,btappu,Spectre,Amanda Atkinson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/btappu/,/short-story/btappu/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction']",11 likes,"
It chose me one frostbitten winter, in the dead of night. 
The monster groaning in the shadows of the forest outside the window, fogging up the glass with its muggy breath. I can sense it pressed against the window behind the cigarette-stained curtains, trying to feel for cracks or crevices it can squeeze and ooze through. 
— What if your lungs give out and your heart gives up? — That’s the kind of thing it whispers. Its voice is barely there but it snakes through the air like smoke and burrows into my ears to soak my brain in its fumes. 
My cat would nestle on my chest and burrow into my ribcage searching for warmth as I got colder. He’s staring at me, blinking from under the chair. 
He’s quite a beautiful thing, with orange fur, striped in brown, and flashing amber eyes, but I know he wouldn’t think twice about gnawing on the cartilage between my ribs. I know it as if I was in his little creature brain. I feel his patient longing to fit himself inside me. 
He’s the size of lungs. He’d fit perfectly, sticky and warm. 
My back is pressed against the cold cabin wall opposite the window. Legs twisted in front of me. One of them fell asleep eons ago, shards of electricity nipping at my nerves, from my knee all the way down to my toes, screaming at me to move, but I don’t dare. 
I hold my breath. If I breathe it will smell it. Its shadow cast through the window like a ghost, like smoke on sunlight, I can see it swirl and swell in front of me and hang like strings of cobwebs stranded in mid-air. 
I press myself harder against the wall. The cold burning my back, my bones jarring together and I bite down on my tongue. 
Blood pools in my mouth. My breath reeks of fear and metal and exhaustion and it’s thick enough to curl under the edges of the glass and into its mouth. It will know I’m here. I hold my breath.
The cabin is so cold. 
I feel my skin ache. It sticks to the wall through my t-shirt, the pores in my back constricting as they freeze together, slowly. 
— What if you close your eyes and your kidneys fail and you can’t move for sleep?
My blankets are banished to the closet. Locked up away from temptation. The key is sitting somewhere in my bowels by now. Unless it’s already broken down with all the acid pooling inside me, lead poisoning me slowly. Is there lead in keys? Probably. 
My insides slowly shutting down, turning into soup and sludge. My stomach is growling and bubbling, maybe it’s already started. 
My throat tastes like acid and my teeth like sand. 
I haven’t slept in days. I think. The curtains are drawn so no light filters in and time bleeds together, oozing slowly and painfully. I want to pull the curtain back, just a bit, just enough to let some light and warmth in. Just to catch a glimpse of what’s slinking through the canopy. But I can’t. 
— What if? — it whispers and images flash through my mind. A bullet flying straight to my face, burrowing into my eye, into the back of my brain, caressing my skull from the inside. 
Cracked through the glass so shards are taken with it, its splinters spread like sharp little tree roots skewering every little soft pocket of brain tissue.
I see fireworks going off inside my skull, sparks squashed between the folds of my brain as it fights to send its last messages to the rest of me before fizzling out, grey and soft and dead. 
The air in the cabin is thick with stale, acrid, prickling cold sweat, I crave the forest’s air, though it might freeze me, anything is better than choking down the self-contained stench of fear, kept out by an inch of wood and iron, and I see the monster in my mind, solid as putrid smoke, squeezing through the crack in the window, blocking out the outside air. It would fill up my nose and mouth, snapping my teeth and pushing them down my throat, to curl over them like a dragon over its hoard in my stomach, forcing through my intestines, and seeping out of every pore, ripping them apart until it consumes me.
The cat would sit on my bones and purr. 
He opens his mouth and he wails. A jarring mewling echo that sounds off the trees outside. Impatient for lunch. 
My heart thuds in my throat and my stomach and my bowels. My pulse is banging against my bones. It’s thumping over the roaring in my ears. 
My tongue feels like it’s screaming. 
Outside is silent. 
My vision is wavy and stretches and warps the floorboards before me, and I feel like vomiting. Everything looks like it’s underwater. I swallow through the frantic hammering in my jugular, the edges of my vision blurring and dimming, shadows at the corners of my eyes creeping closer to steal my sight altogether. 
The cat yowls again.
I count to five, my eyes burning furiously into the amber of the cat’s. I steady my breathing by holding it until my lungs are screaming. I slowly press my finger to my lips as if the cat is going to understand me begging it to shut up. 
I listen for the monster but I’m met with heavy silence, punctured only by the scraping of the trees against the cabin wall. 
I strain my eyes against the light that bleeds through the fibres of the yellowing curtain.
No more smoky shadows through the curtains, or languid snarling heavy breathing against the glass. 
Relief turns my knees to water and my breath punches out of me. Bile rushes up from my stomach it forces its way up my throat, burning my flesh raw.
The cat under his chair turns towards the door blinking slowly as he settles on his haunches, purring deep in his tiny little ribcage, as I wipe the bile from my lips. 
I take a shaky breath and a frantic giggle bubbles in my chest and forces its way up my throat in a hysterical shriek, over a metallic thud that freezes my blood in my veins. 
Right before the smell hits me, the door creaks slowly open.
 
","July 13, 2023 19:17","[[{'Marty B': ""Great description of someone slowly sinking into madness of fear. \n\nI liked this line, 'I can sense it pressed against the window behind the cigarette-stained curtains, trying to feel for cracks or crevices it can squeeze and ooze through.'\n\nThe poor cat though!"", 'time': '05:21 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Amanda Atkinson': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '12:09 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Amanda Atkinson': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '12:09 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,6669dr,A Good Death,Lily Autumn West,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6669dr/,/short-story/6669dr/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Suspense', 'Speculative']",10 likes,"
A Good Death
Trigger Warning: Assisted Suicide, corporate assassination
 
If you are what you do, then Nova was death. Or at least death’s delivery girl.
 
She worked for a multinational firm that offered complete deathcare solutions to wealthy clients. For an exorbitant fee (with a suite of legacy upsells that included pet-rehoming and manuscript publication), the company took care of a client’s dying wishes. They promised certainty about death and legacy. Everything was taken care of. This included guaranteed inheritance to the chosen heir, whether it be a gerbil or a pool boy. 
 
Most importantly, death was humane: quick, painless, and unexpected. This was the core service. Nova was just a service delivery person. Personally, she considered herself either an angel of mercy or a deathcare professional, depending on the day. 
At first, Nova hadn’t been sure where she stood on assisted dying. But rigorous employee training had quieted her concerns to a dull murmur that she could easily tune out.
 
The firm argued that people who want to die drain the system’s limited resources to serve people who want to live. In a way, Nova preferred working for a deathcare company that reduced insurance rates and procedure wait times than for a healthcare company that gouged the poor for insulin. There was a grim moral correctness about ushering elites to the afterlife after a lifetime exploiting the lower classes.
 
The firm called it a return to tradition. They cited King George V, who in 1936 had been given a lethal dose of morphine and cocaine to hasten his death so that it made the morning papers.
 
A more convenient death.
 
If it was good enough for a monarch… who was Nova to judge?
Believing that no one should have to suffer and secure in the knowledge that clients chose this for themselves, Nova could sweep her concerns into a mental compartment to ignore them indefinitely. 
 
The method of un-aliving someone was an R&D achievement. The dose was humane. The brain never registered pain. Death was instantaneous - no slow spreading sleep, no panicked moments where the brain realized the heart was no longer pumping oxygen. The person was and then they simply weren't. The firm had put so many bureaucratic barriers in place that cause of death was practically untraceable. Family members could rest assured - their loved one died peacefully in their sleep - of natural causes.
All things considered, it was a good death.
 
Besides which, Nova only had three assignments before her contract expired. She was still debating whether she would exercise her option to renew or take the 401k and lifelong property lease they offered on retirement. Her career choices had made it difficult to socialize and make small talk. She always shied away from questions about work. She could only tell people that she worked in a facility that provided on demand medical services, including assisted dying. The company was so secretive that Nova often wondered how they found clients. 
 
On her present quest to un-alive a client, Nova was digging her shoes into the cracks of a brick wall as she pulled herself hand-over-hand up a drainpipe. It was exhilarating climbing through a window and gently delivering the touch of un-living. As she reached the final stretch to the window ledge, she looked up at her watch. No other people in the old-ivy covered house. Good. One client. One dose. That was all she had. Un-aliving family members was murder. People who lived with others were counseled to travel alone and note down family schedules in their profiles, which Nova never read.
 
“Why lock the doors and leave the bedroom window open,” she wondered to herself. 
 
Nova pulled herself up onto the ledge and rested on her elbows for a moment. The room was quiet. Her watch showed the client’s biometric signature; it matched the half-naked form she saw on the bed. Good. No other humans. No pets. No need to reschedule this date with death.
 
She swung her legs over the ledge and silently dropped to the floor.
Nova preferred to know nothing about her clients. She would catch the barest glimpse of skin as she delivered the fatal salve to a neck or clavicle, but she never saw the face. What really mattered to Nova was that the client was always asleep when she delivered the dose. If the client stirred, Nova fled and rescheduled.
 
Despite this, Nova had never failed an assignment. She had a strong sense that it wouldn’t go over well. She peeled back the sterile, single use plastic foil, and rubbed the dosed side across her gloved fingers.
 
She crept towards the bed.
She was expecting a withered and frail body. 
But he looked young, strong, healthy.
It took her a moment to realize that he also looked at her.
Nova felt her shoulders tighten and knees lock. This had never happened before. The biometric indicator showed a strong positive. The haptic feedback engaged as she got closer. He was definitely the client.
	“I knew you’d come.”
	In one swift movement, he sat up, still staring at her. She could only see an athletic silhouette in the dark.
	Nova froze.
Her lips trembled. Her mind raced. He was still a figure, a silhouette in the dark, but he had the ghostly outline of a face, and that was more detail than she ever wanted to see. Although she couldn’t see them in the dark, she could feel his eyes boring into her. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Finally, she found the words and spoke. 
 
“Go back to sleep.”
 
“Or what?” he sounded amused. His legs traveled towards the edge of the bed. 
 
Nova quickly scanned the room. The window was two, three paces away. Two and a half stories up. A leap would break bones. Careful climb? Too slow. Door? Possible security cameras, and the lower doors were locked. Maybe nasty surprises. Not a clear path. 
 
“What are you going to do?” A long silent moment passed, with nothing but the ticking of the clock on the wall. His laugh sounded slightly unhinged.
 
“I’m the client, aren’t I? Aren’t you here because I chose how I die?”
Nova didn’t like him taunting her. She found her voice again. “Look, I'm just here to do a job. Why would you pay for a service you didn’t want?” 
 
“I didn't pay you.” He said flatly. “They did.” He pointed at her, no, at her watch.
 
Nova’s heart thumped against her chest. She’d seen so many clients, but this was wrong. It went against protocol.  
 
“Who are you?!” she immediately regretted asking. She never wanted to know. She couldn’t see them as people. They were suffering numbers, biometric blips. Statistics in a cruel unfeeling system. They had to be numbers. She couldn’t look someone in the eye, deliver death, and see them as a number.
 
 “I’m Brian. A better question is who are you?” His began to stand. But she felt like showing weakness and stepping back would be dangerous. The dose was still in her balled fist.
 
“Just someone with a job to do. I’ll have to report this.”
 
“You should, but you won’t. Too much paperwork. No matter how good the 401k, the flexible deadlines, the lifelong property leases… your job is to give people painless, traceless deaths. They count on not being the sort of employer you feel comfortable crossing.”
 
Nova’s heart thumped in her chest. She started backing up towards the window. Brian knew the firm’s offer. No more student loans, ramen dinners, failed interviews… In a world that equated capital with moral goodness, it was a dream job, if you glossed over the work itself.
 
“I’ll just come back another time.” It sounded absurd even as she said it. She wasn’t a postal worker who had walked into a garden to find the addressee sunbathing nude. She began to back towards the window, slowly.
 
“I used to have your job, you know.” Brian stood up.
 
Nova stopped moving.
 
“And I didn’t hire you. The company did.”
 
Somewhere in her mind, Nova could feel a thin pane of glass shattering. She felt hot and cold, dizzy and weak.
 
“Why?” She croaked out a question she already knew the answer to.
He laughed. 
 
“Die on your own terms? Check the fine print of your contract. You’re chipped to keep you safe.” his fingers traced quotes in the air and his voice had a bitter edge. “It’s the same tech they put in clients. A mandatory ‘benefit’ of employment. Contract section 13-dash-9. Threat neutralization, for which the firm is the sole arbiter.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “But none of us ever read the fine print.”
 
The firm took care of everything. They wouldn’t leave loose ends.
 
“Don’t worry - your dependencies will be taken care of - pets will be found. Lovely homes.” Now that her vision had adjusted fully to the dim light, Nova could see his eyes rolling.
 
Would she be discarded when the company was done with her? Just two more clients after Brian. She ran the fingers of her left hand through her hair nervously. Oh no! He was a named person now.
 
“Why am I one of your last jobs?” He smiled at the spreading realization on her face. “Yes, that’s it. It’s a test.” 
 
Adrenaline pushed Nova through the waves of nausea and light headedness. She stared at Brian’s chest, and reeled backwards a moment, catching herself. Reminding herself that the fatal dose was still clutched in her palm.
 
“Sweetheart. If you're gonna kill me, at least look me in the eye.” Brian said.
 
“I never do.” Nova said.
 
Brian took a step back in surprise “What?! But then, you don’t even have the satisfaction! You're no fun at all.”
 
“It's just a job.” She said. 
 
“A job?” he laughed. “You’re an angel of death, and you call it a job?” He was silent, thinking a moment. “I bet you make the people with HR very proud.”
 
Nova tensed.
 
“Look at you, too self-involved to take a personal interest in your clients.” Brian taunted her.  
 
It churned Nova’s stomach to think about how much Brian had taken interest in them. He leaned forward. 
 
“Look them in the eye. Have a personal conversation. Let them know it’s their time to go.”
 
“That's not what they paid for.” Nova said, feeling an increasing sense of panic. 
 
“I provided a personalized service. The angel of death. Sometimes, if they were religious, I even wore wings,” he sounded nostalgic.
 
“Is that what I'm here for? Your deathbed confessional?” Nova asked. 
 
“Or yours.” he sounded sinister.  “We'll see how it goes.” But Nova had made up her mind.
 
“I'm not going to kill you, Brian.” 
 
“You will. I didn't pay for it, but I still have to go. I know a lot about the people you work for. Ever wondered what happens if you’re fired? Five years, right? How many cases, I wonder.”
 
Nova tried to focus on the moment, the floor beneath her feet, the man in front of her, but her mind was screaming now, hundreds, hundreds, a shocking number!
 
“Look at you, you've saved the system millions of dollars. You've opened up health care spots for people who need them. Hope you're proud of yourself.”
 
“What do you want from me, Brian?”
 
“I want the service I gave my clients. I want you to ask me what my hopes and fears are. I want you to beg me to please change my mind. I want to wait with resolution while you touch me.” he was tracing his finger along her jawline now. But she was rooted to the spot, fist still closed, staring at his shoulders.
 
“I’m not looking at your face.” 
 
“So, you are going to kill me then?” He paused. Shook his head.  “At least I gave my clients a meaningful death. Human life used to be so sacred.” 
 
The dose’s viability was rapidly running out. In a minute or two more of exposure to air, it would have completely evaporated. Nova weighed her options and selected the least morally deficient one. 
 
“You know how to administer the dose? I could give you the ultimate control.” aggravatingly, he shrugged. And launched into a final monologue.
 
“One day, it'll be your time. Maybe when you’re old. Maybe next week.” he paused.
“No one knows the hour of their death, but I knew this was coming. It's spring,” he laughed. “College recruitment. They'd have someone near the end of their career, like you, come in and do me. Someone to test.”
“I enjoyed my work. Never got into med school. But I always found it fascinating how the human body could just… shut off..
There was silence. Nova realized it had started to rain. Droplets plunked off the clay roof tiles, and the wind shushed through the trees.
 
He wasn’t going to do it himself. It pained her to use his name, but she needed him to ask. “Brian. Do you want to die?” 
 
“You have to do your job.” He said, “You have to administer the dose.”
 
“And if I don't?”
 
“Do you really want to find out?”
 
She didn’t - but the dose would be harmless soon, and there wouldn’t be an option. He stepped closer.
 
“Make it a suppository.” He winked.
 
“I think I made an antidote. If it works, I’ll fall into a harmless sleep and wake up tomorrow. You can go back to your boss and tell them you put me down, just like you were supposed to.” He stood close to her, whispering the last few words in her ear.
 
She reached forward.
 
“Self-preservation. Good choice.” Brian tilted his head and pulled her into a kiss. Nova tasted whiskey on his lips. Almost instinctively, she placed her hand on his neck. The oxidized dose was slower than usual. She felt him weaken. He let out a contented sigh. Relief. 
Nova lowered Brian to the bed and tucked the blankets up around him.
 
Just asleep, he'd said. He found a way to fake his death. 
Nova couldn’t hear him breathe. The blankets weren’t rising and falling. She placed her face near his. No warm breath, only the stench of liquid courage.
Secretly she hoped he had found a way out. Maybe death was it.
She sighed. It was over.
She could report that the job was done.
She had two more clients. Two more. Faceless nameless clients.
Nova tried to flick away an idle thought. She didn't know when death would come for her.
 
In a year or two when the weight of her choices crashed down? When she aged and her mind started to crack? In a week?
It would come. Relentlessly. Noiselessly. Painlessly. And no one would ever know why.
 
Brian just wanted his death to matter.
 
But nothing had changed. And that was the lie she kept telling herself as she tried to stop her body from shaking.
 
","July 13, 2023 22:11","[[{'Mary Bendickson': ""So when the employee's contract was up the company ordered them un-alive?\nWelcome to Reedsy. You are already an accomplished writer. Well done.\nActually, I was assigned your story as part of the critique circle where we critique each other's work. I don't feel confident doing that because I am such a newbie to the world of writing. Especially when I read well written stories like yours. I think I have gotten enough experience now to know talent when I read it.\n\nI did receive both of your postings under two names."", 'time': '02:36 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Lily West': ""That certainly seems to be the case.\n\nThank you so much for your comment :)\n\nI've been writing for years but am only just starting to put my work out there, and I really appreciate the feedback 😃."", 'time': '18:21 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Autumn West': ""I posted a short story the previous week as well but accidentally made two accounts and can't merge them😅. Whoopsie!\nThe other is more comic fantasy and can be found here:\nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7qv14m/"", 'time': '18:25 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily West': ""That certainly seems to be the case.\n\nThank you so much for your comment :)\n\nI've been writing for years but am only just starting to put my work out there, and I really appreciate the feedback 😃."", 'time': '18:21 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Autumn West': ""I posted a short story the previous week as well but accidentally made two accounts and can't merge them😅. Whoopsie!\nThe other is more comic fantasy and can be found here:\nhttps://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7qv14m/"", 'time': '18:25 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,p93oxt,Pulling Back the Shroud,Bob Faszczewski,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p93oxt/,/short-story/p93oxt/,Character,0,"['Crime', 'Fiction', 'Mystery']",10 likes,"
 
 A full night’s sleep had become virtually impossible for Jeremy Stuart since he moved into the apartment above the Barcom & Sons Mortuary three months ago. 
 Of course, one would expect trouble resting in a building housing the remains of the dead, and possibly their spirits.
 Jeremy’s sleeplessness, it seemed, stemmed from much more than battling with the occult. Every time the newly-appointed funeral director attempted to close his eyes, around midnight. a loud howling sound assaulted his ears. The eerie noise, apparently coming from the basement, left him paralyzed.
 Strangely enough, the bizarre disturbances did not appear in the early morning before he started work, in the evening when he ate his dinner, or during visitations. Throughout most of the night he rested quietly, except when he tried to mentally review his schedule for the next day.
 Finally, the sound had taken such a toll on him that he felt it threatened his health. Also, his lack of sleep began to interfere with his responsibilities as the director at the sole mortuary in Raintree, Md. 
 Although his apartment’s location on the second floor of the funeral home could account for the creepiness quotient of the basement howling, Jeremy had lived in homes above funeral establishments throughout his 25-year career and this never had disturbed him.
 Since he had just taken over the reins at the Raintree burial establishment, he had been too busy to fully explore every nook and cranny of the 19th century Victorian building. Maybe the 
time had come for some more thorough investigation.
 One particularly quiet afternoon, when the director didn’t have any funerals scheduled, he opened the ancient door to the funeral home’s basement and started walking down the creaky stairs. He turned on the light at the bottom of the stairs and began exploring with his high-powered flashlight. Turning right he shone the beam into corners of the unlit portion of the downstairs rooms where he previously had no reason to venture.
 There, in one particularly cobwebbed corner, he found a black mahogony door, apparently locked tight by a number of very heavy chains. Turned out, the sounds that had led to his sleepless nights seemed to have come from this area of the basement. Now that he had begun his investigation he saw no reason why he shouldn’t follow it to its conclusion–no matter where that would lead him.
 He remembered when he first took over the funeral home his renovation crew had used a number of heavy duty tools and left them behind in a storage room in another corner of the lowest level. In that room he found a pair of bolt cutters and began to hack into the huge chains holding the mahogany door closed.
 As the chains fell away he used every ounce of strength he had to pull open the door on its rusty hinges. It let out a loud creaking sound. The renovators apparently had overlooked this old room when modernizing the building. The wind howling through the cracks in the rear wall of the room let out a roar that shook the whole building–so much for the noise that had awakened me from a sound sleep almost every night.
 Jeremy recalled that, when interviewing him for his position, the funeral home’s previous managers had excitedly talked about the shady past history of the site where the burial business 
now stood. 
 During the Roaring 20s, when rum runners prowled the Chesapeake Bay, gangsters began partying and setting up their headquarters and hiding the profits of their crimes in secret speakeasies around the state. One of themt previously stood on the site of the funeral parlor. 
 On a table in a corner of the basement room Jeremy found a metal box. As he opened it, the lid creaked almost as loud as the rusty door to the room. Inside he discovered a well-worn binder that contained some type of document.
  The document read, “I, Joe (Big Joseph) Tersanco, head of the Fortisimo Syndicate, on February 1, 1927, presided over the last Summit of my Family. The Feds had begun really turning up the heat in the Baltimore area, so we decided to hide out in obscure areas of the Eastern Shore. I also stashed the gold I had stored away after looting some of the city’s biggest mansions. I figured I or my descendants could return when the heat was off to recover the loot and escape. We had the perfect setup, since we had decided to convert our speakeasy into a legit funeral parlor business. The coppers likely would have no idea the basement of the building now would become our Fort Knox”
 Granted, the boss had taken elaborate precautions to protect his stash, but, like most mobsters, he couldn’t resist bragging about the riches he had squirreled away in his secret hideaway. His fellow capos began to plot ways to get their hands on Tersanco’s treasure. 
 They never succeeded because Big Joseph and most of his descendants died in jail or found themselves on the wrong end of other gangsters’ machine guns.
 Apparently, none of the other capos ever had found a way to get to the stash and, after jailing the remaining members of the mob, the authorities had given up searching the area.
 Spooked by the possibility of gangster types from the spirit world guarding the loot, Jeremy gingerly moved the binder aside. Under it he found 10 gold bars. The mob boss’s diary didn’t mention how large a stash he had buried. This meant the funeral director had no way of knowing if any of Big Joseph’s own gang members had removed any of it before they met their makers.
 Jeremy turned the gold bars into the Baltimore County Police. They contacted federal Treasury officials, who estimated the value at $20,000. After 30 days, since no one stepped forward to claim the treasury, they cashed it out to the funeral director and he walked away with a handsome check.
 His sleepless nights soon ended.
 
","July 09, 2023 17:14",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,mu77qw,THE NOBLE ART,Terry Patterson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mu77qw/,/short-story/mu77qw/,Character,0,['Inspirational'],10 likes,"
 
 
THE NOBLE ART
 
 
Walking slowly through the huge crowd of screaming people Danny Wellard made his way towards the ring. His mind was flooded with things from his past. Would he be able to go through with it? Or would he cower away like he’d done in the past? He felt the urge to run and needed to use the toilet again, but it was too late to turn back. Closer and closer he got to the ring led by his coach Joe Myers, and his second Eric Clarke who kept on giving him encouragement and a comforting rub of his shoulders. When they reached the ring apron Benny looked up and his opponent who was already in the ring and dancing about confidently. He wore a pair of silver boxing trunks with a green trim. He had some badges sewn on each leg to signify that he’d won some title or other and a white singlet with his club badge and his name on the back and a brand-new pair of white socks and a pair Lonsdale boxing boots with white laces. Joe gave Danny a drink of water and rubbed some Vaseline over his eyebrows as he shuffled about nervously. Danny in contrast was wearing an old pair of football shorts that were too big for him and kept sliding down until Eric tied the blue sash around his skinny waist. The string vest, he wore had a knot tied at the back because that too was too big for him as well. His black plimsoles were well worn as he stepped into a resin tray and shuffled both feet inside. 
Danny thought about the first time he stepped into his local Boys Club in North Shields, a small fishing town some six miles from Newcastle upon Tyne in the Northeast of England. He was greeted by the Club Leader who took one look at him and told him that there would be sixpence subs to pay every week as he showed him around. There was a snooker room, a table tennis room. He went behind the canteen counter and found a set of darts and handed them to Danny. 
“There’s a dart board in that room there, if you want to go through and have a game.”
Danny thanked the gentleman called Harry Martin, who he later discovered was a local councillor.
When he opened the door, he got a shock because the dartboard had seen better days and it resembled the back of a camel’s bum. The lime-coloured wall where the dartboard hung with an old car tyre around it and a small blackboard to the left-hand side with a tiny piece of chalk on a piece of string to write down the scores. There were thousands of pin holes in the wall where the players had missed, and it was the same story on the red coloured lino on the floor. Danny took a dart in his left hand and threw it and it just bounced out and stuck in the floor, Danny discovered that you had to throw the darts like spears to make them stick in the board.
Danny was just about to launch another dart when the door opened a crack and a head popped in. 
Danny saw that it was a black skinned man with big brown eyes, and he was wearing a trilby on his head.
“Has you seen ma boys.”
He spoke with a soft Jamaican accent as the young boy turned fully around.
“No, I haven’t seen anyone mister.”
The tall man came into the room and began pulling what looked like coiled up rope from a cupboard. He pulled them along the floor then unravelled them then went back into the cupboard again. This time he took out these heavy iron bocks with a screw thread with a hook on each end He attached the hook to the rope that had a metal eye socket on each corner.
“Could I help you.” asked the young boy.
“Yes, if you think you can.”
Danny picked up the rope and dragged it to the far corner of the room whilst the man fixed another hook and eye to the wall.
“You is stronger than you look boy. How old is you?”
“I’m nine.”
“Do you know what I’m fixing here?”
“No what is it?” said the boy looking at the man strangely.
“This here is a boxing ring.”
When the man had fixed each corner to the wall and then tightened the blocks it suddenly became apparent.
The boy looked at the man wearing a white shirt and tie with a blazer. he took off his Jacket and undid the tie and hung them up on a rail near another door. He also undid the top button on his shirt and then opened the window.
“Pretty hot in here ain’t it”
It was more of a statement than a question, but he was right, it was hot for April. Looking out of the window Danny could see the Hawkey’s Lane open air baths that he frequented with his two brothers. No matter what time of year it was the water was always stone cold. 
“My name is Joe, Joe Myers and I run this here boxing team.”
“Really.”
“Yes, would you like to be a boxer?”
“Me no, I get bullied. I’m not a fighter. Anyway, I’ve got to wear this calliper on my leg.
Joe looked down and saw that the boy had a metal brace on his leg and large boots.
“What is wrong with your leg?”
“I have what they call a club foot, and my left leg is thinner than the other.”
“What would you say if I taught you how to beat the bullies and helped you to strengthen that leg of yours.”
“Could you?”
“Yes, but it won’t be easy; You’ll have to work hard but if you are determined which I think you are then I think I can make you into a champion.”
“I am, I mean I will.”
“What’s your name sonny?”
“Danny Wellard.
“Is you a southpaw or orthodox?
“None of those, I come from the Ridges in North Shields.”
Joe threw back his head and began to laugh.
“What’s so funny.” said the boy looking at Joe seriously.
“Nothing sonny, I meant if you were to punch someone how would you hold up your fists.”
“I told you; I don’t fight.”
“Just pretend that you are going to punch something.”
The boy held up his fists then looked at the man.
“You is going to be an orthodox boxer, that means you will lead off with your left like this.
Joe began throwing punches at lightning speed and the young boy stood watching with his mouth agape.
When Joe stopped, he asked Danny if he could do what he had just done. 
Immediately Danny began throwing punches in the air.
“Okay, you can stop son.”
“I told you I was no good.”
“Come will me Danny.” Joe walked into the next room where hung a series of punch bags, mirrors, and a speedball. In the corner was an old bike on rollers. The floor in the room painted scarlet had thick black rubber mats down the sides of them.
“Lie down on the mat Danny and I want you to lift this here medicine ball with your legs.” Joe gave a quick demonstration and Danny obeyed. 
“Good boy, now keep doing that until I come back. If you get tired, take a rest.”
Joe disappeared and Danny using all his six stone ten pounds he proceeded to lift the medicine ball to the left and then the right.
After a couple of minutes beads of sweat began to form on Danny’s brow but he continued. His breathing became heavier, and he was also thirsty.
Joe returned with two drinks, one with water the other tea.
“Here sonny, take a sip of water.”
Danny got unsteadily to his feet; his legs felt like jelly after lifting the heavy ball. He took the cup and drank the cooling liquid.
“Okay now, I want you to hold up your hand like you did before, and I want you to hit my open hand.” 
Danny punched the massive hand in front of him three times. 
“Okay, I want you to hit my hand again.” This time Joe moved the hand in all directions and Danny missed each time.
Joe stopped then pointed a finger at Danny.
“Now this is lesson number one, if the hand which could be my head stays stationary how many times is it going to be hit?
“Three times?
“Every time son, but if you keep your head moving like this then you will hardly take a punch at all and that’s the art of boxing. To hit your opponent but not take a punch. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, that will do for now. I want you to stay and watch the other lads whilst they train, and then you will see what will be expected of you.”
Danny saw four older boys enter the gym with another man who came over towards Joe. 
“Who is this asked the man who had a distinctive well-trimmed beard and a cap on his head.
“This is Danny Wellard, he is going to be a champion.”
 The man took one look at the boy and said” Joe this kid will never make a boxer as long as he has a hole in his backside.”
“We will see then won’t we Eric said Joe calmly. Danny this is Eric Clarke my assistant coach.”
Danny looked at the man and then politely said hello. He didn’t like the remark that Eric had made but maybe he was right. Maybe he would never make a boxer.
Danny stayed and watched as the young lads who had entered the gym had now changed into tracksuits and baseball shoes and began to skip at blinding speed as Eric held a stopwatch and then called time after three minutes had elapsed. Six three-minute rounds they skipped and when they had finished, they all got gloved up. The four boys began sweating and droplets fell onto the red lino on the floor. The gloves were massive Danny thought, they practically came up to the elbow of each boy as a glove was placed onto each bandaged fist. Joe and Eric chatted away as they tied them then they used a house key to slip the laces inside the binding to prevent any eye injuries. The boys put on at headguard and Danny watched intently round after round of sparring, and he was fascinated at how light on their feet they were. They were as graceful as ballet dancers as they slid around the ring. The ducked and swayed and parried the blows. The thudding sound from the leather gloves revealing the power of the blows from both boxers. When the first two lads had done three rounds, the second couple got into the ring and sparred. Then they swapped sparring partners and did another three rounds each. When they finished each round, they sucked in air until their breathing returned to normal. Each of the lads had something white in their mouths. Danny found out later that they were gumshields made from a substance called gutta Persia. The lads went for a shower after their six rounds of sparring. Joe said he was leaving so Danny walked home with Joe. The smell of smoke from the chimneys made by coal fires hit his nostrils. They made their way towards the Ridges Estate, a place that was regarded by many as a slum area. Danny couldn’t stop asking questions about boxing.
“If you come to the club tomorrow night at 6pm I will give you another lesson. Bring a towel with you so you can have a shower when you are done.” 
Having a shower was something that Danny had never known before, he was used to getting washed in a galvanised tin bath that hung up in the yard. His family, like many on the estate were poor and relied on the charity of their neighbours for food and often borrowed money or cigarettes. Danny ran errands and cleaned out fish boxes on the fish quay to help his mother. Who used the money he made to put shillings in the gas meter. He would bring home a few stone of herrings and the odd mackerel on his bogie made from old fish boxes and pieces of four by two and old Pram wheels. His mother Annie Wellard would cook them in the oven as roll mops. Jimmy Wellard, his father worked in Welches toffee factory as a sugar boiler. The wage that they paid wasn’t a lot and Annie had to work a part time in a news agency at the bottom of Marina Avenue to try and make ends meet.
Danny said goodnight to his newfound friend, Danny did not mix with many people, people alienated him because of his disability. 
So it was that every night for two years Danny did leg exercises for one hour at the Boys Club. He made a skipping rope from a length of clothesline and burn holes in some old bicycle grips. He would try and skip in the path each night. He couldn’t put weight on his left leg at first but then with the exercises Joe was giving him eventually was able to do what the other boys could do. He felt fitter and stronger. He was learning many boxing skills too but had not sparred with anyone yet. When his father found out he proceeded to take him and his older brother into the back garden whereupon his brother Tom knocked him up and down the garden leaving him bloodied and bruised.
“See you’ll never make a boxer.”
Danny cried and shouted defiantly I will, I’ll show you one day. The truth was that Danny didn’t want to hit his own brother.
It was whilst at school one day when he was picked on and then he was tripped up in the corridor. Danny retaliated.
“Right then you two.” said the teacher who had come from the headmaster’s office and found the two boys fighting. He took them into the classroom and caned them both.
“When the lunch bell rang, the boy who had tripped him up came over to Danny’s desk.
“I’m having you tonight Wellard. On the Needle after school, you’d better show up or I will get you one way or another.”
The Needle was a monument erected in honour of Sir Ralph Gardner who the school was named after. It had poplar trees and a neatly cut grassed area that sprouted daffodils and other spring flowers.
Danny’s heart began to beat very fast and when he sat in the dining hall, he could not eat his lunch. He felt physically sick. He thought of ways that he could get out of the confrontation. When the school bell rang Danny walked slowly back to his classroom. During the lesson, his hands began to sweat, and he wanted to go to the toilet again but was afraid to go in case Jimmy Stapleton followed him and set about him. Danny kept watching the clock in the classroom, he wished he could turn back time, but he couldn’t. He had to face his greatest fear. He tried to remember everything Joe Myers had taught him. He was now beginning to hyperventilate as the clock turned to 4.15 and the lesson was over. Everyone including Jimmy Stapleton filed out of the classroom and headed towards the grassed verge of the Needle for the best vantage point.
Danny walked slowly to meet his fate.
Jimmy Stapleton was taller and heavier than Danny for his age he wore a school uniform unlike Danny who was in clothes that his mother bought from the rag and bone man. Jimmy walked calmly towards Danny and stuck out his hand. Danny thought that Jimmy had decided that it was better to shake hands and not get into a fight in case the headmaster found out and they would be punished again. The large crowd of school children urged the two boys to fight. Jimmy suddenly took hold of Danny’s hand and pulled him towards him, and head butted him. Danny fell to the ground dazed and blood began oozing from his nose. He got up unsteadily on his feet and wiped the blood on his hand and put up his fists the way Joe had taught him. Jimmy rushed forward and Danny threw a left jab into the face of his challenger. Blood was now coming from Jimmy’s nose and Danny proceeded in throwing more punches at blinding speed with both hands until Jimmy fell and lay un-moving like a starfish on the grass. The crowd were now shocked into silence as Danny picked up his coat. Jimmy Stapleton came around and was helped to his feet as Danny walked through the crowd and made his way home. Never again would he be picked on in the schoolyard. A point had been made and Danny could now hold his head up and stand on his own two feet. 
 
Danny Wellard stepped through the ropes and into the ring, he’d faced his fear before and now he was ready to do it again.
 
THE END
 
","July 10, 2023 09:42",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,q1bvih,Reflections,Vanessa Zone,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q1bvih/,/short-story/q1bvih/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",10 likes,"
Eisoptrophobia is the name of the fear that dominated every aspect of twenty-three-year-old Miley’s life. Eisoptrophobia is defined as the fear of mirrors. More specifically, the fear of seeing your own reflection in a mirror. 
Miley went to great lengths to avoid seeing her own reflection. She worked from home. She could not drive a car safely because it required the use of mirrors. Because of this she always had groceries and other necessities delivered to her doorstep. There were absolutely no mirrors in her one-bedroom apartment. Any reflective surfaces or objects had been removed or painted over and she kept the blinds pulled down over all the windows to avoid catching a glimpse of any reflections in the glass.
Miley had been nine years old when she got lost in the Funhouse while visiting the small, traveling carnival that had come to town. Before she knew it, she had found herself terribly disoriented in a maze of mirrors, surrounded by what seemed to be hundreds of Mileys. In a panic she had rushed about bouncing off one reflective surface and then another until she was gasping for breath, nearly blinded by her desperate tears.
 It was when she finally stopped to catch her breath and placed her hands on the cool glass in an effort to steady herself that she looked up through puffy eyes at her reflection in the mirror before her. She was overcome with an unsettling certainty that her reflection was off somehow. She couldn’t really put her finger on it… and then…. the “other Miley” in the mirror smiled. Miley knew with full certainty that she herself had definitely not smiled. 
Peeling her hands from the glass she frantically backed away from the mirror. Miley sank to the ground hugging her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes, threw her hands over her face, and let out a blood-curdling scream. The rest of the evening was somewhat of a blur. She vaguely remembered her father finding her huddled on the floor of the Funhouse and carrying her to safety. 
Miley did not speak for a month. When she did find her voice again, she never spoke about the “other Miley” in the mirror. She was left with an intense fear of mirrors that her parents had hoped would improve with time and patience.
Despite her parents’ best efforts, Miley’s fear of mirrors only intensified over time. Her parents had resorted to homeschooling her and Miley refused to enter any rooms where the mirrors were left uncovered. The therapy they had gotten for her had helped to ease the nightmares she had been plagued with ever since the night in the Funhouse. However, no amount of therapy had been enough to help Miley get over her Eisoptrophobia.
Miley had built a life around her phobia. A life that felt safe. A life that she had convinced herself was enough.
Lately, though, Miley had begun to wonder what life could be like if she was able to venture outside of the walls of her little apartment. She wondered how it would feel to have the sunshine warm her face. How it might feel to have friends to grab dinner with on a Friday night….
These thoughts stubbornly persisted until Miley eventually reached out to her former therapist, Dr. Harris.
 Dr. Rita Harris was a slight woman in her late fifties. Her salt and pepper hair stood up in tight coils upon her head. It was a warm afternoon in late July, as she sat studying her patient through her wire rimmed glasses, “You should be immensely proud of yourself, Miley. Taking the bus alone to get here today was a big step for you. Have you thought anymore about the Exposure therapy we discussed at your last session?”
Miley nodded her head, “Yes, I am ready. I am tired of letting this phobia control my life”.
Dr. Harris smiled approvingly, “We will start small.”
And so, the therapy began. Miley was exposed to reflective surfaces in brief increments at first. The amount of time would increase slightly with each session and the ultimate goal was for Miley to have the ability to stand before a full-length mirror and make eye contact with her reflection.
It was a few weeks before the new year when both Miley and Dr. Harris felt confident that Miley was ready to take this crucial, last step. Miley had arrived early on the day of her big appointment only to discover that Dr. Harris had been called to an emergency situation regarding another patient of hers. Frustrated and deeply disappointed, Miley took the bus home.
Tossing her jacket over the arm of her big, comfortable recliner, Miley sank down into the cushion with a heavy sigh. She had been so ready to take this next step, so ready to be closer to the kind of life she had truly begun to look forward to. She did not want to put it off any longer.
Miley was hit with a sudden burst of determination. She realized she didn't have to wait.  She would do it right now. The elevator in her apartment building had a large mirror that ran along the back wall. It would only take a couple of minutes and before she knew it, she could be back in her apartment pouring herself a celebratory glass of champagne.
Without hesitation, Miley grabbed her keys and before she could second guess herself, she had made her way quickly down the hall and pressed the elevator button. She was relieved when the door opened and revealed that the elevator was unoccupied. She needed just a few moments to herself if she was going to do this. Miley took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Confidently, she moved toward the mirror. Releasing the breath she had been holding she locked eyes with her reflection and was immediately flooded with relief. Nothing unsettling appeared before her.
Miley took a moment to study her own blue eyes and her wavy, light brown hair. It had been such a long time since she had seen her reflection. She finally felt free.
Miley smiled. Unfortunately for Miley, her happiness would be short lived because even though Miley was smiling, her reflection was most definitely not.
 
 
 
","July 14, 2023 07:21","[[{'Bruce Friedman': 'Very well written, Vanessa. Overcoming a phobia. Great flow and vocabulary. Forced me to dwell on the idea of the real ""me"" and the ""me"" in the mirror. And welcome to Reedsy.', 'time': '13:12 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zatoichi Mifune': ""That is definitely unsettling. I wonder...\n\nWhy did that happen? Why does her reflection smile when she doesn't, why does it not when she does? Explanations needed. Or not, I'm just curious really.\n\nVery interesting. I really like this story. It's so straight-forward but not in a bad way. There isn't much left to say but this: Great story!"", 'time': '09:24 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Vanessa Zone': 'Thanks for the feedback!  I’m glad you liked it.  I didn’t really delve too deeply into the why… just that when she was a child she something in a mirror that she knew wasn’t herself and it caused this phobia that she eventually decided to try to overcome and  it he end she was right…. There WAS something sinister there after all.', 'time': '02:22 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Vanessa Zone': 'Thanks for the feedback!  I’m glad you liked it.  I didn’t really delve too deeply into the why… just that when she was a child she something in a mirror that she knew wasn’t herself and it caused this phobia that she eventually decided to try to overcome and  it he end she was right…. There WAS something sinister there after all.', 'time': '02:22 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,02t631,Fragments of Life: Loss and the Supernatural,Sofia Albertini,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/02t631/,/short-story/02t631/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Urban Fantasy', 'Sad']",10 likes,"
February the 8th is the date carved on the tombstone before me - the date when my best friend died, the date when it all turned to shit and my life tilted into the bizarre. It started as a slow transition, a direct response to my friend’s death. I’m sure of it.	Heavy with grief, I slump onto the nearest bench, rain plops on my skin. For a few moments, it’s just me and those drops - a thread hooking me back to life. But the thread is brittle, ready to snap and leave me disintegrating into nothingness.	I grip my hollow stomach, feeling how loose my trousers are against my skin. I trace the figure eight on my arm, hoping to reassure myself that I can still feel something, that I still exist. My touch feels icy. 		As a cloud passes, casting darkness on the cemetery, I zip up my jumper. Slowly, warmth murmurs through me, soothing the small tremblings in my chest, reminding me I still have a beating heart. But for what purpose?	Ghosts - I’d always hated the idea, rejected the notion that one day we could all become them. And up until now, I’d lived as if ghosts were nothing more than a tale, a distant threat like the idea of getting old when you’re just a kid. And now, faced with Tabetha’s death, my best friend, my only real friend, I find myself questioning. My body started to shift from a physical mass to an ephemeral essence. I shiver in the cold, misty air. I’d rather trade places with Tabetha. Being dead trumps being a ghost.	A spider scurries across the rugged surface of the bench. In an instant, she’s gone, swallowed by the foggy grass. Just like Tabetha - here one moment as we skipped up the steps of our new highschool, gone the next as I held her limp body, blood fleeing her. From an inhale, to an exhale, the world tilted from joy to misery, from safety to disaster, from life to death, from life to nothingness.	I still sob every night, reliving that day. I remember thinking that the tighter I held her, the more she’d know how much she meant to me, how much I’d loved her. As if the warmth of my body could soften the coldness taking over hers. That day changed me. Even now, with her buried beneath my feet, the memory of her blood’s scent still lingers, refusing to be forgotten. It had been untenable, like the smell of rusted iron from a cage you’d never want to be locked in - the cage of miserable helplessness where you’re stuck watching your friend whimper as life drains out of her. Help me, help me, she’d begged me, while I just closed my eyes and waited for her to die, my feet scarlet wet. What god forsaken mess.	The shot had been fatal - I knew it instantly. How could a kid orchestrating a school shooting become such a lethal sniper? How messed up was this world to turn him into a killer? To turn my best friend into a lifeless mass? She had just turned fourteen… 	We still hadn’t gotten our matching piercings, still hadn’t had time to go on first dates. I smile as I remember the day we’d made cutouts of Rihanna’s piercings whilst singing along her song ‘Stay’. God, how I wish she had. We would've gotten our piercings once we’d graduated by that place her brother had worked at. A tear rolls down my cheek.    	Yes, on February 8th, while Tabethah’s life slipped away, mine remained but soured like a rotting fruit. Pulsing with anger, I punch the bench. Again, I feel no resistance, nothing to contain my existence. Just like the other twenty six times, my fist just passed right through the bench. 	Damn it! Why is this happening to me? I can’t taste anything, I can’t smell anything - and now I can’t even touch things. I might be alive, but I’m losing myself. I am turning into a ghost.	I’ve run out of excuses for why I don’t finish my plate, why I don’t bother showering anymore. The small pleasures of life, like the smell of fresh flowers or my mother’s night cream are gone.	I close my eyes and my thoughts transport me back to a classroom conversation. From eight years ago. I can almost taste the chalk dust in the air. 	Madeleine, my classmate with shiny blond hair, once asked Mrs. Thompson, 'Can ghosts be saved?'	Mrs. Thompson had replied, 'Of course they can.' I remember the dissonance between her reassuring smile and the fear in her eyes.	“How?” Madeleine had asked. And in the outline of our teacher’s fear I’d guessed the answer. 	Whispering with a quiver in her voice, she responded, 'No one knows. There have been many studies, but all inconclusive. But remember, my dear, ghosts can be saved.'	Kevin, seated at the back of the class, chimed in, 'What are ghosts, anyway?'	“Psychologists label them as a dissociative phenomenon, where one starts to detach from life - usually following a trauma. They are still alive, but they their connection to the physical world fizzles out, transforming them into metaphysical, hollow beings”	Sitting on the bench, my mind races with these memories. The conversation replays like a key in a lock, hoping it will give way and let me in on its mystery. But instead, it locks me out. God, I hate this feeling. I curse the world as the distant threat of thunder rumbles loudly. 	In the aftermath of Tabathat’s death and the school shooting, I’d been so willing to throw in the towel. The idea of walking through those school gates made me sick just thinking of it. So I checked out of life and waited for death to come find me.	But, somehow, I ended up in the wrong pile -  there’s the death pile on the left, and the ghost pile on the right. I should’ve ended up on the left, but something happened, and instead, my stomach was the first thing to go. It went from being tied in a knot, to being loose. Soon after, my palate followed. I still forced myself to eat, mostly for my mother’s sake who still hoped her cooking would bring me to life. I can see the sadness in her eyes. Little does she know, she is losing me just the same. I am losing myself, stepping into a slow-motion black-and-white movie with no remote control to turn the goddamn thing off.	A voice, resembling Tabetha's, pierces through my thoughts, “Stop blaming life for what is happening to you.” The voice grumbles from under the soil, carrying a mix of concern and frustration.	“What?” I ask quietly, looking around to make sure no one could see me talking to myself, to the ground.	“You heard me. If you’re in this situation, it is because you chose it, you wanted it.” I can recognise Tabatha’s voice. 	It was always vibrant, like a light you couldn’t help but be drawn to, but this time it sounds muffled, distant. I know in my heart that I might be hearing her, but she is gone. I’m about to protest, but she shuts me down. 	“Don't compare your situation to mine. I didn't choose to have a bullet end my life. You still have choices, and honestly, the ones you're making are pretty terrible. I mean, come on - you’re choosing being a ghost over being alive."" 	A wave of angry lava has built up in me. 	“How is any of this a choice? You have no idea what it's like to have to pick up the crumbs of life after what happened. It’s like my life shattered into a million pieces, and I need to pick up the shards one by one, but none of them fit together anymore - and for what?”	Tabatha questions, “So you agree, you're choosing to not pick up the pieces, you're choosing to disappear?”	“I didn’t say that.” I rise to my feet, restraining the urge to stomp on the grass, on her grave. “You make it sound so easy, but none of this makes any sense. I didn’t want to lose you, I didn’t want to feel so much pain. I didn’t choose those things, they happened to me. And yeah, maybe I don’t feel like leaning into the pain, maybe for a while not feeling anything was easier.”	“I’m not telling you life isn’t hard, I’m telling you to rebel against its gloominess, look at it straight in the eye and defy it. I’m telling you to grab this life before it disappears from you, savour it whilst you still can.”	A gust of icy wind slaps me in the face, I guess that’s how the dead bang the doors when they’re done with a conversation.	I’m not sure if I want to scream or cry. For all the hours I’d hoped I could’ve had one last conversation with my friend, this was not what I had in mind. 	I sniffle, shivering in the biting wind. I feel like tearing into a million pieces this world, but instead, I’m stuck on this crappy bench, not even able to punch it. 	I’m about to tighten the cords of my jumper, when I stop myself. Instead, I force myself to welcome the cold, for how much longer will I feel it? I noticed how it whispers at the base of my neck, almost tickling me. It invites gentler sensations, softer touches, like a quiet melody keeping me company whilst I try to figure out what it means to be alive now, to digest Tabetha’s parting words. The old oak tree rustles its leaves, and I hear them brushing against each other.	And that’s when I wonder - maybe that’s the movement of life? It ebbs and flows with no real compass or inherent meaning, no matter how much we study its patterns, its beats, its tempo. It silences my questions - the ‘why me’s’ and ‘what’s now’ - and  opens up the possibility of a new beginning. A tiny sprout budding its way through a crack in the concrete.  Defy the gloominess of life. I repeat the words over and over again. Outside, a ray of sunshine pierces through the glad. I breathe in the fresh air and take out my phone. I type a text to my mum. “Mum, can you teach me how to cook grandma’s lasagna tonight? I’m coming home.” I put the phone back in my pocket and feel myself breathing more easily. I lift myself up from the bench, a crow chirps from behind me. I look at my hand, the one that had been holding my weight against the bench. It is no longer weightless - I can actually feel the wood pressing into my skin. I can feel it. Could it be? I look around as new light illuminates this world. I neil down to Tabatha’s grave and my eyes tear up, not from sadness but from the vibrant smell of the flowers on her grave - I smell them. I am becoming whole again. In that moment, amidst the rustling leaves and fading echoes, I choose life with all its chaos and wonders. I step forward and let go of the shadow of the ghost I once was.
","July 10, 2023 14:43",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,yacy2o,To Be Seen,Maria Parperis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/yacy2o/,/short-story/yacy2o/,Character,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Contemporary', 'Inspirational']",10 likes,"
The air feels thinner every minute with the weight of expectation in the room. Smiles are present but not in their eyes, only in words in hushed tones spoken away from the listening ears does the chest breathe easier - even if only for a moment.
 
And then the second passes. 
 
Conversation flows, drinks are shared, laughter is heard. In these instances, the dinners are almost manageable. Shoulders ease against the onslaught of questions, attention directed elsewhere. Cut, chew, swallow. Repeated cycles to protect from the urge to run – or speak. But polite nods do little to desist the more insistent of conversational partners. 
 
There is always an opinion to be had, an experience to share – behaviour to monitor. Forever conscious of every movement; the fingering of a wine glass, the straightness of a back, the position of the elbows. Perfect. Exhausting. Suffocating to the point of self-doubt. To have faith in words and actions is the belief to be worthy.
 
And worthiness does not come easy to most. To speak with confidence, share beliefs carelessly, is daunting at best. Even worse to speak of inner-most feelings – views can be altered, sense of self cannot. A different face for every occasion but none that capture a complete picture, suited to all and yet no one. Praise given for a word, not a sentence; love shared for a rhyme, not a song. Appreciation can only be appreciated when earned.
 
The atmosphere strains to keep up with the faltering mood. Food and conversation inspire nausea, yet still they flow. Along for the ride amongst every other aspiring patron, united knowing they won’t ever be enough. Unconsenting competition – entered by the parents, never their children. Yet it is never the parents who bare the brunt. Unconcerned with the results so long as their child is more capable. Not thinking of the others pitted against to not succeed.
 
How tiring it is to hear of an agreeable accomplishment in others, when a role reversal would mean failure. Sometimes it is better to hide when the feedback would always be broken. No one to share success with, no one to reassure. Although, belief in reassurance is another hurdle to jump. One that is tied to self-worth in ways that are almost impossible to untangle.
 
For the children, whispered words of support are too weak to oppose the overwhelming voice to try harder. Be better. Be different. To act without mistake, to never be seen trying – the ingrained embarrassment washes over otherwise. Learning is applauded but only when complete. What matters are the ends, not the means. Only sharing that which earns favour, individually tailored. Pleasing everyone with omission, but never pleasing overall.
 
The voices urge louder suddenly, a familiar name spoken in question. Forced to talk of achievements and updates, future goals, and prospects. Toy with the meal and bide time; assess the listeners for their preference. Know how to pull the strings to keep their attention away. Deep breath and express everything they wish to hear. Customise life until it is a dream.
 
Maybe then, it can be believed.
 
A pat on the shoulder, a hand on the knee – success is bittersweet. The battle is won but energy is flagging. A constant projection drains more than just the mouth that speaks. Isolation, the only solace from the all-encompassing greed.
 
The clock is mocking from its perch above the table. Far too long remains before a retreat can’t be considered an insult. The plate is nearly empty – the excuse for not joining the discussion dwindling. The desire to do away with false flowery words is strong, but the fear is stronger.
 
Fear of being known.
 
To be seen without walls, experienced without filter – that is the most terrifying of all. Knowing that judgement lies beneath interested eyes, a quick tongue soon to follow. Even that which is good can still be improved. To expose all is to expect hurt, and sometimes weakness is easier.
 
Cowardice is hardly a crime, but still it is punished with loneliness. Deep down there is a desire to be seen, but only by those who will accept without hesitation. Without vulnerability it is impossible to find, and so the seclusion continues.
 
Sometimes the exhaustion is so present, there’s a want to do away with playing nice. To stand up and speak without thinking. Remove the veil and never return. But spontaneity always brings nerves, and the fleeting feeling passes.
 
Because there is nothing to say.
 
To determine the reality from the façade means understanding the product of the environment. That sort of introspection takes effort and struggle, far more than what is currently possessed. But it takes strength to own up to the truth, look it square in the face.
 
‘I don’t know who I am.’
 
It is freeing to admit – no matter the consequence, no matter who cares, no matter who sees. 
 
A hard push away from the table and everyone stares. Women tut disapprovingly and male faces line with anger. The plate is empty, the clock strikes, the table is silent. There’s no need to be here, to be subjected to this interrogation. A complete farce orchestrated for the entertainment of others playing on the insecurities of the vulnerable. Walk away from the expectations, walk away from the standards, walk away from the comparisons.
 
An exit is made and conversation restarts, there’s surely confusion but they’ll be disappointed. An explanation will not be forth coming. It serves them right to be on the receiving end, though it is doubtful whether any changes will be made. It hardly matters when no longer a participant in their games.
 
No one is owed anymore, and the difference is drastic – joy is hard to hide when it’s real. To be unknown is frightening but to knowingly be unknown is a relief. It is control, it is acceptance. 
 
It is a hand on the wrist and warm eyes that followed out of the room.
 
Being unknown isn’t lonely when there are others just the same. 
","July 10, 2023 17:37","[[{'Patricia Williford': 'I like the way you created a story without the identification of specific characters.  You really got us in the head of this nebulous character and what she was thinking during the whole dinner party.  Nice job!', 'time': '18:58 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,syunwd,Anatidaephobia,Christopher Abel,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/syunwd/,/short-story/syunwd/,Character,0,['Fiction'],10 likes,"
	 I remember the moment I told the world about it- my secret, mortifying fear. I remember it like it was yesterday, because once it came out, once manifested, my life was never the same. I’ve been haunted by the memory, nearly as much as the fear itself. If just one kid had told me the truth about that afternoon, if just one person had been brave enough to tell the social pariah what had actually happened, then perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this.
	It was fifth grade, Mrs. Trott’s class, show and tell. The idea was that every child brings in something that represented their specific fear, then Mrs. Trott would look it up in her little novelty book of phobias, which contained the scientific name of said fear, along with an approximation of what percentage of the world shared their particular terror. In theory, it was a fine idea; putting a name to something would dispel its frightening grip, while also showing that the child was not alone. 
	Many other kiddos wore looks of triumph and pride, ready to put aside their fears for good. Little Mary Martin was wielding her flashlight like a sword, declaring that she no longer suffered from her fear of the dark, and was joined by several others (Tim, Katie, Bo, and Susie, clutching a rubber band shooter,a blankie, a small baton-like dowel, and candle, respectively) in swearing off their Nyctophobia.
	Others' fears were less generic, and they looked uneasy and unsettled. Thomas had brought a bike horn that approximated a clown’s honk to demonstrate his Coulrophobia. Many in class thought that was a hoot; who could be afraid of clowns? Thomas reddened, and Mrs. Trott chided. If that was making them chuckle, I feared what mine would make them do. I tried to shrink, withdraw into myself.
	Sunny had a postcard of Carlsbad Caverns, an unfortunate double-edged Claustrophobia/Nyctophobia.
	Lloyd had a flyswatter, Curtis, a shoe: Arachnophobia.
	The sun shifted outside, and my neck prickled. I knew It was out there, somewhere beyond the glass. I kept my eyes down on my desk. I racked my brain, struggling to think of something, anything, any other fear that I could introduce to the class without making an absolute fool of myself. I must have been crazy, thinking I could say this to my classmates! What had I been thinking?
	Caitlin had a baby tooth in a bag, plucked fresh and white this morning, on its way to the underside of her pillow for the tooth fairy to collect; Dentophobia.
	My time was running out. Most of the class had already gone and shared their fears. Add Scopophobia and Glossophobia to my list.
	Todd brought nothing, claiming that he wasn’t afraid of anything. Mrs. Trott pursed her lips, consulted her book, and asked Todd if perhaps he suffered from Atelophobia; the fear of being imperfect. Todd blushed and denied it and was assigned an extra assignment for being a smart-aleck. 
	Mrs. Trott scanned her list and looked over the class.
“Ah, Jenny, looks like you’re our grand finale today. What did you bring for us?”
	My knuckles were white on the desk. Grand finale, extra pressure. I felt Its stare from outside, but as usual, Its intent remained a mystery. I shook and trembled my way to the front of the class. Mrs. Trott looked at me expectantly, hands clasped before her.
	I reached into my sweater pocket, glancing at the window, thankful for the obstructing glare that rendered it opaque. I felt my fingers clasp the smooth rubbery outline within and pulled out my totem.
	The class looked at it, puzzled as a whole. A few of my classmates grinned, wondering what this might signify. I opened my mouth but couldn’t seem to make the words materialize. 
	Mrs. Trott cleared her throat, nudging me along. When it became clear that I was struggling, she offered a lifeline.
	“Jenny, what does your item signify? Is it a fear of water? Aquaphobia?”
	I shook my head, still looking down, a film of tears turning the item in my hand into a blur of yellow and orange.
	“Maybe she’s scared of bathtime,” Todd muttered, smirking. Snickers from the class.
	“Keep it up, Todd, and you’ll get another worksheet to bring home,” Mrs. Trott said sternly. Then she gentled, looking back at me. “What is it, sweetie? Just a fear of birds? Ornithophobia? Or is it ducks, specifically?”
	“No…” I said, finally finding my voice. I squeezed the rubber duck tightly, and it emitted a loud, cheerful squeak. “I mean, kind of. I’m not scared of ducks, not exactly. Just the thought that there might be one out there that’s… watching me.”
	Someone snorted, and I jumped a bit.
	Mrs. Trott glared at the snorter, then looked at me questioningly, trying to assess whether I was joking. She started poring through her book, trailing a finger down the page. Her eyebrows raised slowly, vanishing into her sharp fringe.
	“Well, I’ll be! Isn’t that something. It looks like you suffer from acute Anatidaephobia, which is, well, just about what you described. But…” She kept reading. “Jenny, it looks like this idea originated in a comic strip. Did you know that?”
	I shook my head forcefully, looking at her very seriously.
	“That means that in all probability, it isn’t a real phobia. Did someone put you up to this?”
I continued shaking my head, feeling tears welling up again. Something was happening inside me, a steam engine building up speed, starting in my gut and heading north.
	Mrs. Trott frowned.
	“I’m not upset with you, Jenny, but you need to understand that all of your classmates, except Todd, shared a very personal thing with us today, and it shouldn’t be treated as a joke.” 
	Upwards, gathering steam, toward my throat.
	“Now if you can’t share with us a real fear, I’m afraid I’m going to have to assign you another worksheet for tonight.”
	“That isn’t fair, Todd-” I started to say, but the teacher interrupted me.
	“You are not leaving me with any choice here, young lady.” 
	I couldn’t contain it any longer; the pressure inside burst.
	“But it's out there right now!” I shouted, tears running down my face. Mrs. Trott was taken aback, her face frozen in a mask of surprise. The class was suddenly in turmoil. The girls looked at me with sympathy, and the boys rushed to the window. Todd was guffawing stupidly, “Looks like Jenny needs a brain appointment with the quack!”
	 I was miserably ashamed, and I rushed out of the room before Mrs. Trott could send me away. I fled down the hall, past the office, receiving an alarmed look from the secretary as I streaked past, slamming through the double doors into the bright sunlight. I ran all the way home, sobbing.
	Unfortunately, none of this was enough to convince my parents to move. They allowed me one day to stay at home after speaking with my teacher and the principal, just one lousy day to imagine with mounting dread how the rest of my life would be defined by this disgrace.
	I arrived back at school the following day. The shy, kind kids gave me covert looks of concern. The teachers eyed me warily. Some of the meaner kids made duck noises as I passed or stuck bread in my locker, and it was Todd that stuck me with the nickname ‘Quackers’, which hovered over me like a malignant miasma all the way through high school. Compounding this misery was the fact I never truly shook my fear, which, whatever Mrs. Trott and the rest of my class might believe, was as real as can be. 
	I was never truly safe from it. Inside, outside, didn’t matter. It wasn’t every waking minute by any means, but I can count on one hand the number of days that I didn’t feel It observing me. A reasonable person might have dumped their trauma on a therapist to sort it out, but I had learned from experience what happened when you shared your deepest secrets. Besides, I felt I knew what they would ask, how little it would illuminate. I couldn’t recall the first time it had happened, only that one day it was there: a watchful presence, raising the hairs on the back of my neck with its gaze. I don’t remember a duck that day; I was very small then, and any cute animals would have been immediately taken stock of and noted. It could have been the day after or the week; one day I just knew the form of my tormentor with perfect certainty. It was strange- I wasn’t afraid of the animal itself; I made efforts to expose myself to them, hoping to allay my fears. I could spend all day at the pond, throwing bits of bread as they waddled around my feet. It was when I left, just when I thought I was out of sight and earshot, I felt It; a needling, penetrating gaze, silently watching, judging, tracking. It was maddening.
	I thought it would dissipate when I left town for college; that maybe my young mind had conflated my perceived fear with that of my fifth-grade humiliation, and once removed from this source I would be free. I walked the campus at orientation, and there it was once more, ceaseless. At least here I was free from ‘Quackers’.
	So I coped. I ignored It, confident in Its harmlessness. Sometimes It helped me, in a roundabout way. It made me hyper-aware of my surroundings, and more than once I felt that I escaped a potentially dangerous situation because I had been paying attention. College wrapped up, and with my degree in hand, I returned back home. It followed, of course.
	After settling in, reuniting with my parents, and touching base with the few friends I had left behind, I decided that it was time, at last, to break free from Its hold on me. Even if I couldn’t be free of Its gaze, I could be free of the stigma I had worn since I was ten. College had shaped and strengthened me, and I was confident now in my adult body and mind in ways that had been impossible even four years prior. Plainly put, I had grown into myself.
	 I looked up some old classmates to see who was still in town. Oddly, Todd was the first one I stumbled on that was confirmed still here, and his profile showed that he too had changed, at least at a glance. He was fit and surprisingly handsome and worked the door at Tillie’s, the pub in town. A perfect place to start- kill the head, the body will die.
	I donned a snug dress and makeup and headed out for drinks that night. I saw Todd, sitting on a stool at the door, checking IDs. If I felt a gaze while in line, it wasn’t from anything with feathers.
	Todd looked at me with a smile but without recognition, but did a double take when he saw my I.D.
	“Holy hell! Jenny?” he cried, gently touching my arm and looking me up and down. “You look amazing! How are you?”
	I was surprised at his genuine delight at seeing me. Looks helped, sure, but how he treated me now was such a far cry from high school that I began to distrust my own memory. We chatted briefly, as the line behind me had swelled, but he invited me to grab a drink with him when he was free.
	A few hours later we were deep in conversation. He had a wife and a kid and worked this gig to help pay for his daughter’s speech therapy. I filled him in on college life. We had had enough beer and cocktails to loosen my tongue enough to finally bring up what I had come to say.
	“Todd, this has been great catching up with you again, but I need to ask…”
	His face clouded.
	“Hey look,” he said, forestalling me by putting his hand over mine in a friendly way.
“I owe you a huge apology. I was a complete and utter asshole to you, and you didn’t deserve it. I’ve felt awful about it pretty much since Ruthie started therapy, whenI imagined how terrible it would be if she was… you know, made fun of because of something she couldn’t control. God, I’m so sorry, Jenny. I really hope you’re doing well. Are you still…” he looked at me bashfully, “Are you still dealing with that fear of yours?”
	“Nah,” I lied smoothly. “Been gone for a long time. I realized how crazy it was to be frightened of something that was not even there. Done and over it. And I accept your apology; you guys must have thought I was nuts that day, afraid of a phantom duck, of all things.”
	Todd looked at me quizzically. “What do you mean, phantom?”
	“You know,” I replied, sipping on my cocktail, “Fifth grade. I was yelling at all of you that a duck was watching me. Ironic, that the assignment was to confront and get rid of a stupid fear and instead that moment ended up haunting pretty much until now. Boom, I’m the crazy girl for the rest of my life.”
	Todd leaned back, looking disbelieving. 
	“Jenny… You mean, nobody told you? In all that time?”
	I felt a coldness creeping across my chest.
	“Told me what, Todd?”
	He shook his head.
	“After you ran out of class, we saw a little duck, sitting in the bushes outside Trott’s class.”
	My breathing quickened. The booze in my stomach roiled and threatened to make an exit.
	“It was pretty weird, it took off down the courtyard when you left. We all thought you couldn’t come up with an answer to the assignment, panicked, saw the duck, and went along with your wild story. That’s why I called you… you know.” He looked sheepishly at me. “It was stupid, and I’m sorry.”
	I stood up abruptly. The room was spinning. Did they not see? Did none of them understand? 
	“Hey,” he said, standing as well, “You okay? Do you need some water or something?”
	I threw a twenty down on the table and fled the pub, fifth-grade me shaking her head sadly. Nothing ever changes, not really. The warm summer air greeted me as I burst out the door, trying not to trip in my heels. I heard Todd calling after me as I ran down the street, and ducked into an alleyway to avoid him. I ran without thought, just wanting to get away, away, away.
	Finally, I stopped, gasping for air. I leaned on the chilly brick exterior of the nearest building, breathing heavily, fighting the urge to be sick. Eventually, I calmed down, and the night took shape around me. I did not immediately recognize my surroundings. I had spent too much time away from this town. I turned and made my way back down the maze of alleys, feeling watched.
	Turn.
	Above me, I thought I heard the ghostly beating of wings disturbing the air. My heart thudded.
	Turn.
	A quiet slapping footfall, ungainly and fast. A scream rose in my throat, just like all those years ago.
	Turn. 
	A dead end and a dumpster. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
	Turn.
	Quack, Quack.
 
","July 14, 2023 14:17",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,atv69i,Raccoon,Christopher Kolar,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/atv69i/,/short-story/atv69i/,Character,0,['Fiction'],10 likes,"
      Alone at night in the backyard of my grandparents’ house, I heard it. A deep sharp scratching behind me from within the shadow of the porch roof. The water I was bringing to the rabbit sloshed onto my jeans. Despite the cold running down my legs and the gusts of wind wanting to push me forward, it were as if a steel bar had gone down my back into the ground and was holding me in place. 
           A raccoon emerged out of the darkness. Its round iridescent eyes like that of a bandit fixed on me immediately and then, ignoring me, it waddled its girth and largeness away, followed by several smaller raccoons. Together, they clambered single-file up to the broken and missing shingles and pulled themselves over the eavestrough before disappearing once more into the night.
           I don’t know why they had ventured onto the house. Perhaps to warm themselves by the chimney. Or evade the coyotes that skulked in the woods. I had never seen a raccoon out in the wild before, let alone a family of them; if a house off a county road constituted the wild. But then I had never been out so late to get pellets and water to my grandfather’s rabbit in a hutch he had nailed together from scrap wood and chicken wire. 
           The show over, I picked up the watering pail as a plaintive cry came from the porch roof. A much smaller raccoon was cooing in circles in the moonlight. It clawed halfway up the singles before returning to the safety of the flat roof. The large raccoon reappeared at the top of the eavestrough and softly chirred. My neck growing stiff from looking up, I lowered my head into my chest. When I looked up again, the smaller raccoon had shimmied midway up beside the spout. It peered down to the flat roof below and up at the overhanging eavestrough. The large raccoon loudly chittered before disappearing once again. The smaller raccoon trundled up, reaching the overhanging eavestrough. As it tried to pull itself over once, twice, a third time, its hind legs dangling, growing weaker, its claws scratching furiously at the metal trough, it fell in a whimpering thud to the hard ground below. 
     ""Dad!"" I raced up the back stairs and kicked off my grandfather's heavy galoshes.
     ""Shhhh! Marc. You know grandmother's not well,"" my mother said wearily, her neck resting against the couch. 
       ""But a raccoon. I saw it fall! Off Grandpa's roof!""
    ""What's that?"" my dad asked as he turned another page of his newspaper. The television was off so they could keep an ear out for grandmother in bed on the second floor where she had been for months now.
     I dug my hands deep into my pockets, took several deep breaths and started again. 
  “A raccoon. It fell off the house. Maybe we can nurse it back to health. The way grandpa did with that crow.”
     ""Marcus, that's quite enough,"" my mother said. 
     ""But Mum!""
     ""Maybe I ought to have a look,"" my father put in.
     ""Well, go,"" my mother said, leaning her head back to close her eyes once again.
 
* 
  ""You said that it fell from way up there?"" my father asked and looked away from the roof. I held back and nodded with my entire body. The backyard was dripping with spring as if winter was melting under the floodlights beaming from the house. 
   I flipped up my hood as my father raised the raccoon by its hind legs. I knew where he was heading. To the maple bush. I trailed behind as I had done with my grandfather when we went tramping through the backfields with his shotgun. The raccoon’s eyes no longer reflected behind its mask now; its fur which had bristled in the moonlight had dulled a furtive grey. To avoid looking at the raccoon, I gazed at the rag-tag regatta of silver-rimmed clouds as they raced past the moon. 
     ""Dad!"" I cried as he flung the raccoon deep inside the maple bushes.
     ""What?"" 
     ""Is it dead?""  
     ""Dead as a doornail.” 
     He wiped his hands on his pants, wanting to have nothing more to do with the raccoon. If it had been my grandfather, he’d know what to do with it. Skin it. Right in front of me with his jackknife. Make a coonskin cap out of it. Feed its flesh and bones to coyotes and crows. Like the squirrels and groundhogs, he caught and skinned, leaving their hides stacked like cardboard alongside Bertie nibbling at her wire cage.
   “C'mon. We've got to drive back to the city. You`ve got school tomorrow.""
     ""Can’t I stay?""
     ""You sure? There ain't a helluva lot to do out here.""
 
    I watched the headlights of my father’s car pull away from the woodlot dripping in a warm sodden green. Only a week ago, the yard had been caked in snow. Once more the yard fell into darkness, and I lay back on the bed my grandfather had put together from scrap wood we found on County Rd 8. The bed attached only by chains on the wall. The room wasn't anything like my bedroom in the city. It was small and smelled. The blankets were rough and thin as prison blankets.   
     But I loved the bed And the stories my grandfather told of shoot'em ups and bank heists. How he and Hank Fisher took care of the Donnelly brothers who tried siphoning gas from their truck. Stories I never got tired of hearing when my grandfather was in the mood to tell them.  
      “Do you want to come to say goodnight to Gramma Florence?”
      My mother was standing in the light of the doorway. 
     “Do I have to?”
     “Then go get washed up and ready for bed.”
     “Just cause I won't see grandma.” 
      “No, not just because. Now go get washed up.” 
     I was convinced it was Gramma Florence’s doing. The same way she blamed my grandfather for everything. She could never be happy just being with him. She always had to find fault. Always badgering and barking at him. As I brushed my teeth, I could still hear my grandfather bellowing from the kitchen.
     “A liar! A liar! Me, a liar!”
     ""A boldface one at that. Filling that poor child's head with all those stories.""  
     ""At least, I'm not a stubborn old mule!"" 
     “ Is that what I am?""
     ""If my eyes were any better, I'd swear that you just 'bout look like one, too.""
     With a smile, I rinsed my toothbrush and closed the bathroom light. On my way to bed, I stopped in the hallway before Grandmother Florence’s bedroom. My mother was sitting in a chair brought up from the living room. A yellow table lamp was casting a cheerless glow over the nightstand crowded with pill bottles. In bed, lay Grandmother Florence. Motionless, staring up at the ceiling. Her small dark eyes like slivers of coal in a pale doughy face the colour of sulphur. 
     “Is she any better?” I asked. 
     “The same.” She laid her book aside and rinsed a washcloth in a basin to place it on her mother's forehead. “She's a tough old bird. I'll give her that much. Had to be to put up with your grandfather. Come here, hon.”
     I held my breath and stepped forward. Liniment and camphor were suffocating the air. Before I could protest before I could say anything, a wooden box lay in my hands.  
     “I know she'd want you to have it. It was hers when she was a young girl.”
     It was a box shellacked with stamps from around the world. When I opened it, it smelled of hamster shavings. It was like my grandmother. The way she claimed her pancakes, pies and roast beef were the best but you had to chew and chew to force the down. I dropped the box onto the foot of the bed.
     “I don't want it. Tell her to keep it.” 
   “Marc—"" 
   I didn't wait for her to finish but left the bedroom. The way my grandfather walked past the prison guards at the penitentiary. His head held high with two suitcases down in his hands.
 
  The next morning I hurried through breakfast. I wanted to check on the raccoon before my dad arrived to drive me to school. But breakfast was late. My mother came into the kitchen in her bathrobe open. Grandmother Florence she said had had another rough night.  
        “I don’t know why you didn’t return home with your father last night? Breakfast would’ve been so much easier. How do you feel about toast and peanut butter?”
         “Sure.”
      She brought out the old grill pan from under the cupboard my grandfather had found and repaired. Like my father, my mother stared at the grill pan, not knowing what to do. 
   “You’re supposed to open the sides like this,” I said. I got up from my chair. My hands traced where my grandfather’s hand had been and the side panels dropped open. I placed the slices in, closed up the panels and pressed the lever down the way my grandfather had done. My parents’ toaster could never make toast like that.
 
      Most Saturdays my father let the traffic pass us, in no hurry to drive out to my grandparents`. But this morning, he passed the cars and trucks, hitting the steering wheel with his fists before a tractor hauling hay before moving into the on-coming lane to overtake it. When we arrived, Mother was up in Grandmother Florence’s bedroom. A nurse who I hadn’t seen before was in the room. Grandmother Florence could barely be seen under the blankets. My father relaxed somewhat as the nurse spoke to him and then discretely left the room, taking her kit with her. 
     As quiet as lunches were in the house, it was even quieter in the bedroom. One or two words were all that was said between my parents as I sat on a chair in a corner, my heels kicking against the legs, wanting to be outside, to be anywhere but here. My parents brought their chairs closer to the bed. I stopped drumming my heels when my father rose from his chair and reached to hold onto Grandmother Florence’s hand. I heard a gasp. I couldn’t tell if it were my mother or my grandmother. My father's arm came around my mother’s shoulder. Tears were streaming down both my parents’ cheeks. 
     “Mom?” I said, standing beside her.
     She pulled me closer as she brushed tears away.
     “I'll go get the nurse,” my father said and left.
     “Mum?” I asked again.
      She widened her smile behind reddened eyes.
      “Her suffering is over,”"" was all she said.
 
     Later, with the sun coming through the living room windows, melting the last of the snow in the tall uncut grass out front, and my parents on the phone in the dining room, I sensed it would be the last time here. They were talking to cousins, aunts, and uncles, almost anyone who knew our grandmother. From time to time, I was called over to say hello to a cousin George or an aunt Helen. After, I returned to staring out the window when the kitchen screen door slammed open.
     ""Hey there, Skipper,"" my grandfather said in a pair the black wraparound sunglasses as he stood leaning in the doorway.
     ""Hey, Gramps."" 
     He looked thinner than I remembered, with a bristly grey beard now. But still wearing a black t-shirt that showed off his biceps and tattoo. His grey hair tied in a long ponytail. Smartly he stuck the sunglasses in the front of his t-shirt. A purple shiner was under his right eye. 
      “You got anything for me, Grandpa?”
      “Sure do, kid.” He reached into his jeans and pulled out a pile of lottery tickets and placed them in my palms. “Could be a winner in there. I didn’t check them all yet.”
      I turned to see my parents enter the kitchen.  
      “What are you doing back here?” my mother asked.
      “Just come to collect a few things. How's the old bird doin’?” 
      “Do you even care?”
      “No, as a matter of fact.”
    He pushed himself off the doorway, rubbing the top of my head as he went past. 
    “You're drunk,” she said. 
    “Very observant, daughter of mine.”
    “Patricia, let it go.” 
    “Yes, listen to your husband.” 
    “Get the hell out of here. She's dead now. We're putting the house up for sale, and I don't want to ever see you again.”
     “Over my dead body you’r. This here is still my house.”
     “Sam, I think you'd better leave. You can pay your respects at the funeral salon.”
     “I'll see here right now. She's still my old lady.”
     “John!” my mother said.
     “Hey, she asked you to leave. Now I'm telling you to leave.”
     “Get out of my way. I may be old, but I can still wipe your ass.”
     “Look, Sam. We don't want any trouble.”
   “Trouble. You want trouble, I'll give you fucking trouble.” He swung and missed, losing his balance, his head landing inches from the stove, the sunglasses flying across the floor. I watched my father hold him down as my mother went to the phone. My grandfather continued to struggle, freeing an arm. 
    “Come here, boy. Come here. Help your old grandad,” he pleaded as he reached out to grab my hand.
 
","July 14, 2023 14:45","[[{'Amanda Rantanen': 'I enjoyed this sentence,""I gazed at the rag-tag regatta of silver-rimmed clouds as they raced past the moon."" Also,  the words,  chirred, shimmied, and chittered were used well in succession of each other.  Is the racoon a symbol of grampa with his sunglasses,  grey hair and ponytail? The boy is keen on the racoon and grandpa even though they are bandits and not liked by the mother and father.  The boy is more observant and empathetic than his parents.  Good story.', 'time': '01:12 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christopher Kolar': 'Thanks Amanda for taking the time to comment. And you are spot on! In a later version, I have the boy beating on his father to help the old man. I retitled it The Little Bandit.  What do you think? Is the present ending satisfying for the reader?', 'time': '02:44 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Christopher Kolar': 'Thanks Amanda for taking the time to comment. And you are spot on! In a later version, I have the boy beating on his father to help the old man. I retitled it The Little Bandit.  What do you think? Is the present ending satisfying for the reader?', 'time': '02:44 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Galen Gower': ""Couple typos, but altogether, man, solid story.\n\nI don't know how easy it is, but I feel like you should flesh your stories out and put together an anthology."", 'time': '19:55 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christopher Kolar': 'Thanks again Galen for not only taking the time to read the story but to comment on it as well. I like your suggestion. And in fact, I am working on putting together a collection of story stories. But I need to be as close to publishing before I find someone willing to publish them.  But then, aren`t we all. And you, sir, need to keep writing. Your best work is when you write about the human condition.', 'time': '21:50 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Galen Gower': ""Thanks, Chris! I've gotten fairly disillusioned with this website. I don't trust the judging system at all. I don't expect to win, but I don't think my stories were ever read. I'm going to pursue other contests and publications, but I will definitely keep reading your stories and others here."", 'time': '00:29 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Christopher Kolar': 'If you aren`t talking about self-mutilation, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts, gore and teenage angst, this site ain`t for you. One site you might want to consider is Scribophile. There aren`t any contests but you give and get critiques.  And of course, it`s free. If you would like, I can send you a long short story at your email address.', 'time': '03:21 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Galen Gower': ""Sure man, that's cool. My email is just my first and last name at Gmail."", 'time': '04:47 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Christopher Kolar': 'Thanks again Galen for not only taking the time to read the story but to comment on it as well. I like your suggestion. And in fact, I am working on putting together a collection of story stories. But I need to be as close to publishing before I find someone willing to publish them.  But then, aren`t we all. And you, sir, need to keep writing. Your best work is when you write about the human condition.', 'time': '21:50 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Galen Gower': ""Thanks, Chris! I've gotten fairly disillusioned with this website. I don't trust the judging system at all. I don't expect to win, but I don't think my stories were ever read. I'm going to pursue other contests and publications, but I will definitely keep reading your stories and others here."", 'time': '00:29 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Christopher Kolar': 'If you aren`t talking about self-mutilation, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts, gore and teenage angst, this site ain`t for you. One site you might want to consider is Scribophile. There aren`t any contests but you give and get critiques.  And of course, it`s free. If you would like, I can send you a long short story at your email address.', 'time': '03:21 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Galen Gower': ""Sure man, that's cool. My email is just my first and last name at Gmail."", 'time': '04:47 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Galen Gower': ""Thanks, Chris! I've gotten fairly disillusioned with this website. I don't trust the judging system at all. I don't expect to win, but I don't think my stories were ever read. I'm going to pursue other contests and publications, but I will definitely keep reading your stories and others here."", 'time': '00:29 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christopher Kolar': 'If you aren`t talking about self-mutilation, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts, gore and teenage angst, this site ain`t for you. One site you might want to consider is Scribophile. There aren`t any contests but you give and get critiques.  And of course, it`s free. If you would like, I can send you a long short story at your email address.', 'time': '03:21 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Galen Gower': ""Sure man, that's cool. My email is just my first and last name at Gmail."", 'time': '04:47 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Christopher Kolar': 'If you aren`t talking about self-mutilation, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts, gore and teenage angst, this site ain`t for you. One site you might want to consider is Scribophile. There aren`t any contests but you give and get critiques.  And of course, it`s free. If you would like, I can send you a long short story at your email address.', 'time': '03:21 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Galen Gower': ""Sure man, that's cool. My email is just my first and last name at Gmail."", 'time': '04:47 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Galen Gower': ""Sure man, that's cool. My email is just my first and last name at Gmail."", 'time': '04:47 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ma50uo,Getting Over It,Kade Baker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ma50uo/,/short-story/ma50uo/,Character,0,"['Suspense', 'Horror', 'Sad']",10 likes,"
Jolting claps of flame, thunder on the brain. Sinewed synapses writhing, electric tentacles in the dark. Pulsing jellyfish to a tube worm’s feather, a consuming mycelium on a decaying carcass. That sudden realisation of the mess you’re in, you know the sort. A twisting, wrenching, churning sinkhole inside that could swallow life itself. You can’t leave here, you know that. 
 
	Act natural. Are you sitting upright? Do you look your best today? I hope no one’s watching. Judging you for not having a significant other, a house, a car. Because that’s what you want, and it’s what they all have. Stop biting your nails, it’s weird. Everyone watches you indulge your compulsions, and they think you’re disgusting. That’s why you stay perfectly still when Emily looks over, so you can’t do anything wrong. She smiled at you, once. You couldn’t sleep for days. The back of her head, a cascading chocolate ponytail under the white office light. Her soft neck and the intoxicating perfume that calls to you from across the room, a taunting pheromone you can’t stop drawing in. You’re obsessed with her, she’s all you think about. The only good thing about working in this gruelling office is the woman who doesn’t even know that you exist. 
 
	Fantasies of what could be culminate daydreams, and you almost muster the courage to go talk to her. All that empty gumption and false bravado is swiftly silenced by Chris. Emily always laughs at his jokes. The blushes and giggles, and the way she always plays with her hair when he speaks. He’s smooth, gift of the gab, but he’s also fat. He doesn’t look after himself whatsoever. He took your promotion, and now you’re the accountant that amends his financial documents. You’re the nit-picking monkey who’s been slogging away in this whitewash hell for three years, and he's coming up to his first. 
	The boss, Andrew, is a stuck-up tosser. He assured you’d get a pay rise on multiple occasions, but you heard nothing. You hate him. Detest him. What’s stopping you from ki-
 
	“David, what’re you doing?”
 
	“Sir, I-” He stammers, frantically jerking the mouse around his dirty desk and minimizing the personal document.
 
	“Did you finish analysing the asset turnover ratio?” The boss questions, leaning over and trying to read the spreadsheet on the monitor.
 
	“I was looking at the um, the short-term and the cash flow. I think, well, the current account-”
 
	“David, I asked you to do that two hours ago. What have you been doing this whole time?” Andrew questions loudly, and the office falls deadly quiet.
 
	“It was taking longer than I thought it would.”
 
	“That’s not good enough, what’s that document there.”
 
	“Where?”
 
	“It’s minimized down there, is that work?”
 
	“Um, no. That’s nothing. Not work.”
 
	“Open it up, show me.”
 
	“Sir, I don’t want to.”
 
 
	“Do I look like your schoolteacher? My name’s Andrew. Open the document.”
 
	David reluctantly shifts the mouse down to the taskbar and returns the piece to its maximised state. He feels the blood rush to his face and his stomach melting as Andrew silently reads the whole thing.
 
	“If only your accounting was as good as your poetry.”
 
	David dissociates in his chair and starts counting the individual pixels on the monitor screen.
 
	“We can’t have harassment in the workplace. Your feelings for Emily, Chris and I need to be kept to yourself in the future, alright? Not in your personal diary.”
 
	“What did he say about me?” Chris demands.
 
	“Well, he started writing poetry and then it turned into a deviant little rant. I don’t want to offend you, but he wrote about you being fat.”
 
	Chris chuckles for a while before returning to his work. Emily doesn’t move a muscle. She’ll pretend like she didn’t hear but David knows how intelligent she is, how switched on she can be.
 
	“And David, this is why you’ll never get a pay rise, because there will always be someone better than you.”
 
	“Yes, sir.”
 
 
	“Andrew.”
 
	“Sorry.”
 
	“You’d better stay later and crack on with some admin for Chris’s files. Treat it as an apology for being rude to him.”
 
 
	“Okay.”
 
	“Oh, and David, you couldn’t kill me.” He puts a hand down on David’s sloped shoulder.
 
	“You can’t even walk to the printer without pissing yourself.” Andrew grins as Chris erupts into laughter again, and he returns to his own office.
 
	David remains frozen for the remainder of the day. He skips lunch, doesn’t drink, and steadily completes his work. As colleagues leave one by one, he finally feels at ease. No more eyes, no one to look at him. He opens his inbox to find mail from twenty-six minutes ago. A folder sent from none other than ‘chrismanagerial@balanceconsult.com’ along with a subject containing the description ‘Fat Administration :)’. Documents upon documents that he must have been sitting on for days like a rotten hen, now casually dropped into David’s inbox for him to deal with tonight.
 
	Robert, in marketing, just finished working on some new flyers for the company. He’s a softly spoken and kind man, a few years younger than David. He lets out a sigh, switches off his computer and hauls a rucksack over his shoulder.
 
	“Alright mate?” He startles David who was entranced by the monitor.
 
	“Yeah, I’m alright, Rob. Yourself?”
 
	“Knackered, it’s been a long one.” He moans, turning to leave.
 
	“Me and the boys are going down the Oval for a few pints and some pool at seven. You’re more than welcome to come.”
 
	“Thanks, but I think I’ll be heading home after this.” David brushes him off.
 
	“You don’t have to play; I’ll buy the first round and you can come have a laugh with us. Colin’s there, you’ll like him, he’s a scream.”
 
	“I’ll think about it.” David smiles, leaving it in the air so Robert would stop asking.
 
	The PVC door at reception slams shut, leaving David the last desk-jockey alive in this soulless prison. There’s a certain peace with being alone. It’s not a positive thing but equally not a negative either. David’s comfort lies deeper than the surface of his skin, for his imagination can run wild when the fear takes control. 
 
	He opens the embarrassing document once again, ruby red as he reads. Fingers start prodding the keyboard as he constructs more phrases for his feelings, more analogies for his thoughts. This method of mental digestion soothes his sickly stomach. He types until he feels his bladder. Shooting pains ricochet through his quadriceps and knees as he gets up for the first time since eight o’ clock this the morning. Waddles past the printer, he glosses over the patch of carpet he wet himself upon last month. It’s all dried now, but he still pictures the stinking, straw-coloured puddle that was once discharged from his pathetic body.
 
	Down the corridor near the kitchen, David pushes the toilet door with his unkempt hands. The keratin talons on his fingers bend against the wood. Staring at the ground to avoid eye contact in the long mirrors, he navigates to the furthest cubicle. The one he routinely eats his lunch in. Dropping the toilet seat down and perching on the bowl, shooting pains fly through his legs once again. While urinating, he clamps his eyes shut for a few seconds, and everything goes quiet.
 
 SQUEAK
 
	The unmistakable sound of the gent’s door shatters the silence. David hastily lifts his legs from foot view, his eyes wide with shock. Waiting for a moment, holding breath deep in his chest. No footsteps followed; the door is too heavy to be a draft. Mere moments feel like years before David cautiously worms his way to his feet. A sensation he knows all too well trickles down his spine, and the feeling of being watched lurches over. Animalistic tingles of flight or fight spark the urge to turn, let curiosity execute the decision. By slowly panning his eyeballs to the right, he can finally see it in his peripheral vision. Up above, in the next cubicle, someone is looking over at him. A mass of sorts unmoving. David’s heart pumps wildly, though his body turns cold. The swallowing, squeezing contractions of his oesophagus echo loudly in contrast to the nothingness around him. He meditatively inhales in preparation to stare back, face the individual observing him. Just as he spins to the right, the mass sinks below. David opens the door and walks round to the neighbouring cubicle. Upon inspection of the interior, he finds nothing.
 
	“Yeah, really funny.” He stammers mildly at the door. After the interruption and forgetting to flush, he returns to his designated cubicle and fumbles with the flush lever. Walking back out into the vastness of the room, it’s now there in the corner. Facing the wall, the dark mass stands stationary by the sink. At first, David rubs his eyes. What he is seeing, he cannot physically perceive. Like a lash stuck to the cornea, or unidentifiable remains of an insect plastered a windscreen, David’s eyeballs struggle to communicate the information to his brain quick enough. Whoever, or whatever this being is, shouldn’t be there. Not in this world.
 
	He begins walking backward at a speed slower than a tortoise, holding his gaze upon the man-shaped optical abrasion before him. Tensing what little muscle he owned, he prepares for the moment that the thing flies toward him. Though it never happens. He backs out of the door, making sure to gently release the squealing hinge. Once it was fully shut, he ran for his life. Snatching and clutching all his belongings, he takes to the PVC door.
 
	Agoraphobia is usually blinding, but David had never been more relieved to be outside. The bus stop is nearby, and he doesn’t have to wait long for the 103. It’s late, everyone is eating tea with their families now. The bus is almost empty, there’s no one except an old man sitting near the back. David barely squats on the lip of a seat in the middle of the bus, making sure to keep his hands to himself in prevention of touching any nasty germs that may be present. Fixating on the red ‘stop’ sign on the yellow handrail, he waits until the bus driver peels away. The journey back round his town was a quick one, and the view from the window was startling. Every stop along the high street yielded more of those embossed black phantoms. Their piercing existence carved into David retina, his fearful focus glides back to the comfort of the red button once again.
 
	One by one, in his peripherals, empty seats begin filling up with shadow men. He opens his bag and tears a page from an accountancy book. Scribbles and scrawls as the black pen crawls, steadily he writes about things in his sight. Those beings of haze maintain their gaze. Darker than coal, penetrating his soul.
 
	Everything around David suddenly dissipates. The bus driver has parked up and is walking to the rear of the vehicle. There, he places his hand on the old man’s shoulders, waking him up from his doze.
 
	“Sorry to wake you, Stuart. This is your stop.”
 
	The old man’s eyes slowly pry open, revealing sunken holes in his visage.
 
	“Can I not stay on for another round, Michael?” Stuart’s fragile capillaries make up a small, bruised hand that gently wraps around the driver’s.
 
	“It’s my last round, I’ve got to get home to the kids, mate.”
 
	Stuart closes his eyes again, loosening his grip on Michael.
 
	“I think it’s my last round too.” He crackles, a singular tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek. 
 
	“Michael, I’m starting to think that I’m really lonely.”
 
	“I’m sorry.” The driver mumbles, unsure of what to say.
 
	“Although,” Stuart smiles. “There’s only so much riding and old geezer can do in one day.”
 
	“Can I drop you home?” Michael asks softly.
 
	“It’s alright, I don’t mind walking, and you’ve got your tea to eat.”
 
	The driver helps Stuart to his feet as he shuffles down the walkway. As he reaches David, he stops for just a moment and looks toward him.
 
	“I don’t think you ever really get over it. You only learn to live with it.” Stuart solemnly states. “It’s Friday night, son. Shouldn’t you be with your friends?”
 
	“Come on, Stuart.” Michael impatiently guides him to the door. The frail man poodles along the street, holding his plastic bag of things.
 
 “When there’s no getting over that rainbow.” He sings heartily outside. “When my smallest of dreams won’t come true.”
 
	The driver apologises for the delay and continues his journey. David looks onward for a while before quickly punching the red button.
 
	“Getting off?” Michael questions.
 
	“Yes, I’m going to go to the Oval.”
 
	The driver goes to speak then hesitates. He checks his watch instead.
 
	“I’ll drop you nearby.”
 
	“Thank you.” David breaks a small smile.
 
	Outside the Oval was busy. It may not have been for other people, but for David, it was a lot. He slowly drops from the door of the bus, and they shut behind him. The impending doom washes over once again, his sickness twists around inside. He stares at the ground whilst walking, avoiding eye contact with the patriots outside. Soon enough, those patches scratch into view once again. 
 
 “LOOK AT ME.”
 
	A shadow hisses and screeches repeatedly.
 
 “LISTEN.”
 
	Another screams from across the way.
 
 “I AM THE WORD IN YOUR EAR.”
 
	He pushes past and gets inside. Immediately, he is overwhelmed by the sounds of clinking pint glasses, scraping chairs, fruit machines, music, pool, chatter, laughter, singing, shouting, it’s all too much. He becomes entirely overwhelmed.
 
	“David!” A voice calls. “Nice to see you, man.”
 
	Robert is leant against the pool table; his friends bat their eyes.
 
	“Oh, God.” David utters. The expression he wears is that of an animal in headlights. He turns back out the door and into the quiet street. The masses move in close, reaching out to hold him. They’re clearer now. The faces of Andrew, Chris, and his own parents, all dance around as they shriek.
 
	“Stop it, just stop it.” David blubbers, swaying his arms around to waft them away. They dissipate and reform like black mist, covering his eyes and face. He falls to the floor and folds up into a ball. He cries like he never has before.
 
	“David, what’s going on?” A familiar voice asks.
 
	“I saw something I shouldn’t have, and now it’s coming to get me.” He chokes back tears.
 
	“Let’s get you up on your feet mate, ‘cause your making a scene here.”
 
	David is helped up and held by a couple of men. They walk him over to the bench and set him down, sitting down next to him themselves.
 
	“Right. What’s going on, fella?”
 
	“I can’t do this anymore.” He sobs.
 
	“The world is caving in on me, I’m being crushed.”
 
	An arm falls over his shoulders, and one of the men lean in. It’s Chris.
 
	“The world is fine, Dave.” He assures. “You’re the only one crushing you.”
 
	“I can’t do anything right, I’m useless.”
 
	“Did you finish the admin files earlier?” He questions.
 
	“Y-yeah.” He sniffs.
 
	“Well, there you go. I wouldn’t call that useless.”
 
	“But that’s monkey’s work. Child’s play compared to what you do.”
 
	“Dave, my job is easy. What you do, however, keeps the company together. You work harder than anyone does in that office, so don’t think bad of yourself. You’re the glue, my friend.” He pats David’s back.
 
	“Sorry for calling you fat.”
 
	“I could do with losing a little weight,” Chris chuckles. “No one is out to get you, and you can’t let Dave hold you back.”
 
	“We’re all in the same boat.” Robert adds. “It does get hard sometimes, no matter who you are. Just remember that you do have friends, people who care about you. I know things have been hard since the passing of your parents, but we’re always going to be here.”
 
	“We both know you want to leave this place sometimes, Dave.” Chris looks out onto the road. “But if you weren’t here, our lives wouldn’t be the same anymore. You’d be leaving us in a world without you.” 
 
	“There may be no getting over it,” Robert continues. “But there’s always learning to live with it.”
 
“Thank you, both. I think you’ve just saved me.”
","July 11, 2023 08:16",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,mzwoqg,From Shadows to Words,Madison Stodghill,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mzwoqg/,/short-story/mzwoqg/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",10 likes,"
Several centuries ago, there was a little girl named Emily who lived in a small town called Willowbrook. It is in her nature to spend time in the quiet corners of nature, dreaming and creating beautiful stories in her mind that it is that she was a kind-hearted and imaginative girl who loved nothing more than spending time in the quiet corners of nature. Throughout her life, Emily poured her heart and soul into writing, and it was evident from the style of her writing that she loved writing.
 
In spite of this, Emily had suffered from a variety of hardships throughout her life. It
was impossible for her to let go of the years of being bullied by those she loved most - her family - for which she had suffered as a result. They never took notice of her writing, discouraging it as being merely childish whims.
There was constant pressure placed on her by her family, particularly her parents, to devote her time to something more practical and conventional in order to avoid wasting it as they assumed she was.
 
It was not only her family who bullied her, but she was also ridiculed by those around her at school for being different. They mocked her for her love of writing, calling her names like ""weirdo"" and ""dreamer."" Through it all,
Emily felt isolated and alone, unable to share her true self with anyone.
 
But amidst the darkness, a flicker of light appeared in Emily's life. His name was Harry, a classmate she had only known for a month but felt as if they had known each other since childhood. While initially distant, Harry had always observed Emily from afar, captivated by her resilience and talent. Sensing her inner pain, he
made it his mission to befriend Emily and offer her the understanding and support she longed for.
 
As their friendship grew, Harry began to appreciate Emily's writing. He recognized the depth of her imagination and the power of her words. Harry encouraged Emily to share her stories with him; with each passing day, he became her inexhaustible source of inspiration and motivation. One evening, something changed as Emily and Harry sat by the riverbank. Emily timidly confessed her greatest fear, which she had buried deep within herself, fearing judgment and ridicule. She confided in Harry that she was terrified of reading
her work publicly.
 
Harry listened attentively, understanding her fear's weight and knowing that conquering it would be the key to her freedom. He crafted a plan to help Emily face her fear with utmost care and support.
 
""We'll start small,"" Harry said, a reassuring smile on his face. ""We'll
organize a small gathering and invite just a few friends and family. You can read one of your stories aloud, showing them the beauty you create with your words. And I promise to be there by your side the entire time. I'm not going anywhere.""
 
Emily's heart raced at the thought of standing before a crowd, but the warm presence of Harry beside her brought her comfort. With his unwavering belief in her abilities, she could not refuse. Days turned into weeks as Emily prepared for the gathering. With Harry's guidance, she practiced reading her stories aloud, refining her delivery and overcoming the fear that had haunted her for so long. The thought of disappointing Harry was far more daunting than the fear of public reading, which somehow gave her newfound strength.
 
Finally, the day arrived. The room was adorned with warm lights, and close friends and family gathered around. Emily's heart fluttered with anticipation as she took her place in front of the small audience. Harry stood beside her, his supportive
presence anchoring her. With trembling hands, Emily began to read. Her voice started softly, but with each passing sentence, she grew bolder and more confident. As she wove tales of magic and adventure, her words filled the room with a mesmerizing enchantment.
 
The audience listened intently, captivated by her story and the vulnerability with which she shared it. Emily's fear melted away, replaced by a sense of freedom and joy she had never known before. She finally saw the impact her words could have on
others and the power they held within herself.
 
When Emily finished her reading, the room erupted with applause. Tears of joy rose in her eyes, and Harry stood beside her, beaming with pride. At that moment, Emily knew that she had faced her greatest fear, overcoming the darkness of her past.
 
As Emily's writing flourished, she became more aware of the impact her words could have on others. She started receiving messages from her readers, expressing how her stories had brought them solace and hope during difficult times. Each message filled her heart with gratitude and further reaffirmed her purpose as a writer.
 
With Harry by her side, Emily embarked on a journey to spread positivity and bring light to the lives of those who needed it most. They organized storytelling workshops to help aspiring writers find their voices, fostering an environment of creativity and self-expression. Through these workshops, they discovered a community of like-minded individuals who shared their passion for storytelling and the power it held. 
 
In time, Emily and Harry's efforts caught the attention of a publisher, who recognized the potential impact of their collaborative work. They were offered a book deal, which they gladly accepted. The book became an instant success, reaching readers worldwide and instilling a sense of hope and inspiration across diverse cultures and backgrounds. Inspired by their newfound success, Emily and Harry established a foundation dedicated to promoting literacy and storytelling programs in underprivileged communities. They believed that everyone, regardless of their background or circumstances, should have access to the transformative power of written and spoken word.
 
As the years went by, the foundation grew, and Emily and Harry's legacy continued to flourish. Their journey from overcoming fear to shining a light on others' lives became an inspiration for many aspiring writers and individuals who faced their own personal challenges.
 
Emily often reflected upon her journey, acknowledging that it was her willingness to face her deepest fears that allowed her to achieve personal growth and impact the lives of others. She realized that true courage comes from embracing vulnerability and sharing one's unique perspective with the world, which she would never have learned without Harry.
 
In the end, Emily's story serves as a reminder that within every struggle lies the potential for greatness and that even the darkest pasts can be transformed into a beacon of light. It is a testament to the power of love, resilience, and the enduring connection between kindred spirits on a shared journey of healing and self-discovery.
 
","July 07, 2023 20:40","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'Oh, if only our world worked like this. We need more people like Emily and Harry, to devote time and money to eradicate illiteracy. As a former high school teacher, I can attest to the destructive effects of illiteracy. It holds kids back, in so many ways, and they don\'t even realize it.\n\nNice tale, Madison. I would like to point out one thing, in your first paragraph. You used the phrase ""quiet corners of nature"" twice. Maybe you can change that in your original document. I know it\'s too late for the competition.\n\nNice job, great moral. Che...', 'time': '10:25 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,bnixd5,Married to a Drug Addict,Stephen Aycock,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bnixd5/,/short-story/bnixd5/,Character,0,['Sad'],10 likes,"
Married to a drug addict, 
by Stephen Aycock:
 The woman stood facing her husband, though they were separated by only a few feet it might as well have been miles.  It was the same battle ground they had been on for years.  She stared at him from a distance, barely able to focus on him, seeing him but not seeing him. 
 The air seemed stale to her, there was no energy, she felt like she was knee deep in mud trudging through a stagnant swamp. All of these years it had been her misguided but well-intentioned belief that somehow it was up to her to fix him, she thought that with her love, with her kindness and most of all with her forgiveness, she could get him to see that she was worth changing for, she could make him clean. 
 He stood in front of her a poor replica of what he once was, a petrified man, made so by years of drugs streaming through his veins, changing every cell in his body until he eventually calcified into a new creation, something hard and calloused. Only the man’s shell remained, what was inside had changed into a selfish shadow of what he once was. She loved him still...or at least she thought she did. Years of nursing his addictions, dealing with catastrophic financial failings, fixing his problems, running interference between him and the kids so that they would not truly see what their father had become, had taken their toll on her. She was an exhausted caregiver, she smiled to herself sarcastically and wondered if this revelation made him her patient. 
 Did she love him or was the routine so deeply ingrained in her that she knew no other way to live?  Had misery become so common place in her life that even the preverbal rock in her shoe was a mere annoyance compared to the daily torment she lived with? And the drama…it never seemed to end, and in a way, it always seemed to facilitate another episode. It followed a predictable pattern, 1st there was the act, each more terrible than the one before.  He spent the house payment money on Methadone Oxy and alcohol, so now they were three payments behind and only one payment away from losing their home.  There were the multiple credit cards, all maxed out, some even in her name. There were the many reports from the children themselves that he drove them around when he was barely able to walk. There was also the money missing from an already bulimic account and the many lost jobs that were never his fault, and the ever popular falling asleep at the dinner table, complete with food falling out of his mouth. 
 These were the ever-present and increasing events in ""the days of her life"". She chuckled uneasily at her own reference to a soap opera, but that’s what her life was, wasn’t it? 1st comes chaos, then comes admission, then follows begging, crying, statements of regret and vows of a better future. There were even times that in clear view of the children he would throw himself to the ground and upon his knees hold his hands high up towards the heavens, praying for GOD to take this addiction from him. She believed it was partly true on some level, that he really believed this, but she also knew it was another form of manipulation dressed up in Sunday clothes.  Never really in recovery, never actually letting go so that GOD could truly handle it, just dipping his toe in the water just enough so that everyone around him would let their guard down, …just one more time...and begin to trust. And after the begging, pleading, and of course forgiveness, he would present the magnificently orchestrated story of what now would take place in their lives. Like a poet Laureate he would stand in front of his family and deliver a grand speech with grandiose gestures describing the man he would soon become, the NA meetings he would attend, the new job just on the horizon that would soon be his, and what a father and husband he longed and planned to be.  
 Like his addiction, even real life had to be all about him. For him it was a high of a different kind, even on the smallest stage he was surrounded by people that were urging him on, the center of attention…you could almost hear the Star-Spangled Banner playing behind him, if it wasn’t such a tragedy it would be funny.  What a picture he could paint of a Pollyanna future. If he had a gift, that was it. 
 He stared at his wife from across the room and wondered what could have made her smile at this particular point and time. Shaking his head in exasperation he said, “It’s like I’ve told you before, you can’t understand what I’m dealing with here!  You can’t possibly relate to the pain I’m in or how my past history has affected me”.  
 The husband had been up for days and was in no mood to attend another lecture from his wife. But for some reason today was different. She had a look on her face not unlike those soldiers returning home from early wars, “I think they called it the thousand-mile stare”, he muttered to himself.  “Yes”, he admitted to the wife reluctantly, “I’ve taken a little more of my pain medicine than I should have, but don’t I have the right to feel good like everyone else, I mean, haven’t I earned it?  And yes, once again you’re right, I’m gonna run out of my meds way before the end of the month, but I have a plan for that, I can fix this”.  
 The wife struggled to convey her emotions, sought to articulate her words so that they could have the most meaning in the least amount of time. She knew she would not win, could not win, just like a hundred times before. She had heard all these words before and marveled at the fact that there were only 26 letters in the alphabet to describe what she was feeling, and yet she had heard the same arguments with different renditions a thousand different ways.  
 The wife simply looked at him with a sad empty face and said in a monotone voice, “I’m done, I’m through with you”.  Watching his shocked expression spread out on his incredulous face she continued, though she thought it odd that this was the first real emotion she had seen him exhibit in years.  “My leaving you is not because of my lack of love for you or because I’m developing a hatred toward you. It’s not because I’m angry or because of your arrogance; it is not because of your denial or my years of enabling you. It is not for the benefit of the kids or because of the danger you have placed them in from time to time.  It is not because I don’t believe that you can beat this or that in some superficial way you still love me and the kids.  It is not because of the past that you took from me or the future you will deny me” …  “It is because my dear husband you are indifferent to me, and the site of you inspires nothing within me”.  
 He looked at her as if he did not understand; the wife continued kindly, which in itself alarmed the husband. “Let me explain the term indifference to you in words that you can understand. When I watch a movie, it can make me cry, when I hear a beautiful song, it takes me to where the music wants me to go. When I read a poem about the road less traveled it brings to mind all the possibilities that life could have presented me if I had only chosen to put one foot in front of the other…it makes me smile.  But when I see you, I feel nothing.  Your words have no meaning and when you talk, I think about the grocery list or how am I going to get that nasty stain out of your shirt. Your words reverberate off the wall like some annoying sound that needs to be blocked out of my head, like the alarms on a garbage truck or the sound fingernails make when they’re scrapped across a chalk board.  When you walk through the door, I see only a shadow and the world for me becomes black and white, bleak, and void of any real substance. You actually have the ability to suck colors out of a room whenever you are around me.
 The man stood in utter profound silence; never before had he heard such terrible hurtful words emanating from his sweet wife’s mouth. She continued as if she was giving an analytical review of how grass grows instead of stating her feelings toward her long time husband. The words flowed from her curved lips now as if a dam had burst, hurling polished pearls of wisdom at him that had been held back for what seemed like an eternity.  “For years I have lived with true loneliness”, she said. “Do you know what that is”?  The man only stood silent in the center of a vast living room that seemed to close in around him by the minute.  “There is a kind of loneliness that one feels when there is no one in their life.  It comes with a longing and a sadness that for many is hard to describe, they only know that there is a need to connect with another individual, to be part of something greater than themselves; it is a basic need for all of us. That connection comes with a desire to give not take, to share not consume, to feel irreplaceable not expendable.  True Love does not exist by itself my husband; it is made up of four components, trust, honor, integrity, and sacrifice. Without any one of these four you cannot have love. 
 She made the short walk across the room toward her husband and cupped his chin in her hands. Pulling his face close to Her’s she said in a seductive whisper, “True loneliness my husband is not the lack of having someone. True loneliness is lying next to someone, and yet you feel nothing for them. What you do feel is a constant unexplainable loss that is akin to grieving, like when someone dies.  It is with you when you first open your eyes; and it is with you at the end of the day when you close them again. It permeates every fiber of your being and takes on physical shape, an almost touchable tangible black entity that wraps itself around you and casts a cloud over everything you do and feel. Then you wake up one day and realize that someone has died, and that someone is you, and I have been dying for years.”  The women walked out of the room leaving the shattered remains of what use to be…someone she once knew. 
 “The worst day in a drug addicts life comes not when they’ve lost everything, but when they realized they have lost everyone”-S. Aycock
","July 11, 2023 15:52","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Some good themes in this. It would be interesting to hear some more of specific events that happened with the addict. Some details that make them unique and different from others maybe.', 'time': '08:24 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,2xh0qw,Peanut Butter,Dempsey Hyatt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2xh0qw/,/short-story/2xh0qw/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Science Fiction', 'Speculative']",10 likes,"
 Muffled pleasantries from outside the Therapist's closed office doors let her know the next appointment had arrived. The Therapist recognized the patient's voice exchanging niceties with the secretary on the other side of the doors.
""Tsk,"" said the Therapist, quietly reprimanding herself for using the term patient rather than client. The Therapist did not need to look at her calendar to remember who the next client was or her notes concerning the details of the previous appointments.
She couldn't forget such an intriguing case.
""Are you ready for Ms. Gilina Deckard?"" the secretary asked as she opened the office doors. The Therapist nodded, and the secretary replied, ""I will let the client know."" The Therapist smiled at the secretary, and the secretary, who had difficulty using the term client at first, felt a bit of pride in reciting the appropriate terminology.
The distinction between patient and client was critical to the Therapist's endeavor to establish a clinic free of the modern atrocities associated with mental health practices. The Therapist thought of the groundbreaking ceremony of the Palms Clinic last year in 1956. It was the first of its kind. Many people, some of whom she considered colleagues, thought a woman running a mental health facility was unnatural. They thought her methods of having patients acknowledge their psychological narratives were foolish. The Therapist smiled as she remembered how cutting the red tape to the clinic a year ago felt like cutting ties with institutionalized mental health administrators that chose abhorrent practices like electroshock and lobotomy.
Gilina would have been diagnosed with hysteria if she had gone to one of those other clinics. The ""doctors"" would try to cure her with all sorts of heinous methods like placing bad smells under her nose and pleasing aromas near her genitals, or a cannon of water fired at her inner thighs, or raping her with their fingers because they believed female semen turned venomous if not released. Then the “doctors” would have locked Gilina in a room at night and do it again the next day. The thought made the Therapist shudder.
That was the nature of the therapist-patient relationship, one person in power with all the answers and one person who knows nothing except that they are sick. The therapist-client relationship took another approach in which the therapist guides the client in finding their truths. For Gilina, the most crucial difference between status quo methods and what was practiced at the Palms Clinic was that she could go home to her family instead of being locked in a psychiatric ward.
The doors to the Therapist's office opened again, and Gilina walked into the room. Gilina was tall with long flowing black hair like a model in a magazine hocking shampoo. Her face had a unique narrowness that was exotic and unusual but not gaunt, just foreign. Gilina wore a long dress with a flower pattern that seemed to tell the world she was a happy homemaker.
But Gilina wasn’t the happy homemaker she wanted to be.
After exchanging salutations, the Therapist asked, “Are you ready to begin?”
Gilina nodded, then said, “I am the Mother, but I don’t have to be when I’m in therapy. I can be the person I am, not the one I want to be.”
“Good,” the Therapist said and wrote in her notebook that the mantra was said. “Have you felt any paralyzing decisions this week?”
“I went to the grocery store, like you asked, before coming to my session today,” Gilina replied.
“Did you have a moment of indecision?”
“Yes,” Gilina replied.
“Tell me about it,” the Therapist asked.
“Well, I was worried about my son’s birthday party. He’s turning eight and asked me to bake him a cake. Of course, I was excited to do so, but I started to get nervous at the grocery store.”
“What made you nervous?” the Therapist asked.
“He asked for a peanut butter cake instead of a chocolate cake. I already had all the ingredients except peanut butter. Still, I couldn’t force myself to reach for it, let alone add it to the groceries in my basket. So, I started looking at cocoa powder for a chocolate cake instead. Then I thought of my son being disappointed with the cake being chocolate instead of peanut butter.”
“Why did you find it difficult to grab the peanut butter off the shelf?” the Therapist asked.
Gilina was quiet for a minute and gazed through the window at the pleasant spring weather. It always took some time for Gilina to adjust to her discomfort of not acting like the perfect mother she wanted everyone to see. The Therapist waited and passed the time by flipping through her previous notes.
Gilina was an exceptional artist and photographer. Her favorite hobby was drawing three-dimensional shapes on exposure film and developing images in a dark room. Then by splicing the film together, she created a moving picture of magnificent topological objects that morphed and inverted their shapes in a bewildering display. Gilina’s talent was different because it was nothing anyone had ever seen. She called the art projects of morphing shapes of spliced film Tori. The Therapist’s notes told the details in terse statements.
Gilina says that her Tori are derived from mathematical equations of symmetry. 
Client has no mathematics degree. When asked, she says that the equations come to her when she focuses on what she wants the Tori to look like. Says the shapes need to move.
The Therapist looked at Gilina to see she was still gazing out the window at the trees blowing in the wind. Perhaps it would storm later. The Therapist returned to her notes, but in her mind’s eye, she remembered how Gilina’s Tori enthralled her. The day Gilina showed the Therapist her Tori, the blinds were drawn, and the film’s shapes were projected onto the Therapist’s office wall. Further down the notepad, the Therapist tried to describe how impressive the Tori were.
Her creations are more artistic than mathematical. The beauty of the moving shapes is like a dance that tells stories, like how individual instruments of an orchestra can evoke emotions dissimilar to the ensemble. Like a story within a story but in opposition to each other. By looking at the shapes morph into others, you knew how you should feel by how the shapes twisted or rippled. Words can’t describe it, but I'll try for the sake of my notes. 
There was a donut that turned itself inside out, then formed lines that split into spaces that became squares that unhinged into a flat sheet to wrap itself back into the simple donut shape again.
It was intuitive and emotional. To me, that’s an art more than math.
           “Dr. Silveria?” Gilina asked.
           “Yes, please continue if you feel comfortable. Why didn’t you put the peanut butter into your grocery basket?”
           “Yes, well, that’s because of that sixth sense I have; that’s what you called it last time,” Gilina responded. “I knew, I just knew, that putting that peanut butter jar in the basket would lead to the end of Earth. I didn’t want that to happen, so I stood in the aisle with other customers passing by me. I stood there for maybe an hour, walking back and forth between the cocoa powder and the peanut butter.”
           “You’ve stated before that your pathological ambivalence sends you into a spiral of fear. Is that your wish still?” the Therapist asked.
           “Yes, oh yes. It is a debilitating malady,” Gilina said.
           “Do you remember discussing how your ambivalence is tied to your self-narrative? For example, you say you want to be the Mother, even said being the best Mother would be something you wanted.”
           “Yes, I remember.”
           “And do you remember acknowledging that the indecisions that plague you might be related to your sense of self, your own portrayal of being a mother?”
           “Yes, but that isn’t everything.”
           “I know it isn’t,” the Therapist replied. “So why did you think you have this sixth sense to know that buying peanut butter leads to the end of the world.”
           “Like I said, it is because of my sixth sense. That’s what you called it anyway,” Gilina said.
           “I said there are people that claim to have a sixth sense, but this is not a scientific claim, more fiction than anything, but it seemed the best way to articulate what you have described in the past. This ‘knowing’ that you have.”
           “Feel,” Gilina said. “I feel it more than I know it. I felt that getting the peanut butter would kill Paul’s friend. That’s where my thoughts started.”
           “Why did you feel it would kill your son’s friend? Do you mean at the birthday party?”
           “Yes, at the birthday party, Paul’s friend, Sammy Miller, would have a piece of the peanut butter cake and then die.”
           “Why do you think it would kill him?” the Therapist asked.
           “Because one time, after a ball game, oh, Paul looked so strong that day, anyway, I happened to put my hand on Sammy’s back as I escorted him off the field. When I touched him, I felt something like an itch that I couldn’t scratch. I just knew that peanuts were dangerous for him.”
           “Does Sammy have a peanut allergy?”
           “I don’t know,” Gilina replied. “I get that feeling about myself sometimes too. Sometimes it happens when I look a food like lettuce or chicken, but other times it happens when my hand brushes against rusty metal. I get this feeling of repulsive forces, like two like-pole magnets pushing each other away. Not like an allergy, no, that’s not it, more like a dissonance.”
           The Therapist took a few notes and then asked, “Do you think you might have heard Sammy has a peanut allergy from Paul’s teachers or some other way?”
           “I don’t know. I don’t remember someone telling me that. Paul and Sammy are on the same ball team but attend different schools. So, it’s possible I overheard it, yeah. And I guess you would say it is more possible for me to have heard something than sensed it.”
           The Therapist looked Gilina in the eyes and said, “Perhaps I should say that, but I will not. I don’t want to influence your reality with my own. I want to hear what you think.”
           “I think if I bought the peanut butter, then Paul would see it, then I would have to bake the cake, then Sammy would die when he ate it, then Paul would blame me for killing his friend.”
           “So why not just be safe and choose the cocoa powder and make the chocolate cake?” asked the Therapist.
           “Because then Paul would be upset that he did not have the peanut butter cake, and I wouldn’t be a good Mother.”
           “If disappointing your children makes you a bad mother, I think there are no good mothers,” the Therapist stated.
           “But as you just said,” Gilina replied, “your opinion shouldn’t influence me. So where does that leave us?”
           The Therapist nodded in concession and said, “You are correct. Please continue. Tell me how this would lead to the end of the world. I have only heard of Sammy and Paul’s plight; how does that propagate to the world?”
           Gilina winced but forced herself to say what was on her mind.
           “That happens years later when Paul is a grown man. Paul’s teenage years will be awful; no matter what I do, I can’t change that. Buying the peanut butter will kill Paul’s friend, and Paul will hate me for it. If I buy the cocoa powder, Paul doesn’t trust me as his mother. The results of either path are the same for Paul. He doesn’t graduate high school because he refuses to let me support him. He starts working at the same grocery store and has to drop out of school. But if I get the peanut butter, it’s even worse.”
           “I’m not trying to influence you, but do you feel those are a lot of ‘if’s’?” the Therapist asked.
           “I can acknowledge that,” Gilina said, “but it doesn’t make the feeling disappear. See, Paul then joins a cult, and they make him feel more at home than I ever could. The cult believes that aliens are on Earth and—”
           “Aliens?” the Therapist asked. “I thought we discussed that the alien fears were unfounded. You admitted that a few sessions ago.”
           “I did,” Gilina responded, then bit her lip. A smudge of red lipstick stained her front tooth. “But you asked me to answer why I thought the decision of peanut butter would end the world, so that’s what I’m doing.”
           The Therapist made a few more notes:
Patient Client seems hostile when discussing aliens again. What is the link between the Mother and the Alien? Discuss next session!!!
           “Please, don’t let me stop you,” said the Therapist. “What happens next?”
           “The cult convinces Paul that I am an alien, and that’s why I killed his friend Sammy. The cult preaches that all aliens are bad. I don’t think all aliens are bad, especially if I’m one of them, but if I kill Sammy, then—”
           “It’s okay; remember you are in a safe place to speak your mind,” the Therapist says.
           Gilina has a few tears fall over her rosy cheeks, but she wipes them away and cocks her head to throw her gorgeous black hair over one shoulder. She then collects herself and continues.
           “Many years from now, Paul confronts me about being an alien. The conversation becomes heated. Paul is strong, a grown man and my husband isn’t there; I don’t know where he is, but he isn’t there, and then Paul hits me. He hits me, and my skin breaks, but I don’t bleed. He sees that there are scales under my skin, and he screams. He then beats me, my own child. He hits me over and over. Then there’s a flash of light, and Paul is vaporized, just a dirty ashen spot in the same kitchen I had made the peanut butter cake years ago.”
           Gilina’s eyes glazed over, not from tears, but as if she was in a trance. The Therapist had seen Gilina’s outbursts before, but it had been close to a year since one like this. Still, the Therapist knew it was essential for Gilina’s delusion to be spoken out loud to its conclusion. She asked Gilina, “What happens after Paul disappears?”
           “That’s when I give up on Earth. I’m no longer the Mother and have no purpose anymore. I somehow know that Paul contacted the CIA and convinced them I was an alien. When the CIA comes after me, I feel like I’m being squeezed like a lemon to make lemonade, except the lemonade is more than sour; it's caustic, and it burns your throat going down, and you know, you have to vomit, but the vomit makes it burn even more so you swallow it. You swallow the vomit and live with it. I’m an Alien sent to this planet not to be a Mother but a Destroyer. I must contact my home planet of Slish so they know the location of Earth. Slish is a dying world, and my children there will die, not Paul, not yet; I don’t mean him. I mean my other children. My alien children on Slish. That’s the future if I buy peanut butter instead of cocoa.”
           The Therapist’s mouth is open but closes it before Gilina notices. The Therapist writes notes furiously, then meets Gilina’s eyes and says, “So you couldn’t decide between peanut butter and cocoa because, in either case, you would lose your motherhood. Which means you would lose your identity. What do you think of that analysis?”
           “I guess that is an interpretation,” Gilina replied half-heartedly. She looked emotionally drained, and the Therapist knew their session was ending even though time was not expired.
           “Gilina, I know you feel these small actions have big consequences, but even if they do, you can’t be stuck with such indecision, or life will pass you by. You said that yourself a few weeks ago?”
           “I know,” Gilina said, and the acknowledgment seemed forced and void. As if she knew that, Gilina quickly added, “And I know what people say if I told anyone but you. They’d think I’m crazy, call me hysterical, and take me away from my family.”
           The Therapist said, “We don’t use that word. You seem tired. Do you feel like continuing, or should we stop here?”
           “I think that’s enough for today,” Gilina said. “I want to return to being Mom, not this person.”
           The Therapist and Gilina scheduled their next session and said their goodbyes. On Gilina’s walk home, she passed by the same grocery store that had given her the previous indecision. She stood outside the store, thinking of how kind humans can be and how much they care about their families.
A few minutes later, Gilina exited the store carrying a brown paper bag. It contained only a single item; a jar of peanut butter.
 
","July 14, 2023 19:34","[[{'Graham Kinross': '“therapist-patient relationship, one person in power with all the answers and one person who knows nothing except that they are sick,” isn’t the therapist meant to help the patient realise things that they know subconsciously and are denying?\n\n“If disappointing your children makes you a bad mother, I think there are no good mothers,” the Therapist stated.- are therapists meant to say things like that?\n\nThe therapist feels like she was unloading her issues on the client. Also, at the end, did Gilina chose to ‘end the world’ by buying peanut b...', 'time': '23:48 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Dempsey Hyatt': 'Hi, thanks for reading. Re: to comments, 1) That section was about how ""other"" therapist saw the patient which was the predominate idea before 1950\'s. 2) In a 1950\'s household, there were conceptions of women roles and the therapist\'s statement is a product of that. 3) The therapist has exposition with her thoughts but does not unload in dialogue to the client. I appreciate the feedback and will make some edits to make the issues you present to be more clear. \nAs for if she ends the world, well, that\'s up to the reader. Was she truly an alie...', 'time': '18:11 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Graham Kinross': 'Interesting. An open end like K-pax.', 'time': '23:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Dempsey Hyatt': 'Hi, thanks for reading. Re: to comments, 1) That section was about how ""other"" therapist saw the patient which was the predominate idea before 1950\'s. 2) In a 1950\'s household, there were conceptions of women roles and the therapist\'s statement is a product of that. 3) The therapist has exposition with her thoughts but does not unload in dialogue to the client. I appreciate the feedback and will make some edits to make the issues you present to be more clear. \nAs for if she ends the world, well, that\'s up to the reader. Was she truly an alie...', 'time': '18:11 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Graham Kinross': 'Interesting. An open end like K-pax.', 'time': '23:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Graham Kinross': 'Interesting. An open end like K-pax.', 'time': '23:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,dtl09v,Phobias ,Fiona Jensen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dtl09v/,/short-story/dtl09v/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Suspense', 'Sad']",10 likes,"
Warning: content with death and corpsesIt had taken years and years for the technology to develop, but finally, Emmett hooked up several screen monitors to the machine that he and his fellow scientist had been manufacturing just for this specific occasion. He took a step back and surveyed his work. One of the screens showed a heart monitor while the other one blinked several colors for a few seconds before settling on a blank white screen where Emmett would view the images from his patient’s mind. Next to this was a single hospital bed with 4 straps, two on each side, with small plastic tubes running up and down its length, ready to administer anesthesia to his patients. Situated at the head of the bed was probably the most interesting component of his design out of everything in the room. It was nothing but a helmet with several long wires coming out of the top that attached to one of the monitors. This was the thing Emmett was most excited about and what effect he intended to be testing that day. If it worked, it would be revolutionary in cognitive psychology. Particularly in accurately identifying people’s mental health and being able to cure them of it completely without the use of addictive drugs. He pressed a button on one of the monitor keyboards and spoke into a small microphone. “Send him in, Stacy.” A few moments later, Stacy came in, leading a man behind her - the volunteer test subject for the experiment Emmett was about to conduct. Emmett smiled and picked up a clipboard from the monitor table. “Thank you for joining me today Mr...Davis!” he said, scanning his paperwork. “I’m Dr. Usoro, I’ll be the one conducting this experiment today. You already know Stacy here, she’s the anesthesiologist, here to put you to sleep for this.” Mr. Davis returned Emmett’s smile. “I’m excited to be here.”“Excellent! I assume that you were briefed on what exactly is going to happen today?”“Yes.” “Perfect. If you’ll please lay down here on the bed, we can get started.”Mr. Davi nodded and walked over to the bed and lay himself down. Stacy followed and began locking one of his arms into the straps.“Woah, wait a minute,” Mr. Davis said, jerking away. “Are those really necessary?”Stacy stopped and looked up at him. “Mr. Davis, the simulation you are about to experience will be very intense. These are simply to ensure you don’t injure yourself as we don’t know yet what reaction to expect.”Mr. Davis hesitated. “Alright…” Stacy walked around the bed and strapped his other arm down. She then proceeded to his legs. “There we go,” Emmett said once she had finished. “Now that that’s done, we can start with the actual simulation. Mr. Davis, you’re going to be under the effects of anesthesia for at least half an hour while my machine searches your mind. I know you’ve already had this explained to you but I feel it’s important to emphasize. While you may be asleep, you will experience exactly the effects that my machine has on your thoughts and it will feel like you’re living them out. They will feel very real, but once you wake up, they’ll feel like nothing but a dream. Understand?”Mr. Davis nodded. “Yes.”“Good, so you’re ready then?”Mr. Davis nodded again. He seemed too nervous to form many words. “Perfect, here we go.” he gestured again to Stacy who took a needle and inserted it into the vein of Mr. Davis’s wrist and injected it with the sleep drug. The man winced slightly but within seconds the drug had taken effect and he was unconscious. Emmett didn’t waste any time. He fastened the helmet over Mr. Davis’ head, making sure it was secure before flipping a switch at its base. Immediately it started to hum. Emmett stared expectantly at the monitor. For a few seconds, it remained blank as the machine began probing Mr. Davis’ mind, searching. Then, quite suddenly, color began to fill the screen. For a moment it seemed indiscernible but it quickly began to take shape into a scene. At first, Emmet saw nothing but a single, small room, about the size of a broom closet. He looked down and saw a body under him and knew immediately that he was seeing this all from the perspective of Mr. Davis. He thought for a moment that maybe Mr. Davis’s worst fear was confined spaces, but then something odd began to happen. The angle of the scene shifted, almost like a camera in a movie, to show the entire ceiling had disappeared, revealing what appeared to be a bright, blue sky.“Incredible…” Stacy muttered.Emmett watched with interest as the walls began sinking into the floor, becoming lower and lower, and revealing more and more blue sky until suddenly there seemed to be nothing around him except open air and the floor. Emmett was able to just barely discern the ground from where Mr. Davis stood in the simulation and deducted that he was about one thousand feet in the air. The image began to move around rapidly, like a head looking around in panic. The screen monitoring Mr. Davis’s heat began to beep more insistently, indicating his heart rate was climbing. Emmett suddenly thought he knew exactly what the fear he was seeing was.The legs scrambled to the very middle of the floor as though desperate to keep away from the edges. Emmett doubted it would do any good. The floor began to shrink rapidly, the edge of the open sky getting closer and closer to the middle. Mr. Davis’s heart monitor began to beep rapidly to a point where Emmett tore his eyes from the screen to stare at it, concerned. If his heart rate got too high, there could be a risk of him going into cardiac arrest in which case Emmett would be forced to stop the simulation. He didn’t want to do that, as was very keen to see the whole thing through. He glanced back at the screen to see that the floor had now shrunk so small that Mr. Davis was standing on his tippy toes in an attempt to stay on. However, within a matter of seconds, it had disappeared entirely and he plummeted down to the ground. Almost immediately, a sharp buzzing began emanating from the heart monitor. Emmett’s head whipped towards it with a jolt of panic. That was the warning signal that Mr. Davis’s heart rate was too high and they needed to pull him out of the simulation. “Stacy!” he shouted. “Shut it down! Pull him out!”Stacy, who had also been on high alert since the buzzer went off, rushed over to Mr. Davis and stopped the flow of anesthesia into his blood. At the same time, Emmet dashed to the helmet on Mr. Davis’s head and ripped the helmet off him. The screen showing his fear went black but he knew that Mr. Davis’s brain would still be experiencing the nightmare for a few more moments before it finally faded away. He thought about administering a shot that should wake Mr. Davis up but his body was already running so full of adrenaline that it’d probably be a death trap. All Emmett and Stacy could do were stand there and watch helplessly as the beeps on the heart monitor were replaced by one long, high-pitched, note signaling that Mr. Davis had died. The two stared at each other in mute silence before Emmett spoke in a quiet voice. “Put him with the others.” Stacy nodded and together they unstrapped him. Stacy went to the other room and came back wheeling in a stretcher with a body bag zipped open on it. They both grunted as they loaded his body in the bag and Stacy wheeled it off. She exited the room and went down a long hallway lit up with fluorescent lights. At the end of it, she turned right and entered another room, this one a walk-in freezer. Five bodies already lay in it, those that Stacy and Emmet had accumulated over the past two weeks. All of whom did not survive the simulations. No matter how many changes Emmett made to the system, the results were always the same. Emmett had lost his medical license when they had caught him working on such a highly dangerous project, no matter how many times he had insisted that with the right research and technology, it could practically cure the mental health crisis going on in the country and maybe even the world. Stacey wholeheartedly agreed with him which is why she had decided to leave her medical job with him and take up work with his studies. It had been hard work but the hardest task was testing out the machine without raising too much of a public eye until they were sure they had perfected the technology.Stacy pushed the stretcher into the freezer and shoved the body bag onto the hard frozen floor. With a huff, she whirled around and wheeled the stretcher out, already planning on the next ad they would put in the newspaper to attract more volunteers. Hopefully, the next run they did would be more successful.
","July 07, 2023 23:58","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'Pretty chilling, Fiona. Reminds me of testing drugs and treatments on animals.\n\nYou obviously have writing talent; that shines through. I think, though, that you might want to consider showing more and telling less. The tale would be more powerful that way, IMO.\n\nWonderful, dark story, Fiona. You have a lot to offer on this site. Nicely done.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '10:47 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,4mveaq,I See You,Scott Taylor,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4mveaq/,/short-story/4mveaq/,Character,0,"['Romance', 'Inspirational', 'Contemporary']",10 likes,"
“I’m fine. Find someone else to mother.”
 
Howard clenched his teeth while pondering his next move. He knew she was not fine.
 
The nausea she ignored as a bug lasted too long to be a ‘bug.’
 
“Can I get you some chicken soup, maybe some rice?”
Sarah glanced at him, flaring her nostrils as if she were a stallion waiting to bolt out of the gate of the Kentucky Derby.
 
“What do I have to say to you to get you to leave me alone?”
 
His eyes were glassy as he glanced at the bed full of tissues. Her clothes were on the floor, and the room was dank from stale air.
 
“Honey, until you shower, eat some food, and keep it down, I will never leave you alone. What part of ‘in sickness and health’ didn’t you understand?”
 
From a memory years ago, she recalled standing in front of him, trying to remember the words the preacher was saying to repeat them. 
The days spent picking out the perfect dress and how the taffeta felt to the touch all came pouring back.
 
The man she was irritated with was the one she went to school with, grew up with, and planned a future together.
 
Her anger was misdirected.
 
“I don’t want to take all these tests.” She blurted as tears rained on her gown, dripping off her cheeks.
 
He went over to the curtains, pulling them back to let the sunshine blaze into the room. Shafts of light danced with shadows as the limbs waved as if greeting her. 
Winter was past, and the trees were budding as he heard the mockingbird’s shrill tweet just outside the window.
 
She fussed about the light and was sure to quibble as he slid the window open, allowing a breeze to filter into the room.
 
“What are you doing?”
 
“I have allowed you to live like this for two weeks. I don’t know your fear of doctors, but living like this is unhealthy. Please go take a shower and let me freshen up this room. We can talk about the doctors and tests when you get back.”
 
Her curly blond hair cascaded around her shoulders. Wiping the strings of snot from her face, she stared at him. “God, you’re stubborn,” she said.
 
“Cookie Face, we’re both stubborn. I love you, now please go do this.”
 
“If you’re going to wash the sheets, wash this gown, too. It’s my favorite one,” she said, tossing it at him before leaving.
 
The gossamer gown was like the one she wore on their honeymoon. 
 
Her aggressive behavior and actions were over the top and troubling. He watched her leave, noticing the obvious weight she carried. He made a mental note to get her to the doctor on Monday.  
 
Sarah had a thing about sleeping alone when she wasn’t feeling well.
Stripping the bed, picking up clothes, and removing the used tissues caused dust to swirl around in the sunlight. Knocking sounds from the bathroom door caused by the breeze were normal in spring and fall. Those bumping sounds lifted his spirits, as he felt like a little ‘normal’ was what they needed.
 
Finding fresh bed linen, he made the bed when ‘normal’ came crashing down. The loud thump in the bathroom caused his heart to flutter.
 
“Sarah!”
 
Steam wafted in his face, fogging his glasses as the door opened. 
 
His wife’s body lying in the shower caused his heart to race. A trickle of red made its way to the drain before he shut off the water.
 
Pulling her out of the shower, he carried her to the bed. The bedsprings reported her body with their usual squeaking sounds. 
 
She had hit her head when she passed out.
 
Carrying her might not have been possible had Howard not been a weightlifter in college.
 
Emergency services burst through the door, causing the cat to run for cover.
 
Sarah was alive but unconscious. More tests would compound those tests she was afraid of.
 
The hustle and bustle of the ER included many chairs filled with people. A sale seemed in progress, and the town was abuzz with people eager to make the most of it.
 
“Mr. Grayson, we stapled the wound on her head. When I get the blood work back, I will know more.”
 
Sarah was not responding to the typical methods of reviving her. She didn’t faint, that much they were sure of.
 
Beeping monitors played the slow and steady beat of her heart. Hissing from oxygen and other machines was a constant reminder of the sterile environment.
 
“Mr. Grayson, it’s late; you can do nothing more. Go home,” a nurse said.
 
She saw his damp cheeks, which she had seen hundreds of times before on other loved ones.
 
“No, she is deathly afraid of places like this. I need to be here when she wakes up.”
 
Nurse Hilda tilted her eyebrows comprehendingly, supplying a warm blanket.
 
The recliner eased back into a familiar position. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people, sat in that very place holding the hand of a loved one. Howard was just one more occupant of that chair. The stories would be abundant if the chair could talk.
 
Sleeping in the hospital, much less ICU, is next to impossible. Howard was familiar with the routine from his own injuries suffered in Afghanistan. Around midnight, the attending physician walked into the room.
 
“How long has your wife been a diabetic?”
 
The raised eyebrows and blank stare told the doctor what he needed to know. “Mr. Grayson, you must have known something wasn’t right. Just looking at her, she must be close to 350 lbs. The paramedics said you carried her to the bed. How did you manage?”
 
Howard glanced at the hospital bed holding his wife and then at the doctor. “It had to be done, and I did it. Does it matter how?”
 
He shook his head, making notes on the chart. “Her blood sugar is over 800. She’s in a coma.”
 
Tears formed in his eyes as he peered at the doctors’ notes. “She’s going to be ok, isn’t she?”
 
The doctor looked at Sarah and then Howard. “This is in God’s hands, my friend. We are doing everything we can. I would suggest you pray.”
 
The knot in his stomach formed more rapidly than most times when the two argued. Usually, the argument was about her diet.
 
After three days of living at the hospital, Howard went home to check on the cat, shower, shave, and eat something other than hospital food. Her bed sheet was on the floor. The paramedics used it to lift her onto the gurney.
 
A call to the hospital confirmed that there had been no change. “Come back in the morning, Mr. Grayson.”
 
Laying in their bed, he slept like he hadn’t slept in days. Even after Snickers, the cat, tromped all over him, Howard slept.
 
Vivid images of his times with her during school and after he returned from overseas flashed through his dreams.
 
His father asking him why he was messing with that fat girl hurt him more than he would admit. Yes, she was big, so what? He thought. Howard saw her for who she was, not what she looked like.
 
Sarah was smart, witty, and funny.
 
After returning from Afghanistan, his scars didn’t dissuade her from marrying him. Rescuing his comrade from the burning Humvee after the roadside bomb flipped it on its side was his last official action in the Marines.
 
Sarah saw firsthand the carnage of war. Burn victims endure tons of pain, and many don’t make it. She stayed with him until he was out of harm’s way. Now it was his time to return the love.
 
Visions of their youth played like an old movie. Chasing fireflies, sitting on the back porch making ice cream, or eating fried chicken, it all played out.
 
“I saw Marilyn making eyes at you,” Sarah said.
They were twelve, and Marilyn was a thin wisp of a girl they knew from church.
 
“I didn’t notice. Anyway, you and I are here making ice cream, not me and her.”
 
“Her daddy is rich, and she has nicer clothes than I do. Why aren’t you looking at her?”
 
“Sarah, I don’t see her. I only see you. Stop doing this.”
 
A cold, wet nose pressed to him, waking him from the memory. The meow was an invitation to give the cat food.
 
Snickers was her cat. When she named him after her favorite treat, Howard should have paid attention to her diet way back then.
 
Rain complicated the drive to the hospital. Accidents kept the ER busy as Howard skirted past the doctors to the ICU. His heart sank when her bed was empty. The shock from when his mother slapped his face for daring to defend his love for Sarah flashed through his mind.
 
Hilda saw the panic on his face.
 
“Howard, she woke up. She’s in room C47.”
 
The news caused a torrent of tears to run down his face. Hilda hugged him. “You’re one in a million, Howard Grayson. Go to her. She asked for you.”
 
Two nurses were working with her when Howard stepped into the room. Her face lit up as if they focused those beams of sunlight on her.
 
“I scared you, didn’t I?”
 
He nodded, unable to speak.
 
“I’m sorry. I was afraid of something like this. That’s why I didn’t want to have all those tests.”
 
“You knew, you knew you might be diabetic?”
 
She nodded, “Mom was. That’s what killed her.”
 
Howard felt lightheaded at the news.
 
“If you knew, why did you continue to eat like that?”
 
She shook her head as he moved the tubes and electronic things out of the way so he could kiss her. The tears from both intermingled with the love they shared.
 
More nurses came in with a doctor, interrupting their reunion.
 
“You are one lucky young lady.” The doctor said.
 
“Because I lived?”
 
He shook his head. “This man wouldn’t leave your side until we made him leave to take care of himself. You owe it to him to take care of yourself. Your health is your doing.”
 
They were both wide-eyed at his proclamation.
 
“But mom was…”
 
He interrupted her. “Mom was a terrible example, is what she was. 
 
Don’t blame your heredity for your health, not this health.”
 
“We were all big people Dr…”
 
“You were big because of your diet, the change in how people live, and the processed food you eat. You shouldn’t eat it if it doesn’t grow from the garden.”
 
He handed them the cards of doctors, one being a dietician.
 
“Mr. Grayson, I want you both to see the dietician and do it together. I would wager money that your blood work wouldn’t come back normal either.”
 
“Yes, sir, and I will check with my doctor.”
 
“Good. People with high blood sugar like yours rarely live to tell the tale. We are keeping you until your levels are under control.”
 
He turned to leave as his white coat flared at the bottom with his military style of turning.
 
The two sat in silence as Howard looked over the menu. “Dr. Hill told them to take care of us. He knew me from the hospital once I returned to the States.”
 
“He was a doctor in the military?”
 
Howard nodded. “He was the one that passed on my story about rescuing my friend from the burning Humvee.”
 
She sat silently, staring at him as he read the menu.
 
“I don’t get it.”
He glanced at her. “Don’t get what?”
 
“You’re handsome, brave, smart, and you even had Marilyn, the cheerleader, after you, and you chose me. A fat farmer’s daughter who mistreats you. Why?”
 
Howard thought for a moment. “Why do you yell at me?”
 
A tv show from down the hall blasted as she sat silently gazing at him. Her lip quivered before more tears dampened her cheeks. 
 
“You’re like a fairy tale. I don’t deserve you. There are mornings I’m afraid to wake up as you might be gone. I suppose it's my way of making sure you are that blind to not see what I am.”
 
“If that bed was a little bigger, I would ravage your silly butt.” He smiled as she chuckled. 
 
“Really, even with these tubes and things?”
“Cookie Face, I love you. I never saw Marilynn or any of the other girls. Yes, I knew they figured I would fall for them, but you were the one that captured my heart. Do you remember the silly things we did as kids?”
 
“Are you talking about the fireflies, the hayloft, or the pond?”
 
Howard smiled. “All. I never minded the fact that you were a cuddly plus-size. I’m not going anywhere.”
 
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Howie, fuss back at me when I mistreat you. I don’t mean to. Where I grew up, that was normal. It was when we didn’t talk or yell you knew someone was mad.”
 
Holding her hand a little firmer, he stared into her face. “Do you remember those orange panties you had me remove?”
 
Sarah glanced at him and blushed. “That was a long time ago. What about them?
 
He smirked, and she knew that smirk. “You still have them, don’t you?”
 
Howard nodded. “That was the first thing you ever gave me.”
 
“As I remember, I gave you something else right after that.”
 
“And then we ate cookies instead of the picnic lunch.”
 
“I am sorry I ever doubted your love. Maybe if we did more things outside, I could fit back in them one day.”
 
Howard thought back to when they met. Someone came in to take blood as he sat there silently. Her father liked him and was happy they were a couple, unlike his folks.
 
Drake, her father, wanted to retire but didn’t want to sell a farm that had been in the family for generations.
 
“Ok, why don’t we move back to the farm?”
 
“Move or visit?”
 
Sarah thought about the fields, long days caring for critters, etc. Then she remembered the lighting bugs in the orchard. Those moments when they filled a jar with blinking bugs were magical.
“Move. A little hard work would do us both good.”
 
Lying on a blanket by the pond, soaking wet in the cool night air, made those old memories come to life. The cacophony of crickets, frogs, and other nighttime creatures made for a surreal experience, with the moon and lighting bugs as their only witness.
 
“We can’t do Ripple any longer, but we can still visit the pond if you want me?”
 
His vision of her blurred with tears. “Of course I want you. I will only ever see you.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 12, 2023 05:38","[[{'Ed Wooten': 'Outstanding. Adds real dimension to wedding vows.', 'time': '21:08 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Scott Taylor': 'Thanks, this story was from the heart.', 'time': '02:49 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Taylor': 'Thanks, this story was from the heart.', 'time': '02:49 Aug 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,czdzfj,The Prey and the Arrow,Stephanie Leon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/czdzfj/,/short-story/czdzfj/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Friendship', 'Suspense']",10 likes,"
The fire dances to the wind this November night, the moon a full circle of light shining above it. I am covered in a blanket surrounded by my friends Kai, Diana, Emi, Theus, and Dmitry.Echoes of “Happy Birthday Effie!” sing beside me.“Thank you, guys!” I smile, “I’m not getting up because the fire feels nice and I’m freezing to death!”What’s your birthday wish?” asked Kai…“Uhm, probably for my loved ones to be healthy,” I said, “I don’t think I want to face any more deaths this year.”Six months ago, I lost my grandfather to cancer and went through the worst heartbreak the week before.“Yeah Effie, you went through a lot of shit this year,” said Diana, “you need a break and some wine!”I didn't want the party to get depressing, so I think of something witty.“Well, since there is a full moon tonight,” I stand up, holding a glass of wine, “I wish none of you turn into a werewolf.”I take a sip of wine and feel a hand pulling my arm.Let’s DANCE!” said Emi.We drank wine to keep ourselves warm and danced around the fire.“Effie, Effie! Your phone is ringing!” I walk towards Kai and grab the phone. “Who is it?” I ask.“I don’t know, but they're from the area,” he says.“Hello?” I answer.“Hey, happy birthday.” I recognized the voice and stay silent.“It’s Rio hahaha.”“Oh hey,” I answer quietly, “uhh thanks.”What are you up to tonight?” he asks, “sorry if it’s weird to call, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”Rio broke my heart twice. I couldn't grieve my grandfather because I was grieving him, and the second time he texts out of the blue, hoping to rekindle the relationship, and once I lure him back, I find out he was dating someone else. Rio was a narcissist, a manipulator denying his errors and not holding himself accountable.The wise thing to do was tell him to go to hell, but I thought, maybe this time, he finally acknowledged everything he did. After all, the transformation was part of a full moon.“I’ve been doing well,” I said, “I’m actually celebrating at the beach right now.”How nice, he softly answers, “I moved back to the city.” It surprised me mostly because he tried moving out of it since we first dated.“Why’s that?” I ask, “I thought you hated the city.”“Nah,” he said, “you were right about how lonely the east side was.”Before luring him back for the third time, I reminded him of the crap he put me through in July.That’s over,” he said, “You probably have every right not to believe me but, I do want to apologize in person sometime, I know I hurt you a lot.”I did miss Rio, despite the 2 heartbreaks I went through, I missed his presence and warmth. The third time’s a charm I guess.“Well, we’re at the beach right now,” I suggest, “you can join if you want.”“Of course,” he says, “I’ll be there soon.”My friends were all sitting by the fire covered in blankets. I sit next to Theus who’s singing along to his favorite song.“Who was it?” asked Emi, cuddled next to Dmitry. I awkwardly smile.“Oh no, don’t tell me,” answers Diana. Dmitry turns to look at me.“What did he want?” he asks.“Nothing, just wishing me a happy birthday.”Theus puts me on the spot. “You were on the phone for like 10 mins!” He slaps me on the shoulder, “Tell me, girl!”I look at the fire for a second then answer. “It was Rio, the guy I was dating earlier in the year."" Theus wasn’t around much after he moved out of the house and I was too busy to update him on anything.“Ugh, you should have called me!” he responds.“Well, he texts me out of the blue in June and wants to hang out,” I explained, “and in July, Diana showed me a picture he posted on Instagram and I find out he’s two-timing me, or her I don’t know.""“He also denied it,” Emi said. I look towards her. “Yeah, typically narcissist,” I turn to Theus and jokingly add “Oh and he’s an Aquarius like you!""“I mean yes, Aquarius can be narcissistic, but did he make it official again?” Theus asks. ""No,"" I answer softly.Theus continues asking questions.“So, he denied the other girl he was seeing, even after you showed him the picture?” he asks. I pour myself more wine and avoided Theus’s interrogation.“Anyway, he apologized,” I take a sip and say, “but 3 strikes, he’s out, FOR SURE.""“Did you invite him tonight?” Dmitry asked in a stern voice.“Mmmaybe,” I slowly answer, “he’s back in the city too.”The whole circle grows quiet. I couldn’t see Emi’s face buried in Dmitry’s chest, but I felt her concern. Emi and Dmitry were my closest friends, so I understood why they thought I was dumb, but they never judged, they worried.“Yeah, just be careful,” Emi said, “this is the third time friend.” My phone rings, the same number as before.“Hey, I’m here, you’re the ones sitting by the fire right?” I get up and see the tall silhouette standing by the parking lot.“Y-yeah,” I say, remembering the shadow I saw earlier, he wasn’t wearing the fisherman hat though.“come on down.”“So who’s going to call him out?!” laughs Theus. “Shut up!” I say, punching him in the arm.“Hello.” Everyone turns around and sees Rio walking towards us. He immediately sits next to me.“I brought wine.”“Whooo!” cheers Diana and Theus.“Thank you!” I say.Rio turns to me, “Of course, happy birthday,” and kisses me on the cheek.Theus pokes his head towards Rio. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met before,” he puts me on the spot again, “SOMEONE here never introduced me!”Rio laughs, the same laugh that gave me goosebumps.“You did hear each other through the phone though,” I remind them, “that one time Theus, when we asked you to come over, but you said he lived too far.”“Well, he DID.” Theus pointed out.Rio caresses my blanket. “It’s so soft, I like it.” He gets closer, pulling me in his arms. I place my head on his chest, feeling a lot warmer. Across me was Kai sleeping soundly by the fire.“How long has Kai been sleeping?!” laughs Diana.“He just came here to start the fire guys don’t worry,” Dmitry says. We all laugh together. I suddenly feel something sharp poking my leg.“Oww!” I look over at Rio, “is there a knife in your pocket?!”“Oh yes,” he says, pulling out a gray object shaped like an arrow. He opens it in an L-shaped form. “It’s a wine opener.”Kai wakes up looking confused. “How long was I out for?”“About an hour,” I say, “but you looked so peaceful we didn’t want to wake you up.”He sees Rio and waves hello. “Have we met?” he asks.“No, I don’t think so,” Rio says, “would you like some wine?” Kai disregards the question when he sees the sharp object in Rio’s hand and asks, “Omg is that a wine opener?!”“Yeah, do you want to look at it?” Kai grabs the arrow-shaped object. “Careful it’s sharp!” I point out.Rio pulls me closer to him, kissing me on the cheek again. “You okay?” he asks.“Yeah,” I respond, “just being dramatic.”We danced for another hour and sat by the fire. I look at the time. It was barely 9 pm.“What are you guys doing after?” asks Rio.“Probably just take an Uber home,” answers Dmitry.“What about you Theus?” I ask.“Well, some friends invited me to a club, but I don’t know if I want to go home and change,” he says.Everyone gets up and starts picking up their belongings.“Want to come over?” Rio asks quietly. For the first time, I hesitated, but mostly because I didn’t bring anything with me to shower or sleep in.“…Sure,” I said. An SUV pulls up to the parking lot.“Uber’s here!” says Kai. He hands Rio back his wine opener. “Before I forget!”“I call SHOTGUN!” Theus says.“You going to be okay?” Dmitry asks.“Yeah,” I nod, “just text me when you get home.”The SUV drives away and it’s just Rio and I alone at the beach. The fire continues to dance by the sea breeze under the full moon.“Did you drive here?” I ask.‘” No, I actually went back to the place I was at before,” Rio says standing behind me, “it’s a 15-minute walk from here.” I’m snuggled in my blanket and think about the walk. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll keep you warm the whole way.” I turn around and see Rio standing by the fire. An orange hue casted on his face, hair receding from his head, and a much rounder shape than I remembered.He sees my eyes wandering at his entire shape. “I know, I look a little different,” he answers, softly laughing, “you don’t mind right?” I nod my head.“No,” I say, “we should start walking, I’m really cold.”As we walked back to shire, I recalled the night he spoke about his weight, how his fatphobic aunt refused to look at him and didn’t want him near her.I met Rio slender, tall, with a lot more hair. I didn’t really recognize the man walking with me.“You’re quiet,” he points out, “are you sure the weight doesn’t bother you?”“No, sorry I’m just really tired,” I tell him. “Was it stress again?” I ask, “You told me how you lost a lot of hair because of stress.”“Yes,” he said, “that happened 5 months ago too.” Five months ago, was around the time he contacted me. From what he told me in the past, relationships, his ex-wife, and now, most likely the girl he was holding from the back, looking like a high school prom photo.“Did she break up with you?” I asked, expecting an excuse, “Is that WHY you’re here with me right now?”“No, no,” he quickly answered, looking as if he was making a political speech “I broke up with HER.” Rio continues his speech, trying to sound correct. “I gained weight and lost my hair, and she didn’t like that.”I didn’t need to ask him for the truth or for him to admit the girl in the picture from July was in fact a partner, not his “friend” which he switched to “stylist” in the same sentence.“Hopefully you find a new stylist,” I say. Rio sighs in frustration.The full moon’s light made it easier to walk up the parking lot. My heart felt heavy again, triggered by patterns of lies and excuses. I grab my phone and cancel Rio's request back to his house.“Hey,” I say, “I’m just going to call an Uber home no worries.” His eyes widen.“Is something wrong?” he asks.“No, I’m just too tired to walk.”“Okay, why don’t you call it at my house, you’ll be a lot warmer.”I stay quiet, trying not to shiver so much from the cold, hoping a driver is 5 minutes away.Rio walks closer to me, grabs my phone, cancels the request, and pulls my arm, wrapping my body inside his arms. I scream and pull away from him. I wasn't thinking clearly and ran back to the beach.“GO AWAY!” I scream. I keep running, feeling the cold wind numbing my face. “What did you say?” he responds. There was no distance between us, and I knew, as I heard his voice next to me that he caught up.Once again, I am wrapped around his arms, my body falling on top of his next to the ocean waves. “Stay calm,” he whispers in my ear.I am too cold to say anything.“I knew you were just like them; you hate how I look, and never trust me.”I stay quiet.“You’re too paranoid,” he says breathing heavily, “I hate when people doubt my good intentions.” As the waves crash onto us, I can no longer feel my body. He pulls us farther from the waves. The only thing on my mind was death, and facing it once again, on my birthday.Rio, the narcissist won the battle against me. This day was never about me; it was about a man’s ego I destroyed. A man, once a boy, blamed women for his insecurities, failed marriage, weight gain, and hair loss. How does a narcissist prepare for battle?First, he’ll be alone, he’ll start running every day, lifting weights, using products for hair growth, and wearing nice clothes. He will look in the mirror and won’t recognize the insecure boy anymore. He is ready for the next prey, the one who met him as the gentleman with a slender figure who doesn’t know about the insecure boy underneath. The prey figured him out by her intuitive powers the 1st time, the 2nd, but was too late the 3rd time. I’m the one that has to pay the price.How does a narcissist kill? Strangling? Asphyxiation? My watering eyes capture the constellations in the sky right before death.“Cupid’s Arrow,” I say to myself. As my eyes cleared out, Cupid’s Arrow was a gray sharp object in front of me. Death by wine opener.I close my eyes and face Death.""Ahhh!!""I’m woken up, no longer feeling Rio’s weight behind me, no blood falling out my throat. I’m still at the beach, or maybe in purgatory. But there he was, in pain, looking up at me and struggling to speak.“E-Effie,” he says, “I’m burning!” I stare in shock.“C-Call for help!”No, I couldn’t trust him at all, especially now. I escaped Death and only had one chance. I stretch my arm out as a test.“You have my phone,” I remind him, “hand it over.”“L-left p-pocket,” he says, struggling to speak. The arrow-shaped opener was still on his hand so I tell him to throw it as far as he could. Before doing so, his whole body shakes until he stops moving.“Rio?” I ask, puzzled. No response. His fingers curled up near his shoulders, eyes, and mouth open, looking up at the sky, the full moon lighting a blue shade to the narcissist’s fate.My heart stops aching. Seeing death in front of me made me feel…liberated. I walk closer to him to grab my phone from his pocket until I notice something crawling up his stomach. It moves closer to the moonlight and I realize the large black venomous insect on top of him….I quickly jump back. A SCORPION?! AT THE BEACH?” …“Death by venom,” I say to myself. The scorpion looked calm, trusting, and I didn't feel threatened.But there was no strength left in me anymore. I wouldn’t make it out of this beach alive. My body, slowly losing blood circulation, numbing everything inside, I lay on top of the sand, facing death for the 2nd time.I look up at the full moon shining above me until a shadow stands in front. My eyes grow and I scream quickly getting up.“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” said the shadow. It was an old man holding a flashlight. “I’m looking for Artie, my pet.”How much shit would I go through tonight? I thought.But the old man looked harmless.“Umm, I haven’t seen an animal sorry,” I said. He saw me shaking and handed me my blanket and…right, I forgot about my tote bag with extra clothes in it.“I found it near the steps before walking down here,” he says handing me the bag.“Thank you so much!” I said, “Let me change really quick if I feel warmer, I can help you find your pet.”“You should probably go home,” he smiled, “I got it from here.”I smile back, “if you call Artie’s name loud enough, it can probably hear you.” I suggested.I hide near a boulder and feel the warmth of my clothes in my body. I grab my blanket and walk over to see the old man near the dead narcissist.“There you are!” the old man cheers, grabbing the large black insect. I am in shock. Artie was the scorpion that killed Rio!My eyes were probably the size of the moon. The old man looks towards me and smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says, “he’s not going to hurt you or anyone anymore.”Before I said anything, my phone rang. I sigh in relief, thankful it was still working. Emi was on the other line.“Hey,” I said, “what’s up?”“Effie are you okay?” she sounds concerned.“Yeah, I’m still at the beach, I was going to call an Uber home.”“It’s ok, we came back!” I hear Dmitry in the background.“Yeah, we got home, and your location stopped moving so, we got worried,” Emi said. “Are you at the same spot?”I cried from happiness; thankful I had friends that looked out for me. I tried not to sound mopey over the phone, so I swallow tears before answering.“Yeah, I’ll meet you here,” I said.Before walking up, I had to thank the old man, but as I turn around, he was gone. Rio’s body is also gone. I take a second to see the night’s beauty, shining under the full moon.All I see are the waves in front of me, pulling the narcissist to his grave of water, taking every trace of the night back into the ocean.""Thank you,"" I say.
","July 08, 2023 03:05","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Crazy tale, Stephanie. Dark, in setting and in tone. Coincidentally, one of my characters' names in my last tale was Effie. LOL\n\nYeah, the guy was poison, and he died by poison. Nice."", 'time': '11:04 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Stephanie Leon': 'thank you so much! I\'ve loved the name since watching Skins haha these prompts are so much fun! Your story ""the care and Feeding of Monsters"" is so intriguing as well! love meeting fellow writers!', 'time': '21:57 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Stephanie Leon': 'thank you so much! I\'ve loved the name since watching Skins haha these prompts are so much fun! Your story ""the care and Feeding of Monsters"" is so intriguing as well! love meeting fellow writers!', 'time': '21:57 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,mrfprn,Panic Zone Conqueror,Tim Rathz,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mrfprn/,/short-story/mrfprn/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational', 'Suspense']",10 likes,"
""Ladies and gentlemen! Here he is for the final round! Gabe Garfield will be facing his greatest fear!""  
 
	The words roared over the crowd like it was the first lap of the Indy 500. Gabe couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. How did I end up here?, he thought to himself. Of all the people on earth, how did HE get talked into this? The two-story digital countdown started. 10-9. Am I really going through with this? 8-7. I can still back out. 6-5. Just walk away. I have nothing to prove. 4-3. Go Gabe! Leave! 2-1. Shit. 
 
	Eight hours earlier, Gabe Garfield was walking into work on another monotonous Tuesday. Boring and predictable was exactly how he liked to be. He parked in the same spot, walked the same pace, climbed the same steps to his office, and poured the same cup of coffee with two creams. After sitting down at his 6x8 cubicle, he noticed his voicemail light flickering in regular intervals. He picked up the phone and punched in his password.  
 
	“Gabe, it’s Charlie. Call me asap! My producers need a last-minute contestant. I need you!”  
 
	Gabe hung up and sighed. His friend, Charlie, was recently able to get his foot in the Hollywood door as an assistant casting director for a brand-new stunt game show, called Panic Zone Conqueror. Gabe knew that they must have had a cancellation or something and Charlie just wanted to be the guy to save the day with a replacement to look impressive. No way, Gabe thought to himself, and started into his usual morning reports. 
 
	Not two minutes later, his phone rang, and Gabe correctly guessed who it was. “Hello, Charlie,” Gabe said as he picked up the phone. “And no thank you. Count me out.” 
 
	“Oh, come on, Gabe. This is a once in a lifetime chance for you.” 
 
	“So was the rental property you begged me to invest in. How’s that going for us?”  
 
	“Not fair. You know that wasn’t my fault. Anyway, this is different. All you have to do is face your fear and collect a crap-ton of money!” 
 
	“If it’s so easy, then why do you desperately need me to do it? Don’t you have a contestant ready to go? Plus, how do they know what my fears are? Surely, they have to know ahead of time, so they know what stunts to do.” 
 
	“Our contestant was in an accident, so he can’t be involved. We’re already set up for the stunt. We’re in a tight filming window and it’s gotta be today.” 
 
	“Wait, today? Charlie, I’m at work. I can’t just leave here and go shoot a tv show.” 
 
	“Just take a half day and come to the address I’m about to text you.” 
 
	“No way. What’s the stunt anyway?” 
 
	“Well, his was a fear of falling and I know that’s yours too! It’s perfect!” 
 
	“Nope! No way! No chance! Not happening today or any other day. You know why I have a fear of falling. You were there when my brother fell.” 
 
	“Yes, I know Gabe. It was horrible. But it was 16 years ago. You never got counseling or therapy of any kind. You need to face your demons and I need a contestant. Just come here and take a look. If you decide not to do it, then you can back out whenever. You’d be doing me a HUGE favor! Plus, you have a chance to win $50,000.” 
 
 
	“$50,000?” 
 
 
	“Yes, Gabe. I’ve told you about the big prizes.” 
 
 
	“I know, but when you say it out loud, it’s a lot of money. But, still the answer is no.” 
 
 
	“Gabe, I need you. I’m asking you, as a friend, to do me this favor. Please.” 
 
 
	Gabe let out a long defeated sigh. One of his biggest weeknesses was his loyalty to his friends. “Fine. text me the address. I’ll leave now.”  
 
 
	“That’s the old Gabe! Thanks buddy, I owe you one. Well, unless you win the money. Then you owe me one.” 
 
 
 What the hell have I just done? 
 
 
	Gabe couldn’t help but think about his brother, Gilbert, during the entire drive to the filming location. It was a short 16 years ago their family was vacationing along with Charlie’s family in Tennessee. They rented an eight-room cabin in Gatlinburg, overlooking a voluminous crystal lake. It was just before dinner and the boys were all roughhousing on the upper deck of the cabin. Things got a little too rough and Gilbert crashed through the wooden rail and fell a story down to the ground. He broke two vertebrae, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. Gabe never forgave himself and committed himself to playing it safe from then on. Now he just lives a humdrum life, hoping never to hurt anyone again.  
 
 
	Gabe couldn’t help but think about the $50,000. He knew he could get a much better automated wheelchair for Charlie, that is not covered by insurance. Maybe this was his chance to make amends with himself as well. 
 
 
	He arrived at the address of the filming location and found a parking spot. Apparently, this was being filmed outside because there seemed to be a crowd of people standing around the street corner. He spotted a familiar face. 
 
 
	“Gabe! Over here!” 
 
	Gabe wandered over to Charlie, who grabbed him by the arm and led him to a group of people huddled around a camera. “Phil! Here’s your contestant!” The man popped straight up and marched directly to Gabe. “Gabe, this is Phil, our director. Phil, meet Gabe, the man who’s gonna save the day.” 
 
 
	Phil looked Gabe up and down to consider him. “Gabe, do you know much about Panic Zone Conqueror? 
 
 
	“A little I guess. Don’t I just face my fear and win money?” 
 
 
	“Pretty much. Good enough for me. I do have to ask, for ethical reasons, what is your greatest fear?” 
 
 
	Gabe thought of Gilbert. “Falling.” 
 
 
	“Perfect!” 
 
 
	Charlie chimed in, “I told you he’d be perfect!” 
 
 
	 “Well, he looks fit enough. Take him to the medical station to have him checked out to make sure he doesn’t keel over while we’re filming. Then take him to legal to sign all the waivers.” 
 
 
	After a thorough examination from the on-set doctor, Gabe was whisked away to a media van to speak with one of the show’s lawyers inside. It was all a mad rush. His head was beginning to spin from all that was going on around him. The lawyer explained the rules, how to win money and how much, and handed Gabe a stack of documents to sign.  
 
 
	Gabe had just dotted his last I and crossed his last T when a woman with smokey breath and yellow-stained fingers walked up to him and said in a raspy voice, “Time to get you into costume.” 
 
 
	“Costume?” 
 
 
	“Yes, honey, you didn’t think you were going to wear khakis and a golf shirt on tv did you?” 
 
 
	“Uh, no?” 
 
 
	She hurried Gabe into a trailer and handed him a package. Put this on quickly, then come back outside. We start filming in ten minutes. 
 
 
	“Ten minutes?” 
 
 
	“Yes! Ten minutes! Now hurry,” and she left him to it. 
 
 
	Charlie was waiting for Gabe as he walked out of the trailer in a blue and black wrestling singlet.  
 
 
	“Why am I wearing this?,” Gabe said with a confused and indignant look in his eye. 
 
	“It’s the best outfit for athletic activity and balance. Come on, we begin rolling in two minutes.” 
 
 
	“What do I have to do, anyway?” 
 
 
	“You just have to complete a task that involves your greatest fear three different times. Each time is more difficult than the last. Good luck, buddy!” 
 
 
	Gabe found himself in the middle of a circular stage with a crowd of 100 or so sitting in stands surrounding him, when blinding lights suddenly turned on and theme music began playing. He heard a voice over the loudspeaker. 
 
 
	“YOU THINK YOU’RE IN CONTROL OF YOUR FEARS?...WELCOME TO PANIC ZONE CONQUEROR!” 
 
 
	A man in skinny jeans and a tight, black tee shirt walked on stage next to Gabe. “Hello, everybody! Welcome to Panic Zone Conqueror! I’m your host, Zee Roberts, and today we have Gabe here with us. He’s going to try to conquer his greatest fear in a series of tests. Gabe, can you tell us, what is your greatest fear?”  
 
 
	“Uh, falling, Zee.” 
 
 
	“Then that is exactly what you are going to conquer today. Let’s get right to it. You are going to try to accomplish the same task three different times. Each time we will add a level of difficulty and danger to it.” 
 
 
	“Danger?” 
 
 
	“That’s right, Gabe! DANGER!” 
 
 
	Just then Gabe was ushered to what looked like a giant bucket with a door on it. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him. 
 
 
	“Ok, Gabe, up you go!” 
 
 
	“Huh?” Just then, the bucket shot up like an elevator. Up, up, up. It seemed like it would never stop. When it finally did, Gabe took a look down. The host now looked like an ant. He instantly began shaking and sweating. A safety tech, stationed at the top, grabbed his arm and pulled him out onto a small platform. He could still hear Zee’s voice from below. 
 
 
	“For your first task, you will be ten stories up, tethered to a safety cord and will have a net below you. You will have to walk the 100 foot plank in front of you to the platform on the other side. You will have two minutes to accomplish your goal to win $10,000.” 
 
 
	Gabe looked out in front of him and there was a 1 ½ foot wide, metal plank leading 100 feet to the other side. The safety tech on the platform placed a harness on him and connected a safety cord clip to it. He looked down and saw a net had been placed below.  
 
 
 10-9-8-7-6. Gabe could hear the crowd counting down with a giant digital board to the side. 5-4-3-2-1. “CONQUER!”  
 
 
	Gabe panicked and didn’t move a muscle. Sweat was flooding his singlet. He could barely see in front of him, and the crowd noise was a blur. A voice next to him snapped him out of his trance. It was the safety tech. “Go, man!” 
 
 
	Gabe swallowed hard and started to walk. He began to think of his brother and decided it was time to be brave, like Gilbert had been for the last 16 years. A wave of confidence washed over him. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the opposite flatform. Suddenly, his eyes and ears began to clear, and he could hear the roar of the crowd, cheering him on.  
 
 
	“He did it! He’s on the other side! We’ll be right back after these messages to see if he can pass stage two.” 
 
 
	There was a safety tech on this platform as well, who looked at Gabe. “You ok, man?” 
 
 
	“Yeah, I think I’m good.” 
 
 
	He could tell the commercial break was over when he heard Zee’s voice from down below, “Welcome back to Panic Zone Conqueror. Our contestant, Gabe, just completed stage-one of his tests and won $10,000. Gabe, are you ready for stage-two and a chance to make it $20,000?” 
 
 
	“I’m ready Zee.” There was more confidence in his voice now.  
 
 
	“For stage-two, you will walk right back across that plank. But this time you will only have the net. Please remove his harness.” 
 
 
	“Wait, what?” 
 
 
	The tech unclipped the cord and took the harness off Gabe.  
 
 
	“Everybody, count down with me.” Gabe took another look down. It was the same view as before, but he felt naked without the harness. 
 
 
 10-9-8-7-6 
 
 
	Gabe started panicking again. 
 
 
	5-4-3-2-1 “CONQUER!” 
 
 
	He stayed put once again. This was going to be harder, but he knew there was still a net. However, a terrifying fall into the net was foremost in his mind. He took a deep breath in, then out, and off he went. He once again lost track of time and reality. He was in a daze, but thinking about helping his brother kept him going. He could hear counting in the background. It sounded like the crowd was counting down again. Was he running out of time? Then, the tech put his arm out to stop Gabe from walking off the back of the platform. The crowd stopped counting and started cheering. He made it. 
 
 
	“INCREDIBLE! Gabe is up to $20,000! We’ll return after these messages to see if Gabe has what it takes to totally conquer his fear and win $50,000.” 
 
 
	It was a commercial break again. Gabe was exhilarated. He felt like he could take on the world. The tech looked at Gabe. “You ready for this, man?” 
 
 
	“Hell yeah! I’m ready for anything!”  
 
 
	“Well, that’s a lot better than the original contestant.” 
 
 
	“The one that was in the accident? What happened to him anyway?” 
 
 
	“It was no accident. Before he was even able to get into costume, he was told what he would have to do for the third stage, took one look at the set, and had a heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital. No word on his condition.” 
 
 
	“What? No one told me that! What do I have to do for the third stage?” 
 
 
	He heard a booming voice below. “We’re back from break and it’s time for the third stage for $50,000. Our conqueror is going to have to walk the plank again with no safety harness and no net. Just him and 100 feet of plank. So, for the official announcement… 
 
 
""Ladies and gentlemen! Here he is for the final round! Gabe Garfield will be facing his greatest fear!""  
 
 
	The words roared over the crowd like it was the first lap of the Indy 500. Gabe couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. How did I end up here?, he thought to himself. Of all the people on earth, how did HE get talked into this? The two-story digital countdown started. 10-9. Am I really going through with this? 8-7. I can still back out. 6-5. Just walk away. I have nothing to prove. 4-3. Go Gabe! Leave! 2-1. Shit. 
 
 
	Gabe started moving. Left foot in front of right. Right in front of left. He was shaking as he moved. The last two times, he started feeling comfortable a quarter of the way in. This time didn’t feel right at all. He started panicking. Halfway there. I can do this, he thought to himself. 
 
 
	He was sweating uncontrollably now, mouth dry. He was almost three quarters of the way there. He was going to make it! The next thing he felt was the toe of his left shoe hit the heel of his right shoe. His knees buckled. He reached out his arms to grab the plank. Too late. He was too out of control and falling too fast. He slipped off the side of the plank and down he went.  
 
 
	Memories of 16 years ago flashed in front of him. He saw himself tossing the football to Gilbert then tackling him.  
 
 
	Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a giant inflatable air cushion deploy. 
 
 
	He saw the railing crack and Gilbert fly straight through it. 
 
 
	He heard the crowd scream. 
 
 
	He saw Gilbert fall over the side. 
 
 
	He saw the white marshmallow-like cushion. 
 
 
	He saw Gilbert crumpled on the ground with his leg facing the wrong direction. 
 
 
	He felt himself quickly hit a soft cloudlike pillow and slowly sink. 
 
 
	Gabe opened his eyes and there was Zee Roberts standing over him, smiling. Next to him was Charlie and a camera operator. 
 
 
	“You ok, Gabe?” 
 
 
	Gabe wasn’t sure if he was dead. “What happened?” 
 
 
	“I’ll tell you what happened,” Zee blurted. “You did it, Gabe! You conquered your greatest fear. You won!” 
 
 
	The crowd burst into a cheer. 
 
 
	“But I fell. I didn’t make it across.”  
 
 
	“Just by taking your first step out onto the plank, you won, Gabe. You conquered your fear and that’s the name of the game. There was no first contestant that had a heart attack. It was all about you the whole time. In this first episode, we’re telling your story. We have a special guest to present you with your $50,000 check.” 
 
 
	Gabe looked over his shoulder to see Gilbert in his wheelchair, holding a giant prop check, with a tear in his eye and a wide smile on his face. Zee handed him the microphone. 
 
 
	“I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. Falling was never your biggest fear. Your biggest fear was walking with guilt. Well, it’s time, big brother. You’ve faced your fear. Time to leave the past in the past and start living. And maybe start by taking me on a vacation with your winnings.” 
 
 
	A relief fell over Gabe, like a 16-year-old anvil that had been lifted from his chest. He walked over and gave Gilbert the hug he had been holding onto for a long time.  
 
 
","July 13, 2023 02:27","[[{'David Sweet': 'Nice positive ending! Welcome to Reedsy! Nice build-up to the finale. Glad it was more about overcoming guilt than the money. Good luck on all your writing endeavors.', 'time': '17:08 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,vjyjtk,Nerves of Steel,Branden Elliot,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vjyjtk/,/short-story/vjyjtk/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Contemporary', 'Friendship']",10 likes,"
	The afternoon sun peeked through the half open blinds, revealing a million little dust particles dancing around the orange-tinted living room. Spring was coming to a close as summer began to show itself in Dylan Navarrete’s studio apartment. Too lethargic to stand up and turn on the air conditioner, he was content with letting beads of sweat form on his forehead, placing his half-empty bottle of beer right on the flat portion of his skull. There was a swirl of emotion within him. He felt disappointment, shame, relief, but above all else, he felt an overwhelming urge to run away, to drop out of college and start a new life. Perhaps he’d join the army, or a circus, or maybe he’d start a band or hitchhike across the country. Anything would beat the high expectations he faces on a daily basis. The struggle to perform was something he’s dealt with his whole life. His father’s ridiculously strict standards made him lose out on any semblance of a childhood. He spent his time getting straight A’s in high school, while joining the speech and debate team, and playing for the school’s soccer team. No matter what activities he was engaged in, his father wanted him to be the best; the best forward on the team, the best debater, the best student. It was suffocating. And now he was paying for Dylan’s college degree, so you can imagine just how much more pressure to perform Dylan faced.
    With a sigh, Dylan stood up to stretch his legs and give his lower back a small scratch. He turned around and stared at his well-adorned wall. Near the ceiling was a large, rectangular wooden plaque with two rapiers crossed in the shape of an x glued to the middle of it. Underneath that were half a dozen medals. Dylan couldn’t help but grin a little. He was only in his fencing club for six months before Coach Jackson said he should try to enter a few tournaments. Old Coach was Dylan’s greatest supporter, a true father figure to him. He believed in Dylan when no one else would, not even himself. If it wasn’t for Coach, Dylan wouldn’t have won any medals at all and he was sure of that. He approached the wall, gently holding one of the golden medals, rubbing its slick surface and smirking at his triumph. He remembered the very duel that earned him this particular medal. His opponent, ambitious little guy, was hasty. When he went in on the tie-breaker match, he lunged wildly. Dylan parried with finesse and tagged him with a well-controlled riposte. It was the first tournament he ever won. The exhilaration of the first win is unlike anything else. There is no drug on the planet that could ever come close to the feeling. And then, of course, there is the crippling feeling of failure.
 
    Dylan’s thoughts were interrupted by his obnoxiously loud doorbell. For an apartment so tiny, he often wondered what the point of such an irritating, mildly deafening doorbell like that was. He opened the door without checking through the peephole to see who it was. He half-expected his visitor anyway. He opened the door to find his best friend since middle school grinning widely at him. Giddy with delight, and nearly shaking with excitement, he wasted no time barging in.
    “Alright, bud,” he said chipperly. “It’s the big day. I mean the big, big day. You ready to take another one down? ’Course you are. What am I saying? You’re, like, the Terminator, bro. Nerves of steel. You never get nervous before a duel. So, I’m thinking- “
    “Austin,” Dylan tried to interrupt.
    “-that we should go over the game plan again, you know? I mean, you gotta be prepared, you know? It’s the big one, dude.”
    “Austin.”
    “I brought a few of your training manuals. I mean, I can’t understand a lick of this stuff. It’s like Greek to me, but I know it might help if- “
    “Austin,” Dylan barked. There was a small silence as Austin began to glance over at his rather deflated friend.
    “W-What’s up, dude?” Austin asked. “Why ain’t you dressed? Dude, we gotta be outta here in like twenty minutes.” Austin began rummaging through Dylan’s things, frantically looking for his fencing attire, but as he did so, Dylan stopped him by putting a hand firmly on his shoulder.
    “Austin,” he began. “I’m not going.”
    “What?” Austin asked incredulously. “Why not?”
    “I just decided I can’t do it, man.”
    “Dyl, I mean-” Austin sputtered for a moment like an old Ford Model T. “Of course, you can do it. What’s that even mean? You’ve been training. You’re ready!”
    “No, but that’s just it. I’m not ready.” Dylan slunk down onto his sofa and leaned back, covering his eyes with one hand. Austin moved with more tact now, slowly easing himself into the seat beside his friend.
    “Why do you think that, man? We’ve gone over the game plans a hundred times.”
    Dylan sighed with a tinge of irritation. “And we can go over them a hundred more times. I still won’t be ready.”
    “Ah, man,” Austin scoffed. “You’re just in your head. It’s nerves, you know?”
    “Yeah, maybe,” replied Dylan glumly. “Or maybe it’s just the truth I’ve been running from for a while now.”
    Austin looked down at his hands. “Dude, I don’t think so. I mean, how often do you see someone go from rookie to pro in, like, two years? You’re kind of a prodigy, you know?”
    Austin wasn’t entirely wrong. A growth that explosive, that sudden, is a bit of a rarity. But what he’s overlooking is that this particular duel was against Rodrick Masterson. Not only is he the son of Professor Masterson, a prestigious instructor with his own championships under his belt, but he also has more experience with fencing. He has a lot more experience, in fact. He's also the only duelist that Dylan has lost a fencing tournament to.
    “Prodigy or not,” Dylan spoke up after a long pause, “you know who I’m up against. The guy’s good, Austin. I mean, he’s got the pedigree, he’s got the training, and the only reason they’re pitting me up against him is because we have the same number of medals under our belts.” With that, Dylan leaned back and threw his hands up. “He’s a shoe-in. I’m just one more opponent for him to beat so he can go on to the world championship.”
    “Don’t think like that, Dyl,” Austin said, frowning. “You both have the same number of medals, right? Who cares how much training it took him? If he has the same number of medals as you and he’s been training for, like, twice as long as you, then it sounds to me like he sucks.”
    Dylan chuckled and his friend snorted at him in response. “Yeah, well, he beat me, so there is that.”
    “Loser’s luck, dude,” Austin smirked. “Even a blind pig finds the acorn every now and then.”
    Dylan sat there, pondering. After a while he started shaking his head and tightening his lips. “I just don’t want to make a fool of myself, not when I’ve come this far. You know, my dad said I shouldn’t do this, that it’d get in the way of my studies. Maybe he was right, you know?”
    “Dude, screw your dad,” Austin protested. “When has he ever been right about anything?”
    The mere mention of his father in the conversation made Dylan suddenly very irritable. He stood up from the couch and started pacing around the cramped kitchen nearby.
    “I don’t think you even believe that,” Austin said sternly. “What’s this about, really?”
    Dylan shook his head and kept pacing.
    “Dude,” Austin snapped. “What is this really about?”
    “I’m scared, man!” Dylan yelled. He drooped his head down and composed himself. “I’m scared.”
    “What are you scared of?” Austin asked.
    “Failure.”
    “Failure?”
    “Yes,” Dylan said lowly. “Failure. I don’t want to fail at this. I want to get into the world tournament more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I can’t afford to lose this. That’s why I’m not going. If I don’t participate, I can’t lose to Masterson.”
    Austin just stood there, scowling with his jaw agape. “Dude, I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
    Dylan snickered at him. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
    “Because, yeah, you can’t lose, but you can’t win either.”
    Dylan nodded with a grin. “Yeah, I know that. But it’s still better than- “
    “Is it, though?” Austin interrupted. They both stood there for a while.
    “You remember Alex Lackey in eighth grade?” Austin asked.
    “Of course,” Dylan replied. “You kissed his sister and the big, ugly oaf pummeled you into next year.”
    “Yeah,” Austin chuckled. “That was the worst beating I ever took.” He stared at Dylan’s kitchen counter. “The worst thing about that whole experience was that, towards the end, I begged him to stop. I literally begged him. And he was laughing at me, man, calling me all sorts of degrading names.”
    Dylan looked over at his friend with concern and empathy. “You never told me that.”
    “Yeah, well,” Austin said timidly. “That’s not a thing I like to admit often. But, anyway, I told my dad the whole thing, like, all of it. He said I shouldn’t have quit, that even as I was getting pounded on, I should’ve held my tongue. I should’ve gotten back up if I was able to. I shouldn’t have quit.”
    “Sounds pretty callous of your old man to me,” Dylan said disappointedly.
    “I thought that at first too, dude,” Austin said with a smirk. “But, when I got older, I figured out what he meant by that. Like, life is gonna give you a beating all the time, dude. You just gotta get back up every time. Look, I know I didn’t go to this ivy league school you’re in. I’m not smart like you, neither is my dad, but I know that the wisest thing he ever told me is that the only way you can lose is if you never try.”
    Dylan stared at Austin as he spoke, listening carefully. Austin sighed and nudged Dylan’s shoulder.
    “That’s the thing, man,” Austin continued. “The world is full of failures, and I don’t mean people who just failed. I mean, the world is full of people who let their fears make their decisions for them, rather than make those decisions for themselves.”
    Dylan looked at his friend in wonderment, then he looked away for a second. In a flash, he stepped away from the kitchen and grabbed his facemask, his suit, and his rapier. After some time spent in the bathroom changing into his under armor and sporting attire, he came out and showed himself to Austin.
    “See, now you look like a champion,” Austin said with a grin. Dylan smiled back at him.
    “Thanks, man,” Dylan said warmly. As Austin walked past him to head towards the door, Dylan stopped him. “I mean, really, thank you Austin.”
    Austin nodded. Then the two best friends hugged for a few seconds and walked out the front door of the dingy little apartment. As he walked out, Dylan felt an old, familiar feeling, those nerves of steel as Austin put it. And why shouldn’t he feel that way? He never gets nervous before a duel.
","July 13, 2023 02:39",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,o0jb3m,The T Stands for Terror,Vie L'cast,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o0jb3m/,/short-story/o0jb3m/,Character,0,"['American', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
I am a TSA agent with Generalized Anxiety Disorder based out of Florida. I share this so that you might understand what caused me to shut down the Miami International Airport on January 28, 2023.It was a typical Saturday. My shift started at 3am so I was up by midnight. My usual routine included a lukewarm shower, marijuana with some meditation, tea and a granola bar. Smoking weed before clocking into a TSA job had its challenges but it became a necessity for me. As a kid, my father beat me mercilessly. Any slight infraction was my fault and I needed to be corrected for it. So I developed an unreasonable amount of worry. I worried I would miss the school bus, so I slept in my uniform most nights. In high school, the thought of someone pulling my pants down in the middle of the hall terrified me so I wore tighty-whities underneath my boxers...just in case.As an adult, I lived in constant fear that a terrorist attack would occur and that the point of embarkment would be traced back to my gate. So I became vigilant.Because of this unique personality trait I only have two friends - both are my cousins. For years they insisted that I ""take the edge off"" by trying out different illegal substances to help quiet my mind. I tried alcohol, but didn't enjoy the depression that soon followed. I tried cocaine, and that was a glaring mistake. Marijuana was actually my last attempt at controlling my compulsive worrying.At first it seemed to exacerbate the matter. I called it ""the lift off"". My heart would race, paranoid thoughts of impending doom crowded my mind, and then out of nowhere creativity would emerge. Silent and steady. Showing up where I least expected it. Shining a bit of beauty in the midst of all my rumination. It became an unexpected release, a feeling I would chase almost daily.So that Saturday found me finishing a spliff I would have parceled out had I not been facing a double shift, so I smoked the whole thing. Like clockwork I entered the feeling of inexcapabel dread: the idea of being piss-tested at work - the fear of being fired from my job. By the time I arrived at my post, most of that anxiety had settled and I began to conjure stories about different people that came through my gate.This had become one of my favorite past times. I made up stories of lovers pretending to not know each other in the line only to join the mile high club later on. I conjured tales of royals flying under the guise of normality. I entertained myself thoroughly, and would often return home to write these little wonderings in notebooks I kept stacked neatly by my desk.That day, as I stared at the computer screen illuminating the intimate belongings of each passenger my curiosity began to wonder. I considered the variety of items that showed up like neon toys across my monitor.That's when I noticed it.A small bottle containing some type of liquid. This was not an uncommon sight. All sorts of small liquid bottles were allowed to cross in carry-on suitcases. This bottle was of the shape and size to indicate some type of ordinary mouthwash or small cologne. Something completely standard, unconcerning. Yet for some reason my heart began to palpitate roughly against my chest making it difficult for me to swallow. I tried to push back the paranoia that had obviously U-turned back my way, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the bag needed to be opened.In a moment of brief panic I yanked the bag out of the conveyor belt and asked for a screening. I whispered to my colleague to allow me to see what the small bottle was when she inspected the bag. She agreed and was soon waiving a small Listerine bottle in the air for me to see. I nodded and returned to the screen as if the whole ordeal had been inconsequential when in reality my heart had not stopped racing inside of me.I could not get my hands to stop sweating, my mouth went dry, and yet I pushed back these symptoms convincing myself that I had simply smoked more than what I was used to. A few passengers later, and a similar bottle, same shape, same size, appeared again. This time in the dainty luggage of a young woman who seemed rush. I battled, debated with myself for what seemed like eternity before yanking that bag out as well and asking the fellow TSA agent to show me the content.Again, a small Scope bottle this time appeared in the air promising minty freshness. Again I felt like an idiot. But the experience continued for about an hour. Time and again small, cylindrical mouthwash bottles brightened up my screen forcing me to ignore or make decisions that later seemed quite foolish. I kept this up for multiple bags, annoying the fellow agents assigned to my belt but I just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.On average, I see dozens of small, mouthwash-like bottles cross my screen throughout the duration of my shift. But that Saturday it seemed as though every other bag had one or multiple little bottles tucked inside. In an attempt to ease my desperation, I began to ask passengers carrying these small containers to show me their boarding pass. On a loose sheet of paper I jotted down their destination and departure gate.After about an hour a pattern began to emerge on my paper. Out of the thirty-one passengers I had flagged on my secret investigation, twenty-two were headed to the same city. This could not be a coincidence. I knew it. My gut knew it. My heightened state of awareness knew it. Sweat began to accumulate at the edges of my forehead. I couldn't breath properly and I knew a panic attack was eminent unless I shared my discovery with someone.No longer able to control my impulses, I asked for relief from my post, walked upstairs to ""the hub"" where all the supervisors worked, notebook paper in hand, and began to detail all the observations I had made. I went on and on explaining my perceived threat to an audience that stared back at me in silence.""So you think a terrorist attack is about to take place using mouthwash?"" Asked my direct manager, Mike.""How long have you been working here, son?"" Inquired someone I didn't know.Chuckles and hidden smiles emerged from a few others, before my Mike asked me to step outside with him.""Mike, something's up. I promise you, man. I've been working here for a little while now, but today something feels off and I know it has something to do with so many random passengers carrying those same little bottle on the same flight.""""Did you smoke before coming to work?""""What?"" I asked, feeling my legs grow weaker.Mike persisted. ""Did you do any drugs before you came in today?""""No."" I lied. ""Please Mike, just check the plane. It's just one flight. It can be delayed. Please, I beg you something is off.""""I can't do that, Tommy. You said it yourself, you flagged nearly every bag, you saw the contents for yourself. I think you're just having a bad morning. I'm going to have to ask HR to perform a drug test, just in case.""""Fine. I'll do whatever test you want me to do, but please, just check Flight 1049 heading to Chicago.""""No. Go home Tommy. Expect an email from Internal asking for that piss-test.""I walked down the hall, out the airport, and crossed the street to the local diner where I made a bomb threat to that same flight using their phone.I watched from a distance as the place was consumed under a purple glow as red and blue sirens descended upon them. All flights were grounded. People were evacuated. Every piece of luggage was surely inspected and absolutely nothing came of it.Mike told the authorities about my scandal and before the end of the night I watched how my own apartment was consumed under that same purple glow. I was arrested. Questioned. Jailed. And finally released with a $1.9 million dollar fine and an ankle monitor.Three months later, ankle monitor still in place, I watched on my television screen as a plane headed for New Jersey exploded just above the city. It took months, but authorities finally discovered that a new explosive liquid, resembling mouthwash, had been distributed in small quantities throughout the airplane to help cause a simultaneous explosion triggered throughout the cabin.I won a giant settlement against the airport. Mike was eventually fired. And the fashion statement wrapped around my ankle was finally removed. I was offered a supervisor role at a smaller, different airport but I declined.I now have enough money to support myself without the need to rise for a 3am shift. I still smoke weed, and I still conjure up stories about the world around me. But instead of jotting them down on loose sheets of paper, I now submit them to random writing contest on the internet.For years I thought my greatest fear was to be blamed for not catching a potential terrorist attack at my gate. After staring at my television screen, watching debris descend from the sky like an unholy rain, I realize that what I actually feared, the mark of terror throughout my whole life was the all consuming sense of helplessness whether or not I was to blame.
","July 13, 2023 12:19","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Interesting concept, weed smoker works for TSA. got some laughs out of this story and the situation he was in.', 'time': '08:20 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,4kllwc,The Numbers,Tamarin Butcher,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4kllwc/,/short-story/4kllwc/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",10 likes,"
Carol shut her eyes to block out the ten glowing numbers, laid in front of her in exactly the right sequence for the dreaded ritual, but she knew that they were still there. For months, her excuse had been that she didn't know the numbers, couldn't find them, they were hidden, but now they had been revealed to her and she couldn't put it off any longer.
 
Do it now, do it now, DO IT NOW. That was Anxiety, screaming that the world would end if she didn't get her act together and do what needed to be done.
 
""It won't,"" Carol whispered to herself, eyes still firmly closed. ""Will it?""
 
Who cares, either way? Depression, joining the conversation. 
 
It will, it will, it will!
 
Yeah, but what can you do about it? Why does it matter? Trick question; it doesn't.
 
Why can't you just get your act together and DO THE THING? Everything depends on this...
 
You can't do anything, that's why. You're too pathetic to get anything right, to get anything done. 
 
They always started off disagreeing, Anxiety and Depression, but it never took them long to agree on one, simple thing.
 
Carol was a failure who couldn't perform the simplest task, even to save herself.
 
Anxiety, convinced that everything would go wrong, always, no matter what, it's sharp claws reaching for her from behind, intent on ripping her heart out.
 
Carol's back arched and her eyes snapped open.
 
Nothing, of course. No monsters, just Carol, alone, with her thoughts. 
 
And the numbers. The numbers were still there.
 
Depression took its turn. It started with her feet, filling them with black, heavy goo that rose, and rose, and rose until her whole body was consumed by it, hardly able to move.
 
No! Anxiety, lashing out, driving the goo back. For now. Always fighting, always at each other's throats, always making it IMPOSSIBLE to do anything at all.
 
Real monsters couldn't get in; not with the seven locks on the door and the closed blinds that made it look like no one was there at all.
 
You have to do this! YOU HAVE TO!
 
It won't matter. There is nothing you can do to end it. Nothing at all.
 
They were both right. They were both wrong. They were both. . .awful. 
 
She was powerless, but she was also the only one who could do anything. How was that possible? How was that fair? Why were the numbers left in her hands?
 
""Because this is one of those things you have to do for yourself. It won't work otherwise."" Mother's voice, from across space and time, mother who had always done her best to understand, even when she couldn't. 
 
Carol strained to remember, wanting to get the words exactly right.
 
""Give them names,"" mother had said. So Carol had. Anxiety and Depression, once a confusing ball of ugh but now clearly distinct creatures, each leeching the life from her in their own terrible way.
 
""Give them form."" So Carol had, the clawed monstrosity always just out of sight and the shapeless goo beast that lived in every pore.
 
""Now, see them for what they really are.""
 
Carol hadn't understood that step. She still didn't, not fully. Mother, doing her best with the limited tools at her disposal in a world that wasn't designed for softness or care, had tried to explain.
 
""They're like your pets,"" mother had said. ""It wasn't your idea to get them, but now that they're here, you're stuck with caring for them. They're not all bad. Sometimes they frighten away the scary things. Sometimes they alert you to a problem that needs solving. You've even come to like their company, not because they're pleasant, but because they're familiar. Does that make sense?""
 
It hadn't, not then, but Carol had said yes, anyway. Depression was insisting that the conversation was pointless, and Anxiety was terrified that Carol would never get it, never be able to do what mother wanted her to do, and all she'd wanted at the time was for mother to stop talking. 
 
It was too hard.
 
""Good,"" mother had said with a loving smile that Carol didn't deserve. ""The thing about problematic pets--they are our responsibility to care for. We have to do our best with what we know to keep them safe from the world and to make sure that everyone else, including ourselves, are safe from them. Right?""
 
""Right,"" said Carol, out loud, in the present moment.
 
The numbers glared at her, like they had evil eyes peering out from between the simple strokes that gave them form.
 
It's the only way! Anxiety insisted.
 
It will never work, Depression countered. You are not capable of doing what needs to be done.
 
Depression was right. Carol couldn't do it. Nothing filled her with more dread then being handed a set of numbers and told to act. Why didn't people understand? Why, for the important things in life, was this the only way?
 
But, what if you can do it?
 
The third voice, the one who hardly ever appeared. Mother had told her to name this voice too, but it had never seemed worth the time. Hope, maybe, or Determination. Neither name seemed earned for the tiny flicker of fire that vanished as quickly as it appeared. 
 
""Don't ignore the quiet one,"" mother had said. ""That's the one that needs the most attention to thrive.""
 
What if, said the third voice, you can do it? What if there are no downsides to trying? What if it works?
 
""It's all What Ifs, Carol."" One of Mother's favorite phrases. ""What if it's good is just as valid as What if it's bad. They're the same thing, after all--an unanswered question.""
 
Slowly, Carol reached for the glowing numbers.
 
Now. 
 
Anxiety, pushing her like it always did, sometimes for good sometimes for bad.
 
Carol's finger tapped the screen.
 
Ringing.
 
""Crisis line, how can I assist you today?""
 
The voice filled the room, the being summoned through the number ritual appearing as if by magic, invisible, but nevertheless terrifying. She could banish it again, as easily as it had been summoned, but. . .
 
What if?
 
""Hello? Are you alright?"" Concern and care.
 
""Hello,"" Carol whispered.
 
""There you are! I'm so glad that you called. Would you like to share a name with me, to make talking easier?""
 
""Carol.""
 
""Hello, Carol. What do you need?""
 
What did she need? Where could she begin?
 
""Take your time,"" said the voice, kindly. ""It can be hard to put it into words, can't it?""
 
Carol couldn't speak. Her tongue was frozen in place, the fear instilled by the voice, as kind as it was, filling her every pore. 
 
""It's pretty big then, huh?"" said the voice. ""Well, how about this. Tell me one thing, no matter how big or small it seems, and we'll take it from there.""
 
It's all big! Anxiety.
 
It's all irrelevant. Depression.
 
It all matters. Hope.
 
Voice cracked and hoarse, Carol took a deep breath and said, ""My mom died. And I can't turn on the light.""
","July 13, 2023 15:55","[[{'Krystal Brown': 'I was assigned your story to read in critique circle. \nHaving recently lost my mom, I can relate to those feelings all too well. \n\nThe light mention at the end - I can interpret that two ways. I would love to know which way you meant (literally or figuratively). \n\nGood job!', 'time': '23:24 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Tamarin Butcher': ""Thanks for reading! It's meant in both ways. Physically, she cannot turn on the lights in the room, but there is also a mental darkness that she can't see her way through, which is the underlying reason she has called."", 'time': '00:16 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tamarin Butcher': ""Thanks for reading! It's meant in both ways. Physically, she cannot turn on the lights in the room, but there is also a mental darkness that she can't see her way through, which is the underlying reason she has called."", 'time': '00:16 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Well described.', 'time': '18:00 Jul 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,csuh6n,Acrophob 'I' a,JYOTHI KRISHNAN M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/csuh6n/,/short-story/csuh6n/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Inspirational', 'Drama']",10 likes,"
I looked towards the horizon; the sky's blue was merging somewhere with a lighter version of the sea. The light blue color far above my head with foam-shaped white clouds, a sight I have always enjoyed, was frightening this time, and with trembling feet, I glanced downwards; the ground was much far below, and it seemed the sky is closer to me than the ground. My wife, watching from the base of the tall rocket-shaped metal frame, appeared like a small toy. The wind blowing from the sky was so heavy that the erected frame started to shake with clanging sounds of loosened metal parts hitting each other. I was feeling dizzy, the shivering progressed from my legs through my nerves to my fist, and a flash of lightning went through the spinal cord.My vision blurred, and the sight of a tall, isolated almond tree that stood like the cursed lone trees in horror movies crept into my mind. The blue sky was far above, but the greeny wet ground was much far below. I desperately attempted to scream, but the rush of blood to my head made it like a whimpering sound. I hung upside down on the branch where I sat a few minutes back, with my legs still holding on to it and arms still searching desperately for something to hold on to.Dad…. the shriek was so piercing that I regained my composure. I looked upwards, my six-year-old daughter was standing on a broken portion of the metal steps, and the next step was inches below. Her only hope was her acrophobic father, paralyzed midway, facing the worst fear from his past.******************************************************************************************May 1993The tree stood like a giant in the middle of the meadow, with its head high and numerous arms stretched in all directions. The beginning of the monsoon had decorated the floor with bushes and little plants, transforming it into an enchanting green bed. The tree was the Mount Everest of my life; it was there in the middle, lone and unconquered, as the center of all the humiliations I had faced in the last two months. There was no going back this time, I need to climb to the topmost branch, I want to prove to my friends that I am a better climber than them. This mid-summer vacation had been entirely different from the previous ones because I agreed with my friends on a mission to climb all the trees in our neighborhood. Being raised near a forest in my maternal home till eight years old, the trees had always been a part of my life. No trees had ever defeated me so far, no matter how tall and slippery they were. But this almond tree appears like it hated me, giving my friends who were jealous of my climbing skills a reason to make fun of me. The tree defeated me several times as I fell or slippered to the ground while my friends climbed to the lowest branches.There was only one way to win, to climb to the topmost branch, and it would not happen in their presence. The more I failed, the more conscious I became, and there was one solution: climb it when I am alone. I knew I would be strong and free from expectations when I am alone, and once I conquered, it would be easy to repeat the paths which led to glory. I stepped slowly and gathered speed as I moved through the greenery. I sprinted the last few meters like an athlete, and for a moment, it appeared that the tree was watching me. The words flew like a war cry from my mouth. Keep watching as long as you wish, I had conquered larger trees than you are, and the topmost branch is mine hereafter. There was no act of protest or disapproval from the tree as I climbed like a monkey. The view was astonishingly beautiful from the top, and it appeared like the Gods were watching the world from Heaven. I pulled a small paper cutter from my pocket to etch my name on the branch. I stabbed the knife hard and peeled the tree's outer bark to engrave the first letter of my name. There was not even a gentle breeze at that time, and complete silence followed, and the tree stopped moving for a second. Something was going to happen. The knife slipped, and I stretched my right arm to catch it, slightly losing the left hand and tightening the locks made with my legs. Suddenly, a wind was blown out of nowhere, and the tree moved back and forth with its full power. It felt like a supernatural force was shaking the tree, and I was losing my grip, and within seconds, I hung upside down like a bat, hanging only onto the lock made by folding the knees. The knife dropped from my right hand, disappearing into the lavish green plants below.Trying to lift my weight was impossible; only a trained gymnast could do such a thing. There was nothing to hold on to except the thin air; the only option was to scream as loud as possible, and I did it as long and louder as possible, but the meadow's perimeter was larger than the combined sizes two stadiums. You need a handheld PA system to let people know you are screaming for your life. It was out of the question, and I screamed for hours. Finally, I was tired and thirsty; the blood was rushing to my brain in buckets, and whatever sound I made was like a whimpering sound. The legs were weakening, and a crash landing was expected at any time. Visions blurred, my throat was drained, and my lips were dry, and I moved back and forth between consciousness and unconsciousness.   I think I heard someone talking and with much difficulty I opened my eyes, there was no one on the ground. The thirst was so intense that even my urine would have quenched my desire for water. Suddenly I felt the strong smell of someone smoking weed, and the smell got stronger every second. Slowly scattered, messy, and thick facial hairs of a man were visible. He was talking to himself and still smoking something as he climbed upwards like a trained climber.Boy, What are you doing there? Why did you climb to the top alone? Are you out of your mind? Within a second, he reached the same branch I was sitting, and I heard him shouting.Boy, the torn portion of your trousers was clinging to a broken twig of the branch; you are lucky that I arrived on time; it was going to break anytime.He tied me to his filthy-smelling body with a sling and freed my trousers from the broken twig. To my horror, I saw the twig was smaller than my middle finger, and it was not my legs but the twig and a portion of the trouser that saved my life. We started our backtracking slowly. I looked upwards, and the tree seemed like enjoying the scene; it had already won; first, the tree threw me out, and then it defeated me again by saving me from falling. I looked at the man who saved my life, he stinks all the time. People always had driven him away, especially kids who were the most ruthless; even I had been a part of it sometimes. Yet this man risked his own life to save the life of an unknown kid, who was a part of the children who would humiliate him often. That was the last time I climbed on a tree; fortunately, no one knew about the incident. But the time I spent hanging upside down stuck to my subconscious mind, and it reminded me sometimes in dreams. I have neither climbed any tree thereafter nor dared to look down or up when I ascend to a height. *****************************************************May 2018Beaches are one of the destinations that my wife and I liked to visit, and our daughter has inherited some of our tastes. The beach gets crowded in the evenings, and so is the associated children’s park. We were early to reach there, and the beach appeared deserted then. My daughter had enough space to roam the beach and enjoyed every second she spent at the park. Despite all the rides and entertainment in the park, the most attractive one is a gigantic metallic rocket erected at the end of the park a few years back. The structure is so huge that kids could see both the sea and the land for a long stretch from its top, and the heavy wind from the ocean was an added advantage. My daughter had seen it only in pictures before and sprinted toward the structure when we approached it. My wife decided to wait at the base considering she was conceived and encouraged me to climb along with our daughter. I knew there is a limit beyond which I can’t climb, but the kids are not afraid of anything, and the childish enthusiasm was visible when my daughter climbed each step. The wind was getting stronger, which made the structure begin quivering. For small kids, their father is a superhero with no fears, and neither my wife nor my daughter knows my fear of heights. I decided to wait after climbing a few steps and acted like enjoying the view from there.Suddenly my daughter screamed, and I heard a cracking sound from the top . A few pieces of broken metal and some rusted parts fell to the ground, followed by a large scream from my wife. I checked where she was waiting; she had moved away from the spot and yelled our daughter’s name. She was trying to say something, and the strong winds took her voice away; then she pointed upwards, and I realized she was telling me to secure our daughter. Fear began to fill in mind, rust was still falling from the top, and I could not see what had happened there. A few seconds passed, the dust seemed to settle, and she was, waiting on a partially broken platform to be rescued by her father. A large portion of the steps leading to it was missing.Dad, I am afraid. She started to cry.Hold on, my dear; Dad will be there soon. Hold on. I shouted as loud as I could.No one was going to rescue our daughter. The beach was almost empty, and the nearest person was miles away from the structure. Calling 911 is another option, but rescue takes time, and God knows how long the platform could withstand her.My wife was screaming, and she wanted me to climb.There was nothing to think about; watching our daughter falls will haunt me for the rest of my life, which will be heavier than my worst dreams.Dad, it is breaking. My daughter screamed from the top.No, Dad will be there before it falls, I am on the way, honey. Almost there. Sometimes a lie can calm down a person for a while.I stopped after climbing a few steps. I can’t do it ; I am feeling sick, and I thought I would die before I reached there.I looked towards the horizon; the sky's blue was merging somewhere with a lighter version of the sea. The light blue color far above my head with foam-shaped white clouds, a sight I have always enjoyed, was frightening this time, and with trembling feet, I glanced downwards; the ground was much far below, and it seemed the sky is closer to me than the ground. My wife, watching from the base of the tall rocket-shaped metal frame, appeared like a small toy. The wind blowing from the sky was so heavy that the erected frame started to shake with clanging sounds of loosened metal parts hitting each other. I was feeling dizzy, the shivering progressed from my legs through my nerves to my fist, and a flash of lightning went through the spinal cord.Dad, the shriek was so piercing that I regained my composure. I looked upwards, my six-year-old daughter was standing on a broken portion of the metal steps, and the next step was inches below. Her only hope was her acrophobic father, paralyzed midway, facing the worst fear from his past.I started climbing, and with each step, I started looking down. The wind was stronger than I thought, and it carried the smell of the ocean with it.The sound of metal hitting metal, the whistling of heavy wind, the smell of rusting, the shivering metal structure, and the space below my feet, I was switching between consciousness and partial consciousness.My vision blurred, and the sight of a tall, isolated almond tree that stood like the cursed lone trees in horror movies crept into my mind. The blue sky was far above, but the greeny wet ground was much far below. I desperately attempted to scream, but the rush of blood to my head in the inverted position made it like a whimpering sound. I hung on to the branch where I sat a few minutes back with my legs and arms still searching desperately for something to hold on to.Dad, a few more steps, don’t sleep. I opened my eyes; I was shocked. I had not stopped climbing, even in a semi-conscious state; my love for my daughter was bigger than my fear. She was inches above my head, and all I had to do was hold onto my left hand and extend my right hand with my legs forming a loop to balance me around a pole. The wind stopped for a second, and everything fell silent. Something was going to happen; I have felt that before.My vision blurred, and the lone almond tree came to my mind. The metallic structure started to quiver again, this time more violently, and suddenly the wind appeared out of nowhere. Dad, she screamed like she had seen a ghost, then another cracking sound right above my head.The smell of smoking weed filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes; the platform above had broken down completely. Like a trained gymnast, I leaped into thin air and got hold of my daughter. My right arm wrapped around her waist and held tightly to my body, my legs were still firmly locked up, and my left arm held onto the grill.I slipped through the pole and landed on the nearest unbroken platform. We are safe, honey. My daughter smiled and held on to my body, and we started descending to the base. I signaled my wife to wait there, and we rushed toward her as soon as we reached the ground. Dad, you are a superhero; you were jumping like Spiderman. Honey, what you have done is beyond narrating; I saw it from here. She is right; you were climbing like Spiderman. My wife added. I looked upwards to the top of the structure, which was still quivering in the wind, but I was not.
","July 13, 2023 17:21","[[{'Tamarin Butcher': 'Sometimes we do hard things for our loved ones that we struggle to do for ourselves.', 'time': '00:15 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'JYOTHI KRISHNAN M': 'Thank you for reading and posting a comment.', 'time': '04:31 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'JYOTHI KRISHNAN M': 'Thank you for reading and posting a comment.', 'time': '04:31 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Krystal Brown': 'I was assigned to read your story by the Critique Circle. \nI loved it. I am curious about the reasoning behind not using quotations for speech but writing is abstract and there’s really not a “right” way to do it so it’s not really a critique, I’m just wondering. :-) \n\nAs a mother of two teenage boys, you perfectly described the invincibility they feel, haha! I enjoyed the suspicion of wondering if he was going to fall, and then learning he doesn’t. \n\nGreat work.', 'time': '00:09 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'JYOTHI KRISHNAN M': 'I am glad you loved it, and I wanted to plot the story like narrating a novel, which is why I avoided quotations. Thank You for the valuable comments', 'time': '04:35 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'JYOTHI KRISHNAN M': 'I am glad you loved it, and I wanted to plot the story like narrating a novel, which is why I avoided quotations. Thank You for the valuable comments', 'time': '04:35 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,6olhak,Lost Girl,Anca Tiriteu,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6olhak/,/short-story/6olhak/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Horror']",10 likes,"
	A good 10 minutes had passed from the phone call and she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Reba’s stiff feet refused to take another step and the rest of her body complied. After she hung up, she grabbed her phone, her bag, the laptop, clothes and clenched on to them, waiting for something to happen. Her wrist watch moved another minute and then another one, still nothing happened. Reba’s stone-like body got stuck in front of the chestnut door, focused on its tiny crack. (Was it always there?) As soon as she will open the door, everything will become real. She tightened her belongings closer to her chest, but wouldn’t let go of that crack. (How long will I stay there?) Reba just moved in a few weeks back, what else had she missed about the house? (I don’t want to go… Do I wait for Nicolas?) 
	When Nicolas asked her to move in two weeks ago, he did it with open heart. After she finally said yes, they celebrated by making love on the oak floor, next to another small gap that neither of them noticed. She accepted to move back to Myria only because of him; Nicolas gave her the reassurance that things can be safe here. And that reassurance was what she was waiting for again. (I can’t do this alone… I can’t go back there) As long as she saw the dent, she knew the door was there, too. And if the door was still there, she was still safe, in the house. A part of her hoped the door will open to a caressing hand to touch her shoulder and tell her not to worry, everything was being taken care of. That she was not needed anymore and she could just return to her couch, cocoon herself into the warmest blanket and when Nicolas will get home from his late afternoon shift, she would jump in his arms. The night was getting darker (How long do I wait?) and the front door was not touched at all. 
	Years ago, after the event happened, her therapist urged her to face her fears alone, leaving the trauma behind, by returning to Moulley Valley at some point. Reba postponed that from happening as much as it was in her power. She moved out of Myria when it was time for college - 800 km away from all she knew, seemed a decent distance between her and her home. What her Mom considered to be emergencies and specifically asked Reba to come back for a few days were almost always related to church. It would either be a memorial service for her dad, Ethan, that had passed years prior and needed year and year again to be celebrated and cried for, either another holyday function that Mom wanted Reba to be a part of. Reba came and faked enthusiasm as she always had, ever since she was a kid. Out of 4 years in college, these “emergencies” became less often than she was dreading them. Her college friends were understanding enough to come and join her as an excuse for a road trip when was needed. For “mental support”, as her former therapist would say.
	Those road trips excuses extended into a full year of travelling abroad, as soon as they received their diplomas. Reba was the first to propose the idea, coaxing her young peers that “those careers will still be there, but live happens now”. On a certain level, she did believe it. And she was committed enough to the idea to even push it for another few months. But the gig was up when the other parents started asking questions about their money and life plans. Reba was the only one that was using her own saved money, but came to the conclusion that it was time to put the big girl pants, too and come to her senses. She found a job in advertisement in the heart of the capital, still away from Myria. The event barely crossed her mind in the last couple of years. Mostly, because she surrounded herself with new people, all the time. But in reality, because she dug a trench so deep and long between her and her past live, mentally, emotionally and geographically, that there was no need to fear the event as much as before. It was lurking in the back of her mind, but it became less terrifying, knowing there was no need to return there. 
           Until now. 
           Faith has always had a good sense of humour. If faith could choose to be anything, most likely it would be a tarantula. Eight all-seeing eyes, that pays full attention to everything that moves across the scorching sand. An all-knowing creature, in a way. As soon as an insignificant, small prey passes by, the lurker is ready to grab it whole. For that, it needs patience of a saint. Again and again, until the time is just right. Out of 8 years that Reba stayed away from Myria and its memories, 8 of those were uneventful. The occasional short trips back to the city, to catch up on Mom’s emotional state were just not good enough for The Tarantula to fully snatch the young oblivious Reba. It took this long to lure her back, using Nicolas as bait. After just a few weeks back – the longest she had stayed since being a teenager – this happens. 
	Her phone suddenly chimed a message. Is from Mom: “At the airport, getting a red eye flight. Be there in a few hours, by morning. Are you on your way?” Her Mom was going to be there soon also, “you can do this”, she imagine her Mom telling her. But Mom never thought of things in those terms, that people needed to hear encouragement. Or if she did, for sure she didn’t voice it out loud to her daughter. Ever since her husband died in a car crash, her smile crippled more and more, until it was gone. She spent a lot of time at church, praying that her daughter will not suffer as much as she was, while hiding her tears every time she passed by Reba. Mom prayed in silence about things Reba never knew about. Between working double shifts and praying in the House of God, Mom didn’t have enough time to ask Reba what loss was to her. So she asked help from her own parents, to take Reba in for a few months, over the summer. Bunu and Buna, as Reba called them, jumped to the occasion to offer a safe place for their granddaughter to grief and grow. “I can’t help her if I don’t have money”, Mom said. “Who will help me now, if not me? It’s for the girl’s sake”, she argued. “She will understand when she will grow up”. But Reba never understood. No matter how much her therapist tried to explain that some love gestures are difficult to recognise.   
           Reba was all alone now, too. “Who will help me now, if not me?’ It was time to return to Moulley Valley, to their grandparent’s home. 
           Reba locked the door behind her and put her things in her Honda Civic. The GPS showed a 50 km trip ahead of her, meaning she will be there by midnight.    
•
 
 
           Reba might have wanted to forget the way to Moulley Valley, but her gut didn’t. This was her first time driving on the snaky road herself, but she knew every lengthy curb by heart. The forest that she was cutting through became much denser that she last remembered, but then again, she last seen it 9 years ago, in her uncle’s car. A 2009 Renault Clio that she will forever remember as “this piece of shit”, that Hall was always complaining about. If it was not for the “goddamn ABS light that flickers like a Christmas tree”, it might have been the “fucking windows” that usually get stuck. Hall would constantly cry about how much money fixing the car would eat up. Mom was in the car, too, heading to the Valley and she couldn’t care less about the car maintenance. But what she really hated was his foul mouth, that he was bringing the Name of Lord in vain. She’d school him and then silence would fall again in the car. Mom didn’t push for any particular topic and so Hall would put on a CD. They didn’t seem to have too many things in common, even though they shared the same parents, memories and, up to their 20s, same house. Maybe they didn’t have that many things to talk about, after all. 
	The day her Mom sent her to the Valley, was a beautiful and sunny one. The river flew along the same side as the road, just a few metres below. It ran down from the heart of Backon Mountain, all the way to Moulley Valley, where hikers stop for the beautiful view and for good spots to set up their tents. Nature filled up the emptiness left by three strangers from the same family. So did Layla.
	“Did you know”, Hall began his story, “that this song was actually sung by Eric Clapton about another man’s wife?” If the poor man expected a reaction from Mom, he sure didn’t get one. She was too busy with her own thoughts. And Reba, 17 back then, knew this behaviour far too well. 
	“Really? Is it somebody famous?”, the girl asked. 
	“So apparently” he joyful continued, “this man got the hots for none other than… the wife of George Harrison! And made her this song!”
	“Who’s that?’
	“Who’s that? My God, Reba, what are you kids listening to these days?” he berated her, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Hasn’t your Mom shown you the cassettes we had when we were young, of this little band called…. The Beatles?” Hall looked at Mom, to try and jerk a smile, but nothing showed. 
	“Oh, yeah! The Beatles. I know them, I just don’t know their names”. 
	“Well, don’t worry. Buna has a lot of their albums back home. I’m sure she’ll play them all summer long for you. You will have a lot of fun here with her and Bunu. 
	The song stayed with Reba even after all the ordeal. That summer she did listen to The Beatles, just as Hall had predicted. And also The Doors, some Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Eagles, The Byrds and the Matriarch’s favourite, Queen. For that summer, Reba pictured how her Mom and Hall’s childhood might have been, with parents like theirs. They all went out fishing in the morning and cooking together in the afternoon. She watched her grandparents dance in the summer warm nights. And played games, in between. For that summer, she felt like a seen teenager.      
	   The present October chilly wind was welcoming Reba back. A small fraction of her heart still wished for somebody to be with her now. Mom was in pilgrimage 500 km away, Hall’s trucking job took him everywhere in the country, she didn’t have too many friends in Myria, to ask for a favour on a random Tuesday night and Nicolas was far too new for all these. No matter how much she anguished for help. (Who will help me now, if not me?)     
	 A few more minutes until her destination and the pumping pulse she felt in the ears were more vibrating. Her heart banged like crazy and the wheel she was steering lost its grip since her palms started to sweat. She couldn’t say how exactly she got there, it seemed more like an autumn dream. And yet, there she was, in front of the dark blue house she knew from before. 
	“Get it together, Reba. Do it for Bunu”. The three knock on the car window came from nowhere, but the dark. And it extended the heavy fat arm of Olivia, the neighbour that called Mom about Bunu’s situation. She was the village nurse and took it upon herself to check on him ever since his condition had worsened. Hall and Mom came as often as they could, but he refused to let them help with things he allowed Olivia to do. It seemed too much for the old man. Olivia and the dreamy hooved man were the only one with full access. Since he started the morphine, his dreams were getting more frightening and vivid, he couldn’t stop the hooved, fury man’s visit. It was a risk he wanted to take, to ease the pain. His last walk in the garden was in the spring, when he got out of bed and let the sun touch him. Soon after, the pain got too much. 
	Reba asked Olivia to stay with her just for a little bit, just to enter the house. But the nurse’s kids needed her, too. “They get scared easily in the dark. But come for me if something happens”, the nurse offered. Reba knew little about the struggles her grandpa had been going through. His cancer came late in the mourning process of his wife. She knew from her Mom that he started drinking heavily after her funeral and didn’t stop until the diagnosis came, a year ago. The summer that Buna’s heart decided it had enough and stopped, changed him as much as it had changed Reba. It had seen enough beautiful trees and bees, it had given and received enough love, danced enough songs and taught enough lessons. But for her husband, it was never going to be “enough” without her. The day the last shovel of dirt was thrown on her coffin was the same day Bunu left the door open for Death itself to come into that big, old house. 
•
           Reba remembered how her heart sank, at the sight of her grandma lying on the floor. She had no life in her anymore and maybe no soul, either. The Flowing Woman took it. Her ruby-red eyes haunted her all her life. How that ghostly being came out of nowhere, but maybe was always there… How it felt her grandma’s face, with her pointy fingers… And then it disappeared without even touching the ground, holding something close to her. Reba fell down in her own urine, before even trying to make a sound. When she told the story, nobody wanted to listen. Especially her grieving mother. 9 years later, Reba entered the same house that made her run away. With her heart skipping beats, Reba held to her chest while hoping no Floating Woman would visit again. 
           “Bunu?... It’s me, Reba…” One shy step in front of the other, Reba went from one dark room to the next. No living soul around. The only sound she heard, led her to the back room of the house. Bunu was lying on a short-legged bed, with his face to the wall, struggling to release the cough that burden old, sick men. Only light source came from a TV that nobody paid attention to. He looked so fragile, one strong cough and he would break into a million pieces. This was a pale image of the man that danced with his wife in the garden, waiting for supper to cook. Was it the same man who gave his time and shoulder to Reba, to cry on? The one that told Reba the door was always going to be opened for her? It was. Reba covered her mouth, to hide her crying. It wouldn’t make any difference to him, his drugs twisted reality and fantasy too well by now, to understand she was really there. 
           “I am here, Bunu… I came back…” The burning sensation that filled her chest was new to Reba. Her scared childish fears gave space for a different feeing: guilt. Of wasted time and stupid dreads, that kept her away. Floating Woman or not. She sat down by his side, kissing his hand that couldn’t feel a thing. “I’m so sorry… I am so sorry…” 
           “It was never… about you… Reba”, a voice challenged her. The raspy voice was coming from the room she has just come from. As Reba lifted her eyes, an enormous shadow filled the room. A hooved, hairy creature tried to pass through the door, eyeing the person lying in bed. Reba stared in disbelieve at its horns and long dark fur, thinking this can’t be real. Bunu saw it, too; he greeted him with a smile and collapsed back on he pillow. Those ruby-red eyes made Reba dizzy…    
	 “You… saw me once… And thought I’d… take you. It was never… about you, Reba”
	“You are… the Floating Woman?!”
	“In a way. My… good friend here… searched for me. We must go”
	“You are Death…’
	“I am… his faith now”. The human-like hands of the creature caressed the old man’s bony cheeks, touching him like the last spring sun rays had done. The girl tried to push it back, but that was nothing to push; its presence was not there for her. She tried grabbing the sick man instead, holding him tight to her heart, hoping it will make a difference. That Bunu will wake up and embrace her back. She needed to bring him back. The tears she cried fell on the man’s pale face. 
	 “Let him know he is not alone! Please, just let me tell him how sorry I am! Please! Don’t take him yet!”
	Before disappearing as sudden as it came, the creature took what it came from and held it tight. 
	“It was never… about you”. 
 
","July 13, 2023 17:42","[[{'Marty B': 'Good descriptions and internal dialogue. IMO there were too many characters and I was confused on how they were all related.', 'time': '05:05 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,0jqmz9,The coffin,Magdalee Brunache,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0jqmz9/,/short-story/0jqmz9/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Horror', 'Mystery']",10 likes,"
I
 
      As far as I could remember, it had always been there. Its presence in our living room had always seemed incongruous, inappropriate. It had become one with the scenery, after all these years that had seen the family gather mere meters away from it. It was irritatingly clean, shining and blooming all day long with the orange scent of the liquid my mother used to clean it. Every day, without fail, she polished it with precision, humming happily. At ease, as if it was normal that there was a coffin inside of our home. As if it was a piece of furniture as any other.
      This long box of varnished wood seemed to taunt life. I thought for a long time that a millennial vampire was indulging in his restorative sleep and that one day, at the end of his long hibernation, he would wake up to drink our blood. I wondered if he was part of the family, maybe a great-grandfather I would have loved to know. I imagined him beautiful, with translucent skin. Bloodshot eyes, and his teeth, keen, razor-sharp.
		Deep down, I felt very proud that one of those fantastic beings, discovered in the books of the only library of the town, was resting in my house. I often talked about him to my friends, avoiding sharing with them the fear that was secretly mine. I told them that I had already seen him, that in a tasty Creole, he had said to be called Excalibur as the sword of which the legends spoke. They were shaking when I told them the nocturnal excursions of my friend the vampire. And it was not unusual for one of them to pretend to have seen him pass under her window.
 
          -He really talked to you, Melie?
          -How are his teeth? Weren’t you scared?
          -You think we could see him?
 
      I loved being the centre of attention. I took with them the condescending look of the expert in front of their naive enthusiasm of novices. I told them that the existence of the vampire was a secret and that I was the only one to whom it was revealed. I loved seeing them envy my courage and my luck. And for a few moments, I could forget the fear that gripped every inch of my being as soon as I walked through the door of the house.
 
II
 
      I spent long hours observing these four boards, curious to pierce their secret. This coffin was at the core of my biggest fears as a child, this and the big clock of the living room. It was huge, hung near a window overlooking the narrow corridor that allowed going from the bedroom to the veranda. It was beautiful, gilded, and announced each hour with amusing gurgling birds. This clock was older than me, and I did not know how it had landed there. Like the coffin, it had never moved.
      Some nights, I was alone in the living room. My grandmother always went to bed very early, around 6 PM ​​most of the times. Often my mother, tired of all the bustling of the day, would join her as soon as night fell in the only bedroom. I slept very little. The imagination feverish, the head constantly filled with new ideas of games, I spent long waking hours, lost in my worlds. For me, all the objects in the house were alive. Spoons, forks, knives, brushes, combs, all the objects were characters-friends to whom I invented stories, mostly love stories inspired by my readings.
      When everyone was sleeping around me, the coffin behind me, while the candle, the only source of light, diffused an uncertain light, the night took another dimension. There was no electricity at home. In the silence of the night, I could feel the slightest quivering of the trees outside, the crackling of leaves under the feet of rats or mongooses, the screams of locusts and anoles. But I could barely concentrate on all that. I was tortured by the noise made by the needles of the big clock while moving. For me, they were heavy steps that were coming in my direction. As if behind me, someone with heavy boots was moving forward, ready to grab me. I would turn suddenly to glance at the unmoving coffin. Yet I perceived perfectly the steps in my back. But the coffin seemed closed forever. His apparent immobility, however, proved nothing. The vampire might have been able to come out and close after him. Maybe he was already in the dark room, leaning over my mother or grandmother, thirsty.
      I was scared but dared not move from my chair. I felt the footsteps closer to me each time, even felt faintly a light touch on my neck. My legs would begin to shake, chills running through my body. Each time, I wondered if it was the last, if he was not going to finally get tired of this silly game and feed on me.
      After a good half-hour enduring this unbearable tension, I invariably ended up holding my breath, counting to five, before rushing to the next room. In total darkness, I would manage to spot my mother and huddle against her belly. She would surround me with her arms without asking questions. Certainly, she knew about the vampire.
 
III
 
      It must be said that nobody had bothered to explain to me the presence of this coffin, enthroned in our living room. To the questions I asked only came evasive answers. My mother would reproach me for my curiosity. However, my grandmother, Aline, seemed panicked when I spoke about it. When a person of her age died in the village, she spent long minutes contemplating the coffin of the vampire, an indecipherable expression on his features. Perhaps accusing him of those deaths.
      Only in these instances could I see Grandma Aline frightened. I admired her strength and energy. I had seen her sick only once when I was six. Her skin was burning and my mother had multiplied cold compresses on her forehead without seeming able to overcome the fever. I remember her glancing frantically at the coffin, a palpable fear on her face and in her eyes. It had struck me so much that the memory was irretrievably printed in my mind. Already then, I told myself that this illness was due to a vampire attack.
 
IV
 
      One morning in July, while my grandmother had left the house for her grocery shopping, I had dared. The idea had come to my mind a week ago and since then it had tortured me. I had then begun to wait for the moment to take action. I was hoping for and dreading this opportunity. What would I discover in the coffin? It seemed more threatening since I had decided to uncover its secret. Several times, I had been close to doing it but an unexpected event always happened and ruined everything.
		Last time was three days ago. I was alone. Not a single noise could be heard in the house. Step by step, heart pounding at a frantic pace, I had advanced to the coffin, curiosity itching my fingertips. “Finally!” I said to myself. I was trying to silence my fears and all the terrifying stories I had imagined about the mysterious being in my living room. I was close to my goal, my impatient hands were stretched already when suddenly, by the door remained ajar, had reached the hoarse voice of my mother. Contrary to her habits, she returned from the market while the sun was still high in the sky. I ran to the room as if I had the devil (or the vampire!) on the heels; another failed attempt. I had to wait.
 
But that day, finally, I did it. The clock was ticking 1:30PM. My grandmother had just left.
 
          ""Behave,"" she told me.
 
          -You too, Grannie
 
      She had smiled with her toothless mouth before closing the door, saying she was going for some shopping, that she would not be late. But knowing my grandmother, there was no doubt that she would be out all day. Even though I had plenty of time, I felt a sense of urgency. Nobody was going to interrupt me this time. I walked without hesitation towards the long box that haunted my dreams. My friends would have admired my courage. It was the thought that carried me. I harnessed all the strength of my slender limbs to lift the heavy lid, and surprise!
 
The coffin was empty.
 
    Empty. How could that be? Not the slightest trace of my vampire. The interior smelled musty, and there were some nests in the corners harbouring cockroach eggs. No dried blood or anything to reveal that the vampire had slept there. He might have left; perhaps one of those nights when I had heard the sound of his footsteps echoing through the house. I slowly closed the casket. My momentarily satiated curiosity left me with an immense void. And then, without my vampire, I felt very lonely.
 
V
 
      It was my mother who finally told me the whole story one evening when I literally assaulted her with my exacerbated pre-adolescent curiosity. In the bedroom, Grannie had been resting for almost an hour. We were sitting in the living room, my mother and I. She was trying, with the help of a comb, to overcome the recalcitrant knots of my unruly hair. It was a real ordeal every time she pulled on the comb. But the silent night was far less terrifying with my mother sitting at my back. The uncertain glow of the candle lit up the contours of the coffin in front of us, whose shadow was moving on the wall. She joined the gigantic shadow of my mother and mine in a dance of which I struggled to grasp the principle; one more thing that used to scare me.
		Since I had realised that the coffin was empty, my fear had gradually faded. For my ninth anniversary, my aunt Vivienne had given me a beautiful watch with a beautiful rose mount on which was embedded silver stones. I always had it on me. One morning, while the house was plunged in a heavy silence, I perceived the noise coming from the mechanism of my watch. The same footsteps that I used to hear, but the sound was much lower. So I understood. And I was glad I had never revealed my fears to anyone. The shame it would have been!
      Little by little, the demons of my childhood were flying away, maybe that was growing actually meant. But I had not divulged to my friends my discovery about the coffin. Even though I felt they did not believe in it as much lately. Was our childhood definitely over?
 
      In my head, I had counted to five before addressing the question to my mother.
 
      ""Mother,"" I whispered, ""why is there a coffin in our living room?
 
      There was a long silence, and then she reminded me that we had already spoken about this. But I insisted so much that she ended, to my astonishment, to capitulate.
 
      ""It's your grandmother's coffin,"" she told me.
 
      I opened my eyes wide to this revelation. A coffin for Grandma Aline, who was still so young. I could not imagine such a thing. And she was alive, my grandmother!
      It was a gift from your uncle Hibbert, she said after struggling against a more forbidding knot than the others. He died before you were born. It was my older brother. He was very handsome. Light skin, intense black eyes. He was the lover of half of the girls around...
 
VI
 
      Eyes closed, I tried to imagine this unknown uncle to whom I lent all the charms of princes whose portraits I had seen in the library. I made live in my head the story that my mother continued to unfold in the calm of the night.
       My uncle Hibbert was, according to my mother, an alcoholic and a gambling enthusiast. So, he was always broke and in debt. I imagined him, however, very friendly, an extrovert. I tried to portray his joy on that day when he won a great sum in the evening lottery, his impatience to see the sun rise.
A few days before, Grandma Aline had fallen seriously ill. There was no longer any hope of seeing her survive. This part made me shudder. I loved her so much, Grannie. At the time, there were four of them at home, Grannie, my uncle, my father and my mother. The day after luck had smiled on him, my uncle did not go back to sleep. My mother did not care. It was not the first time her brother had slept out. The next day, the neighbours brought on a stretcher the dead and bruised body of my uncle. My mother had collapsed. They had tried to seal the truth to Grannie for as long as possible, especially since Hibbert was her favourite child.
      Nobody knew how my uncle had used the sum earned. It was never known whether his death was due to love or money. The story remained unclear. Be that as it may, two days after his burial, four men, built like Hercules, had appeared in the town, carrying at arm's length a magnificent coffin, whose varnished entwining seemed to shine under the sun. They had stopped, sweaty, in front of the house. As soon as my mother opened the door, they had rushed inside, quietly placing the coffin in a corner of the living room, where it was to remain for years. Silently surprised, my mother watched them act without moving an eyelash.
      It was my father who, emerging from the room, had summoned the porters to provide him with an explanation. The latter, embarrassed, had exposed their inability to answer him. A little investigation had made it possible to go back to a cabinet shop outside the city where Hibbert, the day before his death, had paid in advance the making of a beautiful coffin for his mother whom he thought was dying.
 
VI
 
      When Mamie Aline, whose condition had worsened since the death of my uncle, saw the coffin for the first time, she gasped with surprise, and looked frantically at my mother, who was putting cold compresses on her forehead. Mom explained to her the reason for the coffin, and Grandma Aline simply said ""oh!"". She asked my mother to leave the curtain raised above the door, so from the bedroom, she kept a constant eye on her strange gift. Sometimes she would stare at it for hours, as I had seen her doing it. And from time to time, my mother told me, tears would come to her eyes and she could not contain them. Mom thought Grannie was crying over my uncle Hibbert through that coffin. But I, who had often seen the fear in Grannie's gaze when she observed the coffin, easily imagined the shock that must have been hers in discovering so close to her the box where her body was supposed to be buried, she must have suddenly seen her own death and felt an unspeakable fear invading her. Like me with my vampire.
Three days after the delivery of the coffin, Grannie's ailment disappeared without a trace. She had already resumed all her activities, dapper, as rejuvenated by ten years. My mother, of course, believed in a favourable action of the coffin and chose not to part with it. Her decision was so established that when my father died, in obscure circumstances, a week after my birth, she refused to use the coffin for him despite the insistence of my paternal family, who hoped to save some expenses. They insulted her restlessly, but the coffin did not move from its location.
      Over the years, many family members died. No one dared to ask my mother for the coffin; the refusal seemed to be painted on her lips. In the midst of all these deaths, Grannie and her coffin remained immutable. But never did my grandmother talk about it. Her connection to the coffin was silent; a relationship made of respect and fear. Poor Grannie!
 
VII
 
      Since I have heard the story of my mother, I no longer saw the coffin with the same eye. The traces of fear that might have lingered in my soul disappeared forever. I only had the memory of a time already gone. The coffin did not hide a sleeping vampire, it was a death symbol dropped in our living room, which was perhaps even more terrible. I was sad thinking that someday my grandmother would be nailed between these four dark planks. One day, her smile and her toothless mouth that used to amuse me would simply disappear.
   But it was terrible to tell myself that I would be stuck in a similar box when I died. I had cold sweats. I did not want to be locked in a coffin like a vampire. Like Excalibur. I understood my grandmother's fear; no one could better grasp her feelings than me. This coffin had haunted my dreams; hers too, I'm sure. Her looks were revealing. How did Mom not realize it? Who would want to live under the same roof as their coffin? Even less so when it reminds you of the pain of losing a son.
I came back from the library one day, still troubled by the book I had read there. It spoke of death, of the different rites related to it and so many other things. At night, when my mother served supper, I approached her and with the most solemn air, said to her:
 
           -Mom, when I die, I don't want to be left in a coffin.
 
     My mother brought her hand to her heart, but in the dim light of the room, I saw Grannie's discreet smile.
 
      I understood you Grannie!
 
","July 08, 2023 20:35",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,wiprzb, Tannenbacher,Len Rely,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wiprzb/,/short-story/wiprzb/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Speculative', 'Thriller']",10 likes,"
 “Welcome to Tannenbacher Medical, producer of beautiful human fetuses for space travel.” the screens showed happy children playing in a field from wall to wall under the company logo. The main promenadium was as busy as Dr. Sobol had ever seen it, white-swathed personnel and patients shunting their way to their morning preliminaries under the ever-present ceilings. “Tomorrow’s astronauts are being conceived every day. Here at TMC we reach for the stars.”
He was holding a folded periodical in his hand, showing a full-page cross-section of the D-457 lifepod with improved embryonic fluid chambers. Performance technology was his hobby, although he was just a spectator.
“We have an order!” his technician Dorothea flagged him down, her narrow chest moving back and forth between the bodies.
“Yes isn’t it exciting?” he responded.
“But I’m not sure if these figures are correct…” she showed him a printout with some number blocks on it.
 
2821 3506 4133 5127 6250 7000 1218
 
“Do you understand what those are?” Dr. Sobol asked her.
“Yes, they’re birth weights.” she replied.
“Don’t say ‘birth’ in front of patients.” he lowered his voice. “They’re gestational weights.”
“Oh I see, but I was wondering about the range.” she pressed on. “If they want infants as heavy as these why are they asking for one that weighs just 1200 grams?”
“That’s because they want different stages of development for this shipment.” he answered. “The last one is in its second trimester.”
“Oh.” she said blankly. “I guess I just… Normally I would choose the healthiest ones, I mean the genetics are so promising.”
“Yes but technology has to be tested or there’s no point.” he explained. “You don’t have to worry about being selective, just label them and when the time comes someone else will move them.”
She nodded with a sniff and continued down the hall. Her reaction made him think she’d be turning in her smock soon despite the great strides their team was making. She was too attached to the subjects and that was a shame. When she approached him with another invoice she looked as if she had been rubbing her eyes.
“I’ve been thinking,” Dr. Sobol said gently before she could speak, “I’m so pleased with your performance let’s go ahead and do your evaluations to start your advancement up the ladder.”.
“That’s fine but there aren’t enough chambers in the lab for all of these.” Dorothea frowned.
“The labels aren’t just for container embryos but all our inventory.” he looked at her with air of superiority.
“You want me to… label the mothers’ bellies?” she responded, holding her hand to her face and walked away from him.
Dr. Sobol was right, the problem was just rhetoric. Perhaps a new kind of qualifications was needed. As he sat down at his desk there was a sports magazine someone had left out for him. He sat down and flipped through it curiously.
He came to a full-page TMC ad with a drawing of two teenage girls. The first one was a tall, intelligent-looking brunette with a tight-fitting shirt and athletic shorts, carrying a handful of books and a hockey stick with the words “Smart Girl” written above her head. The second girl was a shorter, ditzy-looking blonde staring off into space wearing an unflattering white dress with a plunging, frilly neckline and the words “Unattached Friend”. The rest of the ad read…
 
“You are a smart girl. You get high scores and have successful
relationships. You have a bright future, but your unattached friend
doesn’t. She doesn’t have your gifts, her chances of being
valued contributor to society are lower. She wants to have
children. Here at Tannenbacher Medical all of our patients are
the mothers of astronauts. You will receive $12,500 toward a
scholarship of your choosing, and your friend will earn
$14,000 for each successful fertilization. Be a smart girl, bring
in your unattached friend!”
 
 
2
 
The waiting room in the Admissions department was as different from the labs as night is from day. Two college-age girls came in the front doors and approached the sliding permaglass above the welcome counter. One was a tall brunette who more-or-less resembled a lot of attractive women, but her friend was the absolute spitting image of the blonde girl in the ad. She was even wearing the same artsy-looking white dress. She had a beautiful long, slender nose and her yellow-blonde hair cast a glow on her face. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of brown, except that she was slightly cross-eyed.
“May I help you?” the woman at the counter welcomed them.
“Yes my name is Madison Mills and this is Cherilu Astrid!” the first girl declared as if she was cheering.
“And what brings you here today?” the woman replied dispassionately.
“Well we saw this AD…” the first girl held out the classifieds of a student newspaper. “I’m looking for charitable contributions toward my scholarship and Cherilu needs a job! I want to be her sponsor. Doesn’t she look like she would make a good mother?”
She gestured as if she was presenting a runway model and Cherilu mimicked her perfect smile, although it was only a timid shadow of a smile.
“Um, we don’t have any program like that…” the woman started to say, but a male supervisor pushed his way forward, struck by their qualifications.
“What did you ladies have in mind exactly?” he asked, taking them aside.
“Well my scholarship comes from a grant that allows matching charitable funds.” Madison said smartly. “And she’s always wanted to have children.”
She literally reached down and rubbed her friend’s belly, making Cherilu smirk.
“But what do those two things have to do with each other?” he looked back and forth between them.
“So if she was in the Special Olympics I could sponsor her, see what I mean?” Madison continued. “My senior thesis was on community outreach, so the question is how do I help Cherilu?”
After talking with them the man started nodding and went back behind the counter where his coworkers were gathered.
“She wants us to pay her for admitting someone else?” one of them whispered. “It doesn’t work that way, the patient herself has to decide.”
“We need patients like these.” he reasoned. “The one making the decisions isn’t the one applying. It’s like her judgment resides in someone else, like it’s been removed! Let’s get an admissions counselor.”
 
The two girls found themselves sitting in a cozy private office with a spectacled woman who wore a white jacket embroidered with the company logo.
“So our approval process begins with a series of evaluations of the patient to determine if she is a qualified candidate.” she spoke strictly. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourselves?”
“Well I’m majoring in applied mathematics.” Madison leaned forward in front of her friend with a smile that filled the room. “But I’m also interested in helping the community. Our graduating class is breaking up and we might never see each other again! Productive citizenship begins with the people you know, right?”
She turned and the girls smiled at each other.
“So you are moving on to college but Cherilu is not.” the counselor replied.
“Yes and I want her to succeed.” Cherilu added, squeezing her friend’s hand.
“So tell me about your situation.” the counselor craned her neck around Madison to be able to see her.
“Well…” Cherilu shrugged as if it was an unpleasant subject. “My parents were never married, we moved a lot and that’s because most girls in our family get pregnant right after high school. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always wanted to have children. I would be okay with it, I mean a baby of mine would be loved. If it was a boy he would be a prince and if it’s a girl I’d be a better parent than my own mother was to me. That’s what matters, right?”
The counselor was momentarily puzzled by this answer.
“But what are your interests, hobbies, talents?” she interjected. “What is your favorite subject in school?”
“We play field hockey together.” Madison answered for her. “I’m always encouraging her to score goals!”
Cherilu rolled her eyes and jabbed her friend with her elbow. The counselor was writing this down on a checklist that was divided into two categories….
 
PROS 
donor girl talks about herself
trusting relationship
jealousy
unsuccessful with men
hormonally active
 
CONS
medical condition
drug use
asks too many questions
shows resistance
 
“But what qualities are you looking for in a potential mate?” the counselor leaned forward.
Cherilu struggled to think back to her very first crush.
“Remember that boy you liked in the fifth grade?” Madison interjected. “Cherilu and I have known each other since kindergarten!”
“You see she bounces from topic to topic without her friend realizing.” the admissions director spoke from the dark room behind the mirror.
“We need to check her relationship history for any domestic abuse.” the observing psychologist said. “Being led by someone in this way is abnormal; it could mean she is not wise enough to make her own decisions. Trust me, uncertainty is a factor you don’t want in a pregnancy.”
“No it just makes it an unplanned pregnancy.” the director stated. “You can’t tell by the health of a newborn if the mother had wisdom or not. The old psychological flags are based on life in the outside world, but those considerations have changed now. Apparently you just have to segue to something else.”
“So the next step in the approval process is a psychological evaluation to determine if you are mentally fit to be a mother.” the counselor resumed. “In-vitro fertilization is painless, however pregnancy comes with mood swings and discomfort so you have to be certain this is something that you want.”
Cherilu nodded and her friend squeezed her hand supportively.
As soon as the session was over and the two girls stepped back into the empty hall they looked at each other wide-eyed, Cherilu covering her mouth nervously.
“I can’t believe how easy that was!” Madison whispered in amazement. “We are going to make soooo much money!”
They giggled and exchanged high-fives, doing a little victory dance before continuing down the hall arm-in-arm.
“Out of curiosity,” one of the observing technicians asked, “what do you think would happen if one of the test fetuses survived to adulthood?”.
“And what if I was a king?” the director responded from the shadows. “You mean if they kept testing the same one and it survived over and over each time? Well then the program would have more to report back to us than just more orders wouldn’t it? Pin a medal on him, how should I know?”
 
 
3
 
Madison and Cherilu tried out the indoor tennis courts that were part of the residence, then Cherilu was given a tour of her quarters. Every surface of the apartment was white and it had a strange organic shape like the chambers of a heart. The doorways had sloping lips and sealed with the turn of a wheel like the hatch on a submarine. Every wall had screens of children playing in a field.
When it was time for the girls to part ways Madison threw a little party for Cherilu with some friends from their graduating class. The girls’ tearful parting made them both emotional so Cherilu was given a full dose of supplements, this one to help her sleep.
That night she had a bizarre dream. She was looking at what seemed to be a dairy farm with long, white barns made of plastic. But when the plastic sheets parted the barn was not lined with cows but nude women standing in a double row like a regiment. A man Cherilu didn’t recognize approached them wearing a white uniform with gloves up to the elbows, accompanied by a tall, severe-looking nurse. In the man’s hand was something that was clearly an artificial insemination device. It looked like a male member the size of a caulking gun, it even had a trigger and a hose coming out of it connected to their… irrigation system?
The nurse clapped her hands forcefully and a dozen women turned to face them on cue. Then she shouted “Present!” and they all dropped to the floor in their stalls and spread their legs, plastic cuffs snapping around their wrists and ankles. Cherilu gasped and awoke with a start in her bed.
The next morning she reported to the clinic in her white scrubs, trying to shake the dream wondering if she should tell them about it. It would have been frightening if it wasn’t so ridiculous. The young nurse had her sit on the exam table with her knees together and asked how she was doing. After taking her vitals she asked her to lift her shirt so she could label her belly.
The nurse pressed a device that looked like the scanner they use for produce at the supermarket against her stomach. Cherilu felt a thump and a tattoo like a bar code was imprinted from her navel to the side of her waist. She explained that each bar would move and change color as the baby developed.
“So right now your due date looks like December first!” the nurse congratulated her.
“Wait a minute, how can I have a due date already?” Cherilu asked her.
“The technology here is incredible.” she replied. “We know it within twelve hours of fertilization.”
“But when was I inseam… insemana…?”
“Don’t you remember? You were inseminated last night.” the nurse turned her back.
Cherilu looked puzzled. She didn’t have any memory of being in the clinic last night or anyone mentioning it to her. She looked across the way and saw some people passing behind the permaglass dividers; one of them she recognized as the man from her dream. All of the supervisors here were men.
“Who is that doctor over there?” she inquired.
“That’s Dr. Sobol, head of our nutritional labs and infant processing.” the nurse answered. “Would you like to speak with him?”
She nodded and the nurse went over and whispered to him. Then he came over and introduced himself.
“I’d like to…” Cherilu’s voice caught in her throat at the sight of him. “I’d like to see a video of my insemination please. They record everything here, right?”
“No, inseminations are all the same.” he said, turning away from her.
“Wait, can you at least describe it to me?” Cherilu bolted up and tried to follow him, but two of the staff held her back.
“Present!” Dr. Sobol turned back and said over his shoulder. Cherilu instinctively dropped to the floor and spread her legs. When she realized what she had just done she put her hands to her face and let out a scream.
 
 
4
 
A red-eyed Cherilu was taken back to her quarters and sealed inside. She told herself the dream was ridiculous; this wasn’t a farm, she didn’t think of herself as a cow, they used modern insemination methods like everyone else. Nevertheless she was pregnant, and she wasn’t pregnant the day before. It didn’t feel like she expected it to. It was supposed to be a cause for celebration but the way she found out had been taken from her. Why would they do that? It was so small and precious a thing to take.
The next day in the cafeteria Cherilu approached another patient and asked her how she was inseminated. The woman stared at her.
“They don’t need to train women to drop and spread ‘em on command, I mean I signed the papers and it’s over in a few seconds!” Cherilu was exasperated. “The doctor could have knocked us all up himself and we would never know it, right? It’s ridiculous!”
“I think the reason is obvious.” the woman lowered her voice. “In fact, it’s working right now.”
“What does this mean?” Cherilu asked, but two orderlies had already come in to take the woman away.
They secured her from either side while a nurse stood flicking a giant syringe, which she failed to understand since manual syringes were a thing of the past. The woman howled at the sight of it as if it was her worst nightmare.
“Tell me what it means!” she demanded as she rose from her chair.
“No subject has EVER survived the tests you idiot!” the woman fought them but an orderly clocked her on the head with a baton, a shocking act of violence that made Cherilu gasp and bring her hands to her face. Why did they have to do that? She was no threat to them.
Cherilu herself was escorted back to her quarters, her face red from the tears streaming down it as they sealed her in, the locks closing as they turned the wheel.
“Madisonnn!!!” she cried out as she struck the door with her small fist, then a beeping sound that seemed to be coming from her belly startled her. The first of the silver bars on the barcode stamped across her stomach was flashing green. Her first trimester was underway.
Cherilu sank down to the floor. Eventually she would get up again to wash the dried tears from her face, going to her private sink to find something to wipe it with. As the faucet came on she looked down at the drain and there was the company logo again, the water swirling down it in a crooked spiral.
 
Fear is a useful tool, especially irrational fear which goes against the grain of rational physicians. It succeeds where nothing else does, if someone fears what they don’t understand then keep it in your medical cabinet like a spiked mace. If you can prevent reason, taking it so long to dawn on a patient who is otherwise sane you have found a perfect middle ground that leads to capitulation, absolute capitulation. This perfect balance is what Tannenbacher stands for. Goodnight.
","July 08, 2023 22:16","[[{'David Sweet': 'This is an interesting story, but I feel it is a little disjointed. Perhaps if you swapped the first and second segments? I feel you are ""telling"" us much more than ""showing"" us the story. The last paragraph also seems somewhat out of place. Who is saying this? What perspective is it from? Cherilu or the doctor?\n\nI noticed your profile picture with the graduation cap and symbol. Just curious, but does this story have some connection with frustration over college loan debt? \n\nInteresting story. I think this is great subject matter. Creepy sci...', 'time': '14:03 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Len Rely': ""It's disjointed because I had to trim it down from a 7,600-word story, removing the characters' backstory.  I had to weigh each line of dialogue on a chart to get down to 2,999.  The cutting was more work than writing the story itself, I think an enforced word limit is not as important as a plot.  I removed a dream where Cherilu imagines a young boy riding a horse, a dream the director is somehow watching on a screen.  Is there a way to post it on the reader boards in its entirety?\n\nPS- I'm not frustrated with student loan debt, my moniker i..."", 'time': '19:44 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'David Sweet': ""It's tough to fit a story into the 3,000 word limit. I have not submitted some stories because I just didn't think a cut version would work. I don't think there is any way to submit something to the contest without it. I'm not sure you can post it on the blog without going over the limit. I've not tried that route. Do you have a website, or another blog that you can post the whole thing? Sometimes, I don't post work to a web page because some journals won't except previously published work, even if it's your own website! There are journals t..."", 'time': '22:01 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Len Rely': ""It's disjointed because I had to trim it down from a 7,600-word story, removing the characters' backstory.  I had to weigh each line of dialogue on a chart to get down to 2,999.  The cutting was more work than writing the story itself, I think an enforced word limit is not as important as a plot.  I removed a dream where Cherilu imagines a young boy riding a horse, a dream the director is somehow watching on a screen.  Is there a way to post it on the reader boards in its entirety?\n\nPS- I'm not frustrated with student loan debt, my moniker i..."", 'time': '19:44 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'David Sweet': ""It's tough to fit a story into the 3,000 word limit. I have not submitted some stories because I just didn't think a cut version would work. I don't think there is any way to submit something to the contest without it. I'm not sure you can post it on the blog without going over the limit. I've not tried that route. Do you have a website, or another blog that you can post the whole thing? Sometimes, I don't post work to a web page because some journals won't except previously published work, even if it's your own website! There are journals t..."", 'time': '22:01 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Sweet': ""It's tough to fit a story into the 3,000 word limit. I have not submitted some stories because I just didn't think a cut version would work. I don't think there is any way to submit something to the contest without it. I'm not sure you can post it on the blog without going over the limit. I've not tried that route. Do you have a website, or another blog that you can post the whole thing? Sometimes, I don't post work to a web page because some journals won't except previously published work, even if it's your own website! There are journals t..."", 'time': '22:01 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,nyile4,Awakening ,Jose Hernandez,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nyile4/,/short-story/nyile4/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction', 'Fantasy']",10 likes,"
I’ve never seen him so anxious. Cliff is enthusiastic; maybe annoyingly enthusiastic sometimes but, it’s not his fault. I Shouldn’t have brought him. 
 
Cliff is curled up with his back against the tree; locking erratically between me and peeking at the opposite side of the tree. Cliff leans over; no less than a second, a stream of fire grazes the ground forcing Cliff to cling back against the tree.
 
“I’m still here!” That arrogant loser spews. I drag a fist onto the ground and with any power left in my feet to lift me, I catapult myself forward; slamming my spine against the tree. Cliff ropes his arm around my shoulder so as to not let me fall over and become exposed to incoming attacks. 
 
“Cliff.” My head tilts slowly like a jammed hinge. “I’m sorry. I thought you were ready. But I didn’t think that there were more like me out there.” My head anchors me down but I catch myself right before collapsing. 
 
“No, no, no; it’s ok Connor.” Cliff responds. “Look, we’re gonna beat this guy, ok? And then we can go back to training.” Cliff rolls his legs to his side of the tree. A heavy sigh spurts out. 
 
Lifting my head up once again, I close my eyes and inhale in, craning my head up. With an open palm out, my hand succumbs to a coat of glistening embers that manifests from the center of my palm. The flame is too low; sprinkles of rain hiss into steam and dilute my flame even further. 
 
I propel away from the tree and preemptively throw my hand at full force—when Cliff anchors me back into cover. Cliff clenches my jacket, ripping it more than it's already torn. “Connor, no. You’ll die!” Cliff cries in a desperate mutter. 
 
“Look; Milago is going to kill us anyways! We have to at least fight back!” Alongside us appears the stagnant figure; thunder flashes further illuminating his ghostly white silhouette. Milago but flicks his fingers effortlessly, out coming a concussive blast of flame. Jumping up, the blast connects; propelling me into the air and diving core first into mud.  
 
That’s it; I’m done—no more fire, no more power. My chin twitches keeping my head up. Cliff is but inches in front of Milago. Cliff gazes up at the giant, skimming his foot back, subtly trying to avoid a close quarters confrontation. Cliff claws his sword’s hilt, moreover so tightly, his elbows vividly tremble in bursts. 
 
“Hit hi—” I’m intercepted by a heavy wheeze as something is felt drilling my abdomen; I fiercely slam my eyes shut in response. Standing motionless, Milago bashes Cliff’s head before delivering a backhanded strike, staggering the poor guy. Cliff falls back onto his back and keeps a shaky hand orbiting his front. Milago trudges towards Cliff, ready to deliver another strike. 
 
I thought Cliff was ready; ready to venture, ready to unlock his gifts. Cliff was always a hippity hoppity jackrabbit. Ready to prove to himself and prove to the world that he’s not useless. On the daily, I’d see Cliff run around the school’s training grounds and challenge other students—but even when he lost, he’d be—carrying himself with that annoyingly toothy smile. But ever since I got my power … he … 
 
Like an ice ax, Cliff dug his elbow into the ground and dragged himself to me. One of his hands lingers over my shoulder, and tugs on me. 
 
“Connor—get up.” Cliff squirms. I turn my head, only being able to see Cliff’s knees. 
 
“Cliff.” I huff out. “I don’t get it. You got stronger. Why are you afraid?” Cliff slams his fist, splashing muddy water up. 
 
“Connor, you’re the strongest guy I know.” I sense Cliff peering down at me. “You’re the best at swordsmanship, you’re basically popular at our school and you can shoot fire. If I can’t beat you, what makes you think I can beat this guy—I’m not strong enough and I’ll never be.” Cliff whimpers. 
 
“Do you remember when I taught you how to use your sword?” I lift myself up to my knees. 
 
“Yeah. You tossed me around like a broomstick for a while; why?”
 
“That one time—when I got so mad because I didn’t see you getting better—what did you say?”
 
“Connor, that’s different—
 
“What did you say Cliff?” Cliff pauses, before taking a deep breath in and exhaling in succession. 
 
“I said—I was going to get stronger; and beat you.” 
 
“Damn right. You were so determined; why aren’t you anymore?” Cliff preemptively shoves me, landing back onto the mud. I look back at Cliff. His face cheeks now red, Cliff eye’s beg for mercy. Cliff’s mouth twitches downward repeatedly. 
 
“Connor you idiot; we’re going to die and you’re making jokes?” Cliff bows down, and his hands plummet to the floor. Milago approaches, pausing in front of us. Intense fire jets from his back almost resembling wings. This is it. Milago forms a fist that radiates in flame that is so hot, plummeting rain water forms steam just by presence alone. 
 
Milago raises his fist, but even before throwing it, I spring myself up taking the heavy blow to the gut, rocketing back once again; this time with my back against the ground. My eyes shut. The ground around me reverberates in a steady beat. Like tremors coming in waves. My spine throbs in unison too with the shaking.
 
“Get away from him!” Cliff shouts. The mud squelching gets louder towards me. Cliff? “I’m gonna lose.” A mutter is barely audible. The same phrase is now being chanted. Another splash of mud is synchronized with a heavy shake. “No, no, no. I trained so hard—so hard! And for what? Just to be killed in some random forest by a freak!” 
 
I open my eyes. It’s Cliff—with a fire in his eye. “I’m scared; so scared. But, honestly, I think I’m more angry at myself!” Cliff clenches his fists together, his fingers cracking. “I’m not gonna be useless! Not anymore!” Cliff bends his knees as he whips his head down. “Not! Anymore!” Delivering an excruciating scream, a blast of ferocious flame ejects from Cliff’s mouth. 
 
More fire forms out from his eye, creating a fire mask of sorts. So, he can do it too. My mouth overwhelmingly kicks up. His fire is brilliant, and just as powerful as mine. 
 
“You’re right Connor. We might die; but we at least have to try!”
 
 
","July 09, 2023 06:11","[[{'Rabab Zaidi': 'A lot of violence. Interesting,  nevertheless.', 'time': '15:13 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,d394su,Arachne Revisited,Inge Moore,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d394su/,/short-story/d394su/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
ARACHNE REVISITED
 
By
 
Inge Moore
 
 
 
 
Spiders. I am afraid of these small creatures. Even I realize that this is odd, because I am not afraid of lions or tigers or wolves. I am not even afraid of snakes. Yet I am afraid of these little arthrodpods. That’s all they are, I keep telling myself. Arthropods.  Arachnids. Related to mites and ticks. Not dangerous, not scary. 
 
My fear began when I was ten years old. It began the day the ""thing"" came.
 
Something woke me in the night. When I opened my eyes, everything in my bedroom seemed different. The room was bathed in a luminous blue light. I tried to get up and was shocked when I couldn’t move. I tried again. My surprise turned to terror. When I tried to scream, I couldn’t make a sound, not even a squeak. I couldn’t close my eyes either – they stayed frozen wide open.
 
Unable to escape, I watched helplessly as something oozed through a crack between the wall boards. An amorphous shape, dark grey in colour, it was pulsating, as if it had a heartbeat.
 
I wanted to scream and run but I was frozen in the bed, unable to move the tiniest muscle.
 
It rolled toward me slowly, slithering up over my leg, my hip, my crotch, and my stomach to come to rest on my chest. My nostrils flared. I could smell it. Metallic.
 
I knew that I was about to die. The weight increased until it felt like a big man was sitting on me. Just when I was sure my chest would collapse, the thing started to roll away. 
 
Slowly, it left me. I watched it go, slithering off of my legs and out the partially open window. Finally I was able to move.  I jumped to my feet to run from the room.
 
But my path was blocked by a fat orange spider perched in the center of a web it had spun beside my bed. I stopped dead and began to scream. I screamed until my lungs felt they’d explode. My mother raced into the room, but jerked to a stop at the spider’s web, not daring to cross it. She just stood there, tears running from her green eyes. Pushing her aside like a bag of rubbish, my father grabbed the spider in his big fist and squashed it. I could almost feel the squashing in myself, feel my body being crushed in his grip, my guts seeping out. Then he grabbed me and slapped me hard, to bring me to my senses he said. I tasted blood.
 
“Since that day, I’ve been afraid of spiders,” I finish, trembling with the memory. I can hardly believe I have been brave enough to finally put my horror into words.
 
Josh laughs. “That’s bullshit,” he says. “How can you be afraid of something the size of a thumbnail?” He sticks his thumb in my face to show me the size of its nail.
 
“I just explained it,” I whisper, without looking at him as he sits on our couch beside me in our living room, in our home. I have finally told him where this fear of mine comes from and all he can do is laugh.
 
He flips the channel with the remote. He laughs some more. “You had a dream about a blob-like thing attacking you, you woke up, and there was a spider in a web by your bed. And this scares you forever!”
 
“I wasn’t asleep. It really happened!” I insist, my voice climbing in a way I hadn’t intended, shrill and strident. A tone I know he hates.
 
“Callie, calm down. Your ‘thing’ was a little mind trick brought on by sleep paralysis,” he says in his know-it-all tone. “Some call it The Old Hag. It happens to people all over the world and it’s nothing but your imagination making up a story to explain the fact that you are temporarily paralyzed.”
 
“That’s not it!” I am close to sounding hysterical now. “It was real. The ‘thing’ was there. It was on me and it sucked something out of me.” I begin to shake, beads of sweat tracking down my ribcage underneath my blouse.
 
“Right!” He is still laughing but his laugh now has that hard edge I know. He keeps his eyes glued to the ball game on the flat screen.
 
I hug myself tight and edge farther away from him. He doesn’t understand. The thing did take something from me. It took something from inside me. As the spider watched. The spider knew something I didn’t, something I might never know. Now I regret having opened up to him about my fear. I get up and move to the kitchen away from him and his laughter.
 
“Coming to bed?” I ask when he finally turns off the TV. I have not spoken to him for some time. He watched television alone while I flipped through magazines in the kitchen. I resent the fact that he is so smug, and that he doesn’t believe me. It feels like a sharp hook scraping at my skull. And really, when I think of it, it’s been a long time since he paid any attention to what I said or thought or believed. A long time since he wanted me for anything but quick rough sex. 
 
“Can you check the corners now please?” I ask. He always checks the corners for spiders at bedtime. “And the baseboards. Can you please check them?”
 
“You know what,” he says. “You can do it yourself. You can flippin’ do it yourself. I’m outa’ here.”
 
“What? Why won’t you check the corners? You always check the corners and baseboards, even if you’re going out—“
 
“I thought you said you were scared of poisonous spiders,” he says in a harsh voice. “Even though they’re rare here, that made some kind of sense. I could live with that, as lame as it was. Now you’re telling me some spider watched some blob thing suck something out of you and that’s why you’re scared of spiders. And you have the freakin’ nerve to yell at me about it?”
 
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Please stay. I can make popcorn, we can find a movie to watch,” I plead.
 
“Not this time, Callie,” he says.
 
“Where are you going this late?” I ask desperately
 
“There’s gotta’ be a bar open someplace,” he says. “Don’t wait up for me.”
 
“Josh, please don’t go,” I call but he doesn’t even turn. The door slams and I shudder. I am alone. This is the first time I will be going to bed without him first checking for spiders in how long? Ten years, maybe more.
 
Will the thing come? Will a spider come?
 
I am terrified. And angry at him. For deserting me without checking for spiders. For laughing at me. For not loving me.
 
I go into the bathroom. I’ll never sleep. I am tip-toeing. I am afraid of the spiders. They could be hiding anywhere. In any corner. Behind a curtain, behind a baseboard, in any little nook and cranny. I brush my teeth and wash my face and then reach into the medicine cabinet. The doctor gave me sleeping pills to take on the nights Josh goes out. I know the usual one or two pills won’t help me tonight so I gulp down about a dozen.  I take all that are left in the little brown bottle. I can’t help it. I can’t endure this fear. My chest is throbbing with the wild beating of my heart. I chase the pills with a swig of the vodka I keep tucked in my bedside drawer. I climb into bed, pulling the covers over my head and cowering, shaking. Finally the pills and alcohol take effect and I feel myself drifting peacefully away.
 
***
 
I dream that I am sitting in a big meadow in the springtime. I am happy in the meadow with the sun shining on me, warming my scalp and my shoulders. I am looking down at the flowers all around me: hyacinths, tulips, daffodils. I love the daffodils best because they are a happy yellow colour. The bright red tulips frighten me a little, they remind me of blood. Suddenly, there is a hand on my shoulder. My father smiles as I look up at him. My pulse begins to throb painfully in my temple. I need him to leave, but I’m not sure why. One big hand clasps my shoulder as his other hand moves to my knee, a firm squeeze, then creeps up my skirt. I take a deep breath and steel myself for what is about to happen. When I look past him I see my mother watching, tears running out of her eyes. I reach out to her for help, but she turns as if she hasn’t even seen me and walks away. Her back straight as a knife.
 
He pushes me down into the grass and flowers and his buttocks pin down my chest. I can’t breathe.  I choke, crying for him to stop. When he finally finishes and goes, I roll over and press my face into the dirt and plant stems, just lie there and cry. When my sobbing stops, I open my eyes and there it is beside me, an orange spider sitting on a fallen red petal, watching me, just watching.
 
***
 
I wake panting, shaking, and soaked in sweat in the dark bedroom. Memories wash over me, flooding my conscience. Things I have forgotten, or maybe never knew. I lie in bed for what must be hours until the morning dawns and the sun streaks through the curtains. I force myself to get up. I tell myself that that was then and this is now. That the past was long ago and can’t reach me here. Here and now, nothing has happened, I tell myself firmly. Nothing has harmed me. I’m safe.
 
I see Josh hasn’t joined me in bed, must have stayed the whole night out again. Well, I’m used to it by now. I slide out of bed and make my way to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
 
When I get to the doorway I see Josh in the kitchen. 
 
“Shhh,” he hisses, lifting a finger to his lips.  “Shhh.”
 
I step closer. He is stalking a spider on the counter, trying to corner it and get it to scuttle onto his hand. Finally he succeeds and with a laugh he shouts, “Think fast!” tossing it at me. The fat orange spider makes a graceful arc through the air, trailing a silvery silk thread behind it and lands on my shoulder. I just smile.
 
“I’m not afraid of spiders anymore,” I say. And it’s the truth. I’m no longer afraid of spiders, or my father, or Josh. I'm no longer afraid of life.  Still in my nightgown, I walk out the door, heading for a sunny meadow. The spider and I. Friends. We won’t let anyone hurt us anymore.
 
 
 
******
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 14, 2023 01:27","[[{'John K Adams': ""This is a powerful story of overcoming childhood trauma. The way she repeats the pattern created by her father, by putting up with her 'boyfriend's' emotional abuse feels real and is chilling. \nI question whether she would wake up happy, or at all, after swallowing so many sleeping pills. But that is my only criticism, and easily fixed.\nGood story."", 'time': '20:03 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Inge Moore': 'Thanks very much for taking the time to read and comment!', 'time': '01:29 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'John K Adams': 'You are welcome.', 'time': '04:26 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Inge Moore': 'Thanks very much for taking the time to read and comment!', 'time': '01:29 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John K Adams': 'You are welcome.', 'time': '04:26 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John K Adams': 'You are welcome.', 'time': '04:26 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cassie Gibson': ""I really liked the 'Josh' portion of the story - I felt like his reaction and behaviour felt very realistic. Nice work."", 'time': '21:51 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Inge Moore': 'Thank you!  So nice of you to read and comment!', 'time': '01:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Inge Moore': 'Thank you!  So nice of you to read and comment!', 'time': '01:31 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,keiq0x,Lockdown Loo,Julie Mayger,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/keiq0x/,/short-story/keiq0x/,Character,0,['Suspense'],9 likes,"
The stink of urine and ammonia in the ladies’ toilets was so potent that it should have been bottled as insect spray.
Filthy green tiles on the floor and walls were chipped and slimy, the toilets blocked with God knows what, while human excrement had solidified on the sides of the enamel. There was no toilet paper in the holders, only torn pieces plastered to the floor.
They hadn’t been cleaned for days.
“Shit!” said Maddy appropriately. 
Crouched down behind a toilet door with its lock hanging off, and keeping a safe two-metre distance from the toilet itself, she again tried to summon up courage to open the door and step outside.
That thought alone flooded her stomach with dread. 
She groaned and gripped her handbag, hating herself for being so weak. It wasn’t like she’d asked for agoraphobia to blitz her life just because she’d been stuck in her apartment in lockdown for months. She hated her shaky hands and sentry heart stuck on red alert.
Over the past few weeks, Maddy had developed an overwhelming fear of leaving her apartment; coronavirus had invaded her life, taken over and drowned all rational thought. Even going from the lounge to her bedroom was in landmine territory when she had to walk past the window. Pulling the curtains across to hide everything was a waste of time – as soon as her mother dropped by on her frequent recces she always yanked them to one side… ‘How on earth can you live in the dark like this, Maddy?’
But then her mother didn’t understand that Maddy didn’t want to look at the outside world. She hated the outside world. She wanted to live in a burrow, like a mole, safely tucked away.
 A single tear stuck in the corner of her eye but like Maddy it wasn’t going anywhere. Oh God, how was she going to get home? The fact that it was only a hundred metres down the road didn’t make her feel any better. Why, oh why, had she decided to try and make it to the shop to get cigarettes? For crying out loud, her mother would have bought some if she’d asked her to. Except that Maddy hadn’t felt like listening to the diatribe on smoking or experiencing ‘the look’: ‘I do wish you would stop smoking, Maddy.’ Then the sigh.
She needed a smoke, badly. 
Maddy fumbled around in her bag and in irritation turned the bag upside down. Yes, cigarette!
She tore open the pack well aware that there was just one cigarette left in it. A picture of a diseased lung castigated her. As if I give a fuck! She poked her thumb and finger inside the packet to retrieve the plastic lighter that was keeping the cigarette company.
She was about to light it when she heard a noise. She froze, her heart thumping madly and her scalp tight with fear, fervently praying that whoever was there would clear off. She stayed as silent as a mouse on cat alert, her cigarette and lighter suspended a centimetre apart.
Footsteps padded towards her cubicle, thankfully stopping before they reached it.
There was the sound of someone trying to close a toilet door, eventually kicking it shut. The woman coughed and Maddy had to listen while she peed. Swear words filled the air while the woman thumped the toilet paper dispenser. No paper. The sound of rustling – presumably the woman was pawing through her bag for a tissue. Silence. A grating noise when the toilet door opened, footsteps, a tap being turned on. More silence.
Maddy gritted her teeth. What was the woman doing?
Eventually, the woman’s footsteps departed to the outside world and Maddy heard her complain, “Those toilets are absolutely disgusting! Seriously, they should be bombed.”
Well, Maddy couldn’t disagree with that. She stared at the wall in front of her. Someone had scrawled ‘my pussyz got 3 legs’ across it.
Would she ever have thought that was funny? She had no idea. Her mind was being controlled by the fear gods.
Wide-eyed, she gazed at the words, swallowed hard and made a decision. She would wait until it was dark so that she could creep out of the toilets and into the park – there were some holly bushes just outside that she could hide behind. After checking that no-one was around she’d make a mad dash for her apartment. More importantly, she’d run so fast that she wouldn’t have time to see the world around her and the welcome darkness would have suffocated the daylight and shrouded all open spaces. As soon as she was home, with the door locked, she’d be safe.
And she might never go out again.
Maddy prodded a button on her cell phone: 15:37. In another hour or so it would be dark and she could put her plan into action. Thank God for the British winters and dark nights.
Clutching her bag like a lifejacket, she stretched awkwardly, her muscles screaming that they were stiff and sore.
She lit her cigarette, took a couple of drags, and immediately stubbed it out on the wall in the P of ‘pussyz’. She had to make it last for at least another hour.
When and if she made it back to her apartment she would just have to text her mother; there was no way Maddy could go into the shop even if it was just across the road.
With a jolt of panic, she remembered that the park gate was due to close at five.
Time trickled by. Maddy prodded her cell phone again: 16:45. She puffed on the remaining centimetre of her cigarette, stamped it out and took four deep breaths. “It’s now or never…”
She opened the cubicle door and looked around. Thankfully, the lighting was low, the colour of stem ginger.
She caught sight of herself in a cracked mirror and wished she hadn’t. She could have given ET a run for his money.
She took a step forward, still wincing from the pain of squatting in the same position for over an hour. 
She crept past three cubicles and reached the outside door. She paused. She felt as if someone had clamped her chest with a vice; she could barely breathe. I can't do this, a voice inside her head screamed. Another voice interjected… well, you got here in the first place, didn’t you?
Cigarettes were a potent force.
She turned and looked back at the grubby, stinking toilets. Well, at least they had been a refuge.
She tried to deep breathe again. She couldn’t. Her lungs refused to stretch that far and she couldn’t bear breathing in more ammonia fumes. Come on Maddy… they’re going to lock the gate.
Like a hunted animal she used the bushes and trees as cover, praying that her plasticine knees wouldn’t give way.
She reached the park gate and stepped through it. Go, go!
Maddy crept along the park fence and garden walls, trailing her fingers over them for comfort.
And there in the distance was her home! Her den!
She began to move quickly now that she could see the block of apartments where she lived. Nearly there. That welcoming thought spurred her on and the walk became easier. She was almost standing upright by the time she arrived at the entrance.
She crashed through the lobby doors and burst into tears, glancing behind her to see if anyone was following her. Why would they? She was alone.
Now all she had to do was get her keys out; also, she was desperate for the toilet – ironic considering where she’d just been.
Maddy thrust her hand into her pocket. Where were the keys? Fear began its wormy squirm… she’d purposely put them there for easy access. She groped around… ah, all wrapped up in a tissue. Of course they would be.
She yanked the keys out of her pocket and gripped them tightly. Bile rose to her throat when she heard voices. Someone was coming! What if they were waiting to kidnap her and make her go outside again?
The lobby was empty, a soft light showing the way to her door on the ground floor. Number two.
She surged forward, her arm stretched out, keys at the ready. As she reached her door she jumped at a slithering sound and spun round in panic. Just the lift.
Now to get the key in the lock. This simple action took on the dimension of sitting on a sinking boat while you watched the fin of a shark closing in. She sobbed. For fuck’s sake! And why did they make keyholes so small?
She scraped the key around the lock for a few seconds until she managed to stab it home and turn it. Maddy punched the door open, giving herself a split second to get inside before kicking it shut. She quickly locked it and bent over, her hands clutching her knees. She was safe.
Now she needed to call her mother and beseechingly ask her to buy some cigarettes.
She felt in her bag. Where was her phone?
She suddenly remembered tipping her bag upside down in the cubicle while she was looking for her cigarettes.
She swallowed hard and sank to the floor. It must still be in there.
She closed her eyes. I really must give up smoking.
 
","July 11, 2023 09:51",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,wttdrk,Spitting Image,Tycho Dwelis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wttdrk/,/short-story/wttdrk/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Sad', 'Suspense']",9 likes,"
	The house stood in eerie stillness, as it always did in the winter, the back room that used to be Grant’s practically screaming its secrets. It had been so loud since he left, especially in the wintertime. He loved the snow, and the room never let me forget it. The gray clouds muted everything, especially at night, and the streetlamp outside the second-story window cast a long, ink-black shadow along the wall. I hadn’t realized that the wallpaper had started to peel where the wall met the molding. My fingers trailed along the top of the old paint there, my skin catching on dust, the corpse of a dead spider, and flaked wood. It really had been a long time.
	I couldn’t seem to bring myself to step through the doorway. I felt his eyes on me. Grant’s. I knew it wasn’t possible. Not really. He was long gone. The wooden barrier swung open regardless, the hinges groaning in protest from lack of use. The room beyond, pregnant with energy – unsaid apologies, hateful ignominy, final punctuation – leaked old memories.
	I hadn’t cleaned it. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had all his furniture burned, of course. Couldn’t stand the sight of it. It hurt too much. I flicked on the light switch, and a dusty bulb flickered to life above me.
	A chill breeze swept past me as I entered, and I realized very quickly that the window must have a crack or some kind of leak. The place was freezing. It probably explained why my energy bill was so high. My arms wrapped around myself instinctively. I didn’t really know why I brought myself to do this every single year. I was trying to get over something, something too big that I couldn’t put down. It hung on my shoulders like one of those sleep paralysis demons you see in old paintings, ghoulish and somehow a little like you. My fingers clenched around my sweater and the age-old unresponsiveness crept up on me again. My hands trembled. My chest wavered. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
	I had to do it.
	I spun toward the wall, toward the only thing in the room. Grant’s mirror hung there, covered by a cloth that I had thrown over it shortly after he left. After a few short chokes as beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I dashed for the fabric. I tore it away from the wall like one would rip off a bandage to reveal the mirror underneath. It hit me like a flood.
	My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, and I remembered how terrified I looked. As the date approached, I lost out on sleep. Dark purple bags ringed my eyes, wide and white like saucers, and my blond hair knotted against my skull. I hadn’t bathed for days. Weeks? Was I always so thin? Then Grant came, as he always did. The memory of him danced around the room like bad imaging on an old television. He raised his hands up at me, screaming silent words that I couldn’t remember as he spun around the room. I shouted back, pointing an accusatory finger at him. I was much rounder then. He ripped up the corded phone off the nightstand, ripped the cord from the wall, and flung it at me. It left a dent in the door. And then I said it.
	“When I know you’re coming home, it makes me want to kill myself!” I screamed.
	The mirror had seen everything.
	I yelled out in that room alone and I dropped to my knees under the weight of it all. I thought I could face it. I thought I could get the beast off me. I wailed so hard my throat tore itself open, and thundering footfall exploded from somewhere below me. Before long, someone had dragged me to my feet and was ushering me out of the room.
	“Claire? Jesus, Claire! I go to make a sandwich for five minutes.”
	Before I was pulled from the space, I took one last look at my reflection. That was the face of a woman who had told her husband she wished he was dead.
	When I finally came out of my trance, I looked up to see who had grabbed me and nearly threw up. The acidic bubble of fear came up in my throat and I swallowed it, chunks and all, back down. Grant pulled me into the kitchen – no, not Grant. Garrett.
	Grant wasn’t here anymore.
	Garrett, Grant’s twin brother, sat me down at the kitchen table and hastily reached for an orange bottle. He popped the lid off and pushed my medication into my hands. After practically throwing a cabinet door off its hinges, he handed me a glass of tap water. “You have got to be kidding me, Claire. The psychiatrist said you weren’t allowed in there. Especially today. How’d you find the key?”
	“It was under your laptop on your desk,” I replied. I was sure I sounded like my soul had left my body.
	“I don’t know what else to do. Dr. Sturges told you that you’re not ready to handle it. Every single year you have another break because you don’t listen to what he tells you. I can’t have you having another break, Claire. I’ve already had to cover every damn mirror in the house.”
	I didn’t say anything and just stared into the cup. I could almost make out my reflection there, but not quite, thank God.
	“Do you think I wanted to move out here? Abandon my life? My job? Just because my brother decided to marry some—”
	He stopped himself.
	I looked slowly up at him, interested in what he had to say. “Some what, Garrett?”
 
* * *
 
	My shaking hands fumbled with the bobby pin as I tried to pry it into the lock. I had let myself go too far. Get lost. If I didn’t do it now, I would never do it. I would be stuck in whatever hell this was, below the surface but never quite deep enough to drown.
	Finally, the bobby pin clicked into place and the door popped open.
	I turned to look over my shoulder. Garrett should be sound asleep. He hadn’t noticed the Hydroxyzine that I had slipped into his food.
	Grant’s room stood before me again, that cold air wrapping me in a hug as I entered. I didn’t dare turn on the light this time. The cloth that I had pulled away remained in a heap where it had fallen a few days ago, crumpled in an uncomfortable shape on the floor. My eyes played tricks on me and imagined someone lying underneath it. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, as if that would help me, and then I looked to the wall. Where it hung, the mirror reflected just the edge of the window and otherwise empty room. I could not see myself in it. Not yet.
	The paper in my hand crumpled as my arms started to tremble and my fingers tightened into a fist. With my teeth, I unrolled packing tape – it practically screamed out as the adhesive gave. After ripping away a piece, I closed my eyes and pressed the tape to the paper and the paper to the wall. My finger glided over the smooth tape, and I tried to calm my breath. I could barely stand. I didn’t know if my body could take it.
	It had to.
	When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the paper. A dark photograph took up the upper half of the page, almost indiscernible in the dark. But the headline wasn’t.
 Acclaimed and Beloved English Professor, Aged 38, Dies in Head-On Collision with Big Rig.
	My eyes met the mirror. A dark silhouette lurked in its circular frame, haloed by the snow-reflected light from the window. I took a step away from the mirror. Then back toward it. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I didn’t see my face. Not clearly yet. One more step toward it. And then I met eyes that weren’t mine. My eyes were blue. Grant’s dark ones stared back at me.
	The world turned around me and suddenly I had been flipped upside down. My face slammed into the mirror, the glass breaking against my skin. Something hit the wall against my head, and when I turned to look back into the room, the light had turned on, and the phone that had once been on the nightstand had slammed into the wall.
	“Grant!” I cried, turning to find my husband behind me with his hand behind my head. “Grant, let me go!”
	“This is all your fault, you know,” he replied, his tone as smooth as a pane of glass. “You told me to go kill myself, so I did.”
	He pulled me back from the mirror by the knots in my hair so I could face him. I grabbed for anything I could, but my fingers merely met wallpaper. “Garrett! Garrett help!”
	“It was as easy as driving under the overpass on I-25 right into that 18-wheeler.”
	My knees buckled and I hit the floor. The phone. I scrambled for it, but he kicked it away from my hand.
	“I’m sorry, Grant! I’m so, so, so sorry!”
	“I really made you that miserable?” He kicked me. “I never hit you. Never told you I hated you. Always did everything for you.”
	He grabbed me by my face, pinching my cheeks in so hard I couldn’t talk. He had such large hands, and I had lost so much weight. There was no way I could fight back.
	“No wonder you can’t look at yourself. You’re horrifying. I hope you really soak in every single second of suffering. That’s how every moment I spent with you felt.” He spun me around and shoved my face into the shattered mirror again, cutting my cheeks and my bottom lip. The metallic bitterness of blood dribbled across my tongue and then down my nightgown. “I hope I eat you alive.”
	The mirror. I turned and grabbed the mirror from the wall, spinning with as much force as I could to slam the glass into the side of his head. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass slicing open the left side of his face. As soon as the glass hit his skin, time froze. All at once, it was not the glass of the mirror that dashed across his face, but the glass from his car’s windshield. The headlights of the big rig bleached his face out and his muscles contorted from the force. And then we were back in the empty room. The mirror’s frame danced across the floor as it slid into the corner. He looked at me, his smile swimming with blood.
	He lunged.
	“Grant!” I pleaded. “Grant, stop!”
	We danced around the room, the broken glass on the floor cutting open my bare feet. I grabbed a piece and wielded it at him.
	“I’m going to follow you every waking moment, Claire. You won’t be able to look at your face ever again without seeing yourself as I saw you in the end. As the bitch that told me to take my life.”
	“I was wrong, Grant. I was confused!”
	“You weren’t confused, Claire. You were hateful. You hated yourself and couldn’t stand the ugly bitch you had become, inside and out, and so you took it out on everyone else.”
	He came at me again, and I lunged at him with the same ferocity. My arm jutted toward him, glass in hand, skin burning from the deep laceration that was forming there from gripping the shard so hard. But I moved past him. I moved my arms under his and I wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. I embraced him.
	“I’m sorry Garrett,” I cried, tears mingling with blood as they trailed through my cuts, stinging them with their salt. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. My own hurt was never an excuse to hurt you in the way I did. We weren’t the perfect couple, and we tried. But I can’t let you hurt me anymore either.”
	I raised the piece of glass as his arms tightened around me, pushing every bit of air out of my lungs, and I drove it into my eye.
 
* * *
 
	My body shook. Not shook, necessarily, but rattled back and forth. As I emerged from a fog, something pressed into my face, so heavy I couldn’t sit up.
	“I need you to call ahead to Denver General, let the surgeon know we’ve got a self-harm suicide coming in with severe head trauma.”
	I didn’t recognize them.
	“Oh, thank God! Hey, hey! She’s breathing!”
	Grant. No. Not Grant. Garrett.
	Someone squeezed my hand.
	“Garrett?” I asked. My throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper.
	“Jesus, Claire,” he replied in the darkness, his voice shaky with sobbing. “Why’d you go and do something so damn stupid?”
	“I’m gonna make you a promise, Garrett,” I croaked, attempting to turn my head. A hand promptly stopped me from doing so. “I screwed up our lives. I shattered our whole family. I shouldn’t have yelled at Grant so much.”
	“It wasn’t all your fault, Claire. Grant threw shit at you, too. Don’t forget—”
	“It’s okay. None of it matters anymore. I’m going to fix this shattered life. He doesn’t have a hold on me. I’ll never see his reflection – or mine – ever again.”
","July 14, 2023 22:30","[[{'Cynthia Dwelis': ""Very suspenseful! I love the ending. Didn't expect that!"", 'time': '16:33 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Tycho Dwelis': ""I'm so glad you enjoyed it! I have a really tough time writing horror, so this was a fun exercise."", 'time': '17:19 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Tycho Dwelis': ""I'm so glad you enjoyed it! I have a really tough time writing horror, so this was a fun exercise."", 'time': '17:19 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,y01773,Embracing the Bat,Nicki Nance,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y01773/,/short-story/y01773/,Character,0,['Fiction'],9 likes,"
I want to love you as I love all things in nature, as I love vampire lore and Gothicity, as I love true crime and horror, but our first meeting was – unnerving.
]
You sailed past me uninvited, the size of an eagle – in my mind. I cleverly trapped you in the old house, jumped out of a window, locking me out and you in as darkness fell in a dangerous neighborhood. The dark, the neighborhood, the jump, and you swirled together, creating a storm of terror in my core. For weeks, I left the old house at nightfall and returned at daybreak, like a vampire. For years, you stalked me, you mocked me, you walked me into hell.                                        
***
“Sweetie, you know I live two hours away.”
Mara stood in the driveway of the old Tudor house shivering.
“I know, Dad, but there’s a bat in the house.”
Mara’s Dad sighed. “OK. Where in the house?”
She hesitated. “On the sunporch. The light is on, so I can see him swooping around.”
“Did you close the inside door?”
Mara feigned optimism. “I did. He’s not going anywhere.” 
“That’s great, Honey. He can’t get in the rest of the house, but if you don’t want to go back in, stay with a friend tonight and I’ll come in the morning.”
“Um, well, I don’t have my car keys, and I locked myself out.”
He heard panic in her voice, but he couldn’t keep from laughing. “I don’t get how the bat is locked in and you are locked out.”
Her voice broke. “I jumped out the window with the house phone. I’m leaning over the shrubs, you know, so the cord won’t snap. I was hoping the bat would leave, but the window slammed shut behind me.”
“That’s a six-foot drop. Are you hurt?” 
“Scratched up some. I landed in the shrubs.""
He blew out his breath. “OK, Girlie. I’m on my way. Call your Aunt Marie to pick you up so no one else does. Hide somewhere. I’ll tell her honk twice when she gets there.”
Mara sniffed. “No one can see me. There’s no moon and starting to drizzle. I’ll stay in the bushes.”
“If the bushes are high enough for you to hide in, they need cut back so no one can lurk and surprise you.”
“No one but a bat.”
Mara, you’re 40,000 times bigger than a bat, and half the size of most criminals. Call her as soon as we hang up.” She could hear him snickering. “I’ll call you from the shrubs when I get there and pick you up when it’s clear.”
                                                      ***
Three bats, two Dad saves, and an exterminator failure later, Mara put the old Tudor up for sale. Before it sold, she spotted a bat on a second story window screen. She grabbed the phone, escaped to the driveway, and called the police. 
“Did he burgle you?” The thin, dark-haired officer mocked. 
“Only my soul.” She sighed as she walked them to the stairs. “If you just pop the screen out with your baton he can fly off before the sun sets.” 
Dark-hair got halfway up the stairs and turned around. “You go, Ron.”
Officer Ron scoffed. “Seriously?” He marched up the stairs, calling back, “Any concern for the welfare of the animal ma’am?”
Mar spat, “It’s not a fucking whale. Just poke out the screen and close the window.”
                                                                   ***
Mar was talking fast as she showed her father around her new house. The red brick masterpiece was on the main street of a small country town. “You don’t even have to lock the doors around here. Our neighbors are cows.”
He inspected every corner. “It’s built like a fortress, Honey. I’m glad you decided to move closer to me, you know, in case you need a bat whisperer.” He smirked.
“Gah, I never want to see another bat. I have nightmares about them.”
***
Mara walked around her room. She put her hand on the computer, the printer, the receiver, feeling for vibration. When she put her ear to the wall, she found the source of the buzzing. 
“By Golly Begone, this is Bruce.”
Mara laughed. “Hi Bruce, I think I have carpenter bees in the walls. I hear buzzing at night.” 
The next morning, the hunky exterminator took most of the morning to assess the house before he joined Mar on the front porch, clipboard in hand. He took a long drink from the glass of the lemonade she poured for him, and gave her a devastating smile. “Good news, Ms. Greco. No bees here.”
 “Call me Mara.” 
Bruce gave her a nod and continued, “You have poachers, Mara. Bats have nested in the walls.”
Mar shook her head. “No, no, no, no.” She put her hand over her pounding heart and spoke through shallow breaths. “Sorry. I’m phobic.” She took three deep breaths. 
Bruce spoke reassuringly. “Are you OK? Do you want me to come back later?”
“I’m OK. Just embarrassed. Can you get rid of them, or should I just burn it down?”
Bruce chuckled. “I can get rid of them. It’s a bit of a process. They’re protected, so I can’t use any chemicals. I’ll have to seal everything up and install a one-way door so they can’t return when they leave. It usually takes a few weeks to evict all of them and do a good clean up. It will be about $1200.”
Mar nodded. “OK. Let’s do it.” 
***
Mara and her father were doing dishes in his kitchen. “Has Batman Bruce given you any progress reports?”
Mara laughed. “He gets that a lot. He’s almost done, but I’m not ready to go back. We’re going out after he’s done and paid.”
“Hell, I’ll pay him right now if that’s what it takes to get you to go out.” 
Mara sighed. “My therapist said to start out looking at photos of bats and doing a relaxation exercise she taught me – all without medication.” 
Mara went to her room and searched the internet for “cute bats.” From the thumbnail photos, she chose the Honduran White Bat, did the relaxation exercise, and clicked on the thumbnail to make it a full screen image, gasped and slapped the laptop shut. Her eyes filled as she swallowed a pill. She looked at the remainder of the pills in her hand.
I want to love you sweet-faced white bat, as I love all things tiny and adorable…but…
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 13, 2023 02:44",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ip1wb9,Rehabilitation,Peter Wyatt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ip1wb9/,/short-story/ip1wb9/,Character,0,['Fiction'],9 likes,"
It was the bottom of the first inning, none out, bases loaded, and I’d thrown 9 consecutive balls – the last one, a flat curveball that hit the batter square in the back, making a soft plunk that probably inflicted less pain than a locker room towel slap. Sweat dripped into my eyes, nearly blinding me in the humid July heat. I squinted towards the catcher’s sign, an upside-down middle finger, expressing the obvious: fastball for a strike.I came to the set position and paused, taking a deep breath in the hopes it might quell the disorienting floating feeling that engulfed my body every time I stood on the pitcher’s mound – or at least whenever a batter stood in the box facing me. My head was swimming, my legs were twitching, my guts one giant entangled knot of nerves. I lifted my leg, broke my throwing hand from my glove, unsteadily drove my leg towards the catcher’s mitt, and released the ball with a silent prayer. Six inches outside. The pitching coach began his slow walk to the mound to remove me.The general manager called me to his office after the game. “It’s just not working out,” he said, not unsympathetically. I could not disagree. It was a clean release.              I fell into a pit of depression after that, struggling to get out of bed, subsisting off government welfare. Eventually I got a job as a high school physical education teacher. As a perk, they let me be the assistant coach for the junior varsity baseball team. One of my duties was to throw batting practice to the kids during practice. I didn’t mention this was not something I was capable of, despite my impressive sounding background: high school All American and two years riding the minor’s circuit. The boys were at first mystified by my wildness. I hit five kids in the head the first day I pitched batting practice. The boys’ mystification soon turned to mockery. Any possibility of earning their respect was over after that first day. The coach told me not to worry about it as boys would be boys. “Just do your best,” he said, as he patted me on the shoulder avuncularly. “We’re all out here just doing the best we can. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”              I was not fine. I took up drinking. The strike zone continued to elude me, those kids kept laughing at me, and the rage inside me would not abate. I got a little bit better with throwing strikes to the boys on the JV team over the course of that season. Maybe one out of every five pitches were strikes. But my attendance at practices became spotty. I rarely missed afternoon sessions at the local bar. Halfway into the season, the coach sent me an email letting me know my services would no longer be needed.It was a few weeks before the start of my second year as the PE teacher at the high school. They needed a warm body, and I checked that box. My home away from home was the bar, a half mile from the school and a short stumbling distance from my apartment. My new best friend was Bob the bartender. It was a one-sided friendship, but I made the most of it. He knew all about my baseball predicament and he made a good show of listening to me tell the same stories over and over again. Only occasionally did I catch an eye roll. About four beers in on a Saturday afternoon, I asked him if he knew about any coaching opportunities.Bob, uncharacteristically, let out an exasperated sigh, and slammed his fists on the bar. “You are in no shape to coach anybody! You’re here drinking nearly every day. If you want to get back into the game, coaching or otherwise, you’ve got to take care of yourself first.” He took a card out from a drawer behind the bar and wrote something on the back. He handed it to me and said, “This is the name and number of my old sponsor. He helped me many years ago and maybe he can do something for you too. Look, I’ll keep taking your money and you can drink yourself to oblivion if that’s what you want. It makes no difference to me. But if baseball means as much to you as you say it does, then you need to take care of business. Go home, take a shower. Make the phone call.”Bob’s sponsor’s name was Alvin. “Bob told me to expect you,” he boomed. I like to bowl. You want to talk to me, come down to Striker’s Alley and bowl a few frames with me. We can get to know each other.”Striker’s Alley was enormous. It was 9:00 pm and the lights were turned low so that the neon flashing lights could have their psychedelic effect on the mostly teenage crew who seemed to be the joints’ primary patrons. I felt vertigo coming on and was about to turn around when a giant hand patted my shoulder and spun me around like I was a plastic top. “You must be Dale. Bob gave me your description but I can always spot a kindred spirit. Follow me, I got us set up on lane 11.” Alvin was about 6’6 and easily 300 pounds. His belly was massive and poured over his belt but he had a smooth and self-assured walk and a self-confidence about him that made me instantly like him.Alvin didn’t care for small talk, so we stuck strictly to bowling. After about an hour Alvin had flirted with 300 for three straight games, and I had hovered around 100. At least I was consistent. Alvin bought us each a coke and a hotdog from the snack station and took me to a small room at the corner of the bowling alley. I felt like I was about to be interrogated. The lights were dim and the air felt smokey. Even seated, Alvin’s presence dwarfed mine.“I hear you’re a baseball man.”I cleared my throat. “Yes, baseball has been my life for as long as I remember. I guess Bob told you about my, situation.”He waived his hand aside and said simply: “Speak.”I more or less told him my life story, my rise from high school greatness to steadily rising in the farm teams all the way up to AAA for the White Sox. After a promising start, something happened. Maybe I lost my confidence or developed some unusual disability that prevented me from throwing strikes. Alvin sat silently with his hands flat on the table. He barely moved a muscle for the 10 minutes I talked. He didn’t even bother to throw in any obligatory uh-huhs, or yeahs. He was just letting me put it all out there, as pathetic as it was.I stopped and waited for his reaction. The silence was deafening. Then he said, “That’s it?”        “Yeah, that’s about it. I guess it boils down to I stopped being able to do the thing I felt I was born to do, and then I just kind of gave up on life. I tried to coach, thinking it would bring me some confidence back, but all that did was make me feel sorrier for myself. And then I hit the bottle. So here I am.”Alvin stood up straight in his chair and addressed me sternly and directly. “You’re young. Less than one minute after listening to you talk, I knew everything I needed to know about you. You are so wrapped up about who you’re supposed to be, you have no idea who you actually are. You are a ghost without a soul.” His smile went away and he looked at me vacantly, awaiting my response. I had nothing to say to that.“Alcohol, drugs, obsessions, whatever you fill yourself up with, they all just fill your mind with some real estate to wander around in and get lost. If you want to stop drinking, you’ve got to have a reason. It sounds like you’ve got a reason. You want to get back into baseball, the one thing you think you’re good at. Maybe that’s true. I don’t really know you. But I do get you. Problem is, you’ve already had a reason to stop drinking. And that hasn’t worked for you, has it?”He waited for an answer before going on, so I shook my head.“So it’s not a reason you need for quitting drinking, is it?” I shook my head again, but I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “What you need, is to learn to feel comfortable with what’s already inside you here.” He tapped his forefinger to his temple. “Sometimes it’s as simple as forming a ritual. But you have to develop a mind that is receptive to the ritual. I can’t tell you what the ritual is or how it will work. But I can tell you how to prime yourself.”“What can I do?”               “You have to fail over and over and over again in order pay attention to your mind’s response. And you’re going to fail -- badly. But you’re going to pay attention to your mind and the thoughts and feelings that generate as you fail. And then you will implement a ritual. When the time comes you will know what that ritual needs to be. I can get you started, but you’ll have to finish it. Are you on board with the treatment plan?”                       It seemed he had everything pretty well worked out, so I agreed to the proposal.Alvin set me up as an assistant coach with his grandson’s youth baseball team. I arrived at their team practice and introduced myself to the coach. He already knew all about me. I wondered if Alvin had informed the coach about the plan for me to fail miserably. The coach took a fungo bat and hit the boys some infield and outfield for defense work. Then he assigned groups of 4 to go to the plate and get some BP. I took the bucket of balls and made my way up to the pitching mound. I threw a few practice pitches to the catcher while the first hitter took some practice swings in the on-deck circle. Every pitch hit the mitt precisely and made a loud echoing boom resounding in the evening air. It was nice. That sound epitomized everything I loved about the game. The first batter stepped up to the plate. I felt the chills, the nausea, the doubt all over again. Nothing had changed. I knew at once I wasn’t up to this. But that was the point, so said Master Alvin. I gritted my teeth and wound up to throw the ball. My arm felt like it was being dragged in slow motion and my elbow seemed to be snapping awkwardly as the ball flung out of my hand. Sure enough, the ball bounced 10 feet in front of the plate. I received similar results on the 2nd 3rd, and 4th pitch. And so on. I was humiliated and was hoping the coach would let me leave. But he never budged. The jerk was sitting on the bench playing with his phone like he had no interest at all in what was happening on the baseball field right in front of him. I pitched to all 16 hitters and I probably threw close to 300 pitches. Maybe 10 of them were strikes. As I walked away from the field, I could sense all of the players glaring at me with pure and utter hatred. I had completely wasted their time.I called Alvin to give him an update on my performance. “That’s wonderful. Just wonderful,” he said gleefully. Now tell me, how did you feel while pitching?”“Not great. My arm hurts, my pride hurts, I feel like crap.”              “I didn’t ask you how you feel now. That’s obvious. I’m asking you how you felt while you were pitching.”              I tried to rewind my brain to see if anything would come up. I felt drained, completely empty. This was pointless. I told him so.               “That’s not unusual. It’s difficult for the untrained mind to remember its state of being from the past. We are conditioned to always be thinking about what’s coming next: where are we going, who are we meeting, what are our plans, etc, etc. But none of that actually matters if you can’t get a handle on your present -- which is your problem at hand. Before we can get you to fully appreciate your present, you must summon your past into your present. You understand what I’m saying?”               “Maybe a little. You want me to relive the agony of failure.”               “Precisely! Bring back those feelings to your mind as specific as possible. I bet you felt something in your gut. Maybe your chest? How about your legs? We have to rewire your brain. But we can’t do that until you understand the feelings you’re experiencing.               I closed my eyes and focused my attention on my gut. Could I remember how my gut felt when I was pitching? I definitely could. It felt loose, like butterflies flapping around my insides. I felt slightly dizzy, almost vertiginous, but it would come and go. I felt my throat constricted. My legs were wobbly. “I know how I felt.” I said. “Do you need me to explain it to you?”               “No, that’s not important. I don’t need to feel your trauma. Who needs that mess? But now that you’ve allowed yourself to feel the past into the present, you have understood an important lesson. You are able to manufacture terrible bodily ailments even when they’re not actually happening. Therefore, if you can manufacture a feeling now, then the feeling in the past must have been manufactured as well.”               “I see. So I’m a headcase like everyone’s already told me. I’m causing myself to get physically sick to the point where I can’t perform.”               “Everyone manufactures their emotions. Some are just better at hiding it than others. Here’s your next lesson. Thursday night you will again pitch batting practice to the boys. This time, I want you to dig up the feelings you just brought up for me now, before you pitch. You’re still going to throw awful. Failure is still the point. But this time, you’re in control of the emotions.”               I had come far enough that I needed to see this through. I had nothing to lose. Except my dignity. And I felt that was out the window a while ago. Thursday night came and I followed the same routine, but this time, right after I stepped on the pitcher’s mound in preparation for BP, I dredged up the feelings Alvin helped me bring about at our last meeting. It was easy enough. I felt absolutely horrendous. I pitched horrendously.But a funny thing happened after about 5-10 minutes in. The terrible feelings started to abate. It didn’t happen all at once and I couldn’t pinpoint the moment when I started feeling good, but sure enough at some point while I was out on that mound, I started feeling positively terrific. My arm felt looser and more powerful than I could ever remember. I started throwing the ball 20 miles per hour faster without even trying to. And I was hitting the mitt! Not exactly where I wanted the ball to go, but pretty darn close. Close enough where the boys were getting some decent swings in, and balls started flying all around the field. Pretty soon I was really enjoying myself. I forgot about the exercise of trying to dredge up horrible feelings. I was just throwing a baseball and letting the boys do their thing. It was the happiest moment of my life.               Two years later I met Alvin at Striker’s Alley for a little reunion. I had scrapped my way up the AAA minors division and was in the top 10 in all the major categories: wins, innings pitched, ERA, strikeouts/walks ratio. I was getting serious looks from the Big Guys upstairs. My time might never come, but it didn’t seem impossible. And I was loving every minute of playing the game I loved. Alvin gave me a high five when we met each other. I was genuinely happy to see him. He had changed my life and I felt indebted to him.               After several frames he said, “So, you found your ritual, didn’t you?”               “Yeah, I guess I did.”               “And I’m betting it wasn’t bringing up those terrible feelings and making yourself sick, was it?”               I laughed. “No, thank goodness, I didn’t have to resort to that again.”               “The thing about these rituals is that they lose their power if you talk about them. So I’m not going to ask you to divulge any secrets. But I will let you in on a little secret that you may not have discovered yet.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The ritual itself is worthless. The only thing that matters is that the mind believes the ritual has power.”               “That actually makes a lot of sense to me.” I extended my arm to shake his hand. “How about one last game?”               “Sure thing, partner.”I had a feeling I just might score higher than Alvin on our last game. I imagined the pins formed a baseball player in uniform and bowling had transformed to a baseball game where I was the starting pitcher. The batter morphed into a row of half-drunk beer bottles lined up next to each other on a bar. I imagined a version of myself materializing behind the beer bottles. He was disheveled, red-eyed, slumped over, disgustingly hung-over. I hurled the bowling ball toward the image of myself and I watched it shatter into a thousand shards of broken glass. I bowled a 300. 
","July 13, 2023 13:50",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,0ip0ln,The Clown,Louise Murray,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0ip0ln/,/short-story/0ip0ln/,Character,0,['Fiction'],8 likes,"
The Clown
 
	I toss and turn in my bed. I look up and see the shadowy ceiling. My eyes slowly start to close and I glance at the black of my eyelids. Slowly, I fall asleep hoping to get through the night as quickly as possible, usually, when I feel a terrible dream coming I awake in the morning in just a blink of an eye. I don’t even remember what happened in the dream. But this time was different. This time I knew it was coming and it happened. This time I was ready.
	I see myself standing in the middle of the road with my best friend. It’s pitch black outside and we're just standing there for no reason. She looks at me, then points at a colored shape coming toward us. I feel like all the noises from the world shut off. No owls are hooting, no crickets are screeching their wings off, and I felt all ants and flies trying to come on my noodle legs fall to the dirty road.
	My whole body goes limp. Everything goes cold and I look at my best friend looking out into the distance. The colorful shape comes nearer. I have no clue in this silent world what to do. I want to run but my legs aren’t carrying me away. I want to scream but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Whoever this was, was going to take advantage of being able to run. I turn to her. Her red hair darkens as the black night gets even darker as if God is telling us to flee. The figure has gotten so close now I can see what it is. A brutal, spine-chilling, blood-curdling, clown. Lots of people think it's funny to be afraid of clowns, but I'm not afraid of rainbow, happy, balloon making, clowns, I am afraid of killing clowns.
	The clown is so close it starts to pick up its speed. I wish I could run but I couldn’t. My friend rushes over to stand in front of me, “Hop on, quick, or else you and I are going to be clown bait, stop standing there and hop!” she whispers loudly.
	“Fine! I will try!” I slowly jiggle my legs back and forth until my feet hop off of the ground and onto the sides of my friend. She starts running, fast. Her speed is so quick, especially since I was on her back. 
	I feel myself getting a second wind of infuriation over this stupid clown. I mean who dresses up as a clown and walks towards children trying to take them? I guess this sociopath. 
	“I think I can run now, plus he’s pretty far behind us since you were so fast.”
	“All right I’ll put you down, but promise me not to stand completely still?”
	“I won’t!” I said anxious because he was getting closer.
	She shoved me off and I bolted. We ran up my driveway, realizing he wasn’t too far behind, and noticed the door was locked so I, as quick as my fingers could, typed in the password, 8-2-5-6. I quickly ran into the door and locked it. I shut all the blinds, made sure all the doors were locked three times, and then ran into my parent's bedroom.
	They were startled when I came in yelling the whole story. My mom slowly stood up and put her glasses on. My dad stayed where he was but removed his eye mask. I yelled, “Oh my gosh I barely got out alive! There was a stupid clown following me! I am never going outside without a parent or older person ever again.”
	“Oh my gosh are you all right!” my mom squeezed out, tired, “where is your friend?”
	 I felt sweat dripping down my forehead remembering how fast I bolted up the stairs and locked the doors. Then I realized the most important thing I forgot. My best friend. I felt so guilty and terrible, awful, most self-centered friend in the entire world. I would never forget what I had just done. There was no going back in time to drag her through the door before the clown got his hands on her. 
	Then my eyes closed and I fainted. Or at least I think I fainted.
	I felt my head on a comfortable pillow. And my arm reaches out and grabs my favorite, worn, stuffed animal. My eyes slowly open and I see my ceiling again. Although this time it was a light, creamy, white color. I sit up and open my blind. There is no clown or best friend to be seen and after twenty minutes of contemplating and thinking of my day, I remember my terrible nightmare. I remember how fast I and my friend ran and the creepiness of that awful clown. I also think of how long it took me to get through the night. I become thankful that the day is finally starting and I don’t have to think about some clown anymore. I sit up even more and reach for my lamp. I flick the black switch and glance at the light that shines through the bulb. The silver clock shines blue numbers that read 7:23. Even though it’s early I decide to get up since I smelled eggs that were yet to be made by me and to get out of my dreaded bed. I walked out of my doorway. I walked down the hallway and through the kitchen door. I took out the pan and put it on 5.5 then cracked an egg right on top. While it was cooking I made myself a hot cocoa using a simple instant pack. 
	I contemplate my whole nightmare from beginning to end. Still gives me the shivers. I felt bad in my dream and also in real life for leaving my friend behind by accident, but I forgive myself knowing that in my next dream, I will hopefully be the one saving the day.
 
","July 14, 2023 01:19","[[{'Louise Murray': 'this fearful story is about a girl and her best friend running away from a clown. Of course, it is one of my nightmares, and I have been waiting to write it own for a few years now, so it just spilled out.', 'time': '11:28 Jul 14, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Martha Louise': 'This is beautifully written.', 'time': '13:07 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martha Louise': 'This is beautifully written.', 'time': '13:07 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,5v5gmo,Trauma's Nightmare,Nature Love,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5v5gmo/,/short-story/5v5gmo/,Character,0,['Fiction'],8 likes,"
Reluctant to face the day ahead, I grudgingly open my eyes. I hate my job, everything about it. But mostly, I hate my boss. Bosses have too much power. They dictate and disrespect like it was their right. My boss always smiles. Her tone is always polite but never genuine. Yesterday I had to sit in a chairwhile this woman, a decade my junior, chastised me about something that wasn’t my fault. I tried toexplain, to speak up for myself but she didn’t care to hear it. Of course, she never considered she wasthe real culprit. My productivity was up to par until her bosses decided that faster production meanthigher income…. for them. Now I needed to speed up, I needed to focus. My age and seniorityapparently means that it is my job to rally the troops. I am responsible for everyone’s flaws. I wanted toprotest, but I just sat there quietly. I’ve always had a fear of confrontation. I have never been one tostand up for myself. Many women of color are seen as bold. Not me. I was still the shy little kid that livedin a house of fear. Speaking in my house risked igniting the blazing inferno of my mother’s emotions. Ihave been gone from her for many years, but the scared little girl still resides in me. Adult me still has to pay the bills, so I throw off my red and black-rose goose down comforter, sit up,wipe my eyes and plant my feet inside fuzzy red slippers. Out the window and the sky is gray. There is norain, no clouds, just… gray. I ask Alexa to play some jazz; she doesn’t respond. I look at my nightstand and she’s not there. I look around and realize I don’t have time. Time. Where is my alarm clock? I woke up on my own which is unusual, but it happened. This is odd. I turn to grab my phone on my bed. No phone. I’m frantic now. What ishappening? I can’t even find my remote to turn on the tv. I walk up to the tv to manually turn it down and it looks like the news. There is a desk, but no one is there. I can’t turn the channel without the remote! I sit on my bed for a moment. I had two glasses of red wine last night, but I was far from even abuzz. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know I can’t be late for work, not today. I have a deadline. Imust take a shower and get to the office. The clock in the car will give me the time.No one is outside. No cars. Not even my car. What in the hell is happening? I knock on my neighbor’s door. No answer. Another neighbor. No answer. I laugh nervously. What is happening? Did the world end while I was sleeping? Couldn’t have. Why would I be the only one left? What do I do now? I startwalking through the streets looking at the other condos for a sign of life. Silence. I’m scared. I walk ablock and then another block away until I notice this big beautiful house. I had remembered this to be an ugly abandoned house that was so small you would miss it if you weren’t paying attention. When didthey tear it down and build this? Who are they? The house is brightest yellow and the curtains are thedarkest black. I hear the lovely sound of jazz. I’m anxious to find a sign of life. I walk up and knocked on the brightyellow door. It opens. A tall black man with a familiar face lets me in. He is handsome, but his smile ismore morbid than friendly.“Well hello, you made it. We’ve been waiting for you.”I want to ask who he is but the coward in me is afraid to speak. He motions for me to follow. We walkup a long straight staircase that seemed to take forever. At the top of the stairs is an even longer hallway. He tells me there are 4 doors each numbered. I must start at 4 and work your way down to 1. I turn to ask, Why am I here? But he vanishes in an instant. My first impulse is to run back down the stairs. I don’t know who or what is behind those doors. Fear begins to paralyze me. Am I about to bekidnapped, raped, maybe both? I finally turn to head down the stairs. But now there was a door. Where did that come from? I am stuck in this hallway. I yell for someone to help. No one answers.I turn to the first door. The knob burns the palm of my hand. As I jump back door 4 slowly opens. I hesitantly walk in. There is an arm- long black sleeves and a black glove. A deep voice begins, “Ah, so you are ready.” The chair turns around in a rather dramatic fashion. I couldn’t believe it. The devil? Thoseeyes blaze actual fire. On his head sits a black skull cap with a New York Giants symbol. Holes in hispathetic crown reveal two huge horns. I faint. I don’t know for how long but when I come to, he is smiling with two missing top front teeth. Why does it feel like I know this man?“OK now that you’re over being dramatic. Let’s get started. You think you know me, right?” He lights acigar. “That’s because you do know me. You’ve known me your whole life. In fact, we used to be very close. We played games that you pretended not to like but I know you did.”The smell, his game, it hits me! My mother’s brother. My uncle. My sick, twisted uncle. The man whocalled what he did to me games. The man who told me we had to keep our games a secret or my meanmother would punish me. He was the family’s dirty secret. He violated not just me, but my cousins, thegirls and boys. One of my cousins finally told the secret and the other kids that got hurt backed her up,but not me. I lied and said no, too afraid of my mother. I was 14 by the time it came out, but I didn’twant to deal with it. I thought I was the one who would get in trouble. I thought that it was all somehowmy fault. So, I lied and locked it away. Against 3 kids telling the truth, the 1 kid who lied was believedbecause the family simply didn’t want to deal with it. I carry that guilt, still sticking to the same lie to thisday.The devil laughs, “Ah now you see me. I’m here to thank you for holding me down all these years. Youhad my back. The doubt you cast insured my family still loved me. It also taught me to be more careful. Ihad some fun times before I was killed. I have you to thank for that.” The puffs from his cigar mixes with the tears rolling down my face. I am blinded. I want to throw up, but nothing would come out. I sit on the dark floor weeping uncontrollably. My tears are stained with blood. I scream to drown out my uncle’s laughter. He disappears, the room becomes all white. The door slowly opens.I run back out into the hallway, praying the door was gone that blocked the stairs. No luck. Door 3 opens. I know this is my only way out of this hell. This room is a deep blue.There 3 blue recliners, 3 bodies, 3 men. They turn around. These men I know well. 2 had been boyfriends and one had been a married lover. The 1 st one was my high school sweetheart. I thought we were in love until he slept with my best friend. He was still as handsome as ever. I hadn’t seen him in 15 years, but he still looked like he was in high school, still wearing his old football jersey.“Hey Princess, he said, “I’ve missed you. You were a good girlfriend, but you were so weak. You had nofire. You let everybody push you around. My buddy told me what he did to you. You acted like it didn’thappen. I waited for you to tell me, but you never did. I lost all respect for you. He said you acted like you didn’t want it, but he knows you did. After you didn’t say anything, I believed he was right. I Lost all respect for you. Cheated with your best friend. You even let that go. You’re just sad.” He turned away from me.The next man, not as handsome as my high school sweetheart, but I was with him for much longer,looked me up and down shaking his head. “I told you to have an abortion. I knew how much you lovedand wanted children. If you had stood up for yourself, you would have a baby to love. Instead, you had 2 abortions back-to-back. The second one messed you up and now you can’t have any babies. I cheated, Lied, you stayed. Cried like a baby though.” He laughed and turned his chair away from me.My married lover’s face wasn’t totally clear, but I knew it was him. He sensed what I was thinking. “Youknow why my face is fuzzy? Because I shouldn’t have had any power over you. I wasn’t that important. I didn’t intend to be forever. I said sit, you sat. I said wait, you waited. My wife called you and ripped you apart. You said how sorry you were, that it wouldn’t happen again. She tried to get you fired from your job. You cried and did nothing. You kept on seeing me. I did nothing for you. If you asked, I would say no.You didn’t want me staying with you when my wife and I had issues. But you opened the door anyway. I would be out with other women, and you said nothing. One night I was drunk and took your car keys.You quietly said I shouldn’t be driving your car. I slapped you to the floor and drove off. I came back at4am smelling like perfume and you still let me touch you.” He turned away. Again, I am on the floor crying. Simultaneously they all said “Get your weak ass out of our sight.” The room didn’t change colors, but the door opened, and I couldn’t wait to get out.Door 2 is now open. The room has clown wallpaper and is full of people I don’t know. They all have bagsover their heads. Then someone steps forward, a clown, red nose, big hands and shoes. But he wore a frown, not a smile. He says, ""These are your unnecessary enemies. All those you have feared. Of course,the rooms are not big enough for them all. Such a scared little girl. Look at these people. They laugh atyou because they know they can take advantage of your soiled nature.” Suddenly all is smoke and dark.When the light came back on it was a dim red and the clowns had become monsters. All different butequally scary. The door slams. They are coming at me. What do I do? I hear this voice that had to bemine, but I didn’t recognize it. BACK THE HELL UP!!!!!!! All stood back but one. He was some mix between a werewolf and troll. His eyes were all black. He had claws the length of my arm. He got so close he was in my breath. He whispers in my ear, it wasn't clear. Something inside me shoves him back into the crowd. The room suddenly catches fire and the ghouls begin to burn one by one as I stand there watching,feeling something in me I had never felt before.Again, the door opens. The final door had turned gold, there was a bright light from within. I walked in.Sitting there facing me is a woman in all black with a veil. She was fully covered but I know exactly whoshe is. Come on in honey she said in her cold uncaring manner. There is a smaller chair next to theflowered recliner. There is a bible on her lap. She lifts her veil, it was her alright, but younger, when sheas at her meanest. But her hair is gray all over. I feel small and scared, again. But something new inme tells me not to look down. Look in her eyes. She closes her bible.“I was reading scripture while I waited. I know you never was big on God.”“I was never big on church.” I say softly.She laughs , “same thing.” She continues, “It has come to my attention that I’m being held responsiblefor your cowardly ways, for the fact that you can’t stand up for yourself. That you were so afraid of meas a child that you let people walk all over you. Now that’s ridiculous. You are using me to excuse weakness. If you were so afraid of me, you would have been the perfect child. Never lied, never broke the rules, made the best grades. But were you? No. You got terrible grades, skipped school, ran away. I was right you would amount to nothing, just like your father. You were born to fail, to cower, to run. Youwere a weak tiny undeveloped baby. You walked slow, talked slow, weren’t potty trained til almost 3.Your dear sister on the other hand I knew she would be a star-”Boldly, I cut her off, “That’s because she had a mother’s love.”She laughs wickedly, “No, it’s because She was born to be a star. You know you’re a nobody. You don’tfight for you because you know you’re not worthy. Not better than anyone. I’m only here to prove thepowers that be that I’m not at fault. So, the sooner you do what you’re best at, which is to bow down orrun away, the quicker we can get out of here.”She stood up with a belt in one hand switch in the other. She took the veil and hat it was attached to offher head. Her hair no longer gray, became fiery red. Her black funeral attire is now an old familiaroutfit.. The room turned into my old bedroom. I am literally becoming a little girl again. She says “Youhave been a bad girl as usual. Making people think I was your trauma, that I instilled that fear in you.Now I can’t have that. So, admit it, out loud. Take full responsibility or you can drop those shorts and beat the truth out of you.” I am paralyzed with fear. I tug at my shorts as the sound of my heartbeat fills the room. DO IT, she yells. The words try to come out, but they wouldn’t. I thought about everything I had gone through. It wasn’t for me to end up here. I had been beaten with unkind truth by the past men in my life, I had the burden of knowing that my being a coward allowed a man to violate children til the day he died. I had stood up to monsters, real monsters. But mother was the biggest, baddest, scariest monster of all. She was my freedom. That’s how I got out of this place. So,I let go of my shorts, looked into her eyes and said“NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! You have been my cross to bear. My mother who’s supposed to love and protect me. Instead, you treated me like I was your burden, your enemy. My dad hurt you and you have spent my entire life making me pay for it. Her wicked grin was gone.” She tried to lift the belt, then the switch. She was frozen. I was morphing as I spoke. No longer a little girl, “I forgive you mother. But I nolonger fear you. YOU HAVE NO POWER NOW. You were a broken young lady, now you’re just an angry, sad lady. You feel guilty about how you have treated me. But instead of changing, you punish me for your crime.”As I grew into my adult self, she became older. I felt strong and alive like I had breathed fresh air for the1 st time in my life. She put her face in her hands and slowly disappeared. I heard a clock ticking andlooked at the wall, it said 1:15. I started to glow. Then again, I fainted.When I woke up, I was home, in my bed, my alarm clock was buzzing. The sun shined through my curtains. My phone lay right next to me. A nightmare?But how could I feel so alive, so powerful after a nightmare. I picked up my phone. I had about 10missed calls, all from my little sister. One message simply read “911.” I called her and she soundedbroken. She told me the news. Mom had a heart attack around 1:15am and died in her sleep. I sat there in disbelief. The same time as the wall clock. What the hell?But I knew the dream, nightmare or whatever you want to call it was a purposeful mission. I comforted my sister not knowing what I felt. I hung up the phone. Life after that was an entirely new experience. I became the master of my own Domain. 2 years later I became the bosses boss. 5 years after that I was Everybody’s boss. Still loving and kind but in charge, taking no prisoners. A nightmare had turned into me into a Beautiful Dream.
","July 14, 2023 03:21",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,qyuifk,Rat Trap,Mark Gagnon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qyuifk/,/short-story/qyuifk/,Character,0,"['Crime', 'Suspense', 'Drama']",8 likes,"
	Rat Trap
	Most people find rats unsettling, and Julian was no exception. After being forced to deal with one rat in particular, he now fears them.
	Julian Hawk is a successful writer; not in the Michael Connelly or Lee Child category of successful, but he has sold three books with a contract from a major publisher for more. The twist in his stories is that the bad guy always gets away. There is no Jack Reacher or Harry Bosch to save the day and put things right. His fan base seems to like it when a smart criminal wins.
	With fame comes distraction and less time to develop a new story. So far, he’s written about a jewelry heist, a Ponzi scheme, and an arms dealer. The simple path is to revive one of the existing characters and continue that character’s journey. That’s what Julian planned to do until he received a strange letter. The correspondence, typed on old-style onion skin paper, had to be created with a manual typewriter. Even stranger was that it went to his house and not the P.O. Box that his publicist had set up to divert fan mail. The most disturbing thing was the letter’s content.
 Julian,
 I need your help. In four days, I will steal the contents of a safe on the private yacht “North Star” while it’s moored at Skyport Marina on New York’s East River. You need not know what I’m taking or how I’ve acquired my information. What I need from you is the perfect plan. I’ll be in touch soon with more detail. By the way, your phones are being tapped and your movements monitored. Any attempt at notifying the authorities will cause the death of someone close to you. I’m looking forward to our collaboration. 
 The Rat
	Julian re-read the letter three times before placing it on the side table next to his chair. He thought, “What a sick joke. This has got to be the work of Jason. He’s always trying, sometimes successfully, to get one over on me.”
	Julian picked up the phone and called Jason, his old high school friend. “Ok smart ass, what’s with the creepy letter, and where did you find the antique typewriter?”
	Jason said, “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Julian. You need to explain.”
	Before Julian could say another word, a text message popped up on his phone’s screen which read, Hang up the phone now! “My bad,” Julian said to Jason, “I hit the wrong speed dial number. Got to go.” He hung up the phone with trembling hands.
	Two seconds later, his phone buzzed and Julian, with a shaky voice, answered, “Hello?” An electronically altered voice said, “I’ll give you that one, but that’s it. From now on any mention of our project, and someone dies.”
	“Ok, this is crazy!” Julian blurted out. “If you can do all this surveillance stuff, and you have the information you need about the boat and the safe, why do you need me?”
	“Simple,” said the voice. “I’m your biggest fan! I want to see if you’re as good as you think you are. Better get busy. I need to be out of New York and in Washington D.C. for another engagement late the next day.” The phone went dead, and Julian’s heart skipped a couple of beats.
	Although his fear was stronger than before, Julian thought of this as a challenge, both to his skill as a writer and his acumen for working through a problem to a satisfactory resolution. Rat would get his fool-proof plan, and Julian would figure out how to catch this Rat and protect his friends.
	Research makes an okay story a great story. The devil is in the details, and all those other clichés are actually right on the money. Julian spent the next two days learning everything he could about the marina, its security, and evening activities. He researched the least conspicuous way out of NYC and the best way to arrive in D.C. unnoticed.
	Julian also had a regular schedule to maintain. The Rat couldn’t expect him to stop associating with friends, going to book signings, and just plain living his life. It was during a social function that Julian ran into Mike Jones, a retired FBI agent he had used as a consultant for one of his books. Could he trust this man? Never having seen the Rat, Julian knew he could be anyone. Suddenly, his phone buzzed! Stay away from the FBI guy. I’m watching!
	Unnerved, Julian looked around the room at people talking in small groups, and at security cameras. Julian expected to be watched and had prepared for it. He joined a group of people closest to him and clumsily spilled his drink on a lady he knew well. While profusely apologizing and dabbing at the lady’s damp sleeve, Julian palmed a note he had written before coming to the function into her hand. With his back to the closest surveillance camera, Julian whispered, “Before you leave, give this to Mike Jones. You know him. It’s very important and don’t be obvious giving it to him. This is no joke!”
	Later that night, and safely home, his phone rang. Before Julian could say hello, the electronic voice said, “What do you have for me?”
	“Okay, here’s what I’ve worked out,” said Julian, trying to sound confident. “Every Tuesday evening at 7:30 p.m. there is a booze cruise that leaves from Skyport Marina, two slips away from where the North Star is moored. Buy a ticket online for tomorrow night’s cruise. Take the trip, be seen, and enjoy yourself. The ship returns at 10:00 p.m. You want to be one of the first people off the ship. Casually wander over to the North Star. You should have approximately 10 minutes to board the boat, crack the safe and return to the unloading area where you can hail a cab to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.
	While you’re online, also purchase a one-way ticket for the Greyhound bus leaving at 1:00 a.m. for D.C. The bus will make a stop at the Baltimore Greyhound terminal, which is where you’ll get off. Take a taxi to Baltimore/Penn station and board a MARC light rail train for D.C. The trains run about every twenty minutes starting at 4:20 a.m., so you’ll have plenty of options. At this point my job is done.” said Julian.
	“Very good,” said the voice. “I like the use of multiple modes of transportation.” The connection cut off abruptly.
	The Tuesday evening of the heist Julian was signing books at a local library. An attractive woman in a stylish suit approached his table. She casually brushed back one side of her coat and discreetly revealed a police badge. “I’m a friend of Mike Jones,” she said. “He told me to ask you for a signed copy of your first book.”
	“Any friend of Mike’s is a friend of mine,” said Julian, and handed her the book. “Tell Mike the most interesting part is chapter three.” The woman smiled, thanked Julian, and walked out. What he had given the agent was a copy of the same itinerary the thief had.
	It was almost midnight by the time the FBI put together a plan to catch the thief. They didn’t know what he looked like, so they figured it would be best to pick him up in Baltimore. They would wait to see who left the bus and went to the train station. The plan worked, and the Baltimore agents picked up a man for questioning. He possessed nothing unusual and had a perfectly good reason for changing modes of transportation. After several hours of questioning, the police let him go. Besides, the owner of the North Star said nothing was missing from his safe. The agents were not happy.
	Julian showed the local agents the letter and his phone with the text messages, so they knew he hadn’t created this to sell more books. “It’s a mystery,” Julian told Mike. “I may never know what this was all about.”
	Later that week, another letter arrived at his house.
 Julian,
 I imagine you’re looking for answers and have had little success. First, you fulfilled your part of the deal, so your family and friends are safe. The item my associate took from the safe was a thumb drive with a list of customers the boat’s owner was selling guns to. The robbery will never be reported. A certain African warlord doesn’t like competition and needed the list to cull the herd, so to speak.
 I never would have considered buses, but that worked extremely well. My associate met me at the Port Authority Building and passed the drive to me while we were waiting for our respective buses. He took the Greyhound to D.C. while I took a Peter Pan bus to Boston. When the Feds sprung their Rat Trap, I was already 300 miles away with the metaphorical cheese safe in hand. As in your stories, the smart criminal always gets away.
 I’ve enjoyed working with you. We need to do it again sometime!
 Regards,
 The Rat
 
","July 11, 2023 20:44",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,hzadzr,Twitch's Last Stand,Frank Lester,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hzadzr/,/short-story/hzadzr/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Coming of Age', 'Horror']",8 likes,"
A flood of flies circled the dim light above Darcy’s garage. Glick stared down the alley to the porch light at the far end, the ruts in the gravel faintly visible. The sultry darkness hung on the trees like molasses. The shadows thrown by the light didn’t bother Glick, but Darcy’s dog scared the shit out of him.The alley a dead end and no one willing to let him cut across their property, he had to walk past Darcy’s back fence to get to his house, a two-room box at the far end of the alley he shared with his mother and baby sister. At age ten, his mother nursing a broken leg and a bad heart, he became their sole support. Mr. Docket, the owner of the feed store where Glick worked, didn’t have a car, promising his mother he’d send Glick home in time to arrive before dark.Everyday Darcy’s gate stood open and Twitch, a Dobermann, would sit there, hitched to his chain, waiting. Waiting for Glick and when he got close, the dog walked into the alley with his head down and his eyes rolled up, a low growl gurgling in his throat, and his lips teasing glimpses of his teeth.Glick stared at Twitch and Twitch stared back, growling.Flattening himself against the fence on the opposite side of the alley and timidly sliding sideways, the dog lunged the moment he appeared before the gate, straining his chain, inches from Glick, barking and snarling, but unable to reach his prey. He knew it was some sick game Darcy enjoyed playing as he pulled his stomach in and tucked his chin against his chest. Darcy would usually sit on his back stoop, laughing and sipping a lemonade.But today, the stocker called in sick, and Glick offered to stay late and help Mr. Docket. He told Glick to wait, and he’d find him a ride home, but Glick said no, the walk home wouldn’t be a problem.Standing at the foot of the alley, the light above Darcy’s garage wavering and turning the crumbling fences and sagging buildings lining the alley into sleeping sentinels, he wished he had waited for a ride. The porch light at the far end looked a thousand miles away and – there was Twitch. Twitch would be waiting.Sweat rolled in waves under his shirt. Despite the humid night, a shiver climbed his back.The light hummed and flickered. That jerk, Glick thought. He’s probably added an extra foot to Twitch’s chain. The pitch of the buzzing flies grew; the light’s hum became a whine.He edged down the alley. Twitched barked. He backed up a half-dozen steps.“Damn you, Twitch, and that meathead owner of yours.” He took two steps forward. The dog barked, but a different bark; meaner; vicious. “God. What’s with that mutt?” Two more steps. The light flickered, went out, then came back, brighter like an old incandescent bulb before it died. “Damn.” His heart tapped against his neck and his palms turned clammy.He picked up his pace, sliding along the fence. The dog’s chain rattled. He stopped. A head with pointed ears and a long, narrow snout peered out the gate. Twitch’s eyes gleamed gold and stared at him. His knees began to shake, and he felt like he would pee his pants. They stared at each other, then Glick glanced back the way he’d come. Should I run? He shook his head. There ain’t anywhere else to go, dumb ass! Mr. Docket’s gone home, and you don’t even know where he lives. He looked at the far end, at the porch light, now lightyears away. Can’t stand here. Ma’s probably worrying a fit. He inched closer, pressing his back against the fence. Slivers of old wood poked him as he felt his way through the tall weeds.Twitch walked to the middle of the alley and sat down. His eyes glowed, daring Glick to come closer, like he knew something that Glick didn’t. The urge to pee grew and Glick squeezed his crotch with his hand. Twitch moved farther out into the alley.Tears welled up in his eyes. He blinked and wiped them with the back of his hand. Twitch was ten, fifteen feet away, waiting.Leave me alone! I just want to go home! Leave me alone! Glick sniffed and struggled not to cry. “Get! Get away you dumb mutt.” His voice shook. “I’m going home and you’re not stopping me.” Twitch snarled a low, evil, growl. The urge overwhelmed Glick and warm urine wetted his crotch and the insides of his pant legs. “You god-damned dog.” Tears dripped from his chin. “Get away from me!”Twitch moved closer, his snarl menacing and louder. Glick looked up and froze. The end of the dog’s chain, unhitched, chattered over the gravel. A foot from Glick, he stared, silent. The light above the garage blew and in the thin light of a waxing quarter moon, Twitches eyes turned ruby red.Glick splayed his arms against the fence as if crucified, his eyes were glued to the dog. His throat tightened; his breaths ragged, sucking gasps. He inched toward the light at the far end of the alley. Twitch stood up and moved sideways, his eyes locked on Glick’s. A sudden, raging growl held him motionless. Twitch lowered his head, his lips drawn and baring his teeth; his tongue darted in and out.He trembled. Do something, idiot! You can’t let him take you down. It’s you or him. Do something! “But what?” He searched for anything to defend himself, squatting and feeling amongst the weeds along the bottom of the fence. The volume of Twitch’s menace grew. No fast moves! He’ll jump you for sure. Move slow. Something grazed his hand. A handle; the broken handle of a shovel. He stared at Twitch’s and drew the handle close, rising to his feet. He stepped sideways. The dog closed the distance between them to less than a foot.“Okay, asshole,” whispering, “just try it.”Another step and Twitch lunged, his malicious bark shredding the still air. The loud smack of the shovel handle, followed by a louder yelp stopped the dog in his tracks. Twitch backed off, stunned, and looked at Glick. Then he lowered his head, his legs tensed, ready to spring.This time Glick didn’t wait and hit Twitch before he charged, twice across his muzzle, sending the mutt howling through the gate and into the yard. Darcy’s back-porch light lit.“Hey boy, what—” He ran back into the house, then ran out with a flashlight and shotgun, nearly ripping the screen door from its hinges. “Where are you, you sorry son of a bitch! You ain’t getting away beating the shit out of my dog.” He leveled the shotgun. “You’re in deep shit you bastard.”When he got to the alley, he skipped to a halt. In the beam of his light stood Glick. “You did this to my dog?”“Yeah. And if he comes at me again, he won’t be so lucky.”“I ought to—”“What? Shoot me?”Darcy lowered the shotgun.“Keep Twitch tied up and the gate locked.” He turned to leave, then glanced back at the gawking Darcy. “And fix that damn light over your garage.”Glick strode off, clutching the shovel handle and standing an inch taller. A gentle breeze swirled through his wet pants, chilling his legs, but he didn’t care.
","July 14, 2023 18:44",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,k7ipp3,Perception is the worst crime,Charlie Chaos,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k7ipp3/,/short-story/k7ipp3/,Character,0,"['Suspense', 'Romance', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
There are always mirrors in her home. Nobody could walk into that beautiful woman's life without being perceived. You don't just get to know her - she, intimately, knows you, before you even realize it. Those unearthly green eyes seem to pop out of nowhere, peeking out beneath her wavy, blonde bangs. 
 
""Do you want a drink?"" She always asks as she opens the door for you. No greetings, no pleasantries, just the air of creature comforts, because of course you'll be staying a while. If you say no, she gets you multiple drinks to choose from as you sit and talk and she always knows your favorites, so really - it's best to say yes and pick your own. It was creepy enough how she already mixed the perfect two spoonfuls of sugar into your tea (not the large spoons either, she knew you meant the smallest of her spoons.)
 
In the secluded shade of her backyard, she will sip her lemonade, the glass held delicately between white manicured nails, and she does not look at you. Which is terrible, much worse than if she stared you down. She doesn't make a single sound when she drinks, never smudges that perfect fucking pink lip gloss either.
 
""So, work's been interesting,"" you'll finally say, cracked under the pressure of her all-knowing face, her charms, her wits, her- god, you wish you really knew. 
 
""Oh? Did the last guy quit yet?"" She'll ask with perfect innocence. You knew she knows the guy's name. She always does. It irritates you more that you know this about her than it annoys you she knows anything about you. You always tried to smooth away being known to anyone. 
 
""Yeah, Lester finally decided to retire, poor guy,"" you'll say, leaning back, drink untouched. She'll hum her assent, her way of listening while processing every internal file she has on you, your job, your coworkers, hell, you wouldn't be surprised if she knew their families for several generations even.
 
""His wife's death really affected him, hm?"" She'll finally say. Her green eyes have you pinned in their gaze and you'd squirm, but you almost like being burned in that gaze. Almost. You'll have to blink back tears eventually, your eyes held open, sparkling with the knowledge that for this glimmering second, all she wants to know is how you are and what is going on in your life. It hurts. It aches. It stings and you want to run away. You don't give away much. You never really did. Especially not to her.
 
""Yeah,"" you""ll breath out the word like it pains you, but really the pain is just you blinking again, your eyes dry. ""I mean, who can blame the guy? Forty years of marriage and then... she's just gone. Just like that.""
 
""Just like that,"" she'll repeat, the airy quality of her voice nauseating in this context. You'll smile, the edges of your mouth uncomfortable in the grin, a posture you rarely take because it makes you seem too friendly and agreeable. The worst things a person can be. She takes another sip of her lemonade, the tips of her fingers pink against the glass. You really shouldn't know what her skin looks like pressed against glass. 
 
""Yeah,"" you'll laugh a little, uncomfortable as always tends to be at this point of your meetings. The ends of your hair bristle a bit, the sun setting and the air cooling. That's why your skin prickles. Not her eyes over the edge of that damned glass. You feel like an insect, carefully spread and pinned when you are here. Yet you cannot seem to resist her invitations. Why? What is wrong with you?
 
""Is everything still going well with Jenny?"" She'll ask, setting the glass down, eyes carefully trained on the white tablecloth she only uses for your one-on-one meetings. You know, you've seen the baby blue one she uses for gatherings larger than this. Sometimes a dull orange one makes it out of the depths of some closet, but very, very rarely. You don't think to ask why this is, though she would have happily answered. You will not have thought on this question posed to you. You'll swallow nervously, taking a very careful sip of your drink. You sloppily get a drop on the white tablecloth when you sit the glass down. It stains. This nags at you more than you know what to do with. 
 
""It's... Fine,"" you'll say with no confidence. She smirks, that ready, easy, all-knowing smirk you have memorized by now, the way the pink lip gloss never smudges under her bottom lip onto her chin like all the girls at work. Her nose doesn't wrinkle in that ugly spread out way either when she smiles. 
 
""Fine? What a way to talk about your wife of six years,"" she'll say, her green eyes twinkling in that mischievous way you don't quite know how to handle. You'll swallow again, a dull thinking noise coming from your throat for a moment before you grab your drink and swallow many mouthfuls. You leave more drops on the tablecloth. This time, she does wrinkle her nose in that ugly way. Only for a split second, but it twists in your gut. 
 
""Well, you know Jenny, always... Always finding something to work on,"" you'll say, again with no confidence, you have no faith in your words and neither does she. ""I am never quite the perfect husband, but..."" The words linger on your tongue too long and she laughs, a delightful, easy laugh that makes your heart ache. God, how you wish you could be known like her. How fucking wonderful would that be, to be known in such innocence like her. 
 
""Oh stop! You can be a good husband,"" she'll say, patting the table gently in that ""it's fine"" way people do when they don't want to touch you, but they really do. You hate that you know this gesture so well. You really hate that you know it on her so well.
 
""Come off it,"" you'll say without bite, that pesky grin coming back to your lips without warning, your hand rubbing your jaw in a cocky way that would make you punch yourself if you were inside the house, with all her mirrors. ""How would you know if I am or could be a good husband?"" This time, her laugh is so ugly, so loud, so knowing, it wipes the grin clean off your face.
 
""Oh honey,"" she says in a darker voice, once she stops laughing, once she stops being so ugly, so awful. ""I know you better than you know yourself. And I always have."" This twists a knife in your sternum, a static pain that radiates through your blood into a hot rage. She doesn't know you. She can't, not with her scary green eyes or anything else, because nobody knows you. Nobody, and you've made damn well sure of it. 
 
""No, you can't,"" you'll say, quietly, so quietly she leans in a touch to hear you. ""I've made myself — I've made myself unknowable. Unlovable."" 
 
""Oh honey,"" she reaches across and pats your hand, it burns, oh how it burns to have her pity. ""You really are afraid to be known? To be hurt by those around you?"" You feel very small. You remember being young, a flash of memory, your mom telling you that you're too much of a brat for anyone to give a shit about, what were you, like, six years old? And aren't you like, thirty now?
 
""You don't understand,"" you'll start to reason your way out of this, out of her backyard, out of the drinks, how she must be special, how she uniquely figures people out, that you didn't let your guard down, you did fine, you were okay, you are okay currently. 
""I'm not here to hurt you, honey,"" she runs one of those perfectly white nails over your wrist and you shiver. 
 
""Aren't you? Aren't people — I don't know, bad?""
 
""No,"" she says with a smile that ruins your whole fucking life. She knows you. It is the worst thing that could ever happen to you. And even worse, you know her too.
","July 11, 2023 22:11",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,0blfvu,On the edge of panic.,Aclima Fiona Ali,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0blfvu/,/short-story/0blfvu/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Inspirational', 'Suspense']",8 likes,"
Ethan always believed himself to be a brave and fearless person. He had faced numerous challenges and conquered them with unwavering determination. However, there was one fear that lingered deep within his heart, like a shadow waiting to envelop him. It was the fear of heights.
Ever since he was a child, Ethan had been terrified of being high above the ground. The mere thought of standing on a tall building or looking down from a great height would send shivers down his spine. He had avoided situations that involved heights at all costs, limiting his experiences and adventures.
One sunny morning, Ethan received a call from his best friend, Jake. Jake was an adventure enthusiast and had planned a trip to a nearby mountain range for rock climbing. With great excitement, he invited Ethan to join him. Reluctant yet eager to prove his courage, Ethan accepted the invitation, determined to face his greatest fear head-on.
Arriving at the base of the mountain, Ethan's heart pounded in his chest. He observed the towering cliffs that seemed to reach the heavens, each one more intimidating than the last. Doubt and anxiety began to creep into his mind, but he remained resolute. Jake, sensing Ethan's apprehension, assured him that he would be there every step of the way.
The climb began, and Ethan cautiously followed Jake's lead. With each step, his muscles strained, and his palms grew sweaty. He clutched the rough surface of the rocks, his mind teetering on the edge of panic. However, Jake's reassuring presence gave him the strength to push forward.
As they ascended higher, the wind began to whip against their faces, adding to the intensity of the climb. Ethan's legs trembled, and his mind played tricks on him, conjuring images of falling to his doom. Yet, he refused to succumb to his fear.
After what felt like an eternity, they reached a small plateau halfway up the mountain. Ethan's legs shook uncontrollably as he glanced down, realizing how far he had come. The sight filled him with a mixture of awe and terror. He knew that his greatest test was yet to come.
Jake sensed Ethan's hesitation and encouraged him to take a moment to breathe and regain his composure. As he gazed out at the breathtaking landscape, Ethan reminded himself of his purpose. He was here to conquer his fear, to prove to himself that he was capable of facing any challenge.
With renewed determination, Ethan and Jake resumed their climb. The rocks became steeper and more treacherous, demanding every ounce of their strength and agility. Ethan's fear threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on each movement, each grip.
Finally, they reached the summit. The view stretched out before them, a panorama of majestic mountains and rolling valleys. It was a sight that took Ethan's breath away, not only for its beauty but also for the realization of what he had accomplished.
As they stood on the peak, a sense of triumph surged through Ethan's veins. He had faced his greatest fear, defying the limits he had imposed upon himself. The fear of heights no longer held power over him. In that moment, Ethan understood the true meaning of courage. It wasn't the absence of fear but the ability to confront it and emerge stronger.
From that day forward, Ethan embraced life with a newfound sense of adventure. He sought out new heights to conquer, both metaphorical and literal. He skydived from airplanes, marveled at breathtaking views from skyscrapers, and even took up bungee jumping.
Ethan's journey taught him that the only way to grow and evolve was to face his fears head-on. He discovered that the things we fear the most are often the gateways to our true potential. By confronting his fear of heights, he had unlocked a world of endless possibilities, becoming a living testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Ethan always believed himself to be a brave and fearless person. He had faced numerous challenges and conquered them with unwavering determination. However, there was one fear that lingered deep within his heart, like a shadow waiting to envelop him. It was the fear of heights.
Ever since he was a child, Ethan had been terrified of being high above the ground. The mere thought of standing on a tall building or looking down from a great height would send shivers down his spine. He had avoided situations that involved heights at all costs, limiting his experiences and adventures.
One sunny morning, Ethan received a call from his best friend, Jake. Jake was an adventure enthusiast and had planned a trip to a nearby mountain range for rock climbing. With great excitement, he invited Ethan to join him. Reluctant yet eager to prove his courage, Ethan accepted the invitation, determined to face his greatest fear head-on.
Arriving at the base of the mountain, Ethan's heart pounded in his chest. He observed the towering cliffs that seemed to reach the heavens, each one more intimidating than the last. Doubt and anxiety began to creep into his mind, but he remained resolute. Jake, sensing Ethan's apprehension, assured him that he would be there every step of the way.
The climb began, and Ethan cautiously followed Jake's lead. With each step, his muscles strained, and his palms grew sweaty. He clutched the rough surface of the rocks, his mind teetering on the edge of panic. However, Jake's reassuring presence gave him the strength to push forward.
As they ascended higher, the wind began to whip against their faces, adding to the intensity of the climb. Ethan's legs trembled, and his mind played tricks on him, conjuring images of falling to his doom. Yet, he refused to succumb to his fear.
After what felt like an eternity, they reached a small plateau halfway up the mountain. Ethan's legs shook uncontrollably as he glanced down, realizing how far he had come. The sight filled him with a mixture of awe and terror. He knew that his greatest test was yet to come.
Jake sensed Ethan's hesitation and encouraged him to take a moment to breathe and regain his composure. As he gazed out at the breathtaking landscape, Ethan reminded himself of his purpose. He was here to conquer his fear, to prove to himself that he was capable of facing any challenge.
With renewed determination, Ethan and Jake resumed their climb. The rocks became steeper and more treacherous, demanding every ounce of their strength and agility. Ethan's fear threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on each movement, each grip.
Finally, they reached the summit. The view stretched out before them, a panorama of majestic mountains and rolling valleys. It was a sight that took Ethan's breath away, not only for its beauty but also for the realization of what he had accomplished.
As they stood on the peak, a sense of triumph surged through Ethan's veins. He had faced his greatest fear, defying the limits he had imposed upon himself. The fear of heights no longer held power over him. In that moment, Ethan understood the true meaning of courage. It wasn't the absence of fear but the ability to confront it and emerge stronger.
From that day forward, Ethan embraced life with a newfound sense of adventure. He sought out new heights to conquer, both metaphorical and literal. He skydived from airplanes, marveled at breathtaking views from skyscrapers, and even took up bungee jumping.
Ethan's journey taught him that the only way to grow and evolve was to face his fears head-on. He discovered that the things we fear the most are often the gateways to our true potential. By confronting his fear of heights, he had unlocked a world of endless possibilities, becoming a living testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
As Ethan continued his fearless exploration of the world, he realized that conquering his fear of heights was just the beginning. He had developed a newfound appetite for pushing the boundaries of his comfort zone, eager to challenge himself in every aspect of life.
One day, while flipping through a travel magazine, a captivating image caught Ethan's eye. It depicted a vast expanse of vibrant hot air balloons soaring gracefully through the sky. A surge of excitement coursed through him as he made a spontaneous decision to embark on a hot air balloon adventure.
Arriving at the launch site, Ethan's heart raced with anticipation. The sight of the massive, colorful balloons being inflated against the backdrop of a radiant sunrise stirred a mix of nerves and exhilaration within him. He boarded one of the balloons, accompanied by a skilled pilot and a small group of adventure seekers.
As the balloon lifted off the ground, Ethan's heart skipped a beat. The sheer height and vulnerability he felt being suspended in a woven basket took him back to the mountain peak where he had conquered his fear of heights. However, this time, there was no solid ground beneath his feet.
As the balloon ascended higher and higher, Ethan's apprehension transformed into awe. The fear that had once consumed him dissipated, replaced by a sense of tranquility and freedom. The world expanded before his eyes, revealing a breathtaking tapestry of land, sky, and nature.
Amidst the serenity of the sky, Ethan's mind began to wander. He reflected on his journey of self-discovery, realizing that true courage lies not only in facing fears but also in embracing vulnerability. He had come to understand that vulnerability was not a weakness, but a gateway to connection, growth, and profound experiences.
The hot air balloon ride became a metaphor for Ethan's life. It symbolized his ability to rise above his fears, to embrace the unknown with open arms. He marveled at the vastness of the world and the infinite possibilities that awaited him.
As the hot air balloon descended, Ethan felt a sense of gratitude and accomplishment. He had faced his fear of heights, and in doing so, he had unlocked a world of endless adventure and personal growth. From that day forward, he lived each day with the intention of embracing vulnerability and seeking out new experiences that would push him beyond his limits.
Ethan's story became an inspiration to those around him. His courage and resilience encouraged others to confront their own fears and pursue their passions. He shared his journey, not to boast about his accomplishments, but to show that every individual has the power to overcome their greatest fears and live a life filled with purpose and fulfillment.
And so, Ethan continued to live a life fueled by curiosity and bravery. Whether it was scaling towering mountains, diving into the depths of the ocean, or exploring the vastness of the cosmos, he knew that his journey would never truly end. For within the depths of his soul, Ethan carried the spirit of a conqueror, forever seeking the next horizon to overcome, the next fear to embrace, and the next adventure to embark upon.
","July 12, 2023 11:48",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ja4vsp,Eisoptrophobia,Dan Shurmer,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ja4vsp/,/short-story/ja4vsp/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Thriller']",8 likes,"
As I lay in my bed, in my little box room, amongst the dust and clutter; I find my eyes unable to close, not for the dull stench of mould pervading the plastered walls or the stony mattress beneath me which pokes and prods my back with errant springs – nor the pitter-patter of winter rains against the windowpanes or the shadows of naked branches which dance against the walls like shadow puppets from spindled fingers. These distractions were not the thing that kept my mind gasping feverishly above the waves of sleep. In truth, I wished for nothing more than sink beneath the swell into that deep and dark void of sleep, where realities entangled themselves with the desires of the unconscious mind. Oh, how I longed for that sweet nothingness, but instead, there I lay; eyes bared wide against the darkness, transfixed upon the mirror.
It had taunted me since the first time I laid eyes on it, tall and heavy, propped up in the corner of my room. Its frame boasted its decadence, ornately carved with baroque patterns of endless floral spirals which dizzied your eyes with maddening repetition, the golden paint which once served to extenuate the wealth of the craftsmanship; now cracked and flaking, serving only as a reminder of its age. The glassy visage which was once preened and polished so as to only reflect the truest image of the richness before it was now mired by a fine layer of dust, the corners chipped and splintered, a fissure running down its centre – warping the reflections of anything which stood before it mockingly, as if in revenge for its abandonment.
I had spent many an hour standing before it, staring blankly into the reflection of myself, split down the middle by that ugly fracture. It was like looking at a stranger, a broken man, torn apart amongst the shattered pieces and clumsily rearranged into some foreign imitation of what once was. It frustrated me to no end, I would stare and stare, move an inch or two, observe closely and retreat to the fullest image possible and yet… there was no trace of me. This reflection, this other, which stared back. I could see no sense of self within it. I could raise my hand above my head, contort my face as strangely as a ghoul, kick out my feet and dance like a madman – it would copy my every move – instantaneous, dutifully, even mockingly. Yet it was not me. It was a malformed copy-cat. A demon disguised behind my face, my clothes and skin. The more I stared at it, the more it stared back at me, the stronger my hatred for the imposter grew; and with it, my terror.
The worst of it came when I realised that this stranger in the mirror had begun to escape the confines of my little box room. When everywhere I went, no matter how far and wide, I could not seem to escape it. The first time I noticed it following me was out on the streets, as I idled mindlessly on the edge of the pavement, waiting for a gap in the thoroughfare and simply enjoying my time away from that little room and terrible mirror. Through my absent mind and vague daydreaming, I found my gaze wandering to the ground before me. How I wish I hadn’t. My blood ran cold when I saw it, my back arched like a cat and the air froze in my lungs. That face, staring back at me, distorted and muddled against the rippling surface of a puddle. Mimicking even the timing of my blinking eyes so as to ensure that however hard I tried, there was no escaping. The only reprieve came by way of the intervention of bicycle wheels, slicing the visage of the beast in half as it passed by, only then was I freed from the prison of its gaze and there was no telling how much time had elapsed. Ever since it follows me everywhere I go. It hides in shop windows, lurks in the water, my shined leather shoes and the watch-face on my wrist. It stalks me through reflections. Bending its shape formlessly into every facet of my life. Haunting me.
Now as I lay here, in my little box room, consumed by the darkness of a winters night; I stare against the blackness, at the mirror, lurking in the corner. Grand and tall and decaying. I see it there, in the glass, lay in a bed like mine – in a room like mine – dressed in the same clothes, sheltering from the cold beneath the same frayed blanket. I wander if it too can smell the damp and rot? if it can hear the rain pelting the window? if it can feel the springs of the mattress prodding against its back? Perhaps its blind, deaf and dumb? Does it simply exist there, within its shattered realm, senseless… maybe it looks back at me wandering the same things? Why must in punish me with its distortion? This malformation I have come to hate, this other me in the mirror which isn’t me at all, this ugly imitation; bastardised and ungodly and evil and broken. I must kill it. Slaughter the beast I see looking back at me, return my own reflection to myself – completed, whole, unbroken.
I find myself standing against it, nose to nose, its hollow eyes met with mine. The bookend in my hand feels heavy, cold, metallic. I see it has one of its own and know that I must strike first, I rear it back above my head and see the rage in its eyes before thrusting it forward with all my might.
Cautiously, my eyes open, the stagnant air feels heavy in my lungs as I breathe fear laden breaths. I feel the sting of shattered glass beneath my feet, I’m bleeding. The victory of seeing nothing but the bared, wooden backing of the mirror dulls the pain. The bookend falls to the floor with a clunk as the satisfaction of freedom washes over me. I look to my bleeding feet, a menagerie of glass shards surround them, long as knives and just as sharp and… It’s face lives within each and every one of them. A thousand distorted reflections looking back at me, only this time, each and every one is smiling at me.        
","July 13, 2023 12:38","[[{'Unknown user': '<removed by user>', 'time': '02:33 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '0'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,a8d7ww,Bell Bottom Blues,Sgt. Purple,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a8d7ww/,/short-story/a8d7ww/,Character,0,"['American', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
the day before i buried you
i took the road in lonesome treading
on bare'd blue byway sinking
where late the choir'd swallows
 
           soft singing
 
burdened silent footing.
                                   so why dost thou cry aloud
                                   is there no king in thee?
                                   heart ridden soul,
                                   wherefore dost thy trouble not leave?
oh, stay! please do not abandon me
memory's waiting on a half-emptied street--
a lonely mermaid who knells a surf tormented dream
do i dare turn back
do i dare disturb this street?
or do i lonesome with you
           on your whited sepulcher
shall i weep beneath this tree?
                                   you needn't to cry
                                   you needn't to cry, Darl
                                   the red earth's hinged beneath.
but do i dare
oh do i dare
do i set this body        free?
and if i do
           ( remember me
            will i remember you? )
will you wake unto a thunderclap
unto a lighted homesick'd meadow
or suspended in your ache-torn limbo
will you dim a sigh-worn echo?
 
and the day after i buried you
i took the road in peaceful treading
gentle unto gentle footing
where silent my bittersweet'd tears bled a quiet morning
 
           hush
 
the choir'd birds soft singing
                                   if i forget thee, o jerusalem
                                   least know that i've loved thee
                                   and in parting
                                   each to each
                                   thou art now free   
 

July. Pulma.
	By morning, Carrie was dead, laying on the bed like a quaintly-set monument, straight as a plumb line and so pleasantly recumbent that Frank did not know yet she was dead, only sitting there thinking she is so beautiful, why, she is gorgeous, if only I could remember her like that forever, if only this moment could endure until time itself has withered away, thinking, 'For me to suffer him dreaming like that while I am dead, and he don't even know it yet,' aching there in waiting while he dressed--white contrast shirt, black serge trousers, pinstripe socks--why I done ironed them yesterday already, and still I am a-laying here, full of waiting, emptied of life, until he humming-n-smiling like an asinine dope, crossing the bed to kiss me good morning, so close that his breathing whispers over my not breathing, so close that I might as well have told him myself through the terrific limpidness of my solemn surrender and wistful shame             as if life itself were a ring I had lost to a wind-shaken, surf-tormented shore with me in it looking and searching and fretting between the reeling waves of foam and sand and viscid snails from dusk til dawn until, as if to say, finally, quite breathlessly                 'I am dead. I am dead, Frank. Now stop humming like a fool.'
	He must have heard, I suppose, but I guess the remembering comes before knowing and knowing before crying because with him standing there agape, dangle-armed, reluctant to countenance what he knows already, as if staring and fuddling itself would make me forget I was dead, and so his standing there thinking when we bought this house in Pulma 27 years ago I told him lovingly in the backyard, 'When I die, I want you to bury me back there, between the poplar and the elm.'
	'How?' He said.
	'Why, with a shovel, of course.'
	And he laughed because he did not believe me.
	'Won't you want a funeral?' He said, 'with a coffin and a priest and a procession and such?'
	'No, I want you to bury me yourself, even though it'll take a shovel and a right smart 'mount of digging and sweating. But, will you do that for me, Frank?'
	'Carrie . . .'
	'Won't you do that for me, Frank?'
	'It'll be cold down there.'
	'I know.'
	'And clammy.'
	'I know.'
	'And there's them earthworms and maggots and snakes and such.'
	'I know.'
	'They'll be crawling over you, and gobbling up your intestines, and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it.'
	'God will see to it,' I said and he asked me, 'Why do you even want me bury you anyways? Wouldn't it be nicer to be . . . to be with them other dead folks?'
	So, I said, 'I want you to bury me because then you can remember me always, and then I will be with you forever, and then I will not be dead'
Then, I knew without him saying so that he would do it. He would do it because he was scared, and if he buried me then he would not be scared. That is why I could not help myself asking, 'Why are you crying? Why are you crying, Frank?' And it was the sweetest, the most saddest thing I ever heard.
	'I am crying because you are dead,' he said.
	'I am,' I said, 'will you bury me now?'
	But I could not say it. I could not shape the words because it was the queerest thing I ever saw: her laying there, gently supine, so delicate and so precious in the likeness of the Virgin Mary herself that I could not recognize her no more. And when I tried to remember Carrie from last week or Carrie from yesterday, Carrie supping whiskey at a rodeo or Carrie standing 5'4'' in a flower-pleated skirt and cinnamon colored stockings, they all became Carrie like the Virgin Mary, Carrie like a saint; and even when I brooded over our wedding day, she was there in July dappled moonlight betwixt the poplar and the elm, laying on the bed in her bridal gown like a painted statue full of restless and implacable waiting, until I thought to myself, believing it because I remembered it so, 'Perhaps she has always looked like this.'
	So, I told her, 'You are a strange woman.'
And when she was finally done dressing herself for the funeral, attired in blue bell bottoms and red saddle oxfords, I realized that I could not lift her even though she was frail and drawn beneath the fabric, like a shingled roof sagging in steady and dilapidated fatigue, that when I took her by the armpits, hugging her by the chest to heave her body out of the bed, she suddenly became an extraordinary burden too heavy that I could not carry her without stumbling even though there was no depression or indentation where she had lain. And when my arms could bear her no longer I realized without my knowing it that I also could not put her down, as if it was not so much the commencing and picking up that was exhausting as the stopping and letting go.
	'You are a strange woman,' I said.
	So I took her clothes off again, folding them neatly under my arm without it wrinkling and wrapped her tight in the bedspread, stark naked, so I could drag her to the back where she was to be buried. So, it was through the kitchen, out the back door, down the rear steps, and over the patio that we mounted the red dirt path with her head-first, unclothed, betwixt the sheets and me squatting backways on two feet straddling both sides pulling one two, one two, one two, and watching the furrow unspool at her heels up the hill where we can see lilacs and asters growing implacably between poplar and elm, full of waiting, empty of her, under the abject nakedness of that July sun. When we crested the hill and it was still up there and when I unfurled the soiled sheets to let her breathe, I see that she is filthy, caked all over in red dust so that I must to run back for a wet towel and a pail of water. She is wiped until she is unstained. Then I dress her in those blue bell bottoms and red saddle oxfords with her hair fanned beneath like a frocked petticoat, sun dappled, rasping undulations across her face so that she looks just like the Virgin Mary. And then I could not help it. No matter how I tried, I simply could not help it. It came all at once, without warning, the sharp biting growing bitter in the nose and the hot stinging building harsh beneath my eyes, I could not hold it back, thinking, 'I do not recognize her. She is dead. She is dead and I cannot even remember what she looked like yesterday.'
	It was the sweetest, most saddest thing I ever saw, like I knew it without needing him to say so, believing it before knowing and knowing before ever seeing. It is as if memory starts to forget when knowing stops, stopping without realizing that the dead are entombed in the past, never to be disinterred because they cease to exist both in living and in remembering. Many a time, when I lay with him beneath a lonely roof, I puzzled with the reminiscing and dwelt interminably inside the remembering until it came instantaneously, without portent, like an inexorable deluge roaring past in inscrutable oblongs and sounds and colors too fast for even thought, that memory becomes a dream, like looking in a mirror at a tapestry veiled behind Venetian blinds, fluttering up and down and up and down at once diaphanous, discombobulating, and articulate without fault, because the portrait, a vista of a distant sea, is not seen in the mirror, but in the imagining, the abstract, without words to shape its being, its nothingness so that I am not there but here, standing before the tapestry, knowing without seeing that distant July beach in lilting waves bearing salty wrinkles through the air and whitecaps foaming ephemerally, chimerically between my feet so that I can believe without the need to think that memory troubles itself not with facts because it is burdened ponderously so, adamantly so, with truth. That is why I am thinking, 'If he just would. Lord, if he just would. Then I would not be a fixture but a constituent of truth.'
	Then, I can listen to him speak, sculpting out of the darkness dimly lit words and redolent silhouettes, recalling a dread, a nightmare plaguing his spirit because he is afraid of forgetting, afraid of dying, an old terror so long sustained that I suppose he can even bear it now, or perhaps he has forgotten why he was ever afraid in the first place. So, he tells me about his forgetting, the county fair, the striped tents against the mauve, lilac, pastel-textured opalescence of summer twilight where pale stars slowly percolate through the grading sky and the warm-smelling of caramel, popcorn, sausages, and mustard, about how he remembers the musty horses snorting, stamping, eyes a-rolling, but he cannot remember me. You were wearing them blue bell bottom jeans and red saddle oxfords, he said, then he would take from the bedside drawer a carefully framed picture where, amid the striped tents, fading twilight, stamping horses, and the warm-smelling of caramel popcorn I, young, coy, mysterious, blush in a flower-pleated skirt with cinnamon colored stockings, and he would sigh because that was not right, that was not how he remembered it. So, I would say perhaps it don't matter what I wore, perhaps it don't matter because memory don't care for facts. That is not right, he would say, that is not right at all. And I suppose it is because knowing cannot accept what memory does not believe and if remembering is estranged so from knowing then what has one ever believed? Aging is like growing up but upside over, he said, because we cannot countenance it any other way, and I reckon he is right, for a bystander will always see a baby as he saw it the first time no matter how much it has matured, and the same fellow will see an old man always as he is now, no matter how juvenile and lively he once was. It is as if the young and the senile are both immortal, he would say, with one never aging and the other ever changing, bereft of any in between. And if that is so, how can we remember anything correctly?
	It is finished now, vacant, fastidious, and immovable in the languorous air cadenced to a standstill with the last, flat, rhythmic chuck, chuck, chuck of pig iron on red earth, dimpled with dark sweat, full of restless waiting, empty of her. Then, I hear a yipping behind me. I turn and she is laying there with a coyote sniffing and yipping and guzzling at her cheek. 
	'God damn son of a bitch,' I say, throwing the shovel at the coyote, missing, sending a plume of dust next to where she is and the coyote whimpering away, yipping and whinnying until I chase it down the hill where he is past the house. I go back. She is still there, not like the Virgin Mary, but like a corpse with the left side of her cheek bitten off so that it is gushing red, yellow, and white molasses-like in the dust where I can see her tongue rolling out of her mouth.
	'God damn son of a bitch,' I say and it is as if I cannot even remember what the Virgin Mary looked like, replaced instead by that grotesque mastication, and me thinking Carrie at the rodeo without a cheek, Carrie at the wedding with her tongue rolling out of her mouth. That is when I realized I could not do it, I could not bury her, believing, 'She is real. At least, she is real now. And if she is covered up, she will be lost forever. She will be dead,' as if one's remembering isn't so much the knowing as the looking and constantly reminding until one can finally believe the past really happened, wherein they forget immediately once the future is past again. Thinking that if he were given albums unto volumes of inexhaustible time, the past captured live, the present bound mid-action he would say that is not right, that is not right at all because Carrie's tongue is rolling out of her mouth. And for that, perhaps, Carrie without a cheek is better than Carrie not at all.
	Then I saw that she was crying, her tears blinking iridescent in the July sun as if it was not crying but her soul bleeding, so that I could not help myself asking, 'Why are you crying? Why are you crying, Carrie?'
	'Because you are here now and I am still full of waiting,' she says.
	'I cannot help it,' I say, 'I cannot pick you up for I will not be able to put you down again. I cannot help it.'
	'Then lie here with me,' she says, so I do, next to the emptying and the waiting, under the poplar and the elm.
	'I am afraid,' I say.
	'I know' she says, 'but are there are some things beyond even believing or remembering, that cannot be forgotten because they never change.'
	And he did not believe me. So, I said, 'When I was dying, I was drifting, like a nightmare, dark, cold, empty, devoid of any feeling. And I realized that I could not remember a single thing. It was like my whole life was there, condensed in a singular darkness, flitting through and through in oblongs and shapes and colors but I could not remember a single thing. Then, I heard you crying, sniveling and grieving like a fool while I thought, Why, that is the sweetest most saddest thing I ever saw, if only I could remember this feeling forever, if only this moment could endure until time itself has withered away. Then I knew I did not have to, I knew it without thought because my smiling and my crying was not fact it is was truth. Then, I knew it would prevail, that you would be with me always because universal verities can never fade.'
	I hear him turn towards me, where my cheek is running, steadily, molasses-like. I feel his breathing, so close that it whispers over my not breathing.
	'You were so pretty that day, at the county fair,' he says, stops, hesitates, then, 'I was so happy.' So, I knew without thought without hearing that he understood, that he had finally let me go, that I was now free.
	Many a night I lay there, under the poplar and the elm, atop the emptying that is now full, beneath her gentle caressing. It is as if I can see her, fleshed out of darkness and of sound, of the spangled night sky and the wind drooping with redolent lilacs and scented asters, but I know she is not that. She is not Carrie like the Virgin Mary, Carrie in red saddle oxfords. She is not Carrie without a cheek or Carrie in the ground, because when memory believes and knowing remembers, she is shapeless, she is formless. She is pain, she is sorrow, she is joy. She is laughter and tears and she is eternal.
And so I say, ‘You are a strange woman.’
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 15, 2023 03:40","[[{'Gloria Dawn': 'Morbid and confusing, with isolated thoughts that went in circles and was impossible to follow.', 'time': '21:26 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,iv02d5,The Chains of Regret,Daniel Mueller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/iv02d5/,/short-story/iv02d5/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",7 likes,"
To: George.Bronsteter@QuantumLeapInnovations.com
Subject Line: Deciphering the ‘What If’s’
 
Dear George Bronsteter, 
 
 What if? 
	The ultimate dilemma that makes me freeze and wonder. 
 What if? 
	Each time I ask myself this dreaded question, I curl into the fetal position and gaze into the abyss. 
 What if…
	It haunts me. The daunting idea that you can become whatever you want — that your wildest dreams can become true, where the world is indeed your oyster. You might be asking: ‘Why would such an idea distress you?’ OR ‘Why do I care?’ I mean, the questions themselves are within our innate nature to ask ourselves every so often, right? 
	Yet, my answer is simple. How could it not? The very idea that you can influence the future (including your own) plunges me in a spiral of anxiety that scares the living hell out of me. Just think; every thought, every idea, every seemingly insignificant decision, influences your reality for better or worse. As you grow older, this question becomes even more unbearable. Why? Because you begin to question every decision you’ve ever made up till the exact moment in time. You incessantly compare how life ‘should have’ turned out and where you would be, if only you acted differently. 
	Let me elaborate. What if I didn’t cheat on my ex-girlfriend during my time at College? Lillian and I were not just a couple; we were inseparable. We dated for most of our years throughout school; we were the epitome of high school sweethearts, complete with our own dedicated spot in the yearbook: ‘Most Likely to Stay Together Forever.’ And Lillian…she was so much more than the cliched “sweet girl.” She was brilliant; her mind an endless constellation of bright ideas and insights. She was deeply empathetic, always able to understand not just what I said, but what I felt. And those tiny quirks she had — her crooked smile when she was concentrating on a complex problem, or the way she’d roll out of bed every morning like a limp noodle devoid of life. Lillian was as real as it gets. So what did I do? I pissed it all away for one night with Jenny Beckingham a few years later…Ironic. Needless to say, my relationship with Lillian came crashing down when she found out, and she, rightfully so, slapped the stars out of me during one of my English lectures the following week. Did I mention that when she burst into the lecture hall, she aired out our dirty laundry to over a hundred of my fellow students? Of course, if I had dared to mirror her fiery language from that fateful day, I would have soap as a staple part of my diet for months on end. After that fiasco, it truly felt like a momentous shift in my persona took place, including a drastic course correction in my lifestyle. In plain terms, when Lillian and I split, I felt a piece of my soul was ripped away. To go back and contemplate why I jeopardized our unwavering relationship with Jenny, I never can quite rationalize it — other than attributing it to me being another sexually charged and greedy coward. I guess this was just a foreshadowing of my future. 
	For the record, I never attended that class again.
 What if I quit my corporate job (that I despise with every fibre of my being); and, instead, took a chance and wrote that book I always yearned to write when I was younger? When I came to the realization (post-graduation) that an English major had narrow roads leading you to either be a high school English teacher, a financially strapped freelance writer, or an under-appreciated editor drowning in manuscripts, I followed the road that society expected of me. Fast forward many years later, I am the Vice President of Sales at a well-established tech company in California, despite being in my late-thirties. I pull in an extremely lucrative salary that would make an upper middle-class family’s mouth water. My house? Well, it’s less a house and more of a palatial sanctuary that lays nestled in Menlo Park. I drive a matte black Porsche 911 Turbo that roars down the street like a lion unleashed, a true wealth symbol. Not to mention, I rub shoulders with Silicon Valley’s elite at Michelin-starred restaurants for lunch, while dining with the crème de la crème of sophistication in the evenings. To top it off, my nights are spent in the intoxicating company of attractive women, who particularly have no brains, but I am not there for intellectual stimulation. 
	I transformed into the person my younger self simultaneously loathed yet revered. Had you told me twenty years ago I would amass all the money I ever desired; however, I would dread every waking moment of my lifestyle, I would most certainly would have offered two words for you: the first starting with an ‘F’, the second ending in ‘OFF’. I was adamantly opposed to a way of life I couldn’t be proud of, especially a life where I couldn’t share my journey with a significant other. But it has not been all repulsion and regret, and that is the painful truth. There are moments when I close a lucrative deal, it makes me lick my lips, or when an acquaintance of mine compliments the fine aesthetics of my home, these help provide me with a sense of accomplishment. Yet, these are strictly fleeting moments of time that make me forget about the what if’s. Nevertheless, life is a bonafide double-edged sword, and lures you into a slow death like a siren of the sea…if you let it. 
	Now, if the clock could rewind and I could undo the decisions I have made, would I be happier? That’s one part of the ‘What If’ question that can halt my entire productivity for a day. This very uncertainty can keep me awake into the early hours of the following day. The persistent hollow heartaches that follow from a lingering melancholy is my constant reminder that the path I tread; and, choose to follow, holds nothing but misery till the day I die. Whenever I sit at a table full of narcissistic executives constantly talking business or about their latest yacht purchases, I feel paralyzed and drift away into thoughts of my younger self’s dreams and aspirations. Or when it’s the dead of night and a beautiful woman is sleeping soundly beside me, I lay motionless, remembering that she will be gone by tomorrow and a completely new woman will have taken her spot. I have experienced love and loss, and for the former, I cannot even tell you the last time I felt a trace of it. I morphed myself into a cold-blooded reptile, seeking pleasures that only further entrap me into a lifestyle that seems inescapable. You know, it honestly feels like I am not in control of myself anymore. The real Richard Constantine took a backseat long ago, and the person driving now is far from divine, but a devil peering back at me in the rearview mirror, smirking malevolently, and within its eyes, a reflection of bitter ambition and insatiable greed.
	Which brings me to the final and perhaps most significant question that promises the greatest uncertainty: What if I took a leap of faith and risked everything I have come to know? Quit my job, sell my assets, sever the connections I have built over the many years in the Valley, move back to my hometown of Fresno, find a woman and settle down…What would become of me? Would I revert back into my old habits after the first week when I realize I can’t do it? I am so tormented by this, and so evidently tired of agonizing over it. These three ‘What If’ variables of my past, present, and future, feel like a boa constrictor relentlessly tightening its grip around me, with each breath more strenuous than the last. The longer I idly wait to act, the more I notice the itch that cannot be scratched, the fire that cannot be extinguished, and the thirst that cannot be quenched. 
	For some individuals, their greatest fear(s) can be the dark, the prospect of isolation, or even the whisper of failure. And for me, these all morph into mine; the unknown. The powerless feeling of uncertainty is unlike any other, which is why I need to make a change. Personally, my life is an enigma that seems like it can only be solved by taking the first step in the right direction. I only possess a vague idea of where to start, but the saying goes, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,” and I like to believe that reconciling with my past mistakes is a positive step in the right direction. To want to become a better man is drastically different than the need to become one. If I really mean what I say, I will have to do things I will no doubt cringe with discomfort at; however, to facilitate growth you have to take accountability. So, for me, I am somehow going to find a way to get in contact with Lillian and apologize for the damage I inflicted upon her in the past — God knows what she went through after our relationship. Next, I am going to write that book I always dreamed of. I’m thinking a novel in the Drama Fiction genre, I think I can really hit home and resonate with my readers on this sort of story. Last, but certainly not least, please consider this my resignation from my position as Vice President of Sales at QuantumLeap Innovations, effective immediately.
 
Sincerely, 
Richard Constantine 
 
P.S. I would say I will miss the other execs and yourself, George, but quite frankly, I will not. I’ve lost count of the meetings where I’ve sat, silently seething, as you and the village idiots prattled on-and-on-and-on, each word driving me closer to the urge of thrusting my head through a pane of reinforced glass. 
 
P.P.S. You might be CEO of one of the most promising up-and-coming companies in North America; however, one thing is for sure, you are just another man in a world full of cowards. Don’t bother calling me to discuss any of this, I have already changed my number. 
","July 13, 2023 22:13","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'He took a quantum leap.\nWelcome to Reedsy. You must already be an accomplished writer.', 'time': '02:47 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Daniel Mueller': ""Thank you very much for your comment, Mary.\n\nIt's the start of a long writing journey. It was an inevitability to begin with – just didn't realize it until recently haha."", 'time': '12:50 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Mueller': ""Thank you very much for your comment, Mary.\n\nIt's the start of a long writing journey. It was an inevitability to begin with – just didn't realize it until recently haha."", 'time': '12:50 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,zfshjr, Athazagoraphobia ,Julie Gavin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zfshjr/,/short-story/zfshjr/,Character,0,['Inspirational'],7 likes,"
Word Count 1724
 
	Athazagoraphobia 
 
	Margot Davis has sat in this room twice a day every week for the past eleven years. In that time, they celebrated two engagements, a pregnancy announcement, one retirement, and countless birthdays.
	All the festivities happen in the tiny office basement kitchen stocked with mismatched mugs and a blue polka-dot electric kettle. Even the partners aren’t too proud to visit the bowels of the office building once in a while and dutifully drag themselves away from their busy schedules to share pleasantries while having a piece of vanilla sponge and a cup of tea. Margot is the one who slips out to get the cake, makes the tea, and rallies the others down to the kitchen. Still, today, her thirty-second birthday, there is no commemoration. 
	She doesn’t blame them for forgetting about her since she’s more of a listener than a talker. She mostly stays quiet, and nobody notices her lack of contribution.
	Occasionally she overhears them chatting when they congregate in the ladies, checking their makeup and blathering about the latest fad diet or their time of the month — things she would rather not talk about.
	It’s their morning tea break, and they sit in their usual seats, staring at their mugs. The conversation is somewhat reserved for a Friday. Margot knows she shouldn’t say anything but declares excitedly, against her better judgment, ‘Last night I finished a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Mona Lisa. It only took me four days to finish.’
	The other secretaries gape back with blank stares. ‘What?’ Delia finally says after an uncomfortably long pause.
	‘Oh, nothing,’ Margot says, getting up. ‘Does anyone want more tea?’
	Eileen shifts in her seat. ‘So, are you going to the pub tonight, Delia?’ 
	‘I’m counting the minutes. Considering all the overtime we worked, it’s about time they took us out for a drink.’
	‘I didn’t know we were going to the pub tonight,’ Margot says excitedly.
	‘You’re not invited, Margot. It’s only for the solicitors and secretaries who helped with the big merger,’ Delia says.
	Margot chides herself for being troubled by their absent-mindedness. She doesn’t blame them since it’s not a terribly important birthday. In years past, she would drop hints, then at the last minute, someone would run to the bakery, and a haphazard get-together would ensue before people started excusing themselves needing to return to work. Last year it was three o’clock when someone sent the new girl out. She came back with a box of stale doughnuts.
 
Being overlooked is not a new phenomenon. One of Margot’s earliest memories is of her parents accidentally leaving her at the shopping center. Two hours passed before they realized they had forgotten her. She had spent that time waiting in the car park with a grumpy security guard who kept complaining he was missing the football match, and every time he spoke, bits of spit flew from his mouth. When her dad finally arrived, he had no idea why she was so upset. 
	At school, teachers constantly forgot her name, and one time her maths teacher insisted she wasn’t even in his class. It had been an oversight by the secretary, who had omitted to put Margot’s name on the class roster. 
	The most humiliating memory was when she was left off the list of young girls who had completed a 10k to raise money for the local children’s hospital. She stood on the sidelines while the other girls had their photos taken for the local newspaper. She was given her medal two days later when the error was finally rectified. 
 
	Margot fills in at the reception desk this afternoon when Delia goes home sick. She checks her phone periodically, but there are no calls or texts. Her boss, Clive, phones reception. ‘Can you come to the kitchen? I need to speak to you about something.’ Her face is beaming, and she giddily skips down the hall. She pushes open the door expecting to see them gathered around with a pot of tea on the table and a cake full of candles, but the kitchen is in darkness.
	‘Oh, Margot,’ Clive calls from the hallway. Give me your opinion on the leak under the sink, will you? We might need a plumber.’ Then he rushes up the stairs two at a time.
	She puts a faded Tupperware bowl under the sink to catch the drip and phones the plumber, who can only make it after 5:30. The others are gone when he arrives. She waits at her desk and checks her email, but there are no messages. Gran always remembered; when she was little, they always spent her birthday together.
 
	Gran visits when she can and does her best to encourage Margot to get out and meet people. The last time she popped in, she insisted Margot attend a speed dating night she had heard about.‘You should go. What’s the worst that can happen?’ she said, practically pushing her out the door. 
	Margot put on a brave face and was greeted in the hallway by a young woman wearing a psychedelic patterned mini dress and a beehive hairstyle. She gave Margot a name tag. ‘The speed dating event is being held downstairs.’ 
	 The basement pub was called Pink and had 60s-inspired decor with a sunken area and four steps down to a fire surrounded by brightly coloured couches.
	‘Are you here for the dating thing?’ the barman whispered shifting his eyes as if they were discussing a drug deal or some other illegal activity. ‘Just so you know, the do is in there,’ he said, cocking his head towards a room with long tables and chairs on either side.
	People started to arrive, each one looking equally nervous.
	She clung tightly to her handbag on her lap while looking at the exit door and wondering how she could quickly escape. Before she could make a run for it, the young woman in the psychedelic dress came in to announce they were about to start. Margot regretted wearing a pencil shirt and block-heeled sandals and, red-faced, had to slide off the stool while holding on to the edge of the bar counter.
	 She took her seat, recognizing Tim right away. She didn’t know him exactly but had seen him several times over the summer. They would pass each other on their daily walks, and awkward smiles progressed to them waving and saying hello.
	‘We used to see each other walking on the trail all the time,’ he said with a surprized look. 
	‘Yes, that’s right. I can’t believe you remember me.’ 
	‘I’m Tim.’
	‘Margot.’
	‘I missed seeing you. I switched jobs, and my schedule changed. Why would you think I wouldn’t remember you?’
	‘I slip people’s minds all the time. If I leave a lasting impression, it’s usually a negative one.’
	He laughed. ‘I like a woman with a sense of humor.’ He leaned forward. ‘Can I have your phone number before the buzzer goes off? I’d love to see you again.’
 
	When Margot gets home from work, she looks through the post. No cards. Mum texted, Sorry we can’t get over to see you. Totally forgot it was your birthday and agreed to have dinner with our bridge friends. We’ll get over to see you tomorrow or the next day. Have a great birthday!!!! 
 
    She’s frying some sausages for her dinner when Gran shows up. ‘Happy birthday, love.’
	‘Thanks for popping in, Gran.’
	‘How was today?’
	She let out a loud sob. 
	‘What’s wrong?’
	‘Apart from a text from Mum, you’re the only one who remembered. This is why I can’t be bothered with people,’ she says, plucking tissues out of the tissue box.
	‘Oh, nonsense. What about that young man Tim?’
	‘That’s over.’
	‘But you are perfect for each other.’
	‘It’s complicated.’
	‘A misunderstanding?’
	‘We had a fight. Tim said I’m obsessed with people forgetting and shouldn’t lump him in with everyone else. I told him about when I started my job, and the bookkeeper didn’t know, and I had to wait for more than a month before getting paid. He said it was years ago and shouldn’t let it bother me. Then he had the gall to tell me I had Athazagoraphobia.’
	‘Atha?—’
 
	‘Athazagoraphobia. I had to look it up. It’s a fear of people forgetting about you.’
	‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’
	‘I’m better off without him.’
	‘Don’t push him away.’ 
	‘He forgot about my birthday too.’
	‘No, he didn’t. You need to give him a chance.’
	The doorbell rings, and she sees Tim standing on the other side of the glass door.
	‘It’s him! He didn’t forget.’
	‘I have to go now. I’ll leave you two alone.’
	‘Don’t go, Gran.’
	‘My time is up. It might be a while before I get back to see you again. I love you, Margot.’  
	‘But—’
	 The doorbell rings again. Margot takes a deep breath and slowly opens the door. 
	‘Happy birthday! The woman in the flower shop said these are Forget-Me-Nots,’ Tim says with a huge grin and hands her the small bouquet.  
	‘They’re lovely. I didn’t expect to see you today.’
	‘Oh, right. I should have phoned,’ he says, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘Do you have company? I thought I heard you talking to someone. I can come back later.’
	‘No. There’s only me here. Do you want to come in?’
	‘Is something burning?’ he says, stepping into the hall.
	‘Oh no, my dinner!’ she says, dashing inside.
	 Smoke rises from her ruined pan, and her sausages look like pieces of charcoal.
	‘You shouldn’t be eating alone on your birthday. I know how lonely it can be.’
	‘When I was younger, I spent my birthdays with my Gran. She always made me feel important. She died about ten years ago.’ 
	‘I’m sorry to hear that. I think you should spend every birthday with me from now on.’  
	‘That would be very nice.’
	 ‘I should have been more understanding and I’m sorry I said you had Athazagoraphobia. You mean the world to me. I know we’d be great together if you gave me a chance. Here, I bought you a card. It’s a musical one.’
	She slid her finger along the back of the envelope and opened the card. It played ‘Unforgettable.’ 
","July 14, 2023 03:58",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,l7rkrn,Called to Sea,Bret Loonsfoot,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/l7rkrn/,/short-story/l7rkrn/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror', 'Suspense']",7 likes,"
“Called to the Sea”
Bret Loonsfoot
 
	The frigid waters roiled around me, pulling and grasping - dragging me in all directions. The salt water stinging my eyes forcing them shut. My last panicked breath quickly depleted in my lungs. My Dad's startled shout was the last thing I heard above the cacophony of the waves and wind from a quickly appearing storm - suddenly extinguished - replaced by a cold, deafening silence as I was knocked from our small boat into the icy torrent.
 
	My eyes strained to stay open but I didn't know which way was up. Endless void surrounded me. Vast empty darkness in all directions, but movement in the reaches too far to see.
 
	My terror-addled mind was playing tricks. I felt alone, far from my Dad and the world I knew above, but still in the company of something I couldn’t quite see. An oppressing dread filled my chest. I couldn’t quite place it, but I felt hunted. Encircled by a presence with crushing dominion over the waters surrounding me.
 
	In an act of desperation, I let out a scream releasing a torrent of bubbles past my left cheek. Clenching my burning eyes shut, I oriented myself towards the escaping bubbles. Kicking and clawing frantically, blindly, stars appearing in the space behind my eyelids.
 
	Forcing my eyes to open again, maybe for the last time, I saw faint light above me slowly fading as my vision narrowed.
 
	Each stroke…closer…to the freedom above.
 
	Each second…closer…the terror beneath me felt.
 
	My consciousness was fading as my oxygen-deprived body fought for life. The portal to the world I knew above was within reach. A panicked reflex overtook me.
 I looked into the abyss below. 
 
	My heart leapt into my throat and dove into my stomach.
 
	Teeth. Jagged, impossibly endless rows of teeth filled the murky dark blue space underneath me. A gaping maw emerging from the deep black. Larger than anything I could ever imagine lurking in the waves so close to the civilized world. Horrifyingly gargantuan, unbelievable in its overwhelming scope, completely filling my vision and drawing closer.
 
	With renewed vigor fueled by fear, I closed the gap between myself and salvation.
 
	I reached up and my head broke the surface…
 
	I gasped for air - oxygen filling my lungs as I sat up in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets on my bed. The same memory of that fishing trip so many years ago still haunted my dreams. It had been years since that boat trip. But the dreams visited more and more often now, becoming more vivid, following me even as I wake. The cold water remains on my skin, the breathless dizziness and vertigo making me ill, saltwater burning my throat. Reliving the terror time and time again. Each time the teeth creep closer and closer. I feared what may happen when they finally overtook me.
 
	That terrifying event ended with my dad fishing me out of the water moments after I resurfaced. The flash storm appeared and dissipated in just a few minutes - a freak tempest of fate that put me face-to-face with a presence I now feel increasingly often in my dreaming hours. The feeling of being watched and lorded over as an utterly insignificant morsel is unshakable and enduring even when I escape my nightmares.
 
	The boat ride back to shore that day yielded no relief. My Dad’s efforts to comfort me were futile as I screamed at him to get us home - take us to land - get me away from here. I never dared to even swim in a pool after that day, an “irrational phobia” to some but a “rational means of survival” to me for I know what others do not - the waters hide secrets we can never unlearn.
 
	My feet landed hard on the cold floor in my bedroom, suddenly bathed in a current of cool autumn air that drifted in from my partially open window and sank heavily to the ground. 
 
	The sleeping pills from my doctor did nothing but pull a haze over my mornings leaving me less able to parse between the real and imaginary.
 
	The psychiatrist and hypnotherapist were unable to wrest my terrorized and restless dreams from the dark nor help me to forget.
 
	I had to do something drastic to remedy this. My Dad had tried to reassure me that what I saw was a panic-induced figment of my imagination. He said he saw nothing that day. Not a shape or movement below the waves even as he dragged my nearly unconscious form from the frothy blue-green Atlantic ocean, freshly stirred from the storm.
 
	Maybe he was right. Was this all in my mind?
 
	I decided that chilly October morning that enough was enough. It was time to face my fear and venture into that ocean again - I wanted to, no, needed to see it for myself. I needed to see nothing but the empty bottomless sea.
 
	This wasn’t the first time I had this thought - to face my deepest dread. I had it all planned out a year ago. I took scuba lessons, got certified so I could stay down in the water as long as it took to convince myself that I was wrong. I booked a round trip plane ticket back to the place this all started.
 
	I made it to the airport then chickened out. Sheer panic struck me at the thought of being near the water, much less that ocean again and I ran from the terminal and hailed a cab back home.
 
	My nightmares only got worse after that. More frequent. More real. Every single night I found myself floating in the abyss, unable to find the surface, barely able to move, running out of breath, feeling the cold saltwater freeze me to my bones and fill my mouth and nose. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had exhausted my options and was left with just the one. I had to return to the Atlantic and prove to myself it wasn’t real.
 
	Getting out of work was easy enough. Couple of sick days well spent. I’m sure it was exceedingly believable that I was feeling ill because I looked worse each day I was deprived of rest. My job as a computer programmer certainly wasn’t served by lack of sleep. I was making mistakes that cost the team time and money to fix. Code made sense to me. Rules and algorithms that were nothing like the unexplainable supernatural horrors that consumed my nights.
 
 I commissioned a private scuba trip for the following day. I’d arrive tonight, get my hotel, then take the boat out late morning to spend the day offshore.
 
	I arrived around six o’clock in the evening and checked in without issue. The town was not how I remembered. It was summer the last time I was here and the town brimmed with life. Where tourists once crowded the streets with vendors peddling their kitschy t-shirts and souvenirs, there were wet, empty streets blanketed with a misty fog. Coronas of light emanated from streetlights and cast their eerie yellow light upon nearby buildings, almost all of which were shuttered for the season. The charm of the quaint seaside town was replaced by a damp feeling of loneliness and abandonment. 
 
	I sat on the balcony with a burger I had ordered from the hotel’s “Off-season limited menu” and stared out into the setting sun. I watched the shadows cast from the buildings grow taller, reaching into the ever-darkening white caps.
 
	The dreamy twilight was juxtaposed by intense dread filling me to the brim, but I couldn’t look away. Night fell quickly but I could still hear the whisper of the waves just beyond the foggy dark. It seemed to go on forever.
 
 I felt drawn towards the hazy blackness extended before me. A cold wind whipped up and shook me from my trance. My burger had long gone cold. How long was I just staring into the distance? I felt suddenly displaced, utterly alone, and perilously vulnerable. I felt as though I was being watched by some untold presence just beyond my sight.
 
	Retreating from the balcony I slid the door closed and tossed the plate of uneaten food onto the bureau. I turned on the T.V. and flipped through the channels until I found a light-hearted sitcom I was very familiar with to try to take my mind off of my grim task the next day. 
 
	My exhaustion tore me from the waking world.
 
	Before I knew it, I found myself back in that blue hell. I was floating timelessly in the empty. Immediately, that familiar crushing presence washed over me. 
 
	Crushing anxiety crashed into me like nothing I had felt prior. Looking down, the maw was larger and closer than I had ever seen it. I could hear it groaning hungrily as it lurched towards me in slow-motion, yet impossibly fast. I thrashed and kicked my way towards the surface. I had to get to the top but the light was drawing further and further from me. I was being pulled down. The maw was close enough now that it was sucking me in. 
 
	Palpable, intense fear overtook me, gripping every part of me down to my soul. It was too real. Currents rushed past me, dragging me helplessly towards doom. Sharpened shadows passed around me as my peripheral vision was filled with an all too familiar view.
 
	Teeth. 
 
	On all sides.
 
	The massive entity had me floating deeper into its colossal mouth. I watched in absolute horror as all hope of escape was swallowed with me. Wholly and completely. Silently and breathlessly I screamed as the cold black darkness consumed me. I watched as the last remnants of light escaped my vision and my world became nothing, never again to be seen.
 
	Icy water washed over me interrupting my restless sleep. I awoke screaming from my dreamt demise lying face up on the dark beach, tide rushing back past me into the ocean. I sat up quickly, digging my heels frantically into the wet sand in an attempt to escape the dark waters ahead of me. Inelegantly I retreated back to dry land as I stumbled and collapsed, face-first into a mouthful of sand.
 
	Gaining some of my mental faculties back from the sleeping world, I stood back up and took inventory of my reality. The inky shroud of night still covered the sleepy town. 
 
	Where was I? What happened? How did I get here?
 
	The darkened facade of the hotel loomed ominously behind me. I stood cold, wet, and still wearing yesterday’s clothes, now soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to my body. 
 
	Did I sleepwalk? I’ve never done that before in my life.
 
	Shamefully, I considered getting a ride back to the airport - now - and leaving this behind me. Try to live my life. Try other options to get past this torment. Tuck tail and run. I couldn’t do that again. I don’t run from my problems. I always stood up to bullies and did what I thought was right. But I feel so powerless and unable to act.
 
	I stood frozen in fear and contemplation, waiting for the world to end, or for the dark waters to finish their grisly campaign against my life by pulling me closer and closer into its drowning depths, filling my lungs with saltwater and passing me off to feed the creatures dwelling in it. I resolved to go back to the hotel room and get warm. Then I could figure out what to do next. 
 
	Exerting all of my willpower, I succeeded in making myself move, backing away one step at a time from the beckoning waves that lapped at the shoreline with feigned innocence. My foot touched the grassy brush on the perimeter of the beach and I ran - full out to the hotel.
 
	I walked cautiously through the liminal, half-lit hallways of the hotel. Eerily silent and vacant. I caught sight of an old, ornate clock on the wall. The hands indicated the time was 3:25 in the morning. Arriving at my room, I found the door slightly ajar. Too drained to figure out if I had left it open while sleepwalking, or if some intruder was awaiting inside to spring his sinister ambush. I brushed it off and slipped through the doorway, leaned back into the door, closing it as I crumpled to the floor against it. Debilitating weariness washed over me, robbing me of consciousness.
 
	Nothingness. Cold. Black. Empty.
 
	Sunlight broke through the sliding balcony door opposite of where I had fallen asleep. The golden beams of a new day pierced my eyelids and resurrected me. It wasn’t the best sleep, but It was more refreshing than most nights. I felt renewed in my intentions of seeing out my plan. The grim implications of the horrifying dream I had last night, followed by the inexplicable waking in a different place, and subsequent dreamless sleep were severe. I would face it. This needed to end one way or another.
 
	Later that morning, I arrived at the marina where the boat I was to take that day was waiting. “Blue Betty” was painted on the vessel’s dirty surface alongside a pin-up style woman in a flowy blue dress. With a deep breath of reassurance I boarded the small boat out into the ocean.
 
	The sunny cloudless sky did little to lighten the daunting task ahead of me. Each second I felt as a prisoner headed to the gallows. Dread built up in my chest as familiar sights and smells made my dreams feel all too close to the rational world.
 
	Through my growing discomfort I managed to ask the boat captain if he ever ran into anything strange in this part of the Atlantic and his response contained nothing of note. Drunk kids on their party boats and the rare whale sighting did little to persuade me either way. I might have thought I saw a whale if I could imagine one as large as the creature I saw ten years prior. But I shook off that idea. I know what I thought I saw - and it wasn’t a whale.
 
	When we reached the area I approximated as the spot I fell in the water all those years ago, I asked the captain to come to a stop. I donned my scuba gear and told him I’d be back soon - even if it was a hopeful, half-believed statement. Part of me thought I would see nothing, and would be able to live on knowing I had imagined everything. All of these sleepless nights would have been for nothing but at least I could be released from this nightmare.
 
	But another part of me feared that I would be faced with the same sight that visited my sleep more times than I could count. Drifting through the darkness towards a being so daunting it was beyond comprehension. A flash of teeth, and an absolute panic as the safety of the water’s surface seemed so, so far, no matter how hard I tried to reach it.
 
	I sat on the side of the boat, gave the “OK” sign to the captain, and pushed myself backwards off the side of the vessel.
 
	I floated weightlessly under the boat for a few moments to get my bearings, then began my descent into the dark below.
 
	Soon, I could hardly see the light above and a familiar oppressive feeling fell over me. An intense pressure, the creeping cold fingers of the Atlantic breached my skin, gripped my bones and a sickening ball of anxiety hung heavy in my gut from the inexplicable feeling of being stalked. I looked all around me but didn’t see a thing. Not a single fish, piece of debris. Nothing. 
 
	I did start to feel better with each passing moment as I surveyed the area around me. The deep blue fading into a navy and black as it stretched infinitely. I looked below and saw nothing.
 
	I would stay a few more minutes. I wanted to be sure. I needed to be sure. I floated silently for what felt like a lifetime. The only sound was my respirator, and the loud beating of my heart in my chest. The sound was grounding, it made me feel alone and relieved.
 
	Then I heard something else. 
 
	Far away I could hear a groan. Deep and threatening. First I thought I was imagining it. My isolation was causing some sort of auditory hallucination, but moment after moment and degree by degree it became louder, deeper. It resonated in my chest and made me feel insignificantly small - dwarfed by whatever was large enough to make such a sound. Just then the distant shadowed water to my right side seemed to shift. I oriented myself towards it and strained my eyes to pick up any subtle movement. A terrifying realization occurred as I stared into the shaded blue.
 
	The wall of shadowed water in the distance was getting closer. A deep dark mass was moving closer to me. The groaning continued as I sat pinned with absolute horror. Darkness itself was on the move.
 
	Each moment…closer to the colossal shadow…
 
	Hyperventilating, I watched as the mass was nearly upon me, and it shifted. The darkness split horizontally, revealing a deeper black than I had ever seen. A void that threatened to pull me in. My heart nearly stopped beating when my eyes finally wandered to the outside edges of this new terrifying sight. All around that opening to the true absolute darkness of the world we didn’t know was a very familiar sight. One I had seen again, and again, and again.
 
	Teeth.
 
	The newspapers the next day were less than sensational. Your standard fare news, local sports and happenings, a fall festival reminder for next weekend, and a blurb on page three.
 
	The headline read:
	“Search begun for missing boat ‘The Blue Betty’”
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 14, 2023 13:20","[[{'Barbra Golub': 'I really felt like I was with you underneath the water. Good job.', 'time': '18:31 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'I like this line midway through and think it sums up the story well: “the waters hide secrets we can never unlearn.” A definite foreshadowing. \n\nIt’s always good to face your fears, unless they end up being justified! \n\nSolid first submission Bret. Welcome to Reddsy! :)', 'time': '15:56 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,php5ps,HIS NAME IS FEAR,Glenna Agnew,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/php5ps/,/short-story/php5ps/,Character,0,['Fiction'],7 likes,"
					 HIS NAME IS FEAR
 
Fear!
Fear and I had become long-time friends.
Perhaps friends might be the wrong word for our relationship. Perhaps acquaintances, or frenemies; now there was a word that had a trendy ring to it. Maybe it was enemies. Whatever the relationship, we knew each other intimately, for we had lived together for some time now.
 
We first met that early spring day in the hospital a year ago. I remember Jack and I laughing all the way there, pointing out the first robin of the season in the park. Watching as it cocked its head to one side, intently listening to the comings and goings under the ground, watching as it suddenly leaned forward and pulled out a large juicy half-frozen worm. We marveled at the crocuses sticking their heads up valiantly through the scattered patches of snow. The sun had been shining brightly as we had left home on our carefree journey, however, during our journey, storm clouds rolled in, and just as we reached the hospital entrance a clap of foreboding thunder welcomed us. I later thought perhaps it was meant to be an omen or foreshadowing of things to come.
 
We lucked out and found a parking spot close to the main entrance. I ran around and helped Jack from the car, holding his arm and supporting him as much as I could as we hurried out of the torrential rain. Once inside we stopped, for a few minutes while I checked out a few of the pictures in the little art gallery inside the hospital lobby. I gushed enthusiastically over the art but in reality; I was giving Jack a chance to rest. I could see he was exhausted, just from the hurried trip from the car to the lobby. This ruse probably didn’t fool Jack, but it was a game that we had played all too often in the past weeks.
 
Once Jack had caught his breath, we took the elevator to our assigned floor. He staggered slightly when the elevator stopped abruptly at our floor. Lack of balance was another symptom that I had noticed in Jack lately, one of many.
 
We stepped out into the hallway; it was a long, long hallway and Jack gave a small sigh as he scanned the distance we would have to travel. Jack’s breathing was heavy and laboured. The lights were very dim, and the cause seemed apparent. A section of the corridor was sectioned off with tall orange safety cones that surrounded a ladder, a spool of electrical wire, and a couple of workman’s tool belts. The drop ceiling tiles had been removed. The workmen were obviously taking a coffee break, but the hallway was dark and dingy and we could barely see, a shiver went up my spine, I could feel a presence right behind me, and hear some heavy breathing, but when I turned and looked behind me in the dim hallway, there was no one there. Suddenly I could feel a tenseness in my chest, a nasty flutter in my stomach. Goosebumps covered my arms and my hackles arose like a guard dog faced with a heinous perpetrator. This was to be my first formal introduction to the one I grew to know as Fear.
 
As we slowly traveled down the hallway, I thought about our current situation. It was a routine checkup, nothing to be overly concerned about, Dr. Brown had said It was just always good to have these little things checked out. It was probably stress, overwork, or possibly anemia, or at worse Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I had to face it, Jack had always been an over-achiever, your typical Type A personality, and a raging workaholic. But that's what I loved about him, his ambition, his drive, his competitiveness, his enthusiasm for everything in life. It was probably finally catching up with him. At last, we reached the end of the hallway and the person at the desk escorted us to an inner office.
 
Dr. Brown finally walked in. Gone was his usual smiling joking self, and in their place was a very nervous man fidgeting with the file folders in his hand. He sat behind his desk, not meeting our eyes, his demeanor one of stoic resignation. “Oh God, this isn’t good,” I thought as Fear tapped me roughly on the shoulder. The doctor slowly opened the files. We sat in stunned silence later in his office. 
 
Cancer. Stage three. No! No, it couldn’t be. There must be some kind of mistake. How could this happen to Jack, to us?  Stage one, denial. Dr. Brown assured us there was no mistake. A visiting doctor, a world specialist, had viewed the tests and after confirming with other specialists they had all concurred that Jack had Cancer. The big C. It was very late in being diagnosed. The prognosis was not encouraging.
 
 
My greatest fear had been realized. For weeks now, no, months, I had been daily pushing back the dreaded thought that Jack’s illness was more than just stress or overwork. As I spent those lonely evenings alone, while Jack was at the office, the first vestiges of uneasiness had gradually crept in. I remember losing my Mother at the age of seven to Cancer; it awoke in me a paralyzing fear of losing family or friends. The therapist said the technical term is Thanatophobia or death anxiety but I also suffered from Necrophobia which is a fear of dead things or graveyards. My own personal fears and phobias were tucked firmly away in Jack’s presence, replaced by an always positive attitude; in private they ran rampant with only Fear being privy to them, egging them on.
 
 Jack had not been well for some time now. It started out with a general malaise; he was feeling tired, feeling rundown. Jack had a stressful job, it was fast passed, demanding. He had just been given a big promotion, he was the youngest person ever to hold this important and prestigious job, the company was counting on him and so he spent long hours making sure his work was perfect. Jack was like that, dependable, reliable, and a perfectionist with an eye for detail. He was in charge of a dozen others and he cracked his whip with a gentle hand. He put in more hours than anyone else on his team, arriving early and leaving late every day. He had a lot to prove to his boss, his clients, his team, and himself. Sure he was tired and became more tired as the weeks went by, but everyone was counting on him, and with the new demands thrust upon him he was bound to be exhausted. It was just a by-product of relentless hours and lack of sleep. 
 
  When the first symptoms of tiredness and weakness set in, I asked Jack to get things checked out but he was always too busy, sure things would turn around soon. I finally made the appointment and took off work from my own job to make sure he went. Of course, there were tests, and more tests, and now this terrible diagnosis. Stage two, anger. We were angry at the diagnosis, the doctors, the nurses, the technicians, angry with each other, angry with life, angry at God.
 
Weeks went by and then came the day that Jack had to leave his job, Jack had tried working from home but that really didn’t last long. Jack was devastated when he had to quit his job, but he knew there was no future for him there. No future for him anywhere for that matter. I took leave from my job; it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, only Jack. I tried to be supportive, to be upbeat for him, “Come on Jack you got this. You’re strong, you are stubborn. You can lick this.” 
“You know it”, he would answer me back his face pale as the pillow that surrounded his head. The game continued.
 
I would smile, tell him to rest awhile, and quietly close the bedroom door. In the hallway outside the door, my smile would crack into a million small fragments, I would feel the presence, hear that, now familiar, raspy breathing, and smell the sweat, tangy and sour. Fear was a daily visitor now. I awoke and Fear sat on the edge of my bed; I went about the tasks of the day and felt Fear sitting in the corner watching my every move, a dark shadow in my life. At night Fear would lay his head down beside mine, his body lying wedged tightly between my body and Jack’s. For days on end I bargained with God, spare Jack, take me if you must, but not Jack, not my precious Jack. I’ll do anything, anything you ask. Please! Please!  Step three, bargaining.
 
The day finally came when Jack went bravely to the hospice. The decision had been difficult; we had wanted to spend our last days together alone, wrapped in each other's arms, not surrounded by medical equipment and staff, but it was not to be. 
 Full-blown depression had set in no matter how hard we tried to be encouraging and to be supportive of one another. No matter how often we pasted an everything-is-going-to-be-alright smile upon our faces. We became residents of Rockbottom. Ground Zero became or dwelling place. Step Four, depression. The Let's Be Happy game was exhausting and futile.
 
When the decision to move to the hospice was finally decided, things moved quickly. I did a tour prior to Jack going there. It was peaceful at the hospice, the rooms were painted a calming colour, tastefully decorated,  with intimate seating areas for families and their loved ones. On the way to the hospice, I rode beside Jack in the ambulance in one of the two jump seats. Fear rode along with us in the other seat.
 
Two weeks later I arrived for my daily visit; as I walked down the hallway to Jack’s room, I once again felt that ever-familiar presence, stronger today, much stronger. Fear walked beside me, like a faithful dog at one's side. But as I rushed into Jack's room I could feel another presence as well. Stronger, almost palpable. Hovering,  patiently waiting.
 
Jack lay on the bed and as I closed the door, he opened his eyes and his eyes held mine; he opened his hand with agonizing slowness. I reached out and held it; I reached down and kissed his lips gently; he responded with only a whisper.
 
“I waited for you”, he murmured.
 
 My phony smile faltered. “Waited?” I asked. 
 
“Yes, waited.”
 
 I leaned in close to hear his faltering voice, Fear's hand gripped cruelly upon my shoulder. 
 
“To tell you I love you. Forever, for always.”
 
“I love you too. Forever, for always.”
 
There was suddenly a mysterious sound in the room, a rushing sound, the kind of sound that a flock of birds makes as they land in a field. A hundred birds, perhaps a thousand strong. The room got brighter, maybe it was the sun shining through the window, but maybe … something else. I felt Fear’s ever-present hand squeeze hard, digging brutally into my flesh, then depart the room. Jack and I exchanged one more sweet smile, then he closed his eyes and was gone. Game over. I closed my eyes, held tightly to Jack’s hand, and felt the new presence, with a flutter, descend and fill the room and fill my soul.
 
 
Five Stages of  Cancer and Grief
Stage one - Denial,    Step two - Anger,    Step three - Bargaining, Step four-Depression, Step five- Acceptance
 
","July 14, 2023 15:55","[[{'Amanda Rantanen': 'Interested story how you gave Fear a name and how it ended without Fear. Keep writing!', 'time': '01:23 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,0ww09k,Not to Condemn ,Theo Benson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0ww09k/,/short-story/0ww09k/,Character,0,"['Christian', 'Drama']",7 likes,"
“It would mean a lot to me if you came.”  Lisa’s fingers traced the creases of the paper, once folded now flattened against the cold table. She sat with her legs crossed and tucked under her chair, too shocked to fidget as she digested her daughter’s invitation.“I have something I need to tell you,” Kayleigh had said, having sat Lisa down at their kitchen table in the unnerving way only a teenager could manage to do. Lisa’s stomach hit the floor. “Are you pregnant?”“What? No!” “Are you on drugs? Did you get kicked out of school again? Kay, I can’t keep moving us around.” “I’m not expelled. I’m fine.”Surveying her daughter from across the table, Lisa squinted. “Are you gay?” She barreled forward before Kayleigh could respond, “Honey, it’s okay if you’re gay. I love you and support you and-”“Mom stop!” Kayleigh wrung her hands together on the tabletop from her seat on the other side of the table. She took a deep breath. “I’m a Christian.”“What?” Rustling cut the silence as Kayleigh withdrew a folded piece of paper – the one Lisa now clung to – and slid it across the table. “Think about it.” Her daughter said, and Lisa heard the scrape of wood against tiles as Kayleigh stood and left the room. Sweat marks formed on the paper wherever Lisa touched it. She didn’t look up until the door to Kayleigh’s room had shut. A quiet click down the hall.Leaning her elbows on the table, Lisa put her head in her hands and reminded herself to breathe, heart raced wildly. Shit. The building was smaller than she expected. Six days later Lisa entered a Church for the first time in her life, her daughter leading the way. The foyer smelled of coffee and perfume, thrumming with chatter. She looked at the hands of the greeters that shook hers, and into the smiles directed her way, half expecting to see claws and fangs. But not, only overgrown cuticles and mildly crooked teeth met her. Kayleigh eagerly led her from person to person, making introductions with an ease uncharacteristic of a sixteen-year-old. Everyone greeted Lisa like a long-lost friend. Somehow that made her feel worse. No matter how hard she tried, Lisa forget each new name the moment a new conversation began. Lisa’s eyes flashed rapidly between people, trying to keep track of the buzzing swarm all at once. When Kayleigh led her into the sanctuary, Lisa let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Rows upon rows of seats packed tightly into the rectangular room, like ribs lining a torso, all facing the center stage – a modest platform – built into the far side. Early-morning light filtered through stained glass windows scattered across every wall. They sat an equal distance from the stage as from the exit. In the middle of the pack. Lisa picked at the fabric of her chair. At least they weren’t wooden. She remembered a co-worker who told her stories of his time at church. People there made bad children kneel on wooden pews to pray. Her co-worker had been one of those children. Glancing at Kayleigh, Lisa wondered faintly if her daughter knew how to pray. After everyone sang, a man in corduroy pants and a blue shirt stood onstage and began to speak. “Nicodemus came to Jesus under the cover of night.”The contrast was stark. A throng of surprisingly harmonious voices reduced to a singular, solitary voice. It felt wrong. Too much silence for so many people. Lisa resisted the urge to squirm. She felt like a sardine, anxious to twist around and stare at all the other little fish packed into their can. Her darting eyes stopped on one sardine in particular.Two rows ahead. A little to the left. A woman in a floral dress. Lisa’s throat squeezed shut. Her sweating hands gripped the bottom of her seat with equal intensity. A swell of panic pushed against her spasming throat. The Pastor’s voice fell away, a low buzz reduced to almost nothing. The room was quiet. Too quiet. So quiet she feared anyone who listening hard enough could hear the beating in her chest. She closed her eyes. The swell of her belly pressed uncomfortably against the grocery shelf as Lisa strained upwards. She pawed uselessly at a jar of pickles, watching it spin around and clack against the condiments, just out of reach. Her back protested and she stopped reaching. “Here, let me help,” a voice behind her said. A tall woman came up beside Lisa and retrieved the jar, giving it to her with an apologetic smile. “It’s silly they don’t make these shelves more accessible, especially for us ladies.”“Thanks,” Lisa said, eyeing with a touch of envy the ornate pattern of vibrant flowers tracing their way along the woman’s dress. “I’m more of an olives lady myself, but when I was pregnant I couldn’t stand them.” She nodded to Lisa’s stomach. “How far along are you?”“Thirty weeks.”“Goodness! What are you having?”“A girl.” Lisa smiled. “Her name is Kayleigh.”The woman beamed. “Oh, that’s just wonderful! You and your husband must be so excited.” She selected a jar of olives several rows down, her smile turning wistful. “Rick and I have two. We’re trying for a third.”“Actually, I’m not married,” Lisa said. She put a hand on her stomach and felt along the curve, watching for movement. “I can’t wait to meet her.” When she looked back up, she was met by a face filled with horror. “That’s a sin.”“Excuse me?”“God hates sinners.” The woman’s words were tight, clipped sharply. “Your baby’s going to hell.” Lisa blinked. A glint of metal caught her eye. Resting against the woman’s chest, threaded through a silver chain, was a small cross.A Christian. Opening her mouth, Lisa found no words. Not even breath. The proclaimed damnation hung heavy on her neck. She looked at her jar of pickles through half-lidded eyes. “I actually needed dill ones,” Lisa all but whispered. The woman didn’t move. Kayleigh did. The kick hurt, sending Lisa’s hunger tumbling into nausea. She thrust her pickle jar into the nearest row and the whole shelf shook. Fleeing the store, the woman’s words ghosted after Lisa, even as she got in her car and drove away. Your baby’s going to hell. Lisa opened her eyes. Her vision focused on a family seated in front of her. She made out the shape of a small sleeping bundle held by the mother. Next to the mother, sat a tween in a grey sweater. Perfectly opposite Lisa was the father, who secured a toddler standing on his lap. Lisa could see the ring on his finger, glinting in the light of the stained glass windows. She could imagine the proposal, perfectly planned. The wedding, perfectly orchestrated. The children, perfectly crafted and raised. Nothing out of place. Nothing unplanned. The perfect Christian family, Lisa thought. Smiling faces and kind greetings reverberated in her mind. Would they have been so nice if they knew? If they saw her family wasn’t the perfect kind their God wanted?Lisa looked at her daughter. Kayleigh sat listening to the Pastor with fervent interest. Kayleigh, her Kayleigh, looked so… content. How quickly would they turn on her? “I need to use the bathroom,” she said, exiting the row with a jerky shuffle and hurrying into the foyer. The bathroom door squeaked shut behind her.It was a small room. Two stalls. One mirror. One sink.Clutching the edges of the sink until her hands turned white, Lisa felt her ribs tighten against her lungs. She willed them to relax. They refused. It couldn’t be her. There was no way it was the same woman. Unless she moved thousands of miles to follow you, Lisa’s mind added unhelpfully. Her body shuddered with shallow breaths as she blinked back tears. The door squeaked open. Through the reflection of the mirror, Lisa saw a woman enter the bathroom. A woman in a floral dress. Shit.The woman stopped, a concern look on her face. “Are you okay?”Lisa didn’t answer. “You’re Kayleigh’s mother, is that right? Lisa?”“Yes.”Moving slowly, the woman came up beside her. “I’m Miriam. I don’t think we’ve met, but I work with the youth here. Kayleigh’s been looking forward to you coming for a long time.”“Really?”“Yes.” Miriam smiled. “The Lord has done an amazing work in her heart since I first met her.” “How long have you known Kayleigh?”“Just under two years.”“Two years.” Lisa sagged, leaning heavily against the sink. “I didn’t know.”An indistinguishable hum – the Pastor’s voice, sneaking under the crack of the bathroom door – filled the silence that followed. “I shouldn’t have come,” Lisa said. “Why?”She studied Miriam through the mirror. Its surface was marred by scratches that warped their reflections. As Lisa studied the flowers on Miriam’s dress, she saw delicate pastel petals seated on dark red vines, weaving patterns along the fabric. Turning, Lisa and met her gaze apart from the mirror. Kindness lived in the wrinkles around Miriam’s eyes, which studied her in return. She thought of her daughter, seated in the sanctuary, crowded into the sardine can of good Christians. Did Kayleigh know who she surrounded herself with? Kindness could hide such cruelty. Lisa steeled herself. “I’m not married.” When Miriam remained quiet, Lisa continued, “Kayleigh never had a father growing up. I know your God hates me for it. I just don’t want him to hate her too.” What little strength she had left, broke, and she wept quietly into the sink. A hand touched her shoulder. “God does not hate you, or her,” Miriam said. “God loves Kayleigh more than you can ever imagine. The Lord rejoices when He sees her, because His beloved daughter has finally come home. Kayleigh may not know her earthly father, but she knows her Heavenly One. He loves her, so, so much. And He loves you. God doesn’t hate you for your past. He just wants your heart with His.”            A strange calmness settled in Lisa’s chest. As her ribs released their hold on her suffocating lungs, she took one deep breath after another, her tears subsiding. Finally, Lisa stood straight and wiped her nose. “Can I pray for you?” Miriam asked. Lisa shook her head. Miriam gave her a small smile. “Thank you,” Lisa said, and left the bathroom. The hum of the Pastor’s words grew louder as Lisa emerged, sharpening into something clear. There was power in his words, and with it, a certain gentleness. “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.”Lisa caught sight of her daughter, hovering near the entrance to the sanctuary, and she stared at Kayleigh from across the foyer. After a moment, Lisa took a wavering step toward her. “For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world…”Tears stung in Lisa’s eyes once more as Kayleigh smiled at her. “…but to save the world through him.”Her daughter crossed the distance, and Lisa was pulled into a hug. “Not to condemn,” rang the words in a gentle melody, “but to save.”
","July 14, 2023 21:54","[[{'Fern Everton': 'I love this! It’s a really sweet story. The portrayal of emotions especially in the flashback were brilliantly written. Awesome job!', 'time': '00:18 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Theo Benson': 'Thank you! I always struggle with describing emotions - or writing descriptions of any sort. I find it challenging to walk the line between too little, and too over-the-top descriptions. So I appreciate your comment. :)', 'time': '01:31 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Fern Everton': 'You’re welcome! I know what you mean with the descriptions— it’s tricky to put things into words sometimes', 'time': '03:24 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Theo Benson': 'Thank you! I always struggle with describing emotions - or writing descriptions of any sort. I find it challenging to walk the line between too little, and too over-the-top descriptions. So I appreciate your comment. :)', 'time': '01:31 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Fern Everton': 'You’re welcome! I know what you mean with the descriptions— it’s tricky to put things into words sometimes', 'time': '03:24 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Fern Everton': 'You’re welcome! I know what you mean with the descriptions— it’s tricky to put things into words sometimes', 'time': '03:24 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ochbdj,October's Light,Stephen Hansen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ochbdj/,/short-story/ochbdj/,Character,0,"['Teens & Young Adult', 'Coming of Age', 'Drama']",7 likes,"
Jenna Wakefield was eight, when her mother disappeared from her life. And though the memory of it had faded over time, the emotions connected to mothers passing remained locked deep and impenetrable in a place of darkness, where the lava of it consumed her better nature. It was a place she had less occasion to visit now that she was older. Still, Jenna knew the path, and the door there was never locked.      It had been her father, of course, who had broken the news. Jenna took it hard, sitting in her mother’s favorite chair by the television, refusing to do anything, go anywhere, until mama returned. She did not. Her father, for his part, sat with her, and they talked, and Jenna cried, and slowly, eventually, life returned to normal. Normal though, is not a young girl being raised by her dad.      The years between then and now, were filled with school exams, dance classes, friends, and a father who—in one way or another, made it all work. Even so, Jenna survived high school, graduated from Buffalo State with a degree in accounting, bought her first home, an affordable cape in the older section of Fredonia, New York, and was now deep in her third year with a small accounting firm located in town. Everything in her life was moving forward. Her youth, now in the rear view mirror, seemed smaller, more distant.In her new life, Jenna lived alone; another of her dads cautionary lessons aimed at not depending too heavily on friends or partners. “Always be ready for the letdown”, he’d say, or his other favorite, “One day you will need to make a stand in the world, and I need to know you’ll be strong, and confident, when I am no longer there.” To his credit, Jenna admitted, it made her more serious and focused than her peers, and helped her to realize that in reality, she had always been on her own.     Now, at twenty five, Jenna Wakefield stood in her kitchen, knife in hand, chopping vegetables for dinner, while a glint of October sun danced along the countertop. Jenna raised her head following the beam to its source. An old weeping willow to the left of the bay window with its long array of finger-like branches, swaying in the breeze, contorting the rays of the sun. The football game playing in the background caught her ear when a touchdown, and ensuing revelry, reverberated against the sparsely decorated walls of her house. Jenna noted the chicken soaking in an herb and salt brine to her left, and returned to chopping vegetables on the cutting board.       When the doorbell rang, Jenna pressed mute on the tv remote, and crossed the living room to answer the door. A young girl, seventeen at most, stood outside the screen door. Thin, with post-pubescent curves and chestnut eyes; she had flowing auburn hair, and what Jenna considered to be pouty lips—which she imagined drove the boys crazy. A contemporary sports car, presumably her fathers, sat parked at the curb. Designer jeans, and a fall sweater topped her off.       Amy Shepard part of the “in'' crowd at school, considered her keen interest in friends and family, a skill to be cultivated and used for profit. Being on the cusp of all social happenings, Amy used the secrets she gleaned from others to cement her status as a social influencer. It was one such secret that brought Jenna into Amy’s sphere.. The yearbook deadline for all senior page submissions snuck up on Amy. So, with her parents out for the night, she decided to dig through the box of old photos by herself.  Amy grabbed the pantry stool, and set it up in her mothers bedroom closet. Stepping up, she easily grasped and slid the photo box from the shelf, lifting it as she went to avoid any catching on the surrounding boxes. Directly behind it, she noticed an ornate, hand carved, wooden box. It was beautiful and worthy, she imagined, of a secret treasure. There was no hesitation of thought as set aside the photo box, and carefully, with both hands, slid the ornate wooden box forward towards the front of the shelf, recording in her mind its exact placement. Stepping down, Amy sat on the stool admiring its design. Rectangular with a rounded top, hinged from the rear, with hand carved designs on the top, front and sides. Some type of ancient symbol, she thought to herself. She took a moment to trace a finger along the carvings. Five stars lined the front, while each side was adorned with two pyramids, one partially inside the other. It was a familiar design, which she imagined she’d probably seen in some action adventure movie on Netflix. In the middle of the box, along the center just under the lid, she found the small divot, slid her thumb gently under it and peered into the box. “Letters!”, she exclaimed. “Nothing but letters!"" She stood to replace the box when a new thought struck her.      “Love letters!” She squealed with excitement. ”They’re love letters!” Sitting again; the box open in her lap, Amy ran a finger along the edge of the envelopes. They stood above the lower sides of the box, where she noted their address, return address, and chronological order by post date—the last one being June of this year. Nothing after that.      Speaking aloud to herself said, “I’ll just read this one”, and slipped the first letter from the box. She read it, skimmed through several more, and that was enough for her. Each letter contained a general greeting, one or two paragraphs, updates on one Jenna Wakefield, and genial regards. Amy slipped the letters neatly back to their original placements, and inspected her clean up. Speaking aloud to herself, she carefully replaced the box. “Definitely not love letters, and who is this boring Jenna? And, why is this guy writing letters to my mom?” The questions kept coming as she grabbed a coke from the fridge and went out to the back deck to think.      Amy rang the doorbell. Her arrival at Jenna’s house set her on edge and when Jenna answered the door, her nerves gave way to a slight stutter. “Hello… I’m Amy Janelle, you are, Jenna Wakefield?”      It seemed to come out as both a statement and a question, which Jenna put down to teenage awkwardness and lack of experience talking to people outside her age group.     Amy paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “I know this is gonna sound strange, but I need to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”     The late afternoon light against the screen door between them, partially veiled Jenna from sight. Behind it Jenna remained silent, arms at her side.     Amy’s eyes searched the porch, “Perhaps we could sit out here?”     Jenna waited another moment, then swung open the screen door, and stepping through it, gestured to one of the two porch chairs with a small table in between.      It was then that Amy took a moment to assess her mark. From behind the screen door she had observed Jenna’s cool demeanor and self control. Now, on the porch, she noted an inner self-confidence and natural beauty, which made Jenna easy to talk to—A point of envy for most girls. She seemed to be in her Mid twenties, had dark blonde hair, was a cool five foot seven, which she felt added a lot to her mature looks. Most striking were her serious eyes, which made her seem dressed up, though she wore only jeans and a Buffalo Bills t-shirt.      “Do you know who I am?” Amy asked, as she crossed to sit.      “No, should I?” replied Jenna.     “No, I don’t know you either, or at least, I didn’t, till I read these.” Amy held out the letter box.      “And, what exactly are these?”      “Letters from your dad to my mom.”      Jenna raised an eye. “Why would that be a big deal?”      “It's all there in the letters.” Amy leaned forward holding the box out for Jenna to take, “Here read them.”     “I don’t think I'm interested.”     “How could you not be interested?” “They’re from your dad.”      “Exactly, so they’re none of my business or yours. Listen, Amy, what’s your game plan here?” Jenna gave another raised eye. “Do you think they are having an affair or something? I mean, if they are, well, then that's between them and not you and me.”      Amy dropped back in her chair. “No, not an affair. They’re not love letters. They’re letters about you.” Amy watched as the revelation registered in Jenna's eyes, Again she leaned forward in her chair. “Each letter marks an occasion in your life. Dance recitals, school plays, graduation...”     Jenna’s gaze drifted to the box as Amy placed it on her lap, lid open, with the first letter partially lifted. Jenna noted her fathers name on the return address.     “Read the first one. That’s where I started.”     Jenna set the box on the table next to her. “I need to get back to preparing dinner.” Perhaps some…“No, please,” Amy interjected. “Here, I’ll read one,” and swiftly pulled the first letter from the box, slid it from its envelope, and gave the folds a short quick snap, she read, ""Dear Amanda,”     Jenna's head and hand leapt into action, “Let me see that!” she demanded, and snapped the letter from Amy's hands, cutting her off.     “Careful with that. I’ve got to put these back so my Mom doesn’t find out I took them.”     Jenna studied the name. “Who’s Amanda?”      “My Mom.”       Jenna read the letter to herself,“Dear Amanda, I hope this letter finds you well. You’ll be happy to know that Jenna had her first dance recital last week and she was a real peach. I never saw her more excited about anything. I think she’s finally on the road to recovery…”Jenna continued reading, then, thrusting the letter on the table,pulled out two more. When she had finished those, she threw her body back into her chair in what appeared to Amy to be a fit of exhaustion. Jenna sat in silence staring at the porch ceiling.     “Well?” “What do you think?”     “Damn it!”, pain emanated from her voice as she spoke, “and damn you too!” Jenna felt the light fading as she slipped into the dark place, “lava!”, she exclaimed!.     “Don’t attack me!” demanded Amy. “I just want to know what these letters mean!” .      The darkness, as it invaded Jenna’s voice, took on a murderous edge. “My mother is dead!, and these letters…are lies!” She sat up, leaned into Amy and said, “Who put you up to this! Why are you here?”, then just as suddenly, shrugged it all off. “Nevermind, don’t answer that.” Jenna gave the box a shove. “Just take your stupid box and get out of here!”      Amy stood, snapped up the box, and crossed the porch to the steps, where she looked back at Jenna, sitting, head down, hands cupping her face. For Amy, coming this far took careful planning, an alibis, and a good deal of time. Something in those letters had struck a nerve with Jenna, and in that moment, Amy decided she was not leaving until she got the answers she came for. The fresh rush of adrenaline helped renew her determination.      “You know something!” Her voice rose in her throat as she crossed to the porch,“You found something in those letters that I didn't see! I want to know what that is,and I’m not leaving here until you tell me!”     Jenna shot up into Amy’s face, her rage exploding from within. “AMANDA—WAS, MY MOTHER!”, she shouted, “AND SHE’S DEAD!” Jenna quickly paced the porch, attempting to flush out her feelings of anger.     The impact of Jenna's outburst had catapulted Amy backward into the chair behind her. She immediately pulled her knees to her chest and covered her face with her hands.      For her part, Jenna could see the effect her outburst had on the teen, but did not let up. “MY, mothers name was Amanda!”, she exclaimed. “She died eighteen years ago. Do you understand that?”     “Yes,” came the squeamish voice from beneath the hands.      “These letters, addressed to your mother, Amanda, were written by my father! Do you understand that?”     Again, the trembling voice replied. “Yes.”      Then, looking directly at Amy as she sat, fetal-positioned in the chair, continued.“They began eighteen years ago, around the same time my ‘Mother’ died.'' Jennamarked the word “mother” in air quotes for effect, though she knew Amy wasn’t watching, then paused to see the girl work it out in her head.     Amy's hands slowly dropped from her face, bullseye, her heart, already on high alert, began to pound in her chest. “Oh... My GOD! Oh-My-God, Oh-My-God Oh-my…”     “Shut it!” Jenna demanded.     “But, that would mean,” Amy's face lit up at the sudden realization, “that we’re stepsisters!”     “Congratulations, you must be the God Damn Valedictorian at that school of yours! Now, Take those damn letters,"" Jenna gestured to the box, “and get lost.”     “No, wait,” Amy leapt from her seat advancing on Jenna as she paced the floor. “I have questions…”      Jenna swung around and met her with a raised finger. ”I don’t have answers. Not for you!”     “Why not?”, she protested. “My mother’s hidden you from me for eighteen years and I want to know why. I have a right to know why!”     “You just don’t get it!”, she exclaimed, and she felt herself falling deeper in that dark place, into the lava. “My mother, my REAL mother, died eighteen years ago, and that’s the way it's going to stay. Got it!” Jenna brushed her aside and crossed the porch again.       Amy followed. “You can’t leave it like this, we’ve got to confront her, she can’t keep this a secret!” It’s not fair, and—it’s not right!” Amy paused, softening her tone. ""I have a sister, I’m not about to let that go!”     “Go back to your preppy little life and leave me alone!” Jenna remarked.     “Leave you alone. I just found you, I drove out here from Buffalo—discovered you, that’s gotta mean something, right?”     “Yeah! It does! It means that my mother is dead, understand?”     Amy scoffed, “Why do you keep saying that when you know it’s not true?”     “Cause—if she isn’t dead, then she left me, left my dad. And, if that were true, well—then that means she chose you over me, and I just can’t square that. Because, that would mean she chose to read to you at bedtime instead of me, and chose to take you shopping instead of me, and buy you birthday gifts and chaperone your school dance, and hold your hand when a boy broke your heart.      What that would mean, if it were true, is—for the last eighteen years you had this whole relationship with my mother while I…”, Jenna gasped for air as she choked on the lava pushing its way up from the darkness. “There is no way on ‘God’s Green Earth’ that that stupid box of letters could ‘EVER’ fill the hole she left in My life, in Our lives? So, take them, and get out!”     Amy could feel the tears coming fast. Jenna’s pain had struck her dead in the heart. She thrust her hand into her jeans pocket and pulled out the tissues she’d brought—just in case.     Jenna slowly crossed to the porch table, picked up the box of letters, and carrying them back, gave them to Amy. Her rage was spent, and a calmness returned as she spoke. “Nothing left to say, nothing left to do!”      Amy took the letters, managed a tearful smile, and turned to leave. Jenna followed her down the walk to her car. Once out of sight Jenna turned back toward the house, looked up, and noticed a glint of October sun, as it danced among the willows, Then thought to herself, my mother’s not dead!
","July 15, 2023 01:13","[[{'Stephen Hansen': 'Thank you Shannon. \nI’m a little new at this, but hoping to find time during the school year to do a few more.  \nSteve', 'time': '01:43 Jul 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shannon C.': 'Such a heartbreaking story. Very well written, Stephen. The emotion was intense and relatable. Great job!', 'time': '19:28 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,x3gmuk,Rock Tumbler,Linda Lovendahl,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x3gmuk/,/short-story/x3gmuk/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Crime', 'Inspirational']",7 likes,"
“You want out of here? Too busy to answer a few questions, huh?” said Detective Joseph Suarez. He swiped the side of his middle-aged crooked nose, the only faulty part of what would have been a perfect Latino silhouette if it hadn’t been for too many assaults in back alleys and clandestine escapades. He used the disfigurement as evidence of how far he pushed to get what he wanted. 
“Not under the Fifth Amendment,” said Andy Giuseppe. He snickered with an exaggerated lift of his beard. Slowly as though daring Suarez, he slide the sleeves of his army jacket fatigue on the interrogation room’s table and leaned forward. “I got educated watching how you manipulated circumstances to arrest my brother. You wrongfully convicted him and sent him to jail, officer.” He punctuated the last word with a deeper tone.
“Address me as ‘detective’ or I’ll charge you with slander,“ said Suarez who sat opposite him. Giuseppe tightened his worn hands gnarled from years of professional landscaping. With a heavy sigh he sat back in the chair, lips pressed. Suarez dug out a phone from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He waved it in front of Giuseppe’s             potato skin brown eyes that matched his disheveled hair. “I’ve got all I need right here in front of you so I can arrest you in the murder of Prosecutor Jarrod Jorgensen.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Suarez scrolled the screen and turned it back to Giuseppe. “Oh yeah? What do you call this?”
Giuseppe squeezed his eyes for clearer vision, “What’s so important about a city map?”
“It’s a map record of your travels and purchases yesterday.”
“You had me followed?”
Just then an officer burst into the room tapping Suarez on the shoulder and nodded toward the door.
“I’ll be right back,” Suarez said as he left the room. 
Outside the examination room, the officer handed him a sheet of printed paper and a land line phone. “Yes sir,” said Suarez into the mouthpiece, “I have him with me right now. No. (Pause.) No confession yet but I’ll have it, you can be sure. Sure I’m sure he’s as guilty as his brother.” Suarez frowned as he listened to a longer statement. He nodded twice. Whipped his finger along his nose. Nodded agreement. “Yes. I want the downtown position. I’ll stake my reputation on this arrest in the Jorgensen case.”
He handed the receiver back to the officer, then shook his shoulders to readjust his jacket before opening the door. He spoke as he reentered. “I had officers follow several people I suspected as a matter of course to solve this case within the magic forty-eight hours.” He pounded a fist on top of the chair back for dramatic effect. “You are number one on my list because we . . . have . . . evidence.” 
Giuseppe laughed. “I don’t know what you think you’ve got but I know enough about how you operate that it is all, I repeat all, wishful thinking and today I don’t have to answer any of your questions.” He pointed a finger at the detective, “You better get that ugly nose of yours out there and find the real culprit or I’ll charge you with kidnapping.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to my niece's tenth birthday party in exactly forty-five minutes. I’m not gonna be late.” He leaned his chair back and stood. “I’ve had to work two jobs to support my brother's family, thanks to your maniac ego.” He pointed to the nose again, “Mark my words; you’ll pay.”
Suarez ignored his threat. “Why were you at the grocery, hardware, and pharmacy yesterday? The manager and clerks all testify you were there.” He lifted the paper and rattled off the individual items purchased from these stores that had been found at the crime scene. 
“I know all about it,” said Giuseppe swinging an arm in the air as though he could erase the situation in one fell swoop of a bird’s wing, “I knew about all this this morning ‘cause I got connections. Nothin you got will hold water.”
”Don’t waste tax dollars for when I wax your behind in a trial, Andy. Talk now, damn it!”
“Not in your life time, brother. But here, I’ll leave you a clue as to my innocence.” Giuseppe fumbled in his deep thigh pocket. He pulled out and placed a smooth flat oval stone painted white on the table. It was the size of a hockey putt. Black polka dots arranged in rows presented an attractive rendition of a mandala design. “This explains everything,” he grunted, “if you’re smart enough to figure it out, that is.” 
Suarez palmed the stone as Giuseppe left the room. He rubbed its smoothness with his thumb, his forehead crinkled, lips squinched tight.
. . .
Giuseppe hugged his niece after all the guests had left the birthday party held in the dining and living rooms of her mom’s house. “My dear Laconia, you have turned this old man’s heart around. I am inside out about you!”
“My uncle is a big teddy bear!” she said as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “I love the present you gave me!”
He knelt down to look straight into the tree bark dark brown eyes that mimicked her imprisoned father’s. Giuseppe wasn’t sure which he loved more, her strong all-knowing eyes or her vibrant personality, but in either case, he was hooked as her number one fan and he swore that nothing would ever come between them. “What do you think about taking an adventure with me?”
She spanned the table filled with empty cake plates and toppled cups. “Mommy says I have to help clean up the party.”
“Okay. Let’s do that and then I’ll ask her if we can run a secret mission.”
“What’s a mission?”
Giuseppe whispered into her ear, “A task only you and I know about that will help me keep the bad guys away from this family.”
Laconia’s eyes grew larger, “Bad guys?”
“Yep. Got one coming after me but you know what?”
“What.”
“This bad guy was bad to your dad too so we can teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”
She turned from him and scooped up a dirty plate and cup from the table. “Then this bad guy will have to look for the real bad guy!”
“You got it. The real bad guy might have gone to the same stores we did yesterday. We will go to the stores and show people what you did; it will clear my name.”
“Can I go in my new party dress?”
“You betcha.”
Laconia took her uncle’s hand as they entered the grocery store. They looked for the manager and then invited him to follow them down the aisle where containers of kerosene were displayed on the shelf. Giuseppe had purchased a container when they had shopped there the day before to help light his barbecue. He explained that no doubt the store video camera had recorded him making the purchase  but further police investigation would only prove he used it on his barbecue. Then with his prodding, Laconia reached between the canisters and withdrew a smooth rock painted pink with black polka dots dancing in a circular pattern.
“While I’ll be,” said the manager.
Laconia said, “I learned how to paint them in art class. Our teacher said we spread love everywhere we hide them.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah,” added Laconia. “When someone finds one they are to hide it for another person to find. That way the love is,” she opened her arms wide as she spun her fancy dress around like a top, “love is spun around the whole wide world!”
The manager laughed.
Giuseppe said, “Would you mind calling Detective Suarez and explain to him what you just discovered about our visit here yesterday?”
The manager tossed the rock several inches into the air and caught it. He winked. “Of course, I will.” He looked at Laconia. “Thank you for leaving love in my store young lady.”
“Thank you for not getting mad at me for doing it. I did it to celebrate my tenth birthday,” she said.
As Giuseppe shook the manager’s hand to say goodbye, he had an idea. “Would you have the time to skip that call and just drop by the police station instead?”
“Why?”
“Remember my brother’s trial?”
“Who wouldn’t forget that monstrosity.”
 “My brother is up for parole in a month so we may see him soon for perfect behavior. In the meantime, you could do him honor by dropping this piece of love art off at the station for Suarez.”
The manager nodded. “A little love to unnerve that guy’s goat? You bet I will!”
The next stop was at the hardware store. The manager was taken to the rope section where Giuseppe had purchased thirty feet to hang his niece’s innertube for a swing on a backyard tree limb. The manager was surprised when Laconia pulled out a blue rock with red swirls on it from between the rolls. He willingly agreed to  place the love rock on Suarez’s desk.
At the pharmacy they had to wait in line until the pharmacist, who was also the store manager, waited on a line of customers first. When he was done and the store empty, the duo led him to the cigarette lighter section. Giuseppe had purchased a lighter with a long handle that would reach deep inside the metal hole in the side of his old fashioned barbecue to light the resistant coals. Laconia pulled out a purple rock painted with blue and yellow flowers. The manager was amazed at its beauty and was willing to pass on her birthday tradition to Suarez’s desk.
“Yes,” he agreed, “this is the best way to show that arrogant copper we know the truth about the Giuseppe brothers.”
. . .
Giuseppe hugged his niece when they got back into his car. She said, “Are you going to get me more stones from those lawns you fix? Everyone loved them!”
“We’ll pick up rocks from along the creek on our way home for you to start that rock tumbler I bought you. That way the painted stones will all be totally your creation, from start to finish.”
“Oh goodie. I start tonight!”
“You bet, sweetie. We are the grit that will polish that detective’s rough spots right out of his life. With enough love hitting his desk, he’ll have no other choice than to come as clean as a beautiful gemstone.” 
Laconia slapped both her knees. “If he changes from a bad guy to a good guy, he’ll find a way to send daddy back home!”
Giuseppe looked straight into the vast darkness of her rich believing eyes, “That’s really quite possible. If there’s one person I’ve learned that truth from, it’s you.  You’ve shown me that love never fails.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 15, 2023 01:38","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Linda,\nI loved that this piece turned all our assumptions about the character on their heads. I was terribly worried your protagonist would prove to be an anti hero. However, I like that it ended with us truly understanding the different perspective. This story screams, never judge a book by its cover. Nice work!!', 'time': '15:49 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Full of hope, light and love 💕.', 'time': '15:33 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Linda Lovendahl': 'Thank you! You are affirming my intention in the story.', 'time': '22:36 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Linda Lovendahl': 'Thank you! You are affirming my intention in the story.', 'time': '22:36 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,d0e7xk,A happy fault,Evie Adams,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d0e7xk/,/short-story/d0e7xk/,Character,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship', 'East Asian']",7 likes,"
Murasaki Yuki was a sad sort of girl, with a round face, long lashes, and large, melancholy eyes. She was never sure why her parents had chosen to write her given name, Yuki, with the Japanese characters for happiness. Perhaps, they had been filled with happiness at the birth of their first child so late in life, after so many years of trying. Perhaps, they had thought Yuki would be a happy child. Or perhaps they had hoped that their precious baby would bring happiness to her parents in their old age. All of these reasons seemed to be bitterly ironic in view of the fact that Murasaki Yuki’s parents died in a car crash when she was only six. A strip of black ice on a cold winter night—a tree, a flash, then darkness, and waking to a honking horn, and two parents who wouldn’t respond to her cries. And so, when Yuki became old enough to write, she always wrote her name with the characters for snow. It was more fitting: snow came in winter, and winter was the season when no birds sang or flowers bloomed, and the lake near her house froze over.After the empty misery of the funerals was over, Yuki was sent to live with her closest surviving relative. This turned out to be her aunt—a formidable and demanding woman, whom all her acquaintances privately called the Iron Tiger. Aunt Murasaki never married and never had children of her own, but she did have very strong ideas about how children ought to behave and what they ought to do. Thus, she took it upon herself to produce a child who would make up for her parents’ lost legacy. It was a very interesting coincidence that this lost legacy turned out to be all the things that Aunt Murasaki wished she had done but failed to do: playing violin in a conservatory, competing in chess tournaments, earning perfect grades, and eventually making it into Harvard. To that end, Yuki was subject to a non-stop barrage of tutoring, studying, and preparation for college. By the time high school came around, the daily route was familiar. Each day, she brought home her graded assignments to Auntie Tiger. They were always perfect marks. It had been a long time since she had made any mistakes. The last time Yuki had made a mistake… she did not like to dwell on that memory. After Auntie examined the scores and saw they were perfect, she merely grunted and handed her a bowl of miso soup, together with some rice and natto. Yuki suspected that her aunt tried to make the meal as flavorless as possible so as not to spoil her, but she never dared to ask that. Afterward, she did her violin and chess lessons, completed her homework, studied more, and finally fell asleep of exhaustion. At school, she tried to be as small as possible. She sat in the front of all six of her AP classes, took diligent notes, never spoke unless called upon by the teacher, and scurried out of the classroom as soon as the bell rang. In the hallways, she kept her head down, letting her bangs conceal her face and tried to make herself seem as small as possible. And she always ate lunch alone. That is, until one day, when two boys and a girl sat down at her table.  ONEYuki stole a nervous glance at the three fellow high schoolers and pulled her bento box closer to her as if to protect herself. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, through her chipmunk cheeks, and then began to blush as realized how awkward she must’ve looked with her face stuffed with food—why hadn’t she swallowed? “I can move if there’s not enough room.”“Oh, don’t apologize,” the lanky boy across from her said. “We noticed you always sit alone and thought that was kind of unfair.”“That’s okay. I like being alone,” Yuki said, still staring at her hands. Her face was getting very hot, and her hair was beginning to stick to it. She brushed it over her ears. “What’s your name?” The boy asked undeterred.“Heh… it’s Yuki.” She looked down again at her bento box.“Yuki, do you not want friends?” The boy next to her asked. He had a deeper voice and sounded almost offended.“I’m not a very… you know, social person.” “You don’t have to talk with us,” the girl said. “But we felt you shouldn’t sit alone at lunch. That’s no fun.”“So, what do you say? Lunch mates?” the curly-haired boy said.Yuki looked up at them shyly, first glancing briefly and then slowly letting herself really look at them and really notice them for the first time. The boy who had been speaking to her was tall and gangly with curly black hair, braces, and zits. His skin tone suggested that it saw the sun three or four times a year. Next to him was a plump girl with a streak of purple in her dark hair and a face that looked rather like Yuki’s—only, rounder. And next to Yuki was a boy with a bright orange, anime T-shirt, short black hair, chocolatey skin, and a pair of wire-rim, Harry Potter glasses. “I guess… we can be lunchmates,” Yuki said. The boy with the curly hair smiled triumphantly. “Lunch mates it is. I’m Mikey by the way.”“I’m Mei,” the girl said. “And I’m Kenny, but you can call me Kenny,” the boy with the deeper voice said.“Um, you just said the same name twice,” Mei said. She made a what-gives? face and raised her hands questioningly, and then the three of them all burst out laughing. Yuki’s lips lifted ever so gently; it wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was on its way to being one. And it was the first time something like a smile had been on her lips in a long, long time. TWOOne day, Mikey set his tray down, stacked with two whole hamburgers, plus French fries and a hot dog, and folded his hands together as if about to reveal a master plan. “So, Yuki,” he said. “We’re the three amigos, but we could become the four amigos.”Yuki regarded him cautiously. Why did he want to be her friend so badly? What could he see in a girl who could hardly talk or make eye contact and who spent all her time hiding behind her textbooks and notebook? “Four is an unlucky number in Japanese. It sounds like death.” “Woah, no way, that rocks!” Kenny said, but Yuki hardly heard him. She was thinking of her parents and how they looked the last time she saw them: her mom slumped against the wheel, blood streaming down her face; her father’s neck twisted at an odd angle, looking out the window almost wistfully.“Uh, Kenny,” Mikey said, elbowing him. “I think Yuki’s upset.”“Oh, shoot,” Kenny said, as he saw the tears welling in Yuki’s eyes. “I didn’t know… did I say something wrong?”Yuki took a deep breath, brushed away the tears, and shook her head. “No, it’s not you. I’m just… weird… or, I don’t know… a sad person.”“What are you sad about?” Mikey asked; his eyebrows were drawn together compassionately.“It doesn’t matter.” She pulled her hood over her head, gulped down the rest of her bento box, and left for the bathrooms—the one place she could find some peace. In one of the stalls, she got a good cry in, and by the end of it, she’d had a change of heart. “Okay,” she said, approaching the Three Amigos. “I can join. But it really just means that I’ll talk with you during lunch.”Mikey smiled. “And walk with us to the busses?”“I guess,” Yuki said. “Great!” Kenny exclaimed. “Four it is!” Then he looked at her apologetically. “Or, three and a half. Not that you’re half a person, just… it’s close to four but not four?”Yuki couldn’t help but smile at this, which led to far more attention from everyone in the three, no, four amigos.THREE“What do you like?” Mei asked one day at lunch as Autumn was beginning. “I like… art, I guess,” Yuki said. “Why don’t you ever do it?” Mikey asked.“Well, I have lots of homework, and I also have to study.”“You’ve got to have some free time,” Kenny said.“Heh…” Yuki said adjusting her glasses and looking away. “Not if I want to get perfect grades.”“Woah, woah, woah, hold up,” Kenny said, raising both his hands. “Perfect grades? Nobody’s perfect.”Yuki just stared into her hands and silently willed the hair along the side of her head to cover her face.“You don’t mean you got literally a perfect score on every quiz, test, and assignment?” Mei said.Yuki nodded.Kenny‘s mouth hung open. “Well, I’ll be darned.”“It must be really difficult living with all that pressure,” Mikey said.Yuki shrugged. “I guess.” Just then the bell rang, and she scurried off as quickly as she could. FOUR“Hey Yuki, do you wanna come to the park with us after school?” Mikey asked as the four amigos waded through the crowd of students to the busses.She’d already begun shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “I have to study.”“C’mon,” Kenny said. “It’s one night. And you don’t even know what it is.”“It’s painting,” Mei said. “Don’t make it sound so boring,” Mikey said. “It’s free painting lessons! In the park! And you said you loved painting, Yuki. So, you’ve got to do it. Have we got a deal?”He held his hand out, waiting for her to shake it. She hesitated. On the one hand, it was very thoughtful of him and the other Four Amigos to find a free painting lesson for them to do. And she had always wanted to take a painting lesson and see if she could swirl the colors together to make the images that sometimes formed in her mind. But… “I can’t,” she said, dropping her hand at the last moment. “My Aunt… if I miss a day of studying, I might make a mistake, and if I make a mistake….” A shudder ran down her spine. The memory of what happened to her last time tried to force its way up from the dark corner in which she’d stuffed it, but she resolutely shut the door on it. “I’m sorry, maybe another time.”“Other time?” Mikey said. “When? With you, it’s always tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way—”“Uh, Mikey, what are you doing?” Mei said. “Is that Macbeth?”Mikey dropped his hand, which had apparently risen all on its own in a dramatic gesture as he’d started reciting Shakespeare. “Sorry, I got a little carried away. But the point is, if not now, then when, Yuki? Will you ever decide to stop living in the shadow of tomorrow?”Yuki regarded him thoughtfully. She wanted so badly to join him and the others at the park that it made her heart hurt. But she couldn’t. “It’s not the shadow of tomorrow,” she said. “It’s the shadow of yesterday. I want the future to be nice. It’s just not.”She gave him and the others a sad, apologetic smile, pulled her hood over her head, and scurried off to catch her bus. On the ride back, she told didn’t have a choice. How could she go? If she missed studying, her aunt would find out and probably reprimand her. And if she messed up on a homework assignment or quiz or test because of that… Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Mei. “Have you heard about kintsugi?”No, she hadn’t. But it was a Japanese word, and the person who spoke Japanese to her was her aunt, and so she looked at it suspiciously. Was it yet another criticism? The afternoon wore on, and Yuki didn’t have the focus to study that usually had. Her mind kept coming back to fantasies of her friends sitting at easels in a park, splashing bright colors together on an open canvas. And there was Mei’s text.At last, she relented. She opened her laptop and searched for kintsugi. Her eyes were drawn to a blog post a few results down written by someone named Felix (probably a pen name): Kintsugi proceeds from the idea of the broken beauty of imperfection. When pottery chips or cracks, kintsugi advocates that the artist heal it with gold. Thus, an old vessel that has cracked many times shows its history in lines of gold. To the practitioner of kintsugi, these cracks are happy faults. They reveal our humanity, full of errors and mistakes but also capable of being redeemed. What a strange idea, Yuki thought. And yet… how wonderful. A bright patch had appeared in her melancholy world when the three amigos had sat down beside her at lunch. And now… now they had found a chance for her to do something she had always wanted to do but never had the chance, if only… if only she could have the courage. She waffled between the two choices before her, the conventional and the courageous. And then, all at once, she decided: she grabbed her bag and slipped out of the house before her aunt could say otherwise.FOURYuki found her friends in the center of the park. They had set up a few makeshift easels and laid our picket blankets. “You came!” Mikey exclaimed.Yuki bobbed her head up and down; her heart was so aflutter with nervous excitement, it nearly made her sick.“Your Aunt allowed it?”“No, and it will probably be very bad, but that’s okay. I can handle it.”Kenny clapped his hands. “Wow, I’m impressed.”“Don’t be condescending,” Mei said. “Be happy for her.”“I am happy for her. Why do you always—""Mikey held up his hands. “Give it a rest, you two. Yuki, why did you decide to come?”She shrugged and then blushed. “Well, it probably had something to do with a text from Mei… about kintsugi. Um, embracing my imperfections.”“Wow, that was super condescending, Mei, implying that Yuki is imperfect,” Kenny said.“Oh, shut up.” Mei rolled her eyes.The instructor, who looked vaguely like Bob Ross, clinked a metal chime, which the students eventually worked out meant it was time to begin.“Let’s embrace our imperfections,” Yuki whispered, barely audibly. She was surprised she said it aloud, and even more surprised that all her friends nodded their heads vigorously in support. She looked at the white canvas, her heart full of feelings she wasn’t sure how to name. It had been so long since she had let herself feel freely. The instructor went over the basics of painting, and Yuki absorbed it eagerly. Then when the time came to paint on her own, the world around her vanished, so thoroughly was she absorbed in the painting: she tapped colors onto the canvas carefully at first and then eagerly.  Beneath the broken jar, healed with golden lines, she signed her name, Murasaki Yuki. And this time, she used the characters her parents chose: the one for happiness. And Murasaki Yuki, along with her friends, smiled. 
","July 15, 2023 02:15",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,mxrwkh,Primal Daze,Hayley Hitchens,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mxrwkh/,/short-story/mxrwkh/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Suspense', 'Contemporary']",6 likes,"
 In the beginning, it was energy. Energy of the sun provided enrichment to earlybacteria. Then plants, herbivores to eat the plants and carnivores to consume the herbivores. In between, humans evolved from ape-like creatures of habit, play and foraging.	“Come on Elias! My grandma walks faster than you!”	“I’m coming!” He shouted, shifting under the ungodly weight of his pack.	Elias was unaccustomed to backpacking, much less hiking in the forest. His mother had signed him up for the Boy Scouts in the hopes that it may alleviate the pain wrought by his father’s recent death. Elias had just turned thirteen several months prior; four days after his birthday, the police knocked at the door, his mother’s ensuing hysterical wail was the first of many subsequent months of grieving. His mother retreated into her sorrow, swimming deeper into her despair day by day. Elias felt that he had lost not one, but both parents in the wake of his father’s death. Elias did not like the outdoors contrary to the majority of the boys he was being forced to interact with. 	Elias kept one trusted friend, Hunter, whom he had been raised with. Elias’s dad had attended college and remained close with Hunter’s father over the years. The two boys played NES together when Elias was not preoccupied by schoolwork and books. He had been homeschooled by both parents, though predominantly by his mother until he turned eleven. After began his difficult transition into public school where he became more heavily reliant on his books for company. Unlike Elias, Hunter was his father’s son. Both boys grew up on a few acres of property in the midwest. Hunter’s father was a rancher and agricultural graduate. He often took Hunter on hunting trips. Elias recalled visiting Hunter on a hot summer day. The house reeked of death as it had when Elias learned of his own father’s untimely death. Hunter’s mother had been cutting the meat, curing it while removing the hide, intestines and remaining parts for tools or useful items. In spite of the gruesome display, Hunter’s father had always displayed absolute kindness to Elias. Elias’s father struggled more with his son’s disinterest. Elias recalled the burning sensation of his father’s rope against his raw skin. Lashings like those he gave to his unruly animals, Elias was only seven at the time.	“You want to act like a young stud colt and I’ll treat you like one son.” His father’seducation never deterred his anger. “If you’re going to grow up and be a fairy, you ought to learn to take a beating.”	He lashed his rope across Elias’s back countless times until it was completely raw,oozing blood that ran down to his ankles, staining the dirt crimson. Elias lay head first in the muck sucking in air, stifling cries of pain to spite his father.	“God you’re pathetic,” his father muttered, leaving his son in a motionless heap. Elias begged God to take his life that day. God was silent and Elias did not pray again.Hunter had given Elias an engraved knife for his fourteenth birthday. 	“Just in case,” he said as he handed Elias a box.	“In case what?”	“You know,” Hunter patted Elias’s back. “Just to keep you safe.”	Elias thumbed the handle of the blade now as the two boys weaved through theunderstory.	“Did you bring everything I told you to?” Hunter asked.	“Sure did.”	“Good.”	They edged into a clearing. The sunlight touched the tips of the pines as daylight waned.	“We’ll set up camp on the other side. There is a creek nearby.”	“I thought we were meeting the rest of the group?” Elias wondered.	“My company isn’t good enough anymore?” Hunter jested.	“No, I–”	“Relax,” Hunter slapped his shoulder, “Just pulling your leg buddy.”	They walked across the meadow, quickly reaching the treeline where Hunter begansetting up camp. He set his pack at the base of a large pine, “I’m going to collect some firewood. Why don’t you go collect some water for us?”	Elias nodded, “Where should I––” he started, turning and realizing that Hunter hadalready disappeared into the forest.	“Helpful,” Elias muttered bitterly as he began sifting through his pack for the water filter and purifying tablets Hunter had advised him to bring along. After finding the filter, Elias headed east of the campsite, bushwhacking through thickets of wild rose and willow. The sun gradually inched towards the horizon, further obscuring Elias’sability to see. Still, he pressed on. He heard the faint gurgling of water rushing over smooth rock and eagerly trekked towards it. Reaching its edge, he cupped his bands beneath a small fall, slurping the cool freshwater like a gleeful dog. He filled the pouch he had brought and turned to return to camp, taking a few steps in the direction he had come before realizing he had made a terrible mistake. I should have marked the trees, he realized.	Elias turned, surveying his surroundings as best he could in the dimming light. I need a fire, he thought.	He knew spanish moss was common to the area and began searching along the conifers. He soon found both moss and fungus. Elias identified the fungus as an edible morel. He managed some tinder shavings from some fallen branches, thankful for the flint stick he had hitched to his belt loop prior to their departure. He managed to spark the kindling after an insufferable hour of effort. He shivered as the fire grew. He placed the morels on the end of a stick and held them above the flames until they blackened. He ate them quickly, desperate to fill his empty stomach. He watched the embers float up towards the sky, stars glimmering, hazy behind a veil of rising smoke. God you’re pathetic, his father’s voice echoed.	Elias paused, his eyes darting amongst the pines until they landed on his father’s rugged frame. Rage bubbled within Elias and he screamed, his wails rustling the trees. He pulled his knife from his pocket, firmly placing the blades’ edge at his jugular.	“Do it coward,” his father beckoned. “You useless pile of shit, you don’t even have basic survival skills.”	Elias pointed the blade at his father.	“You don’t have the balls,” he spat.	Elias lunged forward, swinging the blade; his father ducked away, “You pathetic bastard.	I should have sent you to slaughter with the rest of the animals.”	Elias seethed, roaring, he barreled into his father, knocking him off his feet. Theywrestled in the leaf litter, exchanging punches, his father rolled and pressed his knee against Elias’s neck. His father pulled the boy’s hair. Elias gasped for air.	“You think you can best me boy?” His father growled, “You little weasel.”	Elias writhed, begging for air. His father leaned forward, whispering his his ear, “I’vebeen waiting for this moment since the day you were born.”	Elias swung his arm, leading his blade to the lifeline in his father’s neck. Elias’s father gasped, reeling, desperately grasping at the blade. He fell at Elias’s side, he choked on blood as the color drained from his face.	“So have I,” Elias breathed, staring into the abysmal night sky. His vision blurred as his eyes clouded with tears. “So have I,” he whispered.
","July 14, 2023 01:07",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,rdyy5f,Imperfections / Atelophobia,Leher Gulati,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rdyy5f/,/short-story/rdyy5f/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Adventure', 'Contemporary']",6 likes,"
The beautiful melody floods the room.
 
It’s the kind that even if you have never heard it before, you know every note that comes next. It’s the only one that would feel correct. It finds its way into everyone’s soul the way sunlight finds its way into a dark, cold room. The peace this melody brings is almost tangible. My mind is connected to a serene island as if bound by a thread, and I know that this feeling is shared by everyone here.
 
But I feel the thread snap.
 
It’s not supposed to snap. This piece has barely begun. Panic spills into me, and I feel the shock of everyone around me.
 
The music stops, and my eyes flutter open. I’m sitting in front of a grand piano at what can only be described as the most prestigious music competition. The audience is to my right, and the judges seem to be pulled out of their trance as they lean forward slightly. I think I hear pen scratching on paper, and the gentle murmur among the audience fills my ears.
 
I have made a mistake. I've blundered in front of the most musically perfect people in the world. My hands are shaking as I watch them pick up my bottle of water, stand up, and exit backstage. I hear the murmur continue after I’ve left, and one of the judges finally picks up his microphone and calls in the next contestant.
 
I collapse onto the floor of the small, dark room after I have put some distance between myself and the exit, and my hair, which has become too long, falls like a curtain around me. My hands take my glasses to the floor next to me, and immediately return to cover my face. I hear ragged breathing, which I take to be my own, and my hands soon become drenched. 
 
I’ve made two mistakes tonight. The first was playing the wrong note. The second was walking away from my first mistake. Despite the knowledge that I should, I can never seem to recover from my mistakes fast enough. Why did I make the first mistake? I practiced until my fingers hurt. Every single day for months, without fail. Was it not enough? Should I have kept going? My core is shaken by all of the what-ifs, and I can’t bear to be in this room any longer.
 
I feel my legs take me along the long path home and straight to my bed where I wish for a dreamless slumber.
 
My wish is not fulfilled. I dream of a man with a single, coin-sized stain on his otherwise perfect white shirt; his face isn’t clear, but that’s not where my focus lies. He opens a kitchen cabinet to pick up a cup for the tea he has made for himself, and the cabinet is perfectly organized except for a single cup that is in between two perfect rows of cups. In an attempt to alleviate this imperfection, the man wraps his hands around that cup and lowers it onto the counter, where he begins to pour the tea into it. 
 
As he does so, his mood shifts to horror as he realizes that he has a very important meeting today that he completely forgot to prepare for. 
 
This abrupt realization makes him spill the boiling tea onto his own hand, which he withdraws quickly in response, accidentally knocking over the imperfect cup. The cup shatters as it hits the floor, and the absolute silence until this point is interrupted by the sound of my own voice whispering “No” over and over again.
 
I wake up shaking. My eyes are wide, my breathing is irregular, and I’m sweating. The man’s cabinet will never be perfect again, because now a cup is missing, never to be replaced.
 
My hands push my plain blue comforter off of my body, and I’m off the bed now. I watch my hands fix and smoothen the comforter and straighten the pillow, and feel myself enter the kitchen and attempt to make tea to make up for the man’s mistake. Unlike in his, there are no imperfections in my cup cabinet. I don’t spill any tea, either, thankfully.
 
When my cup becomes empty and my stomach becomes happier, my eyes find their way to my calendar, which also contains my day-to-day schedule. It seems I agreed to explore the city more with a friend, planned two weeks in advance. 
 
After a shower, the clothes that I picked out a few days ago find themselves on me: a white shirt (no stains) with blue jeans. Thirty two minutes later (much to my dismay that the number is not divisible by five), at exactly 9:00am, I find myself at my friend’s doorstep. I hear the door unlock, and my friend steps out of his apartment right as I arrive. He remembered my desire for perfection, and he’s never been late to anything involving me ever since he found out. I smile at this, and we embark on our exploratory journey like tourists in our own city.
 
As we walk around the crowded streets, my anxiety levels rise bit by bit. The woman who just walked past me was wearing a hoodie with uneven drawstrings. The little boy who was running to catch up to a slightly older girl, who I assume to be his sister from how similar they look, has rolled one of his pant legs up to a little above his ankle, but the other hovers around the base of his shoe. A man leaving a building a few feet away from us is wearing a suit, and his tie is tilted.
 
But as we keep walking, something else catches my attention. A girl of around eighteen walks past us, and she’s almost bouncing with every step. She’s wearing a black skirt with a matching top, but I’m looking at her shoes. They’re simple white platform shoes, but they have this graffiti-like design on them that etches itself into my memory. It’s irregular, and the colors seem almost random and unplanned. It’s not perfect in any way. It’s exactly the type of product I would steer clear of. I wait for the trapped feeling. I wait for the I’m-bothered-by-this feeling.
 
I wait.
 
And wait.
 
But it doesn’t come. Instead, I’m filled with joy at how imperfect yet beautiful it is. It’s intricate but vague at the same time. It sounds crazy, but it really feels like the design flooded my world with color, and I almost see more clearly now. For the first time, I admire its imperfections. It’s unpredictable, but in a positive-tinted way. 
 
My friend notices where my gaze is pointing, and he immediately abandons our plan to explore the city. Instead, we walk for twenty-two minutes (it’s not divisible by five, but surprisingly, that doesn’t quite bother me right now), and he leads me to a building nearby that looks like it has been abandoned for years now. 
 
The paint on its walls is chipping, but we ignore it as we head up the too-steep stairs. Once we reach the top, he smiles at me and opens the door to the roof. 
 
Immediately, I’m awestruck. Covering the boundary walls is graffiti of a hundred different styles. Different handwritings, different fonts, different designs. It’s unpredictable and unorganized and imperfect. Exactly what I would hate-- but I don’t hate this. It’s dazzling. It puts my heart at ease. 
 
It’s not like I’ve never seen graffiti before. Living in this city, I’ve seen it plenty of times. I just never really gave it much thought, I guess. Sometimes you walk past things and acknowledge them, but you don’t really think about them, you know? That’s how it was with me and graffiti.
 
As I walk around the rooftop (yes, I walk, I’m not just feeling my legs carry me around the place), I’m filled with blissful joy. I love it.
 
Suddenly, I’m struck with an idea. One that I love immediately. I mentally make a plan for the next few months.
 
 
 
 
. . . . ONE YEAR LATER . . . .
 
 
I wake up from a dreamless sleep at 6:37am. As good a time to awaken as any. After brushing my teeth, eating a quick breakfast, and taking a shower, I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. Sales are up this month, and it seems everyone is wearing the latest product I released.
 
Confused? Let me explain. After the rooftop enlightenment, I learned that imperfections aren’t always bad. Sometimes, things can be unpredictable and messy-- but that can be beautiful. 
 
The friend who brought me to the rooftop helped me channel my love for such designs into clothes, shoes, and accessories. Together, we opened our own brand. Unlike how I liked to do things at the time, we jumped right into it. No careful planning, no worrying. We designed what we liked, and released it to the public. Simple.
 
I know what you’re thinking. “What? How could anything ever be successful with no serious planning?” Sometimes, I realized, you don’t have to worry. You can trust yourself and your work, and if you’re doing it out of passion and for yourself rather than for the consumer, I think you’re doing it right.
 
We opened our brand because it gave us happiness. It wasn’t because we thought we could “make it big.” 
 
But we did. It’s a full time profession now. 
 
And I’m loving it.
 
 
 
. . . . ONE (MORE) YEAR LATER . . . .
 
 
Tranquility washes over the room as the first note plays. 
 
The world seems to have paused to allow the melody to play, and even the crying infants go silent as the tune plays. Everyone is listening, invested in the stories the notes are sharing.
 
But the stories hit a sudden halt. 
 
An unexpected twist? Not quite. The stories seem to have gone wrong. The melody is interrupted by a note that sounds wrong with the rest of the song.
 
After the brief pause, the stories continue again; however, this time, they’re different.
 
A new chapter has opened with a flawless transition. The peace is replaced with a strong sense of action. The journey has become adventurous. The entire room feels the ups and downs of the melody as the notes sing their new stories.
 
As the melody approaches its end, every mind in the room goes blank, pure focus on the musical tale.
 
As I play the final note, I feel the smile of my dear friend, who knows the musical story wasn’t supposed to be an action novel.
 
The applause of the audience fills my ears.
 
 
 
 
. . . . fin. . . . .
 
","July 14, 2023 06:02",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,cmzxtg,Treehouses and Chickens,Barbra Golub,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cmzxtg/,/short-story/cmzxtg/,Character,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
Roger found himself trapped in the embrace of the tree emerging from the center of the treehouse. He didn’t know how it happened. Being deathly afraid of heights since he fell from the top of the slide in fourth grade, he needed to get down. His heart raced with every creak and sway of the structure. The rustling wind and blowing leaves only added to his anxiety. 
 
	Once he oriented himself, he looked down and saw his blue checkered pajamas with rolled-up cuffs and mismatched buttons. The last thing he remembered was laying down on the couch to take a quick nap before the night shift at the mill. By the position of the sun filtering through the trees, it was about five in the afternoon. Why hadn’t Joan stopped him from sleepwalking out of the house? She must have seen him. 
 
	The second-story window opened and Joan’s face appeared. She was very careful not to have any part of her body outside the window. 
 
	“How come you didn’t stop me?” Roger screamed. 
 
	Joan grimaced. “I’m sorry! I tried to wake you but you know what Dr. Laver said. You shouldn’t disturb a sleepwalker.” 
 
	“Then why do I have a huge bruise on my thigh?” 
 
	""If you'd woken up properly the first time I kicked you, I wouldn't have had to do it four more times. I tried!” She cried in exasperation. 
 
	“Okay. That’s all well and good, but you could’ve stopped me from climbing into the treehouse. You know I have Acrophobia.” 
 
	The wind howled like an injured animal. Roger grabbed onto the side of the tree house tighter, being careful not to look down. His knuckles were white and his palms moist. “Never mind. Just come out here and help me get down.” 
 
	Joan scoffed sarcastically. “Sure. I’ll get right on that. You know I can’t. I work from the house. We never go out. What makes you think I can just waltz out now and help you down?” 
 
	Roger steadied his breathing, being careful not to loosen his grip. He had to keep his cool or he risked falling. “I know you’re afraid of the outdoors, honey,” he said in a calm voice masking his fear. “If this wasn’t an emergency I wouldn’t ask, but I’m stuck in this God damn tree house and I need to get down!” Roger’s voice rose. “Maybe you can call someone?”
 
	He was grasping at straws. He knew it. With his crippling fear of heights and OCD, and Joan’s debilitating fear of the outdoors, they didn’t have any friends. Their families lived hours away. When they moved it sounded like a good idea. In retrospect, maybe not. 
 
	“Look, Joan, you are just going to have to conquer your fear like I’m conquering mine. This could be what helps us conquer our fears; confront our deepest fears head-on. Just think how happy Dr. Laver will be when you tell him next week during your session.” 
 
	Something or someone shrieked. Joan inched farther into the room, away from the window. Roger hugged the tree tighter. 
 
	“Maybe if you try to go back to sleep, you’ll sleepwalk yourself back down and into the house.” Joan’s faint voice was tinged with panic. 
 
	“Hello,” a voice cautiously called out.
 
	Roger looked toward the towering trees that bordered the woods behind the house. A man stood there, the sun casting shadows on his messy brown hair, partially obscured by a worn-out olive-green baseball cap. He wore a faded denim jacket over a green plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A backpack hung from his shoulder. Dusty hiking boots adorned his feet, and around his neck hung a pendant on a simple leather cord. Roger recognized it as a compass. A few strands of his hair stuck to his forehead, damp with perspiration. His eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. He exuded confidence and an active and physical lifestyle. The opposite of Roger and Joan.
 
	“Who on God’s green earth are YOU?!” Roger screamed. Joan stepped further into the house, startled by this stranger. 
 
	“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Why don’t I help you down and we can talk about who I am afterward?” the man suggested. “I’ll climb up and you grab my waist. We’ll slowly walk back down. I’ll face backward and you face forward so you can keep your eyes closed if that makes it easier. Do you trust me?”
 
	Roger wasn’t sure it would work, but the man looked more than capable. “No. But I guess I have no choice. I have to trust you seeing as I really have no other options.” 
 
	“Nope. You don’t. All right. Here I go.” The stranger approached the tree house with an easy stride and gave off an aura of warmth and approachability. 
 
	He offered words of encouragement to Roger, soothing his anxiety, and assuring him he would soon be free from his arboreal prison. As he climbed, his movements steady and calculated, he maintained eye contact with Roger, fostering a bond of trust, and started to weave a fantastical story about a dead girl in the woods. Roger tried to follow, but he was paralyzed with fear the closer the man approached. 
 
	“Did you know that a girl’s body was found here about 20 years ago? A few hundred yards behind this tree house. She was murdered. I just wanted to pay my respects. I didn’t have anything to do with her death. Well, not directly. It turns out the man who is my father was responsible. Not sure you’ve ever heard of him. John Dean Pickett. The girl’s name was Leanne Morgan. I think her family is still in the area, but I’m not sure.”
 
	Finally, the man reached the treehouse platform keeping Roger captive. Fluidly, he extended his hand. Roger tentatively grabbed it, and together, they navigated the way down. Roger’s trembling body slowly regained composure as they descended. His first step onto solid ground felt like nirvana. 
 
	“Thank you,” he said simply, gratitude filling his eyes. “Did you just tell me that story so I wouldn’t pay attention to what was happening?” he asked skeptically. 
 
	“I wish that was the case. Unfortunately, that girl was really murdered back there and the man responsible for the crime is my father. I’m Jamie, by the way.” His voice carried a hint of excitement and curiosity.
 
	“Roger. Nice to officially meet you. This isn’t how I usually go about it. Why don’t you come into the house and get something to drink and eat as a thank you for your help? Then you can tell me more about your journey.” 
 
	Jamie thanked Roger and followed him up the back porch into a quaint, homey kitchen decorated with chicken wallpaper, chicken dishes, chicken salt and pepper shakers, and chicken mugs. 
 
	“What’s with all the chickens? Someone got a thing for poultry?” Jamie blurted out. “Sorry, that was rude. It’s cute.” 
 
	“No worries,” said Roger. “The house was decorated like this when we bought it six years ago. As you can probably figure from hearing our conversation, we don’t get out much. So, we left it. The chickens have grown on me. When I was a child, we had chickens. They were fearless and outgoing; very human-like. I thought maybe their personalities would rub off on us.” 
 
	The men laughed easily.
 
	In the dusk-painted kitchen, Roger gathered the necessary ingredients to make sandwiches. As he sliced the bread, he thought of Jamie and the closeness he felt to this virtual stranger. He didn’t have any problem with people knowing his phobias. He had lived with them for years. While some people looked at him like a freak, most just took it as a quirk in his personality. He knew intrinsically that Jamie wouldn’t hold it against him. His fear of heights posed significant challenges in everyday situations. Simple tasks like climbing stairs, crossing bridges, or even looking out of a window triggered intense anxiety and panic. Over the years, however, he had developed coping strategies, such as avoiding tall buildings or relying on Joan when dealing with height-related situations. The sleepwalking was admittedly a snag in his coping mechanisms.
 
	But this was inexplicable. He had spent at the most 20 minutes with this man. After their joint experience of rescuer and rescued, an invisible thread was stitched between them, forming an intangible bond. There was an unspoken trust, an unexplainable comfort that enveloped him in the presence of his newfound companion. Jamie had provided Roger with a haven, where he could be vulnerable.
 
	“Okay. Here is a chicken sandwich. Sorry, that’s all I can offer you. We haven’t gotten to the store in a while.”
 
	“I would expect nothing else in this kitchen,” joked Jamie. 
 
	Roger set glasses of water on the table and then joined him at the table.
 
	Taking a bite of the delicious-looking sandwich, Jamie moaned appreciatively. “This is delicious. Thanks.”
 
	The two men ate in companionable silence, each enjoying their food. Jamie finished one half of his sandwich, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and looked at Roger expectantly. “So, you slept walked into the treehouse? Have you ever done that before?” 
 
	Roger sighed. He knew it was coming. “I’ve been sleepwalking since I was a teenager. When I was 13, I watched my father shoot my mother and then himself. That event triggered nightmares and sleepwalking and a stint in a psychiatric facility. I’ve always been afraid of heights, so I’m very surprised that I went up into the treehouse. I haven’t been able to figure out any pattern for when it is going to happen. Could be in the middle of the night. Could be the middle of the day, as you see. Nothing specific happens before that sets it off. I’m just glad you were here. Joan wasn’t going to be able to do anything for me.” 
 
	“Yeah, about that. If it wouldn’t be intrusive, what are her issues?”
 
	“Joan is deathly afraid of the outside world. Agoraphobia is the official diagnosis. It’s so much more.” Roger felt the moisture form in the corner of his right eye and tried to discretely wipe it away. 
 
	 “She’s also afraid of people. It stems from the abuse she suffered at the hands of her parents when she was a child. They used to chain her in the backyard for days with just a dog bowl of water. In all kinds of weather. Brutal heat, rain, snow, bitter cold. She was attacked by a neighbor’s dog when she was five and almost died because she was chained up and couldn’t get away. One day she was let inside. She took a kitchen knife and stabbed her father to death.” 
 
	There was silence in the room, except for the ticking of the clock. The men sat quietly digesting food and information. 
 
	Jamie pressed on. “How did you two meet?” 
 
	“We met in the psychiatric facility.”
 
	Jamie didn’t look surprised at this. Most people were taken aback when Roger revealed this. 
 
	“With her issues, I’m surprised she was receptive to a relationship with you. How did that come about?” 
 
	Roger chuckled. “You would think it would be difficult, but Joan is whip-smart. She realized there weren’t too many men out there that would give her the time of day. I also realized my limitations as a life partner. We were friends and enjoyed spending our free time together when we weren’t in group sessions or with our therapists. After we both left Glen Haven, we continued to see each other at outpatient group sessions. It started with coffee in her apartment after the meetings. Eventually, we realized that neither of us was a prize. We just fell into it.” 
 
	“He’s great. I’m the one that’s no prize.” Jamie startled and looked towards the hallway. Joan was standing in the shadows. She took one step forward but didn’t enter the room. The dim lighting hid the scars on her face.
 
	""But how could I resist when he said to me ‘Life's too short, babe. Add your baggage to mine and we’ll travel the world.’ Sadly, we don’t even travel down the block most days.”
 
	A baby’s cry came from somewhere in the house. Joan moved quickly back into the shadows towards the noise. 
 
	“That’s Hannah. She’s our pride and joy.” Roger beamed. “It’s fine right now. She’s little and doesn’t really need to go anywhere. I take her to her pediatrician’s appointments. Once she is school-age, there will certainly be challenges. But we’ll face them as we’ve faced everything else. Together.” 
 
	“What about you?” Roger asked. “Were you serious when you said your father killed someone?” 
 
               Jamie exhaled and looked out the kitchen window toward the forest he had emerged from as if he would find the answer to the question in there. 
 
               His face hardened before relaxing into the Zen-like expression Roger first encountered on him. “I found out a few months ago my father is the Cross Out Killer, a notorious serial killer who left a trail of dead women up and down the East Coast. I never knew him and had nothing to do with the murders. But I feel some sense of responsibility to the victims. I’m going to the sites where the women were found and paying my respects. I think that’s what they deserve.” 
 
               Roger hesitated before placing his hand on top of Jamie’s and squeezing. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do that. But he felt a connection with Jamie he didn’t feel with many people, Joan being the exception. He saw a kindred spirit in Jamie. While Jamie didn’t have any visible phobias, life had thrown him a curveball. Roger could only hope to deal with his curveballs as gracefully and graciously as Jamie. 
 
               “I admire your attitude. Not many would be as kind and forgiving of circumstances.”
 
               “My mother raised me with an appreciation for the things I have. I’ve always tried to be conscious that not all are in the same position. Whether it be physically or spiritually.” 
 
               Noticing the darkness creeping in, Roger stood up. “Well, it’s getting late. You should probably get going to find your way back through the woods.”
 
	Jamie followed suit and brought his empty plate to the sink. 
“Thank you, Roger. You were so kind to feed me. I appreciate it more than you know. I’m traveling light and don’t carry much food with me. And thank you for sharing your story with me.” 
 
	“I should be thanking you,” said Roger. I’d still be up in the treehouse if it wasn’t for you. Thanks for all your help.”
 
	Roger hesitated before continuing. “And thank you for showing me a new way to look at things. I can’t explain it, but I feel very close to you. Every conversation, laugh, shared nod, and moment of silence has given me a newfound appreciation for the serendipity of life and unexpected connections.” He stopped rambling and looked away sheepishly, feeling his skin heat in embarrassment. 
 
	“Please don’t be embarrassed. I feel it too. Not sure why, but we were meant to meet. Look at it as destiny.” Jamie raised his hands in the air in a flourish. Roger thought it was uncharacteristic of his laid-back attitude, but he liked it. 
 
	They walked out of the house the way they came and through the backyard to the edge of the woods. Roger stopped and inhaled deeply, enjoying the crisp evening air. He wished he could bottle it up and give it to Joan. 
 
	Turning toward Jamie to say goodbye, he saw Jamie open his mouth. He expected something profound to come tumbling out. 
 
	“I have to ask. I don’t get it. Why would you have a treehouse? One parent can’t go outside and the one that can go outside can’t go up the ladder.”
 
	“Ha!” Roger doubled over in laughter. Jamie was right. It didn’t make sense. “It came with the house,” Roger gasped in between fits of laughter. “Like the chickens.”
 
               Jamie smiled serenely and slung his backpack onto his shoulder and turned toward the forest. “Roger I’m glad I came across you when I did. You needed my help and I gave it. And you gave me something in return. Thank you.” 
 
               Without waiting for a response, he turned to the woods and disappeared amidst the branches. 
","July 14, 2023 13:32","[[{'Jaden Mitchell': ""Alright, I'll warn you, I tend to give feedback straight up. I'll tell you the good and I won't stray away from highlighting the ugly.\nGood: The descriptions are well thought out and structured. \nWhen you read you are able to understand and empathize with the main character\n\nBad: The dialogue. The characters randomly tell complete strangers their whole life story. They literally talk like robots and just bleet out exposition unprompted (like why did the man randomly say his father is a murderer, and why multiple times? Wouldn't that scare Ro..."", 'time': '23:36 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Barbra Golub': 'Thanks for your feedback.', 'time': '13:05 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Barbra Golub': 'Thanks for your feedback.', 'time': '13:05 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,oboq6k,Too High,D.J. Bogner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/oboq6k/,/short-story/oboq6k/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Friendship', 'Funny']",6 likes,"
	“Come on, Marty. You can’t make us late. These guys don’t like late.” Jake blew out a puff of air as he watched his fellow hiker plop one foot down after the next. Marty was at least thirty feet behind him on the narrow, uphill dirt path. “I can’t keep stopping and waiting for you.”	“So walk slower.” Marty was doing his best. He wasn’t the fittest guy on the planet, nor the slimmest. “My watch says it’s ninety-seven degrees. Plus, we’re carrying these heavy backpacks. What did you say you put in them?”	“Supplies. All of us are supposed to contribute as much as we can.”	“This whole thing is stupid. Why in the hell is this in the middle of nowhere? Haven’t they heard of global warming?”	“It’s about the experience. I told you, it’s a retreat. The idea is to commune with nature. It’s beautiful out here.”	“And we’re on a mountain trail smothered on both sides by these damned thorny bushes. You know we’re closer to the sun up here.”	“It’s 94.506 million miles away. Trust me: a few thousand feet closer doesn’t make a whole helluva lot of difference.”	“It does to me. I feel it. You don’t feel it?”	“Drink some more water already and stop complaining.”	“What’s that?”	“What’s what?”	“That… ahead of you. It looks like a trailhead opening. I thought we were already on the trail.”	They stepped up to two tall wooden posts that anchored the start of a rope suspension bridge at least a hundred feet across. It swayed in the wind. Beneath it was a deep chasm.	“Oh, hell no.”	“Marty, it’s just a bridge.”	Marty leaned backward and shook his head. “No way, man.”	“We’re almost there. We can’t turn back now.”	“Not a chance. I don’t fly. I don’t parachute. I don’t even drive over high bridges. Nope.”	“You’re afraid of heights? You’re from Denver, for crying out loud. It’s the ‘Mile High City’!”	“And I stuck close to the ground, thank you very much.”	Jake shook his head and stepped onto the bridge. As he leaned over the side for a look down—all the color drained from Marty’s face.	“We’re not even that high up. Look, there’s a river at the bottom. If you fell, you’d just make a little splash.”	“You know, we should switch majors. You take Psych and I’ll do Physics. And I saw the bottom. It’s plenty far. Speaking of school, remind me why I’m not back in the dorm studying for mid-terms.”	“Because yesterday you told me you were totally ready, Mr. 4.5 GPA.”	“Well… I should be in air-conditioning instead of this dumb sauna.”	“Don’t be a wuss, Marty. You promised you’d come with me.”	“I distinctly remember not hearing a single mention of decaying rope bridges over a thousand-foot drop.”	“Hey—I didn’t know about it.”	“How old do you think it is? Look at those wooden planks. I bet they’re termite infested. Probably won’t hold up even under your scrawny weight. I know they won’t hold mine. Haven’t you seen any of those movies where they fall through the bottom and get eaten by alligators?”	“I checked the forecast this morning. There are no alligators in the entire state of Washington today. Or ever.”	“Or one end detaches and everybody gets slammed against the other side of the mountain?”	“How many times have I asked you to do anything for me? Hmm?”	Marty crunched up his brow.	“Correct: none. But who dragged you to the infirmary after you slept with Adrianne and you were sure you had the crabs? And who told your Mom you were sleeping when she called and you were in the shower with Karen? Um… I don’t know, maybe me? It’s the ‘roomie-credo’: do unto the world as your roomie needs you to.” Jake’s mother is in sales and taught him: ‘the next guy who talks, loses.’ He waited for a response.	The two boys stared at each other.	“Forget the alligators. We’d be dead on impact. I’m going back. I’ll come around from the other side. It’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”	“This is nuts! Maybe… maybe you’d show up sometime this week.”	“I’m serious, Jake. I can’t go across that. Ever since my dad held me up over a balcony so he could get a photo he could post. My uncle was running around him to get the best angle. I think I pissed my diapers.”	“I’m going out to test it.”	“No… Jake… please don’t—”	Jake was already a quarter of the way across. Marty’s eyes bulged; he’d have noticed a fly on Jake’s shoulder if one dared to have gone along for the ride. The bridge bobbed up and down with each step—the rest of it undulated in waves in both directions. All the talk of danger had Jake’s heart working double-time. He had to admit: the rope hadn’t weathered the elements all too well. Wait: did he just hear a crack? He stopped, swallowed, and checked his footing; any more pressure on the rotted wood plank under his forward foot and it would split in two. He stepped over it and turned around towards Marty. With a huge smile and a wave, he yelled back: “See? Solid as a rock!” He continued across and triple-checked each plank as he went. All the others seemed intact. On his return trip he made a mental note of where the ‘bad’ plank was.	“Convinced now?”	“Like I said, that’s holding your weight. I’m twice your size.”	“So we go slow. Any sign of danger, we scrap it. Go back to campus.”	“Now who’s nuts? No way that thing’s gonna hold both of us at the same time. And I can’t go out there alone.”	“I’m telling you, it’s strong. I double-checked the ground supports. The rope is solid, the equilibrium’s good. The wood didn’t even creak.”	Marty studied his roommate. “You swear it’s sturdy enough?”	“Have I ever lied to you?”	Marty sighed. “Seriously?”	“Okay, okay… fair enough. But I’m not lying now, Marty.”	They did another stare off. Again, Jake waited for a response.	 “We scrap it on my call.”	“On your call.” Jake held out his hand for a shake.	Marty squinted and took another look at the bridge. “I do this—we’re even for the rest of our lives.”	Jake lit up. “Absolutely!”	He shook Jake’s hand. “Why do I have the feeling this is gonna be the death of me?” He took a long drink of water. “Lead the way. Slow!”	“I’m going to walk backwards. Keep your eyes on mine. Focus on me. Like relativity, it’s all about the frame of reference. Don’t look down.”	They edged out onto the old bridge.	“You’re doing great, Marty.”	Marty wasn’t so sure. He felt like a lab rat and the scientist reading his gauges. He could hear his pulse pound in his temples. Despite the wind gusts, he was so hot inside he was afraid his white-knuckled grips might ignite the frayed rope. Some ants crawled on the wooden planks.	“On me, Marty! Look at me!”	“Right.”	Flying bugs buzzed around Marty’s face—he wondered why the wind wasn’t blowing them off course. His breathing quickened—a cone of darkness was closing in—his vision blurred. The bridge oscillated like a pendulum. His knees buckled. “Jaaa…”	Jake darted in and tucked under Marty’s chest. He grabbed an arm and draped it around his own neck. “I got you! Breathe Marty!”	Marty heard a voice in the distance. He made it out to be Jake’s.	“Slow it down! Slower… good… better. You okay?”	Marty nodded. “But I think I’m going to puke.”	Their heads were inches apart. Marty’s breath reeked. Jake snapped his eyes and mouth shut; he held his breath; he waited for the inevitable. It took everything he had to support Marty’s body and hold his breath at the same time. A few seconds passed. Jake dared one eye open. 	Marty gave him a thin-lipped smile and a nod: his nausea passed.	Jake exhaled. “We’re halfway across, dude. You’re killing it.”	Inch by inch, they made it the rest of the way. Jake made sure they avoided the cracked plank. The instant Marty’s second foot landed on solid ground, he dropped to his knees and kissed the dirt.	“Yeah! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Jake’s smile threatened to split his face in half. “You were great, man!” 	“I was, wasn’t I?” he eked out. Marty stood up and straightened his backpack. “Okay. I think we can go on—”	Marty puked.	Jake leaped sideways—the stream of vomit just missed him. “Whoa! Nice thrust! I’m surprised you didn’t go airborne.”	“Sorry.” Marty wiped his mouth with his hand. “Did I get you?”	“I’m good.” Jake laughed it off. “It was close.”	Marty grabbed his water and rinsed his mouth out. “I guess there was some crap down there, after all.”	“Hey… listen, I know that wasn’t easy for you. Thanks. I mean it.”	“I feel better, now. I’m ready. Let’s go.”	“When we get back, all the pizza you can eat. It’s on me.”	Marty smiled. “Deal.”	They took off down the narrow trail. The temperature had risen even more. Both of them swatted away bugs as they walked.	“I need to thank you,” Marty said.	“What for?”	“I think maybe I’m cured. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble going back.”	“That’s terrific, Marty. You’re tougher than you think.”	“How much further?”	Jake checked his map. “Should be just ahead.” He pointed at a plume of smoke above the trees. “That’s got to be their campfire.”	They moved around a bend in the trail. A clearing opened up before them; several tents lined the perimeter; dense forest surrounded it; supplies were strewn around everywhere. Five men sat on large rocks around the fire. One tended to a handful of burgers sizzling on a makeshift grill. As intoxicating as the aroma was, the thick cloud of marijuana smoke ruled.	“Smells incredible, Leon. Hope you’ve got a couple for us,” Jake said with a big smile.	“Hey… look at you, you made it. We were thinking you got lost or fell off the bridge or something stupid like that,” Leon said with a laugh. (Actually, it was a cackle.) He stood up and handed a fat joint to the man next to him so he could clap his hands. The other four tried to mimic him but were so wasted they couldn’t get to their feet.	“I guess we’re not in as good of shape as I thought we were. Both of us got a bit winded.”	“No problem-o, Jakie-boy. And don’t you fret, we got plenty of eats. But, if you wouldn’t mind, sir, I always like to take care of business first.”	“Of course. Absolutely.” Jake slipped his backpack off his shoulders and laid it on the ground. “Marty, give me yours.”	Marty looked confused, but he complied. He set his next to Jake’s.	Jake unzipped the packs and, from each one, pulled two bundles wrapped in cellophane. All four were about the size of small shoe boxes. 	Marty’s eyes opened wide. That didn’t look like supplies. “What the hell, Jake?”	“Take it easy, Marty. It’s okay.” He brought the bundles over to Leon.	The big man smiled as he took them. He spread them out among the other men. Like surgeons, they peeled back the delicate wrappings to expose solid bricks of white powder. And now the test: a dip in with their pinky fingernails for a little snort-taste.	“What the…?” Marty said.	Jake shushed him with a glare and squished eyebrows.	Leon waited on his men. One by one they looked up at their leader and gave him a nod.	Jake waited on Leon. His mom would be proud, he thought.	Leon swung his attention back to Jake. “You done good, Jakie-boy.”	“Happy to oblige, Leon. You can always count on—”	Jake’s and Marty’s jaws dropped. The last thing they ever expected to see in their lives were broken-teeth smiles on five men with guns pointed at them. They were wrong. The last thing was the muzzle flash.
","July 14, 2023 20:32",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,m8o9kv,Smoked,Takata Felix,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/m8o9kv/,/short-story/m8o9kv/,Character,0,"['American', 'Bedtime', 'Adventure']",6 likes,"
 	On nights like this Bethie thought long and hard whether a baby sister was a good idea or not.  Ruthie was only 3 years old, and was more afraid of the dark than Bethie, if that were possible. So, because no amount of night-lighting or soft music or late-night glasses of water could soothe the screaming toddler, Bethie lay wide awake, left to deal with the fallout of her own fears.
	It was a frigid four degrees in the New England suburban town of Capeton, New Hampshire. Too cold to snow according to Bethie’s dad. Bethie wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but she knew the wind was causing the house to creak. As if that weren’t enough, the windows clicked and crackled underneath sheets of frost. 
	Bethie took a deep breath and flung her blanket over her head. With the covers to shield her from the noise, she was left to briefly savor the waft of crisp air before she made it stale with her own breath. She loved the way her house always smelled in the winter. The pungence of pine laced with the warm undertones of fresh-baked gingerbread cookies. It made up for the extra hours of darkness. 
	Suddenly everything went quiet. Once again, she couldn’t hear her own breath. Chills began to crawl up her spine like tiny frozen fingernails. She felt her heart pounding against her five-year-old rib cage, and she trembled as the revelation dawned on her. It’s back. The frightful reality jolted through Bethie’s small frame so violently that it left her needing the bathroom. I CAN’T wet my bed again! I promised!
	Without hesitation she threw the Strawberry Kidz blanket off and roll-jumped to the floor. She could hear her breath again, and she could see the vapor from her mouth beginning to swirl its way backward towards that thing that always showed up on nights like this. Not tonight Shadow Lady! With that she ran as fast as her bare size-five-kid’s feet would bring her down the hall to the bathroom.
	“Bethie! Is that you?” A voice from beyond the restroom door sent a new wave of chills along her spine. It was the man of the house, Bruce.
	“Yeah, it’s me!” Bethie responded.
	“Yeah? Did you just say yeah to me?” Bruce growled.
	“Yes!” Bethie stiffened. “I mean no! I mean… I’m sorry!” 
	“Yes, you are sorry! But not as sorry as you’re gonna be!” Bruce snarled.
	“Bruce, please not tonight we just got Ruthie down! You’re gonna wake her up.”  It was Deb. She was the girls’ mom, and she was too tired to fight. She had a six-a.m. shift to start in a few hours and she needed her sleep. Bethie heard her mumble something about an early birthday present, and then the door to her mom’s room slammed shut. 
	Bethie wondered what was so funny about birthdays that caused all the muffled giggles. She let out a deep exhale as she wiped. She took a couple of extra moments to watch her feet dangle before she hopped down and proceeded to wash her hands. She was tall enough now that standing on her plastic Harriet the Hippo footstool meant she could see her reflection in the mirror. 
	The soft buzz of the mirror light had an oddly soothing effect while she stared into her own light brown eyes. They sat perfectly proportional to her face which was aptly framed by her lush mane of curly, straw-blonde locks. Another exhale sent out a puff of vapor that thinned out into wispy strands and danced around her reflection. It was cold again, and the hum of the lights had waned. Shadow Lady is back! Bethie no longer recognized the face staring at her in the mirror. She was beautiful, though, and her hair was the same. But she was older, and her eyes were also the same, but much darker. Bethie stumbled off the footstool and steadied herself with the towel rack. There was too much going on for her to notice the towel sliding to the floor. 
	“Why are you afraid?” 
	Bethie didn’t realize how tense she’d wrapped her fist around the metal rack, or how tight she’d closed her eyes, or even when she’s stopped breathing.
	“Why are you afraid?” The woman in the mirror whispered. 
	“Who are you?” Bethie whispered back. “And what do you want?”
	“You will not know who I am until you know who you are.” 
	“What does that mean?” Bethie whimpered.
	“And you will not know what I want until you know what you want.”
	“Leave me alone!” Bethie yelled.
 
	The next thing Bethie knew, she was back in her bed nursing sore thighs and drowning out the sound of her sister’s screams with her own sobs. She’d woken up her baby sister, disturbed Bruce’s early birthday present, and thrown her mom’s new towels to the floor “for no reason.” And Bruce had made sure she knew that she was the problem. Eventually, she took her bruised legs and shattered heart to sleep while the Shadow Lady’s whispers danced in her head. Why are you afraid?
 
	At breakfast the next morning, energy from the prior night’s events hung heavy in the air. Ruthie squirmed in her seat and refused to eat her oatmeal. Bethie spread her eggs around her plate until it was time to wait outside for the bus. Bruce sauntered into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge and looked at no one as he gulped it down. He took two more cans back to his bedroom as Deb cleared the table. 
	“Don’t get off the porch until the bus comes, Bethie!” Deb yelled through the screen door.
	“I won’t!” Bethie hollered back. She sat on the steps bundled from head to toe in a pink and yellow polka dotted snow suit and matching boots. It was only thirteen degrees, which meant she could use that time to practice breathing rings into the winter air. She’d seen the adults do it on TV, and balked at the idea that she couldn’t do it too. 
	Bethie’s bus came right on time, and she was glad about that. She loved school. The teachers always smiled at her and complimented her hair. They protected her from the boys when they got the notion to pull it or fire spitballs into it. The days when she got graham crackers and chocolate milk were the best. Sometimes the kids mocked her for getting free lunch, but once Ms. Libby, the art teacher, told her the kids were just jealous, she was ok with it. They can have their jealousy. I get my graham crackers and chocolate milk. So there!
 	It was the end of the day that loomed over Bethie like the shadow that taunted her at night. It was Bruce, at home waiting to blame her for this, or that. It was her mom, looking the other way or pretending not to hear Bethie crying.  It was “Shut up before I give you something to cry about!” that sunk her stomach like a ten-ton anchor. So, there she was, on the bus again, this time headed home, completely deflated. 
 	She stared at her reflection in the window and blinked away tears. Why couldn’t Bruce see what the teachers saw? What was it about her face that made him want to slap it? What was it about her eyes that made him want to flick them? Why couldn’t he see-
 	“Why are you afraid of me?” The Shadow Lady had found her on the bus!  The reflection was staring back at her but the whispers… the whispers bounced off the inside of Bethie’s skull like a Ping-Pong ball.
	“Who are you?” Bethie thought to herself. She had to admit that she was less afraid than she was curious at this point. Yes, this lady was scary, but she was also beautiful and never hurt her like Bruce did. 
            “Who are you, Bethie?”
            “How do you know my name?”
            “Who are you?”
            “I am Elizabeth Marie Peters.”
            “Who is Bethie?”
	“I am a little girl. I love animals, but big dogs scare me. I like to read, too. And Ms. Libby says I’m really good at art.” Bethie continued. “I really like stories about dragons. People are afraid of dragons, but I’m not. Sometimes I wish I was a dragon. Nobody likes bothering them.”
            “Wish again.”
            “I… wish I was a dragon.”
 “Wish again.” Shadow Lady was no longer whispering. Her voice had morphed into a deep, mellifluous growl.
	“I wish I was a dragon!” Bethie shouted. Her belly was on fire. The skin on the back of her neck went from cold and prickly to being so hot that it curled her baby hairs. The heat rose to the top her head and rushed down her forehead into her eyes. Her reflection was almost normal again. Except for the fire in her eyes. Entranced, she watched the flames dance.
	“Quit being a weirdo!” One of the big kids shouted from the back of the bus. The kids erupted in laughter. Even the driver struggled to stifle his smile. But Bethie didn’t care. And she was no longer afraid.
	At home, Bethie enjoyed a ham sandwich and a glass of apple juice before doing her homework. Bruce was probably at the bar already, so the house was at peace. Ruthie was watching some show for babies that taught them the alphabet. Word Wizard, or something like that, Bethie thought. Bethie loved these afternoons. Her mom did laundry or washed dishes or started dinner, what ever moms are supposed to do. She usually wished those quiet afternoons would remain until they were quiet nights. The kind where little girls got to play with their dolls or eat popcorn and watch a movie while Mom gave baby a bath and put her to bed. 
	Not this time, though. After Bethie finished her homework, she slid into the bathroom and locked the door. She stood on her stool and waited for Shadow Lady to appear. After twenty minutes with no contact, her mom knocked on the door.
            “Bethie? You okay in there?” She asked.
            “Yeah- yes Mom!” Bethie answered. “I’m okay.”
            “Well come on out of there, then. Your sister needs to go potty.” She replied.
 
	Bethie opened the door and looked up at her mother. Deb had the same curly blond hair and brown eyes, but the hair was limp, and her eyes were sad. Bethie felt again like she was looking in the mirror, at her future. 
	“Bruce will probably be late again, tonight. What do you want for supper?” Deb asked.
	“Supper?” Bethie tilted her head, attempting to drag her thoughts away from Shadow Lady. She had so many more questions, and talking about supper wasn’t going to get them answered.
	“Never mind.” Deb sighed and rolled her eyes. “We’ll have left over spaghetti. Set the table please.” 
	“Okay, Momma.” Bethie scooted past her and headed down the carpeted hallway towards the stairs.
	“Momma?” Deb asked. Bethie stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back.
	“Did I say something wrong?” Bethie asked. She frowned and waited for a response.
	 “No! No, not at all.” Deb assured her. Bethie relaxed the shoulders she didn’t even realize she’d tensed up.
	 “It’s just you haven’t called me Mama in a long time.” Deb said. “It’s nice to hear, that’s all.”
	 “Oh! Ok Momma.” Bethie smiled and headed downstairs to the kitchen. 
	 They enjoyed their dinner at ease until Bruce came home. Ruthie sat in her highchair and ate her “Sketty” with a fork like a big girl. Bethie sat next to her in a booster seat (yes, she was five years old and still needed a booster seat. She had a small frame, I said!) and was finishing up the last of her garlic bread. Deb had hardly eaten anything. She was too busy watching the girls eat and smiling to herself. But, as usual, Bruce burst his drunken self through the front door and instantly changed the whole atmosphere.
	“May I be excused, Mama.” Bethie asked. She didn’t feel like eating any more.
	“Sure, Honey.” Deb said. “Clear your plate. I’ll be in to say goodnight later.” Bethie stood before gulping down the rest of her fruit punch. 
	“If you can finish your drink, you can finish your food.” Bruce slurred as he stumbled into the dining room. The room went silent. Not the kind of silence where you can hear the clocks ticking and the electricity humming, but dead silent. Deb put her fork beside her plate and hung her head. Ruthie sat poised to cry on que. Bethie though, snatched up her dishes and headed for the kitchen sink.
	 “I said, finish your food!” Bruce growled.
	Bethie dropped the dishes to the floor. Luckily, she’d used her Strawberry Patch Kidz melamine dinnerware set so nothing broke. She didn’t even pause to look down at her mess before dashing past Bruce and running up the stairs into her room.  She slammed the door behind her and belly dove unto her bed, covering her head with a pillow. The silence was shattered with cries from Ruthie, pleas from Deb, and shouting from Bruce. But loudest of all was the pounding of Bethie’s heart and the deep, heavy breaths that poured hot empty air into her lungs as she waited.
	“Get back here you ungrateful little twit!” Bruce stomped up the stairs so hard that the plush carpet did nothing to hamper the sound.
	“I’m not a twit!” Bethie whispered. “I’m a dragon!”
	“Say it again.” Bethie wasn’t sure when Shadow Lady had turned up but there she was; behind her. Under her. In her.
	“I’m not a twit! I’m a dragon!” She wasn’t hiding under her pillow anymore. She wasn’t on her bed at all. She stood, small-framed, flatfooted and shoulder-squared next to her bed and waited. Bruce didn’t bother with the doorknob. He kicked the door open so hard that it bounced of the jamb and slammed shut again. He opened it again, this time using the knob.
	“What did you say?” The rage burned in his words and dripped from his mouth along with the drool that slid down his chin.
            “Leave me alone.” Bethie whispered.
            “What did you say to me?” Bruce growled again.
            “Tell him again,” said Shadow Lady.
	“I said, ‘LEAVE ME ALOOOOOO-” Bethie never got to finish her sentence. The anger that had burned in her belly ever since Bruce had ruined their dinner with his presence, burst into literal flames in her mouth, and reached out to Bruce like a pair of hands. 
	Instantly, his eyes morphed from furious slits in his flushed face to panicked saucers. He prepared to scream, but the fire shot into his mouth before he could utter a sound. It escaped out through his eyes, ears and nose while he flailed his arms and danced a horrific jig. 
	Ten seconds later, Bethie was back under her cover whispering about not being a twit. Bruce was in a catatonic pile on the floor in a puddle of his own urine, still drooling. Deb was screaming, and running up the stairs, sure that he’d killed her little girl this time. When she got her doorway, she stood in confusion. 
	“Bethie! What…what happened? What’s burning?” Deb asked, as she looked around for clues. 
	“The Shadow Lady got him, Momma.” Bethie said, softly. Deb blinked quickly and swallowed hard.
	“Shadow Lady?” She asked as she tried to rouse Bruce. Bethie watched intently as Deb’s repeated attempts to awaken Bruce from his stupor failed.
	“Don’t worry, Momma. He’s not going to bother anyone again.” She said with a sweet smile.
	Bethie was right. Six months later, Bruce sat in a wheelchair wearing a diaper and a bib, staring out of the living room window. Deb, as his guardian, collected his checks every month, which was enough to cover a nurse for him and pay the bills.
	As for Bethie, she had gotten her wish. Peaceful afternoons of ham sandwiches and homework turned into pleasant evenings filled with movies and popcorn and hearing little Ruthie squeal in delight while Momma gave her a bubble bath.  Sometimes Momma would even let her watch a movie about dragons.
","July 14, 2023 21:51","[[{'NJ Devising': ""I'm in love with this child and I've always been a little jealous of dragons"", 'time': '15:27 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,kxt3ar,A Cruel Trick,Jesse Kae,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kxt3ar/,/short-story/kxt3ar/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Suspense', 'Thriller']",6 likes,"
The coin sliced through the air and whispered something metallic. Heads. 
 
Maybe I'll try another toss for good measure, thought Kade. 
 
Way out in the boonies, he’d walked along a familiar dirt path steadily nearing his destination. He'd come to this place for a reason. It smelled of his childhood--fresh rain, dirt and pine needles, and it carried a mixed vibe of better days and tragedy.
 
It was the place his dad had taken him when he was a child to camp and hunt and look down upon the city lights just below the horizon line. The township condemned the old cabin at the bottom of the hill after the flood came through, but it still stood, shrouded in mold and rot; looted, no doubt. But it was merely a place to settle down after excursing the endless wilderness. 
 
The tower was the only thing for fifty miles that resembled modernity. It was a radio tower years ago, but had been out of use even when his father was a kid. It frightened Kade as a child--its cold, serious demeanor amongst the birdsongs made it seem out of place, isolated in a world not of its own, or maybe taken from somewhere else and placed there. 
 
He threw the coin into the air once again. It wasn’t just any old coin, it was a 1905 barber quarter handed down to him from his father, who received it from his father. It was considered a family heirloom and a token of good luck after his grandfather had won the lottery using it. He would by flip the coin to confirm or disconfirm what he thought were the winning numbers. At least, that was how the story went as told by his father. There was a time Kade doubted the legitimacy of the story, though. His father had a way of embellishing things, sometimes going overboard. 
 
The lottery money payed the bills and sustained the family for a while. His grandfather built a successful resale business and invested in real estate. Money was never scarce. But it came at a price. The winnings were also the catalyst for numerous grudges and hurt feelings between friends and family members. It isolated them from other people. In the end his grandfather died a lonely man, and as for his father, there’s not a soul in the whole county that doesn’t know how that ended. For Kade, it was still surreal. Sometimes he wondered if the coin wasn’t more of a curse than a blessing, and in some distant corner of his mind, he knew there was something off about it, but he couldn’t believe that his father could be so fatally wrong. 
 
Kade let the coin fall on the trodden dirt trail so as not to intervene with the outcome. Heads again. His breath stiffened. Would he really do this? Climb the tower? He turned his gaze to the steep 180-foot relic just ahead. Not a square inch without rust, erosion, and an air of distrust. 
 
Kade reached for the ladder and it rattled against the frame, ringing out like steel chimes. He thought for a moment about how old the tower was. It had to be at least 120 years old, built sometime around the turn of the nineteenth century. The realization that it was held together by screws manufactured before his grandfather was born made his stomach queasy.  
 
Better toss it one last time. This one is for real, Kade assured himself. It wasn't really the height of the tower that frightened him terribly, nor the degradation or old age of the structure, but what came after the climb—a vast unknown at the end of a very long story.
 
The coin fell in slow motion. It shimmered in front of his eyes for too long, like it was winking at him, then in a microsecond, it slapped the dry dirt by his feet. A cloud of dust obscured its tarnished face for a moment before it was revealed. His heart sank into his stomach.
 
Why!? What a cruel trick for fate to play, he thought. What on Earth have we done to deserve this? He contemplated for a long while, even considered going home. A dragonfly landed on shoulder then flew off in the direction he’d come from. He wanted to follow, but the pain of his father’s demise haunted every tree knot and blade of grass that surrounded him, and served only to strengthen his resolve. If this was his fate, then he was ready to face it head on, just like his father had done. 
 
He wrapped his tepid but firm hands around the metal spokes and started to climb, even as a part of him couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding. 
 
The ladder appeared to be disconnected in some areas, but he pressed on. The wind picked up, sobering him to his predicament. After a while, he peered down. The ground looked as if it was breathing, or maybe it was the tower gently swaying back and forth. He could barely make out the cabin through a thicket of trees below but he noticed that the lights were on. It puzzled him, but there was little that could divert his focus from the task at hand.
 
When his palms got so sweaty that he thought he'd lose his grip, he kept on climbing. Even when the nails gave way beneath him, detaching a portion of the ladder already scaled and shattering it on the ground 150 feet below him, he kept climbing. 
 
Finally, he made it to a plateau barely large enough to contain his kneeling pose. No walls, no handlebars, just a round picnic table teetering on the threshold of heaven. It was cold, vapid, impersonal way up there. But he had made it; conquered it. He was one step closer to seeing his old man again. 
 
He noticed the old cabin below him, unobscured by trees this time. An old man stood looking at him, hands outstretched toward him, waving, signaling something of warning. But Kade couldn’t make out who it was. The coin burned inside his pocket.
 
The wind blew and it sounded like angels singing. Or were they crying? He flipped the coin one last time. It arched above the city lights and landed no sooner than he did.
","July 15, 2023 02:34","[[{'Antonio Jimenez': 'Well done! I could feel his fear as he made his way up the ladder. The sense of impending doom was palpable, and the simple but tragic ending was very powerful.\n\nI just posted a new story. I’d love if you could maybe check it out and leave some feedback. Thanks!', 'time': '18:47 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Zorah Starr': 'I absolutely love your descriptions and you did amazing with the eerie atmosphere.', 'time': '00:58 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jesse Kae': 'Thank you!', 'time': '21:05 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jesse Kae': 'Thank you!', 'time': '21:05 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,1p4g16,LISTEN TO THE DARK,Sherry Miller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1p4g16/,/short-story/1p4g16/,Character,0,['Fiction'],5 likes,"
                                     LISTEN TO THE DARK         
                                          By Sherry Miller                     
 
 
    Sherice leaned forward, listened intently to weatherman McGann from WNDU give tonight’s weather report. She flinched. Forecasts like this always gave her the jitters. More so now. Especially since today was one she didn’t want to add to her cache of happy childhood memories. It was his funeral. Surely seeing him lying in that casket, a smirk on his face, would jolt loose fears. Rushing back from years ago. She peered at McGann, pointing at the shape of 
Illinois on a graphic map. Looked like it was heading her way. She shuddered.  
 
    Still, the storm warning gave her a better excuse than “I’m just tired” or “too sick” or “very busy,” for not going to her uncle’s final event. She let out a sigh too soon. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed gray smudged clouds roiling out the kitchen window. What time was it? She squinted at the clock over the dinette set. 7 o’clock. Too late to go now anyway, right? At least an hour drive away. Too far.
 
    Sherice tried talking to herself. Calm. Stay calm. As long as you can. After all, she wasn’t afraid of electrical storms with lightening strobing and thunder crackling. No. It was the dark. Demons the storm ushered in. She gazed at McGann waving his hand over masses of green and yellow moving in her direction. She wouldn’t sleep tonight, that was for sure. With flashing jagged streaks blinding what’s sensible, and unforgiving claps of thunder blistering her ears. Growing loud, louder. Muscles stiff, expecting the worst. Electricity pausing. Lights flickering. And then, a final snap. Lights…fizzling…then out! Like so many years ago. When she was seven years old. The day the boogey man came. When the unseen creature slithered into her tiny locked space, spooking, biting, hitting, threatening to steal her away to hell. 
 
    “Go away!” she yelled, falling into a trance. “Please! Stop! Uncle Looney? Lonny?”
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                         2
 
 
 
    She played roughly with her hands, clasping, unclasping, scratching, rubbing. Wringing an invisible sponge, not seeing the imprints, scratches bleeding into red lines and marks from pinching her skin. Her lacquered nails clawed as if by robotic command. She eased out of the trance, staring at the clock with the lighthouse in the middle. Almost 8 o’clock. The sun surely setting, the sky a dark shade being pulled, a descending haze creeping down slowly. 
 
    It was Saturday night. Hot and muggy all day. August. A storm. So…she knew the phantasms were still coming. But Sherice had prepared, turning on all the lights in the house even before the 
broadcast. Since she never could fight the fright, her brain was in gear. At bedtime, hours from now, she’d end up under the covers. Until then, she’d force herself to stay awake, frozen all night, alert to the danger. Staying up all night. She had to. To shorten the time between sunset and sunrise. When it was the darkest. Aware of stifling lack of air …a small space…tight as a closet…swirling with gray figures, circling, choking her.
 
    Huffa huffa. B-boom. B-booom. Where was the big flashlight? To ward off the flying black blobs? She jumped up, yanked open a drawer in the kitchen desk. It was painted shiny black. Very fitting, right? Drawer after drawer, she slammed.  
 
    Phantasms only came at night. The house was friendly during the day. But at night…ghosts floated in. And they were everywhere. She zoned into the past, raised her arms, saw herself pounding hard on a door until her little fists bled. Hitting the wood until it cracked, almost splintering. Screaming at the top of her lungs, “Let me out. Let me out.” Over and over. “NO-OOO! They’re touching me. Please. Let me out!” On the other side of the door, a voice crackled, laughing, snarling, “The boogey man is gonna get you. The boogey man’s coming.”
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                         3
 
 
    Sherice plopped into a chair, hiding her face in her crossed arms on the kitchen table. Still no flashlight. No flashlight! She started to cry. Maybe she should’ve gone to the funeral. Maybe she was being punished for not going If only someone would hug her, hold her, shoo ghosts away.
 
     B-ring-g-g. Br-ing-g-g. Sherice jerked her head up. Who was calling? B-ring-g-g. It didn’t give up. It rang and rang. Maybe ten times. Sherice rose. Staring at the small window on the receiver, she saw who it was. Aunt Bess. Uh-oh. She could be so judgmental. Still, Sherice needed to talk to someone, anyone, even Aunt Bess. Maybe she needed her. She bounced up.
 
    “Hi Bess. How was the funeral?” Sherice tried to sound casual.
 
    “Why weren’t you there? He was your Uncle, my only brother, and you couldn’t even say goodbye?” 
 
    “Uh-no, anyway, I’m alone…driving that far and all, I didn’t feel well. Ooh, stomach’s still a little ah, queasy- 
 
    “Can’t even talk to you, Sherice. A mind of your own. You’ve always been stubborn, too –
 
“- achey. Took some anti-acids, though.” How she wanted to say Aunt Acids. Get a chuckle from Aunt Bess.
 
    “- independent. Right now, I need to, don’t know. I’m too –
 
    “I didn’t mean to let –
 
    “ – disappointed in you…”
 
    “- you down.”
 
    Sherice focused on the sound of her aunt’s sobbing on the other end.
 
    “I’m so disappointed.”
 
         She wanted to explain. About Aunt Bess’s brother. To Aunt Bess. How he played games. 
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                       4
 
 
 
How he was funny to the rest of the family. Looney uncle looney. But not to her. She opened her mouth, figuring she’d soothe Aunt Bess with alibis.
    Clicking sounds. Then…Slam! On the other end. That spoke louder than her aunt’s stinging words. Sherice slowly set the receiver in the cradle.   
 
    Uncle Lonny died last week. His funeral was today. Laid in a casket. His lights off forever. Ironic, wasn’t it? His funeral was today. But Sherice couldn’t…just couldn’t go. Not after what he did. She just couldn’t forgive.
 
    Knock, knock, bam came at the door. Rattling. Then a continuous shush. Rain. Pelting at the door like a mad stranger. She wouldn’t let the monster in. Why oh why wouldn’t anyone listen to the dark? Listen to her?
 
    Sherice rushed to the kitchen, checking more drawers. Among the pots and pans? The big flashlight was here. Somewhere. She reached deeper until she felt the long cold corrugated handle. Yes. She turned it on, hugged it to her chest. But the light was dimming. Going out? Think. Yes. Other smaller flashlights were hidden under couch cushions, on the mantle, even under her bed upstairs. But the big one gave out more light. 
 
    Sherice looked up, glared at the clock. 8:30 p.m. Her keen ears always ready, she detected the faintest rumble. The worst part’s almost here, she thought.  Sherice glanced out the window. The sky lit up, showing trees shaking wildly, furiously fighting off small bits of white surrounding them. But the blackness won. It always did. 
    The next instant…Boom-mmmm rolled around the room, hung stubbornly to the ceiling, the walls in the kitchen, and thrummed-thrummed on Sherice’s eardrums. Like ice rubbing across 
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                         5
 
 
her skin, she shivered. Not now. Please. No storm. I can’t take it. Droplets formed, dripped down her nose and into her eyes, salty and stinging, her blond bangs brown and wet plastering against 
her forehead. Tears pooled in her eyelids. She tried to blink all of it away. Outside, gusts, possibly forty miles per hour now…whining, squealing. She felt cold air slap at her. 
 
    “Go away. Leave me alone,” she shrieked, realizing the window was still partly open, ajar just two inches. She slammed it shut. Smoky clouds boiled, going in mad circles. Churning. Faster and faster. How long would this storm last? One hour. Maybe two. No matter. She couldn’t take it. Not even for a minute. Every time one happened, she was certain she would die.
 
    If it were day, she would watch the fascinating artistry lightening created, But, not in the dark.Instead, she began planning. Like she always did if a storm came at night. Open the garage door. Get in the Impala. Drive away. Far away. Whatever. Just don’t be closed in like this, Sherice thought. It was getting darker and darker. Can’t be stuck crushed by four walls in the brunt of this storm. She was safer out there, wasn’t she? In open air. Where she could run. Hide. A knot formed in her chest and twisted. Self-conversing wasn’t helping. It was hard to breathe. She gasped for air.
 
    She stared at the tiffany light over the butcher block table. All pink and blue and sage green. Grasping at a lonely cord tethered overhead. It swung ever so slightly. Its motion startled her. Did she imagine it? Lights flickered throughout the house. And the fridge made a moaning sound. As if it knew how she felt. At least there was some solace in an appliance here and there. A fridge that had a seemingly human reaction to black, white, black, white, on, off, on, off. 
 
    A flash. Intense. Jagged in the sky. Teeth. Chomping. Biting. Crack! Ahhhhh, ehhh. A scream caught in her throat, flew out her mouth. The thin membrane on her lips tingled.
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                    6
 
 
Aghhhhhhhh. Her muscles tightened. Her eyes grew wide. Terror, yes terror inside. Eating at her. The storm…right at her doorstep now. And…the lights flickering. On, off. On, off. Bright lines 
streaked like a wall breaking up, crackling, crashing to the ground. Sherice shook, began to count. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Thunder so loud, she covered 
her ears. Her lamps and Tiffany flickered into view again.
 
    “Don’t! Don’t go out! Electricity, stay on!”
 
    Lightning strikes came in continuous cadence now, three in a row, then another, and another. Okay, breathe. Like the Psychologist said. It’s not your fault you’re like this, Sherice thought. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Become one with the storm. Just… lights don’t go out. Because it will be dark. Real dark. The flashlight in her hand faded, went out. She shook it. Nothing. 
 
It hit her. My God! What was she thinking? Fifteen flashlights positioned throughout her 1700 square foot home and none of them in her hand. Where’s the lamp? That’s right. The sportsman LED lantern. In the pantry. Though light it gave off was eerie, it filled an entire room. At least 100 hours of the 200 left. She’d grab that one. More rumbling met her ears as she swung open the pantry’s squeaky wooden door. It needed fixing desperately. So did she.
 
    She snapped on the light switch on the outside wall. Only a minute. Only a minute in this stuffy place. Where was it? She scoured the shelves. There. She fixated on the grass-green base 
of the flashlight hiding among cereal boxes and Oatmeal. And her favorite chocolate chunk granola bars. Comfort food.
 
    Then…flash! One-one thousand. Explosive! Like a bomb hit. The wood floor vibrated under her slippers. Flick-flick. On. Off. On. Off! It felt like the house shifted. The pantry door
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                         7
 
 
door shuddered, swung, slammed shut. On! Off! Off!
 
    “No. No. No. Oh my God!” Sherice screamed as inky stillness swallowed her. Memory flooded back. In dribs and drabs. She spun around. Faint gray orbs undulated. Her eyes wouldn’t adjust. She thrust her arms out, feeling for the knob, anything. Pain lodged in her chest. The sound she heard couldn’t have been her own. It sounded like…like…in a movie theater. Blood-curdling screams. Horror. The casket opens. The monster sits up. Jumps out. Crusty fingers reaching…squeezing…around her body. Words flooded in. “The boogeyman’s going to get you! Ooh-ooh, the boogeyman’s in there. He’s gonna get you good!”
 
    Uncle Lonny’s voice. Clear. Gruff. Giggling.  Another voice…screaming. Outside herself . Pounding. “Let me out. Let me out.”
    “Let me out!” Her eyes darted about. Her arms flailed. Fighting. Punching. Someone was in here with her. Was going to kill her. Stab her. The boogey man. “Let me out!”
    Sherice crumpled to the floor. Still in the past. Yet here. In the present. Where was the lantern? It fell. On the floor. She fumbled around. Finally feeling the hard square base, she pressed the button in. Strong eerie light cast shadows on the walls.
 
     But then…miraculously the lights in the house flickered back on! Though she was locked in the pantry by a faulty door, light filtered in through the cracks. With all her might, she shoved at the door. It opened. 
 
     Sherice touched her throat. Several sharp pinpricks. She opened her mouth, forcing out “I screamed too hard. I can’t talk.” Her voice sounded raw, scratchy. She swallowed over the ball stuck in her throat. But…light. Everywhere. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                         8
 
 
 
one thousand. Four-one thousand. Five-one thousand. Sherice smiled. The storm was leaving. The wind fell to a whisper.
 
    Suddenly, Sherice was hungry and tired. She slowly poured a glass of Pinot Grigio, eyeing gray mist through the window. Still night. Her eyes, glistening tears, she ate toast buttered with 
Nutella. She showered, soaping up, trying to wash all the terror away. She rinsed the glass, setting it upside down to dry. She slipped into her jammies draped over the rod in the shower. All 
the lights were on once again. The T.V. was blaring even though weatherman McGann had retired for tonight several hours ago. Still, terror remained. The dark. She was so tired. She checked the clock. Four o’clock in the morning. She would try to sleep. She’d explain all to Aunt Bess later. But wouldn’t tell her that it was her brother. It was Uncle Lonny who tormented her, teased her. A long time ago.
 
    For now, she had to do what she did every night. Every single night since seven. She stepped out of the kitchen, turned. Go…upstairs. To bed. The final ritual. Every night. She hesitated. 
She felt so guilty about her anger she held inside after all these years. Ashamed about being so helpless, so scared. Her entire life. Especially sad about Lonny’s funeral. Worse because Aunt Bess was hopping mad. Okay, here goes. Just do it. One by one, she thought. 
 
    Sherice approached the bottom of the staircase. She pushed up on the light switch. The Tiffany went off. The switch next to it clicked easily. Kitchen light. Off. Next, she ran up the stairs. Quick! In case the invisible boogey man was still chasing her. At the top of the stairs, she flicked the next switch. The stair light. Out. She turned, dared peek into the darkness. Squinting. No one there. Right? She dashed to the space between the bathroom and bedroom. Bathroom 
 
LISTEN TO THE DARK/MILLER                                                                                          9
 
 
 
switch. Up and…Out. She rushed to her bed, flipped on the nightlight. How she needed that. Since she was seven, she couldn’t sleep without one. She about-face. One last light. The hardest. 
The bedroom. Sherice touched the switch, waited a moment. She had to time it precisely. Give herself a chance to run. Get under the covers fast. She pushed down. Hard. Bedroom light. Out. Only the nightlight gave her solace. 
    Then On! What? The bedroom light came back on. By itself! Sherice froze. A voice. Deep. Throaty swirled around her. A man. Distinct. Uncle Lonny? Guilty? Facing God? He sounded so 
far-away yet spoke right in her ear. “I’m sorry,” he said.
 
    So weird. And strange. She shook. Yet calm swept over her. Of course, she’d keep the nightlight on. Always. But maybe….all the lights? “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered, tucking the covers tight around her and over her head.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 15, 2023 03:45",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ckt8v9,Finding the source. ,Arter Fake,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ckt8v9/,/short-story/ckt8v9/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Thriller']",5 likes,"
Tick tock. Tick tock. Says the clock a millionth time. I have been trying to sleep for the past three days now, but I just can’t do that.
""Oh, take a sleeping pill before you go to bed for a good night of sleep,"" says the doctor. No shit, Sherlock. I can still sleep, or at least I think I can. No, I am sure I can sleep just fine. It’s just that I know it's here.
It has been here ever since my childhood. ""Oh, you silly boy. It’s just your imagination playing tricks on you."" Says my mother. Yes, I would think. The room I am in didn’t change. The shadows didn’t just rearrange. Correct, the only thing that did change was what I could perceive at night.
But I wasn’t correct. My mother wasn’t right. I am not a silly boy. How glad I would be if that were to be the case. It would take shape in the faintest spots of darkness in my room. Then, I would hear it crawling, prowling, and playing with whatever it could put its hands on. I could only shut my eyes and pray that nothing would happen.
I moved the bed to the center of the room and laid every lantern, every night lamp, and every item that could provide a source of light on every wall. But it was still there. I could hear it behind or under my bed. I just couldn’t sleep.
I started taking sleeping pills, but the thought of being at the mercy of that thing kept me awake, and I needed to sleep. My eyes were crying out sand, my brain was tearing itself apart, and I could only sit there and wait for dawn. I couldn’t live like this. There had to be a solution.
One pill turned into two, and when that didn’t work, two turned into three, and eventually these additions resulted in a visit to the emergency room. That was a pleasant experience. Their room was surprisingly well lit. I suppose my family was done with me by that point, as I was put in a psychiatric hospital. I didn’t fit in there because, unlike the Toms and Jerrys there, I was right. It was real. It was waiting.
""Is it really, though?"" asked the doctor. I couldn’t say for sure. 
I never actually saw the thing. Thus, it must have only been me, right? In hindsight, everything could be explained as the hyperimagination of a child or as noises that would only be considered logical when the source was found. I have read somewhere that wooden boards can creak by themselves in the colder seasons of the year. 
I was released a week ago. I was deemed fit to live as a normal member of society. Thankfully, my uncle allowed me to use his old apartment until I could provide for myself. I am really grateful to him, and I have really tried to find a job, but I am just too tired. I will try again once I stop this. I need to be normal.
Is it truly the dark that I fear, or is it what is hiding within it? I don’t know. It is natural for living beings to be scared of it. It is written in our genes, after all. For centuries, we have developed this instinctual fear of predators hidden in the dark. It is quite strange to think about it now that fears are passed down from generation to generation. And the only way to resolve it is through logic itself. I have left my lights on constantly for the first few days, but I can’t do that anymore as the electricity within the entire apartment has stopped working.
Looming over this room, awaiting the last candle to burn out, lays the being that shows itself mockingly at the corner of my eye. Every time I turn to look at it, its shape fades back into whatever item it was formed from. I'm trying to not acknowledge it, but the very act of ignoring it is a sign of acknowledgement.
The knocks. The creaks. The voices. I can hear them. Whenever I turn to look behind me, something darts back into the dark. I am running out of candles, and outside this room, a shroud covered in darkness awaits me. Tick tock. Tick tock. Marches the clock onward, and so on. How many hours has it been since I last slept? I look at the clock. It's 2:02 AM. The voice is whispering to me. I talk back, but there is no response. This procedure happens time and time again. What seems like hours pass by. The clock plays the same old tune. And eventually I look at the clock again. It's 2:03 AM. The fine line between reality and fiction is coming to a close. Every time I move, an afterimage seemingly emerges before disappearing back to where it came from. I have decided to light up the final candles. I placed four of them in the living room and kept the last one to myself. I will find it, even if it's the last thing I do.
I get up and start heading towards the source of the noices. I find myself walking from the living room to the long hallway. I turn a corner, then two more from there to the kitchen, and make my way through another hallway before I arrive at the end, where the bathroom is. Nothing meets me, but the voices are still there. I followed it again. From the bathroom to the kitchen and then to the hall. Then to the long hall, and then another and another, only to find myself in the bathroom. The voices seem to come from where I came from. I open the sink and arrive in the living room. All of the candles have burned out. The ticking tocks and the tocking ticks. All that is left is a pool of soot formed out of the remains of the burned-out candles. A single candle lights up. I pick it up and answer its calls, and yet there is no response.
","July 14, 2023 14:03","[[{'Tommy Goround': 'Clapping', 'time': '21:37 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Arter Fake': 'Thank you!', 'time': '14:21 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Arter Fake': 'Thank you!', 'time': '14:21 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,g1kxqo,A Troll Jumping into Lake Superior,Craig Miller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g1kxqo/,/short-story/g1kxqo/,Character,0,['Fiction'],5 likes,"
 It all started with a YouTube video called Cliff Diving. On the screen, kids jumped into Lake Superior, the coldest of the Great Lakes, from a place called Black Rocks in Marquette, Michigan. It looked, surprisingly, fun. Something I had not done before; something out of character for me.           This was when I decided I should do this.           Even though one obstacle stood in the way: my fear of heights. A paralyzing fear that I thought I’d dismiss as silly later in life that had only intensified.Two years ago. The beach. A five-minute drive from my house. Fifteen on bike. My best friend, Bennett, and I. Our hometown of Muskegon, Michigan           The channel.           The water black as I stood ready to dive in. Only seven feet below. Easy.           ""Count to three,"" Bennett said.           One.            Two.            ""I can’t do it,"" I said.           He jumped; I didn’t.           ""It’s not that bad,"" Bennett said, standing beside me. ""Go on two this time.""           One.            Two.            ""I can’t do it,"" I said, standing, watching as Bennett jumped again, wishing I had the courage to take the leap, knowing it was less than ten feet down but it was as if some invisible force held me back.Two years without seeing Bennett—he moved an hour away. Got a nice job at an insurance company with health benefits. Maintained a serious relationship with a woman that progressed to the next step: marriage.The Mackinac Bridge. What Michiganders refer to as the UP (Upper Peninsula)—a land that was connected by the five-mile bridge, 200 feet in the air over Lake Michigan. Only one person died on the bridge (suspected suicide).           The Lake Michigan water blue and placid underneath. Since I’m from the lower peninsula—below the bridge—I’m called a “troll” by my fellow UPPers.           The lower peninsula got smaller in my rearview mirror.           I passed semi-trucks and drove over the bridge as fast as I could.           All the moments in my life I should have been enjoying I rushed through.           The one-floor hotel was smaller than anticipated. A blue moose statue stood out in front of the building. I noticed the absence of a northern accent when the girl at the front desk talked.           ""Why don't you have a UPPer accent?"" I asked.           Her hair was light blonde. Her lipstick red, eyes green.           ""I'm from the lower peninsula.""           A troll like me.           Disappointment.           ""Where do I have to go to hear an accent?""           ""About an hour or so north.""The location of the wedding, a hidden gem—barely over the bridge with a clear view of Lake Michigan in St. Ignace. The wedding invitation read, Pre-Wedding Invitation. Everybody's invited.                       I pulled up and saw Bennett's family, his brother throwing a football to Bennett's fiance's brother. It felt like a family get-together, the pre-wedding meal, the practice run—not something I should be a part of.           I drove away, wishing I had stayed.My job at the distillery. Climbing ladders makes me uneasy, looking down, my legs shake. Maybe it wasn't really acrophobia. Maybe it was more ptophobia.           Grab five boxes of bourbon for the order, I told myself, standing on the ladder.           ""You can hand them to me,"" my co-worker, Derek, said. ""I heard you were afraid of heights.""           ""Thank you.""           I handed the boxes, one-by-one, building an order of handcrafted Michigan-bottled bourbon.           ""I need you to go up top and grab boxes,"" my boss walked by, teasing—everybody knew.           Last time I climbed up there it took me ten minutes to work up the courage to get down. One little step at a time, fearing the ladder would give out, my feet would slip, I'd wind up a tangle of broken bones.           My boss showed no fear, lifted by a forklift thirty feet in the air without a safety harness. I wished I had that same kind of bravery, but I've never been brave. Never conquered my fear. Not that doing one thing defeats a fear, but it's a victory, a small one.           A step.The drive to Marquette, Michigan the day after Bennett’s wedding. Solo. My head pounded like a drum, my body dehydrated.           The three-hour drive north. The farthest I'd been away from home—the farthest I'd driven on my own. The roads were 55-mile per hour roads, but everybody went at least 75. I didn’t see a cop the entire drive up.           My destination: Presque Isle Park.           Black Rocks. Cliff Diving into Lake Superior, the coldest of The Great Lakes. The highest I've ever jumped. Me facing my greatest fear.           The park confused me, driving around. Even though I looked at the map. Directionally challenged would be an understatement. Slightly stupid, would be more accurate.           I found it; I walked from my car. I wore shorts and didn't bother bringing a swimsuit. Made sure to leave my cell phone in the car. Despite how cool a video it'd make, I had no one to film it. Solo. Alone. Not even sure I could do this.           And, I was a stubborn elder millennial unfamiliar with such technology.           It was a warm September. Lake Superior takes the longest out of the great lakes to warm up and doesn't get reasonable until August or September.           An older guy with a mint stout from Black Rocks Brewery sat by the edge of the highest part.               “There’s room to sit here,” he said.           I ventured as close as I dared.           “You have to come right up here, and you can dangle your legs over,” he said.           “I’m good.""           “Are you afraid of heights?” he asked, looking puzzled.           “Some might say that.""            College kids everywhere. A group of guys yelling. One did a backflip from the highest point.           The sun glistened, making the rocks in the water visible.           “Last year it was scary,” a college kid said, announcing to a group. “You could see the rocks.”           “They’re far enough down,” another added.           Finally, I sat a few feet from the edge.           A group of four college kids came up. A petite girl with brown hair and sparkling brown eyes.           “Mel, are you going to jump?” One of the boys asked the girl.           “No, I’m not doing it this year,” Mel said.           She looked at me, our eyes locked.           “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to do it,” I said.           “It took me over an hour last year,” Mel said.           ""It's been at least an hour.""                Finally, I stood over the edge looking into the water. I immediately backed up.           But I knew what I had to do. One ... Two ... I walked up to the edge and didn’t stop, didn’t even think about it, let go, and fell through the air and as I fell I thought, This is a lot farther down than I thought it was, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it because of gravity.           The hang time: eternity.           The water hit, not as cold as anticipated. I dove further into the water than I thought, all of it around me, for a few seconds, I held my breath.           I surfaced. 
","July 14, 2023 20:21",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,k7tf3r,Here Comes The Sun,Danielle Azoulay,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k7tf3r/,/short-story/k7tf3r/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Suspense', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
Dear Margaret White,We are pleased to inform you that the admissions department at Top Mount University has received your application. In order to continue this process, we request that you submit an original writing piece using the following prompt:Write an essay about an obstacle you have overcome in your life.We look forward to hearing back from you.Sincerely,Top Mount UniversityI sighed.My life is dreary. My life is depressing. My life is dark. My life is-“Wow, how very creative. I’m sure the admissions team at Top Mount wasn’t expecting Tim Burton to apply to their prestigious school!”I looked up dully at my older brother, who was leaning his entire face into my computer screen and cackling, his face reflecting the light like some sort of evil villain.“What would you suggest, Theo? Shall I sprinkle some smile emojis and exclamation points in between each sentence? How about, ""I’ve overcome my completely irrational fear of going outside and I just can’t wait to be swallowed alive!""""He rolled his eyes.“There are plenty of realistic things to look forward to, Magenta. Like…”He paused, looking around the room for inspiration.“See! You can’t even think of something off of the top of your head! And don’t call me Magenta,” I grumbled.“Besides, how is what I said not realistic? It happened to mom.”“Magent-Maggie,” Theo pleaded.I stayed silent, blankly staring down at my shadow against the floor.I wasn’t always this negative, I promise. Up until I was 15, my life was pretty great. I was a summer baby, born at the very beginning of July. I think it’s why I craved the sun so dearly. It was like a built-in present. The golden rays blanketing my tanned skin in a warm embrace. My chestnut hair glittering red like rubies against the beams of gilded light.Birthday parties spent at the pool, the smell of sunscreen and fresh pizza pies wafting through the friendly breeze.Summer camp nature walks, exploring tiny wildlife scattering through the dirt.Nothing made me feel more alive than the life I used to have.I missed it. Though homebodies like my brother would disagree. “Well, I’m going to go play soccer on my V-Box. If you need anything, dad should be home in like an hour,” he muttered, his lanky frame disappearing into the dimly lit living room.I exasperatedly hit as many keys as I could on the keyboard, forming a jumble of letters that sounded more coherent than everything I’d written in the past hour, and closed my laptop.I didn’t have the willpower to continue this essay, or to start it, for that matter.I sat in silence for a while, until the high strung notes of my public domain ringtone made me jump.My phone screamed for my attention on the table from where I had tossed it carelessly earlier in hopes of avoiding the daily disastrous headlines that came with our new life.I glanced down at my best friend’s name and breathed in deeply before pressing “accept.”“Hey,” I croaked, attempting to sound cheerful.If she knew I had been moping around all day, she would put on a whole song and dance to cheer me up, and I just didn’t have the energy for her wild antics right now.“Maggieeee, we’re gonna play Uno and make a candy salad!” she exclaimed excitedly.“A  candy what?” I asked, almost smiling.“Y’know, like everyone brings over some candy and we dump it all in one big bowl and mix it. Candy salad!”I could tell she was very proud of this idea.“You’re really running out of ideas, huh?” I smirked.“I’ve got gummy sharks, your absolute favoriteeee,” she sang.I paused.“Carmen I-”“Don’t you dare say no! Maggie, I miss you. You need-”“Fresh air? Sunlight?” I mumbled.“Well we obviously don’t have that right now, so we have to make the most of what we’ve got. C’mon Mags, please,” she whined.“Maybe I’ll join over a video call in a few.”“Maggie, it’s not healthy to-”There was a stiffening silence, and I almost checked to make sure she didn’t hang up.“Okay,” she said quietly, “I’ll talk to you later.”“Okay, bye,” I said, “and-”But the call had ended.The slate gray tarps against the window shivered as a gust of wind knocked against it.The unfortunate reality of it was, one day we all woke up inside of a sci-fi novel.I didn’t pay much attention to the news lately, but I knew the basics. They called it the Great Event. Terrible name, if you ask me. The science guy I follow online, Solar Steve, said that the catastrophe had something to do with something going into the sun and changing the chemical balance or some garbage. That chemical change caused a disastrous reaction in the shadows of living things.Three years ago today, everyone was living their normal, boring lives.And then, within an hour’s time of the news, unknowing civilians caught in the sun were consumed on the spot by these sheer, untouchable entities of themselves.The screams of those caught in the sun still rang in my head like some sort of morbid horror music.“Where is mom?!”My dad had gathered my brother and I in his arms, hiding us in a closet like the emergency newscast had advised.His arms were shaking but his expression beneath his thick handlebar mustache was stoic and the grip on us was vice-like.My mom had taken our dog, Googly, for a walk. If you think that’s a horrible name for a dog, I would agree. But my mother had thought his eyes, hidden under a sheath of sandy fur, looked exactly like the plastic eyeballs used for arts and crafts and therefore, googly it was.In case it wasn’t obvious, the two of them never returned.I can’t think about the details of what happened to them; it makes me shut down to imagine what broadcasters have talked about these monsters doing to humans, let alone the humans I loved more than anything in the world.This sadly isn’t some dystopian Peter Pan novel. We buried ourselves in the shadows to hide from them.Any living thing could potentially create this transparent monster, human and animal alike. For the past three years, we’ve lived like vampires. The night is now our day. Once the sun comes up, we hide.Our houses, once distinctive with terracotta bricks and cream colored vinyl siding, were all covered in the same somber protection tarps, to make sure any and all natural sunlight was trapped outside.Of course, our modest world attempted to recreate all we had lost with “sun rooms,” where for the great low price of one-hundred dollars, you could stand on plastic grass and bake under a lamp, or bring your dog in for its daily poop.It wasn’t the same, especially for those of us who chose to avoid the outdoors altogether.I ended up staying in tonight. By staying in, I mean I didn’t video call Carmen. She hadn’t texted me since the phone call anyway. My dad came home around 6pm, and brought in stale pasta salad for dinner from the local Italian restaurant. There’s nothing worse than dried out noodles with a side of bread rolls that were so hard, I could’ve scoured the dishes with them.It was a Friday, so I usually stayed up late watching tv or having virtual hangouts with friends. Sometimes I’d even persuade Dad and Theo to play a board game.But tonight was just one of those stare at the ceiling and think kinda nights.I tried to brainstorm something for my college essay. The Great Event already made me a year late at starting, I didn’t want to go for two.It was still dark enough for people to safely be outside. But, in about an hour’s time, when the midnight blues of the sky started to dilute towards a watercolor gray, dozens of shrill, earsplitting alarms would sound. The clamor of scurrying footsteps and tires screeching would cut through the night until there was only silence.I peered out from behind the curtain cautiously and curiously.Across the street, a young couple was taking a stroll, holding hands and swinging their arms up and down like carefree children.They were probably going to get ice cream from down the road, I predicted.Just like I used to do with Mom. “Two cherry vanilla cones, and a small cup of vanilla for our good boy, please!” she would say, struggling to hold up Googly to the window.We would laugh as he batted his paws towards the heartwarmed employees, who would usually give him an extra spoonful to lick clean.My eyes pricked. When would this get easier?Out in the road, behind the couple was a scraggly brown squirrel prancing to an opening at the bottom of one of the town’s artificial trees.He must’ve sensed the sky lightening slowly and even he knew it was better to be safe than sorry.Mom loved animals, it would’ve broken her heart to see the way these creatures hid for their own survival. Nothing could thrive in the dark.Maybe I would take some veterinary classes, once I felt ready enough to go outside again.I didn’t know when that would be, of course. You would think someone as pessimistic and sour as me wouldn’t be bothered by the thought of getting caught in the sun. But I guess deep down, I did care, just a little. Because I knew this isn’t what Mom would want for me. The sky started to turn stone gray, and I knew I should be closing the curtains soon. But I kept watching the world, getting a slight thrill from the closeness of the sun.And that was when I saw him.Just off in the distance, a tawny blotch moving amongst the stillness.My eyes widened, as I crept closer to the surface of the glass pane, the uncleaned layer of dust ticking the inside of my nose.Was that-I shook my head. No, Maggie, don’t get your hopes up.The blotch turned, layers of long fur swaying, trying to keep up with the movement of the animal.And from behind my little window, I saw two gleaming, bead-like eyes staring straight at me.“Googly?” I whispered, watching him turn away and run down the sidewalk, carefree.It couldn’t be my beloved dog, but he looked so similar. What was he doing out this early?I was so busy staring, I had almost missed how light it had gotten outside. Where were his owners? Had he gotten lost? Why wasn’t he trying to scurry back towards the darkness?He probably missed the sun, just like me.Slowly, I closed the window, and sat down on the couch.That dog would find his way back inside, I was sure.But my mind was stuck on him, the way he almost looked like he was smiling outside.Or she? There were no visible collar or tell-tale marks of its gender from here.Shakily, I stood up and started walking towards the door.I hesitated.Maggie, let it go.But Mom wouldn’t have let it go. I was sure of it.Before I could convince myself otherwise, my hand was on the doorknob, turning it slowly.There it was, the little scavenger.I waved, trying to get its attention, but it was too far away.I couldn’t let this innocent animal die.With a clenched jaw and a weak stomach, I pushed the creaky door open and frantically flew across the street at full speed, my eyes glued to the dog.It was eerily quiet outside, even the wind had stored itself away.My heart struck my hollow chest like a gong as I neared the almost familiar face.It smiled up at me, its little wet, pink tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth as it breathed hot air against my leg.“Hey, little guy,” I trembled, still panting myself.It stood still, as though waiting for me to feed it. Maybe it would’ve been smart to bring some sort of food with me. It was too late to think of what I should have done.The sky was turning beige. I had to hurry.I reached towards it, but at the sight of my hand coming closer, it started to retreat further down the block, almost dancing on its furry paws.It thinks this is a game.“Please,” I pleaded, bending down. A cool breeze suddenly brushed past my shoulders, and I took a deep breath in, closing my eyes.There was a slight moisture in the air, landing on my parched skin.It felt good. I felt a spurious sense of freedom.I chased after the dog, unthinkingly starting to giggle.It continued to tease me, twirling around my body in circles while simultaneously evading my anxious grasp.The laces of my tattered converse tickled my ankles as the wind grew stronger.I spun around in excitement.My face dropped.From below I heard the dog whimper and growl, almost like it was fighting something.Reality came crashing down like a wave; all I could feel was a shock navigate its way through my body. The word no despairingly escaped from my mouth and suddenly the warmth of the sun felt very chilling.It was darker than a regular shadow, like an obsidian cloud that moved as though it were breathing. Puffing in and out, little wisps combined together into a large entity. But it was also me. The ends of its five fingers connected to mine like a perfect puzzle piece. A loud breeze constructed its figure, almost like a me-shaped tornado.I cautiously withdrew my hand from its magnetic hold only to discover that my every movement was being mimicked. I shut my eyes tight, so tight that I saw patterns dancing beneath my lids. Its warbled wind noise grew louder, and I looked up at it slowly. My entire body was pounding from the inside out.The head of the shadow started leaning into me, the icy air moving through the strands of my hair whipped my face and stung my cheeks.Maggie, you have to MOVE! My brain screamed, but yet I still stood in place, as though waiting for this horrifying substance to swallow me whole.How could I run? This was my shadow. It was attached to me and it was activated. I remembered all of the news stories I’d seen, the podcasts online where Solar Steve and other experts had analyzed our options in a worst case scenario. Was there a way to survive this?The answer was always the same. There was nothing anyone of any stature could do.“Please,” I mumbled half heartedly as the beast crept closer, until the wind had stolen my breath. I gasped for air, and released a soundless screech of pain as the inside of my body grew frigid. It felt as though I were frozen and on fire at the same time as the substance that composed the shadow filled my lungs. The burning ravaged through my body deliberately, like a starved vulture latching onto its prey. I was paralyzed, screaming internally but the only noise was the haunting whistle of the shadow. It reminded me of hearing cars on the highway at night, whipping through the darkness like angry ghosts.I saw a flash of something that looked almost like eyes and a mouth, and then everything faded to black.Have you ever looked inside of a kaleidoscope? You know, those little cardboard tubes that look seemingly stupid from the outside but hold a world of glittering colors and pleasing symmetrical patterns underneath?My eyes struggled to adjust to what was in front of me, and it took a second to remember where I just was.Vibrant, illuminated colors surrounded me, bouncing off of my body as though I were made of glass.Was I in heaven?There was no wildlife, no ground, no sky; it was just an intricate jumble of violet, cyan, and magenta. These pigments rippled amongst what felt like millions of other colors that would've normally been imperceptible to me.What the hell? Wait, was I allowed to say that here? Suddenly from somewhere in the distance, I heard a familiar tone.“Maggie!”“Mom?”A strange shape made more of transparent light than solid flesh appeared before me.“Oh honey, finally!” it cried, in what almost sounded like my mother's voice.I stared back suspiciously, then looked down at myself and nearly fell over.Why did I look like a prism?! “Am I hallucinating?”The shapeshifting rainbow laughed, it sounded like the twinkling noise from toasting two glasses together.“Welcome to the Sun Realm.”Well, I think I finally had a decent essay topic.
","July 14, 2023 21:48",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,ab5vwh,The Only Family I Need,Giulia Fancelli Clifford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ab5vwh/,/short-story/ab5vwh/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",5 likes,"
Trigger Warning: This story mentions blood and the sensitive theme of multiple miscarriages and pregnancy loss.---------------------------------------------Martha woke to pain resonating across her stomach. She had eaten hours earlier but now felt like she could throw up, nausea hitting her like a slap. She put a hand to her mouth to muffle a groan and eyed the door to the ensuite, her heart quickening.Behind her, her husband Douglas was nestled to her back with his arm wrapped around her tummy.Panic hit Martha—she didn't want Douglas to wake up. Her husband had been working overtime to prepare for a competition; she didn't want him to lose precious sleep. She tried to convince herself it was nothing—just a bug. Biting her index finger, Martha moved Douglas’s arm to sneak out of bed. Her pyjamas stuck to her sweaty skin felt damp and cold. When she stood, the world spun; she fumbled to hold on to the bedsheets and doubled over herself. The most painful jabs came in regular waves, maybe every two or three minutes, so she had the time to drag herself to the bathroom before it got painful again. Unable to stand up straight without dizzy spells, she supported her weight with onearm, half crawling, half holding onto the furniture. She reached the door to the ensuite and grabbed the handle, then held on to it as she twisted it open and disappeared inside, locking the door. Having reached the toilet seat, she pulled down her underwear.Bloodstains. No, ‘stains’ was an understatement. More bloodsoaked.“Shit. I thought I had it three weeks ago?”She sat on the toilet to examine the damage. Her underwear was already in the bin, but her pyjama bottoms, and even the top, also needed changing. The sweat was pumping out of her, and the pain fogged her mind. She had painful periods in the past, but never before did she experience such agony. A new throbbing wave washed through her, leaving her breathless. She hugged her core and rocked back and forth, muffling her groans as her teeth bit her bottom lip, her eyes squeezed shut. What was happening? She dared peek inside the toilet bowl and noticed how much blood was running into it. The pain was almost unbearable; she would've screamed if Douglas hadn’t been in the bedroom. Further pain caught her unprepared. She felt a gush of blood falling in the toilet; her hand reached for paper to wipe and stared in shock at the large blood clots she had just passed. Her heartbeat quickened. “Shit. This isn’t normal!” she mumbled. “I don’t think it’s my period.” She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, trying to focus and make no noise. The last thing she needed was a worried husband panicking her further.Douglas! When the pain decreased, Martha allowed herself to think. This could be only one thing. Tears rolled from her eyes as the truth hit her like a brick. “I'm losing a baby, right?” she asked herself. In response, an even sharper pain ran through her core, and more blood fell into the toilet, along with something Martha didn’t want to identify. She didn’t want to look at it; it was too painful. Not physical pain — as soon as the something plopped in the toilet, her pain had subsided — but as she squeezed her eyes, pursed her lips and flushed the toilet, her soul felt empty. Almost hollow.All Martha could do was cry, shower, change, and hope she had gotten up quickly enough to prevent blood from staining the bed sheets. Douglas didn't deserve this. She wasn't going to tell him. After all, she had read about it and knew that one in four pregnancies ended with a miscarriage.“Next time, little one. Next time it’ll be okay.”Next time wasn't okay. Nor many times after that. It didn't happen every month, but Martha lived in constant fear. She swore that some streaks of grey had appeared between the blackness of her long hair, and her skin had never been paler. Terrified that she could get iron deficiency with all the blood shekept losing, she started taking over-the-counter iron supplements. This improved the black marks under her eyes but didn’t make her any less pale. She also started wearing pads, fearing that something would happen when she was out with Douglas or again while asleep. She lived with the dread of waking up nauseous, in pain and soaking a pad with blood. Yet, she kept trying. They had spoken about having a baby a couple of months before the first incident, and when the subject had come up, the joy in Douglas's gaze had been immense. “I always wanted kids. A big family,” he had said, a dreamy gleam flicking through the green of his eyes. “They’ll be so spoiled! I'll take them everywhere they want and get them anything that they'd ever wish for. You'll be a great mummy, my love.” She couldn't do that to him. He’d question whether they had to stop if he learned about her struggles. She didn't want to stop. She was sure that if she tried again, ate healthier, exercised more carefully…if she took vitamins, made charts...“I know what's happening,” she told herself one night. A few nights before, Martha took a first response and saw two bold lines appear on the stick. She cried that night; it was the first time she saw the lines. Until then, she'd only gotten sick and bled.She had booked an appointment with her GP to confirm pregnancy. She allowed herself to start scrolling pregnancy websites, typed the start date of her last period and saw the due date of the 6th of September of the following year. She dreamed of buying a little onesie, with cat ears on a little white hat, and the embroidering 'Papa loves meow' on the chest, to announce the pregnancy to Douglas. She knew Doug’s heart would’ve melted—Douglas loved cats so much that his pet name, from age 13, had always been ‘Kitten’. He also loved puns, so ‘Papa loves meow’ sounded like a perfect announcement.Right? Wrong. A few days later, she took a fresh pregnancy test to discover that the two lines had vanished. Then, sure enough, the cramps had started. And the blood. And now she sat again on the toilet, crying all her tears.“It must be my job,” she told herself. “It's my fault. My love for flying is killing my babies!”Her sobs echoed in the small ensuite as she banged her fists against the cold tiles of the shower's walls, gushes of water splashing against her naked skin and washing away the blood. Again. The websites where she read about ‘cosmic radiations’ that could cause women’s fertility issues felt a little fishy, but it was the only reason her fogged mind could come up with to justify it. Her tears mixed with the shower water. “Why am I so unlucky? Two years of failed attempts. I'm losing hope….” Her sobs resounded for a long time in the shower before she felt well enough to return to bed.--------------------------------------------------Another few months passed; again, Martha took a pregnancy test to find the two lines glaring at her, clear and bright. They were pretty dark this time because Martha had been afraid and delayed taking the test. But she was three days late, so the temptation had been too big. She still didn't say a word. She waited and waited, afraid to book with the doctor in case the lines disappeared again. She lived in terror for three weeks, asking to be put on standby at work, finding every excuse not to put a foot on a plane. Eventually, she went to the doctor, who confirmed the pregnancy and scheduled her following visits. The more days passed, the more she thought of breaking the news to Douglas. She even ordered the ‘Papa loves Meow’ onesie.However, everything went downhill at dawn on her first scan day. Once more, Martha woke up in pain. As soon as she opened her eyes, she recognised it. “Shiiiiit,” she hissed. She had decided only a couple of weeks ago to stop wearing pads, and now she could feel she was wet between her legs. After touching the area, she looked at her hand and saw bright red staining her fingers.“Damn it!” She stood from the bed, grabbed her phone, crawled to the ensuite, and locked the door, kneeling in the shower. She turned it on, not even bothered that she still wore clothes and they were now getting soaked. She would have to dump them to hide the blood. She would have to do something about the bedsheets; large bloody stains wouldn't go unnoticed tomorrow morning. Douglas would find out; she couldn't allow that. He couldn't know.“I didn’t fly even once. Why? I didn’t fly even once….” She hugged her middle section and groaned, doubled down on herself and caught a glimpse of her body in the bathroom’s mirror—the sight frightened her. She was covered in blood and soaking wet, sitting on her knees in the shower, her fingers leaving bloody fingerprintsall over her face as she cried. With trembling hands, she grabbed her phone from the floor, where it slipped off when she locked herself in the bathroom. Her fingers felt numb as she shook her way into her contacts and called her best friend. When Sama’s tanned face and reassuring smile appeared on the screen, Martha felt relief washing through her. Relief that didn’t last long.“Martha?” Sama’s sleepy voice asked from the speakers of her phone. Martha didn’t feel the strength to explain. She switched to the back camera and pointed it at the bathroom mirror. Her friend’s gasp resounded like a slap in the small room, where only the regular sound of the water dripping out of the shower filled the silence. “Oh no! Where’s Douglas?”“I can't tell him!” She sobbed. “He’d think I'm not good enough for him…”Sama's frown morphed into compassion in the snap of a finger. “Nope, Martha. I won’t allow you to keep hurting yourself.” Shaking like a leaf, she gave her best friend a severe frown and hung up the phone to dial Douglas’s number.“Uh, I'm awake, I'm awake…” Douglas yawned. He fumbled on his phone, pushing on the screen in a failed attempt to snooze the offending sound. When he realised the phone kept ringing and wasn’t his alarm, he switched the light on, grabbed it, frowned at Sama’s ID on the screen and turned on the call. When Sama’s face appeared, he mirrored her frown. “Sama? What’s up? It’s three in the morning!” He eyed his alarm on Martha’s bedside table. “Where’s Martha?” he added when he saw her spot in bed empty, not expecting Sama to have a clue. “That’s why I called you; sorry to wake you up, but—” Sama mumbled. He flashed his eyebrows, pulled the blankets to get up, and noticed the stains.“I’ll call you later.” He hung up, dropped his phone, dashed out of bed, and darted his gaze around until he saw the light switched on in the ensuite. He banged his fist on the door. “Martha! Are you okay?”“Uh,” she said from inside. “Go back to sleep.”His heart pumped in his throat. “Why is there blood on the bed sheets?” “I'm goo—” As she said that, her words turned into groans and the next thing Douglas heard, she was screaming.“Martha!” He crashed his shoulder against the door and moved the handle, trying to get in. “Fuck, it's locked! Martha, hold on!” He ran a hand through his hair and thought of knocking the door down, but then he remembered that they had recently changed the locks.“I’ll get a coin!” Oblivious to Martha’s pleas, he ran to the bed and rummaged into his pockets until his hand emerged holding a 20-pence coin. He smiled at it as if he had just found the treasure at the rainbow’s end. A few rushed steps back, and he burst inside the bathroom.Only to freeze on the spot and look at Martha, eyes wide. His hand ran to his mouth, his body dashing towards his wife inside the shower. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, oblivious to the water from the shower soaking his hair and clothes and the blood staining his pyjamas and skin.  “What's happening, my love?” he whispered. “Where's all this blood coming from?”“You shouldn’t have seen this,” she sobbed against his chest. “Every other time…”Her comment made Douglas gasp. “Has this happened before?” he asked. Martha screamed again and curled herself in his hold. “I'm sorry, Daah—Douglas. I didn't want you to find out.”“Why? How many times did you go through this?”“Two years…” Martha groaned and let out a low growl, panting and wiping the water off her forehead. “Almost every fucking month.” Douglas took in the clots running down the ceramic tiles of the shower, the blood, and Martha’s screams; his eyes widened. He leaned in, covering his screaming wife and wrapping her into a hug. “Why didn't you tell me? Hadn't we decided we were going to tell each other everything?”“Why should I have told you?” she shouted. Then her glare turned into a pleading look. She paused a long time, her eyes shut and her whole frame shaking. “I'm sorry. I was hoping that, eventually, one would stick. I didn't want to worry you…” But as he heard her saying that, he saw her gaze dart everywhere to avoid his. “Something tells me you’re lying, Freckles. What are you hiding from me? I thought you didn't love me anymore; it broke my heart. Please talk to me.”Martha winced at the pet name but didn’t have the strength to complain. She held onto him for dear life, uttered a louder groan as ‘something’ sploshed into the toilet, and finally relaxed in his hold. She hugged him tight, deep sobs shaking her frame. He tried to look in the bowl, but she held him stronger.“Please, don’t. I'm so sorry, Kitten. When we discussed starting a family, I saw how delighted you were. And I tried! I don't know what's wrong. I thought it was my job, and I was ready to give up on it to give you the family you crave and deser—”He stopped her by lifting her chin to look her in the eye. “You wanted to do what?”“Quit my job.” She saw he was trying to speak and put a pale finger on his tanned lips. “I know. I haven't flown once this time. It must be something different.”He stiffened and looked down, his Adam's apple bobbing. “D-do you think that...it's -my fault? Because I'm—”“I don’t think so,” she cut him off. “It's not your fault, not for the reason you think. There are thousands of male athletes who are fathers.” She felt him relax in her hold. “Silly Kitten,” she whispered. “You know I would still love you anyway.”He sighed and kissed her forehead. “Me too, Martha. So why was it so scary to tell me about it?”She blushed. “I…was afraid.” She bit her bottom lip. “T-that I wouldn't be good enough for you.”His hold on her shuddering form grew tighter. “It's me who doesn't deserve you, my love.” His lips pushing against her forehead muffled his words. “You’re so cold, you poor thing!”He looked her in the eye and smiled. “Now let's remove these clothes, shall we, and get you changed. I’ll take care of what’s in the toilet, don’t worry. Do you want to go to the hospital now?” He saw her shaking her head and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “We'll go in the morning, then. We must get you checked out.”Once they put fresh pyjamas on, their hair towel dried, and their bedsheets changed, Douglas picked Martha up bridal style and placed her into bed, tucking her in and kissing her. Then, he crawled back into bed, hugging her tight from behind and kissing her still damp hair. “We'll find a way. We’ll go to a doctor and get checked up. You can take a career break but don't give up on your job. It's your dream! And as you said, it happened even without you flying this time.”She grabbed his hands and held them tight. “Thank you, Kitten. I love you so much!” Her hold on his hands grew tighter when he kissed her. “I love you too, Freckles. Never think again that you're not good enough for me.”“What if...there's no solution?” she asked after a long pause. “If we can't have kids?” He hugged her again tighter. “There are other options, depending on what's wrong. Worst case scenario, we can adopt.”Martha gasped and got out of his hold to look at him wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”He smiled a smile that reached his eyes and made them sparkle in ways that released a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her belly. “Positive. Whatever happens, I'll give my family all I’ve got, whether it comes from us or not. And if it will be only us, my love, that's also okay.” He chuckled, lost in his thoughts. “We could...have two or three cats if everything else fails. We could call them—”But he didn't finish his sentence because she was asleep, and her breath gently tickled his neck. “I'm so lucky to have you, Martha. My love, my family, my world.” He felt her cuddling more tightly on his chest and sighed. As long as they were together, he had everything that he needed. Because all he needed was her.
","July 15, 2023 01:27","[[{'Michał Przywara': ""Definitely a horror situation! That opening is intense. Normally describing a move-by-move account of what a character is doing is a little risky in a written story, but here it works because she's in crisis and each bit ups the tension.\n\nOf course the other horror in this story, the non-physical one, is that she kept this to herself. Her fear is understandable, if not justified. She's paralyzed in a way, wondering how it's her fault, what she could change. It *being* her fault is in a way comforting, because that means she has some measure ..."", 'time': '01:23 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Giulia Fancelli Clifford': 'Thank you so much! This story comes from a partially autobiographic experience, so it\'s really dear to me. I\'m glad her fear, dilemma and reasons have shone through! It *is* a truly horrific situation to be in, and my heart goes to all the girls who face similar situations on a monthly basis. It did happen to me (not as many times as to Martha, but it did), and it\'s one of the most heartbreaking things in the world. As soon as I read ""greatest fear"", I knew I had to write this. \n\nThank you so much for your kind comment!', 'time': '10:55 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Giulia Fancelli Clifford': 'Thank you so much! This story comes from a partially autobiographic experience, so it\'s really dear to me. I\'m glad her fear, dilemma and reasons have shone through! It *is* a truly horrific situation to be in, and my heart goes to all the girls who face similar situations on a monthly basis. It did happen to me (not as many times as to Martha, but it did), and it\'s one of the most heartbreaking things in the world. As soon as I read ""greatest fear"", I knew I had to write this. \n\nThank you so much for your kind comment!', 'time': '10:55 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,s2d300,Lurking Amongst the Dark,Brooke Curry,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/s2d300/,/short-story/s2d300/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense']",4 likes,"
I still remember it like yesterday, I can still recall the feelings and emotions I felt that night. Even thinking about it sends chills up my spine, however, I know I came out of it just a little braver.
 
It had been a chilly, autumn night, one where the stars peeked out through the darkened clouds and the moon came and went just the same. What was once a relaxed girls' night had turned into an exploration into the woods behind my house, something I do often... in the daytime. I had my paths and my markers, but something about the darkened landscape gave the once calming, lovely landscape a more chilling feel. It's something about how the dark masks so much, how they can hold absolutely anything, has always made me awfully wary. Sometimes I feel as if I do see something within the shadows and silhouettes that lurk within the dark, looking back at me with darkened eyes, but I always pretend I don't. 
 
Which I'm sure is why, when we found a small structure that resembled a once warm cottage home abandoned within the depths of the forest, out of everyone, I had been dared to go inside. I wished they knew how much my skin crawled when the high-pitched creak of the door hit my ears, how much my eyes darted about my surroundings as I slowly walked inside, how much the second I was covered in darkness I wanted to run back into the moonlight. However, I promised myself that I would attempt to face my fears, that this would be good for me, that the worst that could happen was my foot going through a rotten floorboard, and in reality, these were naive things to think about. 
 
We'd taken whatever flashlights we could find out with us of course, and some were better than others. Mine tended to flicker and turn off at random, and to get it going again I simply smacked it against my palm a few times, not a big deal. However, now that I was in there, the dingy walls felt smaller than they appeared outside and the air had grown dense with dust, the flickering quickly became a hindrance of the highest degree. 
 
I observed the thin planks that made up the wooden floors, the peeling wallpaper, the blackened remains of fabric draping from wooden frames that once made up a sofa, faded pictures of nameless people in broken picture frames with shards of glass laying on the floor below decorating the dilapidated walls, and wires and unknown threads hanging from the ceiling that is in the process of giving in. It's a pretty standard abandoned place, nothing too special about it besides the fact that it's nearly pitch black in here without the light of my flashlight.
 
I looked to either side of me, a corridor to my left and a staircase leading down to the right, an old stone fireplace sitting directly in front of me. Wondering which way could lead to more light, despite the rational fact that going down would usually lead to less light, I decided to go downstairs first in search of more windows for moonlight to shine through as I could see the shine of light on something down below from the doorway. Abandoned buildings already have a certain feeling within them, I've been in a handful throughout my life of stupid teenager antics, but this is a new level as I usually do explore in the daytime for a reason. 
 
Ever since I was a child I had lit my room up with nightlights and kept the hallway light on every night, once the lights were off I never opened my closet, never looked under my bed, and refused to go into any room or space unless the light was on. Something about the feeling of unease, the unknown per se that could be prowling within the dark set me off every time, and it still does to a point. The only difference now is I'm supposed to be more mature, being scared of the dark isn't exactly something that is supposed to stick with you once it gets older, but for me it has.
 
I kept my light pointed at the ground as I watched my step, making sure to only step on planks that appeared reliable as I walked down the stairs, feeling the wood bow under my foot didn't exactly help my nerves. I saw moonlight ahead at the bottom of the stairs, and I still believe that was the only thing that got me down those stairs. It took everything in me to step down onto the dirt-covered floor, especially as the other half of the basement became visible. The moonlight made its way through a broken, dusty, cobweb-covered window and was shining off of a puddle that was without a doubt growing something within it. Despite the eerie feeling even being down here caused, nothing could top the dizzying feeling of having my back to the rest of the darkened space. 
 
Yet turning around didn't feel any better, especially when I did shine my flashlight that way and came to the sudden, bone-chilling realization that my light didn't reach the end of the basement walls. I could not fathom what was past the end of my faulty flashlight, part of me didn't want to anyway. I don't know what's scarier, not knowing what's there, or finding out and wishing you hadn't. The darkness continued on, I took a sharp gasp and backed up into the stairs as the light began to shake, and suddenly the light went out entirely. 
 
I remember getting dizzy almost immediately after the light went out, an unpleasant dryness threatened to choke me right then and there. Within seconds, what had once felt like an eerie dare to get me over my fears had turned into what felt like the end of days. I smacked the flashlight against my palm, desperately, silently pleading for the flickering light to come back, any light would do even if it was just for a moment. Within the darkness I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, the feeling of eyes pierced through my very being as I refused to look up from where I knew my hand was but could not see until something caught my eye. 
 
Out of everything, I tend to remember the image I caught from the corner of my eye better than the rest of that night, as the light I was once drawn to turned on me. Due to the light, I could see the outline of something that was not there before, it was uncanny, unsettling, and looked as if it was attempting to be human, but just wasn't. Maybe it was distinctly its odd height, how it was seemingly bent over in an unusual way, how its build appeared to be merely bones coated in a thin layer of skin, or how a low, echoing clicking noise followed its appearance. Most of all was the sheen of glossiness over what could be its eyes that made two distinct white rings amongst the pitch black. I was instantly riddled with clamminess, struck with an intense headache, and my heart began to race as I violently hit my light onto my palm until I felt the edge break skin, only then did the light return. As if it was a weapon, I brandished my light toward where I saw the being, but it seemingly evaporated back into the dark.
 
I didn't need to look further into the dense dark, but the thought of turning around to run back up the stairs felt more like a death wish than anything else, so as much as I wanted to spin on my heels and clamor up the stairs as quickly as I could, I knew that turning around would only frighten me more. Not to mention the stability of the stairs was questionable, if I ran up them too suddenly I could break through one and either hurt myself or become slightly trapped down there, so with all my might I resisted the urge and slowly began going up the stairs backward with my light scanning the basement floor. The trembling soon became so violent the light began to flicker all due to my own shaking, but once I hit the top of the stairs, I spun around and lunged towards the door. 
 
However, the house seemed darker as the clouds covered any extra light I could have, and down the corridor I chose to not go down was nearly perfectly, horribly pitch black. Even then I could distinguish the long-limbed thing, or maybe it was a portion of the collapsed ceiling dangling down, but I did not want to stay and find out. As I reached the door, I remember the chilling sound of sudden rhythmic thuds racing up behind me only to suddenly come to a halt just behind me. I hadn't closed the door behind myself either, someone else had to have done so, the hinges were too rusted and sticky for the wind to have been able after all. However, now those same hinges seemed stuck, and at that moment the darkness itself felt as if it was breathing down my neck, its aura cold and eerily empty. 
 
The flashlight flickered off one more time, sending my heart to a sudden halt. Swallowed entirely by darkness, tears quickly rushed to my eyes and spilled out onto my flushed cheeks. I remember how I pounded on the door until the splinters from the weathered door buried themselves within my fists and screamed until my already dry throat turned to nearly silent screeches, waiting for someone to come from the other side and get me out of there felt like an eternity. I could hear the chaos on the other side, at least they ended up feeling bad for daring me to do such a thing, but it still took them nearly an hour to unjam the door using broken branches as makeshift crowbars. It still somewhat sounds like a nightmare thinking back, but I also know that after the first initial panic, I eventually sank to the floor and sat by the door. 
 
Without the light, my eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness and allowed me to see what I had previously only seen silhouettes from. The thing I once believed was a devilishly lanky creature turned out to be a ladder leading into an area of collapsed ceiling that had been left to fall apart. Nothing came from the thuds I heard behind me, as now I could see some newly fallen stones off the fireplace. Eventually, as I stared at the same room for the hour I was stuck, with the moonlight aiding my eyes, my heart eventually stopped racing once I realized there was nothing hiding in these shadows. 
 
I instead thought of who was in the pictures on the walls, how they must've lived a nice, peaceful life in the very house I sat in. The worst the dark could be hiding was a raccoon or rat, and by the time the door was open, I had grown oddly familiar with the once terrifying room. If I could grow comfortable in such a place, one riddled with memories that don't belong to me, I could go home later than night and turn the hallway light off and unplug my night lights. From then on, I kept a flashlight by my bedside and slowly got down to one nightlight. 
 
Eventually, I was even able to go back to that place, and it was easy knowing the shadows didn't hide something sinister. That was until I wandered down to the basement once more. Even in the daytime, the other side of the basement was pitch black, and now the sunlight reflected off of a pair of glistening rings that seemed to shift the second I looked it's way. Come to think of it, I never did find an explanation for the figure I believed I saw that night down there, and for the last time, I didn't stick around to find out. 
 
I pretended that I didn't see it, I think that saved me from getting stuck in here again, as when I went back up the door was still open. It might've saved me as well, as I had wandered out alone this time around. After that, though I still felt brave, I felt grateful more than anything that I wasn't alone the first time, and that whatever was down there found enough mercy to spare me the second time around. I would never test its patience again, I faced the fear I wanted to face, I did not need anything more from that place. 
 
","July 14, 2023 09:52","[[{'Bruce Friedman': 'Wonderful story, Brooke. Excellent effort. In my personal opinion, it would help accelerate the tempo if you broke up some of your longer paragraphs. Welcome to Reedsy.', 'time': '13:15 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,u0742x,I AM YOU,Helen Nikoleishvili,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u0742x/,/short-story/u0742x/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fantasy', 'Sad']",4 likes,"
IAt first, I believed that my struggle was a passing phase that would eventually fade away. But as time went by, my social anxiety consumed me. I grew wary of everyone around me, doubting their love and fearing that they would harm me. It became so overwhelming that one day I made a decision: I left behind my home, my family, and my friends, seeking comfort on a secluded island, far away from the reaches of civilization. In this place, I hoped to find the peace of mind that I had dreamed of for so long.I became unaware of the passage of time on the island. I lost track of the days, months, and years, detached from the concept of time itself. Without a mirror to reflect my aging and without anyone to notice it, indifference replaced the fear of growing old.The island was not very special. It was neither beautiful nor hideous, neither big nor small. Most significantly, this place offered me comfort and tranquility. However, there was something that used to make me sad—the absence of vibrant flowers. As a gardener, I longed for the beauty of the little yet stunning garden I had cultivated in the village yard before moving here. Despite my efforts to recreate that beauty in the depths of the island, I failed. Finally, I understood that flowers would not blossom here and gave up.Although the island was not remarkable, it held a unique treasure unseen anywhere else: a magical spring that granted wishes. However, there was a rule: only a single wish could be made, so one had to consider carefully how to use its magical power. I understood that blooming flowers was something I needed to accomplish on my own, not with the help of magic.The quiet on the island eventually transformed into boredom. I found peace and even moments of happiness, but there was no one to share my thoughts with. Perhaps it would not be so bad to have someone here, but my fear and distrust prevented such desires. Yet, I began to hope to find a way to break free from my isolation and have someone who I could love unconditionally and without fear. And then I thought of something.III arrived at the magical spring. I stood there for a long time in silence, thinking about whether to make a wish that had never crossed my mind before. Finally, I closed my eyes, summoned my strength, and asked the universe to create my doppelganger—a companion with whom I would share my peace and solitude.Once I opened my eyes, I saw my wish fulfilled standing in front of me. My doppelganger and I exchanged glances. It was such a strange sight—an image of me, but not me. I observed myself from an external perspective, realizing I was not as pretty as I believed. Maybe, in the past, when I used to look in the mirror, I would try too hard to present myself more attractively than I truly was.She was delicate and slender. Was she thinner than me? No, it was absurd to compare myself to her. After all, she was my clone and identical in every way.The doppelganger lifted her brows and pouted her lips slightly forward, and like that, she began to resemble my reflection in the mirror. I realized that those were the gestures I employed to enhance my appearance. What was her intention while doing that? Did she seek my approval or aim to prove that she was prettier than me? Or perhaps she was doing it unconsciously. But what was the point? She and I were one and the same.Smiles exchanged, and we embraced each other. I would no longer be alone. I finally had someone who fully understood me, and, in return, I would comprehend her completely.IIIThe doppelganger had none of my memories or life experience, but she carried all of my traits. I decided to tell her that the whole world consisted solely of this island, and that it was just the two of us here, so that she would not leave me.A deep bond developed between us, and we became inseparable. When we needed communication, we talked; when we desired to listen to the sound of the ocean waves, we sat together in silence. She was never too much or too little in my life. From time to time, she would embrace me, expressing her gratitude for having me in her life. In return, I was immensely grateful too. But as time went by, our honeymoon phase was slowly coming to an end, but we were not realizing it yet.Everything started with flowers. The doppelganger decided to cultivate a garden in the heart of the island. I tried to convince her that nothing would thrive here, but she gently assured me that she would still give it a try. And she did. She tried so hard! She would get up early every morning and go to the heart of the island to fulfill her desire. She was so like me! Her extreme urge to be perfect, hard work, and determination mirrored my own.Time passed, and one morning, the doppelganger rushed towards me and woke me up. Her eyes were full of joy. She took my hand and guided me deep into the island. And that morning, I saw the most breathtakingly beautiful garden human hands had ever created. It was full of unique blooms, a magnificent sight I had never witnessed before. Why had I convinced myself that flowers would not blossom on my island? Was it because I had failed in my attempts?Suddenly, I felt a wave of heartbreak and envy—emotions I had not experienced in quite some time. The doppelganger awaited my praise with a genuine and modest smile. But I knew what her expression was hiding—self-satisfaction mingled with guilt for achieving something I could not. She was well aware that such feelings were inappropriate and should not reach others. These were the traits she tried to hide, as she wanted to be an honest and kind person. Yet I knew everything, as she and I were the ones.What could I do? I smiled broadly and expressed how immensely proud I was of her. Yet, within me, I despised both myself and my doppelganger. That was what I ran away from! I had to pretend while watching her pretend.IVAnxiety took hold of me once again. My doppelganger, once a source of consolation, turned into a constant reminder of my own imperfections and the flaws inherent in humanity. I regretted countless times ever asking the universe to create her, but there was no turning back. I was now trapped in a state of permanent unease.Gradually, I came to realize that it was not only the imperfections of society. I could not accept my flaws either. I had rejected not only others but also myself. In reality, my greatest fear was not society, but rather myself. And I found myself living with that fear, witnessing her every day from an external perspective. Did I love myself enough to embrace the fact that I was not perfect, that I had flaws, and that I was not superior to others? The answer was clear: I did not. The only thing I yearned for was to rediscover the peace of mind I had lost. There was no one else but me who could bring me the peace I desperately sought.I stood at the crossroads. I was torn between two paths: the journey of self-transformation and accepting humanity’s imperfection along with my own, or asking my doppelganger to leave my island.                                                      …Everything started with flowers. I managed to create a stunningly beautiful garden, and my fellow human started hating me because of this. On one hand, I felt satisfied that I could do something she could not, but at the same time, I was ashamed of this feeling. I tried to suppress these negative thoughts in my mind, hoping they would go unnoticed. However, she had a way of understanding everything.As time passed, I started fearing her. I was constantly on edge, expecting her to say something hurtful or harm me in some way. She never did, but still, my fear grew stronger. Sometimes, with her strange gaze, it felt like she could see right through me, leaving me uncertain about what she was thinking. Eventually, my fear turned into a phobia, and my resentment towards her grew.In this world, there were just the two of us. Without her, I would be all alone. But slowly, I realized that I wanted to move on with my life without her. So one night, when she was sleeping, I stabbed her in the heart.
","July 14, 2023 14:03",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,r3t0pi,Regaining Glory,Faith Mazzei,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/r3t0pi/,/short-story/r3t0pi/,Character,0,"['Fantasy', 'Adventure']",4 likes,"
	I was all alone in this dark room, banging my fists on the steel door. All of my friends were off fighting while I was here doing absolutely nothing. This is how our “adventures” often go. Everyone else fights and gets all the glory, while I was just the boy that tagged along. 
	“Oh Raphael! You did such an amazing job fighting those dragons, how did you do it?” they’d ask. “Stacy! Stacy! Over here! Mitchell! James! Troy! Oh we love you!” 
	Then there was me, just plain old Barnaby who was always left behind. 
	They were taking way too long to get down here. Stacy was captured a couple of days ago and Raphael was furious. I was too, but that didn’t matter. He started planning on a way to track her down and get her out of there as soon as possible. His plan was fine, but not well thought out, hence the reason why they were taking so long. 
	I know this castle head to toe, and they all knew that. But they never listen. Suddenly, a thought came into my head.
 The tunnels.
	How did I not think of it before! There are tunnels connected throughout the whole kingdom and one leads to the dungeon, I was sure of it. 
	“Hurry up you idiots!” I yelled, but knew they couldn’t hear me. 
	There was no way I was going in those tunnels. They are way too tight and small for me. 
	I jumped back as the ceiling above me started shaking and crumbling. Time was ticking. 
 If they had just listened to me, everything would have been fine—.
	Instantly, the roof started crashing down. I had to get out of there. I ran as fast as I could up the stone stairs and down the passageways, going left to right, trying to find the others. Then a flash of orange caught my eye and I stopped. Troy was tied up to a chair, fear lingering in his eyes. Quickly, I grabbed an ax off the wall and flung it at the dark figure before him. The ax cut right through his skull and he fell to the ground. Troy looked up at me, astonished. 
	“Thanks, Barns,” he said as I untied him. 
	“Yep, now go find Raphael. I need him.” 
	“Come with me,” he said, “We shouldn’t split up just yet.” 
	“Alright,” I said, knowing he was still shook up. 
	I pulled the ax out of the figure's skull and started jogging, Troy following behind me. I was taking the long way towards the tunnels, hoping I’d meet Raphael or one of the others along the way. He often executed the final battle or in this case the rescuing of the mission. He was also small framed and would easily shimmy down the tunnels. Plus, he wasn’t afraid of small spaces like I was. 
	I wasn’t ashamed of pointing out my greatest fears or weaknesses, but now they were all people knew me by. I had plenty of strengths too. For example, my knowledge of different buildings and layouts around the city. I knew the back roads, passageways, tunnels, and paths we could take to make our mission much faster and easier to complete. Also, I was a natural at ax throwing. When I was little, I would spend everyday practicing my throws with this piece of wood and a little red dot. I wouldn’t stop until I hit that dot ten times in a row. I could easily take out any enemies with a simple throw of the ax. 
	Yet every time we were interviewed from our latest missions, Raphael would take all the credit for what I had done. And I never stood up for myself. I guess you could say I was worried about no longer being a part of the group. At least I was a part of something. I didn’t know what I would do if I wasn’t. 
	“Can— we— stop?” Troy asked, out of breath. 
 How are you out of breath? I asked him silently, We’ve been running for five minutes. 
	“Alright,” I replied. He put his hands to his knees and started heavily breathing. I looked around to make sure that we were clear. Then I saw Raphael sprinting down the hall. I was about to go with him until he stopped. 
	“We’ve gotta get out of here,” he stated.
	“Did you get Stacy?” I asked. 
	“No, but dude, we need to go. They’re way too tough.” 
	“Okay,” Tony said. 
 Are they serious?
	“What about Stacy?” I asked, starting to get angry. 
	“Stacy? She got herself into this mess, she can figure a way out. Come on.” 
	I was furious. I’ve always been frustrated with Raphael and his constant bossing around, but this was a whole new level.
	“If you follow me, we can get her out.” I said, trying to stay calm.
	“Hell no. Did you not hear me? We’re leaving.” 
	“You’re an asshole, you know that? A complete asshole who thinks that he’s better than everyone else. 
	“Well at least I’m not a complete idiot,” he replied. 
	I was about to punch him, but then he and Tony left. I made my way to the tunnels. I wasn’t leaving Stacy behind. 
	Running through the halls, I was always ready to strike. My knuckles turned white for gripping onto the ax. Then in the corner of my eye, I saw a figure. I turned around to find it directly behind me. Without a second thought, I threw the ax. It landed right on its chest. I pulled it out and continued running. 
	The tunnels were only a few feet away from me. Quickly, I kneel to the ground and started moving pieces of stone which conceal the tunnels. They were heavy, but I managed to move enough of them to let me fit. 
	Without thinking, I climbed in. It was dark but I knew the directions. After a hundred feet, there would be two paths. I would take the one on the right then the left. 
	At first I was fine. I had plenty of room to move around, but the farther I went, the tighter it got. My heart started beating fast. It was the only thing I could hear. Sweat dripped down my face. My breathing got heavy. 
 I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here.
	I kept repeating the same thoughts, and suddenly, I stopped. I couldn’t keep going. The tunnel around me seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. I felt trapped. I wanted to get up and run, somehow wake up from this nightmare. I felt like I was going to die. 
	My chest was in pain. My head was spinning. 
 Keep going. Barney, keep going. 
 My arms and legs started to move again. I could feel tears streaming down my face. My body turned right then turned left. 
 Almost there. 
	My mind continued to spin with different thoughts. 
 What will happen if the tunnels collapse? How will you escape? Is Stacy dead? What if this is the wrong way? What if I’m lost? 
	I was grateful when I saw the end of the tunnel. All my thoughts disappeared and I moved my arms and legs as fast as possible. When I got out of the tunnel, I felt like I could breathe again. 
	I grabbed the ax and started banging on the metal bars. Stacy jumped. 
	“Raphael?! Oh thank God— Oh, Barnaby?” 
	I felt embarrassed, but I continued to swing at the bars. Once a couple of them collapsed, Stacy slipped through. 
	“What are you doing here?” she asked, “Where are the others?” 
	“They left,” I said, plainly. 
	She started to frown, “Oh.” 
	“Okay, let’s go.” 
	“Aren’t you claustrophobic?”
	“Yeah.” 
	She was silent as I climbed into the tunnel. Stacy followed and I went the same way that I came. 
	I thought it would be easier, but it wasn’t. My heart heavily beat against my chest and my eyes stung with tears. 
	Stacy touched my back, “Are you okay?” 
	I was silent for a moment then said, “Let’s just get out of here.” 
	We were both silent as we climbed through the tunnels. Finally, after what seemed to take forever, we made it out. 
	The whole palace was on fire.
	Stacy started crying and smoke started to fill my lungs. I pulled my shirt up and told her to do the same. Grabbing her hand, I started to run. 
	I didn’t dare to look back. I could hear the castle crumbling down upon us.
	As we ran, my hand hit a piece of metal that was hanging on the wall, I groaned and could feel the blood start pouring down my hand. 
	The exit that laid before us was on the brink of falling apart. I launched Stacy forward and followed right behind. She was screaming. I was crying. Then the cool air hit my face. 
	The second we were outside, the ceiling came crashing down. Stacy and I were still running. We made it about a half mile away from the castle before I had to stop.
	I examined my hand. Grabbing my bag, I found a rag and started to wipe blood away from the wound then applied pressure. 
	“Are you hurt?” Stacy asked, alarmed. 
	“Just my hand, but I’ll be fine. There’s an apple in my bag, you should eat something.” 
	She didn’t object and took a grateful bite of the apple. 
	I cleaned my wound and wrapped a bandage around it. It would be fine. 
	“You know, you always have everything you need. None of the others pack anything but weapons.” 
	“You can’t always rely on weapons to survive,” I replied. 
	She nodded then said, “Thank you... for not leaving me.” 
	I nodded in reply and took a sip of my water. I offered it to her, and she took it. 
	“I’m done with the group after this,” I stated. 
	“I don’t blame you,” she said and I looked up, “I would be too but... I can't leave.”
	“Why can’t you?” I asked.
	“They’re all I’ve got.” 
	“I guess.” 
	“But... but, I think that I’d rather be alone than with them. Especially after tonight.” 
	I nodded. 
	We sat there silently for a few moments then started walking back to the cottage. 
	Stacy and I walked inside and saw the others laughing and drinking as though none of this ever happened. I was furious.
	“Don’t,” Stacy whispered but I ignored her.
	“Hey assholes, guess who's back?” All of them looked up and were shocked to find me and Stacy. 
	“Stacy,” Raphael said and walked towards her. 
	“Don’t you dare touch me,” she said, “How could you just leave me there?” 
	He stopped, “Well, Barney was the one that volunteered to go. We were going to, but he—” 
	“Oh, shut up!” I yelled, “You’re a liar and always have been. You think you’re the hero, but you're not. You’re not a leader, you’re a coward and a hypocrite. You always want people to treat you like a God, but you end up treating others like crap in return.""
	His face turned bright red, “Do you want to settle this outside?” 
	“No. I don’t want to waste any more of my time dealing with you.”
	I went upstairs and shut my door. I was done wasting my time on these people that don’t give a crap about me. I am worth way more than that. 
	As I packed my things, I started to reflect on the fact that I faced my biggest fear. Would I do it again? I hope not, but it was still something that astonished me. 
 You are much more than you give yourself credit for. 
	A knock landed on my door and I was about to yell at Raphael when Stacy walked in.
	“Um... Barns?” 
	“Yeah?” 
	“Wherever you’re going… Um. Can I come with you?” 
	I was silent for a moment. I never despised Stacy, but she was always bragging on the others. But when I came to think of it, she tried to give me credit from our different missions. 
	“You know… Barnaby made an awesome kill with that ax,” she’d say, “It’s like his secret weapon.” 
	I guess I was too busy focusing on what the boys would say about me rather than her. 
	“Sure,” I said, “Leaving in five.” 
	She smiled and walked out of the room.
	We walked downstairs to find the guys still drinking. They all jumped back when they saw us. It was as though they forgot we came. 
	“We’re leaving,” I stated. 
	The boys mumbled one thing or another, but I didn’t care. 
	Stacy and I walked outside. The night air was cool and dark. It felt good. 
	“Where are we going?” she asked. 
	“I’ve got a cousin in town, we’ll just crash at her place.” 
	She nodded, but looked like she had more to say, “What?” I asked.
	“Just… Thank you for what you did. And I’m sorry that you’ve had to put up with us so long. I hate them for not treating you fairly and I hate myself for not standing up for you more. You just deserve so much better.” 
	I continued walking and she fell silent, “Well,” I replied, “You did give me much more credit than anybody else did. Even me, so… Don’t hate yourself.” 
She nodded and neither of us spoke the rest of the way. 
Life now has changed in an instant. I’ve finally regained my freedom. My dignity. My glory. And that’s all I've ever wanted. 
 
 
 
","July 14, 2023 22:33",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,pi1hui,Hideous Delight,MJ Aria,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pi1hui/,/short-story/pi1hui/,Character,0,['Horror'],4 likes,"
	The feeling tastes acrid in my mouth. It is a rising of my heartbeat. A sweat on my brow. A shaking in my hands. It is an energy that pulses through me. I cannot sit still. I love and hate the feeling. It hurts me but I cannot live without it. I need to feel it. I open my mind and let it consume me. My knees shake, threatening to buckle. It is an addiction. A powerful drug. A bad trip that I cannot stop. I can’t wake up. I don’t want to. God, I wish I could stop this.
	I touch my face; my hand comes away wet with tears. I feel them trickle down my cheek, cold against my skin. My flesh is on fire. A live wire. Inside me a thousand hornets buzz. I want to shove my fingers down my throat to get them out. God, why do I crave this?
	The unmatched adrenaline. The absolute panic that boils up the bile in my throat. It makes me hard. God, I can’t breathe.
	I curse the day I got my first taste of the fear. Sometimes I need it so badly I have to smash my head against the wall to push away the thoughts. I. Can’t. Live. Without. It.
	Have you ever felt fear? Real fear. The kind that lights you on fire. Have you faced your worst nightmares? Have you found you are the nightmare? Have you found yourself going back to it day after day knowing it will tear you apart? Knowing it will hurt and knowing you will never get enough of it? Fear is a drug. You probably watch movies to experience it. Maybe you read a scary novel now and then. Laying in bed, under the covers, sipping your tea, and reading about silly monsters. You. Do. Not. Know. Fear.
	I wish I could show you. I wish I could show the world. No one would understand how I need it. Do you know why? Because they are too scared to come face-to-face with fear.
	I am afraid.
	I am always afraid.
	It destroys me.
	I need it.
	Please, reader, I beg you, understand. I am just like you. I have a family and friends who I care about deeply. I have a dog that I grew up with, his name is Rupert. I rode bicycles and skinned my knees. I studied at a university, went to parties, scraped money together for a used car, had family picnics. I’ve lost friends, had my heart broken, celebrated accomplishments, enjoyed simple pleasures. I feel happiness and sadness, perhaps more than you ever will.
	Please understand, I would never hurt a fly. I have never wanted to harm anyone. I believe life is sacred and beautiful. The loss of life is a cruel tragedy. A curse from whatever gods exist. No one deserves death, yet it comes for us all. Perhaps that is why we all search for some meaning beyond this chaos.
	Perhaps now is where you will judge me, reader. But I hope it is not too harshly.
	I hate the smell of blood. It is disgusting. Putrid. It is invading my nostrils. But it is not the smell that makes me dizzy. It is the sound. The sound of flesh separating and molding around the blade. Humans are so soft.  It surprised me my first time, the sound is like no other. A subtle squelch, like a frog trampled beneath your bare foot. The blood coats my skin, the insides squish between my fingers. It was messy, so messy my first time. I’ve gotten better. I know where to cut to make it quick and quiet. Now the messy part comes after. I am peeling away the skin. Rummaging through the organs. I want to throw up. Usually, I do. The fear is so relentlessly oppressive.
	My heart is pounding as a wrap my hands around my victim’s heart. I cut it from the mess of their chest. I pull it to my lips. “I am sorry”. I whisper. I am racked with tears that I cannot hold back. Every move I make is mechanical. Forced. Numb. But somehow so alive. I pull the heart to mine. I despise myself. I place the heart to my cheek. I wretch. There’s the familiar taste of bile. I am so afraid.
I plunge my hands once more into the lifeless form before me. I pull them out, slick with blood and press them to my face. Again, the bile rises. I double over, emptying my stomach onto the floor. I am so afraid.
	I am so afraid of being caught. What will my family think of me. What will the world think of me? I’m so afraid of not being caught. How will the world ever know? I am so afraid of this life I took. Who were they? Did they have people who loved them? Did they know today would be their last day on earth? Mostly I am so afraid of myself. I have to stop. I know I can’t. I know it will happen again, and again. I moan loudly, wringing my hands and pulling at my hair.
	Finally, it is too much for me. My need has been filled. I have bathed in the fear and it has fully destroyed me. I wrap the body methodically in plastic. I pour bleach on the ground and scrub away the last remnants of this life I took. This thing that used to be human, like me. This person I did not know. I hate myself.
	Perhaps now you hate me too. Perhaps you find me despicable. Now you judge me, but I hope it is not too harshly. Because, reader, we are not that different. You are always moments away from being me. I wish you would try it, just once, so you could understand the hideous delight. The only thing that separates us; you have not yet learned to love the fear.
 
","July 15, 2023 00:56",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,a3yl2h,The Box ,Bárbara Chechil,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a3yl2h/,/short-story/a3yl2h/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Suspense']",4 likes,"
Walking to nowhere in particular was now apparently her favorite hobby. She would just walk for miles on end in these desolate streets, never reaching her destination. 
She left her house before the sun rose, at indecent hours in the morning, and she would just walk. Sometimes in a straight line, sometimes in circles. She did not mind the cold, or the fog that haunted our town, or sometimes even the rain which hammered the top of my house like a mischief of tap dancing rats. 
She would never talk to anyone, not to the old woman who would hobble toward her muttering ancient curses in latin, not to the masked man who sometimes crossed her path carrying a blade which, if she had been paying more attention, she would have noticed was dripping something morbidly red. I tried to talk to her more than once, but she would seldom give me more than a wistful stare. 
Maybe it was too dark to notice, but she never paid any mind to the vine-like creature that settled itself on the trees that adorned the sidewalk, strangling and sometimes reaching out to touch her, or the hands that would grab at her feet from beneath the bushes when she walked.
She never really minded the eerie noises that settled themselves in the night, the creaking of the old manor houses, and the wind that howled when it was trapped in between them.
 
She walked and walked, in between the trees in the forest and on the streets alike, as if following the moon. 
 
She was never afraid of the darkness, it did not feel cold to her, nor did it feel overpowering, it felt like an embrace, like an embrace that she had been looking for for a long time. 
 
The only times I ever saw her stop her ritualistic walk was to stop in front of a house, the largest manor on the street. It was quite old, made of painfully white brick and large windows with black wooden frames. It was at least three stories tall, and had a tall black, weather-beaten, wrought iron fence surrounding it. She would stand outside of the manor for hours at a time, but always leaving before sunrise. If you looked carefully, you would notice that she would always stare at the left-most window on the second story of the house. 
If you walked outside that house at about four in the morning you probably would have thought that she was a statue, made of porcelain, her skin glimmering in the moonlight, or the flickering streetlights; she would be so still that tiny spiders would crawl up her legs, up her chest, on her arms, in her ears and her nose. Sometimes, when she was about to leave, she had to first get rid of the spiderwebs that had become entangled in her head hair, her leg hair, and her arm hair. 
 
She would only cry when she had the cover of the rain, and she thought that no one was watching her, and yes, that included the pair of white and red eyes that would often watch her from the darkness, who after a few nights of the same routine, graced her with looking away while she let out her tears silently, letting only her face show her pain. 
 
She never had something like a flashlight, or a coat, or an umbrella; all things that I had attempted to hand her with little success 
 
The one thing I never saw her leave her house without, however, was a box. 
It was not always the same box, but she always had one. Sometimes it was a big wooden box, sometimes it was small, and plastic. Sometimes it fit in the palm of her hand, sometimes she had to strap it to her back because it was too big to carry.
What seemed to be a constant is that each time, the box seemed to weigh her down more and more, but she did not set it down for anything; not if the rabid dogs of the neighborhood chased her, not if the gnomes attempted to steal it, not if she tripped on the wild roots of the primordial trees moved in to trip her. She could have broken a bone, or bled out; she would not let that box go. 
 
 
It was an especially rainy and cold Thursday when I watched her leave her house and, for the first time, return without the box. 
 
The box was cardboard, and while she walked it got very soggy but she didn’t seem to mind this. 
She walked very slowly, taking each step with overbearing caution; she was walking on a tightrope twenty meters up in the air with no net to catch her fall, and it had nothing to do with the very cracked and old sidewalk that often made pedestrians lose their balance. 
 
She was slightly more short of breath with every step she took, and this time it did not have anything to do with the impish ghosts of the town attempting to possess her. 
 
It had all to do with the task she was about to complete. 
 
Her hands trembled, not because of the cold, but because the box in her hands was very heavy, heavier than it had ever been before. For the first time, she did not walk in circles, she did not walk into the forest, which already knew her name, and used it to call her away from the beaten path, to trick her and keep her forever. 
 
She walked directly to the old, colossal, white brick manor with the large windows with black wooden frames and the towering wrought iron fence— a feat which took her about a quarter less than an hour despite the distance between the manor and her house being less than two blocks. 
 
She walked ever so slowly, so slow that the things that haunt the night paid her little attention; they thought she was only moving due to the heavy wind and doubted she was alive. 
 
When she arrived at the front of the manor, her heart beat faster than it had ever before. It was the first sound I ever heard her make, it was so loud I feared it would burst out of her chest entirely. 
I later learned I had no reason to worry about that. 
 
She placed her box into a backpack, and began scaling the fence. She was not very agile, nor very strong. It was not pleasant to watch as she, multiple times, fell flat on her back, having lost her balance, or slipped because of the water that coated the iron fence due to the pouring rain. 
She had to be particularly careful, at the very top, which was full of sharp spikes, which seemed to slowly grow towards her. 
At last, wet and cold, she got to the other side of the fence, at which point she was faced with the next challenge, which was getting inside of the house. 
 
First she thought to scale the house, and climb in through the left-most window on the second story. However, after she grasped the vines that curled up the house and used them to climb up for a few minutes, she found that each step she climbed, the vines moved downwards, never letting her up more than a half a meter off the ground. 
 
Discarding the first method, she thought to open the front door, but as she approached it, she saw that down the door were seven locks of varying widths. She tried picking the first one, but as soon as she placed her hand on the lock, it bared its teeth, then opened its mouth and bit down on her hand.
 
Finally, she thought to try and see if any of the windows in the lowest level would budge, and as her luck was, the last one she tried, all the way at the back of the house did. 
 
She climbed in, one foot in front of the other, her heart in her throat— figuratively speaking of course. She did feel a knot in her stomach, which was quite real: her intestines had crawled up and tangled up with the rest of her organs, pressing in with unabashed force. 
 
She found herself in a decadent and unfamiliar dining hall. She did not know the way around the house, not as well as you might have thought. 
 
She stepped quietly, measuring every step. The air in the house was moist and heavy, it made it difficult for her to breathe. Feeling the weight of the box drag her down even more with each passing second was enough to carry her forward. 
 
After minutes— which felt like hours— of walking endlessly around the manor, being careful not to knock over any of the porcelain vases or marble statues that were littered around, she found a curved and old oak staircase heading upwards. She was very conscious of every step she took; careful not to make much noise, as she did not want to wake the people in the house. 
 
She reached the top of the staircase and the weight on her back was killing her— literally speaking. It was crushing her bones, which were splintering and digging into her muscles. It was making her vertebrae collapse into one another and crack. It was making her ribs stick out in odd places. 
 
Every step was excruciating for her. 
 
In the second story of the house there were four rooms, all adjacent to one another. If she, by mistake, entered the wrong room, she would risk waking up the wrong person and not being able to complete her task. 
However, she found it was easy for her to know which one she had to go into; she recognized the beating of her own heart. 
 
She carefully opened the second door to the left. The knob burned her hand when she touched it, and she, once more, had to show herself stoic and silent. 
 
The beating of her heart grew louder when she entered the room. In fact, there were two hearts, beating not in unison, but in disharmony. She closed the door, wary to not touch the scorching doorknob. 
 
That was when she saw him. 
 
Him, sleeping peacefully, with his angel face and angel eyes. 
Seeing him was like a blade to the heart. 
Missing him came in waves, waves of remembering how life used to be and waves of remembering what he did. 
It was enough to kill her. 
 
She set down her backpack and pulled out the soggy cardboard box. 
She grabbed the box and set it down next to the sleeping man, took off the lid to reveal: 
 
It was empty. 
 
And, at this part, even the eyes in the darkness turned away. 
 
She unbuttoned his shirt carefully, but she knew he would not rouse. 
Out of her pocket, she pulled out a knife. It was a small knife, but it would do the job.  She was scared: I could tell. Her hands were wet, and it was not because of the rain outside.
 
She plunged the knife deep into his chest, drawing a line right in the middle. Blood spewed out, but she was not intimidated by such a sight. 
Breathing deeply, she set the knife down and with trembling hands, opened his chest, revealing his overflowing insides. 
Her beating heart was now deafening, it made her cry, and so some of her tears fell into his open wound. 
He did not rouse, he had no reason to: she would not hurt him. 
 
It was dark, and it was hard to see, and the rain crashed into the side of the house with such force that she feared that the glass would shatter, but the sound of her heart guided her. 
 
With trembling hands, she plunged into his chest cavity, and it did not take much groping around to find what she was looking for; there they were beating in grandiose disharmony, his heart, and next to it, her heart. 
 
They had fused together, because there was not much room in his skinny frame, so she took her knife and started to cut. Once they were appropriately separated, she plunged both her hands and pulled out her contrite, but still beating heart. 
 
It was red, and it was bloody and it was inflamed and it was sore but most of all, it was hers, and that was all that mattered. 
 
She placed the bloody heart inside of the cardboard box, and closed it with hands that were steadier than ever; as soon as it touched the bottom of that box, a wave of relief passed through her unlike anything she had felt in a very long time. 
 
She put the box in her backpack, which felt infinitely lighter. 
 
She walked out the front door without much trouble. 
 
The fence seemed smaller now, only about knee high, and she was able to jump over it with ease.
The sun was rising. 
 
The walk home felt not like a burden, but for once, it felt like a breath of fresh air. 
 
I watched her as she walked into her house and, it might’ve been a trick of the light, but I think that I saw her smile. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 15, 2023 02:25",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,wftirn,Bottom Rock,Scott Jacobs,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wftirn/,/short-story/wftirn/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Funny']",4 likes,"
At the bottom of the earth there’s a speaker. I couldn’t tell you where it is–believe me, I’ve looked–but what I do know is that it’s been playing the same NSYNC song for two years. Don’t get me wrong, NSYNC’s not bad by any means. But there’s two problems. First, it’s a song from their Christmas album, creating complications that should be self-evident. Second, the speaker’s junk. Justin Timberlake’s singing is great, but not when he’s being dragged kicking and screaming from the golden throne of high fidelity as the drummer scrapes his fingernails against tin cans. It’s starting to grow on me, though, so maybe I’ll be okay.
 
There’s a dense fog wrapping itself around me, so I look down as I walk to dodge the dull knives and silver forks protruding from the ground. Occasionally I’ll bump into someone, and as their heads are reeling from the collision I’ll sneak a glance at their faces. Their ears have usually been clawed off, leaving infected sacks of flesh to fester in their place, and their eyes have spilled down into the lower recesses of their bags. There’s not much I can do for them, I’m busy walking my own tightrope.
 
The air’s weird down here. It’s ashy volcano bile decorated with the fragrance of weed, but I don’t particularly mind it. Hell, I even smoke a draw myself once in a while. It’s hard not to when the world moves so fast. It makes everything real still, and you get to see how small everything is, and you laugh a little realizing that everyone except for you is stupid. And it never fails to do its job either. I’m not sure what would happen if it did.
 
But then I get a little hungry, and that’s when I go to Al’s pizza place. The guy that runs it always sets me straight. I get the meat lover’s pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and mushrooms and oh my god I’m dying.
 
I don’t know when I figured it out.
 
I swipe my card at the register. Insufficient funds send synapses scrambling over each other like dominoes, the past three years of my adult life collapsing into a singularity. But that was only the big bang. There was me getting fired in March two years ago. And then the breakup. And then the phone call I made to my mom asking for a bigger allowance. And then the subsequent call with my dad six months later where he curtailed it. And then a year of true, abject misery. The endless Futurama reruns. The electricity bill. The pizza boxes piling up in the corner. The electricity bill again. The clock on my desk rolling from minute to minute. The actual electrician coming to my apartment building for maintenance, whom I maintained strict non-eye-contact with.
 
I don’t know where in this timeline I actually realized and how long I’ve been lying to myself. But the weight of this profound thought was so earth-shattering, so cosmically terrifying that it instantly broke my mental defenses. My most deeply-rooted fear had come to light: I can’t live like this anymore.
 
I leave my card in the reader and storm out of Al’s, still hungry. I trip coming off the curb, my limbs scattering across the street. I scream for help as I pick them up, but oh right, their ears are gone. My legs sputter and spit as they come online, lifting me off the ground, but my first step sends a rusty fork straight through my foot. I howl in pain, really making it sound obnoxious because it doesn’t matter anyway. And then I hear Justin Timberlake say the word Christmas and I start running towards the source of the noise in a blind rage, like I’m gonna rip him and his stupid band right out of the speaker and sock him in the face. And then I realize the sound’s all around me, and I stop confused in the middle of the road before balling up along the wall of a building and putting my head in my hands.
 
Damn.
 
I look up at the building behind me, seeing a fortune-teller caricature with a turban orbiting his outstretched hands around a sparkly crystal ball. His face has been nearly torn off from taking the brunt of the sun for too long. In a raspy voice he tells me to come inside for the solution to all my problems; I am easily manipulated.
 
I swing open the door and pass through the red curtains stuck to the frame, my nose tearing up from the poignance of the lavender incense that had been churning in the room before my arrival. There’s a man hitting a massive drum with the same inflection and rhythm over and over as he looks to the sunset atop a snowy peak, his song running down the mountain face to my ears.
 
Bum… bum. Bum… bum.
 
I take a seat at the table. Previously obscured by purple haze is a crystal ball that calmly handles a mass of clouds. I try to make something out through the mist, but it’s too thick. So I wait for the seat at the other end of the table to be filled by my fortune teller.
 
…
 
…
 
I alternate between straightening my posture and slumping in my chair. I don’t want to look like an idiot when he shows up, but I also don’t care that much.
 
…
 
…
 
…Screw that. I’ve waited long enough. There’s no college degree for fortune telling, I’d bet I’m just as qualified as the guy in the turban. I’ll just do what he does.
 
So I close my eyes and wrap my hands around the crystal ball and start moving them around the surface, caressing the glass, carefully switching directions so as to not startle it. I delicately remove my palms, plucking my fingers away one by one. Once the final pointer finger is off, I open my eyes.
 
I can’t tell if my fingerprints made it worse or if it’s always been this cloudy. Clearly I’m missing a component here.
 
A strangely adolescent-sounding whisper calls out to me from the fog: “speak… make it malleable… what’s this say? Oh, uh, hands can clear the mist…” I ignore it, too lost in thought to pay attention.
 
Hmm….
 
Maybe I have to speak to it too, make it malleable so my hands can clear the mist. That’s gotta be it.
 
I close my eyes again and place my hands back on its exterior. This time, I let the thoughts flow instead of concentrating. The first thing that comes to mind is the stain on my bathroom mirror. It’s been there for months but I just can’t bring myself to clean it. And it’s really noticeable, too, it’s like right in the middle of the–
 
Breakthrough.
 
The ball shatters as a monumental beast crashes through the building, skidding along the ground until bringing one of its eyes to my face. It’s decorated like one of those sugar skulls, with flowers and embroidery laced into the shimmering white skin around the socket. But the eyeball itself is gone: thousands of glowing worms writhe in the hole, having devoured what was once there to make themselves an ecosystem. All that remains is a searingly bright blue light, almost like an LED, affixed to the end of a feeble nerve from deep within its skull dangling helplessly on the rim of the socket. As small as the bulb is, it’s still as big as my head.
 
Its voice rings from within my head.
 
“I am Whale. I have seen everything, and I am here to aid you in your time of need.” It’s very sleepy and earnest-sounding.
 
“Whale… uh, I have a questio–”
 
“You need vinegar solution…”
 
“N-no, not about the mirror.”
 
Its eyeball perks up like a dog’s tail.
 
“...Go on.”
 
“How do you stop being a loser?”
 
It stops breathing for a second.
 
“...I dunno.”
 
Then it begins to lift itself off the ground, dozens of sets of wings collectively strong-arming the air into spurring motion somewhere out of my view. The worms brace for launch, clamping down on the skin with their mouths.
 
I’m not satisfied with its answer, so I spring from my seat and scramble into Whale’s socket as the desiccated entrails of the building are further splayed by its leap into the stratosphere.
 
I’m being tossed around in its brain cavity. There’s worms in here too, wallowing in the sulci. The ones in here look more bulbous, probably from gorging themselves on gray matter. But it’s hard to tell if that’s just my false perception as my head’s turning to mush in the cockpit of my interstellar submarine.
 
As my vision goes red the elevator stops, easing to a halt. I crawl over to the porthole.
 
…There’s nothing to see but dead space. There’s a tear at the far end of my vision, but I can only see it in my peripheral: when I try to stare at it head on it cowers behind a black shower curtain as my eyes avert themselves.
 
“We’re at the edge of the universe,” Whale tells me. “No one has been here before but us.”
 
“There’s an edge?”
 
“...Before I answer, please remove the particularly fat worm behind you.”
 
It’s enveloping maybe an eighth of its brain, slobber dripping down its chin as it feverishly sucks memories straight from the carton. I warm up my hands, plant my feet on bone and grab it by the tail. It’s fighting, flailing, confused by the abrupt end to its immersion. Digging my fingers even deeper into its slimy hide, I sling its tail over my shoulder and pull. 
 
POP! Its suction breaks in an instant; its IV tube now detached, it flops like a fish out of water on the floor of the skull before meeting its demise.
 
“Apologies, he was inhibiting my thought,” Whale says. “It’s true that the universe doesn’t have any defined boundary visible or even tangible from within it. But since it’s always expanding, that means there has to be some kind of division between matter and no matter. So what you see is our eyes throwing up an illusion of a “border” as a way to make the sudden end of perceptible matter make sense. And if something’s real to our eyes it might as well be real to our brains, too. At least, that’s the way I see it.”
 
“You said there’s nothing from within. Is there a way to escape the universe?”
 
“I’m about to find out.”
 
“Well… good luck, man.”
 
“I’ll be fine,” it says. “My predecessors were.”
 
“Predecessors?”
 
“Yes. I’m not the first Whale, and I won’t be the last. We live for hundreds of thousands of years, accumulating mass knowledge as a means of solving a problem.”
 
“What problem?”
 
“The worms. They eat everything. If they could, they’d eat you, they’d eat your planet, they’d eat every single particle and atom before eating themselves at the end of it all. So my predecessors and I spend our lives playing cat and mouse with them in order to save everything else. They drown in our pool of knowledge, pecking at our eyes and brains and filing in through our lungs just to get a taste of our memory. It’s their nectar.”
 
“But eventually they become too much to bear,” it continues. “Once it reaches that point we take them to the only place where there’s nothing to destroy: just outside the periphery of the universe, where we all die together. And then, once the universe’s expansion catches up with our corpses, we are recycled. A new Whale is reborn from the stardust, in a race to gain new knowledge and add length to the fuse that ticks down to its death as new worms infect its body. This mission I have described to you, alongside spotty, damaged memories of previous lives, is the only thing that gets passed upon reincarnation.”
 
I look at its brain. It’s being whittled down and there’s nothing I can do about it.
 
“Why couldn’t you answer my question earlier?”
 
“...Because it was a stupid question. You already knew the answer, you were just testing me.”
 
“Uh, pretty sure I don’t. If I did I wouldn’t be living like shit anymore.”
 
“I rarely make misjudgements.”
 
We slow down. Its wings aren’t flapping as regularly as they were, the giant beast now lethargically coasting towards the finish line.
 
“Whale?”
 
“Hmm?”
 
“Did you enjoy your life? Like, can you look back and say ‘huh, I’m glad I was alive’?”
 
It thinks for a second.
 
“It’s hard,” it said. “I’m in constant pain, and every interaction I’ve had with the universe is stained by the subtext of saving it. I’ve never been ‘in the moment’ in my entire life. But the one thing that’s kept me going is seeing what is on the other side of this border. What I told you earlier about what happens on the other side is only my guess as to what happens. And I’m willing to go through the whole charade of life if it means getting the chance of being truly, pleasantly surprised at least once.”
 
The edge is tantalizingly close now. I start to sweat.
 
“Whale, please take me with you,” I beg.
 
“...What?”
 
“Take me with you. To the other side. I don’t wanna be here anymore. It’s hell down there, you’ve seen it.”
 
The worms are really tearing at it now, scrounging the last scraps of cognitive function in a free-for-all.
 
“I’m at rock bottom, Whale. There’s nothing left for me in this world.”
 
I could almost reach out and touch the border.
 
“You can’t come with me. I’m sorry.”
 
“W-why not? Please, just let me stay in here, and we–we can see what’s on the other side together, yeah?”
 
“I’m afraid neither of us have much of a choice. Another behavior of these worms: they don’t take kindly to predators attacking their young.”
 
The mother of all worms breaks through Whale’s skull, sending the roof crashing down on the jaw and crushing the brain. I’m trapped in a cave staring down a monster, and the only way to escape it is the way I came in.
 
Whale begins to fade into the other side. It tells me something out of the corner of its mouth as it disappears. 
 
“Besides, I heard the meat lover’s pizza is half off tomorrow.”
 
“...You’re right!”
 
And I fall.
 
I crash through suns without feeling their heat and steal the rings of planets with my own gravitational pull as my head spins, hurtling downwards without slowing down. 
 
Suddenly the world gets bigger, and bigger, and…
 
When I touch base with earth I find myself in the same chair as before. There’s a dropout sitting opposite from me behind the counter, scrolling on his phone. When he realizes I’m back, he tells me:
 
“Uh, that’ll be $20.99.”
 
I reach for my card, and damn it.
 
So I take the twenty-percent-off-your-next-psychic-reading coupon from the counter and run before he looks back up from his phone.
 
 
***
 
 
I take my bike to Al’s, pedaling faster and faster in an effort not to be late for my first day on the job.
 
The streets are dead as ever. I have to swerve frequently to avoid the zombies, since they can’t hear the bike bell and I can barely see them through the fog.
 
My tire gets punctured by a blade in the ground. I set the bike aside and walk the rest of the way with my head down as I always have.
 
There’s a new song on the intercom. It’s still from the same Christmas album, and it still sounds like shit, but it’s something new.
 
I smile as it comes on. Not much has changed–except for the fact that I can keep the lights on now. So that’s a start.
 
Somewhere in the stars a new creature opens its eyes. There’s a whole new world for it to discover. But most of all, it wonders what lies just beyond its border.
 
","July 15, 2023 02:49",[]
prompt_0050,Write about someone facing their greatest fear.,2qulb0,Redlining,Jacob Chudnovsky,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2qulb0/,/short-story/2qulb0/,Character,0,"['American', 'Contemporary']",4 likes,"
I’m not a dog person.I’ve tried. I really have. But even the sweetest puppies become stressed and start growling in my presence. They can sense my anxiety and terror.I don’t blame them. I was walking home alone after dark. I was a scrawny six-year-old, small for my age. But growing up in the small village of Korovino near Kiev, I knew every human, pig, and sparrow and felt no fear.I picked up Nick from my ex-wife’s house in the South Side on an unseasonably warm Friday evening in December. I had my son for the weekend. As we walked to the bus stop for the long ride north to my place in the Chicago Ukrainian village, I turned to look at him and saw a Christmas sweater that matched mine in ugliness and a smile that matched mine in joy. Holiday lights brightened every house, Christmas trees could be seen in every other window, and Run-DMC’s classic “Christmas in Hollis” was blasting from a passing car. A perfect holiday evening.Except for all the barking dogs.Every time I heard a bark, I felt my entire body tense. I tried in vain to control it for Nick’s sake, but he already knew this about me and pretended not to notice.They met me a block away from the house where I lived with my parents and grandfather. The one we called Earless, a semi-feral mutt the size of a small horse, blocked my path first. He wasn’t really earless, but his ears had been bitten so many times in fights with other dogs and grown back in such strange ways that they looked like small, alien appendages sticking out of his head.Four other feral dogs emerged from behind Earless. I had never seen these ones before. All of them different sizes, shapes, and colors, but all with just two things in their eyes. Hunger and hatred. Earless was normally a loner. Alone, he stayed away from people. But now he had assembled himself a pack.I’ve attempted to conquer my fear through knowledge. I’ve read many articles about dogs. They all have ancient instincts inherited from wolves, plus newer, more specific traits acquired through selective breeding. Some were bred for hunting. Some for herding. Some live to rescue those in distress. Some just want to climb into your lap and fall asleep.It all sounds great in theory. But all I know in my bones is they are dogs.“Hey dad,” Nick said suddenly, “can we walk to your place instead?”“Really?” I replied, “It’s a three-hour walk.”“That’s OK.” He paused and smiled mischievously. “Could I… maybe… get a Coke? To have energy for the walk?”I couldn’t help laughing. “Sure. Don’t tell your mother.”We stopped by a convenience store, and I bought him a special holiday-edition glass bottle of Coke with Santa Claus on it.About half an hour into our walk, in a quiet neighborhood with no one else out in the street, we stopped to admire a beautiful three-story Victorian covered with Christmas lights of every color, with a lit-up Santa in a reindeer-driven sleigh on the front porch and a full Nativity scene in the front yard.And then I sensed something. A dark shadow, half-seen in my peripheral vision and half-felt in the pit of my stomach. My muscles contracted, and my breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly in the direction of the shadow, careful not to disturb Nick. Across the street, one house was completely dark. No lights on inside, no decorations outside. And in the front yard of that house, I saw him.Two of the feral dogs that I didn’t know moved to my left. Two to my right. Getting ready to hunt in a team, like wolves. I felt panic setting in. My breath started coming in faster and faster. I was no longer in control of my body. I took a step backwards. Then another. And then I made my big mistake. I turned and ran. If I had stepped forward, or shouted at them, or started throwing rocks at them, maybe they would have backed down. But by running, I sealed my fate. By running, I told them I was prey, and they had to chase me.He was browning-gray in color, with short, slick fur, weighing in at 100 pounds or more of pure muscle. From my extensive study, I judged him to be half pit bull, half mastiff. As I examined him, our eyes met. That was a mistake on my part. He took it as a challenge. Glaring right into my eyes, he started walking slowly towards the front of his yard. I, on the other hand, found myself unable to move at all.I felt a movement next to me. I forced myself to turn my head and saw that Nick had stopped looking at the house and was instead staring at the same thing I was. “Dad, why is that dog by himself in the front yard?” he asked, and after a pause, added, “With no fence?”I forced myself to take a deep breath and relax my muscles a little. “I’m sure they have an electric fence,” I replied, faking a calm and steady tone of voice, “It’s invisible.”I hoped I was right. But even if so…Here is an interesting tidbit about pit bulls I learned in my reading. They can do something called redlining. When they redline, which is to say, when they reach a state of sufficient agitation, in full attack mode and hopped up on adrenaline, they become nearly immune to pain. They can run straight through an electric fence and barely care.Earless caught up to me first. I turned my head in time to see him leap at me. He knocked me off my feet with his front paws and began ripping my shirt off with his teeth. The rest of the pack was upon me a second later. I curled up into a fetal position, put my arms around my neck and head, and screamed for help. I kept screaming as they bit my arms and legs, tearing away skin and flesh. I had never felt pain like that before, and never felt anything like it since. I don’t know how long it went on. Suddenly a gunshot rang out like a thunderbolt, and the torture stopped. Four more gunshots followed. Then everything was quiet, and no one was touching me anymore. After a minute I uncurled my body and looked around. The dogs’ bodies lay next to me, and my grandfather was standing over me. He had gone outside for a walk when he heard my screams. He had run back in to grab his handgun, an old Tokarev semi-automatic he had kept since World War II and maintained in perfect condition, and then followed the sounds to the source. My mother treated my wounds, and eventually they healed. The visible ones, that is. The ones in my mind, the deeper ones that would cause me to wake screaming from nightmares at least once a week, to cross the street when I saw a family with a golden retriever, to avoid taking my son to Millennium Park because it had an area where dogs could play off-leash – those stuck around and festered for the rest of my life.The dog walked close to the front of his yard, bared his teeth, and growled. I felt a shudder run through my body. And then Nick made the same mistake I had made so many years ago in the old country – he dropped his half-finished Coke bottle, turned, and ran.“No!” I shouted, “Don’t run!” Nick stopped a few yards away, but it was too late. The deed was done. The dog took his cue and started running too. As he reached the front of the yard, a loud crack sounded, and he was thrown backwards. He had an electric fence after all. I knew it was only a momentary reprieve. He was redlining. He was going to try again.The unpleasant truth is, what I wanted to do at that moment was turn and run, just like Nick. Indeed, the even nastier truth is I wanted to overtake Nick and keep running. After all, I wouldn’t have to run faster than the dog. I would only have to run faster than my son.But I didn’t do that. What I did instead is take off my Christmas sweater and wrap it as many times as possible around my left forearm. With my right hand, I picked up the Coke bottle by the neck and slammed it on the sidewalk, breaking it around the middle.Here is another interesting fact about pit bulls. Contrary to the popular myth, they do not lock their jaws when they bite. They do, however, have both a strong bite and a stubborn personality. When they bite down on their target, they are very reluctant to let it go.The dog got back up and started running again. Both of my hands were shaking. But I felt something else besides terror. Something new. I forced myself to look the dog in the eye again. “Hey!” I shouted, “Here! Look at me! Don’t look at him, look at me!”The dog accelerated and jumped straight through the invisible fence, with just a quick shudder and tiny whimper as the electric shock hit him. He ran across the street, straight at me. I put my left forearm out. “Here!” I yelled. He jumped and bit down on my arm, through the sweater and through my skin. The searing pain hit me like a thousand needles. But I wasn’t a little boy anymore. I didn’t scream. I gritted my teeth, snarled, and shook my arm, leading the dog to clamp down even harder. The pain didn’t get worse. I was redlining too.“That’s right,” I whispered through my teeth, and I think at that moment he realized what was about to happen. His eyes widened in fear, but he could not unclamp his teeth. I brought the broken bottle around to the back of his neck and thrust it in, just under the base of his skull, with one forceful motion. He gave me one more quick look – a mix of pain, terror, and possibly sadness – and then the light went out of his eyes.The dog’s jaws slackened, and he fell to the ground, with the now blood-soaked sweater still in his mouth. I looked at my left arm and saw blood, flesh, and bits of bone sticking out here and there. I could feel the adrenaline leaving my system, and the sight made me a bit dizzy and nauseous. I sat down on the sidewalk next to the dog’s body.Looking up, I saw Nick standing a couple feet away. His mouth was wide open in shock. I tried to speak but found the task overly burdensome. With my right hand, I fished my cell phone out of the pocket of my pants and showed it to Nick. He understood immediately.“911?” he asked. I nodded. “And mom?” I nodded again.I sat and waited for the ambulance, wondering how many minutes I had before I would pass out. Somewhere a dog barked. And for the first time, I felt nothing. No clenching of the intestines, no sharp pain in my chest, no shiver.I turned to the dead dog next to me and noticed that he had a collar with a name tag. I grabbed the tag and read his name. Then I opened my mouth and forced out a few words.“I’m sorry, Diesel,” I said, “and thank you. Thank you for fixing me.”
","July 15, 2023 03:48",[]