Iwaku Love Contest 2023: Entries + Voting

Which piece is your favorite?

  • Song of the Mytilenian Women

    Votes: 0 0.0%
  • More Than You Know

    Votes: 1 5.3%
  • See you again

    Votes: 0 0.0%
  • A Hooting

    Votes: 5 26.3%
  • a jewel-encrusted sky

    Votes: 1 5.3%
  • Yearning for you

    Votes: 1 5.3%
  • The Song of Silence

    Votes: 0 0.0%
  • The Train Over Acheron

    Votes: 1 5.3%
  • Stirred from Chamber

    Votes: 0 0.0%
  • Pain, Passion, and Petrichor

    Votes: 2 10.5%
  • ‘Til Death Do Us Part

    Votes: 6 31.6%
  • Togetherness

    Votes: 0 0.0%
  • Already Broken Hearted

    Votes: 2 10.5%

  • Total voters
    19

wren.

elegance is more important than suffering
Original poster
STAFF MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. Multiple posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
Iwaku_Love_Contest.gif

Hello lovers, it's me, ya ghoul!

I am thrilled to be hosting Iwaku's first annual love story writing contest and even more thrilled to show you all our excellent submissions this year. To remind you, this year's themes were:
- Reincarnation
- Yearning
- Reunion


We would love to have you join us in the Iwaku Discord Server on February 18th at 3 PM CST to hear some of these pieces read aloud and discuss them. Please keep any critiques for the authors constructive, and remember that all opinions are subjective, so refrain from giving any sort of letter grade or rating. When discussing the pieces, here are some questions you can consider:
- What do you enjoy most about the piece?
- Does it fit well with the selected themes?
- Is love (of any kind) a main factor of the story?

Using the poll above, you can vote for which piece you believe to be the best. The voting here will not determine the winners alone, but member votes will play a role in our judges' decision. As a reminder, our judges this year are the wonderful @PavellumPendulum and @Manna Beast, and our top three winners will receive Amazon gift cards of varying value. First place will receive a $15 card, second place will receive a $10 card, and third place will receive a $5 card. We will be announcing the winners sometime on February 28th.

Now, without further ado, please enjoy this year's submissions!

Song of the Mytilenian Women
By: @RiverNotch
Word Count: 267
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion, Yearning
Chosen Format: Poetry




I have become convinced that Sappho in her poetry
does not express her own emotions
but speaks, either in her own voice, or through a chorus,
for the community...
--André Lardinois


Dressed in their finest linen, their ears and necks
spangled with gold and silver, the women of Mytilene
gather to form a chorus: hear them intone the words
of their black-haired chief

as they imagine men in the place of the woman
their chief had wished that deathless Aphrodite,
the one they now address, would return
to end her longing.

High voices reach the goddess, while the low
drone that ties the performance together
honors with its pre-verbal "Na" the goddess
who rules the dead.

"Some say that an army of ships is the most beautiful
thing on this black earth", the chorus sings
to welcome those returning from the perils
of vengeance and the sea

while the infernal queen prepares for her return
to her gloomy realm, but now she sits
where once she roused her husband grant the wish
of despondent Orpheus

with tears---but now it is winter---and the women
must rouse the men help bring new life
to the city. "Come to us now", and their ode
transforms into a paean

as the chorus scatters: the maidens start for the fields
where they'll weave crowns out of flowers they dried
over the summer, the wives march to their homes
side-by-side with their husbands,

and black-haired Sappho joins the low-voiced crones
to the temples of their protector Hera,
their preserver Hestia, and their bosom-friend
Persephone.

More Than You Know
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1,998
Chosen Theme(s): Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story




Coach Cowan had a face like a boiled egg; pale, shiny, and slightly swollen-looking. It was always obvious when he was about to start yelling. His face would heat up, forehead turning a beet red, moments before the shrieking began. There always was something to yell at them about. He just had that mean streak. Probably because he had an egg face.

From where Koen and Missie were sitting, Cowan and the boys seemed like little stick figures, squishable between his fingers. Koen took a slow drag of his e-cig. It was never hard for him to spot Robbie though. He stood at the head of their little football huddle, standing tall, hair golden in the sun, taking the brunt of Cowan’s spraying spittle.

A manicured hand shoved in front of Koen’s face, making grabby motions for his e-cig. With a sigh, he handed it over. “You know, when you said we should come out and smoke, I assumed you’d bring your own cigarette.”

“You know I’m quitting,” Missie huffed, then blew bubble gum-scented vapor straight into his face. Missie had been telling them she was quitting for the last three weeks. While she had, indeed, thrown her Juul out, that didn’t stop her from stealing his. She was always the first to suggest a smoke break, dragging him out to the stands by the football field, to bum off him and gossip.

Missie screwed up her nose as she handed the Juul back to him. “Ew, I don’t know how you like that stuff. Bubble gum? Seriously?”

Koen shrugged and took another drag. “I like it.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Well, since you’re bumming off me for free, I don’t really think you get a say.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and made grabby hands for it again. He leaned away with a laugh. “I thought you said you didn’t like it.”

“I don’t but I want it anyway!”

“You’re terrible at quitting,” he told her, quickly relenting. She made a happy noise, putting it to her lips.

On the field Coach Cowan had finally finished yelling at the boys, and they were back to running around and doing football things. Even after all these years of being friends with Robbie, and going to all his games (and his practices too, when he and Missie came out to smoke), Koen still had no idea what was going on. All he knew was they threw a ball around and chased each other.

“So,” Missie said. She had that glint in her eye, the one he had long since learned to hate. “Did you tell him?”

Ah shit, he should’ve known she’d ask. “Tell who, what?”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He tried to reach for the e-cig in her hands, but she held it away from him. “Hey! That’s mine, you know.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And you’ll get it back when you spill the deets.”


He groaned, sliding down till he was awkwardly slumped over the bench. “Missie,” he whined.

“Deets, Koen.”

The thing was, he didn’t have any deets to spill, and that was the problem.

Missie stared at him. He stared back. As he always did when it came to her staring contests, he was the one to cave first. “Fine,” he sighed.


Missie elbowed him. “So. How did it go?”

He threw an arm over his eyes. “It didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

He let out a long sigh.

“You didn’t tell him?!” she shrieked. She slapped his arm, until he slid further away. “Koen!

“I know,” he groaned. “Shut up, please. You’re so loud.”

“Koen, it’s been three years.”

“I know.”

Three years since he told her, at least. It must have been a slow process, sliding from ‘we’re just friends’ to ‘I want to be something more’, because he doesn’t remember when his feelings for Robbie changed. Sometimes it feels like he’s always had a crush on him. Maybe he has.

He’s known Robbie longer than Missie, although only by a bit. They became friends in second grade while standing in line at the cafeteria. Koen accidentally spilled his chocolate milk on Robbie’s new sneakers and in retaliation, Robbie had taken a spoonful of pasta sauce and dumped it on Koen’s white shirt. They got in terrible trouble for it, which later became the foundation of their friendship.

Ever since finding out about his crush, Missie has pushed him to confess his feelings. The last few months, especially, with prom coming up, she’d been insufferable. She had a myriad of reasonings for him to confess. You’ll feel better about it once you get it off your chest. How do you know he won’t like you back? Now’s the best time! Before he finds another girlfriend to show off to his parents.

But her go-to reasoning? ’He’s your best friend. What’s the worst that can happen?’

It made him want to laugh, and cry a little. She was straight. Everyone she knew in their small town except for Koen, was straight. He got it, why she didn’t understand.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Missie groaned, laying down on the stands next to him. “You did something stupid didn’t you?”

He pursed his lips. If by stupid, she meant panicking and challenging Robbie to what was essentially an arm wrestle championship, one where Koen, with his noodle arms, was destined to lose… then yeah, maybe he had done something stupid. But in his defense, Robbie had been wearing a tight muscle tank, his stupid big arms out just begging for a challenge.

“No,” he said.

She stared at him for less than a second before bursting out laughing. “You’re such a shit liar, you so did! What did you do this time?”

When he didn’t answer her, she slapped his arm. “Oh my god, it can’t be as bad as the Dream Cream Incident!"

He groaned at the reminder, covering his face. “No, no, it wasn’t,” he admitted.

Nothing could be worse than the Dream Cream Incident. When he had attempted to confess to Robbie, a couple of months prior, Robbie had been driving him home from school. Right before he could get the words out, they had driven past the town’s only ice cream stand, Dream Cream. Instead of confessing his feelings, what came out of his mouth was: “Fuck, let’s get some ice cream.”

So they did. Which would have been fine if Koen hadn’t forgotten his lactose intolerance pills, and was too embarrassed to admit it. They spent the rest of the night with Koen’s head in the toilet bowl and Robbie cautiously handing him glasses of water and wet washcloths through the barely-cracked door. When he told Missie what had happened the next day, she laughed so hard she banged her forehead on the top of her locker, and sported a giant red mark for the rest of the day.

Missie was quiet, the only sound the quiet puffs of air as she smoked before she asked, all serious, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, heart already pounding. In the moment it took her to ask, his mind raced. Why can’t you do it? He imagined her asking. What are you afraid of? What is wrong with you?

But they weren’t those sort of friends. Instead, she asked:

“You think Robbie has a big dick?”

He blew out a slow breath, and looked down at the field. The players were running at each other now, and Robbie must have wrestled his partner to the ground, because he was standing over him, holding his hand out for him to take. The other player was just staring up at him, like he hadn’t yet processed that he had fallen. Koen knew that feeling.

“Yeah, he does,” Koen said. “I’ve seen it in the locker room.”

Missie’s laugh was sharp, and overly loud.

Robbie happened to look up in the stands and noticed them, once he had pulled his partner to his feet. His smile was big enough to see from halfway across the field. He waved. Koen waved back.

One day, Koen vowed, even as he knew he would never do it. This - their friendship - it was enough. Even if he felt his heart give a painful tug as he watched Robbie’s girlfriend, Paige, come out the side doors of the school, red hair streaming behind her as she ran out to meet him. Robbie turned away from the stands, from Koen, to catch her in his arms.

When Missie handed his e-cig back, she bumped their knuckles gently together, the look in her eyes too soft for the sort of friends they were. He turned away and took a long drag.

It wasn’t long before Robbie was scrambling up into the stands with them, Paige in tow. He flopped down between Koen and Missie, the cross he always wore around his neck swinging out from beneath his jersey as he did, glinting in the sun. He tried to put his sweaty arms around them and they both shied away simultaneously.

“Ewww, you’re all gross!” Missie squealed, while Koen fake gagged.

“What are you talking about? I’m not gross!”

Missie managed to slip away, which unfortunately for Koen, freed up Robbie’s other arm. He suddenly found himself crushed against Robbie’s chest. ‘Stupid big arms,’ he thought wildly.

“Fine. Be that way, Missie,” Robbie sniffed. “At least Koen loves me.”

‘More than you know,’ Koen thought, managing to push Robbie away. ‘More than you know.’

Paige was looking at them odd. “Are we getting a limo for all of us? For prom?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Sure,” Missie said apathetically, reaching across Robbie to make grabby hands for the e-cig. Koen made a face at her.

“I think I’m cutting you off, unless you plan on paying for the refill.”

“Koen,” Missie whined. “Come on. Don’t be a dick.”

“I thought you quit?” Robbie asked.

“I did, I’m just, uh -”

“Relapsing,” Koen helpfully supplied. “And I’m done helping you. This is for your own good.”

“Give it Koen!”

“No!”

Missie tried to climb over Robbie, but he wouldn’t let her, laughing while he pushed her off. She wiggled underneath his arm, and Koen held the e-cig higher to keep it away from her, waving it in the air tauntingly. During all this, Paige sat back and watched, giggling.

“Koen Mackenzie!” came a shriek from the field below them. All five heads whipped around to see Coach Cowan climbing the steps of the stands two at a time. His egg face was beet red and boiling. “Is that an e-cig? In my stadium?!”

“Oh shit,” Koen said. “Run!”

They all took off, scrambling down the other side of the stands, Cowan shouting after them. At one point, in his mad scramble, he tripped in the stands and went sprawling. They didn’t slow until they were safe behind the school.

It didn't take long till they were all laughing.

This - this bubble of happiness, watching his friends, watching Robbie laugh, the slowly setting sun turning his blonde hair a fiery golden: this was enough. More than enough.

One day he might tell Robbie how he felt. Maybe he’d tell him when there was no more Paige. When they were a bit older. When Koen had as much to offer as the next perfect, pretty girl. One day.

(But that was never going to happen. So he would take what he could get.)

See you again
By: @Nemopedia
Word Count: 975
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion, Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story




The campfire of the shaman was already smoldering by the time Mo reached the camp, the moon high whilst the hag sat near the remaining flames, wrapped and swaddled carefully like a newborn babe as beady black eyes beckoned him to come closer with a glare.

“You are late,” the accusation came, to which Mo could only avert his eyes in guilt, even if he was clueless on what hour he was supposed to arrive other than the aptly named witching hour. The trek had been long, with the camp hard to find despite the lonesome fire in the dark forests behind the mansion. Harder to find were the bones requested, unclear on what type of bones it had to be. Whether bleached and cleaned, or still with shreds of flesh attached. Mo had even considered breaking into the graveyard and digging up a bone there, but ultimately decided against it, settling for the chicken bones of his dinner instead.

By the way the shaman took the bones out of his hands and threw them into the remaining flames Mo figured that it was of no concern anyway, the fire immediately doing its job as it crackled and burned before a wrinkled hand reached in and took a bone out once more and threw it back at him.

“Look,” the voice commanded Mo, who stared down at the bone in hands, now charred and cracked with a faint heat emitting from it. He didn’t dare to drop the bone despite all his reservations, looking, staring at the cracks and the chars of the bone before turning his gaze back at the hag, fist clenching only to find the spot empty, the coals glowing red in its remaining heat.

It was only the hoot of an owl in the depth of the night that reminded Mo of the cold and the house, his hand still clenching around the charred bone that felt like it was chipping in his hand, breaking apart at the very moment as nothing had changed except for the fool he was.

When he opened his fist again there was a key instead, old and rusted by disuse and age, but there all the same as he made the trek back home, confused but relieved that it hadn’t been all a farce.

It started as a joke, Mo hadn’t thought any of it when he pushed the key in the lock of his room, not expecting it to fit at first and neither did he expect it would turn, the familiar click of the lock falling into place. When Mo pushed against the door he found the door unlocked, but the room beyond wasn’t the room in which he slept alone, nor the darkness in which he had left.

“Mo?” a familiar voice called, and for a moment Mo feels his heart leap, his spirits rising as he walks into the sunlit room that he once shared. How strange memories worked, for he had been so sure he had forgotten that voice before he forgot the face. Yet, the familiar ring of his name, within the room, with its familiar dresser and the curtains pulled, allowing the sun to come in.

“Mo?” The voice repeated again, the familiar press of arms wrapping around him warming him up from the chilly night air outside. It ached that he remembers the smell, the setting and the room, but not the face of the one who held him so tenderly.

Pulling the door back into lock Mo looked down at the key still in his hand, the heat of the coals still present as he turned the lock once more and pushed back into the room again.

“There you are!” This time the room led towards a table set for two, their afternoon tea all ready and the familiar smell of tea greeting him. Mo hadn’t touched the blend since that day, but he remembers it all the same as he turns his head to the side, hoping to see the kitchen and the person that had prepared the surprise with it.

There was no presence, however, only a tabby cat that lazily followed the smell of roast beef and fresh bread.

Throwing the door close with more force than intended Mo finds himself leaning against the door, his head pounding at the strange way the key and door worked while his heart is in disarray. He tries hard, he tries to remember everything, for memory is what makes it most powerful, but all he recalls is the shaman and the bone turned into a key and the lilt in the voice that he misses the most.

“Mo,” He finds himself called again when Mo opens the door, now finding the room dimly lit. The curtains are pulled and Mo gulps at the familiarity of the sight, at the feelings that well up within him and his powerlessness over the situation. He finds himself with regret again, ashamed at his own cowardice and his inability to enjoy the moments shared. He is annoyed that he didn’t take an extra look, that he didn’t remember the clothes worn, or even the expressions on his face. Instead he recalls the wasted look of a friend, a lover, the haggardness in the eyes, and the sunken in cheeks. Instead he remembers how life is squeezed out of a body at the end of a fight instead of the smiles shared under the sun and during tea.

“See you again?” Mo hears before he runs out of the room, the door slamming shut one last time as he finds himself staring at the fire again, the flames gone and the coals cooling as the shaman tugs at the many layers worn.

“Always late,” the accusation comes and Mo knows that to be true. The key back to being a bone.

A Hooting
By: @firejay1
Word Count: 731
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion
Chosen Format: Short Story




Disclaimer: Features joke characters inspired by our one and only admin, and the duolingo owl. THIS IS NOT A FANFIC MEANT TO REPRESENT THAT PERSON OR THAT MASCOT IN ANY WAY.

"Diana? Is that you?" The voice made Diana ruffle her feathers uncomfortably. She hadn't heard that voice since they'd attended their first hooting, when they'd first become adults. She scrunched up her eyes and sighed through her nose, before swiveling her head around to look at Duo.

His beautiful green feathers were the first thing that caught her attention, as they always did. His golden eyes were scrunched up in pleasure as he waved a wing at her. "It's been so long! How have you been? You look different!" He handed her a bone for her to chew on, and she began cracking into it nervously.

She couldn't tell him that she'd had her consciousness transmuted to become a goddess of the moon when she'd traveled from home, so she used the bone to stave off speaking. Somehow when she was up in the heavens commanding her minions to send messages to the mortals down below, she never felt so stuttery and foolish, but put her in a hollow with her fellow owlets, and she was suddenly awkward. This class reunion had been the worst of ideas. "I've been okay. How about you?" The words felt almost painful coming from her beak, mumbled around the bone.

Thankfully, Duo picked up the conversation as easily as if she'd enthusiastically asked him about his life story since they'd last parted. "Wonderful! I spent some years collecting knowledge of every language in the woods, and my students are now from all over! They're not always the most motivated, but I love teaching them. It's wonderful work and I feel like I was made for this, though everyone tells me I work too hard. I don't really think so, though. It is my whole life, but it doesn't really feel like work when you're following your passion, you know? Of everyone, I feel like you could relate. I always imagined you'd find work that was fulfilling for you, too!"

"Oh, uhm. Thank you." He was staring at her now as if riveted by the thought of her living her best life as well. The way the whole of his concentration would shift onto the person he was talking to, the deep interest he had in what you had to say, it was charming in a way. But she also wanted to bury her head under her wing to make him stop paying attention to her. "I did. I- I'm uh- a manager of sorts. For uh- like, a sky thing." She put the bone down, crushing it under her talons and into the wood.

"Cool!" He said, but shuffled a little closer and turned his head to the side. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but you know, since it's been a while, I wanted to see you. You've never attended a hooting reunion before."

"Oh uh. Well, I've been busy." She hesitated, then admitted, "I just don't want to say anything that might sound crazy to you. My work's… unique." She moved a little closer and admitted, "I became a moon goddess."

He stared at her, and for a bit, she was worried that he really thought she was crazy, but he said, "Really? What does that entail?"

It was such an odd reaction, that she began to actually tell him about it, describing all of the different things she was responsible for, how she moved the moon across the sky every night, and that was why there was no moon that night. "Here, let me show you!" She'd forgotten her reservations, and picking up the slightly broken bone he'd given her, she blew on it. In front of both their eyes, the bone mended itself, and began to glow, white like the moon. "It'll take us back to where I'm from. If you come with me, you could do so much more for your students. You could become a god of learning or wisdom, yourself! Dual owls of the moon and wisdom." She reached out her talon with the glowing bone for him to grasp with her, but when he reached for her, she pulled back a bit and asked, "Why didn't you assume that I was crazy?"

Duo smiled, holding her talon in his, and leaned forward to give her cheek a peck. "Let's just say I always wanted to see the world from your perspective."

a jewel-encrusted sky
By: @pinnedwing
Word Count: 847
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion
Chosen Format: Short Story/Poetry





No matter how distant the blue roof of heaven remains, we turn to it and dream.

So thought Dorzho the shepherd, who had been Dorzho the adventurer, who had been Dorzho the Hero.
Age had caught up to him, and though not yet in his twilight days; they did approach.
Just as clouds in the sky above, as heavy and portentous as tightly wound steel.

There was nothing left to fear in the world; he had seen dark wizards, oathbreakers who had fallen before the might of he and his kin.
A truer family there never was, scattered in all directions, forever.

But this was how time went; it did not steal your friends from you, but merely carried them in different directions.

Raising his right arm in challenge towards the distant sky, he removed the hood from his one remaining companion.
Khanda was a great hunting-owl, whose rich brown feathers had faded somewhat with time.
They were the two of them a good fit, thought Dorzho, and when the flock were safe and there was nothing to do but drown in memory, the two of them would survey the plated fields and valleys below, and he would watch her fly.

Khanda gracefully became a shadow over the sunken rivers and clear blue waters which curved as if fragments of sky.

From atop the sloped hill, he watched; and it dawned on Dorzho the shepherd that she was not returning.

Loss and fear
weaken all hearts, in time
as the terror of swift passage
makes even the strength of heroes
pass as gentle spring rain.

So did Dorzho the shepherd
elicit a sharp cry; falling from his high solitude
and tearing through low brush
the whole of the world forgotten
in fear of the certainty
of being alone
at last.

Harsh thistle and brier both
tore with ferocity
unmatched by the claws
of dragon or tiger.

And the earth itself
slid apart; revealing teeth
of which every jagged stone
cut through old leather
and old skin.

When at last he had fallen
to the very bottom of the valley
a place where laughing rivers
beckoned to their source
the sky
it did not laugh;
extending down all the faint
glittering stones of heaven
in their colours of early starlight.

Dorzho winced, fighting pains that he had not remembered having names for.
None of them pleasant, or welcome; but he was alive, and hardly the worse for wear.
Khanda circled lazily over head; all birds, he reminded himself, were aloof creatures, and cared little for the trouble of others.
He hollered curses skyward, but they were affectionate; and received not even a low night-song in reply.

Of course, his companion was a hunting bird, and though she had not gone hunting for prey, she had found something greater.

From the distance of another valley, shadowed by the rise of hills that were green mirrors of the one he had just descended, was a horse.
Not the greatest horse, but one that had seen better days; weighed down by the pressure of sacks and saddlebags.
From these bags spilled golden furnishings, common iron utensils, papers, and all manner of thing - the mark, he thought, of a truly barbaric sort. No class nor character at all, really.

And upon the horse, rode a great figure whose form was carved as it was from a single heroic piece of stone;
Covered with so many robes that their features were almost indistinguishable, though Dorzho the hero knew them by memory.
Scars that told a thousand stories - some of them inflicted by his sabre, for sometimes friends fought - and others, by mutual foes.

"... You take a long time to visit your friends, hero."

Said Dorzho, his voice creaking; for he truly had, at some point, gotten old.
And perhaps to some, that would have been tragic.
But the pillar-like form that smoothly dismounted their horse with a practised grace laughed - an enigmatic smile underneath flickering brown robes all that could be seen.

"We got lost."

We?..

Dorzho had not know his old friend to travel with a companion for some time.
But there was another figure, faint and small, riding behind them. Hesitantly, they raised a hand -
Which, slipped free from faded tawny robes, and was white as the bone which it was.

"Hi," spoke a sheepish voice he did not know.

And Dorzho the shepherd stared at an old friend and their strange companion and sighed, because it was as if nothing had ever changed at all; and he laughed and held out his arm, to which Khanda returned to lazily, expecting praise (which he offered in a quiet whisper).

"You must be tired from such a journey. I'll want to hear all about your travels, then; my ger is not far from here. I suppose I can spare three cups of tea for myself, and two friends."

The last of the blue sky obscured the fates of travellers below, and all that remained in heaven were the distant gems of a darkened night.

Yearning for you
By: @Sorrelfur
Word Count: 149
Chosen Theme(s): Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story




When you fall in love no one tells you it's a double edged sword. The things that once made your heart skip a beat will one day make it drop. Those little annoyances you fought over, you'll find yourself longing to experience them again. How I used to be embarrassed when you called me Sweetie in front of my friends. Oh how I'd sell everything I have just to hear you call me it one last time. And how you used to talk to yourself as you wandered about the house. The silence I once craved is now a painful reminder of what I lost. I ache to hear this house filled with your ramblings, and your joyous laugh. Over the years the memories may fade, but not the feelings. The mind may forget but the heart will always remember. Always yearning for its other half. Yearning for you.

The Song of Silence
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 622
Chosen Theme(s): Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story




“Tell me, my love, what troubles your mind?” The woman’s voice, much too deep and sharp, cuts into Nerissa’s ear. Her breath is warm and sweet, scented with raspberry wine and the place between Nerissa’s thighs. The human’s flesh radiates heat, unlike the cool, silky skin she’s loved so much, a feeling now foreign. It’s almost wrong. She resists the urge to pull away—a drop of oil into the water, begging to separate—and instead, meets the woman’s gray eyes, wearing the face of her lost lover.

“What troubles me?” Nerissa is aware that her attention lies elsewhere, that the face she looks into now is not the one she truly sees. She gathers the human’s hair and tugs gently so that their faces align, noses brushing. Her clawed thumb presses into the woman’s bottom lip, so familiar, yet the furthest thing from satisfying.

For centuries, Nerissa searched, walked every square inch of this earth, waded into seas and lakes and peered into shallow ponds, hoping to see her lover again. There was no stone or shell left unturned, and yet it seemed Mazu had disappeared, evaporated into the air with the water that surrounded her, leaving Nerissa’s arms vacant.

Death is a rare thing amongst their kind, never reaching old age like the creatures that shared their existence. As long as they keep themselves fed, that is.

Nerissa had been greedy, gluttonous, unnecessarily devouring any human that crossed her path, that crossed onto her feeding grounds, sinking ships and planes, her voice, her song pulling mounds of flesh into the ocean, right onto her ravenous tongue. She was a scourge to humanity.

Mazu warned that her careless feeding would one day have consequences, though she never tried to change Nerissa. When she returned home, filled to the brim with the blood and bone of men, women, and children, Mazu would still lay Nerissa’s head down onto her chest and sing to her softly, sweet words saved only for her.

Though a siren’s song is only impactful on their prey, Nerissa had been captivated by Mazu’s. Heard from hundreds of miles away, she was drawn to it like the ocean is to the moon, waves daring to rise as far as they can to brush the celestial body.

Nerissa had never known a love like this before, never heard a sound so beautiful. Now, its absence is a void, loud and dark. Just as Nerissa had taken many from their loved ones, she was cursed to feel the same loss, her lover ripped from her embrace and hidden away. The knowledge of her existence somewhere on this earth, unable to see or hear or feel her, is her punishment.

Those witches suffered and burned, Nerissa made sure of it, though Mazu never returned. She spends her days searching for anything that resembles her lover, her nights wrapped around bodies that aren’t quite Mazu.

She almost utters these words to the woman as she stares into pools of gray, not quite the right shade. She almost wants to distract herself in the woman’s lips and hips again, but decides against it.

“Only my mistakes,” Nerissa whispers, untangling herself from the human, singing her to a forgetful sleep, before slipping out into the night.

Tonight, the view of the full moon reflecting off the coast of Caicos, Nerissa closes her eyes and sings the words, hums the melody that Mazu had once composed for her. If she is quiet enough, if she focuses hard enough, she can imagine Mazu’s soft and sweet voice singing back to her. But when the last of the lyrics leave Nerissa’s lips, the air is still and silent, with only the sound of a single tear dripping into the ocean.

The Train Over Acheron
By: @Nougat
Word Count: 1,996
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion, Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story


Mentions of death, mentions of drug use, implied overdose, implied suicide



Water stretches out from either side of the train, the red of the sky catching on the soft blue waves. I sit in the last car of the train. There’s no one else.
A few minutes – hours? Days? – later, the train rumbles to a stop. The door at the front of the car slides open, and a man peers in.
“I’m not troubling you, am I?” he asks. His smile is a tremulous thing, fragile and small. He doesn’t give the impression of a man who had smiled much in his lifetime.
“Of course not!” I lean in, a conspiratorial grin on my face. “Honestly, it was getting kinda lonely back here.”
He laughs, a beat too late, as he sits in the seat facing me. Everything about the man is immaculate, from his soft gray suit to his perfectly coiffed hair. Still, he adjusts his tie and checks the cuffs of his sleeves as he makes himself comfortable.
“Where are you headed?”
I shrug. “Where I belong? Guess that’s where we’re all going.”
He smiles and nods. “I suppose we are.”
The man’s fingers drum his armrest, and he turns to look out the window. But having finally found company, I’m not ready for the conversation to end.
“Who do you think is waiting for you?”
The man turns towards me. He blinks. When he speaks, his voice is hesitant, as though he fears he might jinx things. “My fiancé died some time ago. I can’t be certain that he’s still here. He may have already moved…beyond where we are. But I hope he waited for me.”
I tsk. “I’m sure he’d wait a million years!” I lean forward to take his hand. “Trust me, he’ll be there.”
The man smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you.”
Not even I, with my distinct lack of brain-to-mouth filter, can continue the conversation.
Luckily, the silence doesn’t last long.
The door slams open. A girl storms in. She barely spares us a glance as she passes by, throwing herself into one of the seats.
“She’s too young,” whispers the man, his eyes heartbroken.
There’s a scoff. “Nobody’s too young to die.”
I shrug at the man’s helpless expression. “I mean, she’s not wrong. Still, it isn’t good to be here so young.” The last part is directed at the girl, who is furiously chipping away her purple nail polish.
Her head shoots up, studying me with narrowed eyes. “You don’t look that old either.”
I simply smile and shrug.
She rolls her eyes, falling back into her seat. “Whatever. Can this thing move faster?”
“Is there someone waiting for you?”
The man’s voice is soft, but the girl hears him fine. She looks up, her expression dark. The man sinks lower in his seat.
The train rumbles over its tracks. The girl curls up in her seat, silent and unmoving. The man stares out at the unchanging scenery. Neither of them seem interested in speaking.
But I’ve never liked the quiet. It leaves me alone with my thoughts, which is rarely a good thing.
“We should get to know each other!”
The silence stretches. I’m just hoping they don’t change cars to get away from me.
“I’d like that.” The man smiles hesitantly. I smile back.
A sigh. “Guess there’s nothing better to do.” The girl trudges towards us. She falls into the seat next to me, crossing her arms. “What’re we talkin’ ‘bout?”
The silence is punctuated by the rumble of the train.
The girl groans. “Coulda thought of something first.” Then she sits up, her eyes shining with a malicious excitement. “I’ll ask, then. How’d y’all die?”
She taps her foot. The man stares down at her heavy black boots.
“Y’all’re impossible.” She falls back against her seat. “Guess I’ll start it off.” Though she sounds annoyed, her excitement shines on her face. “So I was at this rager, yanno? My friend comes up, says he’s got some good shit. He’s got this bag, and I was like, whatever. He got a line, I got a line. We kept partying. Then…I dunno. Something happened. Maybe I took too much. Then I was here. That’s all.” Her smile had slowly disappeared as she spoke.
I wonder what it’s like to not recall your death. I remember every detail of mine, from the beginning to the last, shuddering breath. I wonder which is worse.
“Where were your parents?”
At his soft words, the girl turns to the man, fire in her eyes. “How the fuck should I know? Maybe my dad was snorting shit too. He would.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
The girl curls up, her face half hidden. Her voice is muffled the next time she speaks. “So? How’d you die?”
The man pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses. “My fiancé died a few years back. He was walking home, and a car didn’t make a turn. It drove right into the sidewalk.” He takes a shaky breath. “I threw myself into work afterwards. It was all I could do. He was all I had, and he was gone.” He laughs weakly. “I believe I had a heart attack in my home.”
He leans back into his chair, his laugh almost hysterical. “He’s going to be furious! He hated when I overworked myself. He said I’d send myself to an early grave, and he was right.”
Throughout his story, the girl had slowly begun to sit up. Now, she laughs, the sound loud and bright.
“Sucks, man,” she tells him. “At least I had fun first.” She turns to me. “So what’s up with you?”
Though I knew it was coming, I still find myself unprepared.
“Well,” I begin, “I was sick. My death was a long time coming. I might’ve been able to get help, but I decided it wasn’t worth it.”
“...That was a cop-out.”
I laugh. “Maybe. What’s your favourite colour?”

Minutes (hours, days) later, the train’s horn sounds. The train slows. Stops.
There’s a house with white lining and pale yellow walls. Roses, untamed and wild, surround it.
I can barely see the person on the porch, peering out at the train. Roses frame his face like he’s part of the garden.
There’s a gasp. The man stares out, eyes shining with unshed tears.
“He was waiting for me,” he whispers.
“I told you.”
“Your flowers are ugly.” The girl speaks near simultaneously with me.
The man laughs. “I was always the better gardener.”
Our laughter fills the air, a joyful, ringing sound.
“Go on then. You’ve got years of his gardening to fix.”
“I’ve just died, and I already have so much to do.” He sighs, looking fondly outside. He looks back at us and smiles, soft but strong, before ducking through the door.
The horn sounds.
The train moves again.

I close my eyes, leaning into the seat. It’s silent but for the rumble of the train.
“My mom.”
I open my eyes and turn to the girl. “Pardon?”
Her frown lacks its previous fire. “The one waiting for me. My mom.”
“Oh!” I sit up. “Were you close?”
She picks at her nail polish, shoulders hunched. “She said she’d always be there. But she left. Pancreatic cancer.” Her hands tremble.
I speak softly, my tone even. “You know she didn’t want to leave, right? She had no choice.”
Her voice is acid as she says, “Oh, fuck off. She was just like you! Didn’t take treatment. She wanted to leave.”
She looks away, roughly wiping her eyes. The only sounds between us are her harsh breaths.
I want to say it’s not the same. But I wouldn’t know how to explain myself. Instead, I envelop her in a hug. She stills, then sinks into it, trembling almost imperceptibly.
“Your mother must’ve been wonderful for you to grieve for her so much,” I say, stroking her hair. “I don’t know her, but if it were me, if I knew treatment would just prolong my death, I would’ve wanted to spend my time with you, not going in and out of the hospital.”
“I woulda been happy with the extra time.”
I nod, but there is nothing else I can say.
She takes a shuddery breath, pulling away from me. “She’s gonna hate me.”
“She won’t,” I begin, but she shakes her head.
“My dad sucked. Always on some shit, didn’t do nothing ‘cept complain all day. She hated him, and I’m like him.” She stares at her hands. Her nail polish has been chipped away. “She’ll hate me.”
“She won’t hate you. I know she won’t.” I say, but she doesn’t seem convinced. She simply pulls her hood over her head, turning away.
We sit in silence until the train stops.
The house’s windows are covered in dust. The screen door sits unevenly on its hinges. At the front, a stark contrast against the white walls, is a woman in black.
I look at the girl. Her hands are balled into fists, her jaw clenched as she stares out at the window. Her eyes have an odd sheen to them.
“Well, go on.” She looks at me, and I try to smile encouragingly. “You don’t wanna keep her any longer, right?”
She scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it. “I’m gonna yell at her.”
I laugh softly. “As long as you apologize. But you’ve gotta get off the train.”
She rolls her eyes, but stands up. “You didn’t have to tell me that.” She heads towards the door. Pauses. “...Thanks for talking to me.”
Then she’s gone, like she was never there.

I sit alone. There is no sound but the rumble of the train. The water flashes silver in the moonlight, but otherwise blends into the inky black sky.
I don’t speak. There’s no one to speak to.
Minutes (hours, days) later, the train stops.
I walk through shallow water towards the building. No one waits outside.
It’s dark inside, the air stale. I wander through the barren space, closing the doors of each empty room as I pass.
I come to the final room. Water overflows and spills from the porcelain tub. A razorblade sits on the floor, glinting wickedly in the moonlight spilling from the window.
I can’t help but laugh at the cruel facsimile of the last room I saw in my life. The sound is bitter and sharp, echoing against the tiled walls.
I pick up the razorblade and drop it in the trash can. Turn off the water and pull the drain plug. The water swirls away, leaving only droplets in its wake.
When the water is gone, I leave, firmly closing the door behind me.
I leave the house, not quite running. The train is gone. If not for the tracks, unmoving under the gentle waves, I wouldn’t believe it had ever been there.
I walk through the water, uncaring of how it soaks my shoes. I step onto the tracks.
The waves glitter like gems. The only sound is the gentle crash of the waves, the only smell the salt in the water. It’s beautiful.
But I’ve never liked being alone.
“Is there anyone here for me?” I ask the waves. They lap against my feet, but give no answer. They don’t have to. The answer has always been the same.
No mother anxiously waiting. No fiancé destroying our garden. No one.
I can imagine. Trimming the rose bushes with the man and his fiancé. Making dinner with the girl and her mother. If I follow the tracks, will it take me back to them?
No, I can’t. The train took us where we belonged. It couldn’t help that I didn’t like what I found.
I stare at the waves. The moon shines brilliantly above them, powerful in its solitude in a way I could never be.
After a while, I turn away.
The only sounds are my footsteps and the water lapping at the tracks. I walk back the way I came.

Stirred from Chamber
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 251
Chosen Theme(s): Yearning, Reunion
Chosen Format: Poetry




Stirred from chamber
I stroll to the aperture;
deprived from slumber,
hankering for soft departure.

It is the eventide.
Perched, I watch pensively,
with celestial realms coincide.
Remembrance prodding extensively.

Stripped from somnolence,
I find you in my subconsciousness.
Storming my percipience,
crowding my tenderness.

Above, I talk to the stars.
I scour through the constellations,
hoping to find memoirs
of your contemplations.

How those spheres once
shimmered into the daylight.
Manifesting presence,
even in reveries of the night.

How that smile
made existing worthwhile.
Where in the tempest
I could be at rest.

I commune with the moon
until dawning breaks.
Trusting that soon,
I can alleviate the aches
conjured by your vacancy.

Whisked by lack,
I dream that one day
I will see you back.
From then, I shall pray
for my silence.

Could I beg to the sun
for the culmination of my chasm?
To shed this facade
of woeful rack?

Stirred from chamber
I lie at the aperture;
deprived from slumber,
hankering for soft departure.

Perched, I watch pensively,
with celestial realms coincide.
Pleading to the cosmos extensively
to dissolve my tears.

Could I beseech to God
to grant me a glance,
a singular chance,
to behold your cast?

For one last time
to hearken your voice?
To feel your clasps?
To indulge in your comfort?

Stripped from somnolence,
you are in my subconsciousness.
Storming my percipience,
crowding my tenderness.

Alas, I can weather with release,
and revel in peace,
that you are swaying with the galaxies.

Pain, Passion, and Petrichor
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1,789
Chosen Theme(s): Reincarnation, Reunion, Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story




Today is a perfect day for rain. You may catch me saying that every day of the week, though. I love the rain. And the rain loves me.

Who am I, one may ask? I’m no one important. Just a guy named Percival. All my friends and family call me Percy. So did my husband, Alec.

Notice how I said ‘did,’ as in the past tense? That’s because Alec, tragically, was lost to us all five months ago. I won’t get into the details of that tragedy. This time, my mind isn’t focused on death. It’s more focused on reincarnation and rebirth, which I seldom gave thought to until recently.

Some say that when we die, we are reborn as someone else. When our energy leaves our bodies, it has to go somewhere, after all. That much, I am willing to believe in. All else is a confusing mystery to me.

Many are of the belief that we reawaken as different people, or perhaps an animal. It’s fascinating to consider we could be reborn as just about anything. Whether that may be a whole other person, a salmon in Lake Michigan, a mysterious forest owl, or a frog on a lily pad. Supposedly, we start back at the beginning, too. We start out as babies. Every new beginning is a new adventure.
What I’m experiencing is nothing like that, however. The person I lost–the person I loved–didn’t take on a brand new form in the flesh. No, he became something else entirely.

He became a rainstorm.

Rather than a new beginning, this is more of a continuation of Alec’s life journey. He told me as much. Not only that but I can sense that he’s still there with me, the same as he was five months ago when he was still alive… Don’t ask me how I know. I just know.

This is why I’m preparing myself for a walk in the rain. For these special walks, I have my own set of special rain gear. I try to look my best for these visits with my beloved. I have a long, black raincoat he always liked to see me in. He said it made me look like some guy from the Matrix movies. I have matching black gloves to tie the look together. Truthfully though, stylish as they are, I mainly wear them for warmth. If I don’t, I’ll start wishing I had someone to hold hands with. His hands were always the warmest, the softest…
I also carry with me a translucent umbrella. That way I can have a window-like view of the rain directly above me. I take comfort in the sight of raindrops sprinkling on and sliding down.

The scene doesn’t feel so complete without a cigarette, either. I help myself to one on my way out, relishing the contrast of inner, smoky warmness beneath my chilled skin. I’m more pensive than I care to admit during these walks in the rain. I’m all too aware of the life-and-death cycle I trap myself in. I feel so alive even though I have a cancer stick in my mouth, and the spirit of my dead spouse all around me. It’s a cold, seemingly endless thrill ride.

Honestly, I didn’t always like the rain. I understood its existence, beauty, and necessity, but I still preferred to stay indoors. My husband, on the other hand, was the opposite. He wanted to go adventuring in the rain every chance he got. Something about rainy weather made him feel so very alive. He smiled a certain smile I only ever saw when it rained. For those reasons and more, I allowed that rain-loving goofball to drag me outside whenever he asked me to. How could I tell him no? I loved him too much. I loved that smile too much.

I would give anything to see that smile again. Just one more time. Too often do I catch myself looking for that smile when I’m wandering in the rain. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to being alone like this.

As that thought passes through my mind, the wind whispers into my ear, “Darling, you’re not alone.” Instantly, I shiver from the chill of that loving phrase. Such warmhearted words within the frigid breath of a phantom. My lips nervously tighten around my cigarette while I focus on the rain-covered scenery ahead of me. Maybe if I stare intensely enough, if I wish with all my heart, I’ll see his smile. Even just a ghostly glimpse of that smile would be more than enough.

As if reading my thoughts, the rain more or less delivers to me my one wish. I don’t ‘see’ Alec’s smile in the traditional sense. In my own special way though, I can see that smile just fine. I see it with my heart. And I can feel it all around me, above me, and through me. Words alone are not enough to describe how positively sublime this is.

I can’t help but be prompted to toss aside my umbrella, shed off my gloves, and put out my cigarette so that I may bask in the whole experience. With my head tilted back and arms stretching out, I allow myself to walk in rhythmic rotations, just dancing in the storm as I welcome it with all my being. Every sweet drop of rain is a kiss on my face and hands, the joy of Alec’s smile in every splash, streak, trickle, and drop. I catch every bit of rain I can while the wind graces me with faint echoes of Alec’s laughter. Behind that laughter is the percussion of a human pulse, the clouds rumbling with thunder that speaks to my spirit. My ears are soothed by Alec’s symphony. I’m in heaven. I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I’m swept up in the ethereal arms of my beloved. I wish I could stay here forever. If this is the closest I can get to Alec, this is where I always want to be.

My eyes then fix on the sky as I imagine Alec in the cloudy heavens, protectively watching over me in his angelic glory. “I missed you,” I tell him, my emotions causing a slight shake to my voice. I feel myself start to cry, too. Alec, like always, is there to catch my tears. He makes sure to wipe away each one with a drop of rain. It tickles the same way his hands always did.

Taking in a breath to help calm myself, I find it in me to offer my gift to him, “Would you care to hear a bit of a poem I’ve been memorizing for you?”

Alec replies to me with a delighted, energetic whoosh of wind. It reminds me of his tendency to dance circles around me when he gets overexcited. Just like back then, I have to let him get the burst of joy out of his system. I’ll ruin the mood if I interrupt him.

When the affectionate mini tornado calms down, I softly and simply ask him, “You ready?”
I wait just a moment for him to answer me. I can tell I have his full attention when the rain becomes quieter. How fascinating that is. I listen to the rain all the time but now the rain is listening to me.
I make sure to deliver the poem in my best storyteller's voice, with an intimate tone I know Alec will recognize,

“Beautiful, how beautiful is the rain?
Beautiful, how beautiful is the rain?
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How welcome is the rain

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.”

After a few seconds of stillness, I am granted Alec’s approval. He does so with much somberness, though. I can practically see the sadness in that smile of his as the raindrops fatten to the shape of teardrops. The emotions are bittersweet. Even as my skin drinks in his ice-cold sorrow, he still warms my soul with his sweetness.
I want to speak, but only the faintest “Uh–” passes through my lips. My rainstorm of a husband manages to silence me by landing one of those raindrops right into my mouth. “Alec,” I quietly chuckle, my hands covering my brightly blushing face. The way Alec rains on me feels like the same barrages of kisses he used to attack me with. I can tell he’s trying to get me into a fit of laughter. Making me laugh wasn’t, and isn’t, easy to do. Alec eventually overcame that challenge and then exploited the weakness at every opportunity. Apparently, that’s still very true about him. Dammit… Well, I can’t complain. I can only be grateful.

Once again, I have to calm myself with a deep breath. Doubtlessly, my face is the color of a tomato by now. But my hands have to come down from my face sooner or later so that I can talk.
“You like it? That’s Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” I tell him, still smiling. I also make reach for my discarded umbrella and hold it back up. “There’s a lot more to that poem, of course, but that particular section, it…resonated with me.” I don’t have to explain any further. If at all. Alec understands. He always did and does.

“If you want, I can cite the poem in full. But maybe I should head back home first. You can come with me, just like last time. I can keep a few of the windows open for you, so we can still… be together.”

Alec agrees with me through a gust of wind that pushes me toward home. It feels as though he’s playfully tackling me from the side, just like he used to do. Gooseflesh shows up on the side of my neck, too. Somehow, he simulates the sensations of him nipping at my skin as part of his surprise attack. Just a light bite of frigid air mixed with a suspiciously well-aimed raindrop. The sensations twist my heart up in a painfully pleasant way. It’s torture and bliss all at once to be reminded that he’s gone, and still here, at the same time…

“Off we go, then,” I let him know, resisting the desire to put my gloves back on. Even though they are cold, and yearning to be held, I can at least pretend that the biting rain chill is the grip of my lover’s fingers. In our own special way, we can walk home together, hand-in-hand.

’Til Death Do Us Part
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1,939
Chosen Theme(s): Yearning, Reunion
Chosen Format: Short Story


Assisted Suicide, Religious Themes



Only one hour left.

The IV drips on steadily, leftover rain gathering on a tree’s leaf until it buckles and falls into the stream below. Soon, they will be leftovers, rejoining the intricate fabric of the universe. Dust returns to dust and all that.

“Are you frightened?”

Eighty-five years and Phil still looks as beautiful to Jaime as he did at thirty-four. Between the two, his hair grayed the least, leaving the remnants of his dark locks peppered and chic. His eyes flicker restlessly, searching Jaime’s face from where they lay across one another on the bed they’ve spent their lives on, unable to settle in the same way they could never decide to be more green or blue.

Jaime is frightened. How could he not be? It is within human nature to fear death. No one can truly accept it; try as they might. Anyone who says they can is lying to themselves or must believe themselves immortal. Who is actually unafraid of the ultimate unknown?

Some things are better not to think about. They don’t have much time to think, anyway. “I’m more frightened at the idea of living without you.”

Phil’s eyes flick up to the IV mirroring his own, that remaining hesitation flashing across his face. With the hand not holding his lover’s, Jaime guides his eyes back to his. He hopes his resolve, vacillating as it is, will settle the nerves vibrating like pulled guitar strings throughout Phil’s body. “I’m sure of this,” he promises, not for the first time. It had been just as hard convincing Phil that it was only right that they should die together as it was convincing the nurses.

“Are you in pain?”

“Of course I am. My husband is
dying.”

There’s an eleven years difference lying between them. Phil hadn’t wanted him to waste what time he had left, but what would be the point? Living without his heart would be meaningless.

Phil’s arms tighten around him, pressing their foreheads together as his eyes shutter, Adam’s apple bobbing. There’s a frog in his throat when he speaks, “It’s selfish, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Where else would I go? I told you you’d be stuck with me forever,” he grins, flicking his nose. “Not even death can stop me from annoying you.”

He barks wetly. “It’s your best talent.”

“Really? I thought it was my head game.”

Phil makes a noncommittal noise, wobbling his free hand. Now it’s Jaime’s turn to laugh, smacking his husband’s shoulder. They lapse into a comfortable silence, both wearing contented smiles, the weariness beginning to set in now as Jaime nuzzles into Phil’s chest. Phil is warm, and his arms are just as comforting as they always have been. Jaime’s body is buzzing, and the sunlight against his back is leaving him sweaty, but they’ve always slept like this, Jaime because he likes the sun and Phil because he likes looking at him in the sunlight.

“I’m glad the kids have been so strong about this,” Phil whispers.

This had all been planned months in advance, giving them ample time to host a party for their remaining relatives and friends to spend the day smothering them in kisses and nearly breaking their spines with hugs. They’d bounced their grandchildren on their knees and spoke of stars and whispering wind and hearts. Some things are better left unsaid, after all.

Their children looked like twigs reinforced with steel, ready to buckle but withstanding. They’ve always understood their fathers to have a special bond, one they used to mock with wagging tongues and complaints of cooties until the sincerity and devotion became a blueprint for their own romantic lives. They all understood that there was no other way this could end.

Only thirty minutes left.

“Do you have any regrets?” Phil asks, apparently not content with Jaime’s gentle back stroking and silence.

Jaime regrets many things — letting his parents’ abuse shape him into an asshole in his earlier years, allowing their ambitions to determine his life, repressing his feelings for Phil and wasting years of precious time they could have spent together. “Only the time I wasted in being disingenuous,” he admits, because they’ve always been honest with each other. “But if I could do it all again, I wouldn’t change anything because everything I did led me to this. We had a wonderful life, didn’t we?”

“We did.”

“Do you have regrets?”

Phil has even more to regret than Jaime, his younger life littered with violence. It was a danger that excited Jaime when they first met, though he loves his softness just as much. Phil’s hands have ended more than one life, and they could talk about it, but some things are better not to think about.

“Only that I’ll be going to Hell.” But you have to think about them eventually, and they have such little time left.

“We’ll go together,” Jaime insists, squeezing his hand. “I’ve done plenty to deserve it. I’ll find you. As long as we’re together, Hell won’t be so bad.”

Phil shakes his head, laughing, but there’s no humor in it, and he won’t meet his eyes. “You won’t go to Hell. Being an asshole is different from being a murderer, baby.”

What can he say to that? Should he stamp his feet like a toddler and insist they are equivalent simply because it would be convenient? Should he pretend those people Phil killed didn’t have names and families? “It doesn’t matter. There is no Heaven for me without you, so you have to join me wherever I go.” This he is certain about. “I’m not going to let anything or anyone else keep you from me. No matter what, I’ll find you, regardless of the obstacles. Death isn’t enough to separate us.”

Finally, Phil looks like he believes him, and he smiles that smile that makes Jaime’s favorite of his freckles, the one nearest his right eye, disappear inside his crow’s feet. Then, suddenly, he’s crying. “I love you so much.”

It’s Phil’s turn to bury his head in Jaime’s chest, lither arms adjusting to wrap around and cocoon the slightly smaller body.

Ten minutes.

“I love you too.”

“I’m scared, Jaime.”

It’s hard to tell which of them is trembling. “I know. I’m here.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“You won’t have to. Not for long.”

Kisses are shared everywhere that can be reached, arthritis-riddled fingers clawing desperately at clothes, an homage to their many impassioned nights, a testament to their continued affection. Some things don’t need to be said when they can be expressed just as well through touch.


Jaime wakes up alone. The loss of Phil’s presence registers before anything else, arm flailing desperately beside himself as though it might conjure his lover out of midair. “Phil,” he gasps, shooting out of bed. His jerking should have ripped the IV out of his arm, except it isn’t there anymore. Nor are his wrinkles and his age spots.

He turns to the ornate vanity mirror to confirm his suspicions, his jaw dropping at the sight that greets him. Like staring into a photograph, he’s in his twenties again. His hair is back to its golden color, his hairline fully intact, and his skin smooth as butter beneath his old cotton pajamas.

Everything else looks the same. There’s the same king-sized bed with the silken black bedding and the one atrociously furry white pillow Jaime had refused to get rid of despite Phil’s complaints. The same vanity table covered in more skin and hair care products than two people need. But there’s no Phil, and that’s the crux of it.

He nearly trips in his race out of the room and down the equally familiar stairs, slowing only as he hears voices coming from the lower level. They are also familiar, and his heart is racing even faster when he reaches the last step.

“Jaime!” Nick, his older cousin, greets him with a grin and two flutes of champagne. His face looks flawless, especially for someone who’d died in a car wreck twenty-six years ago. “Took you long enough, man; we’ve been waiting!” He thrusts the extra flute into his hand.

“Where’s Phil?” he asks, his voice a stranger to him.

“Come on,” Nick laughs instead of answering, looping their arms together and pulling him outside.

It’s a gorgeous day, warm with a nice breeze, the sun beating down on their garden that looks far more well-tended than they’d been able to manage in their old age. A picnic has been laid out near the rose bushes, and on it are numerous faces, both recognizable and new.

“Jaime!” a blonde woman cries, leaping to her feet and making the bottom of her sundress bounce. He recognizes his birth mother from the scrapbooks of her youth she’d shown him shortly after they’d found each other again. She wastes no time wrapping him up into a bearhug, causing champagne to spill and pop over his fist.

“Mom,” he smiles, tears springing to his eyes unbidden as he returns the embrace. “You look amazing.”

“Such a flatterer,” she teases, pulling back with matching wet eyes. “Come on, join us; we were just getting started.” She takes his free hand and starts dragging him toward the checkered blanket.

“Where’s Phil?” he blurts. Sure, he feels guilty for thinking about only one person amidst these countless loved ones, but he can’t ignore the dread rising up his throat and choking him.

“Right here, baby.”

Quick enough to spill the rest of his poor champagne, he turns. Phil is standing there in his Sunday best, positively glowing despite the bashful way he holds up a plate of his favorite red velvet cupcakes.

“I was trying to finish them before you woke up as a surprise, but I timed it wrong,” he explains, passing off the plate to Jaime’s mother, who accepts it gladly. Before Jaime can blink, Phil has pulled him into his arms, his grip tight. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he whispers, regret dripping from each word.

In normal circumstances, Jaime would have yelled at him that such a thing was indeed fucked up, but his relief overtakes everything else, and he only holds him tighter, sobbing against his shoulder. “I was terrified you were gone,” he admits.

“But I’m not,” Phil says, stepping back enough to meet his eyes. He’s grinning despite the tears trailing down his cheeks. “You were right; death isn’t enough to separate us.” He’d always known Phil to be handsome, but seeing him so young again steals the breath from his lungs. Funny that he still has breath to give.

With his wrinkles smoothed out, that adorable freckle stands out starkly, begging to be kissed. So Jaime does, then he kisses his cheeks, forehead, and nose. He kisses him everywhere until Phil laughs louder than he’s heard him in months.

“I told you that not even death could stop me from annoying you,” he teases, and Phil rolls his eyes good-naturedly before taking his hand.

“That part I didn’t doubt,” he teases back, tugging him toward the others. “Now come on, you can finally meet my mother,” he beams, radiant.

As he settles beside Phil, accepting a new glass of champagne from Nick and a red velvet cupcake from a young German woman that matches Phil’s photos of his mother in her youth, it occurs to him (with no small amount of relief) that it is finally over. They made it. Together.


Somewhere else, Phil cries out for his lover as he drags himself through a lake of fire, searching ever onward.

Togetherness
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 573
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion, Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story




Birdsong escorted Leda as she hobbled unsteadily along the old overgrown path. It had been old when she was still young, and age had done it no favors. Dips and mounds and dewy twigs hindered her passage but the woman would not be deterred. She made slow progress where once she sped. The image of a spritely girl who had sprinted and jumped in defiance of the whipping wind and the branches that tried to stop her. She had had no fear of tripping then. Leda moved slowly now, her weathered cane an extra limb to steady herself when she stumbled. More than once the ground seemed much too close.

Nostalgia claimed Leda as she reminisced. At the end of the path there had always been Adaline to greet her. Leda’s beautiful Adaline. Adaline who stood just beyond the treeline on the hill of tall grass. Ada who waved and smiled as sunlight woven into a woman. Leda’s heart thudded in her chest as an echo of her steps the entire journey. Love was not the word they used but it was not needed. Love passed between them wordlessly as they wrapped their fingers together and whispered secrets beneath the stars. It existed in the laughs they shared and the ladybugs they caught and the way togetherness wrapped them in mutual adoration. How many times had Leda snuck from her old home and crept along the path to meet her heart’s desire?

Leda stopped at the edge of the tree line. She caught her breath as a disgruntled owl protested somewhere nearby. Just ahead the hill of tall grass remained unchanged and just beyond that was the old lighthouse. The woman steadied her breathing and brushed the leaves off of her coat. Leda’s respite was short before she continued up the loose dirt path. She stopped again as soon as she crested the hill. Her eyes fell on the weathered stone.

Adaline Monroe
Beloved Daughter
1928—1952

Four words to sum up an entire life. Painfully insignificant. Painful. Nothing had prepared Leda for the feeling she felt in the wake of Ada’s absence. The aching sorrow overcame her. There was an emptiness where joy had once lived. Emptiness Leda knew how to fill but never could. Never again. Her heart was buried beneath the ground, encased by soil and chewed by worms. And why had time made it different, not better? The ache dulled but it hardened too.

Leda had fled as if distance would dull the pain. She left it all behind and made herself a new life, one different in every way. It had been a good life, a long one. But the tether remained and her longing lingered. It crept into moments she did not expect, small reminders of everything left behind. A moment where her happiness was tinged with bitter sadness and all Leda wanted was to wake up and wrap Adaline in her arms.

The old woman hobbled over to the grave. She strained to seat herself on the ground, above the bones of her beloved. Leda was tired. She exhaled with quiet tears in the corners of her eyes. Her time had come and there was nowhere else she wanted to die. Leda smiled and she whispered sweet words into the morning for Adaline was not in the ground. Ada cast in sunlight once again, she waited once more.

Together Again

Leda closed her eyes and smiled.

Already Broken Hearted
By: @Takumi
Word Count: 1,489
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion, Reincarnation
Chosen Format: Short Story




"Good morning Republic City! Today's looking like a rather chilly one today so grab your coats and be careful out there on your commute! Today we–"



Daiyu let the radio drone on in the background, going through her morning routine as she usually did; wake up, get ready for the day by brushing and coming out her hair, make a hot cup of tea, put in her hours at work, come home and practice her fire bending katas then relax. Rinse and repeat.



Her tired brown eyes stared at her reflection as she combed through her graying black hair and her lips pursed into a thin line.



Baggy eyes and graying hair, signs of her forty-five years of life. Time flew by, but then quaint fourteen of those were spent in that mental institution.



At the reminder, she scowled softly.



"Today we have a special guest, all the way from the Fire Nation is Fire Lady Liu, daughter of Avatar Yaru–"



Daiyu paused in combing out knots in her hair, blinking as the words began to register in her head.



Liu was the Fire Lady? Since when? And Yaru was still kicking?



Did he get Liu on the Fire Nation throne to spite her?

"Tch, of course he wouldn't try and spite me with that, the fool would keep living to spite me." She grumbled. After all, if she had failed to snuff out his flame then who else could have the honor of saying they killed her ex-husband?


Then again, it'd been seven years since they last saw each other. After their final meeting, she hadn't bothered to keep up with news regarding him and news of their daughter was scarce at best.

"You haven't thought of this man in seven years, so why think of him now?" She huffed. Sure he was bright in personality and demeanor when they met, and sure he loved Liu more than anything…

He was also rather fierce in battle…

Shaking those thoughts from her head with her cheeks heating from embarrassment she set her comb aside with a loud and harsh clank as she stood and marched her way to her kitchen down the hall.


"You hate him, you've hated him since the moment you met and only got with him to have an heir to put your family lineage back on the Fire Nation throne, and you technically succeeded even if you didn't end his life!" She grumbled to herself. Sure…he had a nice smile, and pretty eyes that were like amber–

Nope, no, she wasn't going there. She absolutely did not hold any ounce of affection for him back then, nor did she now of all times!



She growled under her breath as she decided that tea would help her focus instead on the fact that Liu was Fire Lady.

"She's…what, twenty now? I'm sure she's become a beautiful young woman." Daiyu muttered under her breath. Time sure flew by…

She could still remember when Liu was no older than five, the year was 219 AG and summer was near its peak.

A wide grin would greet her as Liu's golden hues landed on her, little hands reaching for her mother as the little rascal ran into her legs, babbling on about whatever her and her father had been doing earlier that day, or what her and her paternal uncle had talked about last time they spoke on the phone and whatnot.



Letting herself have this one indulgence, Daiyu would pick up the excitable child and plant a kiss on Liu's cheek earning a squeal in response.



Yaru, who had been in the kitchen, had smiled at the sight of them, his gaze soft and full of love.


Daiyu couldn't help but feel a slight pang in her chest at the memory, realizing that she missed Liu quite a bit. Even if she claimed to hate Yaru, she could at least admit that there were some nice times between them.


She had just finished making a cup of tea and just took a sip when the only warning to what happened next were a few screams outside and screeching tires before a loud crash sounded across from her, something large landing in a pile of wood in the middle of her living room.

She blinked owlishly as she was taken out of her musings, setting her cup aside just as a large deep purple beast burst forth from the splinters of wood with a low snarl.



Daiyu quickly took on a fighting stance, punching out a stream of flames just as the thing–a spirit it seemed–charged. It quickly recoiled from the heat with a monsterous hiss.

A second stream of flames came from the newly acquired entrance in the wall of her home. She didn't get to see who the second bender was as the spirit darted to the nearest wall to latch on and began crawling along the wall and ceiling rapidly before slamming into the other bender, sending the two back out into the streets.

For a split second, she considered staying put, until she looked at the mess of her living room and with a scowl stepped out of the hole to see that the other Firebender that had came to her aid was being pinned by the beast and staring down it's gaping maw.


Oh. Oh, it was Yaru–

"Hey! Get your grubby claws off my ex!" She snapped, hitting the beast with another stream of flames that distracted the spirit long enough for Yaru to send it flying back into a street lamp with a kick and strong gust of airbending.

The fight took a good five minutes, before Yaru was able to get the spirit to move on in a display of waterbending she hadn't seen.


It made him look…oddly beautiful.

"I hate you." She bluntly blurted out.

He blinked at her, taken aback momentarily.

"I know? You made it clear the day you nearly blinded me." Yaru replied with a raised brow, motioning to his clouded right eye as he spoke and causing her to look away from the scars she had left.

"Do you want tea? We can discuss payment for the damage to my home and some explanations over it." She suggested with a strained smile, taking satisfaction when his skeptical look turned into a flustered grimace.

The following silence as she reheated the tea and got him a cup was awkward. Daiyu couldn't help but roll her eyes as she sat across from him.


"I can help you repair the damage." Yaru offered, finally taking a sip of his tea before adding, "how long have you been living in this part of Republic City?"


"Oh? You haven't kept tabs on me dear? I'm a bit hurt," Daiyu teased before answering with, "a few years now. How long has Liu been Fire Lady? When was the wedding?"

"This spring. She's doing a rather fine job as Fire Lady so far, but most importantly she's happy." Yaru spoke, tone growing sharp.



"If she wasn't I'd intervene." Daiyu stated simply.



"Right." He grumbled.

Silence fell between them, eventually leading into talks of rebuilding and possibly speaking with police or to whatever insurance company she had before Yaru eventually stood to leave.

"Look, I have to go, but I'll be back tomorrow, okay?" He sighed.


While the two never rekindled their love, their relationship improved much more than it had before, even if they didn't stay in contact much.

Still, Daiyu was surprised when she found herself hurt when his passing was announced in 257 AG.

One winter morning in 270 AG, Daiyu found herself sitting on a park bench, her eyes landing on the stone statue of Yaru that watched over the park, startling when someone sat beside her, turning to find a young man with a thick yellow coat and red scarf beside her. He couldn't have been any older than thirteen.

Gray eyes met hers, and he smiled at her. His smile seemed oddly familiar.

"You seem lonely, do you mind if I sit with you for a while?" He asked, earning a bewildered blink from her.

"I–no, but where's your mother?" She grunted, following where he pointed to a woman some distance away speaking to another woman while trying to wrangle a much smaller child in her arms.

"I'm Luhan, what's your name?" He greeted, holding out his hand for a shake.

"...Daiyu." She shook his hand, finding that she didn't mind his company even as he talked about topics she didn't much care for to fill the silence until his mother called him away.

"See you tomorrow!" He called as he ran off, and it hit her then as she realized why his smile seemed so familiar.

"To think I just met another Avatar in my lifetime." She huffed under her breath.
 
Somewhere else, Phil cries out for his lover as he drags himself through a lake of fire, searching ever onward.
The way I gasped :((((((
 
Not me realising I could have added a description of Sims acrobatics to ensure that Bone trophy. 😩

@Diana I ADDED BONES AND AN OWL FOR YOU.
 
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Reactions: Takumi and wren.
Somewhere else, Phil cries out for his lover as he drags himself through a lake of fire, searching ever onward.

Hi, I'm crying rn.
 
Gentle reminder to everyone that the live reading will be tomorrow at 3 PM CST! Hope to see you there!
 
Only a couple of days left to vote!
 
Last day to vote and help us judges decide the winners!
 
Thank you all for your submissions, votes, and comments! Winners have been decided:

1. Pain, Passion, and Petrichor by @Fluffy
2. The Train Over Acheron by @Nougat
3. A Hooting by @firejay1


Thank you to everyone who submitted, we enjoyed reading your pieces very much! There were many strong contenders for these three places, but this is what we decided on after considering consistency with theme, how much it constitutes a love story, popular vote, and more. If you didn't win this time, there is always next year, and I hope to see you then!

Also, for those who submitted, I will happily send you the notes I wrote about your piece if you wish.

For those who submitted anonymously, feel free to come forward or remain in the shadows if you prefer!

As for 'Til Death Do Us Part...

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Congratulations to the winners! @Nougat you got my vote, by the way.

I just wanted to know who wrote 'Til Death Do Us Part', so thank you to the community for helping me in that endeavour. Let's stuff Wren back into that turkey.
 
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Reactions: wren.
Thanks for all your submissions, y’all :D They were a pleasure to read.
 
1. Pain, Passion, and Petrichor by Anonymous

Me when I see that my story won:
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💞 Happy Hearts Month to all. This was a really enjoyable event.