- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
- Status
- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
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.
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.
2nd Place: @Nougat
Word Count: 1,996
Chosen Theme(s): Reunion, Yearning
Chosen Format: Short Story
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.
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.
3rd Place: @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."
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."
- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
Word Count: 1,549
Chosen Theme(s): Forbidden
Chosen Format: Scene
Édgar waits for me as I slip from the servant's entrance into the garden. Cast in the waning light of dusk, I see him. He is surrounded by red carnation bushes, all in full bloom. A freshly plucked flower is in his fingers, the rich red twirling by its stem. I stop some distance away, observing him. His pale hair and pale skin, his downcast dark eyes shadowed in the rapidly dimming light. They are features I know well, ones I could trace in charcoal without a glance. I feel a voyeur, watching him as I do, but I am compelled to stillness. My heart leaps in anticipation, but there is something else there. A nervousness, not born from the illicit nature of our affair.
Édgar, however, is not still. He startles, and looks my way.
"Bas!" He says through a broad grin. It is natural, the sort reserved for me. It is not the fake smile he shares with the world, and I know I am special to receive such a thing. His true smiles are less and less. My heart feels lighter to see this expression, even if the subtle slip at the end does not escape me.
"I've missed you," I say, as if I don't see him every day. But it's not the same to see him like that. Out there, beyond our own private world, I can be little more than a fly, staying aside so as not to be swatted. Beyond our garden of hushed whispers, or tucked between the satin sheets of his bed deep in the dead of night, we are strangers. We must be. All but imperceptibly, the corners of his lips quiver. I still feel trepidation, but I walk the final steps to close the distance between us.
"What's wrong?" I ask as I wrap my hand around his hand, soft petals suppressed beneath our fingers. His skin is cool against mine, and I wish to encompass it in the warmth of my flesh. I long to warm the faint chill out of it. "If it's that I kept you waiting—"
"It's not that," the other boy replies quickly, tersely. He smiles again. It is fake. I want to plead with him to tell me what is wrong. Am I the cause? Have I somehow done this to him? Nothing would make my heart ache more.
"Please." Édgar sounds desperate, almost small, his previous assertion gone. "Let us not waste our time together."
He doesn't deny it. He doesn't say, "nothing is wrong." I do not doubt the other boy's fondness for me, he would not lead me astray, yet I find myself fearful that I am what troubles him. It is his heart I want to ease. And any pain he feels, I want to take away. He's right, however. Our time is rare, and I cannot bring myself to waste it.
"All right," I say, with obvious reluctance in my voice. Édgar smiles again, sincere once more. And I know I am his. His hand slips from mine, and he reaches up, the carnation in hand. I tilt my head, and Édgar tucks the stem of the slightly battered flower into my curled hair.
"You're perfect," he whispers warmly. The goofy grin which spreads across my face comes unbidden. It's crooked and I feel silly for it. But he only looks at me, fondness in his eyes. I raise my hand to brush his cheek. Édgar leans into it momentarily, before reaching up to take mine in his. It is warm now, soft and free of the calluses which harden my own hands. The golden-haired boy leans forward to place a small kiss upon my lips. For the brief moment our skin touches, I know everything is right.
Gently, he tugs at my hand.
I am submissive, allowing him to lead me through the garden. I do not ask where he is taking me, I do not care. Édgar pulls me further from stray gazes as we pass by flowering bushes and old fruit trees, their apples green and small. As he leads me, the grasses grow longer, untamed. It is not long before the sun dried weeds crawl up our legs. There is only a trickle of daylight left, tucked barely along the horizon. We are beneath a starlit sky, and a bright full moon.
Woe befall us if we're found.
Édgar releases my hand, satisfaction on his face. Not a moment later, he drops into the grass. He is dressed simply, only in trousers and a loose shirt, leather shoes pulled on in a hurry for our rendezvous. In the warmth of the summer air, he needs nothing more.
"You're going to get covered in dirt," I protest.
"I don't care," he replies. And as if to make his point, Édgar leans back into the grass, eyes upon the canopy of stars above him.
"You'll be in trouble."
"I don't care," he repeats, a hint of a mischievous smile on his pink lips. "Join me," he says. My clothes are already stained, far from the fine fabrics of his, and it is silly for me to protest the action, yet I hesitate. For only a moment, however. I place myself upon the ground beside him, with much less of a thump than he had. Édgar grins, and his fingers immediately crawl back into mine. We remained like that for a long moment, him on his back staring at the stars, and me sitting, admiring him.
"The sky is bright tonight," he says, unprompted.
"It is."
"If only we could ascend to the Heavens together."
I do not tell him that Heaven is not for us.
"Anywhere with you is where I want to be," I say. Édgar looks over to me. There is that smile again, reserved and tinged with sadness. I shift, lying down beside him, dirt be damned. I do not relinquish his hand. Eyes like coal look once again to the sky above, and my honey gaze follows after them. Silence fills our moment. A silence so quiet I can hear our breaths in the air. Édgar asks me about my day, and I trouble him with tales of my menial tasks and chores. Of mundane things which should hold no interest for him, and yet he always asks to hear them. When I have satisfied his curiosity, I ask him about his day. He tells me of problems I'll never have, and of delights beyond my reach. I used to feel something of envy, but now I only wish to hear fragments of his life I cannot touch. Quietly and content, I remain beside him. Fingers wrapped in fingers. Eventually, words fade, and we lay there in silence.
"Bas," he whispers. His voice is quiet, almost inaudible. It is full of underlying sorrow. I know, before he says anything more, I know it's going to be something awful. The bad news he bore all night. Édgar sits up. My eyes drift to his back, covered in thin strands of dried grass. He retreats his fingers from mine. My hand has never felt so cold.
"Bas, I…" Édgar doesn't look at me. His gaze remains fixed on the horizon. I know he intentionally avoids my gaze. "My father found a woman I am to marry," he finishes. The sound of his sorrow fills me with grief. But I know he is not done. I know. In the tense moment following his statement, I sit up. My hand goes to his cheek, and gently pulls his face toward me.
"No," I say, in a whisper.
Édgar's eyes remain downcast.
"I'm sorry," he says. His fingers move to gently caress my hand where it rests on his cheek before removing my fingers from him. "This can't be forever," he says.
"No," I plead. My voice is almost petulant. Desperate. Édgar meets my gaze. He smiles, and it is by far the most heartbreaking thing I have ever seen. "No," I repeat, as if I have forgotten all other words. I feel the tears in the corners of my eyes. I blink and they roll silently down my cheeks.
"I love you," he says.
"Then stay with me."
"I can't."
"Please," I whimper, barely audible. He tilts his head slightly to the side. That sad smile stuck on his lips. He looks like he is going to cry, too.
"Stay here," I say. "Just a little longer."
Édgar leans forward and places a kiss on my cheek. I think he is going to get up, to leave me alone. Leave me without him. I know it will come, but I just want him to stay a moment longer. Maybe if he remains with me a few more moments, maybe then he'll stay forever. Édgar shifts slightly. I feel his shoulder press into mine. I feel the warmth of his presence against me as both of our eyes are cast to the brightening horizon. I barely breathe. If I move, the moment will be over. We watch the horizon as the sun begins to creep up.
"Okay," he whispers.
Chosen Theme(s): Forbidden
Chosen Format: Scene
Édgar waits for me as I slip from the servant's entrance into the garden. Cast in the waning light of dusk, I see him. He is surrounded by red carnation bushes, all in full bloom. A freshly plucked flower is in his fingers, the rich red twirling by its stem. I stop some distance away, observing him. His pale hair and pale skin, his downcast dark eyes shadowed in the rapidly dimming light. They are features I know well, ones I could trace in charcoal without a glance. I feel a voyeur, watching him as I do, but I am compelled to stillness. My heart leaps in anticipation, but there is something else there. A nervousness, not born from the illicit nature of our affair.
Édgar, however, is not still. He startles, and looks my way.
"Bas!" He says through a broad grin. It is natural, the sort reserved for me. It is not the fake smile he shares with the world, and I know I am special to receive such a thing. His true smiles are less and less. My heart feels lighter to see this expression, even if the subtle slip at the end does not escape me.
"I've missed you," I say, as if I don't see him every day. But it's not the same to see him like that. Out there, beyond our own private world, I can be little more than a fly, staying aside so as not to be swatted. Beyond our garden of hushed whispers, or tucked between the satin sheets of his bed deep in the dead of night, we are strangers. We must be. All but imperceptibly, the corners of his lips quiver. I still feel trepidation, but I walk the final steps to close the distance between us.
"What's wrong?" I ask as I wrap my hand around his hand, soft petals suppressed beneath our fingers. His skin is cool against mine, and I wish to encompass it in the warmth of my flesh. I long to warm the faint chill out of it. "If it's that I kept you waiting—"
"It's not that," the other boy replies quickly, tersely. He smiles again. It is fake. I want to plead with him to tell me what is wrong. Am I the cause? Have I somehow done this to him? Nothing would make my heart ache more.
"Please." Édgar sounds desperate, almost small, his previous assertion gone. "Let us not waste our time together."
He doesn't deny it. He doesn't say, "nothing is wrong." I do not doubt the other boy's fondness for me, he would not lead me astray, yet I find myself fearful that I am what troubles him. It is his heart I want to ease. And any pain he feels, I want to take away. He's right, however. Our time is rare, and I cannot bring myself to waste it.
"All right," I say, with obvious reluctance in my voice. Édgar smiles again, sincere once more. And I know I am his. His hand slips from mine, and he reaches up, the carnation in hand. I tilt my head, and Édgar tucks the stem of the slightly battered flower into my curled hair.
"You're perfect," he whispers warmly. The goofy grin which spreads across my face comes unbidden. It's crooked and I feel silly for it. But he only looks at me, fondness in his eyes. I raise my hand to brush his cheek. Édgar leans into it momentarily, before reaching up to take mine in his. It is warm now, soft and free of the calluses which harden my own hands. The golden-haired boy leans forward to place a small kiss upon my lips. For the brief moment our skin touches, I know everything is right.
Gently, he tugs at my hand.
I am submissive, allowing him to lead me through the garden. I do not ask where he is taking me, I do not care. Édgar pulls me further from stray gazes as we pass by flowering bushes and old fruit trees, their apples green and small. As he leads me, the grasses grow longer, untamed. It is not long before the sun dried weeds crawl up our legs. There is only a trickle of daylight left, tucked barely along the horizon. We are beneath a starlit sky, and a bright full moon.
Woe befall us if we're found.
Édgar releases my hand, satisfaction on his face. Not a moment later, he drops into the grass. He is dressed simply, only in trousers and a loose shirt, leather shoes pulled on in a hurry for our rendezvous. In the warmth of the summer air, he needs nothing more.
"You're going to get covered in dirt," I protest.
"I don't care," he replies. And as if to make his point, Édgar leans back into the grass, eyes upon the canopy of stars above him.
"You'll be in trouble."
"I don't care," he repeats, a hint of a mischievous smile on his pink lips. "Join me," he says. My clothes are already stained, far from the fine fabrics of his, and it is silly for me to protest the action, yet I hesitate. For only a moment, however. I place myself upon the ground beside him, with much less of a thump than he had. Édgar grins, and his fingers immediately crawl back into mine. We remained like that for a long moment, him on his back staring at the stars, and me sitting, admiring him.
"The sky is bright tonight," he says, unprompted.
"It is."
"If only we could ascend to the Heavens together."
I do not tell him that Heaven is not for us.
"Anywhere with you is where I want to be," I say. Édgar looks over to me. There is that smile again, reserved and tinged with sadness. I shift, lying down beside him, dirt be damned. I do not relinquish his hand. Eyes like coal look once again to the sky above, and my honey gaze follows after them. Silence fills our moment. A silence so quiet I can hear our breaths in the air. Édgar asks me about my day, and I trouble him with tales of my menial tasks and chores. Of mundane things which should hold no interest for him, and yet he always asks to hear them. When I have satisfied his curiosity, I ask him about his day. He tells me of problems I'll never have, and of delights beyond my reach. I used to feel something of envy, but now I only wish to hear fragments of his life I cannot touch. Quietly and content, I remain beside him. Fingers wrapped in fingers. Eventually, words fade, and we lay there in silence.
"Bas," he whispers. His voice is quiet, almost inaudible. It is full of underlying sorrow. I know, before he says anything more, I know it's going to be something awful. The bad news he bore all night. Édgar sits up. My eyes drift to his back, covered in thin strands of dried grass. He retreats his fingers from mine. My hand has never felt so cold.
"Bas, I…" Édgar doesn't look at me. His gaze remains fixed on the horizon. I know he intentionally avoids my gaze. "My father found a woman I am to marry," he finishes. The sound of his sorrow fills me with grief. But I know he is not done. I know. In the tense moment following his statement, I sit up. My hand goes to his cheek, and gently pulls his face toward me.
"No," I say, in a whisper.
Édgar's eyes remain downcast.
"I'm sorry," he says. His fingers move to gently caress my hand where it rests on his cheek before removing my fingers from him. "This can't be forever," he says.
"No," I plead. My voice is almost petulant. Desperate. Édgar meets my gaze. He smiles, and it is by far the most heartbreaking thing I have ever seen. "No," I repeat, as if I have forgotten all other words. I feel the tears in the corners of my eyes. I blink and they roll silently down my cheeks.
"I love you," he says.
"Then stay with me."
"I can't."
"Please," I whimper, barely audible. He tilts his head slightly to the side. That sad smile stuck on his lips. He looks like he is going to cry, too.
"Stay here," I say. "Just a little longer."
Édgar leans forward and places a kiss on my cheek. I think he is going to get up, to leave me alone. Leave me without him. I know it will come, but I just want him to stay a moment longer. Maybe if he remains with me a few more moments, maybe then he'll stay forever. Édgar shifts slightly. I feel his shoulder press into mine. I feel the warmth of his presence against me as both of our eyes are cast to the brightening horizon. I barely breathe. If I move, the moment will be over. We watch the horizon as the sun begins to creep up.
"Okay," he whispers.
2nd Place: @MaryGold
Word Count: 1,385
Chosen Theme(s): Forbidden
Chosen Format: Short Story
These old swings no longer carry my weight like they used to. The metal chains creak and whine like an old man as they struggle to carry me when I sit in the flimsy plastic seat they hold up. Sometimes I fear they may just collapse and I'll fall ass first into the sand below me. They are old and rusted and have been so since I was a child. But just like when I was a child, they hold me regardless of any struggle.
"Hey!" A loud shushed voice calls to me.
I look up and away from my dirty sneakers to the boy in the puffer jacket. He was sauntering over with a puppy-like joy despite the cold that bit at us both. His cheeks and nose are clownishly red and all the more obvious on his pale skin. He rushes to the seat - swing at my side, rubbing his hands together furiously to gain some warmth on this cold night. "Fuck," he curses.
I frown.
"Sorry." His smile was apologetic but mostly cheeky. His eyes look up to the dark sky."Sorry, guy."
I snort back a laugh and instantly regret it because it only enables his behavior. "Guy?" I question, but he's already smug and smiley. The corners of his lips are upturned and his eyelids half lidded. He leaned against the chain of his swing and looked back at me without saying a word.
My heart stutters.
"If he's all forgiving, I'm sure he'll forgive that too." He leans toward me. His actions are slow, they are always slow, always leaving me space to decide whether I wanted to accept them. And just enough time for my heart to change its pace with every second spent as his hand reaches for mine.
I pull my hand away.
His eyes widened slightly, however surprised he was, he didn't let it affect the air around us. No, it was always my job to ruin things. And it was his job to fix what I ruined. Weren't we the perfect duo?
"I was thinking," he started, planting his heels in the ground to keep gravity from pushing his swing back into place. "I almost saved enough to get my own apartment. You know what that means?"
I did.
Of course, I did.
It meant we wouldn't have to meet at night in this same spot over and over again just so we wouldn't be caught. We could meet at his place, with closed walls and doors without the threat of being seen or walked in on by his parents or mine or the ever-watchful folk of this old town. It meant that he was willing to take several steps close to me. I just wasn't willing to take any more toward him.
"I didn't like your joke." I start. My hands are resting between my thighs. I focus my eyes on them so I can't see his face. I only hear his voice beside me.
"What?" He's confused.
"It wasn't funny. You shouldn't refer to him that way."
"Sorry," his voice was shaking - it was giggly. "God, not guy."
I squeeze my hands together, not for warmth but for control. I could feel myself getting warm, hot, even. I was scared of what I had to say next or how it would come out. And I think he could sense that because he practically pressed his swing against mine.
"I really am sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I won't joke like that again." His voice lowers to a whisper, soft and considerate.
"I got accepted into Trinity Catholic College." I blurt out before I can think about it any further.
He didn't say anything, so neither did I. I knew better too, but I did it anyway. I looked at him.
His face that once carried that stretched smile for me had fallen. His mouth seemed smaller and flat, his eyes were unblinking and full of panic. But he said nothing and only stared at me until I could no longer stare back at him.
"When do you leave?" He sounded smaller.
"Tomorrow."
"And you're now just telling me?" His voice raised before he quickly remembered himself. Remember where we were and who we were. If our parents found us we both knew where mine would send me and what his would do to him.
I grip the chains of my swing hoping the cool metal will cool me down even as my temperature rises. I had practiced telling him this since I received my acceptance letter, and yet now that I was here there were no words.
It's his turn to be met with silence.
The quiet between us bothers him now more than it ever had before. And before I know it, he's grabbing a hold of my swing, jolting me in the process. I have no choice but to look at him and watch the rushed words come out of his mouth. "That's okay," his voice is getting higher. "This is better, actually. I can visit you there! I can see you the weekend after maybe? It's not that big a drive. Maybe -"
"I don't want you to see me." I didn't know it was possible for me to even say it. But I did. And before I lost all my nerve, I moved up and out of my seat. This was the part I was to walk away from the swings we spent every night on talking and laughing, away from the playground we met on at the age of seven and had become our haven, and away from him who made me feel safe and happy when it was rare for me to feel either of those things at all.
I only got a step ahead before he rushed out of his seat and grabbed my hand. His grip was tight and desperate. "Why? Why, now? No one will see us. I promise you, no one will see us." The grip he has on my hand somehow tightens more.
"He'll see us," I say because that's what it truly comes down to and what has always held me back. Not my parents, not his, not the people of this terrible judgemental town. It was always about Him.
"Please, Charlie."
He can't fix it, not this time. It isn't something that can be fixed. I'm not someone who can be fixed.
"Let me go." My face is burning now. I don't want him to see me cry. Not now or ever.
"If He really loves you-"
"He does."
It's a battle he can't win, and he knows that. "But is this what you want? Really? Can't you tell me how you feel? Like always. Please."
"There's nothing to tell you." I don't want him to know how I feel, I don't want to know how I feel, I don't want to feel at all. "Everything was a mistake from the beginning."
He's hurt. I know it because I can see the tears begin to well up in his eyes now. Finally, he lets me go, but not really.
"Can't you choose me instead? Just this once?" He's choking back a sob.
I want to kiss him. I never had given him a real kiss before. He's always kissed me, on my hands, my cheeks, my shoulders, whatever I would allow. But never the mouth. And I want to give him that, but that would be cruel when I'm leaving him.
"You know the answer to that." It's not an answer, not a true answer. Even as I'm trying to push him away, I can't find the resolve to do so entirely. I'm just praying the distance will end what never should have been.
With one final huff, I walked away from him.
I got a few steps away before I heard the familiar scuffs of his shoes against the concrete sidewalk behind me. He didn't say anything and neither did I. We both knew what would happen next.
I would go home, and he would go home after seeing me off, I would leave this town for college, he would visit me, and I would once again put off truly choosing. We will go back and forth as we always have.
Chosen Theme(s): Forbidden
Chosen Format: Short Story
Homophobia, Religious Guilt
These old swings no longer carry my weight like they used to. The metal chains creak and whine like an old man as they struggle to carry me when I sit in the flimsy plastic seat they hold up. Sometimes I fear they may just collapse and I'll fall ass first into the sand below me. They are old and rusted and have been so since I was a child. But just like when I was a child, they hold me regardless of any struggle.
"Hey!" A loud shushed voice calls to me.
I look up and away from my dirty sneakers to the boy in the puffer jacket. He was sauntering over with a puppy-like joy despite the cold that bit at us both. His cheeks and nose are clownishly red and all the more obvious on his pale skin. He rushes to the seat - swing at my side, rubbing his hands together furiously to gain some warmth on this cold night. "Fuck," he curses.
I frown.
"Sorry." His smile was apologetic but mostly cheeky. His eyes look up to the dark sky."Sorry, guy."
I snort back a laugh and instantly regret it because it only enables his behavior. "Guy?" I question, but he's already smug and smiley. The corners of his lips are upturned and his eyelids half lidded. He leaned against the chain of his swing and looked back at me without saying a word.
My heart stutters.
"If he's all forgiving, I'm sure he'll forgive that too." He leans toward me. His actions are slow, they are always slow, always leaving me space to decide whether I wanted to accept them. And just enough time for my heart to change its pace with every second spent as his hand reaches for mine.
I pull my hand away.
His eyes widened slightly, however surprised he was, he didn't let it affect the air around us. No, it was always my job to ruin things. And it was his job to fix what I ruined. Weren't we the perfect duo?
"I was thinking," he started, planting his heels in the ground to keep gravity from pushing his swing back into place. "I almost saved enough to get my own apartment. You know what that means?"
I did.
Of course, I did.
It meant we wouldn't have to meet at night in this same spot over and over again just so we wouldn't be caught. We could meet at his place, with closed walls and doors without the threat of being seen or walked in on by his parents or mine or the ever-watchful folk of this old town. It meant that he was willing to take several steps close to me. I just wasn't willing to take any more toward him.
"I didn't like your joke." I start. My hands are resting between my thighs. I focus my eyes on them so I can't see his face. I only hear his voice beside me.
"What?" He's confused.
"It wasn't funny. You shouldn't refer to him that way."
"Sorry," his voice was shaking - it was giggly. "God, not guy."
I squeeze my hands together, not for warmth but for control. I could feel myself getting warm, hot, even. I was scared of what I had to say next or how it would come out. And I think he could sense that because he practically pressed his swing against mine.
"I really am sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I won't joke like that again." His voice lowers to a whisper, soft and considerate.
"I got accepted into Trinity Catholic College." I blurt out before I can think about it any further.
He didn't say anything, so neither did I. I knew better too, but I did it anyway. I looked at him.
His face that once carried that stretched smile for me had fallen. His mouth seemed smaller and flat, his eyes were unblinking and full of panic. But he said nothing and only stared at me until I could no longer stare back at him.
"When do you leave?" He sounded smaller.
"Tomorrow."
"And you're now just telling me?" His voice raised before he quickly remembered himself. Remember where we were and who we were. If our parents found us we both knew where mine would send me and what his would do to him.
I grip the chains of my swing hoping the cool metal will cool me down even as my temperature rises. I had practiced telling him this since I received my acceptance letter, and yet now that I was here there were no words.
It's his turn to be met with silence.
The quiet between us bothers him now more than it ever had before. And before I know it, he's grabbing a hold of my swing, jolting me in the process. I have no choice but to look at him and watch the rushed words come out of his mouth. "That's okay," his voice is getting higher. "This is better, actually. I can visit you there! I can see you the weekend after maybe? It's not that big a drive. Maybe -"
"I don't want you to see me." I didn't know it was possible for me to even say it. But I did. And before I lost all my nerve, I moved up and out of my seat. This was the part I was to walk away from the swings we spent every night on talking and laughing, away from the playground we met on at the age of seven and had become our haven, and away from him who made me feel safe and happy when it was rare for me to feel either of those things at all.
I only got a step ahead before he rushed out of his seat and grabbed my hand. His grip was tight and desperate. "Why? Why, now? No one will see us. I promise you, no one will see us." The grip he has on my hand somehow tightens more.
"He'll see us," I say because that's what it truly comes down to and what has always held me back. Not my parents, not his, not the people of this terrible judgemental town. It was always about Him.
"Please, Charlie."
He can't fix it, not this time. It isn't something that can be fixed. I'm not someone who can be fixed.
"Let me go." My face is burning now. I don't want him to see me cry. Not now or ever.
"If He really loves you-"
"He does."
It's a battle he can't win, and he knows that. "But is this what you want? Really? Can't you tell me how you feel? Like always. Please."
"There's nothing to tell you." I don't want him to know how I feel, I don't want to know how I feel, I don't want to feel at all. "Everything was a mistake from the beginning."
He's hurt. I know it because I can see the tears begin to well up in his eyes now. Finally, he lets me go, but not really.
"Can't you choose me instead? Just this once?" He's choking back a sob.
I want to kiss him. I never had given him a real kiss before. He's always kissed me, on my hands, my cheeks, my shoulders, whatever I would allow. But never the mouth. And I want to give him that, but that would be cruel when I'm leaving him.
"You know the answer to that." It's not an answer, not a true answer. Even as I'm trying to push him away, I can't find the resolve to do so entirely. I'm just praying the distance will end what never should have been.
With one final huff, I walked away from him.
I got a few steps away before I heard the familiar scuffs of his shoes against the concrete sidewalk behind me. He didn't say anything and neither did I. We both knew what would happen next.
I would go home, and he would go home after seeing me off, I would leave this town for college, he would visit me, and I would once again put off truly choosing. We will go back and forth as we always have.
3rd Place: @Miyu
Word Count: 280
Chosen Theme(s): Serendipity & Partnership
Chosen Format: Prose Poem
Four letter word. What a lovely name. If by happenstance I have occurred to you, then by this instance I consider myself blessed. Never in this lifetime would I expect to be more than merely a number in your stock, but a body— solid and fair— to be postured by your side.
Four letter word. It is bizarre. Could I be fortunate to be of your company? Never had it dawned on me that I could be under this stance, where I would be among kindred souls.
Four letters. It is that simple. Yet the intricacies of its nature perplexes me. I am just a haze in this sphere, still, you gave me a name. A form, an identity— and for its entirety, I feel endowed.
Four letters. It could have been more. You exceed concept and understanding. But perhaps you require no meaning. Only amity.
Four letter words. How are you this blithe? That under this delight, you give my world so much gravity? With you, I abhor the waste.
These four letter words. Could they be appropriate? I am at loss. Nothing can ever express the lightness I feel in my crux.
Your four letters. They overwhelm me. I do not deserve them. However, you do not mind. You dote on me just the same.
My four letters. Would they suffice? Would they be worthy of your presence? Could they convey my sentiments with innocence?
Four letters.
It is just four letters it takes.
Four divine alphabets that transformed me.
Tell me, will you accept my humble four letters?
It may not be enough in the end.
Nevertheless, just know one thing:
I am lucky to have you.
Chosen Theme(s): Serendipity & Partnership
Chosen Format: Prose Poem
Four letter word. What a lovely name. If by happenstance I have occurred to you, then by this instance I consider myself blessed. Never in this lifetime would I expect to be more than merely a number in your stock, but a body— solid and fair— to be postured by your side.
Four letter word. It is bizarre. Could I be fortunate to be of your company? Never had it dawned on me that I could be under this stance, where I would be among kindred souls.
Four letters. It is that simple. Yet the intricacies of its nature perplexes me. I am just a haze in this sphere, still, you gave me a name. A form, an identity— and for its entirety, I feel endowed.
Four letters. It could have been more. You exceed concept and understanding. But perhaps you require no meaning. Only amity.
Four letter words. How are you this blithe? That under this delight, you give my world so much gravity? With you, I abhor the waste.
These four letter words. Could they be appropriate? I am at loss. Nothing can ever express the lightness I feel in my crux.
Your four letters. They overwhelm me. I do not deserve them. However, you do not mind. You dote on me just the same.
My four letters. Would they suffice? Would they be worthy of your presence? Could they convey my sentiments with innocence?
Four letters.
It is just four letters it takes.
Four divine alphabets that transformed me.
Tell me, will you accept my humble four letters?
It may not be enough in the end.
Nevertheless, just know one thing:
I am lucky to have you.
- Status