Non-sequiter thread

D

Draugvan

Guest
Original poster
Here I will be posting little things and scenes that come to my head, without context, build-up or resolution. One-off scenes from day-dreams and passing fancies. 'Non-sequiters,' if you will. They comprise the posts below.

Stories are given titles and reflection from myself. Feel free to review my work.​
 
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"Soon I will be a tree," whined basalt, resting enviably in a bank of tepid, shining sand tickled by the Pacific Ocean.​
The pleasant waves nipped one by one at each grain of sand, licking slowly towards basalt as it pondered life, meaning, and all things in between. A truer wind had never brushed through the palms which stood a stiff sniffle back from the shore, and never had the sun shone on their leaves so green. Basalt was quite beside itself.​
Basalt thought back to yore past, remembering the wind, porcelain sand, verdant palms and a hungry ocean. Suppose soon didn't happen yet, thought basalt. Or suppose I am a tree, yet to germinate. Basalt ought to focus then and germinate, oughtn't it? This gave basalt resolve to hold out for that day. Basalt would keep this in mind and in order to remember, tell mantras of something a germinating seed might say to itself.​
"Soon I will be a tree."
Word count - 162 words

Writer satisfaction - 7/10 - Cute and short, but the rhythm in the words could be cleaned up an bit.​
 
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A man woke slowly in a delicate morning. Let us, for the sake of brevity, call him Maynard.​
Maynard felt for long-lost love but could find none for the life of him. A thin quilted blanket patted back with a familiar non-chalance and the even cool of stale air. Looking around through mist-thick shade, listless foliage at his window seemed indifferent. He wondered how long he could stay put until someone realised him missing.​
A thick smoker's cough hacked through solemn, patient silence and roused the man to sitting. Taking one sidelong look in the mirror showed more than he needed to see. Maynard stared back at a sullen wretch of pallid finish, hopeless eyes and bird's nest. Hair all twisted out shape and set at unsightly angles. Waking cadavers were better presented than this.​
Nonetheless, thought Maynard, it is better that one can feel on the inside than to seem to be feeling on the outside. A happy recluse was at least happy, and who could really doubt him for wanting that.​
His shoulders dip more forward as he dreams of different times, lost in wonder and suggestion. A haze blocked the outside world...possibly a result of exhaustion and dehydration. His thoughts kept him company. With enough practice there may come a time when thoughts stink bitter as reality. Better yet the day when the delicate morning was dream. When the half-light that sung with sounds of cleaning, cars and children cajoling simply went mute.​
That would be the day. Maynard pressed palms against a leathery face and worked his features until his petulant mouth could make expression and seem to be feeling. In the delicate half-light of morning Maynard was more himself than any other time. Something introspective and thoughtful, and less of a reflex-machine. But the day must go on and too he spied another letter. Another reminder of the ticking biological clock. Tick, tick, tick, Maynard moved helter-skelter like a copper-spring man.​
"It must dress."
"It drinks water."
"It makes the bed."
Maynard manipulated the skin suit from inside with a propaganda campaign;​
"You are not in control."
"Stay in line."
"Keep moving forward."
Eventually Maynard had showered and eaten. Eventually Maynard might do something with his day beyond routine maintenance. Now, that was daydream.​
Word count - 379 words

Writer satisfaction - 5/10 - Disjointed narrative, very stream of consciousness. Totally changes tone in the second half, however I like that different tone.​
 
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Damn...these are depressing.

Edit: (and that's ok).
 
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Armadillo woke up in the morning.​
He thought long and hard about taking a shower.​
“I suppose it is for the best,” said Armadillo as he stood and headed into the bathroom, “and after my shower I can have cereal for breakfast.”
When Armadillo finished his shower, he opened the fridge.​
“Oh no!” said Armadillo, “There’s no milk in the fridge, so I can’t eat cereal! If I can’t have cereal then why did I bother taking a shower?”
Armadillo frowned with a grumpy face. He thought it wouldn’t be much, but at least he could have toast for breakfast. So Armadillo opened the breadbox.​
“Oh no!” said Armadillo, “There’s no bread in the breadbox, so I can’t eat toast! If I can’t have toast then why did I bother waking up?”
“I am going back to sleep” Armadillo resolved as he wandered to the couch. “I hope there will be milk when I wake up tomorrow.”

* * *
Armadillo woke up the next day, and the sun was out.​
He thought long and hard about taking a shower.​
“I’d better not,” he said “just in case there isn’t any milk.”
Armadillo decided to check the breadbox first, and it was empty.​
“Oh no! There’s no bread in the breadbox!” But it wasn’t that bad because he hadn't bothered to have a shower yet.​
Armadillo went to the fridge to check for milk.​
He opened the fridge halfway, but then he realised he hadn’t brushed his teeth the day before.​
“Oh no!” said Armadillo “I can’t eat cereal with dirty teeth. If I can’t eat cereal then why bother looking in the fridge?”
Armadillo lay down and slept the whole day.​

* * *​

Armadillo woke up the next day, and the moon was out.​
He didn’t think very long about having a shower. There was never any milk, so why bother.​
Armadillo walked into the kitchen to a see trail of ants coming from the fridge.​
It seemed they got in when he forgot to close the fridge the day before. The ants had been drinking milk all night, but now the milk was warm and half finished by the ants.​
“So there WAS milk in the fridge yesterday,” said Armadillo. It didn’t matter though, because there wasn’t any milk now.​
Armadillo hadn’t eaten anything in three days and he was just about starving.​
He thought long and hard about what to eat.​
“The ants always know where food is” Armadillo said with a smile. So he followed the trail of ants back to their anthill.​
He stuck his hand inside, and started wriggling his hand in search of food.​
The only thing he pulled up was a handful of ants.​
“Well it will have to do,” said Armadillo with a stomach rumble, “I have to eat something.”
Armadillo sat at the anthill every day to eat ants from then on, because even if there was no milk, and there was no bread, there were always ants to eat.​
Word count - 501 words

Writer satisfaction - 8/10 - One of my more inspired stories designed as a pseudo-children's story. I break past-tense here and there and I could tighten the scope of the story. On the whole, I'd like to publish this.​
 
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I feel it would be dishonest not to mention that much of the creative direction for this writing stems from the character Charles Freck of Phillip K. Dick's 'A Scanner Darkly.'
STRESSED? WORRIED? LOW ENERGY?
WONDER CURE FOR THE HUMAN CONDITION
- PANACEA -
ASK YOUR PHARMACIST IF PANACEA IS RIGHT FOR YOU


Casey flipped vacantly between pages of a discarded flier. When boredom struck, it surely struck twelve. Something stuck out and left an impression on the beshelved man. Panacea? Wonder cure...? Casey counted on three fingers, thereby concluding the bold truth - he displayed all these symptoms.​
Panacea looked like a good idea on paper. Only Casey didn't have a pharmacist. He barely didn't have a national health number. But, supposed Casey, he could be entitled to a government subsidised health plan if he could convince the right person. At eleven at night there was bound to be a tired, overworked receptionist that would sign off on him. What a cunning fox...thought Casey of himself, to be able to game the system with just a few words. He wandered off in search of a suitable saloon.​
The Drop-In Pharmacy blinked neon-red for his attention. Casey blinked back indifferently. A stiff's a stiff, with flashy sign or without. He walked in, hands-in-pockets looking pitiable and staring fixed at the inoffensive blue carpet.​
Despite the time of night the waiting room was abuzz with just-about lepers probably looking for a free fix. Casey left the sods well enough alone as he approached the counter, carefully keeping an eye on every one of them. The receptions clerk was a fit blonde bit in a too-tight white jacket that hugged up either side with vibrant red stripes.​
Funny, thought Casey with a sly sneer. In an effort to serve the people - to please and relax them, one might suggest - the government displayed their best goods behind tight suits and blinking red signs. In the end you fork over your money anyway...or they rob you while you nap on the couch, he glanced back at the low-life snivelling sods.​
Casey planted a palm on the counter-top and as casually as he could manage, spoke near the hot blonde sod.​
"I'm looking for service."
He snickered inwardly at his wit.​
"I'm here to pick up a prescription for, err...Panacea."
He fidgeted around in his pockets to no avail, unable to present the prescription docket General Physician Angelo had for sure written him last month.​
"I'm sorry. Without evidence of prescription, I will be unable to assist you this evening" the blonde sobbed, as if genuinely hurt by her inability to help Casey.​
"Listen...I'm terribly afflicted. What kind of publicity would you have if you turned away a patient who was in clear need of medical care?"
The blonde mused thoughtfully, then leaned in with a concerned expression and a low voice.​
"May I ask what your affliction is, Sir?"
"The Human Condition," echoed Casey in the words of a discarded flier "as advertised."
The blonde eyed Casey critically, ending in a look of disapproval.​
"You don't seem to be afflicted by the Human Condition at all. See that man over there? Now, he needs Panacea."
Casey turned to look where the blonde indicated. In a chair on the wall sat a middle-aged man wearing a pained expression. Worry lines made concentric circles around his eyes which regularly flicked down to white-knuckled hands. The poor sod gripped a palsy leather wallet that appeared stuffed-to-bursting with small change. The sod would loosen his grip on the wallet to ream through the mess and count out his meagre fortune.​
"Five...fifteen...thirty-five...eighty.... One dollar, twenty-five.... Just enough for the bus."
The sod breathed relief, but moments later deflated with a look of wide-eyed loss. He pried open the wallet again to count his meagre fortune.​
"Five...fifteen...twenty-five...seventy.... One dollar, fifteen.... Not enough for the bus..." he croaked in despair.​
Casey turned away with a wave of angst weighing upon him. This wasn't going anything like he had planned. In a brazen attempt Casey demanded to be seen by a professional. What would a bit like a clerk know about his condition anyway? The blonde bobbed out a side door and returned with a doctor in tow.​
"The Miss informs me you may be suffering from the Human Condition."
Casey put on his best play yet, pained expression just like the other poor sod. Casey must look like a poor sod too. Unbelievable.​
"I'm stressed and worried all the time, Doc! It must be the Human Condition. Or at least I think it is!"
"Dear god man! You must have it really bad if you think you have the Human Condition! Come with me right away."
The doctor led a stoked Casey through the side door and into a back room. The walls were unlike a usual patient room. No charts decorated the walls. No posters encouraging "Hang in there!" This room contained a wheeled-bed, an over-large duffle bag, and a rickety side-table upon which rested a pill-bottle. Panacea.​
"Your condition seems to be quite severe. Please don't feel nervous. Just take one capsule of Panacea from the bottle over there and all your stress will be gone in moments."
Casey marveled at what must be at least one-hundred dollars of pharmaceutical engineering. This was it. No more stress, no more worry, no low energy. Casey crossed to the table and shook out a capsule onto his hand, and five more into his sleeve for good measure. He downed it with a feeling of smug satisfaction, then turned the bottle over as he waited for the effects of Panacea to kick in.​


PANACEA:
Polyurethane, guar gum, hydroxypropyl methylcellulose, potassium cyanide.

Word count - 946 words

Writer satisfaction - 9/10 - Super stoked by how this turned out. Written in two sessions, and this is reflected in the back-end of the writing which is more informative than emotive in language.​
 
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"Eureka!"

"Eureka, what have you done?!"

Samon looked on from the doorway. Eureka wept in a ball in the centre of the room. Dark hair fell around her like a shroud. The hem of her night dress trimmed red as it dragged through an expanding pool of blood. Eureka's lifeless father shot knives at the ceiling from under a contorted brow. Knives of stainless steel fanned out of her father's torso in an arc; one between each rib, starting under the arm and going back to the tailbone.​

Samon gathered a breath and steeled himself to contain the situation. One step toward weeping Eureka kicked strewn paper and pencils out of the way. One more step forward slipped before finding purchase as her father's pooling blood slicked the hardwood floor.​

Reaching out with a trembling hand Samon tried to soothe the girl.​

"Eureka...we need to go."

"Why? What's the point? I'm not clean, I'll never get the blood off," Eureka despaired.​

"You did what you had to do. He won't hurt you anymore. But you won't be safe here. When the authorities find out what happened they'll have you hanged. Come with me, I'll take you out of town to my brother's place."

Eureka wept.​

"Father said I'm part of the true pattern of things. I can't leave, I'm supposed to be here."

"Eureka, what you did wasn't supposed to happen. But what he did wasn't right either. Forget the pattern! Maybe there's a different pattern!"

Eureka clutched at a number of scraps that dressed the floor and walls. On them were clockwise spirals. The true pattern. The outside edges, vast and numerous, all converged on the centre. Her father was at the centre and through the spiral he shined out at the edges. Love which brought all things together. With father's love, the world was right and the pattern true. Each spiral was drawn by her own hand, a display of gratitude to her father for showing her the pattern.​

And yet something niggled at Eureka. The spirals of her youth watched from the wall in perfect innocence, each one a masterwork of geometric perfection. Once Eureka turned fifteen the spirals became jagged, chaotic. Over time they lost their perfect shape and she couldn't bear to look at them. Where was father's love? In the centre of these spirals a black figure loomed in the moonlight, breath stinking with wine and want.​

Eureka released a pitched howl that shook Samon to his bones. This brought tears to their eyes and they both cried together.​

"We have to go. Leave your sisters, they still look at these pictures like they did when they were younger. They're not going to let us leave."

Eureka caressed the edges of the spiral in her hands. Her sisters, she thought. They received so much love. Why was she different? Why didn't they do something? Maybe Samon was right, maybe there was a different pattern.​

She rose to her feet shaking, yet visibly more put together. Dark hair fell in a mess around her waist. The blood on her night dress was sticky on her legs, but she hardly noticed. Samon put an arm around her on the way out to his truck.​

During the drive out of town they didn't say anything. It was hard to find the words to say. Eureka sat in silence in the back seat with her sketch book. On a new page she drew a new spiral, this time going counter-clockwise. And in the centre was radiant Samon. A different pattern.​
Word count - 592

Writer satisfaction - 9/10 - Shocking stuff that wrote itself. Without mention of the truck in the final paragraphs, this could have been modern or medieval. I may develop this story further.​
 
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That last one surprised me. I didn't know the story was going that way. They really have a life of their own, don't they?​
 
Danny flopped back on his bed with a heartfelt sigh. Do away with school and homework and teachers. Do away with chores. By the time he finished the daily routine and Mum sent Danny up to his room the evening sun had stained the sky orange. Laying under the sunbeam cast on his wall, Danny longed for another life. He picked up a comic to spend the final few hours of sunlight reading 2000 A.D.. What was a 13 year old to do?​

Minutes passed before he realised that he could not turn to the next page. In fact, he couldn't see his hands at all. Danny jerked to sitting with the dire thought that algebra had finally made him blind. Yet when he looked around he could see out from the edge of his vision. Taking a moment to breathe and focus Danny stared down the length of his nose cross-eyed. There before him shone an immaterial blue-green image which blinked a tiny icon in the corner. It read:​

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE BEEN NOMINATED FOR RE-DEPENDENCE!
PLEASE INDICATE YOUR PARTICIPATION WITHIN 72 HOURS BY INTERACTING WITH THE ICON PROVIDED.

Danny stared at the image until he got dizzy and had to close his eyes. But there it was inside his eyelids too. The blue-green image beckoned, patiently staring back at Danny with the cycloptic nonchalance of a computer monitor, the icon in the corner flashing a regular beat. He fell back on the bed and gazed at the queer thing until it burned into his vision and lost meaning. He imagined the sickened sardonic voice of the blinking icon.​

"Do it - do it - do it," He felt it would chant.​

"Time is running out - Three days only..."

Danny touched the icon.​

* * *​

A sound of metal sliding on metal filled an otherwise silence. It pulsed, sliding in-out, in-out of an otherwise solemn silence; second-on-second breathing or a half-broken heartbeat. In time an awareness of oppressive dark would surface. Awareness and progressive spark or purpose reached the forefront. Blinking helped illuminate, even if only slightly, a greasy echo-chamber filled with bilious pipes. It would help to keep blinking.​

He felt numb.​

Movement toward the source of metal sliding on metal would disturb the anodyne. A shatter-sound filled the silence and left just as swiftly as it had come. What remained was dark and no sound of sliding metal. Numbness faded to chill then faded to cool, then cool remained. He could stretch and see his argent hands once more. They reflected a subtle green light. His legs did not move since he was seated.​

Danny tried to look over his shoulder but found his neck was too stiff to manage. So instead he made to turn at the waist and twist around. He met resistance. After some effort he pulled free of his seat and loosed the slick wire-mesh tubes that met snuggly at his back. The tubes disconnected with a pop of pressurised gas. One final tug loosed the last tube and showed there was no green light behind him. Danny blinked in confusion. Seeing green once more reflected on his hands he struggled to catch the light, spinning arms-out on-the-spot for balance.​

His ankle caught and slipped on rancid grease and he fell immediately to his knees. A sharp pang rose up to meet him as he hit the metal floor which quickly faded to silence. He reached a hand down to check for injury and felt a number of differently-sized shafts where his ankle might be. Following the shafts to his knee he found hard edges. The movement caused a breathing sound of metal to return for a moment. Looking down in curiosity Danny found his body was replaced with chrome with a green light on his chest.​
Word count - 631 words

Writer satisfaction - 6/10 - I wanted to experiment with a narrative that hides information from the reader, but I feel it didn't come off very well. It was taxing to find words that matched what Danny was perceiving without giving too much away. The shift in tone from the jovial beginning was deliberate.​
 
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Dolutegravir raged in a way that only a dragon could, crushing the unwashed many with his body. The oft named ‘Dogavir’ gazed through half-lidded eyes drunk in the contemplation of Man’s disregard to Man. Having little thought for mortal sapience he swept forward to raze buildings. Brick and mortar fell before him, as impermanent as Man’s extancy.​
Man erected earth and pyre, praised slight and liar in the far hope that one can trod on bodies to reach the shining castle. Man did not number satisfactorily.​
Dolutegravir fell a thick talon on whimpering Man, bereft of the earth from which he so derived. Man writhed in futile agony as the dragon squeezed upon the ribcage, which was not nearly adequate reprisal. Dogavir widened his toothy maw and bit the risible thing in half. Tense membrane pulled away under force of skin and sinew. Viscous meat spewed forth with the talon’s pressure, releasing a gush of blood in every mouthful. Dogavir crunched the bones mercilessly into paste and swallowed the entire. Man’s disregard permeated the meat and the ordeal left Dogavir displeased.​
Dogavir snatched men and ground them into paste and ate until he was sick. He wretched the whole filth upon remains of buildings and whomever was still living. He thrashed talons heavily on the ground and his appellation split the heavens. Man’s infidelity was his own undoing when it wakes the dragon. His sheer size and mass created ripples that collapse upon each other to make room. Pray, don’t wake the dragon.​
Word count - 253 words

Writer satisfaction - 8/10 - I wrote this while angry, but I'm happy with how it turned out. The paragraph describing eating delivers a good feel and I think I used effective language throughout which would be appropriate for an ageless, wise dragon.​
 
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Thread format has been cleaned up a bit. Jump on in if you haven't read these yet ^.^
 
Crossed posted from my FFS entry (Flash Fiction Selections entry), see:
OFFICIAL EVENT - FFS 3 - Dreams of Glory: Submissions
Anastasia yearned for the sunset. Golden, yellow, orange, peach and purple rays that danced across the lids of her eyes when the moon was out. The spectrum of colours swirled in her memory like paint on a canvas. Ink, dye, pigment were mere representations of colour. But the sun, old and inviting, was true colour itself and her art could not be complete without it.​
As she walked the sun's lowest arc intersected the distance, spreading succour across the mountains in hues of caramel and lemon. The dark ridge traced brightly against the evening sky was where she was headed.​
Trees rose before her in a lurid attempt to hold the sun. They rose higher as she approached the mountains upon which the sun lay splendid and bare. All around were quivering pines and greedy little bushes and weeds trying to eke away the sunlight and soon the naked sun was shrouded by a canopy of insolent shifting grey.​
Ana knew the time had come once again to bed down for the night. She found a derelict farmhouse along the way just as evening threatened to become night. Slim speckles of light peeked through holes in the bush to keep her pointed West. She would bed down here, with her face toward the setting sun to witness every nuanced change of colour.​
The evening light faded through peach and purple then just as it was about to disappear entirely for the night the light ahead dripped through the canopy in a sour yellow. Ana watched wide-eyed as the sun fell out of the sky and onto the ground a short distance away. Ana heard a skittle-scratch in the greyscale darkness and imagined a man springing deftly through the brush with the jaunty thither of a lunatic. As she watched, specks of light dotted the dark ahead one-by-one appearing further away than the last like footsteps. Eventually the form ceased moving and the light stopped far ahead.​
Ana got to her feet and followed the trail of light. Either side was black and the marks of light were all that she could see. The canopy overhead blocked even starlight so the underbrush was awash in murk. Ana moved slowly, feeling forward with each step in case of errant roots and switches.​
As she came upon the end of the trail of light she could make out the broad-shouldered shape of a man. She called out. The man turned slowly to regard her with a face glowing luminescent yellow, bald scalp, sunken brow, crooked teeth and ungainly wide ears. The man stood regally and locked her gaze. His whole skin was vibrant.​
Ana swallowed a breath and stepped toward the living sun. He embraced her as she placed a hand on his chest, feeling the cold layer of pearlescent thick mucus that seeped from his body. She looked into his passionless, glassy eyes and it was the last thing she ever saw.​
Word count - 490

Writer satisfaction - 7/10 - Ana's perception of the world requires heavy use of flowery language and prose, however this is hard to read and test-readers tended to recoil at it. I like Ana's motivation and the plot twist. Test-readers tended to hook onto the twist and it blew their fucking minds.​
 
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She smells like roses and I want to meet her.

A lump in my throat. I freeze up fast.

She trusts others.

She leaves.



I wish it happened differently.



She smells like cigarrete ash and I want to eat her.

A lump in my throat. I cough up glass.

Reflux flutters.

Acid burns my bleeding wounds.



I was not malicious 'til I saw her.

I used to overthink things, no longer think at all.

I remember having promise, but I forget the words.
Spur of the moment, written in minutes. Try not to look at it too critically.
 
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Crossed posted from my FFS entry (Flash Fiction Selections entry), see:
MEMBER EVENT FFS #4: Play the Fool
We were trying to raise a decent family, despite the German occupation. Stores closed when armed men began dividing food, and I had been unable to hold a job.​

Avital returned home late. She didn’t look at me as she put two loaves on the counter.​

“You said you would be back before sundown.”

“There was a delay in the shipment of flour. I had to work late or they would not give me bread.”

Avital hung her coat before heading upstairs to see our sons. She spoke over her shoulder on the way up.​

“Tell me you wouldn’t do anything for them? I love my sons. I love you. I make bread for the soldiers, so stop giving me that look, Ilan. I can feel you staring.”

I finished my drink and followed her upstairs.​

Avital cared so much. She was right; I would do anything for them. Little Calev and brave Dima, lights of the brightest star. They were sleeping side by side in the middle of our bed. Avital brushed their fringes and kissed them a late goodnight. She smiled upon their faces and as she smiled, she cried.​

We wouldn't let them go hungry.​

She slept in her dress again.​

* * *
Avital was missing when I woke the next morning.​

I got Calev and Dima ready for their lessons by my own. They asked about their mother. They were five and eight, what could I tell them?​

“Your mother is out making bread. Her new boss wants to share her baking with all the boys and girls. Your mother is the best cook, isn’t she? Right now, we need her to keep working. It keeps you two fed!”

I ruffled their heads and sent them off to lessons.​

Noam stopped by for lunch. He had sold his jacket for a wheel of cheese, so he wore a grey long coat with rat-holes in the sleeves. His textured face was grey of a kind.​

“These are trying times, Ilan. You can’t stand up to men with guns. If they say ‘eat’, you eat. If they say ‘die’, well…nothing about this is rational. It will do more harm the more you think about it. One life is not worth a jacket. If a soldier wants to stay warm, who am I to stop them?”

Noam laughed at that and for a moment the lines on his face were mirthful instead of desperate.​

“It's not about the jacket, Ilan. They want to make a statement. Let it fall on deaf ears, I say. Sometimes it is wise to play the fool.”

* * *
Avital returned after lunch wearing the same dress.​

“Where were you this morning, Avital? You can’t go out without telling me like that.”

“They wanted me on the morning shift –“ she began, but I cut her off.​

“How much bread do solders need? You were just out last night! Who will spend time with the boys when I can find a job, Avital?”

She stamped three loaves on the counter and stormed past without a glance.​

“The soldiers are giving out more food. They need us to come in to keep up with demand.”

“Noam was here today. But you wouldn’t know that. He had to sell his jacket for cheese. The soldiers aren’t giving out food. Noam is starving, and his neighbors too. What’s going on, Avital?”

“I’m the only one feeding our sons right now, Ilan! Is it too much to ask that you trust me? I’m doing the best I can.”

She left with tears in her eyes, the sour smell of fermenting alcohol wafting after her.​

* * *
Next morning Avital was in the same dress and she reeked. She had spent the night sobbing, holding Calev.​

Soldiers came the next evening when the bread was finished. They needed Avital for more work. She had asked me to trust her. So as long she returned with bread, safe each night, I took her at her word.​

* * *
She continued to cry at night. Her mood worsened until I found a job as a labourer three months later and I could provide for our boys.​

Then Avital took her own life.​

I told myself she went out baking, but soldiers only want one thing. I made pretend it was alright. I told myself she did what she had to, and I didn’t stop it or find another way.​

I looked away for the sake of my boys, but I am responsible because I chose to do nothing.​
Word count - 749

Writer satisfaction - 8/10 - I would change and remove a few words to improve flow and/or immersion. I had to rush the end due to the word count constraint (no more than 750). The last paragraph is not required to tell the story, and is super on-the-nose, but I added it in to make the whole story accessible to more people.
 
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They found him hanged with his own tie.

Stephen Grove was a pitiless man. He lived, as he then did, a life of relative comfort and ease. He had some money, some friends and a long-term rental agreement.​

He uttered half-cares about mundane things when people would listen.​

"I got a pay bump, but the price of milk just inflated."
"I don't see myself going anywhere. I'm stuck in this career."
"What do I do for a living?...I guess I go into the office to work. Just to work."
"I don't have a ten-year goal. I'm open to suggestions."
He attended social drinks and worked Saturdays at the opshop, like well adjusted people ought to do.​

A grey Summer's day, Stephen started to ask questions.​

"We never really achieve our dream, do we? Once we get there, don't we look for something else?"
"Sorry I missed the cinema this month. I'll just catch the next release. They're all the same though, aren't they?"
"What's going to change?"
He looked, as he then did, for all intents and purposes, content. He kept a cordial relationship with his friends.​

That was Stephen Grove. And then, one day, he wasn't.​
Word count - 197​

Writer satisfaction - 5/10 - Spinning a neat prompt that came to mind and getting back into things. I don't have the effort to drag out the nuance in Stephen's changing tone, but I feel this would be very compelling in a 5,000 word story.​