☂ Tales From Iwaku: Spring Edition! ☂ (Entries + Discussion Call Date!)

PavellumPendulum

oh, to be seen as the poet, not just the muse
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Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
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  2. Advanced
  3. Adaptable
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Genres
Romance, modern, comedy, post-apocalyptic, slice of life.
tfi-gold-png.238014

Welcome one and all to the fourth TFI!
I'm so happy to get this going and show off all the talent that Iwaku members have to offer once again. The submission period has ended and we have multiple cool reads for you to peruse! The three winners will choose between our selection of prizes, including copies of the games Planet Zoo or Yes, Your Grace, design packages including coding/graphics from the lovely @rissa or a digital commission from me! And don't forget about the cool trophies that the winners and participants get :D

As a reminder, this TFI's themes were:
- afterlife
- revenge
- unhealthy relationships


Don't forget to join the Iwaku Discord server in order to attend the live reading and discussion of these pieces on Sunday, June 25th from 2 PM to 4 PM CST. The winners (chosen by our judging panel, featuring @rissa, @Kanma and I) will also be announced during the call.

Before you start reading and giving feedback, please remember that this is not meant to be a thread where we viciously attack people's writing. Criticism is allowed as long as it is constructive and not an attack on the writer themselves. Let people know what they did right (they were brave enough to share their writing with us, after all!) and if there's anything that you think they could improve on, but do so in a respectful way! Here are some possible questions you can answer with your reflections on each submission:
- Are the themes apparent in the piece? Do they fit well?
- What struck you about the writing style?
- Did it surprise you at any point? Is the interpretation original or unique?

Please avoid assigning number or letter grades to submissions, since they are not only completely subjective, but they don't really add anything to your critique of anyone's work.

Without further ado, here are the submissions!

By: @HerziQuerzi
Word Count: 980
Chosen theme(s): Afterlife, unhealthy relationships
Chosen format: Short story


It was past midnight when I got home. Home proper. Not where we were living. Not the subsidised apartment that smelled too faintly of bleach where they hurriedly cleaned it for us. Not the stranger's ceiling with its stranger's walls and stranger's bed, surrounded by a hundred other units with a hundred other beggars with nothing else to choose.

No. No, my real home. The single floor house with its dark green siding that had been peeling even before the flood. With the door sitting on uneven hinges, screeching against the frame unless you lifted it as you opened it. As I pulled into the driveway, the headlights caught on the gaping windows. Broken glass gathering the light into jagged lines, reflected back. The tattered corpse of an inflatable pool hung from one batch of shards. The living room window. Blue with pink sunflowers. I'd never seen it before. Couldn't tell how far the flood must have brought that pool before throwing it against the house.

I turned off the ignition and rested my head against the wheel. I was sore. Muscles aching, held tense for the full drive. Expecting mom to somehow wake up and notice the car was missing. I was missing. A call, or police sirens appearing in the rearview mirror. My hand spasmed, a sliver of painful tension seizing the tendons. Fuck.

I got out of the car, thumb rubbing at my palm. Shoes sank into the mud next to the driveway. Rain from yesterday, but I couldn't help but think of water. A wall of water, a sea of water. Taking it all away. Lurking beneath the surface, ready to swallow my life again. Refusing to let me go. Holding me down, dragging me down. Disappearing me.

My shoe lifted with a squelch, drops of mud flung in its wake. I trudged forward, heading around the house to the shed in the backyard. Even more worn down than the house, skewed to the side like some elementary school diagram of shapes. Squares, and rectangles, and their fucked up cousin the rhomboid.

The door was missing in its entirety, and inside the space had been half filled with mud and detritus. But the shovel was still there, and I pulled it free. The wood handle was soft and damp in my hand, the paint cracked where it wasn't gone. A few smacks against the wall knocked off most of the mud, and left a few scars in its wake.

I could've gotten back in the car. Tossed the shovel in the back, drove across town. But it felt important to walk. Let the stars illuminate the black silhouettes of neighbours houses. Of town hall. The corner store. Just the shapes, the edges. Without light you couldn't see the damage, the empty windows, the overgrown lawns. It was just a place, quiet and familiar.

Eventually I came to a locked gate. Useless, always had been. The fence was barely chest high. Even when we were young, young enough it was taller than we were, hopping it had been easy. I took a couple running steps, planted by hand on the wood, and vaulted the picket fence. And the fence, in all its rotten and damp disarray, collapsed beneath me. I landed. Badly. Arms flailing to brace myself only to slip in the mud, the shovel landing underneath me, blade digging into my ribs.

I screamed into clenched teeth, folding in on myself. Mud in my face and fingers. A searing line of pain across my chest. Broken fence poking and prodding all around me. Tears squeezed out between shut eyes. Why? Why the fuck did it have to be hard? Go wrong? Again and again and *again and again and again and a-fucking-GAIN-*.

I clenched my fists, fingers scraping against mud and pebbles, and pushed myself to my feet. I tentatively prodded at my chest where I'd fallen on the shovel. Useless. It hurt, and came away wet. But everything was wet. It came away dark. But mud was dark. There wasn't a tear in my shirt, however, so there probably wasn't one in my flesh either. The shovel was picked up with a groan, and I continued onwards.

The ground was uneven, and my hand traced a stone pillar in case I lost my balance. Fingers felt out the grooves in the stone. Unreadable in the dark, but we'd read them enough for me to know what it said. Harriet Cosson, 1945-2001. And next, Paul Reed, 1987-1999. Nelson Red. Marie Leblanc. Wesley. Alex. Abed.

Gravestone after gravestone, memorized after years of wandering the aisles. Now askew, the ground bulging where bloated caskets sought to rise back into the open. Lifted by the floodwaters. Desecrated. Shallow. Floating just below the surface, held down only by the thin layer of grass. Frail roots linked one to another like a blanket over the dead.

Until I reached the last gravestone. One of several that stood straight and firm. Sat on flat ground. Fresh enough that the grass had barely started to sprout over the dirt where coffins lay buried. Fresh enough I didn't have them memorized. Didn't know the names and the dates and the grieving messages. The one sentence summaries of lives put aside and buried. Except for one.

Except for yours.

I looked down at your patch. Your eternal resting spot. A wooden coffin, as splinters of the picket fence pricked my skin. Cushioned lining, as my shoes sank unevenly into the ground. Into the soft mud, as I blinked muck out of my eyes and felt the seeping cold slop run down my back. Flesh and blood, pumped full of preservatives by the mortician.

Aching and bruised and tired and dirty and lost and alone, I planted the shovel in the dirt, stomped it in until the blade disappeared between the surface, and began to dig.

By: Anonymous
Word Count: 616
Theme(s): Afterlife
Format: Short Story


A soft weight against my body was the only sensation that kept me grounded. The void stretched beyond that— I could not feel anything but the light brush of what now seemed like strands pulling me slowly. Where those strands pulled me, I could not have guessed, but panic did not surge at the notion of submitting to their guidance. Instead, a feeling of rightness, of safety, only grew as I leaned into their touch.

I could not tell how much time had passed in the silken embrace, if time was still a relevant measure. Even so, a fact surmised more from feeling than concrete fact assured me that I was no longer part of a world that used to be my everything.

The strands let go of me after that thought, and suddenly there was nothing to ground my senses or my mind. Terror breached the recesses of my brain, a menacing claw quick to take hold. But before primal, instinctual panic blinded me to thought, I slipped into what could only be called a bubble. Relief shuddered through my soul as sensation returned, the only oasis in a void of death.

With my heart pounding in my ears from the scare, I did not realize my eyes were still closed despite the newfound safety. But as the fear drained from my body and finally passed, I could sense a silver shimmer through my eyelids. The glow beckoned me to see once again. I opened my eyes.

The silver shimmer came from not one object, but instead a mass of beautiful webbing that stretched endlessly in the distance. The tangles seemed intricate beyond comprehension at first glance. However, once I noticed the golden flecks upon the surface— dots that crawled fast or slow, moving with others or momentarily alone— a hint of comprehension settled in my bones.

My attention wandered to a fading golden fleck near the edge of the webbing. I drew closer and settled near it, reached my limb towards it— touched the small spark and felt a jolt within the core of my being. A wistful look of realization crossed my face.

The gentle brush of a fuzzy limb across my back turned my head towards her. She— and I knew this being was a She— looked at me with eight black eyes and a soft tilt to her head. My wistful expression curled into one bittersweet as she guided me away from my golden fleck. It sputtered behind me, nearly grey in its final moments.

The brush of her palps against my face had me leaning into her touch. And then she was spinning a cocoon around me, faster than I was able to process. Each additional strand felt like a promise of safety, similar to the webbing that brought me here and had comforted me since the start of my afterlife. I melted into her gentle movements. Once the weaving stopped, I could already feel the pull of change within my body. I closed my eyes.

The dead fleck was placed upon the new cocoon, joining the body within the silken chamber. She carried the cocoon away from her vast webbing and pushed it through another bubble, a bubble that led to a place even she did not know. Even so, she was duty-bound to perform, to provide a chamber from which a new entity can be reborn and metamorphose into one new life and then another. Her world was but one step in the grand journey of all the lives one soul would live.

She watched the cocoon disappear into the bubble. Then she turned away, already sensing the next soul that awaited their chance at a new life.

By: @noodle
Word Count: 1,084
Chosen Themes: Unhealthy Relationships with a smidge of Revenge
Chosen Format: Short Story


"You really didn't think this one through, did you?"

Absalom's breath, hot and moist, sent nothing but chills running through Canary's sweat-soaked neck. He could feel his hair lifting up on its end among the gooseflesh, and his wings weren't much better- butter-yellow feathers bristling like the quills of a porcupine. A red and silver mask stared down at him as the taller man pulled back, and Canary would have shrunk down in relief at the lack of teeth in his ear if it weren't for the cold, wet brick wall at his back. His arms trembled as he struggled to keep his grip on the bag in his grasp, talon-like hands practically ripping into the canvas with the herculean effort it took to keep from spilling precious technology out onto the puddle-ridden alleyway ground.

"Do I ever?" The quip back was weak, frail- his voice wavering as he tried not to let the fact that his heart was about to rip itself from its ribcage show.

"I suppose not." Absalom leaned in again, this time moving forward- pressing Canary back against the wall further and forcing his wings to droop to his sides to avoid them being crushed behind him. His heartbeat picked up again, and he curled his shoulders inward as if shrinking himself more would shield him from the other's wrath. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you get caught on purpose." A clawed thumb brushed across Canary's jaw, the rough, calloused fingerpad scraping along soft blond stubble.

"That's ridiculous." Canary leaned away from the touch, fighting down the flush that threatened to rise through his cheeks. "You're terrifying."

"Oh?" Absalom grinned- fangs bared like a prayer, the ghosts of blood and sinew etched into the smooth enamel. "Then why not fly away? I've never clipped you."

"The bag was too heavy." Canary scoffed like it was obvious, like he hadn't plucked one of Absalom's henchmen from the ground and dropped him two stories effortlessly just fifteen minutes prior.

"Well." He leaned in further, breath ghosting along Canary's hairline, his nose, his chin- "We both know I don't take kindly to my things being taken from me."

Canary's fingers burned with a memory. His skin ached with a need. His brain whirled with the reminder that this was dangerous, that it was stupid, that small-time vigilantes like him didn't go after Absalom for a reason-

That Guardian's corpse had ended up at the bottom of the river last week- ironic- with toothmarks sunken deep into their neck like a fossil-structure.

"If you kill me I'll haunt you." Canary spat it like it was an actual threat instead of saying anything useful (because when had he ever known when to keep his mouth shut), cerulean eyes hard and afraid. "I'll open all the doors on your stupid white kitchen cabinets and I'll break that wine glass your sister got you. And I'll leave ectoplasm on your pillows."

Absalom had the decency to look almost offended instead of amused as he cocked his head to the side. "Whoever said anything about killing you?"

"You're unpredictable." Canary bared his own painfully blunt teeth in response to the curl of Absalom's lip.

"Not today, songbird."

His wings flared again, stopped from their full wingspan by the wall at his back forcing them halfway-closed. "For the last time, it's Canary, not-" Canary didn't get to finish his sentence as Absalom's teeth closed on his collarbone, easily tearing away at the brown and white shirt the vigilante wore. A strangled chirp tore its way out of his throat as he shoved at Absalom's broad chest, but it didn't stop the bite- a ring of teeth was left indented in his skin beside the ghosts of a half-dozen others, pinprick bruises already forming on the flatter marks and fresh blood painting the villain's sharp canines.

"You chirp like a songbird." Absalom's brassy timbre rattled through Canary's spine like a church bell, his mouth ghosting across his cheek. "And- as I seem to remember from your rather impassioned rant last time- aren't canaries songbirds?"

"That's like comparing a german shepherd to a mutt." Canary scowled, chest heaving with short, sharp breaths. Absalom dragged his face up from his collarbone, hips pressing into his as he trailed his lips up to his earlobe and tugged experimentally- gently- with his teeth. "The distinction matters."

"It's so fun watching you get flustered, though. Keeps you talking."

Canary huffed, turning his face away but not getting far before Absalom's fingers captured his chin and pulled it up to look him in the face. And then he was in his face, and their lips were meeting, and Canary didn't feel as much afraid as he was eager, his free hand flying up to bury itself in the soaked dark strands of Absalom's hair.

They parted, for just a moment- honeysuckle and fire swelling their lips against the cool air of a summer rainstorm. Just long enough for a breath, and then Canary's skull was against the wall again and Absalom was drinking him in- desperate, needy, wrong in all the right ways.

"This is so unprofessional." Canary gasped the protest out when they parted again, but his hand didn't leave the other man's head- gripping tight enough to draw blood beneath his talons and send it beading through the strands.

"Mm." Absalom's fingers curled into the strap of the bag between them and tugged, releasing it from Canary's grip and ignoring the indignant squawk the smaller man let out against his lips. Finally, he pulled back for a final time, red eyes glinting in the darkness of the now very wet alleyway. Rain plastered his hair to his head, the dark strands dangling around the obscured cut of his jaw. "Well, as I seem to have taken back what's mine-" He stood straighter, finally releasing Canary from the harsh cold of the wall behind him. "I suppose I should let you go. Better luck next time."

Canary flung himself away like a man burned, wings fluttering for a moment before they folded neatly to his back- feathers askew and still puffed up like an angry chicken. "There won't be a next time," he spat- vehement, fearful, indignant. Absalom just smiled in return, white fangs flashing like a warning as the bird took flight- wavering in the air as the rain tried to drag him back down to the alley's floor- and disappeared behind the city's towering skyline.

They both knew it was a lie.

By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1530
Chosen theme(s): Afterlife
Chosen format: Short Story

Take a boat out to sea.

Waves flowed over Enara's bare feet and crawled up the hem of her bright red robe. It was still early and she was the only one on the beach, a spot of color against the gray waters and overcast skies.

Scatter my ashes across the waves and let them fall into the abyss.

"You never liked the sea." A spherical pendant dangled around her neck, plain and worn against the expensive silk that billowed around her. She turned abruptly away, "Come. We have work to do." The shore led to a winding path that ended at an old abandoned lighthouse made of stone. Vines climbed up the exterior, finding purchase in the many cracks that decorated its walls. As she approached, the wind stilled and the world grew quiet. A stout, middle-aged woman waited for her, wringing her hands together while pacing. She flinched when Enara touched her arm. "Oh! I thought you were- I'm sorry. A-Are you the exorcist?"

Enara nodded.

The woman pulled her knitted sweater closer about her body. "It's my husband. He died five years ago, but I—when I realized he had become a ghost, I came here everyday to talk to him. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help it. He couldn't say anything back and I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there! But then last month," She briefly covered her mouth with her hand and choked back a sob, "he locked the door and now we can hear him wailing and destroying the tower from all over town." The woman reached forward and Enara flinched back, leaving her to grasp at the empty air between them. "Please! Help him. I just want to be able to speak to him again."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

Tears rolled down her face. "But they told me you could help! Is there really nothing you can do for him?"

"I'm sorry. Once a ghost becomes corrupted, there is no way to reverse the process.. Your husband has already started displaying the signs. I can only help make the journey that all ghosts must eventually make."

All but one.

The woman turned away from Enara, shoulders shaking. She walked past her to the entrance of the lighthouse. The door was made of wood panels, rough and scratched from years of weathering and use. Enara slid her fingers over the surface and lightly pressed her palm against it. Kalin put his hand over hers.

Can you feel him?

She could feel the memory of his hand, warm against her skin. "I can sense your husband inside. He's not too far gone yet. We'll have to work quickly, though." Enara stepped away from the door. "He will not allow me to enter. I'll have to make some preparations."

The woman loudly blew her nose on a handkerchief and nodded emphatically, "Yes, of course. Anything you need. My home is just down the hill. I've set aside some space there for you, as you requested."

That evening, Enara sat at a small desk in an extra room in a house at the edge of town. In front of her was an ornate metal pot, sitting atop a miniature burner. She opened a paper package and dumped in a carefully measured amount of herbs.

Kalin reached over and stopped her. "You're putting in too much." His hands moved deftly over the ingredients, carefully fixing her mistake.

Enara threw up her hands and leaned back in the chair, "I don't know why I have to learn this. It doesn't work half the time when I do it and we end up having to use the ones you make anyways. It's a waste of time."

She gave Kalin her hand, letting him prick it to add a few drops of her blood to the mixture. He set the pot on top of a burner. "I'm not going to always be here-"

"How could you say that? You know I would never let anything happen to you." She looked at him, and Kalin saw inside of her the little girl he had found on the street so many years ago. "I would be lost without you, Kalin.

He kneeled on the ground in front of her. "Enara. You can't depend on me like this." She looked down at her hands, avoiding his gaze. "The work we do is dangerous, and even if I avoid injury, you will still live a life far longer than I will." He gave her fingers a light squeeze and laid his head down on her lap, "Enara, please."

Let me go.

— – — – —
That evening had perfect weather. The sky was clear, allowing the full moon to illuminate the dark. The wind from the day persisted into the night, carrying a howl from the lighthouse into the town and leaving a trail of shuttered windows in its wake. While the rest of the town slept, Enara stood in front of the lighthouse. In one hand she held a piece of paper, in the other a long-bladed knife made of bone. With a gentle breath, the paper caught fire. Tendrils of blue smoke snaked towards the door. They slithered along the surface towards the edges and sank into the wood. Enara placed her palm on the wood, but hesitated.

I'm here, Enara.

She took a deep breath and pressed against the worn wood. This time, after the slightest bit of resistance, her fingers passed through and Enara stepped into the building.

The room was cold and silent. The kind of silence that was only present in places haunted by the past, the kind of silence Enara held within herself. Broken glass and furniture littered the floor. The bottom half of the metal stairs that led to the beacon room were twisted out of shape, and floating in front of it was the hunched ghost of a man. His head turned a hundred and eighty degrees on his neck to face her. His mouth was twisted into a permanent scream. A breeze flowed through the room, carrying his voice with it. "How did you get in here? I made sure to seal the door to both the living and the dead."

"I am neither living nor dead," she ran her palm along the edge of the knife, and then the flat of the blade, coating it with silver blood. "The rules of those worlds don't affect me."

"I see." The ghost's body pivoted to realign with his head. He stood in a hunched position, arms hanging limply at his side, reaching past his knees and ending in sharp dirty nails. His shoulder blades pushed against his plaid shirt, fighting to escape the fabric prison. "I suppose you're here to send me on."

The ghost flew forward, clawed hands extended towards her. There was no malice behind the motion, but by the time she realized this, her knife had already instinctively found its way into his stomach. The ghost relaxed and placed his hands down to rest on top of hers. One hand smeared her blood along his chest. The other drove the knife deeper into himself. Though his body had already begun to chang, the colorless eyes that stared at her were clear of madness. "Thank you."

Beams of sun filtered in through shattered windows. A bird flew inside for the first time in years, its song bouncing around the room, chasing out the silence that had seeped into its walls until only one scarlet spot remained.

The woman was waiting for her outside, face red and swollen, holding her jacket tightly around her body. "Is he gone?"

"He passed peacefully."

The woman's grip around herself relaxed, "I'm glad. Well, I'm devastated but," she wiped her eyes, "he deserves to be able to move on." The woman stared at the lighthouse. "Was he afraid? At the end."

Enara turned to face the same direction, "No. He…" Kalin stood by the lighthouse door. "He was relieved."

This time when the woman reached for her, Enara didn't pull away. The woman's hands enveloped her own in warmth. "Where will you go now?"

"Home." A small smile spread on Kalin's face. "Someone is waiting for me."
— – — – —
Enara opened the metal sphere and carefully tipped a gray marble into her palm. She brought it to her lips, brushing them against its smooth surface and it crumbled into a pile of ashes. Keeping her precious cargo covered with her hands and close to her chest, she walked to the edge of the mountain. Her toes brushed the open air before her. Below, was the town, now a small city, where she and Kalin met. It was filled with painful memories that they had promised to forget and leave behind.

And yet, despite that promise, Enara had returned, for it was also the place where their lives had begun.

Enara carefully opened her hands and stared at Kalin's ashes. A single silver tear flowed down her cheek and into her palm, coating them. Her hands trembled as she extended them in front of her into the wind.

Enara.

She took a deep breath…

Don't be afraid.

…and let go.

By: @Fluffy
Word Count: 1996
Chosen theme(s): Revenge & Unhealthy Relationships
Chosen format: Narrative Short Story


Oh, how good it feels to hear my name. The call of my name brings strength to my heart and excitement to my skin. The call of my name means there is fun to be had. It also means I'm needed by someone somewhere. It's nice to be needed.

I wonder who needs me this time. The closer I reach my destination, the clearer my summoner's voice becomes. And I have to say, my summoner sounds…young. This wouldn't be the first time a youth called for me, of course. I've been around for so long that I've met summoners of all ages. Children will forever be the most amusing and fascinating among them. They are for me, at least. There's always such an interesting story behind the whats and whys of my summoning. Generally, human children shouldn't have access to instruction manuals for demon summonings. But, where there's a will, there's a way, right?

As I make my arrival in the summoning circle, a scentless smoke shrouds me from the view of the child. I can see them just fine, though. My glowing, red eyes focus on the young human and I take a moment to read their energy. And their soul. I can sense the desire for revenge in them. I can sense pain, too. But other than those noteworthy facts, there's a surprising lack of darkness here. Usually, I am met with an individual who's totally consumed by their rage, sorrow, vengeance, or avarice. I'm used to being the last resort for those who summon me, including the likes of villains who need help achieving their goals.

The child's bedroom gently echoes with the rumble of my voice as I hum with curiosity. The smirk on my face would be seen as soon as the smoke around me dissipated. "Greetings, my summoner," I say ever so politely, bowing to the child like a proper gentleman. That's when the child decides to speak,

"A-Are you the– Are you Vazithan? The Red Prince of Vengeance? The–The um, revenge demon in my foster brother's book that I totally 'borrowed'?"
The nervous, awe-stricken babe turns to pick a book up from the floor. Not just any book… This is a goddamn tome. A thick-ass resource full of unholy, forbidden knowledge. My summoner's noodly arms struggle to pick up the book but he manages to hold it up and show me the cover. There is no actual title, but lots of symbols and non-human languages I can recognize. Intriguing as that is though, I find myself nervously holding up one hand to discourage that book from coming any closer. I have a stupidly terrible phobia of books. Once upon a time, a demon hunter teamed up with a wizard to do a fancy trick that trapped me in a book. I was in there for hundreds of years and I'm not going to get into that right now. Fortunately for me, that tome is too heavy for the kid to keep holding it up anyway. With an adorable grunt of effort, they drop the book onto the floor. They also use their foot to scoot the accursed thing away from us. How considerate! I like this tiny person already. They have shown me more respect than I'm used to getting from humans.

"Ahh, um–" Belatedly, I start to answer my summoner's question. Straightening up, I dust myself off despite the fact nothing dirtied me. Maybe I'm a tad embarrassed about my reaction to that book. "You are correct." Nodding affirmatively, I smile at the child. "I am a demon of many names, but please, call me Vaz." I then await further instruction.

My brows raise suddenly as the energy of the child shifts to hyperactive glee, "Sweeeeeet! Yes! I did it! Hmpf hmpf yeah!" They spend half a moment celebrating their success with punches to the air and airplane sound effects. Heh. Cute… No problem, I can wait…

"Okay, so, here's the plan!" the kid then announces. "Our target today is my sister, Christine!"

"Oh, gods, no. Not Christine," I say with visible disgust, wishing to match my summoner in emotions. And then I ask, "What crimes is this sister guilty of? How can I help you with your revenge, um–?" I leave the sentence unfinished, hoping to learn my summoner's name.

"Lloyd!" he exclaims through a cheesy grin, fists going on his hips proudly.

"Lloyd," I repeat, smiling back. I'm also relieved he didn't command me to call him 'Master.'

"My sister is always making things hard for me," he begins to explain, listing things off on his fingers. "She likes to tease me by holding things up high so I can't reach them. After that, she'll just throw the thing across the room and won't care if it breaks. And, she always takes the last ice cream sandwich. And, she tells on me when I sneak snacks out of the cupboards, but I never tell on her when she does it!"

Okay, this was…not what I expected at all. But I still give him a look of sympathy while I touch a hand to my chest in disbelief. "Really? What else?" I ask of him.

"She hogs the television whenever our mom isn't home, which is like all the time because she works a lot. It makes me miss my favorite cartoons. And she thinks it's funny to turn the bathroom lights off while I'm using the bathtub. But it isn't funny! It's scary in there when it's dark!"

"Hmf. Is that so?" I comment with disproval. I can say with certainty that this sister of Lloyd's deserves to be punished. She doesn't, however, deserve to have her soul sacrificed to me… Christine is a brat who needs therapy and proper parenting, but she doesn't seem evil. I may have to make a different kind of deal here. Usually, my desired currency is souls, whether coming from my target or somewhere else. I need my souls. (Don't ask me why. That's not your business.) I'll worry about that part later. I don't blame the kid for not understanding every aspect of my summoning ritual. If he felt the need to call me, he must not have anyone else to turn to. Looks like I am this boy's last resort after all. Things will get worse if someone doesn't help.

Tapping a claw against my chin thoughtfully, I meet eyes with Lloyd again and we share a moment of silence.
"Lloyd, your every wish is my command. But like with any job, I require payment." I blink at him and wait for a reaction. He nods at me. "In exchange, I would like to claim your soul. Not to take, but to protect," I formally suggest. The kid is surprised by my offer but he doesn't hesitate to nod in agreement. "Very good. I am yours and you are mine. We will look out for each other from here on out, yes?" A friendly smile lights up my face, which in turn lights up his own. "Yes!" he enthusiastically agrees, holding out his little hand so we can shake on it. I chuckle at the gesture while I reach out and let him grab my fingers.

"Alright, so what's the plan?" I ask with excitement. As I smirk at Lloyd, he replies with a smirk of his own. "Follow me, Vaz!" he insists, keeping a hold on my fingers so he can guide me along.

Again, I wish to say… It feels good to be needed.

It also feels good to do something purely fun for once. I love to do my blood-splattered artwork, but it's nice to do something rated PG once in a while.

Being the master I am at the revenge game, I had no problem setting everything up without being noticed. I don't think it would have been that hard to do anyway. The mom is a single parent with a busy nursing job, Christine really is too absorbed in her own self and her own world to notice anyone else, and the foster brother either spent all his time in his room or spent time at the library. (I actually do know that guy and the secrets he's keeping. But that's another story for another day. Now is the time for sweet, sweet revenge.)

"Codename Chocolate MilkMan, this is your Captain speaking. Do you read me? Over?"

I swallow the urge to laugh at the voice speaking through my walkie-talkie. I adore the code names Lloyd picked for us, but his is cooler than mine. "Captain Superman Batman, I read you loud and clear. Is the mission a go? Over."

"Operation Black Mask is a go, MilkMan! Target is leaving the kitchen and approaching the couch. Over."

"Roger that, Captain. I'll meet you in the backyard. I'm gonna make my first move now. Over and out."

For the first part of our plan, I shapeshift into a raccoon, which is apparently one of the creatures this girl is most afraid of. Out I skitter from my hiding place so I can hop onto the couch. Since I have these handy raccoon digits, I go ahead and press random buttons on the television remote. Christine can hear the channel changes and starts her bitching, "LLOYD! I'm watching TV! You better not be messing with my show!"
Ice cream sandwich in hand, the girl shows up to yell at her brother, but when she sees my trash panda face, she instead screams bloody murder. "AAAHH! There's a fuckin' coon in the house!"

Giving my cute little butt a wiggle, I launch myself at Christine so I can cling to her torso. Maybe a special hug from a raccoon can help change her mind about the critters! She doesn't appreciate my hug, though. She just screeches like a banshee and does a panic dance. And she makes no effort to remove me because she's too afraid to touch me. It's hilarious as fuck.

I do eventually hop off, but not without swiping her ice cream sandwich. That makes Christine scream yet again. And then I open my maw to wolf down the ice cream treat, including the half of a wrapper that was left on the bottom of it. Cackling at her, I start chasing her around the living room in circles until she bolts to other rooms of the house. Along the way, she trips the wires to my hidden traps, so to speak. I set up a bunch of Furbies all over the place who are prepared to terrify her, and the floors are lined with high-quality bubble wrap. I also installed Bluetooth lights that Lloyd has complete control over via his cellphone. My keen ears can hear his snickering from another room as he switches lights off and on to mess with his sister. My summoner and I trap the blondie-haired banshee in a loop of terrors while, ultimately, she just wants to avoid me. Especially since I never stop attempting to fling myself at her for another friendship hug.

The chase soon comes to an end, though. Eventually, I shepherd Christine over to the open door that leads to the backyard. There, Lloyd happily awaits with a pump-action water gun. I scurry my way over to him so I can climb up him and drape myself over his head. Christine stumbles onto the grass, her angry, reddened face staring at the water gun that's prepared to shoot her in the face.

"Hello, Christine," I say in my normal voice, which nearly makes her shriek again. Lloyd cuts her off by giving the water gun a shake, the sloshing reminding her to mind her manners. I know she wants to freak out and ask why the raccoon can talk, but there are more important things to do right now.

Demonically, I grin a grin that definitely doesn't belong to an average Earth raccoon.

"Now that we have your attention… Let's make a deal."

By: Anonymous
Word count: 1279
Chosen themes: revenge, unhealthy relationships (maybe afterlife?)
Chosen format: short story

Trigger Warning: lethal injection (but nothing graphic)


Liz, look, I've made all my favorites: overnight oats with evaporated milk. Soft eggs! Pan-fried bacon! It's a special day.

Oh, you know I'm going to eat the fat. I just like it. The coffee smells so good.

You're right, the kids've grown up so much. Lenny's in grade school, and Astra's starting highschool. You know the kids are just going to ask for poptarts again. Speak of the devils, they're finally here. Let me finish up real quick. Leave the dishes, I'll do them when I come back.

I know you don't like it when I leave them in the sink, yes, especially when the wood spoons sit in the water. Look, I put them to the side. Fine, I'll wash them now.

Fine! I'll just stack the rest in the dishwasher now, okay? Don't yell at me, the kids are right here. Lenny, have your toast. No, we're out of poptarts. Put some jam on it, then, there's no time. Astra, if you don't drink your milk you're going to be short and you won't be popular. How was your test yesterday? Look at me when I'm speaking to you.

C'mon, kids! Let's get ready to go, you're gonna be late for school. Lenny, do you have your backpack? Astra, I'm not going to remind you to take your lunch again. Get your cleats, march, march!

You're right Liz, the weather's so nice today. I guess I don't really need the coat. I'll roll down the window.


***

It feels like the first day of spring. I can open the window a little bit and feel winter giving way. Still has a bit of that chill though. Good thing I have a coat on, eh?

We're going to drop the kids off at school first, then I'll take you to work.

Lenny, don't play on your phone. You're going to get carsick. Put it down and look outside, look at the real world. Don't make me take it away.

Bye Lenny, bye Astra. Say bye to your mom.

Astra, if soccer practice runs late please text me. I might be late to get you today. I'll let you know if you'll have to take the bus home with Lenny, OK? Actually, why don't you just do that today, dad's got a work event to go to.

… alright.

Let's get going.

What are we going to do about the kids, Liz? I feel like I'm losing control of them. I don't really understand them anymore, they talk to their friends first and then I have to pry or bribe them when they come home. They come down for dinner and have a few bites and go. I know the food I cook isn't very good … but I'm following your recipes. I guess it's a bit salty? It never comes out quite the same way.

Hm?

Yeah, we're not stopping at your work, I've got a surprise for us. Two tickets to the last show. It's at the edge of town.

Oh, your favorite song. I'll turn it up.

Haha! You got me. It's from the tape, not the radio.


***

Best seats in the house, right? Front row. I mean, there's only a few rows, but I got the best ones. I'll get you out of my pocket. Let me know if you can't see.

The program? I've got it here. We'll go through it together. We've got a bit of time while they're setting up. Ahem:

"Act 1: the IV

  • Two intravenous IVs, one for each arm, are inserted. One is used as a backup.
  • A saline drip is started to make sure-"

Yes, I'm sure we're at the right place.

"A saline drip is started to make sure the lines are clear.

Act 2: the Three Tenors (you know I love Pavarotti)

  • Three separate injections, in the order of sodium pentathiol, pancu- pancuro- um, pan-cure-rony-um bromide, then"

Oh, they're taking him inside the room now. I can barely remember his face. They're strapping him into the bed. It's finally—are you okay, Liz? I'll turn you away for this part. I'll describe it to you.

They're putting on the heart monitor. Ah, we can see the beat on the screen there. Should I wave at the attendant? No, I don't want to disturb his concentration. Here comes the priest.

Lala, lalalalalalalalalalalala, lalalalalala, lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala

Is he done talking yet? I made eye contact with him the whole time. Did my best to make sure he knew I wasn't listening to a single damn word he said.

Is he trying to fight it?

I can't tell. It looks like he's trying to hold his eyes open. Do you think he's feeling as desperate as you did? As scared? He's starting to hyperventilate a bit, me too. He's struggling with the restraints. You don't want to hear it? Well, his eyes just closed. I think that's it. Wait, his heart is still beating on the monitor. I'm going to wait until the very end, maybe try clapping for an encore.


***

Y'know, I think my heart was beating twice as fast to make up for his zero. I was hoping that they fucked up, got the dosage wrong, found the wrong vein, so he'd be awake for the second injection. I wanted him to realize he was going. Do you think in that thirty seconds (that's how long wikipedia says for the barbiturate to kick in), the time he experienced was as long as an hour? How many memories did he race through in those five seconds before? I watched his heart rate spike to one-fifty. I heard you experience time slower in great stress. Do you think-

… you're right. It's over.

It's all over.

I don't know how to feel, Liz. It's all jumbled inside, so tangled up I wouldn't know where to start untangling it, or labeling it. I think I feel… the same? What time is it? Maybe Astra finished her soccer practice. We'll come visit you on the weekend, okay? I'll bring some flowers, though your favorites aren't in season.

The weather is so beautiful today, you would have liked it. The flowers are just getting started. I still miss you, but not as much. It took too long for the execution, I think. The hate didn't hold. I have to scoop so deep to bring it back up, I have to squeeze my eyes tight and think back to the phone call and the metal table and the uneven lengths of my shoelaces, and it slips away if I don't cup my hands really, really tight.

Do you think he was trying to say sorry?

I'm glad I didn't bring the kids. I'm trying my best with them, you know. But I need to get some help soon. Like I said, I just have no idea what to do with them now. There's someone I've been talking to. I ran into them picking up Lenny from daycare; she had so many great tips. Things we might've been able to figure out together.

Oh, look! An early bloomer. Spring is here.

By: @strangeatlas
Word Count: 1996
Chosen theme(s): Revenge Afterlife (a little unhealth relationship father/son)
Chosen format: Short story


"It's all in your hands, Corvo. The people, the village…everything we've fought for."

Mela, Lepre, Lumaca, and Pernice were huddled, drawing Corvo in last, arms laced together in a circle, shoulders side-to-side, heads bowed together in the center. They all had reason: livelihoods taken, folks missing, homes burned, loved ones taken by the occupiers. The oldest of them was fifteen. Corvo was only fourteen. All were ready to die for one another, but more than that, for revenge on the occupiers. Today was the day they would have it.

"This for Trota, for Pigna, for Farfalla, and for all the other patrioti." Pernice reached from behind Corvo's head and ruffled his hair. Corvo watched hairs from his head drift slowly to the floor, lit by the buzzing bulb that dangled from the shack roof.

They were the last squadra left in the county. The occupiers had hunted them, one-by-one, tortured, and executed every friend, neighbor, brother, sister, mother, father of every patriota. Corvo wondered how his mother was doing. He wondered what his Father would do, if he came home: turn him in, for the good of the Fatherland, or would he relinquish? Would he hide him in the basement and lie to the soldiers who came looking for him?

No, not his father. He was a heartless bastard. Together, they found the bones in spring. The snow was melting and revealed what the occupiers had done to all those missing people. His father excused it as the price of Spazio Vitale. Corvo joined the Partigiane.



Leaves crunched under Corvo's feet. Autumn was nearing its end in the woody foothills. A stiff breeze rushed from the mountains that overshadowed the valley. He plodded west until he found a creek, which he would follow towards the river, but before reaching it, a detour east, past the eagle-head rock, then south for thirty paces. It was on none of the maps, but it was a route he was familiar with, because he'd walked it countless times with his father.

The patroti, his comrades, were desperate. This was their final chance. They had paid with blood and lives for the weapons and information, and had to use them before they too were hunted down. They would take the armory and distribute guns to the townsfolk, who would have a choice: allow the group of boys to be mutilated and hung for their crimes or take a stand and put an end to it.

Corvo, following the creek, began to walk a deer trail nearby.

There were enough people, and the flames smoldered in their hearts. Together, they could eject the occupiers from the valley, only for a time. But it would be time enough for the message to get out. Folks everywhere would hear the news and—


His vision was blurred. His ears rang. His head hurt. Dirt crunched between his teeth. He smelled burned powder. He was lying with his back in mud and cold water around his waist. Immense trees surrounded him, and thick branches interlaced shadows across the overcast sky.

He thought he saw movement on the crest to his right. He made for his gun, but it was nowhere to be found. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He tried to turn on his belly, but was stuck, and his head felt too heavy. He lay back, and lost track of time.

More movement. Phantoms danced on his periphery and vanished when he looked. Wincing, he propped himself up on his elbows. Down the stream, a doe approached the brook and drank. It was just a quiet little doe. He breathed easier.

The doe finished drinking and glanced up at him, staring. He traced the brook upstream, towards himself, and saw the water transition from clear to a mix of cloudy red, and finally, near his waist, silty, red, and opaque.

He heard a leaf crunch under a boot, to the left. There, a tree that had taken root over a short bluff of mud. Someone was behind it, stepping out. It was Pernice!

"Pernice! Comrade! Am I glad to see you! Get over here and help me, there is still time!"

Pernice shuffled to the edge of the bluff, looking down at him, but then stood quietly.

"Pernice, please! I think I can stand, if you just help me up. Do you have some bandages?"

Pernice glanced at the stream, then at the bank nearby. A severed leg was laying there, battered.

Whose leg was it?

Corvo shifted to one elbow, and worked his hand down his leg, one finger at a time, until he reached his knee. There was nothing there.

"No!" He coughed, gasped. Tears filled his eyes as he became dazed, trying to imagine a life as a cripple. He'd always loved dancing, now he'd never dance again. He tried to remember the last time he danced. It was with Giulia, before the war. He'd always wanted to take her out, but he never had the courage to ask. What would she think of him now, broken and weeping? A failure?

He realized Pernice was still watching him, and quickly wiped the tears from his face. How could he be thinking of dancing when all his comrades were in grave danger? The mission! Without him, everything would fail. He had almost two kilometers to go in just a few hours.

"Pernice! You must take my place, come, I'll give you the directions, but you'll need to do exactly as I say."

Pernice stood, unmoved, staring.

"Hurry!" Corvo stared into Pernice's vacant eyes.

"Pernice!" Corvo's voice cracked. "If you don't go, the others will surely be killed. Please!"

Just then, he heard more boots. It was Mela, Lepre, and Lumaca.

"Comrades, I don't understand. What are you doing here? What about the mission?"

They were silent. Corvo grew dizzy. This was their only chance. If they didn't move fast, the fight would be over. No guns and no uprising. The populace would be pacified and occupiers would win.

Could they have given up? All they had lost would have been for nothing. His leg would be for nothing! All those fallen comrades would have died for nothing!

More boots rustled in the trees behind the trees.

"Trota! Pigna! Farfalla! How can this be?" He shifted in the water, and the silt and blood swirled. His fallen comrades joined the others, standing in a line on the muddy bluff. They said nothing.

Impossible! He'd seen Trota tortured to death in the town square. Did he remember that right? Perhaps Trota had survived. But Farfalla! He had buried his body near the old willow by the lake. Was that Farfalla?

Footsteps approached. Soldiers, occupiers. Corvo waved and shouted, "Quick! Leave me and save yourselves!" His comrades remained as statues. Enemy soldiers were taking position on the opposite embankment. They were armed, and shiny winged medallions glinted on their chest. They watched Corvo, but their guns were slack in their arms.

Betrayed? How could it be? Was this all a set-up? Was any of the resistance real? Or was it all a trick of the occupiers? The water sloshed and churned up silt as he searched from face to face on either side of the creek. Their faces withheld all. They simply watched.

A mine: he had stepped on a mine. It was shell shock. That must be it. He had seen shell-shocked men returning from the front. They had left to fight for a better life, but they returned with their minds broken, withered remains of their former selves. The people they defended were now bleeding under the foot of the occupiers. It was all for nothing. Strife, suffering, death, sorrow, pain, regret, for nothing.

Down the river, the doe was wandering closer. He watched her movements as she walked on the rocks in the creek. As she stepped, her hooves slid ever so gently across the water's surface. Drops flashed and vanished in the stream. Gentle splashes accompanied the steps which sounded purer than notes from the finest piano. The knot in his stomach loosened for just a moment.

Then, to the left, a man stepped forth. He was in an old wool suit, comically large for him, and he wore a hat with a dent in the top. It was his father! His father's knuckles were cut, as if he had just beat someone. Corvo remembered how his father always carried an arrogant pride which required someone to blame for his destitution. The Fascisti found them for him. It had cost him his friends and family, but for his support the occupiers named him a Stadtwärter. Now when the Fascisti discovered what Corvo had done, being Stadtwärter would mean nothing to them.

The sun was draining over the distant mountains, and the sky was turning red. He was shaking from the cold. He pulled himself up and dragged his ruined body out of the water and onto the banks. His audience was still there, comrades, occupiers, and family. Others he barely recognized had joined them: faces from town, people passing on the train, even Il Duce and Der Führer themselves.

When he was out of the water, he looked down at the mess of his legs. Blood was oozing out and flowing down into the stream. He saw it, and the dizziness overcame him. He collapsed back onto the muddy bank, face up towards the sky. The stars were just starting to appear in the dusk. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. The night advanced as he drifted in and out of dozes.

"You may sleep, child," a soft, melodic voice intoned.

Corvo started awake at the voice, but only managed to tilt his head to the side. The doe stood not far from him, watching. Who said that?
He shut his eyes and looked away. Tears pooled in the corners. "Am I dying?"

"You are merely beginning something new." The same voice played out.

He thought of Giulia, of never getting his first kiss, of never getting married, of how he always wanted a son, a son he would spoil and love. He thought of wandering the Alps, and traveling to Africa to see a wild elephant. He never got to do those things, because the war happened first. "I'm not ready to die."

"You are ready."

He opened his eyes, but they were blurred from tears and he was too weak to clear them. He looked back towards the doe, but instead, a woman stood bathed in light, who illuminated the woods and all the faces who were watching. "But, it's not fair."

"It is not the end."

Snow began to fall. He thought of bones in the melting snow of spring. As the snow melted, clean water dripped from the banks into the stream whose pure flow passed between the trees in the forest to swirl in the silty water of the river. His tears dripped down his cheeks, fell in drops into the mud, and vanished. "I don't want my bones to lie here."

She approached and lifted him, cradling him like a child. Her arms were strong, yet gentle. He found he was holding his breath, and slowly released it. As he did, he started to descend into sleep. He felt a deep contentment that he had never known.

And when he finally closed his eyes, he knew that it all meant something. "I think I am ready now."

He slept as the woman carried him down the creek. His comrades, family, and all the other onlookers followed in her wake. She passed the encampment, the gallows in town, crossed the train tracks, finally finding the river. Her luminescence spread to him, and as she laid his body in the river, he dissolved into a cloud of glowing droplets that spread into the water. She and the wake watched as the river continued to flow, between the foothills, through the country, and into the sea.

By: @RiverNotch
Word Count: ~320
Chosen Theme: Unhealthy Relationships
Chosen Format: Sestina


March, summer for suckers, fills the café
with those who dress in vintage, ration
like it's wartime, out of habit scream
into their phones, "What a stove
of a city! Who can raise a child
in this heat?" All while the old hyena

skulks for food. Here in Addis Ababa, hyenas
fill the streets at night, scavenge the cafés
and hospitals for leftover children
like beggars for scraps of himbasha. "Wasted rations",
thinks the beggar tending an old stove,
"all a mother's labor, all her screams

dissolved by stomach acid." Every night, the screams
of hopeless drunks and lovemaking hyenas
fill the air like smoke from earthen stoves
cooking charcoal to sell to the cafés
who serve their coffee authentic. Such fancy rations
for the tourists and their spoiled children:

imported coffee and himbasha loaves and the occasional child
to be brought back home and shown the wonders of screaming
into one's phone, complaining about such meager rations
as foreign bread and coffee! A hyena
grins -- "Isn't she cute?" -- while the café
drives away the beggar from their stove

for the tourists to take their picture. "Back home, our stoves
are powered by electricity. They're safe enough for a child
to touch, so long as she's not metal." The owner of the café
musses his daughter's hair. "Come on, stop your screaming.
Out there in New York, there are no hyenas
and you won't have to save your rations

like it's wartime." "Baba, it's not about the rations
nor the burns on my arms this ancient stove
has all the right to inflict. Are you sure there are no hyenas
where you ask to send me? Where none of the children
seem to suffer, where none of them cry and scream?"
The sun sets. The tourists leave the café

with their new child. The grinning hyena
rubs her back against the dying stove, her rations
lying in a pile behind the café. Another scream.

By: @Nemopedia
Word Count: 1256
Chosen theme(s): (petty) Revenge, unhealthy relationship (?)
Chosen format: Short story


The first time Nick met Sophie was through the window of his living room. It was a summer without trips or a vacation planned, which meant that Nick was the only child left behind in a neighbourhood where everyone had left for the holidays. It was promising itself to be a boring summer and the prospect of a new family moving next door had excited Nick so much that he couldn't wait to meet his new friend, knocking on the window of his living room just as Sophie walked past. It startled her so much that the girl promptly started to cry, thus cutting their first meeting short.

"So, you are Nick," Sophie's mother, who allowed Nick to call her Jennie, had exclaimed with a knowing smile when the new family came by to say hi later. Nick's face had flushed red in that instant as he could only nod, falling uncharacteristically shy. "You gave us quite a startle," Jennie teased as her hand landed on Sophie's head who was hiding behind her mother's skirt with a deep glare.

"you know what they say, right?" Jennie grinned trying to ease the tension, Nick caught a hint of an accent in her voice, before feeling her arm around his neck to pull him closer to Sophie.

"Tease the miss, begging for a kiss."

In the background Nick heard his mother and Jennie share a laugh, while Sophie's glare deepened and Nick tried to defend himself.

"I just wanted to be friends!" The boy tried, earning awes from both mothers who were endeared by the declaration.

Sophie's expression didn't improve, however, her lips jutting forward in a pout while her hands balled up.

"He is my enemy," she declared, much to Nick's horror, for only heroes and villains had enemies and Nick wasn't sure if he was strong enough to be a hero or evil enough to be a villain. Summer that year ended as dreary as it started, with only an enemy gained. A fact proven when school started and the two of them were revealed to be not only neighbours but also classmates.

"And if you are caught you need to walk like a crab," the teacher demonstrated during P.E. by putting hands and feet down the floor in an inverted crawl, "and you are allowed to move around to prevent the rest from being caught." With the instructions out of the way Nick was excited at the prospect of playing tag, never minding a reason to run around. That was, until he found himself on the floor after trying to escape the catcher and tripping over a pair of legs.

"Sophie, Nick isn't the catcher," the teacher had exclaimed while Nick laid there in a daze, watching a triumphant smile form on her face as Sophie crawled away wordlessly.

When Nick tried to confront Sophie afterwards he tugged at one of her ponytails. It had been swaying side to side in such a tempting manner that the boy hadn't thought much of it until he found a kick to his shin and a bristling Sophie running off with a huff.

"Girls," his friend Tom had said afterwards, as if that was the answer to all of the mysteries of the world, "just gotta get her attention," he had claimed, which didn't help Nick whatsoever but sounded reasonable in the moment.

So, there Nick would be, putting a frog in Sophie's hands which elicited a scream from her and a shove in the muds during one of their school hikes. It became a game of action and reaction between the two of them. A mutual understanding of mutual torment as Nick would find worms in his lunch, knowing that they came from Sophie, and Nick in turn would spell 'poop' with mud on her bag.

A mutual understanding of mutual torment exclusive between the two of them. For when Tom tried to hide stones in Sophie's bag Nick was quick to interfere, just as Sophie got into a fight with one of her friends when they tried to throw a mud ball at Nick.

"That is my enemy," Sophie had declared when the teacher demanded to know the reason why she had decided to push all of the girls into the mud.

Somewhere Nick felt in awe at the boldness of the girl as he wondered if having an enemy wasn't all that bad after all, even if that meant a face full of mud not even a minute later.

"Teasing misses is wanting kisses," Jennie had laughed when she came to pick the both of them up after that hiking trip, muddied from head to toe and now proper enemies. It earned a protest in the form of a scowl and a mouthful of mud.

"(S)He started it!" they said in unison, which disgusted the both of them even more.

Most of the incidents were quickly forgotten. Through some fluke of fate Sophie and Nick remained classmates even beyond elementary, their strange relationship graduating along with each other as neither really can remember what had started them off other than that there was a strange compulsion to torment the other.

"Wait and see," Nick tried to sound as menacing as possible as he stepped closer to Sophie. The two of them were of the same height now as Nick looked Sophie in the eyes. "Next year I'm taller," he grinned at her and the way Sophie blushed at that interaction delighted him while somewhere he felt a tug that he couldn't quite place.

"Whatever do you need my number for?" Sophie exclaimed in surprise when Nick tried to call the number Sophie had dictated to him, "you are helping me find Will, right?" she continued in suspicion revealing the misunderstanding between the two as it was indeed Will that picked up the phone. Nick didn't pursue the matter further, taking it as a sign that there was no interest from Sophie's side.

It all came to a stop, however, when Nick found Sophie in tears on her porch after the death of her mother. It was the first time either one of them ever had to deal with death and Nick had no clue on how to act or what to say other than to keep her company as she poured her tears out over her own knees. All interaction between the two of them ceased afterwards, leaving Nick only with a vague longing to the days before.

It was years later, long after graduation, when Nick moved out on his own that he found himself facing a familiar face living next door. Sophie has matured, and so had he, but they still recognised one another as a smile of acknowledgement was exchanged.

"Told you I would surpass you in height," Nick heard himself say, as if he hadn't done so since they were thirteen. Sophie scoffed at that, eyes rolling in that familiar manner followed with a quasi-cheer in the form of a fist pump.

"You still don't have my number," she responded, and Nick's heart took a leap, his head lowering as another shared memory came to mind.

"I did ask you," Nick admits, going back to that shy boy he was the first time they met, when Jennie was still alive, a familiar tease lingering between them. A giggle escaped Sophie, her eyes sparkling as she boldly took a step towards Nick who in turn couldn't keep his eyes off her as a familiar tease sounded;

"Miss tease, kiss please."

By: @foodforpigs
Word Count: 557
Chosen theme(s): Unhealthy relationships
Chosen format: Scene


Martin fidgeted with his wedding ring. It felt tight as he twisted it around his finger. He sat on the back yard porch in a lawn chair, dressed in a tailor made suit. The top buttons of his shirt were undone and the tie hung on the arm of the chair. His dress shoes were on the concrete slabs just before the sliding door; the grass felt soft against his socked feet. The hot summer night had melted the ice in the plastic cooler to a slush that he dipped and swirled his hand in. The gold watch he had was face down on the dirty white plastic table.

There was the very soft clink of the hinge of the wooden back yard gate close, but not the rattle of wood. Mrs. Blaine turned the corner to see her husband and stopped in her tracks only momentarily; he wasn't looking at her, but stared vacantly. She was in office casual clothes, though they were prim, pressed and proper.

"You were with your friends again." said Martin.
"So what?" rebuked Mrs. Blaine after a pause. "I'm allowed to have friends, aren't I?"
"You could've told me."
"It was a long day and I worked overtime." Mrs. Blaine started. "Some of the girls invited me to come with. Sorry I didn't drop texts for you to know where I am every minute of my life. I don't see what the big deal is. You can take care of yourself when I'm gone, can't you?"
Martin turned to look Mrs. Blaine. "It's been a long day for me too. Long year. You're never home, Rebecca."
Rebecca looked at the folded other lawn chair against the wall of their unlit house, then back to Martin.
"I'm home. I cook, I clean. I do my part." she said. "You're allowed to go out, you know. You must have friends at your office too."
"No." said Martin sullenly.
"What do you mean, 'no'?" said Rebecca. "It can't be 24/7 work with them all the time. Some of them must golf."
"I don't, didn't, have friends there." She hadn't asked before.
"You were fired?"
"Laid off." corrected Martin. "I wasn't producing the numbers they wanted to see, I guess. My last performance review said as much. Not trying hard enough, they said."
"Then you should've tried harder. Made connections. Made friends."
"For godssake Rebecca, I tried. You see that watch? I earned that watch with my sales last year. I had friends, then. I had recognition. But then the honeymoon phase ended. I got a severance package, so it'll tie us over in the meanwhile."
"You have other jobs lined up?"
"Not yet. I just. Rebecca, this whole year has been-" Martin mustered the strength to raise his eyes to meet hers. "You're home, but you're never here. Did I do something wrong? Tell me, please."
Rebecca walked over and kissed Martin on the forehead. She picked up the watch from the table and slid it back onto Martin's wrist.
"Remember the man I married."
Mrs. Blaine helped her husband stand up from the lawn chair, put on his shoes, straighten out his suit and tie, and fix his collar. Mr. Blaine finished straightening out his cuffs, before offering his arm for his wife to take to walk back inside their empty house.

Please give a hand for our amazing participants this time and I hope to see y'all in the discussion call!
 
AAAAH @Fluffy YOU DELIVERED ON MY SILLY DEMAND 😱 😂 YOU ARE MY WINNER EVEN IF I'M NOT IN THE JUDGING PANEL.
 
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The live reading and announcement of winners is today, starting in a little over 4 hours! (2-4 PM CST)

Hope to see y'all there :D
 
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Winners have been announced!

1st place: Operation Black Mask
2nd place: The Lighthouse
3rd place: The Coal Mine



Thank you ALL for submitting such wonderful entries!

Pav will be reaching out to all of the winners in the near future, but if you want to keep the written word submission rollin', there's still time to submit for PFFT, our Poetry Fantastic Fanfare Talk!
 
I thought it was Kuno doing the announcement for a hot second.

Congrats to the winners!!! It was so fun to sit in the call and listen to them all come alive.
 
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I thought it was Kuno doing the announcement for a hot second.

Congrats to the winners!!! It was so fun to sit in the call and listen to them all come alive.
thank you for joining us!! it's always so nice to have a full call <3

hehehehe the confusion continues
 
ooh any text reviews and feedback and such?

DM me please, all participants are allowed to request their feedback from us privately, I can copypaste our commentary for you :D