I have my father’s charisma. It wasn’t a gift—I stole it while he slept. Now I dominate the room, my voice crushing the endless chatter of the guests, forcing all eyes to mine.
And in the back, hunched against a wall, my father glares wordlessly, wishing he were me.
Marc Young lives in Seattle and writes speculative fiction, sometimes using more than 50 words.
excellently observed
Thank you, Joanna!
Compelling imagery
Thank you, Julia!
Thought provoking. Thanks for the story
Thank you, Yvonne!
wow – so much in so few words!
Thank you, Peggy!