Today is Tuesday, and you are cold. I curl up behind you and nuzzle your ear. I remember when we were young and stupid and immortal, before the doctors, before the sentencing. In the sunlight your skin feels alive. I breathe, smell your scent.
Please don’t leave me here alone.
Rio Santisteban is a college student living in New York City. She writes because she can’t possibly do anything else.
It was yet another late night for Dave. He hadn’t been able to go to sleep at a reasonable time in months.
The smoke from his cigarette danced in the 4 o’clock moonlight. He reeked of whisky. There was an empty prescription pill bottle in the trash bin.
Finally, he slept.
Vlad is a college student living in the Long Island, commuting into Brooklyn daily, and generally traveling the world. Spending hours on end simply staring out the window of a train, maybe a car or a bus, has never been a problem. No, the real issue is knowing where he’s headed.
Outside the bridge rail he edged away. River, rocks, and eternity loomed below. Spectators shouted, “Jump!”
“Stay back, cop.” His tired young eyes showed fear.
“I can help.” I reached out.
He jumped and I grabbed his arm. The law required I enter the shirtsleeve into evidence at the morgue.
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has several pieces published or pending with online sites.
The ghostly spectre silhouetted against the dark window sighed, the symptom of Death’s long-suffering passion.
Inside, cold breaths rattled through the lungs of Enid Westerhapf, 112 years old and at long last preparing to die.
Having awaited her for so long, Death finally welcomed her to stand by his side.
This story was based on a title provided by Master Gunner.
Chick flicks, tragedies, heartbreaking anti-romances… She couldn’t get enough. Those faces on the screen, looming large, eyes, noses, mouths puckered in anguish, terrified: “Love me! Love me! I don’t want to be alone!”
Her hard drives were filled to the brim with her obsession. She was downloading torrents of tears.
This story was based on the prompt “torrents” at TypeTrigger.
“Are we there yet?”
“No,” Mary snapped. Two of the kids started crying.
Ben ignored them.
Mary groaned. “Why do we even go for these drives? We don’t like it. The kids don’t like it. Nobody likes it.”
“Fine.” Ben turned the car around.
Beneath them, the road sighed sadly.
This story is based on a title suggested by @THatherty2.
Bethany stormed into the panda run.
Sammy and Florence, the local inmates, sauntered over and began looking for treats.
“He won’t listen!” said Bethany, stifling a sob.
The pandas’ faces drooped.
“Can’t he see how lonely you are? All we want is a couple of play dates with the orangutans.”
Christopher loved his wife, his kids, his dog, his job, and himself.
The only thing in the world that Christopher couldn’t stand was unhappy people. Whenever Christopher met a sad, grumpy, or irritable person, he felt sad, grumpy, and irritable, too.
He was just like the rest of us, really.
Complete darkness.
The man was on his knees in the pale white snow. He pleaded with the Nazi soldier, but it didn’t work. Snow still fell.
The lights all moved towards the prisoner. The soldier took four paces back and said a few words.
And the prisoner awaited his death.
Cameron Brown is a student at Holden Lane High in Stoke-on-Trent, England.
The reporter looked away as the private’s family marched out to face the television cameras. A soggy flag drooped at half-mast on their porch. They spoke of a kid who led rubber band fights, flashlight tag, bicycle jousts. His pen paused, hovered. A phrase consumed his mind: pornographer of sorrow.
Joseph S. Pete won a four month’s supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon by placing second in the poetry category of the 2010 PBR Art Contest. John Donne couldn’t say the same.