My friend Lisa is scared of mirrors. She heard that mirrors were gateways to evil, alternate worlds. She feared her evil self would pull her through, take her place and no one would ever know.
I hoped she would.
Lisa hadn’t noticed when I took her friend’s place, after all.
Robyn Smith is a young writer currently working on a series of novels while attending Charlottetown Rural High School.
Janet heard her friend’s response and gasped.
“Hate is such a strong word, Linda! And he’s still missing! His poor wife must be frantic after finding all that blood!”
Linda giggled. “You misheard me,” she said, her eyes dancing. “I didn’t say I hate him. I said I ate him.”
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
He came to my childhood bedroom every night: silent, colourless, translucent, sad.
One night he was waving his arms, telling me to get out. Then he vanished.
I ran outside and hid in the woods.
That night my father, deeply disturbed, strangled my mother.
I never saw my saviour again.
After trying a lot of different jobs, Arthur Brown still has ambitions, but he’s not sure what they are.
The knock at the door in the middle of the night caught her off guard. When she answered the summons, the person on the other side said, “Guess who.”
“I don’t know who.”
“Give up?” the person asked.
She pulled the door open. Nobody was there.
Kymberli Roberson lives in Illinois where she is currently hunting down the goblins of writer’s block.
Yes. This tour is quite legal.
Observe the unnecessary space.
The quietness is rather extraordinary, isn’t it?
I respectfully disagree. It’s quite orthodox to contemplate the aliens’ mind set.
This is a complex carbohydrate. This is alcohol. Please activate your toxicity filters.
This is not illegal.
Please eat and drink.
Deborah thinks: least said, soonest mended. Find her on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography.
Gene paces back and forth. He thinks to himself, “How has it come to this? Look at this beautiful scenery… What am I doing?” He feels the pain again. It’s like chronic hunger.
Silence. More eerie silence. Suddenly, a splash like no other. The ripples emanate into eternity.
Michael Lyons is a trier.
As soon as she said said go, it started. It was hard to stop at first; pauses seldom happened.
Now it is as if it always was like this. Just like this.
It hasn’t stopped since. Then again, she never did say “stop”.
“Fine, stop!” she yelled.
And it did.
Her bio. Not much to say. She doesn’t have a website and uses an alias. My guess is that she (or he) is a ____________. Yeah, she is a giant fill in the blank. Maybe she is friends with RL Wing?
Jennifer awoke in the lion enclosure, drowsy and confused.
She’d just rested her eyes for a few seconds in the library, awash in a sea of dull economics textbooks. How and why was she here?
She shrugged her new shoulders, flicked her tail, and padded softly out into the sunlight.
Jeremy is a shambling mess of unkempt hair and caffeine-induced twitches, currently based in Southampton in the UK. He doesn’t have a website of his own, but would like to direct people towards the band he’s involved with at http://www.thebluescreenofdeath.co.uk/ and their music video he starred in.
“There’s a monster under my bed!” whimpered Sophie.
“I know,” said Mom. “I put it there. It likes dark places.”
“Won’t it come out at night and eat me!?”
“No, it’s a vegetarian.”
Sophie put fresh heads of lettuce under her bed every day for the rest of her life.
The spiteful wind was fierce and sharp. Ted tried to escape, but it chased him, cackling, and sheared the hair right off his head.
He snuck home, frantic with embarrassment. Naturally Melanie was the first person to stop by.
“You’re bald!” she exclaimed. “I love it.”
“Darn,” cursed the wind.
This story was based on the prompt “first person” at TypeTrigger.