In a movie I saw as a boy, there was a mystical cave hidden behind a waterfall. I remember how eagerly I quested that summer, how I found nothing but slippery rock faces.
Lying here, cold and tired, I sometimes wonder… What would I have found behind the next one?
This story was based on the prompt “waterfall” at TypeTrigger.
Her fingers and toes were short, like she was, but she grew her hair extra long to make up for it.
She was terrible at English, but always did great in Biology.
Her vision was 20/10, but she was red-green colour blind.
An average girl? Well, maybe in the mathematical sense…
Her desk was littered with scraps of paper, each scrawled with its own collection of words, representing a thousand grasped-at memories.
It wasn’t working. They wouldn’t come back.
She stoked the fireplace and began dropping the papers in, one by one. Forget the yesterdays: time to start working on tomorrow.
This story was based on the prompt “scraps of paper” at TypeTrigger.
He gave her a wilted flower on February 15, just to see how she would react.
His friends thought it was hilarious.
She slapped him so hard she drew blood.
Ten years later, lying awake in bed, he realized he’d never met another girl who could make him really feel.
This story was based on the prompt “wilted” at TypeTrigger.
The candygram had seen better days. “Do… Do you want me to me to sing?” she said, awkwardly adjusting the French maid outfit to better show off her desiccated cleavage.
I grabbed a blanket, draped it over her shoulders. “Let me make you some soup,” I whispered as she wept.
Chris Puzak lives near Philadelphia.
Their emotions raged like wildfires. Their passions rumbled like earthquakes. Their fears echoed like windblown whispers through the valleys.
They whirled in their orbits, teasing each other, admiring one another’s moons, coming close and then dancing away, all the while singing to themselves, “She loves me; she loves me not.”
When I visited my blind brother, he was sharpening his shooting skills. He was so embarrassed; he couldn’t hit a thing.
I pulled my pen out and placed it in his sweaty palm. I said, “Take this pen, brother, so that you may draw targets around the holes you make.”
George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada. He enjoys writing science-fiction (in an non-professional level, so far) in the subgenres of hard science fiction, bizzarro and apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic settings.
There are some days when I don’t really want to tell the story. Some days I wish it would just step up to the plate, be a man, and tell itself.
But of course it isn’t a man; it’s a story. So I’m stuck here doing its telling for it.
This story was based on the prompt “tell the story” at TypeTrigger.
The butterfly hit the windscreen, but rather than splatter on the glass it seemed to filter through into the car in a burst of colour, then just vanished and everything for a second was still.
He looked across at her, took her hand and smiled.
They were no longer afraid.
N.F. Barlow is an English writer living in Friuli, Italy.
The black cat strolled through the prison, being avoided by everyone in her path. She breezed into the first cell.
The prisoner dropped his head. “They didn’t believe me. That a wizard did it.”
“They will,” the cat said, transforming into his wife. She waved her wand, and they disappeared.
Jamie Mathews is an award-winning journalist and writer. He earned his BA from The University of Alabama, where he was a proud member of Honors English Program, and his MAT from the University of South Carolina. Find out more about Jamie on his site.