It had been snowing for hours, days, weeks. I stood in the window, gazing out at my quiet suburban neighbourhood, a world set on Mute.
I could still hear his last breath inside my head, even from beneath the snow. By the time it melted, I’d be far, far away.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “on mute.”
There is great power in a word. Your task, apprentice, is to unlock it.
Begin by deeply internalizing its meaning. Then divide its syllables, and unravel them. Only when you have delved to the core of every phoneme will you be prepared to bend the word’s power to your will.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “in a word.”
My sister always used a stencil set and a dark pencil to trace her weekly schedule into a day planner. She said her plans seemed firmer that way, but not so rigid as if she’d used a pen. She knew disruptions were inevitable, but hoped the stencils might discourage them.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “stenciled in.”
All the aliens in the zoo are unique, but the sentient liquids are by far the strangest. They’re so far beyond the scope of my understanding.
I clean their tanks conscientiously, and feed them their minerals, and every day I resist a growing urge to hop in for a swim.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “liquids.”
Bottles, half-alive mounds of clothing, sauce-stained plates, and dead cigarettes groan in a growing sea of torment. His children scream eerily, tearing round. Insane frenzy.
(Neighbors whisper. Shiftless.)
Blue eyes vacant, he sits in the wreckage, thinking of how she looked like a blooming tea rose before the casket shut.
Constance is addicted to writing, getting her inspiration from abandoned houses, panthers, and peanut butter.
Certain facial expressions can instantly bring a lump into your throat. Certain phrases can tie a knot in your stomach.
“I hate to have to tell you this…”
“I’m really sorry, but…”
“Why don’t you sit down.”
Then comes a forever moment, shaped like all your deepest fears.
Take heart.
Jordan finished the meal he requested, and set aside his dessert—cherry pie—so he could finish it later.
The cell guard turned to the warden and said, “I thought prisoners couldn’t be executed if they didn’t know what was happening to ’em.”
“So much for theory,” the warden sneered.
Adam Sprague’s work can be found in 365Tomorrows magazine. For more information check out his site.
“What are you making today, Geraldo?”
“My friend, I have many creations! Witness my self-baking bread, and these gingerbread men dance and sing! Marvelous, no?”
“Truly, but all I wish for are some buns to eat with my soup.”
“How sad,” said Geraldo, “that we live in such a world.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @Zutzy.
When we finally summited Mount Kilimanjaro, the last thing we expected to see was a withered old man in an all-terrain wheelchair, surrounded by ten burly sherpas.
He looked at us with pale, watery eyes and said, “Remember, friends: money can buy you neither happiness nor salvation.”
Then he smiled.
This story is based on a title suggested by Jeremy Quinn.
He stood amid chaos, tumult, and noise, hearing nothing.
A voice passed through his mind. “Speak your wish, and your hearing can be restored to you.”
He looked around him, at the lights, movement, and stone-eyed faces. “Do not restore my hearing,” he said. “Please take my sight, as well.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @PanzerVaughn.