Tag: 1st place

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

Her ankle betrayed her and she again found herself face down on the frozen pond. Two strong arms picked her up, and carried her toward the woods. Oddly, she wasn’t afraid. In a clearing ahead stood a stone house with smoke puffing from the chimney. He pushed open the door, and carried her inside, where she was shocked to see three…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

Sink, sink deep. The freezing cold welcomes you in its embrace. The pond doesn’t judge; it is content pulling you deeper into the blackness. The frigid water bites at toes, ankles, legs. A thousand blades made of ice slice through your flesh, separating skin from muscles. You should scream; you don’t. Nerves have fallen asleep; the cut is registered as distant, irrelevant information.

Water fills your lungs. There, beneath the pond at the top of the abandoned hill, an icy grave claims you at last. You got the end you wished for.

Yet death won’t come. A strong hand pierces the darkness, grips your shoulder and drags you upwards with an irresistible force. You breach the surface, are welcomed back by the blue light of the moon and the frozen trees.

Gentle arms carry you. It is a strong being with an imposing presence, yet eyes cannot make out who or what they are for their shape is ever-changing. Man, woman, beast, an idea, it is everything and nothing at the same time.

The hill is silent save for the sound of crunching snow and the regular plop of blood dripping onto the white blanket. Your blood, as it tends to happen when one is missing the necessary skin to keep it all inside.

Away from the pond, they gently help you stand on your own. You take a short look at your own flesh. Red, leaking, dangling nerves and the occasional organ. Yet on this hill, pain and exhaustion are no issue.

Leaving a trail of crimson in your wake, you walk to a small, wooden cabin, and the realization hits.

“I’m walking to my death.”

“You all are,” your companion replies calmly. “What matters is to keep walking and meet it with your head held high.”

They open the door. Fire crackles in the hearth, lighting up a white, heavy marble door, out of place in the cramped room. Before the fire, your peeled-off skin.

“It’s all over, then,” you say.

“In a way.”

They put their open palm on your bleeding, pulsing chest. There’s a crack, and your trunk splits open.

A flood courses in you, through you, tearing at your innards, your brain, your muscles. A tempest rips apart what you are, who you are, to the last molecule, to the last thought. You become dust, and dust is broken down in turn.

An eternity later, consciousness returns. You feel hard floor against the back of your head, and raise a hand to your face only to realize your skin is back, renewed, unblemished. A terrible smell assails your nostrils; it stems from a pile of gore and other substances best left unspoken.

“What is this?” you ask.

“Everything you were a minute ago, little lamb,” the companion replies as if it was obvious. “Apologies for the odour, I cannot be held responsible for the fact you humans are, at the very core, made of excrements.”

They delicately drape the pile of flesh with your old skin, trail the contour of the absurd mass with a finger. With a nod, they begin to knead, press, bend and shape the living material as if it was clay. From bones and fat, a candle is born. And with a snap of the fingers, it’s alight.

“So… I’m not dead?”

“Obviously.” They carry your candle to the marble door.

“Who are you?”

“Too many things to count. A good host, I would hope. A destination. But I like to consider myself a collector first.”

The door swings open, and a cold very different from the chill of death hits.

You are looking into the vast void of space, lit by a million stars.

“Why won’t you kill me? It’s all I ever wished for.”

“I could claim your life,” the companion says, covering the candle’s flame with a hand. The air is stuck in your throat; your lungs turn to clay. “But why would I?” The hand is gone, oxygen returns. “I collect, little lamb, but what I like to collect most are stories. And you’ve yet to live a proper one.”

They offer your candle to the void. It slowly drifts away, free from the shackles of gravity or logic, until it becomes a small blink of light a world away, one star among many others.
“But I have nothing left,” you say.

“Really?”

They close the marble door, and go to open the normal, wooden one to the outside, to the abandoned hill and its frozen trees; the falling snow is gradually covering the bloody tracks.

“The night sky, the rustling of the branches under the wind, this is somewhere to be. And this,” they add as they point at you, “with all the pain that comes with it, is someone to be. Now off you go.”

Before you can blink, you’re outside, no cabin in sight, no warmth to ward off the winter and protect you from shivers. Before you, the lights of the civilization you tried to leave behind.

A voice resonates from deep within the night.

Come back you when you have a story worth dying for.

Arms crossed around the chest; you take a tentative first step back to the world of the living.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The sagging porch faced east. Beyond the field of rotting pumpkins, a blood moon was rising. After a long day of moonshining, the two men alternated swigging from the same jug. They’d both heard the stories. They knew they had to get inside before the moon turned orange. Then, they noticed a little girl in a white dress skipping in their direction…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify. And, they could not exceed 850 words.) Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

It is considered impolite to play with one’s food. This is just as true among the fae as it is among humans. However, I not only feed on flesh and blood; my sustenance also comes from fear and anxiety. I like to make my human victims marinate in dread. Let it steep in their bones. Let it curdle their breath. The more they squirm, the sweeter the taste.

There is a subtle art involved when inducing fear. If your visage is too frightening, the victim tends to flee. Or worse yet, fight. Bullets of lead and copper are crude, don’t do any permanent damage, but are painful nonetheless. The weapons of the past, swords and axes of iron, were a more serious threat to us. Funny how modernity has made humans easier to hunt. They’ve traded iron for ignorance, and many have forgotten the old rules.

I have decided to take on the guise of a young girl. For some reason, a girl is far more unsettling than a boy. I always found that fascinating. The white dress helps, I think. Something about innocence keeps them intrigued.

Humans are a strange paradox. As a species, they are generally intelligent. But many individuals make very questionable decisions. Take my latest two morsels, for example. There they are, sitting on their sagging porch, sipping from the same jug.

Ugh.

The human mouth is notoriously unsanitary and is a veritable microbial jungle. Alcohol helps mitigate risk, but why gamble with pathogens, parasites, or worse? They share everything. Jugs. Stories. Beds. Wives. Humans are communal in the most self-sabotaging ways.

Drinking from the same jug was careless. Staying out past moonrise was reckless. They know the legends and the moon is rising. The Veil Between is at its thinnest and our people can directly attack the moment the moon turns orange. Perhaps it’s a deep-seated craving for danger. It seems rather foolish, but it does make it easier for me to get a meal.

But legends fade. Warnings become folklore. And folklore becomes entertainment. That’s when we feast.

I watch them from the edge of the field, just beyond the pumpkin patch. My bare feet move soundless and my dress glows faintly in the moonlight. I skip, slowly. Deliberately. I hum a tune older than their language. One of them squints and the other stops mid-swig.

They see me.

Good.

Let the fear begin.

* * *

The jug passed between the two men like a ritual. One swigged, then the other. The moon had cleared the treeline now, crimson, swollen, unblinking

“Damn thing’s orange,” muttered Clay, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not quite yet,” said Boone. “Still got some time.”

They both stared out across the field of pumpkins blackened and soft. Then they saw her.

A little girl. White dress. Bare feet. Skipping. Humming.

Clay stood first. “You see that?”

Boone nodded, slow. “She ain’t right.”

The girl moved with an unnatural rhythm. Step, skip, hum. Step, skip, hum. Her voice was thin, like wind through a reed. She didn’t blink. She didn’t smile. She just kept coming.

Boone reached behind the door and pulled out the shotgun. Clay grabbed the lantern and stepped off the porch.

“Little one,” he called. “You lost?”

The girl stopped. Her head tilted oddly. The humming ceased.

Boone stepped down beside him. “Blood moon,” he said, low. “Skipping girl. Maybe … ”

“I think we’re about to find out.”

The girl took another step. Then another. Her eyes were too dark. Too deep. Clay raised the lantern higher.

“Sorry miss, but you need to stop right there.”

She did. But her mouth opened revealing five rows of needle-like teeth.

Boone fired.

The blast lit up the field. The girl vanished in a blur. Too fast, too fluid. The shot tore through a rotted pumpkin instead. Then the air changed.

The girl reappeared behind them. Her voice was in their ears. Her breath on their necks.

“You should’ve gone inside.”

Boone turned, swinging the shotgun like a club. Clay stumbled back toward the porch, reaching for a lever beneath the steps. The girl lunged. But the ground gave way.

A circle of iron, buried beneath the soil, flared to life. Runes etched in rust pulsed blue and green. The girl shrieked – not in pain, but in surprise. Her form flickered. The white dress melted into shadow. Her limbs elongated, spindly and gnarled, like branches of an ancient tree.

Boone dropped the shotgun. Clay slammed the trapdoor shut.

The field went silent.

The orange moon hung above them, watching.

* * *

Capturing fae is a dangerous pastime, but many are arrogant and overconfident. They think we’ve forgotten. That we’ve traded iron for ignorance. That we no longer know how to listen for the hum of the old tongue.

But we remember.

Fear is a currency they spend too freely. They forget that some of us have learned to counterfeit it. To wear it like bait. To let them feed – just enough.

The creature will thrash for a while. They always do. Then it will bargain. They always try.

But the runes are old. And the circle remains intact.

We’ll wait until the moon fades.

Then we’ll ask our questions.

 

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

Did she just see what she thought she saw? She stepped off the path, intending to only walk a few feet. It was only later that the group noticed she was missing. They quickly backtracked, yelling her name. Tensions rose as the sun began to set. And, that’s when they, too, saw…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify. And, they could not exceed 850 words.) Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

“They’ll never find her.”

The old man, dressed in his old-man uniform of flannel work shirt, overalls, and a trucker cap, is staring at the faded poster someone taped to the trailhead sign at the Andy Layne Trail parking lot.

I don’t have to look. I know whose face is on the poster. Kayla McMeekin, vanished from the Tinker Cliffs Trail, August of last year. The lamination protects the image and the words from the weather, but the sun has bleached her blonde ponytail white and the last remaining specks of dark are the pupils of her eyes. The blue’s leached away by twelve months of exposure, and her hiker’s tan is ghostlike ivory.

The poster, if the old man is right, merely echoes what nature herself has already done to Kayla McMeekin. Not quite; the poster, of course, can’t bleach away to bone.

“Not alive anyway.” This speaker is one of the two women who just got out of a Subaru with REI stickers on the back window, hefting a lightweight bag with just enough space for a day trip, and (if they’re smart) a bit more, something to keep them warm and fed if weather or poor timing forces them to spend the night in a shelter or along the side of the trail.

Or if they’re easily distracted, and forget which way is home. Kayla had gone off the trail, if not off the bluff. If she’d done that, someone would have heard, and someone would have found her down at the bottom. It was the first place a lot of searchers looked.

I took a swig from my water. “Not if she’s still up there.” I point up, though the climb isn’t as obvious from here. “If she came down, back to the road, she could be anywhere.”

“I read about it,” the woman who got out of the driver’s side said. She’s rail-thin like a marathoner, and she’s wearing trail runners instead of boots. It rained last night, so she’ll regret that footwear choice before they even reach the first wooden steps. “And there were a couple podcasts.”

I know the ones she means. Sure, the usual hiking shows, covering it as the serious topic it was. Even on the safest trails, wandering off into the woods can leave you lost in minutes, and most people don’t have the good sense to stop and wait for rescue. Step ‘only a few feet’ to look at a pretty flower or follow the flickering light from something shiny hanging in a tree, you suddenly are alone in the wildnerness.

You hope.

The other shows, though, the ones she’s talking about, are the ones I like to listen to for laughs. Bigfoot, aliens, ghosts, wendigos, skinwalkers, tears in the fabric of the universe, secret government projects, and all sorts of crazy theories on why someone would disappear in the mountains. Everything but the ones real hikers think of first: weather, terrain, illness, and predators.

All kinds of predators.

Of course, there’s the true crime ones, too. But Kayla hasn’t been on many of those. Except the ones with “unsolved” in the title.

The other woman from the passenger side isn’t dressed for the trail. She comes around to the driver’s side, and joins her friend examining the faded poster. “I don’t know how someone can just disappear like that. With all the people searchers and the technology, how can someone just not be found?”

I could tell her. I went with some of the search parties when Kayla was first reported missing. People searched the length of the trail, following spurs and animal paths and anywhere that looked like someone might have left the trail. We found patches of wildflowers, illegal campsites, and even a forgotten family cemetery whose newest marker was from 1911. We didn’t find Kayla.

I take another drink and don’t say anything.

The old man looks as if he’s thinking about taking the poster down. Instead, he shakes his head and goes back to searching the parking lot for litter. Eventually weather will wear the poster down, and one day when he makes his sweep through, it will be hanging off or lying on the ground, and it will finally go in the trash. But cynical as he sounds, he can’t bring himself to take it today.

The two women look at the poster a moment longer. Then the trail runner shakes her head as if shaking off the thought of Kayla and ways to get lost in the woods. “Here’s the keys. I’ll see you at McAfee Knob parking tonight. Thanks again for picking me up. I owe you dinner.”

“You’ll be the one who’s starving. Thirteen miles in a day is crazy.” She gets into the driver’s side and pulls out as her friend starts walking towards the trailhead, blonde ponytail bobbing in the sun.

I wait until the old man has loaded his bag and driven off, the old pickup rattling on the gravel, before standing up and following her into the woods.

They’ll never find her, either.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

She was on her annual trek to the Spring Fair to obtain that one essential item. She walked quickly, ignoring the tiny purple flowers dancing in the breeze. It had been a hard winter. While she knew it was wrong, this year she’d have to try to steal it…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.) Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

Dull gray light suffused the morning air, overcast clouds acting as a weighted blanket. The sound of recycler masks and the monotonous trudge of the horses through the melting snow held Ash in a trance.

Around her, the Black Dog troupe carved a path through the morning frost, a living organism in a bleak landscape. Ash could practically see the radiation hanging in the air, a reminder of the sins of those long past.

The faint outline of New Atlanta finally came into focus. Towers like steel teeth rose into the sky above, rusting behemoths long since abandoned. As the troupe drew within the outskirts of the city, Hunter called for a short respite. They’d pushed hard the past few days in an effort to beat the Dead Horse & Dying Sun clans from the south. Wouldn’t want to tangle with those bastards if things went sour.

“Check your weapons, remember the plan. I don’t want any heroes today, just do your job.”

A small spike of adrenaline coursed through Ash’s veins as she catalogued the small armory strapped to herself. She unhooked her mask and took a deep breath of the crisp air, the purple flowers of the radiation-infused willow trees tickling her face.

As they came closer to the fairgrounds, more groups became visible. Hands drifted to unseen weapons as each eyed the other suspiciously. As much as the Spring Fair was paraded as a neutral zone, one could never be too careful.

Silently, they began to take their separate paths. Ash fell into step with Duster and Mace, the brothers thin as corn stalks but sharp as thorns. The sounds of nearby travelers haggling with local traders began to permeate the air the farther in they went.

Jostling through the crowds, they stopped at a dilapidated shack that had clearly been erected in a hurry. A man covered in radiation scars leered at them as they entered, his skeletal frame looking as if it would crumble at the slightest touch.

“Ah…you three. Was curious…if you’d show up.”

“Not rid of us yet, old man,” Mace replied, a smile cracking his normally stoic face. They set two daggers and a kit of horse tack on the table, Duster tallying out the coins to pay.

“Any news…from out west?” Jerry wheezed.

“Nothing but bandits and bad storms,” mumbled Duster, pocketing the goods. As they turned to leave, Jerry’s hand settled on Ash’s shoulder, pulling her close.

“Be careful… Dead Horse…made it in last night. Watch…your backs.”

Silently cursing, Ash slipped him a five-piece coin, nodding her thanks. Guess they’d be making a swift exit.

As they made it to the northern end of the fairgrounds, Ash hid behind an overturned cart, eyeing the row of boxes at the other end. The flag of the New Foundation Alliance fluttered in the weak breeze, nearby soldiers ensuring no one got close to the radiation meds. Winter had been hard this year, and already several lines had formed to get their yearly allotment. Not that it would be enough.

As Ash fingered the bow strapped to her back, she caught sight of Daemon and his group meandering towards the front. All according to plan.

A raw scream pierced the air, freezing the blood in her veins. The once orderly lines of people in the square descended into frenzied chaos as the cry of the Dead Horse’s was taken up.

As she strung her bow, Ash sighted a group painted in black moving forward, rifles belching precious bullets into the soldiers guarding the meds. Their berserkers ran into the press, taking down those that remained.

A series of horns, whistles and war cries filled the air as every faction turned against those around them. Islands of humanity formed in the ocean of the courtyard, striving to guard each other’s backs.

Seeing Daemon dash towards the boxes and Hunter following swiftly behind, Ash bolted towards the wagons that had been parked close by, loosing arrows all the way. Duster & Mace made swift work of those that came close, daggers flowing like water through the press of humanity. As her clan withdrew carrying a half-dozen boxes, the wail of sirens pierced the air.

“Time to leave!” yelled Hunter, scrambling into the back of the wagon. The horses were kicked into action, the smell of blood and smoke propelling them forward.

Ash shot her final arrow into a soldier pursuing on horseback, the thin frame creating a small dust cloud as it hit the dirt. How hard they fought for life didn’t seem fair when it could be ended so quickly.

Turning at the sound of a box being breached, she heard a cry of dismay. In Daemon’s bloody hand was a pack of emptied plastic cartridges, meds drained of the life they were supposed to grant. A trap. And as the sound of sirens grew louder and the stamp of the enemy drew closer, all Ash could think about were those towers of steel, laughing silently at the futility and greed of those beneath them.

 

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

It was a cozy neighborhood where everybody knew everyone else and there was never a shortage of people to help when one was in need. There was also a lot of tomfoolery going on, which he and his wife had always enjoyed, until now. The winter snowman practical jokes had been funny over the years but, this time, their neighbor had taken it way too far…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

Her knobby fingers. Her knobby fingers are the only thing I feel day after day, year after year. Jill and me.

If you’ve never experienced 80 years of watching the same corner with the woman you love, let me break it down for you. Jill and I have seen boys grow into men, girls become mothers, and all of the joy that lies in between. Life.

The current group of children that play in our yard are at the ‘curious’ stage. Of course, children are always curious, but they’re starting to be curious about each other. Now, the Saturday morning snowball fights pitted the boys on one side and the girls on the other.

I would laugh, if I could, because they’ll see. They always do.

In the flickering light of a lamp post I watch as the snowfall dances in flurries, sweeping through the dark sky. I am always in awe with the way snowflakes can move–like the dramatic crescendo of music zooming through the air, and then softly falling to the ground.

Jill and I spend our nights just the two of us; it can be lonely, but our lonely nights are just promises of bustling tomorrows.

Though tonight we are not alone. I hear multiple sets of footsteps behind me; the crunch, crunch of fresh snow. I am willing every inch of my body to move, to turn, to fight, to do something. But I know it’s pointless.

I see out of the corner of my eye one of the neighborhood boys lift up a shovel, I want to yell, “NOT HER!”

Thwack!

Next thing I know, my wife’s head lays across the ground in front of me. A pile of white powder and a pink scarf. The knobs of her fingers ripped away.

She’s gone. My wife, my beautiful wife is gone. Maintaining my constant smile is pure agony. I want the upturned corners to melt down. I want to melt down.

We don’t need girls, the boys say as they walk away. But I do–I need this one.

The sun rising over the horizon signals the start of a new day. The bright orange and pinks make Jill glow, sparkle even as she lays across the ground. She’s beautiful, I think.

This is the first time I’ve seen her, I realize, my stone eyes always facing outward, never seeing the woman at my side.

Isn’t that just my luck? I have the most beautiful wife in town and the first time I see her is when she’s dead?!

All I wanted was to one day see her standing in front of me. It was a dream, and it had been for years. Little did I know that true luxury was feeling her branched fingers between mine.

“Well this won’t do,” I hear over my shoulder. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Margaret. She was the first child who made us all those years ago. Margaret walks to face me and I see the years of lines etched in her face.

“Grandma?” A small voice calls, “What happened?”

Little Penny appears at Margaret’s side, her wide eyes take in what is left of Jill. I want to tell them the full story, I want to beg for help, but all I can do is look straight ahead and wait.

“It seems like Jill had an accident; would you like to put her back together with me?”

If there is a God, I think he is a merciful one.

The two of them roll and pack Jill’s middle, they make sure her eyes are facing dutifully ahead, and that her scarf is draped across her shoulders.

“We want to make sure she stays warm!” Margaret says and Penny giggles.

The two of them add something new this time. I feel a small ball resting up against me. He too has small, round eyes and branched hands.

For the first time the Frosts are now three: Jack, Jill, and John, our son.

I can’t see Jill, still, but I always feel her knobby fingers. Her knobby, wooden fingers in mine.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The thud was unmistakable. He slammed on the brakes, and jumped out. Nothing. Panning his eyes across a small field of corn, with red and orange leaves showering down from the nearby forest, he shivered in his thin jacket. He then turned back toward his truck, and starting blinking wildly…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

It happened as Nolan drove his family home. He was lost in thought, plotting the novel he would someday find time to write. Miles and Cooper were whining for ice cream from the backseat, and Mia was asking him something about grocery lists or car maintenance or chores.

“Nolan, are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re listening, or yeah, you remembered to buy cake mix?”

“Yeah.”

“Nolan,” she groaned. Then, yanking him from his thoughts, “Nolan!“

He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late; he never even saw whatever they hit, but there was a sickening thud as the car screeched to a halt and the kids began to cry.

“Jesus, Nolan,” said Mia.

He sighed and got out of the truck so he wouldn’t have to listen to the rest: You can’t even pay attention to the road when you’ve got the kids in the backseat.

“This wouldn’t have happened if everyone wasn’t making so much damned noise,” he muttered as he looked to see what had thrown itself under his tires.

Nothing. He panned his eyes across the field of corn. Red and orange leaves showered down from the nearby forest. He knew they’d hit something. But there was no dead thing under his tires, and no injured critter slinking off to die alone. He turned back to the truck, bracing himself for the kids’ noise and Mia’s nagging—then stopped cold.

There, in the front seat, was—himself. An imposter. A shiver ran down his spine. He banged on the window, but no one even looked up. The imposter started the truck.

Since no one could see or hear him, Nolan swung himself up into the truck bed. There was no way he was letting this imposter leave him out in the corn.

As his mind raced with possibilities about what could be going on, music started playing. The imposter was turning up the radio. Miles and Cooper had stopped crying and were singing along to “When I’m 64,” by the Beatles. Mia looked at the imposter and smiled, putting a hand on his leg. That was their song, his and Mia’s, though he couldn’t remember the last time they’d listened to it.

“Mia!” he shouted, banging on the back window, but she didn’t hear.

None of them could—not as they stopped for Baskin Robbins on the way home; not as the imposter dared the boys to see who could put their pajamas on first; not as Mia kissed the imposter in the kitchen while the boys watched Moana or whatever Pixar movie they were obsessed with. Nolan had to watch, helpless, as the imposter carried his sleeping boys to bed and tucked them in. He had to watch, impotent, as the imposter returned downstairs to carry his wife to bed. He had to step outside to avoid watching what happened next.

In the middle of the night, as Mia slept, the imposter opened his eyes. He looked directly at Nolan, sitting in the chair he’d thrown Nolan’s pants over.

“You can see me.”

“Yes. Let’s take a walk.”

***

“What are you?”

“I’m Nolan,” said the imposter.

“You can’t just steal my life.”

“It’s not like you were really doing anything with it,” said the imposter. “Ignoring your boys, shutting out Mia, endlessly plotting the Great American Novel without ever sitting down to write. You were so checked out, you made it easy for me to check in.”

“But you’re not really me!”

“Aren’t I?”

“No!”

“What do you think makes you you?”

It was a bigger question than he knew how to answer.

“I’ve been watching you a long time,” said the imposter. “Everything you want, I want—except I have the drive to make it happen. All the love you feel for your family, I feel—only stronger. I bought the boys ice cream, and made love to Mia. Tomorrow, I’ll sit down and write that novel you’ve been plotting for a decade.”

“They’ll notice.”

The imposter laughed. Nolan’s laugh. “Yep,” he said. “They’ll notice. The boys will notice when I coach little league and pick out their birthday gifts and take off work early so I can pick them up from school. Mia will notice when I do the dishes every night, when I take her out, when I tell her she’s beautiful. Your boss will notice when I show up on time.”

“They’ll know it’s not me. They’ll know you’re an imposter.”

“Oh, Nolan. I’m not the imposter. You were. You were an imposter of a father. An imposter of a husband. An imposter of a writer. Mia and the boys deserve better. Frankly, Nolan deserves better. I will be a better Nolan than you ever could have been.”

“But… what will I do?”

The other Nolan shrugged. “You could simply fade away. You could hang around and watch as I make your dreams come true; there could be some comfort in that. Or, you could get a life.”

“Steal one, you mean?”

“Is it stealing if you take something someone else abandoned?” The other Nolan shook his head. “But if you do manage to get a life of you own, promise me this,” he said. “Take better care of it next time around.”

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The fishing pier was long, and narrow. It was late and she had to hurry before someone saw her. She clutched it tight as tears streamed down her face. When she got to the end of the pier, she looked out over the water and, with all of her might, she threw it in.

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

The last-minute decision to sail from Charlevoix to Beaver Island on Lake Michigan seemed perfect. Though never excited to leave dry land, I knew the four-hour trip would be good for us.

Our boat, The Dreamer, was a 35-foot Hunter, low-slung with a drop-down centerboard, dive deck, small galley, four berths and a spacious head. The cabin door stuck, but overall, she was seaworthy. He’d named it after me. Called me a dreamer. I guess I was. I dreamed of a good job. Faithful husband. Nice house. Family—though that never happened. We’d bought Dreamer several years into our marriage. I learned to love the gracious silence of being aboard.

“Come on!” His voice was sharp. Restless.

Caution made me check the weather—again. Chauncey, our Black Lab, was already in the car. It was late when we loaded our supplies. I pushed off while Tim directed from the helm.

“Just the jib out of the harbor!” he barked. His voice harbored angst.

I knew the routine. Motor through the narrow channel. Jib at the ready to test the wind. Full sail once underway. Relax. I would, but I was always waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Lake Michigan frightened me. Unpredictable water. Ocean tides, known for sudden squalls. He grew up on the lake, knew the wind and water better than most. His confidence did nothing to squelch my fears, but I trusted him.

The late August afternoon was sweltering for Michigan—the water still icy cold. I stretched out on the bow, relishing sun on my skin. Glancing back, his bronze face and sandy blonde hair looked striking against his orange windbreaker. One tan leg extended, the other cocked beneath him, arm draped lazily over the tiller. I couldn’t help but love him. His crooked smile suggested innocence.

Two hours out, the boat suddenly tilted, almost tossing me from the bow. I’d dozed off. The sky to the West had darkened. I recognized water ripples cutting toward us meant trouble.

“Tim!” I shouted. “A storm!” Scrambling to my knees, I edged my way toward the cockpit. The boat keeled farther. The boom was tied in place, something Tim did to steady us as he chartered our course.

He was nowhere in sight. The wind pressed against the sail. The ever-changing angle of the boat made it difficult for me to navigate aft. I screamed again. No response. Jerking the taut line loose, the boom freed, jolting Dreamer upright. The released sail flapped angrily.

With little warning, the sky released its fury. Blasted me with coin-sized rain. A rush of cold air. The boat pitched left, then right. Tossed me like a salad.

Chauncey barked furiously from the hull, scratching the wood floor as though digging a grave. I tugged at the handle. It flew wide, sending me reeling. Chauncey raced past the helm before bailing overboard. Horrified, I understood. The sky glared like a canvas of purple and black bruises.

With barely time to react, I needed the engine. I fumbled to find the choke. Rain distorted my vision. I pulled—a weak tug worthy of no response. I pulled again. I knew every second counted. A soft purr and the smell of fuel rewarded me. Hand on the tiller, I steered Dreamer into a circle, doubling back in the direction I thought we’d come.

“Tim!” I screamed until my voice dissolved.

The rain relented, giving me slightly better visibility. A sharp bark on the starboard side caught my ear. Chauncey struggled to stay afloat. I maneuvered toward him. Cut the engine. Motioned him to the dive deck. Pulled him onboard. He collapsed in a heap.

Without notice, a rouge wave thrust the boom my way, knocking me unconscious. In my daze, the stars shone like a million crystals, brilliant and beautiful against a coal black sky. The lake’s anger rocked me in cradle fashion. Drifting in and out of darkness, I felt an irony in the peace.

My beloved husband was missing—most likely dead.

Tasting blood in my mouth, I realized no one knew where we were. How or if we’d be found.

Head throbbing, the light smell of fish caused my stomach to lurch. I swung my arm to my left. My hand struck what felt like glass. Tim’s iPhone. The screen lit up with my touch. I prayed for service to call for help.

Squinting, I struggled to focus on a message. Tell her this time. I won’t wait forever. Meet you Monday. My place. Love you.

The dizziness I felt had nothing to do with my injuries. Late nights and weekend work now made sense.

This wasn’t my dream.

Unexpectedly, Chauncey barked at the sea. I crawled to the boat’s edge. Peered into the blackness, my head spinning. Sixty feet away, Tim lurched with the violent waves. One arm flailed. A weak call for help. I checked my watch. He’d been in the icy water for an hour and a half. Death by hypothermia was imminent.

Struggling to my feet, I wrenched the main boom into place. Secured the sail until the boat lunged forward. Every second counted. Rain pelted my face. Rage tore through my heart.

Scanning the horizon, I heaved his phone into the sea. Watched it disappear.

Glancing back only once, I let his screams fade behind me.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The cherry blossoms floated gently down, landing on their blanket. They had just started eating when a pigeon landed by their basket. They both stared wide-eyed as the bird walked closer, unafraid. That’s when they noticed a tiny scroll of paper attached to its right leg…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

I glower at the white void before me. It is supposed to be my masterpiece, but it sits there untouched. My motivation has shriveled to the size of a pea and rolls around in my head like a marble. I imagine shadowy characters dancing in the white void, happily giving me the finger.

“Ha-ha, Leon’s lost it,” they say repeatedly.

“Damn,” I shouted. “Everything is prepared but me. I can’t seem to get started.”

My muse, Lilly, is sitting in front of me. That’s my affectionate name for her because she has beautiful, pale, unsullied skin. She isn’t wearing any clothes right now, which is very distracting.

“You need to relax, Leon,” she says. “Do something to take your mind off work. Wait, I know what we can do! Let’s have a picnic out back under the cherry tree.”

“Okay, but please put something on,” I say. “You’re distracting me.”

Lilly flies off and returns in a few seconds, which is not enough time to fully dress. She’s wearing a sheer fabric dress with nothing underneath but a hint.

#

As I drink my sixth glass of Chianti, we sit on my not-so-clean blanket. Lilly smiles her magic smile and stands before me like a goddess. The sunlight behind her causes shadows to dance beneath her dress. She hands me a slice of blueberry pie. It’s my favorite, except when the cherry blossoms fall on it, as one did. The blossoms are full of little ants, you know.

Lilly moves behind me and kneads my trapezius muscles near my neck. The day’s tension has made them rock hard.

Just as I begin to relax, a yellow pigeon lands on the blanket and walks pigeon-toed toward us. It has a tiny bit of paper attached to its leg. Curious, I pick up the bird. Then, darkness engulfs me as Lilly shouts my name.

#

I awake in a strange place shrouded in darkness. I am lying on my side with my knees pressed against my chest-like an amorphous blob.

My eyes are open, and I can see, yet I am submerged in the darkness.

How can this be? It’s a mystery I cannot solve.

My mind, once sharp and quick, is now unfocused and muddled. I lay at the feet of Uninspired, the bane of all artists. He looks down at me without pity.

Scattered about are dozens-nay hundreds of crushed paper balls, all half-finished. They are witnesses to my ineptness.

Obscurity beckons, and in my despair, I yearn for it to consume me.

Then, without overture, a beacon of light pierces the darkness. It manifests on the horizon, resembling an orange sunrise.

A gentle voice beckons me.

“Turn around and look at me,” it says sensually.

I turn and cry out in joy as the beam of light penetrates my soul.

In that instant, my stagnation ends, and I can move again. I unfold my body and stand tall. A powerful gravitational pull draws me to the light like a moth to a flame. Enlightenment!

The same sultry voice whispers a single word, “Clarity.”

That word explodes in my consciousness like a bomb, and my thoughts, so long blocked, are unobstructed. A cacophony of inspirations hasten in to fill the void. Elation!

Softly like a Siren’s song, all the voices began calling me again.

“Come, play with us,” they say. “It will be easier this time, we promise.”

“Yes! Oh, yes,” I implore them. “Cavort with me. Inspire me. Arouse me.”

Loneliness, my companion in this place, departs, and another fiery light replaces it.

Immediately, the burden of impotence I carry is lifted from my shoulders. I feel as light as thistledown and as virile as a bull.

I sigh in gratefulness as the fiery light pierces my chest and touches my heart. Creativity, the lifeblood of my vocation, again flows through my body like hot lava.

The brainfire, long stifled by the disparaging words of cynics, is ignited again. It burns like a fever, kindling new thoughts and ideas.

I’m filled with purpose again, and my spirit soars on the wings of confidence. The magic carpet of imagination awaits me. I climb aboard it and am transported from the abyss into the realm of infinite possibilities.

No longer made mute by the darkness, music fills and soothes my entire being. Articulacy is mine once more.

With renewed determination, I turn and face the vast white void that once consumed me. It no longer intimidates me. Instead, it begs for transformation.

I smile as my thoughts come together. My arms reach out, and the white void trambles. I am once again its master. My vigor has returned!

“Turn around and look at me,” the voice says.

I turn and find myself back under the cherry tree.

My lover, Lilly, embraces me and kisses my lips passionately.

“My Leon is back,” she says.

Then she smiles that smile.

“Come, follow me. Let me relax you a bit more.”

Her voice holds a promise, and I hesitate for only a moment. Then I notice the shadows beneath her dress swaying. I am aroused, and in my passion, I call Lilly by her given name.

“Wait for me, Mona Lisa,” I say.

“Hurry, Leonardo,” she calls back, seductively.

Her dress falls away as we pass my studio, and I gasp. The sight inspires me.

“Lilly,” I say. “What if I paint a head and shoulder portrait instead?”

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

She opened the door quickly and her dearest friend rushed in, bringing part of the blizzard through the entryway, and leaving slush on the floor.

“Good Heavens! Why in the world are you out in this mess?!”

While removing her coat, her friend looked left, and then right, and whispered, “I simply HAD to tell you this in person! I couldn’t risk nosey old Mildred listening in on the phone!”

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

I looked through the window and sighed. April, and here we were in the middle of a blizzard.

Someone rapped their knuckles on my front door. I opened it and a gust of icy wind swept through the hallway. Joan fell through the door, her coat caked thick with snow even after the short walk from her house, and shrieked that she had some news. I didn’t react much. I was fond of her, but she could whip up the slightest tale into War and Peace. In truth, many of the locals found her weird, but I didn’t mind her quirks because I’d known her since we were children and deep down her heart was kind. I was possibly the only person in our little town who she looked on as a friend.

“You haven’t read the paper?”

“Not yet. That idiot of a paper boy left it on the front step and it’s soaked in snow. It’s drying out by the fire.”

“They found Mark Robertson dead. Said he’d blown his brains out. On that patch of wasteland by the school.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She leaned towards me. “I couldn’t tell you on the phone because you never know who’s listening. Because I know the truth. She killed him.”

“You mean Mildred? His wife?”

“There’s never been any love in that house, I can assure you.”

“Maybe not, but what makes you think she killed him?”

“I saw them. From my house.”

“Saw them?”

“I just happened to be looking out of the window and I saw them both getting into their car.”

“What’s so strange about that?”

“It was just before the paper said it happened. So he wasn’t alone, you see. He was with her.”

I still didn’t really react. We locals lived in our tiny world and we all got bored at times and longed for a bit of excitement, especially when the weather made you a prisoner in your own house.

“How do you know it was just before it happened? Did you check the time?”

She thought for a moment and nodded. “I wondered where they might be going at that time of day on a Sunday. Especially in this weather.”

I asked her if she wanted a cup of tea. I have no idea why I did it. Perhaps I was buying time to take everything in.

She ignored my offer. “What should I do, Elizabeth? Should I go to the police?”

I imagined Fred at his counter, staring through his spectacles with his customary cynical gaze. Then I thought of what the locals might do if Fred made her accusation public. He wasn’t renowned for his discretion.

“Even if you saw them in their car, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“But if she found out it was me, who knows what she might do? The paper didn’t say they’d found the gun. Perhaps she still has it.”

And I suddenly felt sorry for her, as she sat there fingering the row of beads around her neck. I realised how lonely she must sometimes be, when everyone kept their distance from her because she had no social graces and she often said the wrong thing and played clumsy practical jokes. But deep down it was more than that, I think. She spooked them.

“Maybe you should sleep on it,” I said. “There’s no point stirring up a hornet’s nest unless you’re really sure.”

She looked doubtful. “But Mildred is so nasty,” she replied, scrunching up her eyes. “Her heart is cold and spiteful. I hate to think of her getting away scot free.”

She was right; Mildred was the worst type of gossip, motivated by malice more than boredom. But she was good at spreading her poison, and people were keen not to cross her so they wouldn’t be her next victim.

“Why not sleep on it?” I repeated, softly. And I patted her hand.

“Maybe you’re right.” She sighed. “Well, I’d better be getting back before it gets even deeper.”

And as she stepped out into a street where mountains of snow had obliterated all colour, I imagined I saw a sparkle in her eyes and a strange little smile on her lips.

Then she turned around and suddenly fell serious. “The snow can be like a cage sometimes,” she said, before fading into the flurry.

I poured myself that cup of tea and took the newspaper from the fireplace. It was dry enough to read now, although the pages had all crinkled up.

I looked at the front page. Nothing. Surely in our sleepy community, this would be front page news in the local rag. Slowly I scoured through the rest of the paper, page by page. Nothing.

I sat down for a moment and thought. Then I went over to the phone.

“Yes?” I was pretty sure I recognised the voice as Mark’s.

“Mark? Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright. Who is that?”

I slammed the phone down. I felt stupid and embarrassed. I hoped to God he hadn’t recognised my voice.

I picked up my cup of tea and glanced again at the front page. Then I noticed the date. April the First.

I let out an involuntary laugh. No wonder she spooked the whole town.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The old hag had insisted her locked diary be buried with her in the casket. Her white hair created a halo around her head in the simple pine box. The townsfolk were afraid to miss her funeral, on All Hallow’s Eve of all days! After all she’d done in her living years, who knew what she had in store for them after her passing?

Nobody noticed when one tiny girl reached into the casket, grabbed the tattered, leatherbound tome, and hid it inside her coat.

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

EDITOR’S NOTE: While reading this story, notice the creative way the writer put separate elements of the topic into parts of his story.

Sometimes you just must be in the right place at the right time.

It was a cold and blustery day. Fog was dense, clinging to the edge of the ocean like a curtain between one world and another. I trudged along the slowly advancing edge of the swirling surf, just past low tide, the endless battle between ocean and land. It had been a rough couple of years. Lost some friends to cancer, an old buddy to agent orange, and just plain old age. I’m finding the alternative to dying is growing old and living in a worn-out body in a world I no longer understand or participate in. Sometimes I wonder why I’m even sticking around for what’s left of my life. The memory fades and the body declines.

I watched the fog warily as it seemed to close in around us. I reached down to give Jack a scratch on the ears, and he gave me a brief tail wag before stopping and giving a short warning bark. I almost tripped over an object that had just floated in and been deposited in the sand by the advancing surf. It was a small box and I bent down and grabbed it before it could wash back out to sea. It appeared to be tightly sealed with a firm brass latch on one side. I picked it up. It wasn’t heavy but appeared to have been in the water for a long time. There was nothing on the outside to indicate where it came from or what was inside, if anything.

I moved up on the beach away from the surf and kneeled in the damp sand, placing the box in front of me. Jack immediately sniffed it all over, gave a wag, then sat to watch me start to pry it open. The latch was corroded shut and the hinges creaked as I slowly pried the lid up with my knife. Jack barked twice and took a sniff of the box. He gave a wag and the lid popped loose and opened wide. The fog suddenly closed in around us blocking the view of both land and sea. The box was gone and before us stood a doorway. Jack suddenly lurched forward and vanished through the doorway. Without thinking, I plunged through behind him. After all, he’d do the same for me.

“Jack,” I called out and a voice responded.

“Over here,” the voice said. The fog was gone. So was the ocean and the surf. I was inside a large structure. I looked around frantically, and a small man appeared before me.

“Where’s my dog,” I demanded. The man laughed. There was something very familiar about him.

“Hello Ben”, he said. “You should know my name. After all, you did save me years ago when you brought me into your life. You rescued me then and now I can rescue you.

“You mean,” I stammered, unable to complete my sentence.

“That’s right, Ben'” he said, “I’m Jack, at your service. Same as always, actually.” He grinned, just as he always had. “I didn’t drag you out to the beach in the cold and wet for nothing. We had to get that box. They only send it on October 31st every year.

I was silent, trying to make sense of what was happening. This little man used to be my dog, Jack. I wasn’t sure who had rescued who. There was a buzz of sound all around me as I stared in awe at the little people working away at what appeared to be workstations, with small couches instead of office chairs. There was a bowl of water on each desk. “I must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something,” I said.

“Nope,” said Jack, “this is reality. You haven’t been in reality for some time.”

“A world out of control is my reality,” I said.

“That reality isn’t yours,” he said. “We each have our own reality and you have control over yours only. You can’t change the world, just yourself.

He led me over to a desk where a little white haired old lady was opening a leather-bound book.

“Hello, Ben,” she said, smiling, “I just found your page in the ledger. I remember when they brought you home from the hospital. A cute little baby boy, but you sure were loud.”

She seemed so familiar, and then it hit me. “Gussie?” I stammered.

“Bingo,” said Jack. “Your first dog. She’s an elder here now.”

“You’ve had a long relationship with many of us over the years,” she said, “years filled with love and caring. That’s your reality, not the chaos of the world. You can’t carry the problems of the entire planet on your shoulders, only your own. Dogs are here to facilitate that. You rescued us and we rescue you. That’s the way the world goes round.”

“Time to go back,” said Jack. “It’s dinner time here, and yes, we still eat kibble.”

Suddenly, I was back on the beach. The fog was lifting, and sunbeams were dancing on the sand. I looked around, and there was Jack, wagging and grinning.

“Yes Ben. We still have work to do together before we move on,” he said.

We headed home with the sun shining brightly, man and dog. Jack never spoke again, but his wags and grin do the talking.