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In this time of absurdity where even high school is on trial, let this image shape your thoughts. A story that stirs the lighter, or possibly darker, side of your muse. You only need 100 words.
I’ll start with a story …
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One year ago, across this quad, she fell in love.
She watched him in the library. She learned the names of his family. Attended his baseball games. Sundays she was at in the back pew of his church. She wanted him to look at her the way he looked at his girlfriend.
So simple a plan.
At the funeral she lay her hand on his arm and he turned his tear-streaked face toward her. Jerking his arm away, frowning. “Who are you?”
Friends swept in, swept him away.
Now she faces the administrative building, dials her cellphone.
“I’ve been raped.”
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Now, it is your turn.
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featured image, modified, from Pixabay CC0 license
Garland Twitty says: It was hotter than blazes outside, but in the basement of the university library it
felt like cold storage for a diner. According to the catalog, his master’s thesis was
in these particular stacks, and her family’s future depended on
replacing it with an altered facsimile.
The bass baritone ofa closeted compressor permeated the
space. She quickly perused the call numbers on the shelf
above, found the manuscript, and reached for it.
“You’re too late,” he purred, “an electronic copy is on its way to your mother.”
“You are such a boring writer,” she rejoined, “it will kill her.”
Stephen Miller says: My mother believed in ghosts the way most people believe the moon circles the earth. When I was little I swallowed it whole, waiting for the day I would see one for myself. In high school I was laughing behind my hand whenever she talked about “the other side.” I kept my college friends in stitches with stories of seances and ghost-hunting trips. Much as I loved my mother, by the time I graduated from State her lifelong obsession with spiritualism had become one of my favorite punchline.
I stopped laughing at her the first time I saw the shadow.
Cameron says: I knew the look; hunched shoulders, with a jacket worn like armor even though it was warm outside. I walked up quietly behind him.
“Hiding here won’t help you.”
The boy spun around in horror as he looked for a way past me. I held out my hands. “Calm down. This was my refuge when I was your age.”
He doubtful. “Nobody picks on you.”
“They used to. Then I got this.” I handed him a book from the shelf.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t read it,” I said. “Just listen. It’ll teach you how to fight back and stop being afraid.”
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