Welcome to the final week of the Spring Writing Challenge!
It’s the final week! This has been such a fun challenge. You’ve all done so well with your stories. There are so many interesting and unique ways you have taken the prompt. It’s now time for the final week, so let’s do this one last time! We can’t wait to see what you come up with.
So, without further ado, here’s your final prompt!
Week Six Prompt – The Character Prompt
Write a story about a character that experiences a rebirth
Wait…what’s a character prompt?
A character prompt is a prompt that’s about a specific character. It doesn’t matter where your story takes place or what’s said. What matters is that your story must be about a character who experiences a rebirth.
Before you start writing, we have some important rules for you to follow.
Writing Rules
1. Please keep the content of the stories you post to a PG rating. Please avoid real curse words. Violence/fighting should be limited and purposeful. Please do not include any spice.
2. Your story must be 1,000 words or less, and must contain the prompt to be counted for the challenge. You’re not required to post it in order to “win” the challenge, but if you want it to count for your team, your story must be posted by Sunday at 11:59 PM ET, and you must include your team name.
Remember to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and post your story as an “answer” to this question, not a “comment”. 🙂 You’re all doing such a great job! I’m so proud of all the stories you’ve posted.
Happy Writing!
We’re so glad that you participated Juli! 🙂
Team#1
The Thirsting Hour by Ada Flannery
Mara died in a basement.
Not her own. She didn’t have one of those. Just a boarded-up squat beneath the butcher’s district where the plague rats grew fat and the walls wept mold. The fever had taken her voice two days ago, her hope the day before that.
When the footsteps came—slow, deliberate, echoing like the drip of old blood—she didn’t bother to look up.
“You’re fading,” a man said.
His voice was smoke. Velvet. Cruel. She forced her head to lift.
He was beautiful in a way that felt wrong. Too still. Too perfect. Like something carved to be worshipped, or feared. A single silver ring flashed on his black-gloved finger.
“I can give you life,” he said.
Mara blinked. Her mouth opened, closed. A wheeze escaped—nothing more.
“But it won’t be yours.”
He bit his wrist without ceremony. Thick, dark blood welled up. He pressed it to her lips. She tried to turn away, but she was too weak.
The taste was iron and night and ancient things she didn’t understand. Her last breath left her lungs as something colder took root.
She woke in a crypt that was slick with condensation. The air stank of rot and stone. Her body no longer ached. Her skin was cold and tight, like it belonged to someone else. There was no heartbeat in her ears.
Only silence.
She stood. The hunger hit her like a scream inside her skull.
A woman waited in the shadows. Pale, tall, dressed in mourning black.
“Another fledgling,” she said. Her voice held no welcome. “You died yesterday. And now you live. But only just.”
“I’m… alive?” Mara asked, but the word tasted wrong.
“No. You’ve been stolen from the grave.”
Mara’s stomach twisted. Or it would have—if it still worked.
“What happens now?”
The woman walked forward, her eyes redder than garnets. “Now you feed. Or you go mad.”
Mara became scared of the women so she ran. Mara fled into the city, throat blazing, teeth aching, lungs still trying to breathe out of habit.
She watched the butcher’s son walking alone down an alley. Heard the pulse in his neck like music.
She stepped out of the shadows.
He turned—and saw something in her face.
Not a girl. Not a ghost.
A predator.
But Mara stopped. Her hands shook. She remembered her mother’s cough. Her brother’s cold hand in hers. She had liked this boy and didn’t want to hurt him.
Don’t become what he made you.
She ran.
Back at the crypt she sat rocking herself trying to make her heart beat, the woman shook her head. “You’ll starve yourself into madness.”
“Then let me go mad.”
“You think that’s noble?”
Mara’s lips curled into a quiet snarl. “No. I think it’s mine. My choice.”
In the days that followed, she fed—but only on the dead. Fresh bodies. Warm enough. Still enough memory in the blood to whisper their names, she had known most of them, and if she could have she would have cried.
She became a rumor in Blackgate. The Bone Bride. The girl with empty eyes who haunted alleys and kissed corpses.
But she never killed.
Not once.
And each night, as the hunger clawed deeper, so did something else: the memory of her death, and the choice not to become the thing that ended her.
She was not a girl anymore.
Not a monster either.
She was a revenant.
A hunger with a conscience.
A death that remembered love.
And in the bloodless silence of dawn, when the others slept in their catacomb
s, she walked the rooftops alone and whispered her own name—so she wouldn’t forget it.
I’m not usually a fan of horror/gothic/paranormal, but I liked this story. Well done! In such a short amount of space, you made the character someone whose emotions we could feel, and you set up a nice haunting story that has potential to linger.
Excellent story here! Haunting, sad, and beautiful–well done!
I really liked this. There were a few spots that were a little jarring, but overall you did a fantastic job for this week’s prompt. I think you should consider expanding on it! It could be a great short story.
I love how you wove a challenge into this story in how she chose to do good to those who had turned her into the mess she was in.
Ooh, creepy, but also beautiful. I love how you described his face as too still, like an idol made to be worshipped!
Interesting story! I like how she chose not to follow the expected path and retained what she could of her humanity.
This was a fascinating read. I wasn’t expecting to like this, I hate horror, but this was different. I like what you did with this. If you wrote this as a longer story, I would read this. This was heartbreaking and haunting, original and extremely well done.
Broken No More
My foot lands in a pool of sludge and I slip, catching myself against a rusty garage door. Blast the cheap silicone that’s always crumbling off the bottom of my metal foot.
Straightening, I flex my right leg. Everything seems to be intact, so I keep walking down the alley. Staggering, really. My knee and ankle are stiff – I’m down to my last drops of lube. The electronics are all jerry-rigged, and nothing works with the speed and smoothness it used to. I’ve done my best to fix things, but it’s not enough. Anyway, it’s pretty hard to patch yourself up when your mechanical arm is in the same state of entropy. The digits on my right hand are more like claws than fingers.
But the worst of it’s on the inside. I can’t get to the stuff there.
I scan the overhead signs, a mixture of neon and chipping paint. I’ve been searching for a repairman for the last several years, but no one can fix me. Some don’t have the tech. Most simply refuse to have anything to do with a cyborg. They won’t listen when I try to tell them I regret my choices, that I’d give anything now to have a normal body again.
If only I’d heeded the consequences when I was younger. But I hadn’t. Nobody had, and so we’d explored, enhanced, and created until suddenly technological advancements were racing beyond anyone’s control and the world collapsed.
Now I’m just a living reminder of the avarice and ambition that led to the old world breaking.
And I’m breaking too.
Pain shudders through my chest as I heave a frustrated breath. Where is this ‘Inventor’ anyway? They said he lives here, with a blue sign over his door. But it must be hidden under graffiti or grime. The only blue I’ve seen in the last half hour is the paint on my nails. I did it last night. Not sure why. It’s not like sprucing myself up will make people hate me less for what I am. But I need this Inventor to fix me.
I’m running out of time.
The thought adds a layer of fear onto my anger, and my bottom lip starts to quiver. No. Must stay in control. Can’t cry or it’ll ruin my mascara.
A hiccup sends a spasming jolt through my body. I wince, hearing the whine of overtaxed servos. I need to find that Inventor, and soon.
One limping step after another, I force myself onward, desperately searching the stained walls.
Abruptly, my leg slips again and I drop to a knee, bracing my hands against a dumpster. When I try to get up, I realize the leg’s just hanging – dead weight. Great. The neural connector in my spine’s gone down again.
Oh well.
With the wall as support, I hop along. The sun dips below the skyline, and the incoming darkness only compounds my misery. Night will introduce thieves, dealers, and thugs onto the streets. Right now, defending myself is impossible.
There’s a soft but distinct snap and suddenly my elbow gives way. My shoulder hits the wall and I can’t hold in the tears anymore. This’s it. I’ve pushed myself to the limit, and this Inventor is nowhere to be found. Now I’m stuck out here, helpless prey for the cartels.
An electric shock of agony sears my lungs and takes my breath away. On second thought, maybe I’ll die of internal systems shutdown before the hoods can get me.
I’ve got to sit down and slow my breathing, but the tears increase, joined with sobs. There’s no one who can help me. My last hope is a phantom.
The next jolt sends me to hands and knees on a concrete stoop. I need an ambulance, but they don’t have many of those anymore and I’m too far out.
Sharp pain rolls over me in waves and I give up, sinking to the cold ground. Hot tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t have the air in my lungs to sob or gasp anymore. There’s nothing left but to turn to my side and curl into a ball.
Let the end come quick.
My vision’s fading. Head’s fuzzy.
Even the next red-hot spear to my chest feels distant and numbed.
There’s movement above me. A door handle twists. I notice a simple wooden sign, painted blue. A shaft of warm light spills into the alley.
Nothing but stars in my vision now.
I close my eyes as strong arms scoop me up.
Darkness.
When I open my eyes, I feel like I’ve just truly woken up for the first time in my life. Everything is crisp and vivid. Nothing hurts.
I take in a lumpy quilt, glowing lamps, and a jumble of parts on the carpet. My socked feet are propped up on the armrest of a plush couch.
And my arms.
They’re folded over my chest, and they’re both flesh. Real skin, with veins and intricate lines and delicate hair.
I wiggle my toes, and they respond. I know without looking that they’re natural too.
How?
“You’re awake.” The deep, honey-rich voice precedes a man who walks in and hands me a mug of coffee. A toolbelt encircles his waist. His hands are grease-stained, and calloused. “Good.”
Feeling warmth against both my palms sends a thrill through me. “Who are you?” I whisper. I think I know, and I’m right.
“The Inventor.” He pulls a chair over and sits down.
“How did you do this?” I stare down at myself. “Why?”
“I never turn away any who come to me.” His eyes twinkle. “No matter what they’ve done.”
“I…I… thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I can pay you for –”
“No need.”
“But what about –”
He smiles. “Just accept it.”
The kindness in his face robs me of words. “O-okay.”
He stands and reaches out. “Want to test out that new leg?”
I grin, set aside my mug, and grab his hands.
Team A!
A wonderful story! The choices of our youth can haunt us, and being made new again brings such joy!
I love this, it made me smile at the end!
The Way Back:
Team A 🐸
[986 words]
The sky had broken open with colors of purple, pink, and orange spilling from torn clouds around the sun. It should’ve taken her breath away, made her think of the stories from her childhood, and of the God who they all told her painted those skies. But even though the bruises on her body had faded, her heart still mirrored the sky as the sun lowered.
Her eyes stung from the settling cold of yet another beautiful autumn evening, certainly not from the tears hiding beneath them.
She settled onto the steps of the deck, wondering if the doctor’s words were true. Would her memories return from their hiding place, as the sun vanished only to come back later? The longer she waited the less hope she had.
Thoughts shifted across her brain, but none contained the answers she wanted, only painful memories of broken glass, flashing lights, and stinging pain.
The creak of the door opening behind her scattered the thoughts. “I’ll be inside in a minute, Alex.”
Silence thickened the tension, and Amariah glanced over her shoulder. Her breath caught. The night had grown heavy, surely it was the shadows messing with her mind?
A sheepish grin met her. “S-sorry, I can leave if you want.” He paused, waiting for her to object, “I only came to apologize. Your brother said it was okay?”
Her heart burst into a million colors but none did justice for the mess of confusion, anger, and grief it threw her into. She quickly looked away, settling her interest back on the dipping sun.
She couldn’t ignore the shuffle of Soren’s feet. She could almost picture the way she knew he stood, deeply pondering his next move.
Without a word he took his place beside her, with enough space between them to properly exhibit the gap left in both hearts.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Soren stumbled over his words, his knee bouncing as he ran a hand through his hair.
She stiffened.
“I just thought, well that maybe you forgetting me was for the best. I already caused enough trouble-”
“Did you?”
He hesitated as Amariah searched his eyes, “you had everything. Every morning you came to school so prim and proper, you had the rest of the class envious of your test scores, your family is picture perfect. And then I…” his voice trailed off as he found sudden interest in the trees.
She waited a moment, the silence soothing both their nerves. She took in a deep breath of the chilled air, but held it as her eyes tripped over an angry red mark on Soren’s knuckle, and another on his wrist.
“Soren?”
He turned back to her, eyes wide as he noticed where her attention lay. “I’m fine.”
The wind felt cooler as it tugged at Amariah’s hair, away from the direction Soren sat.
“Are you?”
Soren ducked his head, “I didn’t come here to talk about me.” He chanced a look back at her, stopping as he glanced into her eyes. “Alex says you haven’t been sleeping.”
Her heart stopped beating for a moment, a flush creeping up her neck as she shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
The silence grew once more.
“What happened that night?”
She could’ve sworn Soren’s face grew pale, even against the creeping moonlight. “What do you remember?”
“I remember the car, me, and then blacking out. That’s about it.”
Soren sucked in a breath.
“I’m sorry.”
He shot her a look, “it’s not your fault, Aims.”
“But I was driving! And look what came of it,” Amariah gestured to the scar that ran across Soren’s forehead to his ear, and to the brace still strapped to his arm.
He muttered something under his breath and looked up. “But you driving was my idea, I pressured you into it. You didn’t want to at first but I told you nothing would happen, everything would be alright.” His hands started shaking as he spoke. “Don’t you see, it’s my fault Amariah. Your injuries and mine, my fault.”
She couldn’t breathe, flashbacks like cut scenes from a movie swam across her vision. “Your fault?”
“Don’t tell me this whole time-” he closed his eyes- “no wonder you were angry.” He stood up quickly, “I’m so sorry.”
“Soren, wait.”
The frustration – desperation- in his eyes scared her. “I’m not angry with you.”
Confusion lit his face, and she could almost hear him whisper, “why not?”
“Alex said he saw you at church.”
Soren nodded.
“I didn’t know you went.”
“I didn’t.” He paused, then sat back down, studying Amariah as she fumbled for words.
“I used to go. A while ago. Alex keeps asking me to go with him, he says it would help me with the nightmares, more than the medicine has.” She glanced at Soren, but sought comfort in staring at her shoes. “Does He?”
Soren was silent for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, He does. I’m not sure I’ve got it all down yet, but Alex and the pastor have been great.” Even though I think your brother wanted to punch a hole through me the first time he saw me after, you know.”
She laughed.
“It’s like part of me didn’t make it out of that crash, and I was so broken I couldn’t fix myself anymore. But it turns out God was better at that than me anyway.”
Amariah wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her knees to her chest. “I want to go,” she said suddenly. “To church. With Alex. With you.”
Soren let the corner of his mouth tug upward, “I’d like that.”
He reached out hesitantly, his hand brushing over hers. Her breath caught, and without thinking, she leaned her head gently against his shoulder.
I’m sorry, God, she whispered. I forgot everyone—even myself—but I don’t want to forget You. I’m ready to be made new.
Somewhere deep in her spirit, she knew it had already begun.
*Feel free to comment any feedback you might have 🙂
Aww, this is so sweet! I love it! I feel like there’s a lot of potential here for a longer story 💗
Thank you so much, Lydia!! I’m so glad you love it <3
This is actually a part of a WIP of mine, it just happened to work with this prompt (and I needed to write it down anyways haha), so I’m glad you think so 😊
So sweet! I loved this!
Aww I’m so glad!! Thanks for taking the time to comment, Rachel! <3
I welcome any feedback, critique or comments. 🙂
Phoenix Dust
by Eliza June Sapphire
(Team 1)
They said the ash was sterile.
By law, they burned every body in the Temple Kiln. The state declared the ashes pure—scrubbed of memory, emptied of soul. They said the fire cleansed, the flames erased, and the ash brought new life—nothing more.
Only after the ashes were ritually purged did workers mix them into the soil beds circling the Outer Ridges, where new crops grew in state-sanctioned silence. ‘From dust to bloom,’ they taught in school, like it was poetry instead of policy.
A lesson. A warning. A lie.
But the old stories whispered different things.
Nova didn’t believe in stories. Not really. She believed in staying quiet, keeping her head down, surviving. Belief was dangerous. Her mother had believed, and that had cost everything. Until the wind changed.
It was during her third week in Ash Detail, just after the rain. The kiln chimney belched steam, and the sky went silver with smoke. She slipped on the mud path, caught herself, and stood right as the wind shifted. A gust blew ash into her face—hot, clinging, sharp like nettles.
She inhaled.
Choked.
Coughed until the air stung her ribs.
The others laughed. “First time getting marked,” one said. “Guess the ashes chose you.”
She smiled like it was funny.
But that night, she dreamed of fire.
Not burning, not pain—becoming. She stood at the center of a circle of flames that didn’t consume her, only lifted. She saw feathers glowing like coals, and eyes—not hers—reflected in the blaze. The dream left her sweating and hungry and not entirely herself.
Each night, it returned.
The following week, plants near her bunkhouse began to sprout early. Then, candles in the hall flickered when she walked past. On the third morning, her fingertips glowed faintly in the dark before winking out like stars.
She said nothing.
It wasn’t safe to be strange.
Her mother had vanished for being strange—once she whispered that the fire in their blood was sacred. Nova had barely been five. No one talked about it after. No one dared.
Authorities banned the ancient myths. Stories of the Phoenix Soul, the spark that survived even cleansing fire. Believers were branded flameborn and vanished in the night.
But Nova remembered.
She remembered the warmth of her mother’s hands. The lullabies whispered in words no one dared to speak aloud. The night her mother vanished, the sky had glowed red.
And now, the fire remembered her back.
On the twelfth night, she woke with a breath like smoke in her throat. Her bones ached. Her veins pulsed like furnace coils. She stumbled out of bed and into the chill air, past the barracks and down to the ash beds.
They shimmered under the moonlight. Black. Silent. Waiting.
Nova stood barefoot at the edge, breath fogging, body burning from the inside out.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered to the dark. “I didn’t choose anything.”
The wind answered, low and warm.
But you were chosen.
She looked around. No one was there.
Her skin began to glow—first her palms, then her arms, veins lit with molten lines. Her hair lifted, threads of gold catching moonlight. In the stillness, she felt her bones crack and re-form—not breaking, but waking. Wings—not real ones, but memory-shaped, fire-sketched—flared behind her for just a breath.
She stepped into the ash.
It swallowed her whole.
And remade her.
When she rose, she carried the fire in her lungs.
She wasn’t Nova anymore, not entirely. She was ember and wind, memory and marrow. Knowledge flickered inside her—lives she hadn’t lived, feelings she couldn’t forget. Names long forgotten, the rhythm of wings in ancient skies, the shape of loss that forged a world.
She stood in the middle of the ash bed, glowing like the first spark after dark.
By dawn, the embers beneath her feet had kindled the soil. Shoots rose, green and defiant, from the ground long dead.
People would see. Rumors would spread.
The story would begin again. The fire had not forgotten. And now, neither would the world.
I’d love feedback on this. I’m considering it as a teaser for a potential new novel! 🙂
This was great. I felt pulled into the story almost immediately. I love how you vary your sentence length and structure to help communicate the story beyond just the words you chose. You painted a vivid picture.
Thanks, Michele. I appreciate the comment. 🙂 I actually really liked the story I came up with this week, and was bummed when more people didn’t comment. I’m always trying to improve my craft and its so easy to get discouraged 😞
This is definitely a great premise to a longer story. It is haunting. I had to read it twice because I was confused what marked by ashes meant and the significance of the end. I think expanding lore elements and characterization to give readers more background knowledge when not restrained by word count will really make the revelation at the end stand out and make me better understand the character(s). Seriously though, I think this would make for a great novel. Excellent story!
That was incredible! I would love to read the full novel! You fit so much into such a short story, but none of the lore felt unnecessary. The subtle Holy Spirit elements were brilliant.
Favorite line: And now, the fire remembered her back.
Ghosts And Toast
I never did like the idea of ghosts.
They scared my sister, endlessly intrigued my brother, and annoyed my parents to their wits end. But all I felt for them was a deep-rooted dislike, one that caused me to lift my chin haughtily and ignore the presence of the two dozen or so that haunted our manor.
You can imagine just how much I regret that, now that my family is gone and said ghosts are all I have for company.
When I first moved back into the manor a few months ago, the ghosts all seemed to have made the unanimous decision to ignore me as I had done to them when I was a spoiled child. I, drowning in my grief and walking around in a daze as I was and still am, was perfectly content with the arrangement. But that was before I started noticing small inconveniences throughout my day– my slippers disappearing far under the bed, my tea becoming lukewarm before I could even begin to drink it, and a thick layer of dust appearing on every surface no matter how many times I cleaned them. I’m sure the ghosts would have messed with my food, if I bothered to eat.
I ignored all of that, too, but the ghosts are becoming bolder day by day. Just this morning, the giant chandelier in the front hall fell as I was walking under it. If I had been just one step closer, I would’ve been flattened like a pancake; as it was, it scraped the skin off of the edge of my nose.
So, I decided to stage an intervention.
The sun is setting through the murky mist outside as I make my way up the rickety stairs to the attic– the ghosts’ favorite haunt. I wrap my threadbare, formerly elegant robes around myself as the temperature begins to drop. It’s always colder where the ghosts are.
“Hello?” I say, my voice scratchy with disuse, as I ascend through the trapdoor and into the attic. Cobwebs stretch in every corner, but what grabs my attention is the sketching pad on the floor, the broken pens littered around it. My brother loved it up here almost as much as the ghosts do. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“Hello,” I repeat, holding up the matchbox I brought with me as a sort of peace offering. The ghosts love the heat of fire. I bring out a match and strike it, a tiny flame flickering on the end. I feel the ghosts come closer all around me, though they don’t let themselves be seen yet. The chilly wind from their presence lifts my tangled black hair, probably reddening my paperwhite skin; a result of not venturing outdoors for months. I clear my throat.
“I know we were never quite friends,” I say hesitantly, “and I know you all must be very angry with me for leaving you alone for so long. I admit, I stalled coming back for as long as I was able to, for I knew how painful it would be to walk these halls alone. But I’m not quite alone, I suppose. You all are here, aren’t you? We’re all each other has got for company. So I hope we can be… well, I don’t expect us to be great friends, but I hope we can be at peace with each other. What do you say?” I hold the match out, the flames slowly traveling up the stick to my fingers.
For a moment, the air is silent. Then a translucent shape takes form in front of me. A woman, with a stooped frame and wrinkled skin. Round spectacles sit on her nose as she looks me over.
My great grandmother.
Or maybe great-great grandmother– I can never keep them all straight.
“What happened to them?” Her words chill the air like frost.
I swallow again, my eyes suddenly burning. “They died. Shadowbeasts, while we were traveling.” I find I cannot elaborate.
She’s quiet again watching me. Then her hand reaches out and closes around the flame, causing it to sputter out. “For goodness sake, girl, that thing was almost burnt out. You could have hurt yourself.”
I don’t care. I want it to burn. Maybe the pain would distract from the aching in my chest. I wrap my arms around myself. “Thank you.”
She reaches out again, but this time her hands grip my bony shoulders. I feel the cold like icicles through my clothes. “Don’t leave us like that again.”
“I won’t,” I promise. I hold out the remainder of the matches.
She takes them. It’s a gesture of forgiveness, peace, maybe even an apology, all rolled into one. I incline my head and turn to leave.
“Wait,” she says. I look over my shoulder. Her eyes are on the sketchbook in the corner. “The little boy, he was good company up here. We miss that.”
I read between the lines. She wants me to come up here, to keep them company, maybe even sketch them like my brother had. I’m terrible at art, but they don’t have to know that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She nods, then fades away until it’s just me standing here in the darkness. But I still feel their presence around me, and it’s warmer than it was before. Friendlier.
I start back down the stairs, but I feel different than when I was coming up. Lighter, somehow, like the five-minute conversation helped ease some of the weight on my chest. I find a smile tugging at my lips as I head towards the kitchens.
Maybe I’ll have some toast.
Team A | Lydia Fiore
Wow!! Even in such a short story you really captured a lot of deep emotions! I love the descriptiveness <3
Wonderful story! Packed with emotion and a new beginning. I think it could be expanded into a longer story – I would like to know more!
Tears in the Rain
Lucas Helm, Team A
Althea walked across the rainy field, her boots sending droplets flying into the air every time she took a step. She had no idea why she had come back here, there was so much hurt, so much pain in this single empty field. She looked around, her mind painting the picture of better days, days when the cobblestone pillars that were scattered about were more than ruins, but were homes. She remembered the days when she would walk through this field with Mariah, hearing about all the things she had seen in her travels, all the people she had helped to bring to the light. How Althea had wished she too could come on those incredible journeys.
However, there was a cost to them, one seemingly never discussed in Mariah’s stories. That cost lay before Althea even now. She couldn’t help but blame herself for what had happened here all those years ago, for Mariah had trained her well. However, a strong soldier is a prime target for the enemy.
Althea leaned up against one of the pillars, the rain still cascading down upon her. She tried to block out the horrid memories, the burning village, the death, the destruction. She had watched her home burn, and couldn’t do anything to stop it. What was worse, was that Mariah took her place.
“I should’ve fought, I should’ve been the one to die fighting for my home, not her! It just isn’t fair!” Althea screamed into the rain.
No one heard. No one troubled themselves with these ruins, they didn’t mean anything to them. All those who cared had died with the village, all but one. Tears streamed down Althea’s face, but they were impossible to see in the rain.
“Isn’t it strange how one can be grieving so much, yet people still fail to see it?” a voice said.
Althea gasped and slunk behind the pillar, a cloaked figure paced along what once was the main street, the same street where Mariah had…
Althea dared not remember.
“Why would you come back?” the figure turned to the pillar Althea hid behind.
She didn’t respond.
The figure circled the pillar until it was just a few feet away, face to face with Althea, “Why did you come back?” it repeated.
“I just… Don’t deserve anything besides this suffering.”
“You don’t? Why is that?”
“Because I let my mentor, the one who meant everything to me, die in my place, and I didn’t even lift a finger.”
“You know the old stories of the Christian faith do you not?”
“Yes… It was the most important part of my learning to Mariah.”
“Then you will know that Jesus did something similar and far greater. Dying for a people who did not love him, nor did anything to deserve it. Yet, as for why he died, he said it best himself, on his last night with his disciples before his death. ‘Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends,’ he said. He loved his people, his broken people, including you, so much that he died for them. Mariah did the same for you. She cared for you deeply, and would be terribly hurt to see you grieving over the gift she gave you.”
“It isn’t about the gift, it is about the cost!”
“You trusted Mariah did you not?”
“Yes…”
“And she trusted the Lord didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then by that logic, you should trust the Lord, that somehow this is part of his plan.”
“That… Seems a bit of a stretch.”
“Is it though? Besides, Mariah would not want you to grieve for her. You can be sad that she is no longer with you, but do not grieve for her. She is with the savior she loved so much now.”
“I… I can’t let this go.”
“Then show me what she taught you,” the figure pulled out a blade from their cloak, a noble piece that seemed to bounce what little light flowed through the rain drops in every direction.
Althea looked at her own pitiful dagger, a piece Mariah had taught her how to forge. She pulled it out. The figure rushed in, Althea deflecting his attacks rapidly.
“Form two!” the figure yelled. Althea switched to a battle stance, going onto the offensive, mainly favoring jabs and upward slices from an outstretched position. While the figure evaded all of these attacks, he seemed pleased with the results.
“Rest!” he yelled, drawing back. Althea did the same, sweat mixing with the raindrops and her tears.
“Form four, then two again,” the figure declared. This process repeated itself over and over again, until finally, Althea jabbed at the figure and twisted her blade in an unexpected way as to catch the figure’s sword and throw it far from his grasp. He stepped back, “So now you must make your choice. To take my life, or to let me go.”
“I do not crave violence, only peace,” Althea declared.
“Then Mariah taught you well. Kneel, young one.”
Althea dropped to one knee, the hooded figure picking up their sword, and tapping each of Althea’s shoulders with the flat of the blade, “You are no longer a student, no longer one in training. Once, you were Althea, a student of Mariah. Now you shall be known as Sage, for the Lord has granted you wisdom. Do not waste this gift, but instead, use it to train up another as Mariah did for you. Never forget that your wisdom comes not from other people, nor yourself, nor even Mariah, but from God.
The rain fell harder and the hooded figure slipped away. Althea, the grieving student, was gone. What remained was Sage, a beloved child of God. Once again, Sage cried, but this time only tears of joy and forgiveness mingled with the rain drops.
Team 1
Chicken and the Egg
Sheila pounded against the walls of her new prison. She did not know where she was. Everything around her was dark.
She had seen no one since being put here. She heard no one.
The only good thing that could be said about her prison was that it was warm, and in a weird way, comfortable. Or perhaps that was the madness of solitary confinement cocooning her in, protecting her from despair.
She pounded the walls again, calling out, “Hello!”
No one answered, but the wall moved. Curious, she pressed against it. With a crack, a trail of light seeped through in lightning shaped lines.
She pushed harder. Pounding, pounding, pounding, and then she saw the light.
She emerged into a big world, and felt ever so small. It was like entering the world of giants.
Giant birds.
Around her their were baby chicks with little grey and featherless heads popping from their eggs. And that was when she noticed the substance of her own prison. A creamy, broken shell. She had been in an egg.
Oh no, she thought, stretching her wings and feeling for the first time her beak clack in hunger.
The wizard had turned her into a baby chicken.
To break the spell she would need to learn something new about love or someone would have to save her with love.
You would think it would be easy to break a spell when love was the antidote, but somehow it never seemed to work out like that. The human condition being what it was and all. A kiss was not enough. That was just a symbol used for storybooks.
Instead their was always some sort of pain. Some sort of sacrifice. An action that she would need to perform, in love, to break this spell.
And so, she set out to look for it.
Learning to walk as a chick was quite easy, getting anywhere with Mama Hen watching wasn’t. Sheila was quickly herded back to the nest to be fed and put to bed under the soft feathery body of Mama.
Everyday Sheila tried to make her escape, but mother hens are better than wardens. She kept Sheila in firm check.
Thankfully chickens grow up fast. It wasn’t long before Sheila was a young hen. With mama being preoccupied with a new batch of chicks, she planned her escape.
Little did she know someone else was planning too. And that night as she slid out, a fox slid into the hen house. She just out the door when the frantic clucks of Mama Hen resounded through her ears.
Her first instinct was to flee, before she was brought back to the hen house, but the sound of that cry wasn’t the same as a chick gone missing. And soon the whole hen house was up in arms.
Her heart sank, and she ran back into the hen house, but she was too late. The fox fled from her, and she scooped Mama Hen into her now human arms, crying just as if she had lost her real mother.
“And what have you learned?” The wizard’s voice said from behind her.
“Always be grateful for love. No matter where it comes from,” Sheila replied.
She didn’t turn around. She knew the wizard wouldn’t be their when she did.
The Life of a Dragonfly
By Leah Criss (Team 1)
The stream shimmered in the light, revealing a mirrored surface. A small dragonfly flitted above it. The dragonfly could only be described as beautiful, with a ruby-red body and four iridescent wings. But she was sad. Every day, she looked around the stream at all the other wildlife. She marveled at the jewel-toned fish swimming in the water, the vibrant green crickets that chirped nightly, and the flashy fireflies that lit up the forest at night. Some days, she was perfectly content with her lot, but other days, she wished for something more. She didn’t really care to leave the stream, but occasionally, she just wanted to know what life was like for her friends.
“What if I told you that there was a way for you to be reborn as anything you wanted?” A voice spoke from the water.
The dragonfly startled and hovered, unsure where the voice came from.
“Down here.” The water splashed and bubbled. A tiny head poked up. It was a koi.
What was a koi doing in this stream?
She cautiously flew closer. Did koi eat dragonflies? She didn’t think so, but since she hadn’t encountered many, she couldn’t be certain.
“I don’t eat dragonflies. Not grown ones anyway,” said the koi in exasperation.
She lighted down on a blade of grass near the water’s edge. She didn’t dare get closer. The fish might be telling the truth, but she didn’t want to take the risk. Besides, there were many other creatures by the stream that would be more than happy to eat her besides the fish if she weren’t paying attention. “Was that your voice earlier?”
“Yes.” The koi flicked its tail. “I’ve been watching you for some time now as have others in the stream. The general consensus is that you’re unhappy as a dragonfly and wish to be something else.”
“It’s that obvious?” The dragonfly asked with surprise. Her wings fluttered in agitation and she rose into the air before calming herself and landing again.
The fish splashed. “You have been asking questions and staring into the water asking questions.”
That was true. She hadn’t thought that anyone heard her. She should’ve known better. The forest stream was always alive with sound which meant others were always nearby. But would it really be so bad to be something else? Being a dragonfly was lonely, and she was always worried about becoming prey. Her bright colors made her beautiful but also easy to spot.
The koi continued, “It is possible you know. To be reborn as something else.”
“How?” The dragonfly asked.
“Dive into the water, make a wish, and when you rise up, you’ll be whatever you wished.”
“You’re joking.” The small dragonfly fixed an incredulous stare at the koi. If she could’ve blinked, she would have. “I can’t swim!”
“What if I told you that you used to be an aquatic phoenix cursed to be a red dragonfly and that this action would trigger your rebirth cycle and break the curse? But have it your way. I’ve done what I can. Farewell.” The koi swam away, leaving the dragonfly to ponder her options.
Such a tale sounded impossible to be true. Far more likely that the fish was hoping for an easy meal when her wings became too waterlogged to allow her to emerge from the stream. The stream wasn’t very fast, but it was moving quickly enough that fighting the current would be difficult for one of her small stature. She rose and flew away, successfully forgetting what the koi told her.
One day a couple weeks later, she could feel herself growing tired. Her eggs were nestled safely in the water. They would hatch and grow into fine young dragonflies. Her lifespan as a dragonfly was short compared to many of the other creatures she saw in and near the stream. Unbidden, the koi’s words came back to her. She was nearly seven weeks old with maybe a few days remaining. What if the fish was right? The koi was long gone, so being eaten by it was no longer a factor. She had nothing to lose if she tried and everything if she didn’t.
The little ruby dragonfly flitted once more over the spot where she met the koi. The stream sparkled in the light. Taking a breath, she dove, wishing to become the phoenix the koi mentioned. Being surrounded by water felt safe and familiar, yet, unlike in her childhood nymph days, she couldn’t breathe. When she turned to swim back to the surface, she felt the water overwhelm her. Fighting, her vision faded.
To her astonishment, her vision returned as she felt herself grow. When she rose from the water, everything around her looked slightly smaller than before. Seeing her reflection in the water, she didn’t take her gaze away from the mirrored surface of the stream. Staring back at her was a bird with plumage the color of water.
Her memories of the past century slowly trickled back. She had indeed been cursed, but not by anyone else. Even as a phoenix, she longed to experience life from the perspective of her best friend, a ruby dragonfly gifted with immortal life. Unfortunately for her, wishing to see life through the eyes of another resulted in her accidentally cursing herself to be a ruby dragonfly. A perfectly mortal dragonfly with no memory of her former life. She also found herself in this location far from her usual home. With her returned memories, she knew this wasn’t the first time she had been reborn as another creature. Maybe it wasn’t a curse.
By allowing herself to be reborn in the water, she was able to return to herself. In her memories, this ability to choose what to be reborn as was a gift unique to the aquatic phoenixes. In this new lifetime, however, she no longer felt a desperate need to be something else. This lifetime, she would be content with who she was.
Interesting take on the prompt this week! I liked it. So often we get caught in a comparison trap- this is a great reminder not to do that.
Wonderful story! I love dragonflies and your details about life near and in the water. Sometimes we don’t recognize the truth even when someone tries to point it out to us! Well done!
Thanks Eliza and Annette for your feedback! I want sure how well the idea would work, so I’m glad you liked the story.
**I realized basically every story I’ve posted so far was set in the contemporary genre, so I decided to push myself and try historical fiction. I hope you enjoy this piece based on a real hero from the Battle of Fredericksburg.**
A Drop of Mercy
I rubbed my frozen fingers together, dwelling on the numb pain the December night had left in them.
Anything to drown out the cries of the wounded on the other side of the wall.
Eleven days. It was eleven days until Christmas. But is there such a thing as Christmas in the middle of a Civil War?
Not at Fredericksburg, I said to myself.
The sun peaked over the ridge. I shielded my eyes with my hand, more to block the sight of hundreds of Union soldiers strewn on the hill before me than the blinding light of the sun.
A voice no deeper than a young boy’s rasped out a single word loud enough to be heard over his wounded brethren: “Water!”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. Only a boy…he shouldn’t have to beg for water…
They killed James, a silent voice in my head reminded me, quenching any pity I felt. And William. And Robert. They took Joseph’s arm. They crippled Daniel.
They deserve no mercy.
“Henry,” said another voice beside me. Sergeant Richard Kirkland. My only friend left from back home.
Richard let out a lengthy sigh, the cold air turning it into visible white steam.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he said, as if to himself.
“Take what?” I asked. The noise? The cold? The senselessness of the Union generals, sending thousands of their soldiers uphill to certain death? The endlessness of it all?
“I’m going over.” Richard nodded his head toward the stone wall.
Beneath my sergeant’s uniform, my chest tightened in fear. The wall was only waist high, but crossing it was a death sentence. “You can’t strip the dead now,” I said. “It’s light out. They’ll shoot you.”
A whisper of a smile appeared on Richard’s face. “I’m not going to strip the dead,” he replied.
“What other reason would there be—” I stopped myself. For the first time I saw the circular wooden canteens. At least a dozen hung from thin cloth straps thrown over Richard’s shoulders. “You can’t do that.”
“You’d rather listen to those men plead for just a drop of water?”
“It’s betraying our friends.” I ripped a canteen from Richard’s shoulder, snapping its strap in half. “They’ll shoot you the moment you set foot over that wall. Those people know no mercy.”
The faint smile reappeared. “I’ll take my chances.” With that, Richard swung a leg over the wall and was gone.
I gripped the canteen I’d taken from Richard, unable to draw a breath. Waiting for the first shot. To lose my last friend like the ones before him.
But no shot rang out as Richard knelt beside the first soldier—his blue, bloodstained uniform the only sign he was a soldier. His face was smooth, too young for a beard, and the sleeves of his coat stretched past his wrists like it was too big. Like he’d lied about his age to follow in his older brother’s steps.
Like James did.
Richard slid a hand under his head as he brought a canteen to his lips. The boy strained to lift his head and gulped the water greedily.
“Thank you,” he said in a voice still weak, but less hoarse than before.
Richard nodded and moved on to the next soldier.
And the next.
And the next.
My eyes burned and I turned away. Why didn’t they shoot at him? Was there some mercy in this heartless war after all?
Finally Richard walked back toward me, his hollow canteens knocking against each other. “I need more water,” he called. “For the rest of them.”
I hesitated, my fingernails digging into the wooden canteen I’d taken from Richard. They didn’t do this for James. The thought erupted in my head, and my fingers froze as if glued in place by unforgiveness.
But I would have wanted them to do that for James. For the last thing he saw to be an act of bold kindness, the last thing he tasted a drop of mercy.
“Here.” I thrusted the canteen to Richard. The water inside it sloshed promisingly.
Richard took it, a weary but hopeful look in his eyes. “Thank you, Henry.”
I gave a short nod. “Hand me the empty ones and I’ll fill them for you.”
Richard swung the canteens onto my shoulders one by one.
Somehow, the weight of them made me feel lighter.
Team A
Redeeming Alliums
Team A
Kamaya shook the rain out of her long black hair as she walked toward the deli computer to sign in. Then, she balled up her damp coat and stuffed it into her assigned cube locker. Pulling her hair into a pony tail, she next grabbed a hairnet, and reported to Dharma. The kitchen manager pretended not to notice that she was again late. All around, kitchen workers sliced just-washed vegetables, topped up salad dressing containers, while others stood at the stove, stirring great pots of chick peas which produced clouds of aromatic steam.
“Whatchu want me to do first?” Kamaya asked, spreading the hair net over the top of her head. Dharma wiped a wet, gloved hand on his apron, already stained with beet juice. In his hand was a large chopping knife, for quartering softball-sized beetroots. He pointed to a yellow net bag on a long steel table.
“Fill a large bowl with finely diced onions. We’re making onion chutney. We’re out and need it done quickly.”
Onions! Kamaya’s least favorite assignment. She was sure Dharma knew this. Because she was late, she’d been assigned what no one else wanted. Tying a fresh apron around her waist, she slipped her hands into a new pair of latex gloves. The stench of spoiled onions assailed her nostrils before she got near them. What should have been twenty-five pounds of beautiful, fat white globes were blackened lumps with moldy skins and a few green shoots poking through the netting. Involuntarily Kamaya’s lips curled in disgust. She picked up the bag and made for the trash can standing near Dharma. Just as the bag hovered over top of the can, he turned to her. She froze.
“What are you doing, Kamaya?”
“All of these are rotten. I was going to throw them out and get a fresh bag.”
“Our produce order has been delayed. I need you to salvage as much from those as you possibly can. You know how popular our chutney is, and as stated earlier, we’re completely out.” He returned to his chopping.
“But—”
Someone snickered. Some of her coworkers had been watching. Kamaya’s cheeks suddenly flushed hot.
“Thank you. I knew I could count on your to do your very best.”
Kamaya carried the bag back to her work area, blinking back tears. She needed this job, but she didn’t want to do this task. Because of the smell, no one worked next to her. There’s always a lesson to be learned in a challenge. What was the bit of advice she’d heard only recently? Swallow the frog first? Kamaya emptied the bag on the table to evaluate each onion. Next, she separated them into three piles, worst, better and best.
To “swallow the frog” she started with the ugliest most repulsive onions first. She was grateful for the gloves as the knife cut through the mushy ends of the first onion. The brown discoloration was several layers deep. Kamaya halved the onion and saw exactly how to salvage the good inner core. There wasn’t much. She moved to the next and did the same. With each onion there was increasingly more to save.
Kamaya’s strategy was to clean all the onions, put them in a bowl and chop them at the end. Once she’d cleaned the onions, she rinsed them in the big double sink. She returned to the table to begin slicing. With all the stinky skins gone from sight, her task suddenly felt less like punishment.
Dharma finished his chore and carried a giant mixing bowl in one hand and slips of paper in the other and laid them on Kamaya’s table.
“We open in thirty minutes, kind people!” Dharma called out. He stood to Kamaya’s right and spoke quietly to her. “We paid too much for these onions to throw them out. By keeping your eye on the acceptable chutney it will become in the future, you saw what needed to be trimmed. You saw past what it is, to what it will become. Once the bad is pruned away we improve what’s left by combining it with good ingredients. What remains must be used expediently, so we make something popular. Do you understand?”
Kamaya continued mincing the onions, nodding understanding, but she did not look at Dharma.
“Is this about my being late?” she asked.
“Everything is a timeliness, Kamaya.”Dharma leaned his heavy frame over the steel table and wrote on small slips of paper. “I know you think I’m punishing you for your tardiness. Truth is, you’re the most careful food prepper we have. You also slice the onions finer than anyone else. It helps the chutney go farther.”
Kamaya looked up and he smiled at her. Suddenly, she felt proud of her contribution to lunch hour. Dharma snapped his fingers. “Bhavesh!”
“Sir!” Bavesh appeared next to Kamaya, farthest away from Dharma as he could get and still be in his presence. Bavesh sneered superiorly at Kamaya.
“Your penance for laughing is to bring her the spices I’ve indicated.” Dharma handed Bavesh a slip of paper.
“Sir, I’m still working on–”
Dharma looked sharply at the young man and he stopped his complaint mid-sentence. Bavesh took the list and went quickly to the spice cabinets.
“You will also measure them out in the amounts as indicated. Be very exact. Your job depends on the flavor.”
“Jayonna!” Dharma called out.
“Sir!”
“Please obtain the fruit needed in these amounts,” he said handing her a different list. “Then chop the apples the exact same way Kamaya is chopping the onions.”
“As you wish.”
Once Jayonna began chopping apples, Kamaya competed with her. Together, they quickly began filling the mixing bowl. After chopping apples, Jayonna helped finish chopping the onions as well. Bhavesh stirred the spices into the mix while Kamaya added raisins. After spooning the mixture into steel condiment pans for the food line, she presented them to Dharma, who was staring at his watch.
“Just in time. The onions have been reborn!”
Love working in the kitchen, and I love finding the good in the less than perfect vegetable or fruit, this story brought out my favourite things to do when I cook, thanks Juli! (Now I need to make chutney).
I like cooking because it is creative, and salvaging produce that is going bad makes me feel good! I enjoy how this story reminds us that being chosen for a task isn’t necessarily a punishment but can be an acknowledgment of your skills! Nice job!
Team A
Perchance to Dream
And the princess pricked her finger on the spindle and slept for a hundred years.
The princess dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed. As she slumbered, she forgot many things, including which memories were real. Sometimes she was Snow White in her glass coffin, sometimes Rapunzel in her tower. Often she was just a child, running in the rose gardens- searching endlessly for a white rabbit.
In the real world, she lay on the velvet bed, and her hair continued to grow so that her golden locks spilled over the coverlet and down onto the floor where dust, which does not sleep, collected.
She had nightmares sometimes. Dragons chased her, princes searched for her, witches cursed her. There were grasping trees, honking geese, endless tunnels, bottomless wells. And always, always, she was lost. Always, always, she was searching.
Sometimes He spoke to her in her restless dreams. Vague wordless impressions from Him reminded her that she was safe, that she was cared for, that she could just rest, rest, rest there on her velvet bed. He would never leave her nor forsake her.
In the fiftieth year, a tear slid down her cheek when she forgot her mother. In the fifty-first year, the permanent smile on her full lips relaxed when she forgot her father. The pink of her cheeks faded as she forgot each of her childhood friends. And for the final twenty-five years, her face was blank, ageless, expressionless.
At least the nightmares stopped around that time. Most of her dreams now consisted of vague shades of emotion. Happiness was blue. Sweetness was pink. Green was jealousy. Red was anger. Beige was boredom. Gold was hope. Comfort was purple.
She no longer remembered who He was exactly, but she still felt His comforting presence, still turned to Him in vague and formless purple-golden dreams.
Her arms lay at her sides, and by the ninetieth year, her fingernails grew nearly past her knees. Dust settled on her eyelids and mouth. She dreamed in beige now most of the time, which would have annoyed her had she been conscious, but was now a blessed relief.
She did not hear the young prince hacking away at the brambles, nor the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. She did not hear his footsteps on the spiral staircase nor his intake of breath when he entered her chamber.
But she did feel the pressure of his lips on hers, felt her lips, then her cheeks, then her hands slowly warm out of their cold stupor. She was half-awake, and part of her was startled at this intrusion of her beige dreams. In her distress, she turned to He who had never forsaken her.
A formless question rose from Him to her and she sensed she was being given a choice. She could go home with Him now- to the eternal warmth, life, and hope He offered, or she could wake up to the prince’s kiss, to a new life in an old world. It would be easy, so easy just to go with Him now. She sensed He would not be angry if that was her choice, and yet she wanted to see the handsome face of the prince and to look into his eyes. She could not choose.
Whatever you think is best, she whispered in her heart.
A moment later, her eyes opened in her tower and she gazed into the prince’s rich brown eyes.
“Good morning,” she said.
She did not remember her life before the enchantment, but that did not matter. The prince took her by the hand and led her toward the staircase. The princess looked back at her velvet bed, wondering what she was leaving behind. But then she remembered- He was still with her. He would always be with her.
And the prince led her into the sunshine of a bright new day.
This is a beautiful and haunting story! It makes me think about people in a coma and what they might be thinking. The steadfast voice of caring and being given a choice is well done! Thank you for sharing!
TEAM A! Well Done Herbert!
“Art Revival”
Ming Po could barely remember a time beyond these walls. A time of sunshine and summer colors. A time when the temperature changed with the seasons.
“He has talent,” the buddhist monk told his parents, and offered them more than they earned in a year to “compensate you for your loss of such a fine son.”
With so many mouths to feed and Ming Po already chastised on a regular basis for “dreaming,” his parents readily accepted the money and he left with the monk.
They travelled by an ornate cart to the temple in the middle of Zan Zou City, the curtains drawn the entire trip to keep the “unwashed” from gazing upon such an important official of the temple. The monk spent the entire time quizzing the boy about the holy texts and his education. To the man’s unsurprise he found Ming Po’s knowledge extremely lacking.
“Ah, but we will rescue you from the depths of ignorance and set you among the bliss of enlightenment,” the monk repeated often after great sighs of disappointment.
Upon arrival to the temple, the driver stopped to allow the monk to disembark at the front steps of the grand building while Ming Po had to wait to be dropped off at the servant’s entrance in the back. The boy was immediately manhandled into a tub of scalding water and scrubbed within an inch of his life. The servants then shaved and robed him in a simple black garment befitting an apprentice.
Ming Po then found himself shuffled through hallway after hallway, each becoming more grand until his escort brought him to the ornate doors of the monk’s reception chambers. The servant gave him a glare to behave as the gateway opened without a sound. They both bowed low to the monk and the servant left Ming Po to his master’s care.
So began his education. Years of lessons on all manner of subjects. And art. Always focused on the improvement of his drawing and calligraphy skills. For Ming Po was to become a cleric. His life’s work to copy and illuminate the great works of philosophers dear to the mindset of the temple and the country at large.
Ming Po looked at the page before him. The day the monk delivered him to the temple was nigh on seventy years ago.
And at first the halls and rooms of the Temple held so much beauty for him that he forgot about the true colors of a sunset over the rice fields. He didn’t long for the green of the mountains or the orange of the koi in the pond at the rich man’s house near his childhood home.
Then the memories faded and the only color in his world was the ones he used to decorate the pages of the great tomes. The monk eventually placed him in a large inner chamber of the temple to “keep you from distractions.” On a daily basis he only saw the tan of the wooden pine walls which darkened to a solid brown as the years progressed. Designated servants of the highest degree took care of his every need and he slept in a simple chamber adjacent to the work room.
In place of the memories of the outside world, his esteem in the eyes of the public grew. It became a great honor to own a manuscript transcribed and decorated by the great Ming Po. His imagination created dragons so vivid the beholder felt he could touch them and landscapes so detailed that one could live in them.
Ming Po looked at the page before him. The day the monk delivered him to the temple was nigh on seventy years ago. Lately he grew tired of doing the same scenes over and over. He tried to capture the essence of the manuscripts in new ways each time, but felt he was out of ideas.
This was to be his last manuscript.
He put the final touches on the script with a hand that was not as steady as the day he started, but still delicate in its movements. Ming Po smiled at the apprentice who was eager to take on his workload and laid down his stylis for the last time.
As he stood, Ming Po silently thanked the monk who made sure he added daily exercise to his routine so he would always be physically balanced in harmony with the mental activity the artist poured out over time. No trembling or awkwardness in his gait.
Ming Po walked with dignity through the painted walls of the temple as his new group of servants escorted him to the chamber designated for his retirement. Other monks bowed deeply at his passing and apprentices did their best not to gaze in awe of his appearance.
He paused at a door which led to the central courtyard and asked to take a moment in the expansive garden. Surprised at a monk actually requesting something of them, they opened the way to the inner paradise and Ming Po entered with his eyes watering in delight.
The monk breathed in the perfume of flowers that before only smelled of ink and paint. He drank in the riot of organized colors as a man does when he is offered ginger water after a long time at work in the hot sun – not really knowing how thirsty he was and yet needing the replenishment so badly that his body was in danger of perishing.
Ming Po started over the brilliant red bridge in the middle of the path and paused to take in the orange koi in the deep blue pond. The sunlight sparkled off of the water giving the scene an ethereal effect.
He called for his paints and a canvas to be brought to him. His retirement to his chamber could wait.
Great details about the job and the surroundings. Enjoyed the riot of color at the end and his desire to paint!
Team 1 — Reepicheep
At Great Cost
Three weeks at sea make a man start to see things.
No, it’s not the being at sea that makes a man see things, although the monotonous horizon certainly doesn’t help. It’s living on one-third food and water rations and trying to convince a three-quarter mad captain to turn back, all the while knowing that a mutiny will only lead to everyone’s dying. That makes a man see things.
So, it came as no surprise when Edward Gallson did not cast a second thought upon the flying island.
No, the finest eye in the crow’s nest was not about to admit to being insane. He had seen what the crewmembers did to the crazies who were eating up the rations—rations that belonged exclusively to beneficial seamen. He shivered just a little. Not because of the air, although this was the coldest voyage he had ever been on; the chilling memory made Gallson tremble.
Gallson refused to dwell on dark thoughts of murder—murder he had participated in—he looked around the horizon; left to right, right to left. Each time, he caught sight of that flying island. Briefly considering saying nothing, Gallson finally let out a bellowing “Land ho!” and covered his head.
The commotion below sealed his fate. Most men came climbing up from where they had been hiding in their cabins, but a few were already at the railing. Those that had already been searching the horizon looked up to the crow’s nest for Gallson to point to the land.
Gallson raised a trembling hand and pointed straight ahead to where their ship was heading. Perhaps it might even be truly there.
No such luck.
Angry yelling started with the men closest to the front—those that should have been able to see the land—and quickly carried to right below Gallson’s vantage point.
Gallson could easily ignore the hurled insults, he knew he wasn’t a blind, three-legged pig, but he would not ignore the threats. They had been carried out on two crow’s nest watchers already.
He quickly jumped from the bucket he’d been crammed into and landed deftly on the rigging’s long beam that held the sail up.
“Please no.” Gallson begged any deity that would listen. “I promise. If I don’t die today, I’ll go to the first temple I see when I get home.” Gallson continued to slide back along the sail’s support beam.
It was no use; the first sailor had reached the top of the crow’s nest and drew a long knife. “You lied to us.” The man’s knife bobbed up and down, left, and right, as his anger tried to escape through his arm’s movements.
“No!” Gallson felt his hand come to the end of the wooden beam. “Look!” He pointed towards the floating island. But, when his eyes worked up the courage to follow his hand, a cloud had covered his precious sight.
“I see it.” A wave of relief washed over Gallson as the man rested both hands on the crow’s nest’s edge. “I see an empty horizon and,” The angry man swung his gaze hard on Gallson. “I see a lying, useless, ration-eating, blind, one-legged chicken hiding up in the crow’s nest.”
The furious seaman vaulted onto the wooden beam Gallson trembled on.
But before the mariner could swing his knife, a piercing screech split the open sea-air.
All heads turned towards the sound, straight ahead.
“What was—” The sailor that had been so close to killing Gallson started to ask, but another deafening cry silenced him.
This time, a sight came with the sound. A gloriously bright, orange, yellow, and red bird with streaks of black and gray, dove down from a cloud and into view.
It took Gallson a moment to reorient himself, he had momentarily thought that the sun had simply moved its position, the bird was so brilliant.
The bird spread its massive wings and arrested its dive so that it flew parallel to the great ship. Its wingspan easily fifty feet, perhaps sixty. Either way, enough to feed all the crew as they made their way back to port.
The half-starved sailors scrambled back below deck and came back up with their harpoons.
“Hold!” Cried the captain, raising a hand. When all the men had their spears at the ready, arms in position to throw, the captain dropped his hand and hollered, “release!”
Dozens of harpoons embedded into the massive bird’s body. But, as quickly as the projectiles landed, a fire erupted from the bird’s blood and singed the ropes attached to the seaman’s weapons.
Another, terrifying shriek rushed from the fowl’s beak. The bird flapped its mighty wings once, then twice, slowly gaining altitude despite the continued assault from the men below.
Then a well sighted spear struck the mighty creature’s wing, and it fell directly on top of the giant boat.
Cries of triumph quickly died on the seafarers’ lips. The very boards that the phoenix landed on were now a harsh inferno.
The majestic bird raised its head once, let out a final cry, and then rested in its new bed of flames.
Brave sailors grabbed buckets and ran through the flames in desperate attempts to douse the source of the fire.
Slowly, the ship tipped as the right side was burned away, and the ocean poured into the compartments below.
Gallson clung to the mast, completely forgetting about his fellow sailor who had tried to kill him moments before. And beheld a wonder.
There, amongst the starvation, amongst the murder, amongst the burning, arose the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
Right before the ship tossed violently to the side and he lost his grip, Gallson saw a new Pheonix spread its wings and fly.
Really cool story here! It moves well and the prose feels hearty. Great one!
Title: Gradual
Team A: Herbert
I was looking far and wide, trying to come up with characters and arcs and words — I forgot that the story closest to home was the one most worthy of being shared.
This is for the lonely and the misfits. This is for those who have lost hope and let go. This is the story of my own rebirth.
I was walking up the stairs one morning and saw a bunch of classmates chatting and waiting in line for our 7th grade homeroom teacher. I stood quietly in my usual spot at the end of the hallway, swaying my lunchbox, amused only by my thoughts.
Most of my classmates I had known since I was seven. But when they started forming cliques at eleven, I was too quiet, too slow to join in. I observed from the outside. I wasn’t desperate enough to change myself, nor smart enough to realize that school was more about personal connections than just academics.
Still, I prided myself on being seen as smart — an intellectual. But what’s the point if you can’t share it with anyone?
Don’t get me wrong, I had friends — just not in that classroom. I had people from church, including a best friend who I once overlooked, thinking she wasn’t “cool” enough. I had tried to blend in with my childhood playmates, those who were into makeup, boys, and exclusivity. But it always felt like betrayal. Thankfully, my best friend stayed patient. She showed me what it meant to be myself, even if we didn’t fit in. Together, we were the outcasts, but we were never truly lonely because we had each other.
In school, though, I was on my own. My classmates talked to me, yes, but never long enough to really know me — the me that was longing to break out of my shell.
“Eunice!”
I turned. It was Sven and Sofia — classmates I had known since grade school. Friendly, cheerful, but with their own groups.
“That was a great speech you gave earlier!” Sven said, full of energy despite his small frame. “Yeah!” Sofia added, her smiling eyes bright. “We love it when you speak for P&P!”
You’re probably wondering: if I’m so quiet, how did I end up giving speeches?
Our American homeroom teacher had started a new class called Projects and Presentations (P&P). We were the guinea pigs. Everyone was scared — we’d all have to speak in front of the class. But something about it awakened something in me. I was nervous, sure, but I felt alive. Finally, I had a place to say everything I had been keeping inside.
Another question: if some classmates were nice, wasn’t I less lonely?
The thing is, loneliness doesn’t disappear just because people talk to you. It lingers when you still feel like no one truly sees or accepts you. I longed to be somewhere I could be myself — fully — and be loved because of it. I didn’t know such a place could exist. But I let the story unfold.
I smiled at Sven and Sofia, waving my hands modestly. “I was nervous the whole time!” I admitted, though inside, I was thrilled. The front of the class had become a stage where I could just be.
“You belong up there, Eunice,” Sven said as we walked toward the classroom. “You almost transform when you’re up there,” Sofia added.
Huh. I didn’t realize others saw that in me. I just knew it felt right.
“You’re like a Transformer!” Sven laughed. I giggled.
Then the door opened. Mr. Marcus, our towering, grizzly bear-like homeroom teacher, stood there. He had wild stories from his time in the US Bomb Squad, but more than that, he openly shared his love for Jesus. I admired that.
We entered the cold classroom. I placed my lunchbox under my desk. Some students wiped off sweat from playing basketball. Mr. Marcus let us settle down.
“I have something to share with you all,” he said in his deep voice. “It’s a video about the Bible — from Genesis to Revelation. I researched it all. It’s solid truth. I want to show it to you before the school year ends. Is that alright?”
I nodded without realizing it, folding my hands on the desk.
Some students were only half-listening, but I was fully tuned in. Mr. Marcus pulled down the projector screen. The video title appeared: Light of the World.
I’ve known Jesus since I was a child. I thought it was amazing that Someone would die for me. But the reality of that never truly hit me — not until that video.
To be honest, it wasn’t just one video that changed everything. It was the fact that God kept meeting me — in my loneliness, in my aching desire for acceptance. Every moment I reached for Him, He showed up. The video was just one more seed planted in the soil of my searching heart.
My story may not seem climactic. There’s no major plot twist. But I believe some transformations are quiet. Gradual. Like my discovery of loving public speaking. Like my deepening love for writing. Like how, over time, I fell in love with Jesus — not just as an idea, but as a Savior who met me where I was and never left.
This is the story I forgot to tell — the one that mattered the most.
SO sweet Eunice! Is this your personal testimony? Cause I really resonate with it. I was homeschooled, but the outcast feelings still existed in my Sunday school youth class, because I wasn’t “one of them”. Your story spoke to that part of my growing up years, thanks!
Amazing Grace
I once was lost..but now I am found.
I used to sing those words with my father in church. He had a deep, tremulous voice that could soothe even the angriest of spirits. My father sang those words and meant them. To me, they were just words. I suppose I just never felt lost. Until now.
The church was emptied out by this point. My father was cremated so there would be no burial service. Everyone had filtered out into their cars. They had plans to go to Ruby Tuesdays or the barbeque down the street. Never mind the son who stood in an empty church in front of an empty coffin that we picked for show. I heard those words to that old hymn echoing in my head. Still, it doesn’t resonate with me. I am lost…and now I will never be found. I swallow hard and look up at the wooden cross displayed above my father’s memorial.
“Where are you now?” I asked, bitterness lacing my tone. “Where were you when he breathed his last?” my throat tightened as tears threatened to spill over my eyelids.
“He was there, David. He is always there.” My Grandmother, or Nana as we call her, said from behind me. “Your father’s last breath here was his first breath in Heaven.” She smiled up at the cross, her old eyes watery.
I couldn’t help but scoff. In the wake of her own son’s death and yet she grave honor to a God who took the best man I knew from this Earth.
I turned to walk away. “There is no Heaven, Nana.”
—
People say the strangest things when you lose a loved one.
“It was his time to be with the Lord.”
“He is in a better place now.”
“At least he was a Christian, you don’t have to worry about where he is.”
Every one of these phrases made me angrier than the last. The past few days had felt as close to the underworld as I ever wanted to be. All in my despair, I still heard the words of that darn song. It was replaying in my head like a record that couldn’t move on to the next song. I had felt it pricking at my heart. Still, all I felt was anger. How could a good God take my father from me? How was I supposed to be found when he was gone?
I sat on my bed, my TV playing Netflix reruns of an old sitcom my dad used to laugh at. I never found it funny, but it’s nice to hear the familiar laugh track. Next to my bed was the hardcover King James that my dad used to read. Nana gave it to me a few days after the funeral.
“Just give it a read, maybe you’ll find comfort.” She told me when she handed me the worn out thing. I don’t remember if what I said was kind or not.
Out of curiosity, I found myself reaching over for the book. The cover was so well used that it almost fell off when I grabbed it. My father would pour over this thing as if it was as essential as breathing. To him it was. I opened to a random page and as I did, a piece of paper fell out. I snatched my hand out and grabbed the fluttering paper. I could feel my heart beating out of my chest. My trembling fingers opened the paper. Tears sprung to my eyes as my dads sloppy chicken scratch came into view. I had hoped it was some secret letter to me, you know, the ones you see in movies. Instead it looked like a prayer.
Lord,
I know he doesn’t believe in you. That breaks my heart more than I could ever explain. But Lord, I know he needs you. There will be a day when I am not here. I can’t imagine the day that happens and he’s left alone. Be there for him, comfort him please. You are all good…show David your love for him.
Andrew
Tears dripped onto the note, causing the ink to blur. It’s such a simple letter. My dad was a simple man. He never tried to convince me or force me. Perhaps it wasn’t by accident that the letter fell out of the book. I looked towards my ceiling, to the heavens.
“Thank you…” I whispered.
Perhaps I wasn’t found yet, but maybe I wasn’t as lost as I thought I was. My father loved God with all of his heart. Perhaps I can too.
I was blind…but now I see.
TEAM 1
Restoration Summer
Jenny swayed on the porch swing, wrapped in the heat and humidity of the morning. This was the fifth summer she would spend with her grandparents. She had begged her dad to let her stay home, at 14 she was old enough to be alone, but he insisted. Coming here used to make her feel closer to Momma; but now, she missed her friends. Her dad used to stay with her a few days, but not anymore. Jenny figured it was too painful for him, or maybe he was just anxious to get a break from her. It was hard to tell these days.
As she contemplated what to do next, Grandpa stepped outside. “Want to help me with a project?”
Jenny used to love helping Grandpa in his garden or building something in his workshop. Her heart just wasn’t in it this year, but she agreed anyway. There weren’t many other options.
Built on the back of the garage, the workshop was filled with familiar sights and smells; the work bench, tools, paint cans stacked in the corner, wood scraps, and sawdust. A tarp covered something in the middle of the shop. Grandpa’s eyes twinkled as he nodded towards it, “It’s under there.”
Expecting to find some beautiful piece of furniture, Jenny was surprised to reveal a beat-up old dresser, scratched and dinged with peeling paint and missing knobs. She looked at him with confusion.
“It’s solid oak!” Grandpa’s enthusiasm was evident. “It’s too valuable for the landfill. I thought we could restore it together.”
“Sounds great.” Jenny sighed, struggling to match his excitement. “Where do we start?”
Over the next few weeks, they took apart the entire dresser; sanding and scraping and stripping the wood; removing old hardware and filling in holes and cracks. They talked sometimes, but many times worked in silence. Grandpa played Christian music in the background. It wasn’t Jenny’s first choice, but after a few weeks she found herself singing along, “I’m thankful for the scars,” or “There was Jesus.”
Grandpa, do you believe all this Jesus stuff?” Jenny asked.
“Jesus stuff?” Grandpa wiped a cloth over the top of the dresser to remove any lingering dust.
Jenny’s grandparents brought her to church with them every Sunday over the summer, and to prayer meetings on Wednesdays, sometimes to bible studies and outreach projects. When her mom was alive, Jenny’s family went to church too, but not anymore. Dad said it wasn’t much use. She’d been listening to the messages a little more closely lately.
“The pastor said God can restore all things, that we can be made new through Jesus.”
“Absolutely, I’m living proof,” Grandpa’s tone was warm.
“What do you mean?”
“Growing up, my parents didn’t see much need for God and neither did I. Then I went to war,” Grandpa tapped his fingers on the wood, “it’s ready for stain.”
“A guy in my unit, Joshua, was always praying, quoting scripture and singing hymns. I’d never known anyone like that. I mostly just ignored him, but now I know that he planted a seed.”
“Is that when you became a Christian?” Jenny inquired.
“Nope. The war messed me up something awful. Kinda like this dresser, I was broken, covered in scars. Folks experience some ugly and evil things in a war. Several friends, including Joshua, didn’t make it home. I was restless and angry, confused and lost. My family didn’t know how to help. I was drinking, getting into fights, couldn’t keep a job.”
“You!” Jenny couldn’t imagine her sweet-natured grandpa in such a state.
“One night, I sat in my truck, drinking my whisky and feeling hopeless. I remembered how Joshua always had this peace about him, even in the middle of a war. I asked out loud, ‘God, are you real?’”
“Did he answer?” Jenny asked intently.
“In a way. An hour later, I rolled my truck into a ravine. Laid there for three hours before someone spotted me and called for help.” Grandpa began applying the stain, immediately changing the tone of the wood.
“I spent the next four weeks in the hospital, bed bound with broken bones, cuts and bruises. I was still angry, wondering if life was even worth living. It was a religious hospital, and a chaplain, Reverend Johnson, visited each day. I was rude at first, and he kept it short. A few days in I was so annoyed that I started asking questions. Why would a good God let this happen? Why does he allow war? Why did Joshua die if he prayed not to?”
This hit Jenny hard. She had a lot of questions herself. Many people had prayed for her Momma, and she died anyway. She knew Grandma and Grandpa prayed for her dad, too, but it didn’t seem to be working.
“He answered every question, shared the Gospel every day, prayed over me. God may not have put me there, but he met me in that hospital bed, when I couldn’t get up and run away. As my body healed, so did my spirit. I began to understand who God was and who I was to God.”
“So that’s how you became a Christian?”
“Yes, that’s when God began restoring me. To set me on the path he destined for me.”
“It was that easy?” Jenny was skeptical.
“I wouldn’t say it was easy. I needed a lot of healing.” Grandpa brushed more stain on the wood. “Faith is a journey. Sometimes there are bumps in the road, but God doesn’t abandon us in hard times, especially when we are earnestly seeking him.”
“So what happened next?” Jenny asked.
“I had to go to physical therapy,” Grandpa winked. “There was this pretty young lady at the desk, blue eyes, long dark hair, amazing smile.”
“Grandma?” Jenny guessed.
“Yep.”
Jenny smiled, noticing how the stain brought out the natural beauty of the wood. She was beginning to see the potential.
I love how you tied in the restoration of the dresser with the grandfather’s testimony. Jenny’s character and her family situation felt realistic, too. Great work!
Sweet story! I agree with Jordan, the conversation woven with the dresser restoration was great.
I was crazy busy this week and didn’t want to miss the last deadline, so I combined the short story prompt with a novel in progress. My apologies, as this is not a self-contained short story, but part of a scene from a larger narrative.
Book of Eve (excerpt) – Team A
“I tried to report it,” Xander insisted. “But the guard was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t just leave her there.”
Dax cringed at the strange human-machine hybrid lying on the workbench, stinking of decomposition and burnt rubber. Her blue eyes stared into oblivion, and sickly white skin sagged from her face. “I sent you and Chirp to get spare parts, not bring home trouble. Who knows where this thing came from?”
Xander frowned and checked the readout on the cyborg woman’s access panel. His boss’s apprehension shocked him. This was a chance to save a life. They had a duty to act. “Her battery’s recharging. Maybe we can restore her.”
“Not unless you can raise the dead. Battery or not, she’s expired.”
Before Xander could respond, the cyborg beeped and emitted a low humming noise. Chirp floated away from the creature like a child who’d just broken something.
“Chirp, what did you do?” Xander hurried to the access panel.
The silver orb spat a rapid series of tweets.
Dax glared at the orb. “What’s it saying?”
Xander shook his head, staring at an unfamiliar command prompt on the cyborg’s access panel. “He set off some kind of automated system. It looks like a startup subroutine.”
“What? How’s that possible?”
The computer voice spoke from the cyborg’s access panel, “Verbal interface activated. Would you like to initiate startup now?”
Xander and Dax looked at each other, then at the cyborg woman.
“There must be a malfunction,” Dax said. “Computer, this unit is deceased.”
The computer hesitated for a moment and made several clicking noises. “Biological functions are within repairable parameters. Would you like to initiate recovery?”
“Recovery?” Xander stepped back and surveyed the cold body covered in wires and mechanical attachments. “You mean you can bring her back to life?”
“Affirmative. This unit is capable of rebirth protocol.”
Xander glanced at Dax and raised an eyebrow. “What do you say, boss?”
“There’s no way. Look at her.”
“We should try at least. It’s not like she can end up more dead.”
Dax blinked and took his time to respond, obviously conflicted about resurrecting the strange being. Finally, he said, “Alright, but this thing’s your responsibility. Whatever it does, you’re accountable.”
“She’s not a Praither bloodhound, Dax. She’s human.”
“I’m not sure what this thing is, but run the startup if you want to.”
Xander focused on the cyborg’s access panel, hiding his irritation with his boss. What could possibly go wrong by running a simple startup routine? “Computer, initiate recovery.”
“Command acknowledged.” The humming intensified, and the robotic woman’s dead eyes began to glow like the yellow Perdita sun. Fluids pumped through the tubes protruding from her neck and head. Her sagging skin tightened, and the decomposed tissue reformed into healthy flesh. Even the stench faded.
Xander’s mouth dropped open. “What kind of technology can do this?” He glanced at Dax, who stared enthralled at the wonder unfolding before their eyes.
Dax shook his head. “Nothing I’ve ever seen before. We had a few cyborgs in the fleet, but nothing like this.”
The lights in the cyborg’s eyes faded, and the computer beeped again. “Regeneration sequence successful.”
Xander looked over the restored body. There was a gentle heartbeat, and the chest rose with shallow breaths. “She’s alive! Let’s get her started up.”
The silver orb chirped enthusiastically as it floated about the room.
“Hang on a minute.” Dax raised a hand. “We don’t even know where this thing came from.”
“I told you, I found it in the junkyard.”
“But where was it before that? Why was it in a trash heap if it was still operational?”
Xander paused as he absorbed Dax’s questions. Obviously, there was a story behind the being’s unexpected appearance, but there had to be a simple explanation. “Computer, who was the previous owner of this unit?”
“There are no ownership records available,” the computer said.
Xander pursed his lips and tried another question. “Why was this unit in the junkyard?”
The computer made more clicking sounds, then said, “Error. I am unable to process that request.”
“What can you tell me about this unit’s past?”
The computer clicked again. “No information is available.”
Dax clicked his tongue. “Someone must have wiped its memory.”
“Maybe if we restart it, she’ll remember.”
“Perhaps. I don’t like this, though.”
“She’s breathing. We can’t just take her back to the junkyard now.”
“Something’s not right about this. People don’t just dump these things without a reason.”
“Well, what should we do, boss?”
Dax glared at the half-human machine and stroked his dark beard. “Like I said, it’s your responsibility. If you want to turn it on, I won’t stop you.”
Hardly a vote of confidence, but at least Dax wouldn’t stand in his way. Xander took a deep breath and faced the mechanical woman. “Computer, initiate startup.”
The computer chimed. “Please select a designated caretaker before proceeding.”
Xander’s eyes widened. The words “designated caretaker” had a ring commitment he’d not anticipated. He glanced at his boss.
“Hey, you wanted to turn this thing on.” Dax shrugged. “You’re the caretaker.”
Xander swallowed, suddenly doubting the wisdom of activating the strange creature. Still, his curiosity demanded he keep going. “Computer, I will be the designated caretaker.”
“Affirmative.” The computer beeped. “Rebirth protocol initiated.”
The humming from the strange being grew louder, forcing Xander and Dax to cover their ears. The bright lights in the creature’s eyes returned, blinking at random intervals. Its body convulsed in violent spasms, heaving it onto the floor. Xander started toward the cyborg, but Dax laid an arm across his chest to restrain him. Little Chirp flew across the warehouse floor and hid behind a shelf. There was a blinding flash as the deafening hum reached a crescendo. Xander closed his eyes. When he looked back, the cyborg pulled itself off the floor and stared at him.
This is captivating. Do you have a mailing list or newsletter for when you publish the book this is from? I’d love to read it!
Hi Michele,
I do have a newsletter. You can sign up at awmorisseau.com or by leaving your email address here.
Thanks for reading!
Andy
The Power of a Name
by April Lee Hammond, Team A
One mistake had cost him everything—his position, his home, his friends, even his name. Two years had passed since the banishing ceremony that erased him from the mind of the villagers. Still, he didn’t stray far. The Healer Tomas, the man he once was, had dedicated himself to these people.
Most avoided his cabin in the woods, so it was a surprise the day Thorne stumbled into his yard, pale and feverish. The banishment forbade him from talking to the man, but he grabbed the potions he had never stopped making and followed him.
He hated going to town and seeing those he once counted as friends now treating him as a stranger. Today, though, all was quiet. Though a beautiful afternoon, shops remained closed, and the streets were empty. From inside one home, he heard a terrible, wracking cough.
Thorne made it home, but collapsed at the door. None greeted him. The healer helped him inside. Thorne’s wife lay on the couch, her breathing labored. Two children huddled in the corner, coughing. The youngest, Aren, met his eyes, the first to do so in years.
Forget the rules. He led Thorne to the bed, then pulled out his potions. The others paid no attention as he gave them the medicines, but there was trust in Aren’s eyes. The man wanted to hug him for that. When he had done all he could, he slipped out of the house.
For days, he moved about the village like a ghost, doing what he could. It was evident that Lira, the new healer, also worked. She did her best, but she was young and had no mentor. He longed to help, but knew she wouldn’t listen, not after her sister’s death.
He wished he could go back. He hadn’t taken the young woman’s illness seriously. She was prone to attention-grabbing, so he thought nothing of it when she complained of a stomachache. Things went bad quickly. He didn’t fight Lira when she insisted on the banishment.
Except now he was sneaking around the village, playing the part of healer when he had no right. What if something went wrong? He pushed these thoughts away. The people needed help, and Lira couldn’t do it alone.
One afternoon, he slipped out a door to find Lira demanding why he was there. As the one who had performed the ceremony, she was the only one who remembered him.
“You have no right to be giving potions,” she shouted. “Leave!”
He lowered his satchel to the ground, leaving it for her, then walked away.
Back at his cabin, he made more potions. He didn’t know if he would ever use them, but he couldn’t stop. He fell asleep at his worktable.
The next morning, an insistent knock pulled him out of troubled dreams. He peeked out the door and found Aren looking up at him.
“Help,” the boy said.
He didn’t stop for questions. He grabbed a satchel and potions, stuck his feet into shoes, and ran with him.
At the healer’s cabin, his step slowed. Aren looked back with pleading. He couldn’t disappoint this boy the way he had disappointed Lira.
Lira, sitting at her cluttered worktable, would have argued, but coughing prevented her.
“He can help,” Aren told her.
The former healer quickly mixed a potion for her. She hesitated, but took it.
“I followed the book,” she told him. “Nothing gets rid of the fever except your potions. What am I missing?”
He shrugged. There were too many things the books didn’t teach.
“Show me.”
First, they made a new batch of his medicine. Then, they started on the problem of the cough. Aren climbed onto a stool and watched until he got hungry. Then, he found food and brought some to them. Lira put him to work, showing him things that his little hands could do. The man watched, remembering a time when he had done the same with her.
By day’s end, they were all tired and frustrated. Lira dropped her head into her hands. She pulled a steaming bowl closer and breathed it in. Within moments, she relaxed and her coughing eased.
“You have to breathe it in,” she said. “But how do we get that to everybody?”
In some ground herbs that had spilled on the table, the man drew a picture.
“The greenhouse!” Aren guessed.
It had the steam. They just needed the herbs and the people. Lira went into a flurry of motion.
By morning, the greenhouse was filled with people and aromatic steam. Lira took a deep breath, the first in a long time. Slowly, the sound of coughing dwindled.
“I knew you could help,” Aren told the man.
“Aren!” Thorne scolded. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”
“He’s not a stranger.” Aren took the man’s hand. “This is Moss. He brought you home and gave you medicine.”
At the words, a great weight lifted from him. Moss was a name the children had often called him.
“Moss?” Thorne said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” He stuck out a hand. “Thank you.”
Moss, for that was who he was now, shook his hand as if meeting him for the first time. After being introduced to others, Lira came to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “When my sister died, I needed someone to blame. You were supposed to heal her, so I blamed you. I realize now—Well, sometimes, there’s nothing you can do.” She turned to face him. “I never should have banished you. I’m willing to give you back your position. You will again be Healer T—”
He put a finger on her lips to stop her from speaking.
“I am Moss,” he said. He couldn’t believe how good it felt to stay that. “I’ll help how I can, but you are their healer now.”
“But—”
“You’re a fine healer, Lira. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I enjoyed this story. You left me wanting to learn more about the characters and the background, the banishing ceremony, etc.
Team A
I never deserved to see the light of day.
Growing up in the darker edges of my hometown, sipping poison, living a rowdy life, not caring- then soon enough, right in the midst of college, I got behind a wheel half drunk and way too incompetent for my own good. Sped right into a girl about my age crossing the road.
So, I rotted while her family pointed their fingers.
While she laid in a hospital, fighting for her life, I got marched down to the police station and booked for my first offence- something that landed me in jail.
The hateful eyes of her parents and family said I deserved it.
And by golly, I did.
Fourteen years sitting on a thin mattress feeling sorry for myself.
Five being unable to sleep without dreaming about the “accident.”
More with some kind of gut ache in the pit of my soul, clawing away.
My conclusion? I was stupid.
Am stupid.
And that’s when I decided, out of boredom and a fellow inmate’s constant nagging, to come to the prison chapel for a service.
I kept coming, not sure whether it was the preacher talking to us ladies that got me interested or what he said. Nothing else in this stinking hole offered any kind of hope. I wasn’t interested in any higher education except for poring over the old rusty pages of the Bible. It offered me some hope that I could save my stinking soul.
Jesus especially. He’s the best part of the Bible, the kind of guy that would look me right in my face if I passed him by on the other side of the street.
He told that Samaritan woman to go and be clean.
So I did.
I was baptized as a part of a special day at the prison, 350 other inmates with me. Some did it because they felt special doing it, but as I went down into the chilly water and came up freezing, I felt like what Jesus said became true of me.
I got clean.
And from there, I became what the rest of the prison calls a goody.
Still, I always had a crowd to look after me and pray for me. They cry for and with me on the rough days, too. Whatever we’re in for, from two years to life. We’re God’s girls.
Still, this isn’t the end for me.
Most of my youth gone, walking out that iron door with my personal affects, in my street clothes which match an 18-year-old’s body and style, I take my first free look at the sun from outside the prison walls.
It’s beautiful, God.
A red car appears down the road and stops in front of me, and a woman steps out. She’s got a large amount of tattoos covering her forearms and a nose piercing, but her eyes and blonde hairstyle don’t reflect the things she can’t change about herself. Instead of hostility, I see friendliness and warmth.
“Lyra?”
I offer a curt nod.
“Let me take your bag for you.”
I hand it over and she places it in the back.
“Tracy. I’m your ride to the shelter.”
I shake her extended hand.
“It’s a lot being on the outside.” I mutter.
She nods, understanding.
We both get into the car, and on the way, she tells me a bit of her story. Arrested for armed robbery. That was about it. She got saved during a desperate night in her cell, wanting to give up. Yet, He gave her new life too.
“You’ll like the girls at the shelter.” she says as we pull into the parking lot.
And boy, do I.
They all come out to greet me right there, offering hugs and saying names, and soon enough, I’m ushered inside. It’s more warmth than I expected, and not the kind of life ex-cons normally get on the outside. I’d better make the best of all these folks do for me.
The world won’t accept me like this.
But…. this, right here, is beautiful, God.
The girls at Take Flight boosted my spirits and taught me how to turn my passion for cars into something good- learning the trade of an auto mechanic. A little strange for a girl, I know, but I’m way proud of it.
Too proud, perhaps. I’m working on that.
Yet, an opportunity came to me that I didn’t expect. When I saw her name- Audrey Williams- on my customer list, I didn’t believe it.
And when she came wheeling through the door of Take Flight, smiling at me, I began to weep.
“Hi Lyra.” The moment seemed as surreal as anything, this woman’s voice.
“What are you doing, getting me work?” I said, and it came out harsher than I intended. I buried my face in my hands and I wept.
This good person, this A student. The one the news felt sympathy for, the one whose parents-
“I forgive you.” Audrey said, softly, her wheelchair inches from where I stood, holding out her arms.
I reached down to hug her.
“I wanted to say sorry- all these years-”
“It’s okay.”
“How would you make peace with something like that?” I managed to choke out.
She smiled.
“I think you know.”
ETA: Team A
I really had to cut a lot to fit this in under 1,000 words. I’m not sure if it is even understandable :/
Zee’s Return
by Michele Lieske
“Welcome to the city of Hevel, the land of freedom!”
Dressed in rags, gray-skin dull, pointed ears sagging, eight-year-old Zee huddled in a crevice of broken brick between two run-down buildings as she remembered the voice from right after she was snatched. She had gone against the rules, shieldless, and opened the gate on Alphega when the tall man begged her. The next thing she knew, she was in that dark room on Hevel. Her first memories of Hevel were the dark, especially in comparison to Alphega where everything was brightly lit, both buildings and carriages made of colored glass and crystal. The walls of the Hevel room she had been taken to were black with tiny windows hardly letting in any light. Zee wrinkled her nose at the memory of the stench of old trash, rotting food, and sweat.
“Here you can do whatever you want, no one is allowed to make you do anything!”
No more chores or bedtimes? That sounded good to Zee and she had smiled up at the man, following him out the door.
Now she shivered in the cold. Hevel no longer stunk as she had long adjusted to the smell. The darkness was normal, even in the daytime, with the haze that permeated the city. Zee thought about Alphega as she jumped out and snatched bread from a smaller kid walking by. She never would have done that there. She liked doing whatever she wanted. Or at least she had at first. She’d lost track of how much time she’d been here, but her clothes were now rags and her stomach grumbled even after wolfing down the stolen bread. She shivered as she scanned the shoddy apartment buildings on either side of her little crevice shelter. She had tried to commandeer one of the apartments but found she was no match for the adults and learned the hard way what would happen anytime she tried.
At least the light doesn’t burn my eyes here and no one tells me what to do. Zee tried to cheer herself up. It was no use. Tired of fighting for everything, shivering, hungry, and cold, Zee squeezed into her crevice between the two buildings.
Here I’m free. Zee bitterly repeated to herself as she sank into despair. I’m only miserable because Alphega won’t share. She remembered her lessons from when she first arrived. Alphega had all sorts of resources but wouldn’t share with Hevel unless it, too, restricted freedoms and followed Alphega’s laws, like submitting to the king and not stealing, and other restrictions Zee couldn’t remember. Hevel refused and so Hevel suffered. I hate Alphega and it’s king. Zee thought as she drifted to sleep despite her shivers.
A commotion on the streets woke Zee. That wasn’t unusual but this commotion was. Zee peeked out and saw two women and a man dressed in shining clothes, carrying the swords of the king and the uniform of his Tsaba. What are they doing in Hevel? Zee wondered. Looking closely she saw that they weren’t even Alphegean. Their skin wasn’t gray and their ears rounded instead of pointed. The oldest of the trio, a woman, made eye contact with Zee and walked over to her. Crouching down, the woman held out her hand,
“Zee?” she asked.
Zee didn’t speak, only eyed her warily. The man, no boy, he was younger than both women, also crouched down by her.
“Zee, we’ve been looking for you. The king loves you very much and has sent us to rescue you.”
“I don’t need rescue!”
“You look hungry and you need new clothes. I think you need a rescue,” the boy-man smiled.
“I don’t want your restrictions! If Alphega wouldn’t hog the resources, we’d be fine.”
“Honey, Alphega doesn’t hog resources” the woman spoke.
“Then why do we lack?” Zee asked defiantly.
“The resources come from the king himself. If you reject the king, you reject all of him, including the resources he provides.”
Zee furrowed her brows. That actually made sense.
“Why are Alphegeans locked in then?”
“They aren’t locked in, the gate is to keep the evil rulers of Hevel out. You were inside Alphega and opened the door remember? Nachash wasn’t able to open the door from the outside. When you opened the door to him, he took you. Are you able to leave Hevel?”
Zee’s mind whirled as she followed the three to the only path in and out of Hevel. Arriving at the path between two decrepit buildings, Zee found she could not pass. Something prevented her from leaving.
“Which city prevents its citizens from leaving?” the younger woman asked as Zee struggled to enter the path.
Zee’s eyes were opening. She had believed a lie and now she was helpless, stuck. The younger woman reached out her hand and took Zee’s. The older woman and the young man unsheathed their swords and started swinging them at something Zee could not see. As they made their way through the path, the younger woman tugged Zee’s hand and led her through. Zee could move freely when led by this young woman. Eventually they reached the other side and journeyed across the dessert to the gate she had foolishly opened all that time ago. An older man, dressed like her three escorts, rushed out with a shield in his hands.
“Your parents have given permission for us to give you the king’s shield” he said with obvious joy on his face.
Zee held still as he lifted the shimmering shield and placed it on her.
“Zee, bear this shield, commissioned by the king, forged by the prince, and delivered by the courier, now yours.”
The shield shimmered and whispered to her of the king’s love for her. Even as they all entered Alphega and she was reunited with her parents, she heard the shield telling her of the king’s love and the prince’s great deeds on her behalf. She felt like a new person. She felt reborn.
This is very interesting. Thank you!
“Free At Last” (Based on a True Story)
By: Hannah Stiff, Team A
(Disclaimer: some mention of violence, criminal behavior, thoughts of ending a life, nothing overly explicit)
Up until the moment I shot Steve, I didn’t give a hoot for all the crimes I had committed. The preachers would say I had “a seared conscience”. I guess mine wasn’t quite burnt yet, because it revved to life as I stood there that night, smoke trailing from my Colt 45. like a released soul.
The guy had been a close friend, my right hand man in all my operations. And now, in a fit of anger, I had gone and done the irreversible.
I made my way out of the warehouse, set up my story, called the cops anonymously. Oh, I still had my con game on, it was as easy as a Sunday afternoon nap. Within hours the boys in blue had chalked it up to a deal gone wrong. Within a day I was notified of his death and asked to host the wake because of my “connection to the deceased”.
The day of the wake dawned, and guilt held me hostage. The rap sheet I had worn for eight years like a silk scarf was suddenly smothering me. Nothing I was doing could make the pain leave.
I wasn’t going to bear it for the rest of my life. Once this day was over, I’d silence it once and for all.
The phone rang, and I fumbled to yank it out of the receiver.
“Hey Gene, it’s Leanne.” I heard a woman say.
“Oh, hey,” I mumbled. She had been involved in a job a few months back, no surprise she had heard about Steve.
“Could I come over?”
“Yeah, fine, see you soon.” I hung up and scowled, adding her to the list of commiserators.
Two hours later, I heard a sharp rap on the door. I swung it open and there was Leanne. So was a Bible about the size of her head. “Praise God!” she exclaimed.
My mouth dropped open. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, the girl had gotten religious. And now she was going to shove her church talk down my throat when I already felt like trash.
Get Rita, a voice whispered into my ear, and I called her from the living room. If Rita couldn’t scare off a Christian, nobody could, and she guided Leanne in while I sat down on the front porch.
More friends drove up, and laughed when I told them about the crazy Christian. But half an hour later, we were still sitting outside.
“Rita!” I yelled, the midsummer heat playing havoc with my nerves and patience.
“Look Gene!” she snapped as she ripped open the door, “she’s not gonna leave till she speaks to you, you’re just going to have to deal with it, kay?”
With a signal to my buddies, I led the way into the house. Maybe a house full of sinners would change her mind about staying.
I saw Leanne watching me as we trooped in and found seats. I caught her eye again when I realized the only place left for me was beside her. I threw myself into the armchair, smoldering.
“Gene, you need God!” Leanne announced. She flipped her Bible open, and jabbed at some reference with her finger, the other hand pointing straight at me. I countered with a string of profanity that would have knocked out a small Baptist congregation, but she didn’t flinch.
We duked it out for twenty minutes, her with her verses, me with my vulgarity. All thoughts of respect for the dead left me. I was mad.
Leanne suddenly lowered her head. Victory, I thought smugly. And then I realized she had begun to pray. I couldn’t tell you how long she was at it. But when it ended, she sat up, and the swollen, red eyes that met mine held a look I couldn’t even remember my mom showing me as a kid.
“Gene,” she quavered, “you don’t have to die for the pain to stop.” She smiled, and a tear slid down her chin. “Somebody has already died for you, and His name is Jesus Christ.”
My blood froze, and I stared at Leanne. How does she know? My brain screamed. God, something answered. Her God has sent her, how else can she see the despair you think you’ve covered?
“What do I have to do?” My voice trembled. She took my hand and pulled me outside the room. Does she know what that hand did four days ago? I shuddered, and felt the guilt begin to constrict as she led me to my knees.
Leanne began reciting the words of a prayer, and I slowly repeated them like a nervous grade schooler. We got to a part about Jesus forgiving my sins. I spoke those words, and suddenly the burden that was coming near to crushing me lifted. It didn’t weaken; it simply disappeared. Leanne grasped my arm as I cried, unashamedly, over the wonder of it all. I staggered to my feet, and ran to the living room. “Guys!” I stammered, tears still choking me.
They gave me a listen for a minute and made for the door. I had become a crazy Christian.
…
The next morning, I sat in the county Sheriff’s department. I had walked in through the front for once, not hauled like an animal through the side door.
I glanced at the deputy, who was eying me like I was part rattlesnake. He knew me too well, and his superior was in the back checking my story.
I had confessed to a crime nobody had accused me of. And as I sat there, I saw the irony of it all.
The stillness of the office was broken as two officers burst through like charging bulls. My body was slammed into the floor, and I tasted stained carpet and shoe leather as they flattened me.
“We got you Newson!” I heard one snarl as handcuffs bit into my wrists.
It didn’t matter. The Lord had gotten me first.
Phew, so I ended the challenge with a bit of a personal challenge of my own. This is based off a true story, from a testimony I had the pleasure of hearing from a pastor and family friend who did prison ministry with us. I only hope I did his salvation story some justice, 1000 words was never harder to work within. Let me know what you guys think!
I enjoyed reading your story! It is a special treat that it is based on a true story. I especially like the last line! Thank you for sharing!
Thanks so much Annette! If you want the full testimony, you can read it here: https://outwardfocusedinternational.org/jims-personal-testimony/
When the new prompt arrive, my first thought is, Oh no! What am I going to write to make that work? But the Holy Spirit ALWAYS shows up and I get an idea every time. It amazes me. Thanks for a thought provoking six weeks.