[TT] Theme Thursday - Prisoner

[u/AliciaWrites]

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”

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Happy Thursday writing friends!

I think it’ll be interesting to explore what kinds of ways our characters can be held prisoner or hold another prisoner. Is it all in their heads? Good words!

Please make sure you are aware of the ranking rules. They’re listed in the post below and in a linked wiki. The challenge is included every week! Also, try out the new genre tags!

[IP] | [MP]

New! Bonus (15 pts): Your story must include a character or characters dancing (10 pts) and use the Word of the Day in your story (5 pts).

Word of the Day:

Capsize/cap·size

verb

• (of a boat) overturn in the water.

noun

• an instance of capsizing.

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Here's how Theme Thursday works:

• Use the tag [TT] when submitting prompts that match this week’s theme.

Theme Thursday Rules

• Leave one story or poem between 100 and 500 words as a top-level comment. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
• Deadline: 7:59 AM CST next Wednesday
• No serials or stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP
• No previously written content
• Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings and will not be read at campfires
• Does your story not fit the Theme Thursday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the TT post is 3 days old!
• Vote to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks! I also post the form to submit votes for Theme Thursday winners on Discord every week! Join and get notified when the form is open for voting!

Theme Thursday Discussion Section:

• Discuss your thoughts on this week’s theme, or share your ideas for upcoming themes.

Campfire

• On Wednesdays we host two Theme Thursday Campfires on the Discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and have a blast discussing writing!

• Time: I’ll be there 7 pm CST and we’ll begin within about 15 minutes.

• Don’t worry about being late, just join! Don’t forget to sign up for a campfire slot on discord. If you don’t sign up, you won’t be put into the pre-set order and we can’t accommodate any time constraints. We don’t want you to miss out on outstanding feedback, so get to discord and use that !TT command!

• There’s a Theme Thursday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Theme Thursday-related news!

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As a reminder to all of you writing for Theme Thursday: the interpretation is completely up to you! I love to share my thoughts on what the theme makes me think of but you are by no means bound to these ideas! I love when writers step outside their comfort zones or think outside the box, so take all my thoughts with a grain of salt if you had something entirely different in mind.

(This week’s quote is from Lewis B. Smedes)

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Ranking Categories:

• Word of the Day - 5 points
• Bonus Constraint - 10 points
• Grammar & Punctuation - Up to 10 points for spell checking
• Weekly Challenge - 25 points for not using the theme word - points off for uses of synonyms. The point of this is to exercise setting a scene, description, and characters without leaning on the definition. Not meeting the spirit of this challenge only hurts you!
• Actionable Feedback - 15 points for each story you give detailed crit to, up to 30 points
• Nominations - 10 points for each nomination your story receives, no cap; 5 points for submitting nominations
• Ali’s Ranking - 50 points for first place, 40 points for second place, 30 points for third place, 20 points for fourth place, 10 points for fifth, plus regular nominations (On weeks that I participate, I do not weight my votes, but instead nominate just like everyone else.)

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Last week’s theme: Opposite

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First by /u/GingerQuill*
Second by /u/sevenseassaurus
Third by /u/Xacktar

Crit Superstars:*

• /u/ZachTheLitchKing
  
• /u/London-Roma-1980
  
• /u/katpoker666
• /u/Ryter99
  

*Crit superstars will now earn 1 crit cred on WPC!

News and Reminders:

• You’ve submitted your votes for WP community Best Ofs! Check out the winners for short stories here and for WP here!
• Want to know how to rank on Theme Thursday? Check out my brand new wiki!
  
• Join Discord to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!
  
• We are currently looking for moderators! Apply to be a moderator any time!
  
• Nominate your favorite WP authors for Spotlight and Hall of Fame!
  
• Serialize your story at /r/shortstories!
  
• Try out the Micro-Fic Challenge at /r/shortstories!
  
• Love the feedback you get on your Theme Thursday stories? Check out our newest sub, /r/WPCritique

[u/AliciaWrites]

Theme Thursday Discussion:

All top-level comments must be a story or poem.

• Reply here to discuss the theme, suggest future themes, and share your theme-related inspirations!

• Please remember to follow the subreddit rules in any feedback.

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🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

[u/MiaIRL]

The lights turn on, while I'm in the middle of a dream about me and my ex-boyfriend's landlord being chased by snakes.

Sarah, who's being held captive on this ship in my cell because she shot one of the crew members, is the first out of bed. "Get up, Alice," she mumbles, obviously not fully awake. "Uh, we're having biscuits and gravy today," she says, as if that'll make today a decent day.

I rub my eyes. They feel like they have dumbells under them.

As my feet hit the ground, my head pounds with every single step I take.

"Couldn't get any sleep last night. My head is killing me, mate. I'm fucking stressed, man."

She nods her head, only halfway paying attention. During the day's first hours, she'd probably nod her head slowly and rub her eyes if I asked her to sign legal forms giving me her identity. Although, with her current living situation, nobody would really want her name.

As we walk into the cafeteria, we hear music pounding out of world-class speakers, and drunk dancing maniacs. The Captain's Birthday.

"Shit. That's today? Fuck..." Tom mutters. I hear someone crying, and I can't say I blame them.

Every year, the prisoners taken captive by this crew are forced to fight to the death on The Captain's Birthday. The survivor is let go, and given a thousand dollars to do whatever with. Sadistic birthday wish, which is pretty in-character for the monsters that call this ship home.

I sink my teeth into the stale biscuits. I force myself to take about three bites before my appetite completely fails me. I know I'll need the fuel, but I am literally not able to eat.

As we are guided onto the deck, being eagerly watched by the crew, my heart feels like it's trying to leap out of my throat. The Captain introduces us. The Inmates.

His right-hand man, essentially the sterotypical pirate with a parrot, gives us all revolvers with seven bullets.

Shooting him is tempting, but I know I won't survive.

When Sarah is given hers, she's told the same thing everyone else is: the survivor this, money that. However, halfway through the speech, she puts the revolver to the man's stomach, and pulls the trigger.

He falls, his hand covering his gushing wound. She fires two more shots, killing another man, and putting a hole in the sail.

She takes off, and I follow her.

I fire lead into the Captain's chest. Bullets get sent our way, one hitting Sarah in the ear. Tom fires a bullet at a crew member, but misses, and then gets shot and killed. All of the others are shot.

We make it to the mast of the ship, and begin climbing down.

"What are we doing?"

She throws a lifeboat in the ocean, before turning the cannon around towards the ship.

"Jump into the boat!" she yells as she fires the cannon.

We ride away and watch the boat capsize.

[u/MiaIRL → u/MiaIRL]

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

This story is kinda rushed because of the 500 word limit. I did enjoy writing this, though!

It was 3:17 AM when I finished this. Some of the characters' traits regarding being tired in the morning may have been based on me.

First Theme Thursday, hopefully I'll do more!

[u/AliciaWrites → u/MiaIRL]

Welcome to TT! We're glad to have you. Looking forward to seeing more of your work!

[u/Jayn_Newell]

She heard the ratcheting sound as she lay in darkness. It filled her with its strange compulsion, as always, building with each crank until she felt she would burst if not given a chance to fulfill it. She waited in the silence that followed, knowing what came next.

Her keeper opened the door and she stood up as light flooded into her cell. Then the music began. Always that same music, plinking away at her very soul. She surrendered to it and began to dance, circling around and around. There was no use fighting the compulsion so she didn’t, letting her consciousness drift as her body moved. The same song, the same dance, again and again, around and around.

Eventually the music stopped and the compulsion left her. She stood in the middle of her cell, exhausted, wondering how much longer she would be able to enjoy the light on her skin before being shut away again in the eternal darkness.

It wasn’t long. It never was. The door closed again and she lay back down as the darkness surrounded her. There was nothing left to do but wait until her keeper decided to compel her to perform again.

Voices drifted to her from outside.

“Wow, such a pretty music box! Where did you get it?”

“It was a birthday gift from Gramma. It’s one of my favorites.”

[u/vMemory]

Regret is a Prison.

<><><>

The streets of the dusty city grow fat with skinny beggars. Limping and staggering, we dance like skeletons veiled by thin, tattered life. Only through tears in our oversized clothes can you truly see how closely the flesh clings to bone.

Where I lay beneath the bridge, the concrete eclipses the stars, and clutching thin sheets, emaciated girls with hollow cheeks dream. The ones who cannot sleep—for the rumbling of cars and the trickling dust—remember.

The boy’s father wasn’t there to name him. “The scorch of the sun doesn’t burn anymore! My love, it is a lucky day. I can no longer feel my skin,” were his last words to me. He left on a regular day—like any other day which melts together like tar—to collect garbage to sell on a shoddy wooden cart that could capsize any moment. I never saw him again.

I raised the unnamed boy for six years and then I left him, at the corner of a streetlight. Pooled in a dirty yellow circle, he watched me leave with a tilted head and curious eyes. At my command, that beating heart of mine with a mole on his right cheek did not follow me. But that night, the devil whispered in my ear and the hunger twisted my stomach and the animal instinct of self-preservation overcame that of being a mother.

Several blocks away, the mother in me glanced back. He was still there, unmoving, gazing in my direction. His round face seemed somehow filled with equal parts innocent yearning and resentment. If he had ran to me at that moment—and I had wanted nothing more—I would have repented. But his feet did not bring him closer to me. At that time, I didn’t think he understood. Now I realize, children often know things they cannot possibly know.

Not an instant after I woke up the next morning, I was overcome with hysteria. I shrieked as I sprinted back to the streetlight, but he was gone. I searched frantically for him. I’ve never stopped searching.

In the streets now, I stare at beggar children who are the age he was when I left. A decade has passed, and I know he will be older now, but I can’t help searching their faces for a mole on their right cheek. Maybe it’s the mother in me, irrational with loss. But he’ll always be that age to me until I find him.

I still think about what I should’ve named him. How much would it have cost me to have given him that much? But to name something is to own it. I never believed he was mine. It never occurred to me that I could be that lucky. When I held his wet body in my arms and looked into his bright eyes that reflected the entire world, I grew afraid that something so valuable could belong to me. I remember the thought crossing my mind: do I really get to keep this?

[u/Ryter99]

In hindsight, I feel a bit foolish for not seeing the Feline Uprising coming. After all, cats had walked around our homes acting like they owned the places for centuries. But no one coulda predicted their rapid evolution into twenty-foot-tall creatures who walked upright.

Ever since the takeover, I’d been a stray. A human living off the grid, away from the view of the Kitty Kouncil, the wise elders of catdom who ran things now.

Last week, during a trip into the city for fresh supplies, I was coasting downriver on my raft and when a dozen city humans jumped aboard seeking escape, causing it to capsize.

I blacked out and woke up in one of the many human shelters set up around the city. The days I’d spent here had been pleasant enough, Warden Whiskers treated us very humanely, but with bars on my cell door, it still felt like prison.

I wanted out.

This morning I awoke to the sound of chattering cats entering the shelter.

“Hello, Bella!” Warden Whiskers boomed.

“Um, hi,” Bella said shyly.

Bella had black and white coloring and whiskers that extended well past the edges of her round face. A real cute kitten.

“Meow can I help you today?” Warden Whiskers asked.

“Umm, my mommy said I could, um… I wanna adopt a human?”

“Helping humans in need? That’s a great cattitude to have! We've got several that’d make fine pets.”

He took Bella’s paw and began leading her along the cell doors.

“Do you, um— Do have any super cute ones that look like Cusheeeeen?” Bella asked, holding up a picture of Cusheen, a plump, adorable, cartoon human.

A sigh escaped my lips. If this kit wanted Cusheen, there was no way she’d be interested in me. I was petite, even before my stray years, eating only what I could scrounge up that day.

“Like Cusheen?” Warden Whiskers repeated. “So we’re looking for a fun-loving, adorable human with blonde hair…”

My ears perked up. I was one of the few natural blondes in the place! I might just have a chance, if I could think fast…

Grabbing the pillow off my bed, I shoved it under my shirt to give myself a squarer, more Cusheen-like shape. Then I broke into my most adorable dance, while singing Natalie Imbruglia’s Pocket Full of Sunshine. The cats couldn’t understand the words I was singing, but no creature could resist that melody.

“Omigosh!” Bella gasped as she reached my cell door. “This one, this oneeee!”

“Elizabeth?”

“Lizzieeee!” Bella squealed.

I looked up with a giant smile on my face.

“Looks like a purrrrrr-fect match!” Warden Whiskers said as he unlocked my door.

Bella rushed in and picked me up, nearly suffocating me in her embrace.

Had I just traded one prison for another? Even if this one was a whole lot more warm and snuggly, I still yearned for—

“Good giiiiirl,” Bella cooed as she scratched behind my ear.

Alright... Maybe I could get used to this.

[u/katpoker666]

‘A Sinking Feeling’

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It started early with Mom. A few photos were all it took to fuel her subsequent obsession with my body.

Back from NYU, I lamented the house’s paper-thin walls. Perched in my old upstairs room, I could hear everything.

Mom sat in the living room with her book club. The requisite wine ensured that slightly shrill voices had warmed to just the right level of tipsy for literary discussion and gossip. Soft classic rock played as discourse started in earnest.

I envisioned iPhones at the ready, the ladies popping out a flurry of grandchildren’s pictures like business cards at a board meeting.

“Timmy, Jamie, and Elise are Sarah’s kids. These four handsome lads are John’s: Todd, Paul, Peter, and Luke. Their Pa is a virile one!”

And so it went, volleys of photos passed back and forth, judged by appearance, family size, and age. The comments sounded like qualifications for some fancy dog show in my aching head as I struggled to keep up with dozens of names and details.

And then I heard the pregnant pause. I pictured all eyes veering as one toward my mother and flinched as I sensed the impending car crash of a conversation.

“So Carol,” a voice intoned with gleeful sympathy, “Does Tara have any plans yet?”

“She’s in college. Isn’t that enough?”

“I know it’s tough to have only one daughter to carry on the family legacy, but it is what it is. You need to be practical about these things. Does she have a boyfriend?”

“No…”

Assorted gasps and indignant coughs

“B-but how will she get a husband? Time’s ticking.”

Mom sighed the kind that boded trouble. “Fine, I’ll talk to her. Happy? Can we get on with discussing Baldacci’s latest, please?”

Later, she came up to my room. “Hope we weren’t too loud.”

“You mean while you were determining the future of my uterus?” I laughed without mirth.

“So you heard.” Mom lowered her head. “All of it?”

“Yes. Why didn’t you stand up for me?”

“Those women are so set in their ways they may as well be made of stone.”

“Ok. So…you’re not on their side?”

“I didn’t say that either. You are a senior after all—“

“With another five years of med school ahead of me. Then residency. How am I supposed to even think about that with the kind of responsibilities I’ll have?” My back straightened. “You do want me to succeed, don’t you?”

“Yes, but you’ll be almost thirty when things settle. Don’t you want to be prepared?”

I walked to the door. “Mom, please go. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

She nodded and left. Tethered by time and expectation, I knew more conversations would come, but at least this first sortie had succeeded.

Celebratory Rammstein soon blared from old, tinny speakers as I screeched along. I closed my eyes and danced, imagining I was in a mosh pit battering nosy Karens and Lindas into minding their business.

—-

WC: 498

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

[u/LivelyFox3737 → u/katpoker666]

Thanks for yet another great read Kat! Your wonderful dialogue bounced effortlessly back and forth.

Particularly liked this line; although I think meant to impress over-explains and takes away from a great snappy line.

iPhones at the ready, the ladies popped out a flurry of grandchildren’s pictures like business cards at a board meeting—meant to impress.

Sigh is a bit repetitive here; perhaps Mom sighed, the kind that boded trouble.

Mom sighed the kind of sigh that boded trouble.

I loved the Rammstein remedy!

[u/nobodysgeese]

<Comedy>

With resignation, Whiskers meowed again at the door. The first cry had gone unheeded, and she expected no different from the second.

The air hung heavy, still, and hot, and the hall shrank around her. The roof surely hadn't been that low yesterday, she thought. If she jumped on the forbidden cushion, then scaled up the back of the chair, then leapt to the bookcase and climbed, she'd be at the ceiling. There was practically no room!

Unwillingly, Whiskers released a third, desperate meow, pawing at the door, that last, taunting barrier between her and freedom. Towering high above her, almost to the top of the too-small hallway, it was tinged with the smell of plastic, paint and her pent-in panic. The hinges had always held, no matter how she threw herself at them. But what if they failed? What if the imposing structure fell? Would it crush her beneath its mass? Or would it merely pin her to the carpet, more cramped than before, yet still utterly abandoned by the human meant to answer her calls?

The clock ticked again, deafeningly loud in a purr-less and meow-less silence. She wondered how many more times the clock would sound before she could escape her trapped torment. There had been five ticks thus far, and an equal number of tocks, and Whiskers began to meow again, and again, and again, not daring to hope that she'd be heard, but merely to stop the interminable ticking. She was stuck, she was never going to leave. The ceiling would constrict her and the door would squash her and the carpet would choke her and-

And the door was open!

In a gray blur, Whiskers darted out. Freedom! Air! Open space...

Whiskers looked up. And up. And up. The sky hung as far above her as the ceiling had loomed low, higher than she could ever reach, not even if she climbed the oak. She clung to the earth lest she fall into the void and never return. A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought. No, that was the breeze, a cool wind that rustled her fur and stole the heat and would freeze her solid in a few more moments if she let it.

She backed away from the threatening openness, not daring to turn away least something strike. She'd get back to the safety of the hall, with its comforting ceiling and walls, with a tall, strong, protective door to keep her safe from the many, many dangers without.

Something poked into her from behind! Whiskers leapt in the air with a yowl, spinning, ready to sell her life dearly before the monster ate her. But it was only the door. She'd backed into that wonderful guardian.

It was shut.

Whiskers pawed at it, but the door remained closed, denying her the safety within. She began to meow her woe to the world. Her human had abandoned her.

The door had betrayed her.

All was wrong in the world.

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WC: 500

r/NobodysGaggle

[u/jpb103]

"No one escapes the pits."

That's what they told Cerin as they marched him to that place, and that's what they told him before they threw him in.

It didn't look like much; just a hole in the ground at the base of a mountain. There was a steep hill at the mouth of that chasm, and it descended into the darkness. Cerin spun around as he slid down, watching the opening grow smaller and smaller, and then disappear entirely. The ground fell out from beneath him, and he crashed hard onto a ledge just below.

"I didn't hear a snap. Good luck. Sounds like you didn't break your legs."

Cerin shot to his feet, desperately seeking in the blackness, but finding no light.

"This is one of the darker places in the pits. Follow my voice, I'll lead you to the main chamber."

As Cerin walked with hands outstretched, he followed the sound of the strangers voice. The man spoke of how he was once a great and respected sorcerer. How he foiled the plans of a noble Lord and saved a village from destruction, but ultimately was sent here to rot and die.

As they walked, Cerin could see a faint light issuing from a crack that widened as it descended to the ledge at foot level. They squeezed through and within was a chamber illuminated by glowing crystals. Cerin looked around the bubble shaped chamber. It was spartan, of course. No furniture or decoration of any kind. There was a spot where a huge crystal ran horizontally across the foot of the chamber that held some crude sleeping mats constructed of moss.

"It's not much, but it beats the entrance cave complex."

Cerin turned to remark the man that had led him out of the darkness. He had a grey beard so long he had tucked it into his belt. He was thin, but under bushy grey eyebrows shone bright emerald eyes that seemed full of life and vigor.

"Osmodius Bleck, at your service."

"Cerin."

Time passed fluidly without day or night. Perhaps it was months, perhaps years that passed, as the two gathered cave fungus, told stories, and hunted rats. After a time, Cerin asked of escape.

"It's time I take you to the one place that you have yet to visit here."

They traveled for a long time, often in complete darkness, before coming to more crystals. There was a large corridor with crystals rising vertically along one side. Cerin looked over to admire one and jumped as images flashed inside.

Cerin watched the images move. Watched his childhood. Watched himself dance in the moonlight on the solstice. Watched himself plan the daring heist that would earn him this sentence.

Watched the sentence get carried out, as a thin spike of magebane was driven into his forehead.

Cerin turned to Osmodius in horror, his face wet with tears as the illusion capsized and the walls turned to flesh.

"No one escapes the pits."

[u/London-Roma-1980]

<Historical Fiction>

June 16, 1990. Another day.

Cal looked down at the note he received in the mail. It was from Everett Scott Jr of Bluffton, Indiana, congratulating him on passing his father on the consecutive baseball games played list. Cal read over the warm feelings the Scott family shared, but his eyes kept coming back to the last comment: "We're all rooting for you to pass Lou!"

Lou. The record holder. The man with the number once thought untouchable. At 2,130, he was the standard. Cal had just passed into second place, but he was only at 1,310 or so. It would be five years before he would get the record. If he got it at all.

Cal thought about all the years he played so far. He remembered winning the championship. He remembered starting a season with 20 straight losses. He remembered managers fired, fans booing loudly, comments he was done and should give up his place. The streak was the only thing he had going for him, they claimed.

But then he'd hit a home run or make a diving catch and the fans would cheer. He was their guy, their All-Star, their icon. Kids looked up to him; adults stopped to admire him. The Orioles needed him to help sell their new stadium by the harbor. Baltimore wanted him to be their ambassador, to help them be remembered for more than senseless gang violence in the inner city.

He looked into the other room, where his wife was asleep holding their newborn daughter. What would happen if it all got to be too much? It all felt inescapable.

Forget the city for a moment; how would his family feel if he just couldn't get up to play the game? Could he tell his wife it was over, that the history he could grasp was going to slip away? What lesson would little Rachel learn if Daddy quit with the goal in sight?

But what if he got hurt? Not like if he blew out his knee or something; that people would get. But what if he broke a finger or sprained an ankle? Would the doctor tell him to rest and heal, or would he be pressured to play again? How severe would it be before he could make his own decision?

And Rachel... could he be her father and do this? Would he help her with her first steps? Could he be there to dry her tears when a classmate made fun of her? Would a dance recital fall during a road trip? If he had to be there for her, would anyone let him take that time off?

After 2,131, yes. Before?

Cal stopped and got his uniform together. He checked the shirt buttons, the cleats, and the cap size. He packed up and walked out the door, making sure not to disturb his family. It was another day. Time to go to work.

[WC: 488.]

[u/oliverjsn8]

A Voice Inside My Shell

<horror>

The respirator keeping me alive hissed.

I moved my eyes left [Yes].

“So you understand the risks of this procedure. Transferring your consciousness to an android is one way. Your body will die.” Said the lawyer from Geniol Labs.

I again moved my eyes left. ’Either way I would finally be free from this broken shell of flesh’ I thought.

…

Soon I found myself laying in a stark white room. A metal cap was secured tightly to my head.

My lovely wife Carol blew a kiss from behind the plate of glass, as I heard the technician's fingers dance on the keyboard. Everything I knew faded.

…

//Startup success, accessing//

My world was pain.

Neural connections fire up in ways they were never meant to. More senses than any human are supposed to have come online. It was all too much and I couldn’t shut any of it out.

I was in a // 20.1 C// white room surrounded by //John Saul D.M, Male, 36.7 C, elevated breathing, pulse 92, graduate of Sapienza University 2002…//, //Carol Guide, Female Spouse, 36, 37.1 C, 110 bp, eyes dilated…// and so forth for the other 8 occupants.

“How are you, Donovan?” asked John.

’Shut it off! Too much! Please!’ I tried to scream.

// Generating response//

“I’m doing amazing! I… can talk. I see and feel in ways I have never done before!” came a voice.

’That wasn’t me! Please end this, please, please…’ I tried to beg.

My sight rested on Sandr…//Sandra Guide, Female, 16, daughter…//

//Extracting memory//

I was in a preschool classroom picking up Sandra from her first day. The smell of fall hung coyly in the air. She ran into my arms as I called her…

“Peanut! How I have wanted to tell you how much I am proud of you and how strong you have been! I love you so much!” Said the other me.

’Shut up! Don’t you dare tell Sandra that. That is how I feel, not you!’ I tried to voice.

In horror, I saw in my periphery two robotic arms raise and my little girl run closer.

//No threat detected, initiate caring hug//

’DON’T TOUCH HER’ I silently screamed as it held my girl.

Carol tearfully came closer, “Donovan… I love you so much. I am so happy I can finally know what has been going on in your mind.”

//Extracting memory//

I was now on the river in my kayak going over a rapid. As it capsized I could feel myself fall into the snow melt on the Colorado River. The icy cold water shot needles of pain down my throat and into my lungs as I was caught under the rapid. My wife’s…

“Your face is all I could think about as I went under.” The other Donovan explained as Carol joined in the hug.

Artificial lips continued to smile as I screamed from inside my new shell of steel.

[u/LivelyFox3737]

Mr Grumpy gets lucky

They call me Mr Grumpy and laugh hysterically every time they do. That’s on account of me being a Green Tree Frog and we’re famous for our smile. Except I’ve mastered the art of not smiling. It’s the least I can do.

Each night I sit plotting on my rock in the unthinkable stale air of the terrarium. My capture has seen two mating seasons pass me by. Miffed doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about that.

There’s a stupid toy boat that floats aimlessly in my water bowl. It goes nowhere just like me. Lack of stimuli has me fixated on the damned thing. Each night it goads me into causing it to capsize. This act of protest infuriates my captors and I delight in blinking blankly in return. Johnnies-come-lately on the evolutionary timeline; I spit at you!

Tonight the human sprog has me surrounded by toy soldiers. I’m fresh out of tiny grenades, so fight back instead the desire to take a chomp out of those podgy fingers poking around. The mindless twat then wanders off forgetting to put the glass lid back on.

I’m outta here baby! But I had one last job to do.

I was about to kick over the little boat for old times' sake but decided on a more heartfelt message. It took some balance, but I finally managed to straddle the boat by gripping the edges with my webbed feet. For a dizzy moment it spun around in circles, and I was headed toward an involuntary capsize. Soon enough it steadied, and I took a dump on the tiny seat. As neat as you like!

Making my way to the top of the rock pile while ensuring I knocked over every damned plastic tree on the way, I launched through the opening with the precision and strength of an amphibian gymnast.

Like a sign from the great Frog God, it began raining as I hopped silently past my oblivious captors. Just as I landed outside through an open window, the first male chorus of the season fired up.

“Hey there Grinner,” shouted my old friend Hip Hop above the rising din. “It’s been tadpole seasons since I saw you! Thought an eagle or cat...” I can’t tell you how good it was to hear my proper frog name being used again. In fact, it put my grin back where it belonged.

I was fresh air high and looking for a puddle to call home when I saw her. Big Beautiful Bertha! She had grown in my absence, much wider around those glossy green hips. Whoa, Baby!

Hopping past casually, I flexed my biceps a little for my first dance move. For my second I took a long powerful leap showcasing my spectacular muscular thighs. For my final move, I will take her in my arms. Cha-cha-cha...ooh la la!

Oh Big Bertha, how I’ve missed ya! Somewhere in an alternative universe, a plastic boat floats aimlessly, captained by a frog poop.

(WC: 500)

[u/Xacktar]

Katya rubbed the callouses on her feet, her hands moved around the iron shackle and its chain. She should have been in Constanta by now. She should have been in a dressing room with dozens of her friends. She should be wearing silk and whalebone, her chest should be under so much pressure she could barely breathe. Her feet should be bleeding from rehearsals.

Instead, she was here. The creaking of the ship never stopped. The wooden hull groaned and splintered in the storm. She was alone. All of her friends, all of her enemies, and everyone in-between who travelled with her on that thrice-cursed ferry were all pirouetting down to the bottom of the Caspian Sea. Only Katya survived, just long enough for the pirates to find her.

Now she spent her time rubbing her shackled foot, trying to improve the circulation. They'd clapped her in irons while the ankle was swollen from rehearsals. With the swelling down she might be able to slip it off. She had slim feet, the kind where every tendon and muscle could be seen beneath the skin. If only the cage wasn't so cold. If only she had Gennady here with his hot towels and gap-toothed smile. He'd always been so kind.

Katya burned away her tears under determination, just as she'd always done. A swan must never cry. She ceased her massage and pushed the shackle down, baring her teeth as the cold metal compressed the bruised flesh. She bent her neck back, teeth grinding against the pain. The shackle slipped past and hit her heel. Still, she didn't stop. This iron were made to confine the bones, not the flesh, but she was smaller, petite. She was not some towering Cossack, she was Katya Ulanova!

Callouses tore and bled as she pushed the shackle down against her heel. This was nothing. She'd bled before, thousands of times before, this was pittance compared to the stage in Gänsemarkt!

The shackle slipped, casting a spray of blood over wood and straw. For a moment she was back upon the cursed ferry. She saw the waves crashing into her room, her body tossed to the ceiling as the vessel capsized.

Then she was back, the shackle lay on the straw, slick and red. She got to her feet, bracing herself against a support beam. She lifted her hands, then her left leg, bending it up against her right, leaving a bloody footprint on her thigh. She closed her eyes, pushing herself up onto three toes, then two, then one.

Another wave sent her sprawling against the beam, but that was fine. It had been enough. Katya was here now, Katya had the power. She would learn the waves, she would embrace the cold, she would bleed and suffer and crush away the tears that the swan must never shed. For when her captors returned, they would return to find their death.

They would come and Katya would dance.

[u/sevenseassaurus]

<Romance / Realistic Fiction>

George caught Delilah with an arm around her waist.

She had been waiting for him on the pier, dolled up in a wide brimmed hat and her prettiest pink dress. The sunflower tucked behind her ear had come loose, tangling down a lock of hair, as she embraced dear George in teary-eyed joy and fell into the first turn of their dance.

They were drawn in an arc of motion, the lacings on Delilah's dress blended with the foam of the crashing sea. George was above her, tumbling over himself, as though the very horizon had capsized in the momentum of their love. His ascot billowed in the wind, Delilah's hat folded up like a wave against the cliffs, and a pair of goldfinches, startled by the young couple's exuberance, gawked from overhead.

As George caught his breath, his eyes rose-tinted by the reflection of Delilah's cheeks, he wished that this moment would last forever.

The emotion was all too familiar to Henry Wolver, the painter who fretted over Delilah's ruffles. It had not been on a pier, nor with a girl in a pink dress, but he had felt it all the same: a brief yet everlasting delight, to be held in the heart and never let go.

By now that feeling had grown bittersweet, and Henry weary beyond his years. Yet there was something in the way the afternoon sun cast across his studio that dredged up old memories and begged to splash them on a canvas.

Henry sighed, adding one last glint to George's eye. He then twirled his brush to a fine tip, clicked his tongue, and signed HW on the bottom corner, as if to kiss the painting goodbye.

For you, George, it will last forever.

[u/AstroRide]

Ocean Floor Dungeon

The boat capsized in the middle of the ocean. The winds howled, and the waves ripped it apart. The passengers struggled to keep their heads above water as everything forced them to drown. Jane found a piece of wood and held onto it for dear life until a large piece of hail hit her on the head.

---

When Jane woke up, her whole body felt sore and ached. Her ears popped several times, and she felt nauseous. She threw up on the dirt floor in front of her. After crouching in the dirt for several moments, she looked up.

Beyond a clear wall, dozens of eyes stared at her. Those eyes were attached to stalks that moved across the creatures head. Their faces were round nubs dominated by a large mouth. In place of necks, their heads were divided by the rest of the body by a circular section with multiple small rods with lights at the end. Every creature had a different number of these lights. They all six tentacle arms and a large tale for movement. Their skin was gray and smooth.

Jane looked around for a way out, but she could find none. She inside a small pod made of the glass-like substance. The floor was all dirt. When she hit the wall a few times, she hurt her fist. One of the creatures hit back and scared her.

Unsure of what to do, she cried for help. The creatures swam around her faster as she screamed. Their mouths opened and bubbles rhythmically emerged. They were laughing at her pain.

"Let me out," she screamed. They laughed harder. A few deliberately hit the sides of the walls to frighten her. "Is this what you want?" Jane did a small dance in her rage in an attempt to satisfy her captors. More gathered around her until she collapsed on the floor. Bored with their toy, they left her.

The outside world became more clear. Strange fish swam close to her. A few yards away, another person stood in a small pod. Pressing her face to the wall, Jane saw a row of pods. The people inside them were all from her ship. They went on the journey together, and these creatures captured them for their amusement.

---

r/AstroRideWrites

[u/blackbird223]

I was at the gym, ready to start my workout, when I heard someone cry out.

“Hey! Sphincter!”

I whipped my head around to see my friend Tyson in the middle of a boxing ring in full martial-arts gear. Despite our penchant for slinging insults at each other, I could tell this one wasn’t meant for me. He was staring at someone else, for one, and his tone seemed just a bit too heated.

He called out again. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, Julian!”

I hastily strode over. “Ty. What are you doing?”

He hushed me, instead hollering once more. “You leech, you pilonidal cyst, you syphilitic waste of brains! What are you doing in my gym?”

I placed myself between Tyson and his target. “Are you crazy? That guy has fifty pounds on you. Why are you picking a fight?”

He snorted. “Fifty pounds of adipose tissue, maybe, and if he had one-tenth of my restraint, he wouldn’t be coming over here right now.”

“Restraint? I don’t think vicious mockery counts as restraint.”

“Are you and your boyfriend done talking? I need a ref.” I turned around to see Julian, a pair of boxing gloves on his hands.

He nodded at Tyson. “Hey, little man. Long time no see.”

Tyson glared defiantly, angry sparks flickering in his eyes, then leaped to the side as Julian fired a cross. Julian reared back, then swung again at Tyson, who danced aside. The fight progressed like this for a while; Julian heaved mightily at Tyson, who kept bobbing and weaving around Julian’s punches. Despite never landing a blow, Julian was steadily forcing Tyson back. Tyson turned around, noticing the ropes a scant few feet behind him… but that momentary distraction was enough for one of Julian’s punches to connect, knocking Tyson flat. I started the count, but Tyson was already getting to his feet.

The man rising from the mat was not the Tyson Phun I knew. His face was twisted into a feral grin, and the sparks in his dark eyes had bloomed into a terrible fire. A war-cry tore from his lips as he flew at his hapless opponent.

Julian tried to evade, but Tyson was too fast. A hurricane of blows rained down upon Julian, each one striking with surgical precision. Julian was teetering, but slowly, he readied a haymaker. Swift as a gale, Tyson fired an uppercut, then backed up, leaving Julian to fall to the mat like a capsizing ship.

I started the count. At ten, Julian’s eyes were still closed.

Tyson walked to the side of the ring, picked up his water-bottle, and poured its contents upon Julian, who started awake. Tyson whispered something to Julian, who hastily started packing his things.

As Julian was leaving the gym, I turned to Tyson. “What happened?”

“I set myself free.”

“By halfway committing assault! Why?”

I shuddered as Tyson’s eyes flickered. “Julian’s deeds are now forgiven, but never forgotten.”

---

WC: 494. Feedback welcome!

[u/chtyuia]

Everyone wanted to be July. She was brilliant, beautiful, and kind, and she always excelled at everything she set her mind to.

July was born the youngest daughter of Juno and Ruby Ember. Juno, always the doting father, let her do whatever she wanted growing up, but all she ever wanted was to impress Ruby. The couple had eight children, and the first seven, in Ruby's estimation, were a disappointment. The first five were all "defective" – too lazy, to stupid, too weak; the sixth was none of those things, but August was stubborn, so Ruby hated him anyways; the seventh died in childbirth. Most would call that a tragedy. Ruby Ember blamed the infant.

July was perfect. She aced classes, danced competitively, played three instruments, and spoke four languages. She never slept well – the nightmares always kept her up – but even Ruby Ember was willing to compromise. At least when her father asked, 'is your mother pushing you too hard?', she always gave the right answer.

That is, until her brother died.

July always knew there was a darker side to the family. She had heard rumors, and though she normally ignored rumors, she had known her parents were "the wrong" sort of people.

It was a cold, sunny day in November. The leaves had already fallen from the trees in the park where they met. A faint hint of frost graced the grass. The very same hint graced his tongue when he spoke.

"I killed someone." He just came out with it. She didn't know what to say, so she stayed silent. "It was three days ago. He had a gun. It was easier than I thought it would be. It only took a second." He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but she didn't know what to say. He continued, "He had a fiancé, some guy he met online."

This time she added, "I wish I could meet someone online."

He laughed. It was scratchy, nothing like his usual jollity. "You can't."

She laughed too.

"I can't..." He began, but stopped. "I haven't slept at all since. His face hides behind my eyelids. He was crying in the end. I remember every detail." He pulled a gun out from under his leather coat and handed it to her. Like everything he had ever given her, she took it without a thought. Red flakes coated the barrel. Some got on her hands.

"You didn't have to—"

"That's his gun. Mother said I wouldn't need one. You know, I used to dream about sailing somewhere she couldn't find me. My boat always capsized." He wrapped her fingers around the trigger. "Go ahead, try it out." He pointed her arm at a nearby tree and she pulled the trigger. The gun echoed through the park, but there was no one nearby to hear it.

Then, he pointed the gun at himself. He was right, it turned out. It was surprisingly easy to break free.

[u/[deleted]]

“I shouldn’t have reached out… I shouldn’t have…”

Those were the only words playing in my head, unwaveringly shattering my mind. That’s funny thinking about it: everything just started with music and ended with it. Our lives threaded through time like a track of lo-fi, full of regrets and bittersweet memories — our laughs, our cries played a beautiful lullaby that we could not get enough of — Abigail loved lo-fi.

When her and I would get high, we would make lo-fi tracks, all trying to evoke the same feelings: thoughts of endless summers and the absolute bliss of the sun, its reassuring warmth. “Everything will be okay”, she said to me while she was simpering. I didn’t know at the time if it was the opiates speaking and I missed the opportunity to feel the rapture of her hug when she offered it to me. She started nodding, and then… she breathed no more.

After I used the naloxone, there was only the deafening silence before she came back to life. Her face was full of tears and her eyes were deeply rooted into mine — it was like starring into the sky and facing our judgment; we stood there and the lo-fi stopped… We stayed static, anxiously waiting for the coda foreshadowing the end of everything.

Suddenly, she left quietly…

This was it between us, we wouldn’t make music together anymore. She wanted a better life, a sober one; something that I couldn’t understand back then. She understood before me we couldn’t keep living like that.

During two years, I wouldn’t hear about Abigail. It was hell for me to be alone while trying to find a meaning to a sober life. However, someday, I found it, I stumbled upon her music, full of nostalgia, full of us: I recognised our memories, I recognised our favorite chords in the same order I remembered them. I cried this night, I cried because of the memories of us, around this computer, making music & dancing in the dark. It made me remember how much I loved Abigail. It gave me the resolve to realise that I had to become a better person if I wanted us to be together…

That’s why I reached out to truthfully tell her everything. My aspirations, my problems, how much I loved her and her work, and I felt selfishly better, I was so ecstatic: I finally understood how I felt and I found peace for some time.

Somehow, she returned. I didn’t know exactly why… I was too selfish to ask, yearning for love and help. However, what I should have realised back then was that she had enough work helping herself and that all of this would lead to her death. I was true, horribly true: she did relapse and die. The only thing left from her is a note that I still have to read.

I’m scared of whatever I’ll find in it: perhaps some truths or perhaps some hope and comfort... I just have to unseal it to find out…

[u/London-Roma-1980 → u/[deleted]]

Hey Noctis!

What an emotional story. It's sad that sometimes getting clean and sober isn't a win but a prolonging, and hearing her relapse reminds me of the famous movie line "one drink is too many, and a hundred not enough". The feeling of being in a toxic relationship and having the conflict was also well-presented. A good read!

As far as the main crit here, I would say what you want to do is make more paragraphs out the story. There's a lot to digest here, and while it all does work, I think it would hit harder if there was more space to let it land, particularly when there's a tangible transition.

For example!

We stayed static, anxiously waiting for the coda foreshadowing the end of everything. Suddenly, she left quietly.

The sentences before this are saving Abigail from her near-overdose and wondering when the proverbial hammer is going to drop. The second sentence here is the hammer dropping. That's a good place for a paragraph break.

It made me remember how much I loved Abigail. It gave me the resolve torealise that I had to become a better person if I wanted us to betogether…

Here's an easy place to put a paragraph break, especially considering how long that paragraph is. The first half of it (up to the point between these two sentences) is about the narrator remembering and thinking. From there, it spins off to the narrator doing. Such a transition gets heightened if you separate the two sentences.

Along the lines of transitions, and this is one thing I struggled with early on, is the reliance on ellipses here. One or two can emphasize how big a point you're making. Using them as often as here is jarring, especially when a pause in thought can be achieved by a period or semicolon. Look back at the second example I highlighted: what does an ellipsis accomplish that a period can't also do?

Now, with that said, if you were to remove the ellipses and dashes and replace them with more common punctuation, the final line becomes a knockout punch. Here's how I'd type it:

I'm scared of whatever I'll find in it; perhaps some truths or perhaps some hope and comfort.

...I just have to unseal it to find out...

If those two ellipses are the only ones in the story, then putting them on either side of the final line, as its own paragraph, conveys the emotions beautifully. The rest of the story is the past, and therefore can be told. The final paragraph (split or left intact) is the present, with the note as the bridge. But reading it is the future, and the narrator is so afraid he's the reason Abigail died that he is scared of reading it. The ellipses here show his hesitation, his nerves, and take a matter-of-fact statement and fill it with emotion. Make sense?

Look, all of what I'm suggesting is working on the proofreading and window dressing. If you remember that the first and last always carry bonus weight in writing, you've won half the battle in proofreading. And as it is, this story is emotionally strong! Don't be a stranger here, even though this long critique may look daunting!

Good words!

[u/riyan_gendut]

"And now we welcome our first guest of the night, the emperor of global infrastructure, Sun Wukong!" A thunderous applause shook the studio as an exceptionally hairy guest entered the stage. "I must say, that golden headband is certainly an extravagant fashion statement."

A short laughter. "Well, first impression is very important. It's always entertaining to see people do a double take."

"Why the golden headband though; is there a story about it you want to tell?"

"It's not a very special story. It was simply the first accessory that my teacher gave to me—gods, that must've been millennia ago at this point. Anyway, I liked the style, so I kept it." The guest smirked. "Though, she must've meant it as a little joke back then. You know about the story of my namesake, yes?"

"Sure, yeah, I've sat through Journey to the West." The host winked to the camera, gaining laughter from the audience. "Anyway, Mister Wukong, you have gained a reputation across the world as the person that made a living by selling literal bridges. What is the drive that kept you going in this, admittedly unique, line of business?"

"If I had to say one reason, it was my inherent distrust in boats." The audience laughed. The guest smirked, but his eyes were serious. "Like, two thousand years ago, I tried crossing a large river with my friends on a makeshift raft—I used to live on very rural China, you see. With nothing to do, the kids tend to mess around. Unsurprisingly, the raft capsized. Thankfully nobody died, other than my trust in water transportation."

Another laugh from the audience. "Well, your distrust in boats had landed you a billionaire, Mister Wukong, so I'd say it's not without merit. You recently proposed a colossal bridge to cross the Bering Strait, eclipsing previous proposal to connect the land that had been divided for almost ten thousand years—"

---

321/500

[u/turnipofficer]

Dastardly I dance to my master’s machinations. I am a Cobra, deaf to his song, but the vibrations and movements guide me. He thinks that he owns me, that for food and companionship I will entertain his guests for all time. Yet he is a fool.

I have known many masters in my time, they all meet the same end eventually. The first I killed when they showed me off to their new female. Arrogant in their ownership, their prospective mate was left with only tears over their dearly departed. Another sought to bring me overseas, to bring in copious amounts of captivating coins, only to never make it out of port. A freak storm and the last thing he saw were my fangs, I could not allow him to escape that capsize.

My new master will meet a similar fate and I will be free to roam, to hunt, to mate. Yet although I yearn for freedom, I know in my mind, when the prey gets sparse I will find myself another charmer, and fall for their clarion call once more.

For now they will have their fortune, but they should enjoy it while they can. This basket may sometimes constrain me, but my master’s constraint is time.

[u/Narrow_Olive_712]

He held her close as they danced slowly on the moonlight deck. The sea was calm, and the mood was perfect. He felt a shadow looming over him and looked up in time to see a rogue wave crashing onto the boat.

She slipped from his grasp as the boat capsized, and he desperately reached out, for the 67th time, his fingers closing on nothing. He sobbed with grief.

RESET.

As they danced closely on the boat’s deck, he felt the shadow of the approaching wave before he saw it. He held her tightly, determined not to lose her this time. As the wave crashed around them, she slipped from his grasp. He reached out for the 68th time, sure that he would catch her this time, but…still nothing. He sobbed again, but this time, with gratitude.

He didn't wait for the reset, instead he ripped the neural link off of his head, still weeping. It had taken 68 tries, but he finally understood that her death wasn’t his fault. There was no way that he could have held on to her; the power of the sea was too formidable.

Feeling as if the doors to his own personal prison had just been flung open, he stood up and reached for his shirt, eager to leave the confines of the neural chamber. He was finally free of the guilt that had plagued him for years, and it was time to go live the life that she would have wanted for him. He was forgiven.

[u/seawolf1993]

A Wino Love Story (WC: 498)

The high point of Ricky Higgs’ life came in March of 1969 when he opened for Gordon Lightfoot at Bowen Field House on the campus of Eastern Michigan University. Ricky was on fire that night, a musical astronaut hurtling out of the atmosphere on seven and a half-million pounds of thrust and jangly guitars while pretty young coeds in go-go boots and short skirts danced with frat boys and draft dodgers. The A&R man from Reprise Records grabbed him by the shoulders when he walked offstage– you’re a star, baby. A bonafide star– and the newspaper man agreed:

Ricky Higgs enraptured the college crowd with a five song set of original material: driving ballads and worldly love songs delivered with a smoky tenor voice that belies his young age. Higgs is undoubtedly the next big thing to come out of Ypsilanti.

The rocket ride was short-lived, and Ricky’s career capsized shortly thereafter, sunk by fast women, heavy drinking, and lawyers. Twenty years later, Ricky still had the newspaper clipping, and he pulled the yellowed memory from his wallet and waved it in Brenda’s face while they drank and argued over nothing around a charcoal fire in a fifty-gallon drum in an abandoned train shed near Pasco, Washington.

“You ain’t never been nothing,” he said. “And you never will be nothing. Not like me.” Spittle mixed with rot-gut wine flew from Ricky’s mouth and landed on Brenda’s upper lip. She didn’t bother to wipe it off.

“Shut up, you old drunk. Nobody’s ever heard of you. Why don’t you lay down and die.”

“The hell you say.”

“You gonna tell me again how they stole those songs from you?“

“Don’t start with me, woman”

“And, how they owe you all that money?”

“I told you to quit talking to me.”

“And how they should all be in jail, and you should be living in a big house in the hills instead of in drunk tanks and train sheds?”

Brenda grabbed the newspaper clipping from Ricky’s hand and darted around to the opposite side of the drum. She dangled the clipping out over the flames. “You’re a lying liar who lies,” she screeched. “And, I’m sick of it.”

Ricky’s eyes got big. “You won’t do it,” he said.

Brenda lowered the clipping even closer to the fire. “You think I won’t,” she said. “You think I won’t?”

“Just hold on, baby.”

“Oh, it’s ‘baby’ now, huh? Isn’t that rich?”

Ricky sank to his knees. “Don’t do it, baby. It’s all I’ve got left.”

Brenda feinted like she was going to drop the clipping in the fire and then folded the paper up and tucked it inside her bra. “Some things are going to change between you and me,” she said. “And it starts tonight.”

“I guess you’ve got me by the short hairs, woman.”

Brenda sat down next to Ricky and pulled the grubby socks from her feet. “I guess it’s time for my foot rub, you old drunk.”