Prompt-and-Share special contest edition
Below you will find 3 short stories that were chosen to win
the Prompt-and-Share by their peers.
First, you’ll see the rules set out for this particular
Prompt-and-Share, followed by the three winning submissions. (In no particular order)
The Prompt:
750 words max
We've all heard the expression "Be careful what you wish for" and for
this edition of the Prompt-and-Share that's exactly what we are going to
focus on.
Your character makes a wish that doesn't turn out quite as he/she/it expected
it to.
Typical guidelines still apply: At least one character, one setting, one
conflict and one resolution.
By Adam Boenig:
She had said it would make him beautiful. She had also
mentioned a price; but he hadn't cared. He had given her her money, taken the
potion, and left the old crone in her alley.
Jim had been a homely man, to say the least. Long ears, long nose, and a
uni-brow were the defining features of his existence. He had been teased for
his looks for years, and it had left scars on him; he was afraid to go outside,
afraid to meet strangers. He would complain about his love life but that would
imply he had one to complain about.
So he had taken the potion, thinking anything could be better than this. He
needed something; anything.
He drank it without thought.
Now he stood in front of a mirror, looking at himself. He was handsome; no,
gorgeous. He was a sculpted Adonis of a man, perfect in all aspects. And he was
happy about it, flexing his new muscle and falling for himself in the mirror.
However, he knew that the only way for it to matter was for him to go out.
Getting dressed in an old pair of jeans and a button-up shirt, he took a deep
breath and stepped outside into a world he had feared so long. He walked down
the hall; people staring as he moved, taking in his breathtaking beauty; and he
knew it was good. He made it to the door, opened it, and for the first time in
a long time, looked out over the sun-lit streets unafraid.
Now people were staring. He felt proud. They didn't say much, they didn't stare
for long, but they certainly liked looking at him. Which is the point, right?,
he thought to himself.
He strolled down the sidewalk, catching eyes and turning heads, enjoying the
air off the tree-lined street and the view of the red brick buildings in the
historical sector where he lived and worked. He made it to a tiny local bar,
his destination in which to test his newfound glory. He opened the door and
stepped in.
Everyone stopped. They turned and stared at the new face that had just stepped
in. All eyes were on him; he could feel it.
And then they went about their business.
He was mildly surprised, but thought nothing of it. He sat down at the bar,
feeling happy and like he "fit in" for the first time in his life. He
offered to buy an attractive woman a drink; because, that is what you're
suppose to do, right? She ignored him as though she didn't hear him.
He tried again. She still ignored him.
He waves his hand in front of her face. Touched her, poked her. Eventually he
grew frustrated and pounded the table; soon, he was throwing furniture.
The crowd complained about the broken furniture, but not him.
That's when he realized: the price. He would be noticed, yes; but only once. He
was beautiful; but no one cared.
By Telzey Lee
“I’ve got to go.” Marissa’s voice was a reluctant whisper.
“I know.” Blake said quietly.
Neither of them moved as the seconds ticked away. She didn’t want to go; she wanted
to stay wrapped in his arms forever. That wasn’t an option, however, and the
conflicting pressures threatened to tear her apart. She let it build to the
point where if she was going to go, she had to go now, or not at all.
She squeezed him convulsively, and rose from the bench, clasping his hand as
she moved away, until finally their arms were stretched as far as they could
go, and she had to let go. She hurried away down the hall, to the door where
the royals entered. The king, her husband, was already seated on his throne,
and she sat next to him.
Court began as normal. Several minutes later, she saw Blake slip in, and she
couldn’t help but gaze at him. Soon after that, the king held up his hand.
“There is one among us who wants my place.” he announced, “He won’t challenge
me honorably, however, but instead creeps around behind my back, betraying me.
I won’t have it anymore, and I challenge him.”
Marissa froze, hoping against hope that Reginald meant something else, meant
someone else. That hope died, however, as the king stood and pointed at Blake.
Her stomach dropped.
“Guards, seize that man.” he commanded.
There was some hesitation, and Marissa could see people wondering what was
going on. Was this part of the entertainment? Blake rose as the guards
approached him. Marissa put her hand on Reginald’s arm.
“Don’t do this.” she pleaded. He shook her hand off and stepped away from her.
She could see the crowd’s interest sharpen. Entertainment, or reality? Or both?
She wanted to disappear.
“Reg, please, this is private.” she tried to mitigate the disaster that was
occurring, to no avail.
The guards had escorted Blake to the base of the platform the thrones were on.
“I don’t want your throne.” Blake said evenly.
“No, you just want my wife.” Reginald yelled.
The crowd gasped. Blake was Reginald’s best friend and most loyal knight… and
Reginald was accusing him of having an affair with Marissa?!? They looked at
Marissa,and she could feel that her face had paled, all but the two crimson spots
she could feel burning on her cheeks as the whispering started.
Reginald had gone down the steps, and taken off his gauntlet. He backhanded
Blake across the face with it, the classic challenge to a duel. Marissa stood
and rushed down the steps, stepping between the two men.
“Stop it.” she shouted. She turned her back on Blake and put her hands on
Reginald’s arms. “Let’s go someplace private and talk about this.”
He jerked away from her.
“Don’t touch me, you betraying bitch! He can have you, if he lives through
this.”
He threw his wedding ring at them, then drew his sword – his real sword,
she noticed, not the practice one he was supposed to wear at events. The crowd
hastily drew back, forming a wide half circle around them. Wasn’t anyone going
to try and stop him, or call the police? One would think they were really in
the Middle Ages, not just the SCA.
“Are you crazy?” she said, stepping in front of Blake, hoping that Reg wasn’t
really so far gone that he’d hurt her. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Reg; she still
loved him. She loved Blake too, though.
Reginald stared at her for long seconds, then threw his sword on the floor,
turned, and walked away. She scrabbled on the ground for his ring, then turned
to see Blake walking away in the opposite direction.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought, tears beginning to flow. She
gathered her skirts, and half-ran in a third direction. She found a bathroom
and hid in the handicapped stall, trying to stifle her sobs.
When she was a young girl, she had thought the King Arthur stories were so
romantic. She had wanted love like that. She had overlooked the fact that
Genevieve had ended up with neither King Arthur or Sir Lancelot, that she had
ended up old and alone, after losing the love of two good men, and helping to
destroy something good and true.
Marissa sank to the floor and gave in to her sobs, her heart broken, and her
soul with gaping holes in it.
By Tressa Green:
"Son of a...!"
I stomped the brake—squealing tires protested. Fresh coffee tumbled from the
holder. My jeans drank the scalding liquid and I bit my lip to keep further
expletives from rolling off my tongue. Burnt rubber smoke wafted through the
open windows before I took off again. The idiot driver who pulled out in front
of me bebopped along, five under, as if nothing happened.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. So typical. The little inconveniences
of my life piled up so high that any green in the other pasture could only be
seen in my imagination. My ill luck blocked out true vision of those lush
fields long ago.
Home took longer than normal, but I didn't have anything to go home to anyway.
Silence greeted me behind the locked door. I dreaded weekends for that reason.
At least my job, as ho-hum as that nine-to-five was, occupied my time.
I plugged the house key into the lock; it refused to budge. I jimmied it until
it finally gave in. The plastic bags numbing my fingers as their weight turned
those narrow handles into cutting strands. I refused to set them down while I
juggled keys and turned the knob.
One step.
I kissed the floor. Groceries scattered—rolling out in a noisy spray of cans,
boxes, and bags. Peeling myself up took effort. I sat on the floor amid my
dumped groceries and empty life and wished.
Wished for more. For better. For different.
“I wish things were different,” I said out loud.
Nothing happened. Not that I really expect it. I sighed and picked up the mess.
Scuffled to the two-steps-across kitchen. Cool wind ruffled the lace curtain in
the tiny window, bringing the scent of late Spring flowers. I sighed again.
Maybe things could be different, I thought.
A smile dared to grace my lips. The wonder of that sensation only caused it to
grow.
Yes. Things were going to be different. I would make it so.
Sunlight shafted through the window and the whole cubicle of the kitchen glowed
with an almost heavenly light.
I rushed to put things in their place; though, as usual, I dropped cans on my
toe, the contents of my freezer spilled out when I opened the door, as did the
upper cabinet. None of it mattered anymore.
I wanted to twirl about my three room house; lift my voice to the heavens. So
what if I banged my elbow on the door frame or bruised my shin on the end
table? The sun shined all through my home, the breeze carried birdsong and
sweetness of new buds. It was as if God, Himself, smiled upon me.
My heart leaped with joy my skin couldn’t contain. The breeze became a wind,
the birdsong merged with a great chorus, and the light grew so bright, vision
fled.
“What’s happening?” I cried out.
“Don’t be afraid,” a whisper cut through the noise.
“I’m not,” I replied.
The light dimmed as did the wind and the song.
“Welcome home.”
I opened my eyes and wept. Things, indeed, had changed.
