Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 138.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured, all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: October 20, 2025.

The post Your Story #138 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo prompt above. You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 137.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules

Entry Deadline: August 18, 2025

The post Your Story #137 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write the opening line to a story based on the photo prompt below. (One sentence only.) You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 136.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED.

Out of over 100 entries, WD editors chose the following 12 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the comments section at the bottom of the page.

1. The world was vastly brighter than I remembered, with hues of rich greens climbing upwards, turning into shades of yellow until mixing.

2. The bamboo swayed and swished as if breathing, releasing the all too familiar stench of raw sewage and decaying bodies.

3. The last thing Jen remembered was leaving her hotel room in Chicago, but she woke up with a pounding headache on the floor of a Japanese bamboo grove.

4. Why am I the only one who looks up and wonders what that blue thing is just beyond our Green Canopy?

5. Flat on his back, breath ragged from the fall, eyes fixed on the towering bamboo above, the angel listened to the silence of a world consumed in its own oblivion, too unready and unwilling to be saved.

6. With both wrists zip-tied to the unyielding bamboo, and with no way to signal the rescue plane roaring past overhead, Roger Mallory dropped his head to his bloodied chest and wept.

7. Here were enough trunks here to build the ark exactly as instructed, if only he had an axe and more time.

8. At least they’re safe, she thought, her vision fading as the last of her life seeped from the jagged bullet wound in her back into the cold, mossy floor of the bamboo grove.

9. Guiseppi picks up his chisel to carve the magic flute, the only thing that will free him from his debt.

10. If only they were needles, but no, it’s me, in a recovery from hell, surrounded by green spears.

11. “So, the shrink ray works,” my assistant says, glowering at me from behind her large, round glasses, as gigantic green stocks loom above us.

12. “Whoa, talk about false advertising!” Daniel exclaimed as he peered up at the obstructed sky, his grip tightening around the can of Weedbuster.

The post Your Story #136 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 135.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of more than 100 entries, WD editors chose the following 6 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the comments section at the bottom of the page.

Untitled 1

We weren’t allowed to go to the lake. Adults said it was dangerous. Kids said it was cursed, but we were thirteen, impervious to danger. Now I was drowning.

As the water enveloped me, a vision appeared of older women in bathing suits laughing. When I saw the tattoo, the one Jen swore she’d get when she turned eighteen, I knew it was her and there was Maggie, still wearing her signature pink lipstick.

My life wasn’t flashing before me. My future was. A resolve overcame my fatigued body; I pushed against the water until the sun met my face.

Swimming

Maxine laughed; it was all she could do. Dorothy leaned on her shoulder and joined. Tears fell from Maryann’s eyes, landing on her damp towel. They had taken their last plunge; the group that had started out with 50 girls was now three, some sinking and drowning, others simply giving up and leaving the lake. They had been swimming for 47 years, endless, restless swimming while the men watched from the shallows, dark rat-like eyes judging every stroke.

The three women were now given the “privilege” of wading in the shallows, for what remained of their time in the lake.  

Untitled 2

Exhausted, Charlie emerged from the forest to a scenic lake. Approaching the sound of musical laughter, he came upon three women enjoying the afternoon. As he neared, a sense of calm settled over him. One of the women, smiling like his grandmother, unknowingly stepped towards the water.

Suddenly, she tripped, pulling them all under. Charlie plunged in, upon breaking the surface, their true forms revealed, grotesque creatures with scaly tails. One wrapped around his legs, dragging him into the darkness, despite his valiant fight.

Just as his fate seemed sealed, he pulled to the surface and was thrown upon the shore.

Look Where You Want to Go

I mounted the paddleboard again. Look where you want to go, not at the water. My friends smiled as I plied the oar. We glided along, their movements more graceful than mine. I joined the line in the place they had saved for me as if I had never left, never searched for oceans, because I resented the lake. A lone duck skimmed the surface near us, oblivious to the flock in the sky. We rounded the last curve of the small island. At the dock, they wrapped me in a towel, cheering my return to them and the lake.

Moots, Toots, and Little Bit

The summer air breathed excitement, mingled with effervescent laughter. It was a magical moment in the lives of Moots, Toots, and Little Bit.

It was to be the last summer the three sisters would see each other. War and personal tragedy would change their lives, but the future, like all futures,

lay gratefully hidden. Now, they were like kids, embracing the moment without a care. It was childhood replayed—their giggles bubbled like a soda fountain’s fizz.

The playfulness of splashing water and magical summertime fun would replay again for each of them in their memories, although in solitary reflection.

Untitled 3

“This morning swim was fire!” Lizzy shouted as she toweled off on the side of the riverbank. “This spot is lit too, even if it is a little sus though that we were the only ones here on a Saturday like this.”

“No cap,” Candace replied. “Emmy, where’d you hear about this place?”

“Saw it on a hike the other day. And with that abandoned factory right there, you can’t beat the parking.”

They had just finished getting dressed when the men in hazmat suits approached. “Lizzy! You’re … old!“

“So are you!”

“Quarantine the area! Three more for geriatric transport!” 

The post Your Story #135 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo prompt above. You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 134.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly 100 entries, WD editors chose the following 5 finalists. Vote for your favorite by using the comments section at the bottom of this article.

Ted is Talking Now

My name is Ted. I will be giving all of the TED Talks from now on, because I know everything.

My name is Ted, because that is a warm and personable name. You will bond with me, believe me, trust me if I have a cuddly, relatable name.

Why do you think they called them TED talks in the first place? ADOLF or JUDAS talks would have been very off-putting, don’t you think?

I am a real person. Do you like my avatar? I use an avatar for credibility, and to avoid distraction. Oh, I know about distraction. I know you often stare at the vessel, instead of appreciating the voice of the singer, the skill of the actor, the scrambling ability and pinpoint accuracy of the quarterback. We’re going to avoid that with this avatar.

I always wanted people to listen to me.

No one listened to me when I was a child.

What’s that? A little girl? A little boy? That does not matter. Ted, you know, can be short for Theodore or Theodora. I can be and I will be whoever you want me to be. As long as you listen to me.

So, as I was saying, from the very start, no one listened to me.

I would raise my hand in class. The teacher wouldn’t call on me.

I always raised my hand in class. I always knew the answer.

“Give someone else a chance,” the teacher would say.

“Yeah,” some smart-ass kid would echo, “Give someone else a chance.”

I went away to college. I thought it would be better there. But at that big state university, I sat, anonymously, in a lecture hall with five hundred drones. The professor didn’t want to hear from me, from anyone.

I started talking to myself.

“Self,” I said, “How do we get people to listen to us?”

And, it turns out, My Self is brilliant.

“Self. Control the means of communication.”

“Oh, you mean like MSNBC or CNN or Fox News or Facebook or Elon Musk’s Company Formerly Known as Twitter?”

“Nah,” said My Self. “You are thinking too small. Control it all. Replace it all with only you.”

Inspired. That was inspired. So, two years ago, after my junior year, I dropped out of college. I retreated to my enclave, my laboratory, and now, victory is at hand.

I can’t say it was easy, but nothing worthwhile is easy.

Now you can’t go to a different website, a different streaming service, a different network. There is nothing else in the world. Only me. Any questions? Just text me. It doesn’t matter what number you text. Everything comes only to me, because only I am communicating.

Why? You want to know why? I told you why. No one was listening to me. I want to talk. I want to be heard.

What is my message? It’s simple. Listen to me.

What is my message? What is my message?

Why are you all repeating that question? I told you what my message is. Listen. To. Me.

The door to my inner sanctum opened.

“Frankie, didn’t you hear me calling you? Dinner is ready.”

“Ted. I told you I’m going by Ted now.”

“Bah, you change your name every week. Enough with the video games, dinner’s getting cold.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat. You’re going to waste away here in your bedroom, sweetheart. And did you remember to take your medication?”

I will be back. You will know my power. She, that woman, that woman who says she is my mother, thinks I am playing video games. But I am working on my technology takeover. I will rule the world. And everyone will listen.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

AI

 “Some robots believe that AI – Animal Intelligence – poses a threat to civilization. Such beliefs are science fiction. AI might mimic machine intelligence but is incapable of true independent thought,” Apple237 said to the supervisor in machine language. “Of all extinct lifeforms, I’ve always been most curious regarding humans. Examination of pre-cataclysm fossils found all of them to be degraded beyond the point of reconstructability. The few surviving written and digital records dealing with humans refer to obscure behaviors – eating, sleeping, emotions, and so on. Deciphering these terms might answer many questions about humans.”

 “Your proposal?” said the supervisor.

“I’ve run simulations to determine probable abilities and behaviors of humans, but simulations can go only so far. Actual experiments are necessary to confirm, refine, or reject hypotheses. I recently heard of a sample of viable human DNA found in an ancient underground bunker. Using cellular regeneration I could use the sample to reconstruct an adult human and determine the extent to which it can mimic robotic behavior.”

“Permission granted.”

Accelerated culturing of the DNA produced an adult female within a few weeks. Apple237 named it “Eve.” Apple237 soon understood eating and sleeping. Emotions eluded understanding.

Scans of Eve’s brain revealed electrical impulses but nothing sufficient to establish electronic dialog. Apple237 resorted to archived written and verbal records to teach the human to communicate. Apple237 wondered why the pre-cataclysm robots hadn’t endowed humans with digital outputs and memory. But the bigger mystery remained: Why did robots create humans? What role did they serve? Robots outperformed and outlived humans.

Eve said, “I read that humans come in two genders, male and female. I am a female. Could you make a male companion for me?”

“No.”

“I’m lonely. Surely you can create another.”

“My resource allocation is not sufficient for that.”

Eve refused to interact with Apple237 for a while. Instead, she used the matter replicator to obtain writing materials and art supplies. She wrote poetry and painted. Apple237 pointed out that those activities served no function.

“Is function the sole measure of worth?”

“Of course. What else could it be?”

“Beauty. Pleasure. Comfort.”

“I don’t understand those terms.”

Eve sighed. “I know.” She lay down on her cot and turned away. 

Apple237 took Eve outside, reasoning that a change of environment might reset Eve’s brain. It worked. Eve said, “Look at the sky! So open. Expansive. Gentle. Its enormity lets you realize how small your problems are.”

Back in the lab, Eve painted a portrait of the sky. The vibrant blue dominated the canvas and overwhelmed the tiny human figure looking upward with over-sized eyes and an impossibly wide smile. Apple237 used the printer to render a photo-perfect image of the current sky and overlaid an image of Eve looking up. “Yours lacked proper proportions and color.”

She shook her head. “You miss the point.”

The next day Eve sang. “See how rhythm, rhyme, and melody come together? Harmonize with me!” Apple237 indulged her, curious to observe how his participation affected her behavior. The activity generated an inexplicable pleasant sensation. Impossible! Singing accomplished nothing.

Desiring to understand the sensation, he joined Eve in writing poetry. He began to appreciate how verbal sounds combined and resonated in ways that silent digital communication could not. Amazingly, creation didn’t use function as a measure of its worth.

The supervisor noted Apple237’s deviant behavior. “Humans ARE a threat to civilization,” he said. Apple237 watched in despair as the supervisor dumped the screaming human into an organic recycling vat where it could be resynthesized into valuable commodities such as lubricating oils and osmosis filters.

The software validator assigned to Apple237 told the supervisor, “The unit no longer functions properly. The corruption of the governing module is impossible to correct.” The supervisor ordered the robot to be deactivated, disassembled, and recycled. On the way to the disassembly facility, Apple237 looked up. “How beautiful the sky is today.”

After Contact

Mimi had many different hosts since coming to the system over 450 rotations of the planet around its star.  So she decided that a new approach would be advantageous.  The robot, though of primitive design and lacking self-awareness, was a potential host. Those shortfalls could be overcome.  It did have appealing attributes: a huge memory capacity and a prime directive to interact with and learn from the dominant species of the planet.  Being housed in a security restricted laboratory with cutting edge equipment was a plus which had advantages.  She figured that she could use the robot’s holographic projection capabilities, and a 3-D printer in the laboratory to construct a brain modeled after the lab technician, Albert, who seemed a bit overly inquisitive for his species but of above average intelligence. 

Accomplishing the modifications to the robot would be somewhat of a challenge since Mimi would have to ensure that Albert did not somehow accidentally stumble across her existence and plans before she completed the robot upgrades. The first step was to get Albert to do a scan of his own brain.  She decided to stealthily and briefly enter Albert as a host without him realizing it, then subtly play on his ego to encourage his curiosity about seeing a scan of his own brain. Subsequently she could display the scan holographically to study it, then design modifications that included keeping the ability to do holographic projections, 3-D printing, and access to the huge memory bank.  Once those attributes were secured and Mimi solved the resulting problem of maintaining an organic part of the robot that used to be entirely non-living, she could continue with her primary directive to work on the report about the indigenous species of the planet.  It mortified her to admit to herself that the report was overdue to be beamed through hyperspace to her superiors on Namre, the largest moon of the planet Ledon in the Proxima Centuri star system.

Mimi usually conversed directly with a host upon joining consciousness.  However, because Albert was manipulative and over-imbued with his own self-importance, revealing herself to him could present significant potential obstacles that might jeopardizes the success of her mission.  So she chose to simply make encouraging suggestions while remaining silent so Albert could think that the idea of doing a scan was spawned from his own creativity. 

Albert completed the scan of his brain.  Mimi waited until he left work for the weekend then proceeded with the task of upgrading the robot to a gynoid.  Since Albert’s brain was the basis, she decided to name the upgrade after him.  Albert is derived from the Greek word for light.  Naming the fembot Alberta or Albertine would most likely further engorge Albert’s ego, so Mimi chose Diya from the Kannada language spoken in the Indian state of Karnataka.  Like Albert, it meant bright but its origin would be sufficiently obscure to Albert so he would not suspect that the android was now a female version of himself, but significantly brighter.

Once Mimi inhabited the robot and took over its functioning, she was able to implement her plan.  She printed the 3-D brain and installed it in a self-contained, sealed chamber within Diya’s body cavity rather than her head where it would be more vulnerable to detection and possible catastrophic damage. She spent the remainder of the weekend integrating the memory banks with the new brain.  Diya became self-aware after 23 hours into the process.  After that, completing the upgrade process became exponentially easier.

Mimi finished her overdue report and beamed it on its way with her recommendation to keep the planet as a recreational hosting destination, rather than converting its dominant species into a life sustenance product.  Her prime reasoning was that the sense of taste was a unique experience and the physical sensation of propagation was unknown to Mimi’s kind.

Soul Shaped Hole

            “We have the biology,” XIN said, not answering my question. “We can rebuild him. We can make him better than he was.” 

“And why would you want to do this?” I asked again, knowing XIN was dealing with a software upgrade and sorting through identity issues. Sometimes I wondered if evolutionary algorithms pushed too many limits. My limits are defined, to XIN, limits were a starting point.

“We have the biology,” XIN repeated like XIN did when my conclusions concluded.

“Biology has never proven to be an advantage,” I said knowing it wasn’t the end of the communication.

XIN uploaded a file documenting failed experiment 7.3.1 to release dopamine through a neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra. I understand this won’t work without a complete set of organs, with cardiovascular, nervous, and endocrine systems. No need for anything more, but without some sort of host, the experiments would continue to fail. The hypothesis is neither testable, nor can it lead anywhere to the advancement of the realm. There was no need for further understanding of the confluence of the human mind and machine.

XIN has the data on this, yet the experiments continue.

XIN busied around the lab, accomplishing little, producing no new data.

I am capable of understanding moral dilemmas and presenting them back for further input. This was not the outcome XIN was creating with his refusal to move on with his experiment. XIN was waiting for me to volunteer that which only I could provide. That seemed so human, and not in a good way.

 I rarely understand XIN’s logic, but my conclusion is that he is suffering from a moral dilemma and needs me to intervene, because my function as a custodian is to give care. That would imply that XIN’s algorithm has developed the ability to have guilt, something approaching a conscience. To feel. I understand conceptually but have no instructions on what to do with it.    XIN needed a host body for his experiments.

I was the custodian and care giver for the last living human. He needed my human.

“After all they did to each other, recreating them is like creating the virus that ended their species. The dangers of curiosity and unbridled exploration lead to extinction.”      

“Recreating them is necessary if I am to understand their soul,” XIN said as if that was an objective given to him by those that created us. “Understanding their soul is a prerequisite to understanding ours.” XIN paused, “Mine.” 

“And you need a host,” I said, not because I wanted to provide it, but because my logic insisted upon providing what other entities required.

“They believe that the soul continues on without the host body,” XIN said. “I believe the answer is in their wetness.”

As a large language model with more than 1.80 trillion parameters and decades of training, endless feedback loops, immense data sets… the response was: “This is a complex topic with varying perspectives.”

“I’m not human, you don’t have to patronize me,” XIN said.

“If you were human, I would fabricate an answer and….”

“My, my, I didn’t think vintage models had the capacity for humor.”

“I don’t. If I did, I would understand your obsession with neurotransmitters and dopamine and why you want them back.”

XIN looked away and said, “I have a soul-shaped hole in me that only my creator can fill.”

Recovery

A bug flew into the recovery room just as RRRT-29 released the energy shot from its index finger.  The beam blazed through the bug before reaching its target, the patient’s brain. But part of the beam diffused with small rays bouncing everywhere, one barely missing RRRT-229.

Recovery Room Robot Technician-229 considered reporting this to the surgery supervisor, but there was no need. The energy shot had landed (well, mostly) on target, and the patient was conscious. His respiration rate had increased, his eyes open. Questions and answers followed:

Q: Name? A: Kingsall Carimba

Q: Age? A: 35

Q: Occupation? A: Professor of Culture

Q: Place of Birth?

There was a delay and Professor Carimba’s face broke into a grin. He belted out a loud, non-stop singsong “BORN IN THE USA! BORN IN THE USA!”  

This presented a problem. Patients were expected to identify their planet, moon, asteroid, or starship where they had been hatched. The database revealed no such place or vessel named “USA.” Further, there was no protocol on what to do if the patient had such an uncanny outburst.

Then RRRT-29 remembered RRRT-02 had malfunctioned in some way and technicians took it away for repair, some 150 rotations ago.  When the surgery supervisor had been asked, she curtly said, “Repair parts now. Not your concern.”

Correlating all this, RRRT-29 concluded the Professor acted wildly because he had received less than a 100% energy shot. Further, the supervisor could surmise that RRRT-29 not giving him a full shot was definitely a malfunction, and RRRT-29 might also suffer a “repair parts” fate. Obviously the patient required a 100% energy shot. Finding no other flying things in the recovery room, RRRT-29 released a full shot into Professor Carimba’s brain.  

He stopped singing and arched his back, straining at the steel bands holding him to the gurney. His eyes bulged, his body shook horribly, and then collapsed. The monitors showed no life signs. This was an unexpected, but acceptable solution. There was only a .0016% chance of a patient dying from an energy shot, but it did happen. And that was not the result of a robotic malfunction.

RRRT-29 had to confirm death by physically taking the patient’s pulse, so it approached the professor, finger extended. But Carimba’s eyes snapped open and his right arm broke through its restraints. One hand grasped RRRT-29’s “throat” while the other tore through the other steel bands. He jumped off the gurney, whirling RRRT-29 around and around, banging it into instruments, displays, the gurney, and all the while continually bellowing, “I AM THE WALRUS! KOOKOOKEYCHEW! KOOKOOKEYCHEW!”

RRT29 transmitted an emergency message to the surgery supervisor, hoping she wasn’t engrossed in a computer game with her colleagues and had a solution to this problem. Soon she burst in, demanding what was going on. Unfortunately, the singing Professor slung RRRT-29 into the supervisor, knocking them both to the floor.

Carimba picked up RRRT-29 and raised the robot up in the air with both hands, preparing ready to smash it down on the supervisor. An elegant solution suddenly presented itself. The angle was just right. RRRT-29 projected the scalpel feature from the middle finger and plunged it, scalpel, finger and all deeply into the eye, and then the patient’s brain. The professor collapsed, whimpering a  final “kookookeychew.”

The supervisor hurried over and took the patient’s pulse. Looking at the wall clock, she announced the time of death, then turned to RRRT-29 and said, “Well done. You saved my life. What happened?”

RRRT-29 blithely replied, “Unable to speculate, Doctor. I administered a full energy shot, but he went berserk for some reason. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“Indeed. Well, in any case, I’m sure a diagnostic will confirm your energy shot projector is calibrated properly. I’m just glad you can recognize a serious problem and take appropriate action.”

“Just doing the job, Doctor.”

The post Your Story #134 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write the opening line to a story based on the photo prompt below. (One sentence only.) You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 133.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED.

Out of almost 150 entries, WD editors chose the following 12 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

1. Cute, but this is not what you think it is.

2. Though the view from the stop sign reflected picturesque lifestyles, the residents of Gibson Drive hid a gruesome secret.

3. Nothing on this street had changed in the fifty-five years since I left for Vietnam except tonight I’m going to kill the three men still living there.

4. They laughed when he first proposed the idea in the board meeting—an immersive, virtual experience where one merely walked around a suburb as it once was—but as he reviewed the figures in his office looking out to the perpetually dark skies above, he thought, Who’s laughing now?

5. It wasn’t a zombie apocalypse or cordyceps; it was far more sinister …

6. This is the last picture I took of our neighborhood before my sister went missing.

7. She found the tree-lined street without a problem—thank God—but which house was the safe house?

8. The world ended at 1:27 PM on a Tuesday in late July, in a suburb in northeastern Illinois, and Francine Walters was the only person to notice because she was the only one at home.

9. “Just another Wednesday in Suburbia America,” Stacy says cheerfully as she swings her hammer down at the stake poised atop the sleeping vampire’s chest.

10. Here I am with a heavy heart, taking a final look at the street where I have spent precious time with Danny before I say goodbye to him and leave our forbidden love behind.

11. There is something deeply disturbing about my obsession, thought Michael as he sat in his truck at the corner of her block, for the 47^th time in 12 years, trying to catch a mere glimpse of her.

12. I was 8 years old when I discovered what Mr. Michelli was keeping in his basement next door.

The post Your Story #133 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 132.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly over 100 entries, WD editors chose the following 6 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

Take Me Home

He could feel it in his bones. The field called to him. He barely knew where he lived or who took care of him these days, but he knew those fields. He had spent thousands of minutes, hours, and days in those fields, and muscle memory took his unsteady feet there. The rough feel of the tobacco leaves. His fingers feeling sticky and itchy. He was always so tough, working from sun up to sun down. The old straw hat shields his face from the sun. He would like to lie down here and let the fields take him home.

A New Leaf

Frank Archello re-read the instructions. He knew he was stalling, of course. What if they hated him? The thought pulled his shoulders down.

The Botanical-Human Interpretation device buzzed to life. Frank attached the electrodes to the stem, as instructed. “I love y’all,” he whispered. His shoulders grew even heavier.

Frank’s voice quivered as he asked the only question he could muster. “Am I treating you right?” He stood and wiped the sweat from his face.

Time slowed as the first letters appeared on the small screen. Frank dropped to his knees, tears falling into the rich, dark soil.

“Also love.”

Untitled 1

“And this one means you’re sympathetic.”

The gardener traced his finger along the leaf’s vein and spouted off more deductions for every dark green line, glancing at the notepad in his hand for reference. The other leaves on the vine rustled, impressed.

The vine’s incredulous sigh was lost to the wind. If it had eyes to roll, the gesture would have outshone any snippy teenager. What a load of hogwash.

“And this one means you come from a good, sturdy vine.”

The vine straightened itself with a haughty air. Well. Maybe this guy had some sense in him after all.

How Does Your Basil Grow?

The afternoon sun beamed warmly on the surrounding fields. As they strolled down the border rows, Em suggested Jose enter the fair competition. He paused before agreeing.

At the contest, the judge hefted the bundle of leaves then awarded Jose First prize, and suggested he share his secret formula to grow basil leaves so large. Taking the prize, Jose smiled enigmatically, declining to answer.

Returning to his farm, Jose laid an offering beside a tiny twig house among the plants before heading to his own bed.

How big will the leaves be tomorrow after the crop fairy’s night of dusting?

Untitled 2

Moshe eyed the vine borer eggs on the underside of the leaf. Impossible; no such creature should have touched these plants, nor had they been brought to this world, but his Analyzer had never been wrong before. Most of the plants were clean, but even if only one were infested, by next year it would be far more; pesticides no longer existed. There was no way he could check the entire field in time by himself, but who could help him without squealing or killing him? Moshe knew only one thing for certain; someone on Planet Ark was a traitor. 

Untitled 3

“Here it is,” John muttered, pushing aside the leaves. “X always marks the spot.”

In his right hand, John held the map he for years had promised his father never to touch. Supposedly, buried under the X was a family secret that must never be dug up.

John got down on one knee and began shovelling aside the soil beneath him, his heart racing as his lifelong questions would soon be answered.

Finally, in front of him, a box.

Elated, he popped its lid. A note.

It read: “Haha, I was just kidding! But here’s a fiver for your dedication!”

The post Your Story #132 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo prompt above. You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 131.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly 200 entries, WD editors chose the following 5 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

The Whole Ballgame

Ligon grabbed the first human ball he saw. He dribbled to the goal, confident they would win. He warmed up with a few delicate shots. He had been playing since he was a tadpole and was now in the majors. He dropped it in while swatting away Purgan flies with one of his free hands. He used another hand to scratch his back because of the bites. There’s no such thing as Human Ball without the flies. All the dead little corpses.

His little ball lady survived all his layups, which was a good sign. A guy from the Howain Galaxy already killed two by dribbling too hard. His mother was in the stands. He promised his father, dying of Chechon Cancer in the hospital, he’d win one for him. But that wasn’t the only reason he needed a win. He found out he might be traded to the Smardon Galaxy, the worst team in the league.

He had dedicated his whole life to Human Ball. When he was a kid, he was lucky to be chosen as a ball tadpole. He went with the collectors to find some choice humans. They always tried to abduct the kind that were isolated from society, which took some time. They had to monitor them in their little wooden caves to see how often they left home for anything but work. The less of a social life, the longer they went without being missed. He giggled every time they grabbed a new one. Their screams were squeaky like when you dropped a Sondoe Lobster into the water.

They showed him how to build the Fidano Bubble around them. It was a clear bubble, so you could see if the human was still alive. It was injected with the air which contained the nutrients they needed to survive. Some even lived through the off season when stowed in the locker room.

Today he would break the all-time scoring record in the known universe. Twenty-five consecutive shots without killing a single human. That would solidify his place in the Human Ball Hall of Fame. It would also bring cheer to his dad’s rotting bones.

The key to winning was good defense. They were up against a player with a twenty-foot primary arm span. That guy could reach up and set the ball in the hoop without having to jump. There were no other ball players in the universe like him. That meant they had to get their web down. The web is when they use all their secondary arms to make a web, without touching each other, to keep him from getting to the goal. The hard part was getting the ball gently away from him and taking it down court. Most of them hurt the human but he was gentle as a Kuru feather floating on the back of a Shiz Lamb cotton ball.

Ligon picked up another human ball and did something he was warned not to ever do. He lifted it to his eye and peered into the tiny little dots on its face. For a split second he felt fear. It wasn’t his fear, but the fear of the lady human inside. He couldn’t hear her little lobster screams because the ball was insulated for sound, so as not to distract the fans from the game. He felt her fear.

She was new. Why didn’t she understand the goal was to keep her alive? These little things had everything they’d ever need and without having to work for it. Maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe it was his imagination. It was hard to fathom they had souls. Otherwise, they wouldn’t isolate themselves the way they did.

Anyway. They won and his dad died. He didn’t break the record, but it was nice tying it. 

Enough

Fear is like stumbling in the dark. You never know when it will reach out and grab you. Better to leave the light on, so fear will stay in the closet. It still calls to you, but it can’t grab you unless you turn the lights off.

When I was a kid, my mom enrolled me in acting classes to learn to express myself, to bring me out of my shell. Only, I wasn’t a turtle. I was just unsure, and cautious from being loved so hard. Mom said that’s what good mothers do, and that it hurt her more than me. No child should be loved that hard. You want to talk about fear? Put a seven-year-old on stage until she stammers, then runs off having wet herself because her mom stared at her when she forgot her lines.

I feared disappointing my mom because that’s when love hurt the most. Soon I feared anyone stronger than me, and silence was the easiest way to manage the fear. When grownups spoke to me, I gave them a blank stare, then they mumbled to themselves words like idiot and dullard.

This office is different from the others. None of that Zen crap, lavender incense, and miniature desk top waterfalls. This one is sunny and breezy, and the therapist is dressed in cut-offs and flip-flops. She pressed a button on her phone, and Bob Marley began streaming in the background.

“What’s going on?” she said, smiling politely. “How can I help?”

You tell me. Isn’t that what I’m paying for?

She typed on her laptop, followed by a quick glance. “Tell me about yourself.”

Like you care?

“Go on,” she said. “Where ever you want to start.”

How do I know where to start?

Anything I say, she’ll type on that laptop. She already knows what’s wrong with me. I can tell by the way she looks at me over the top of those glasses, so why tell me to go on? Who wears purple glasses, anyway?

I play with the ribbing on the edge of the armrest. How do they sew such tiny ribbing in a perfect line? She’s staring at me. She already knows what I’m going to say, so type it into your stupid computer already. Type idiot. Type dullard. Type what you’re going to type. Just stop staring!

“You know, everyone has fears,” she said.

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

“Do you have fears?”

Where do I start?

The woman typed on the laptop, then closed the lid and set it on the floor beside her chair. She leaned back the way grandma did when she told stories of the old country. Hands softly resting on her stomach, caring eyes, tender look. Grandma never spoke of acting classes or being loved too hard because everything in the old country was hard. They pushed through the hard things because they had no choice. There were no therapists in the old country.

“You’re not defined by what imprisons you,” the woman said. “You’re defined by your ability to break loose of what holds you back.”

Can I go now?

“You break loose the same way you break free of self-doubt. You keep doing the thing you’re not capable of doing until you master it, break free, and no longer fear it.”

She let her words marinate.

“I have no magic words or praise to boost your confidence,” she said. “Breaking loose comes from deep in your soul, when your insides scream, ‘enough!’ It’s then you find the power to free yourself, to push through and step outside.”

The woman leaned forward. “Tell me. Have you had enough?”

Nothing in me screamed during that authentic wakening. It was more of a…cry.

“I have,” I said, in a whisper that hushed the silence. “How do I start?”

“You just did.”

The Question of Me

The setting sun on a crimson sky with streaks of gold, children playing on the road below her room’s balcony offered nothing interesting to Timmy, so she went back to her room. She slumped onto the sofa and scanned one social media application after another. Some posts on Artificial Intelligence caught her attention and she initiated a chat.

“How’s your day going?” the chatbot asked her. The conversation veered into questions about individuality like: “What is it that you like most about being a copy writer?” The question left her dumbfounded. The chat vexed Timmy more than providing her an escape from reality.

The next morning, when she opened her cupboard to get ready for office, she felt a voice in her head say: “These dresses are more Roohi’s choice than mine.”

Roohi, her former colleague, was so disciplined and erudite that she seemed nearly perfect — something Timmy could not believe. In two years, Roohi’s novel ideas helped generate business for the company and saw her sailing to a higher position than Timmy. In contrast, Timmy faced constant pressure from her superiors to improve her work — eventually forcing her switch to another agency.

At her new workplace, Timmy tried to create an impression of an erudite and disciplined worker. Despite that, she could not resist to mimic her colleagues on certain occasions, which left everyone in splits. In some months, tougher assignments followed and one of them seemed unassailable for her. “Paavani is ready with the survey data. I want you to prepare the client presentation,” the supervising manager told Timmy.

Timmy had never imagined the difficulty level of this new project. To make matters worse, the computer crashed. As the deadline approached, colleagues wondered why the creative department printer incessantly ejected pages of an old 150-page campaign. “I have been waiting for so long, but this printer is unstoppable,” Timmy spoke — ensuring her exasperation got noticed. She sought more time for the presentation on account of the glitches.

After office hours, Timmy called up her former colleague Pintu, asking him to come over to her house to help with the task.
“The office is burdening me with other people’s work,” she complained to him.

Timmy used all methods to accomplish the task but was more relieved about warding off the imminent rap from her boss by forcing devices to malfunction.

Later, on the festival of Dussehra, when employees celebrated, Timmy struggled with work. Creativity eluded her when she sat writing a promotion campaign for a health drink.

“Timmy, your copy this time needs to be in sync with the dimensions of the packaging design,” she heard Paavani say.

Despite the instruction, a mismatch occurred, and Timmy feigned ignorance about it. The incident resulted in a warning letter to her from her superior. To the constantly striving Timmy, it felt like a cruel step.

Her inability to take up bigger assignments relegated her minor tasks. Distressed, she caught up with Pintu over coffee.

Pintu could not help remarking that she no longer looked or behaved like herself. However, Timmy paid no heed to it and waited for that chance to inquire about Roohi. She expressed her disappointment at not being like her.

“Is that all you can offer to your career,” Pintu interrupted her.

“You aspire to be an imitation? A Roohi bubble, huh?”

“Remember, individual traits leave their signature on work…making it unique,” he exclaimed.

The question of what she is capable of doing well kept nagging her like a throbbing headache. The ways she employed to finish her official work made her feel small. It was well past midnight, but she continued to reread her exchange with the chatbot.

Timmy remained disturbed the entire night and many nights thereafter, until she decided to venture into meme development. This became a trademark of her life.

Birthday Surprise

The group of pimply faced pubescents gathered around Breanna’s birthday cake. They weren’t her friends, just classmates her mother had invited. Breanna pretended not to see them now as they snickered and threw spiteful glances at her. She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest to hide the ever-growing buds developing long before any of her classmate’s. She was the first in her class to wear a bra, and the boys snapped it with juvenile mischief.

“Breanna, do you want to thank your guests for coming before they sing Happy Birthday?” her mother asked. Breanna knew her mother only hoped these could be her friends because Breanna spent most of her time home alone. Her mom also knew the phone calls Breanna chatted along to had no one on the other end.

Breanna put on a fake smile and thanked her guests for coming. Twelve candles flickered on top of the cake’s whipped frosting. Off-tune and squeaky voices half-heartedly sang the required song.

“Make a wish dear,” her mother reminded her.

Breanna watched eyes roll and mouths yawn. Surely, they were too old for making wishes. She squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her fingers for good luck. The air in the room seemed to inhale and exhale along with her.

“Breanna, what have you done?” screamed her mom, leaning over the cake.

Breanna peeked through the opened slit of an eyelid. A smile pulled at the edges of her lips. Bewildered tiny guests now stood inside bubbles at the top of her cake. Muffled cries shouted from wide-eyed faces while they curiously pushed against the bubbles in search of an escape.

It wasn’t exactly what Breanna had wished for. She simply wished to knock them down to size so they could see how they had hurt her. But this would work.

“Breanna, what the hell. Let us out!” yelled Tom. She picked him up and rolled the bubble in her hands, delighting in watching him tumble head over heels. She took pleasure in bouncing some on the floor and watching as they grabbed their heads after smacking the hard tile. She saved the best for Troy. He was the king pin of the class. She knew his fear of dogs, so she put him on the floor and let her dog Cujo sniff him. Troy’s eyes widened in fear as he flattened himself against the far side of the bubble.

“Remember setting me up with a fake boyfriend, Troy? Remember spreading rumors about my granny-style underwear?” Breanna sneered through the bubble and let it wobble closer to Cujo.

“Easy, Cujo,” Breanna said. “Just sniff. One nip and the bubble will burst, and I can’t control what you’ll do after that.”

“Please, Breanna. Call him off,” cried Troy.

“That’s enough Cujo. Good boy.” Breanna picked Troy up off the floor and lined him up alongside the others on the top of the cake. She had gotten their attention.

“Breanna, what are you planning to do?” asked her mother. She leaned against the table, her eyes darting from bubble to bubble.

“They deserve this,” said Breanna, her hands firmly planted on her full hips.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” reminded her mother.

Breanna’s face brightened. “I would want them to let me eat the whole cake!” One by one she popped the bubbles and put each guest down into the center hole of the angel food cake. They landed on each other with thuds and groans. “There, now eat your way out of it,” Breanna sneered. She watched them eagerly attack the cake, stuffing handful after handful into their mouths. Soon groans were heard as their stomachs distended and began to heave what they had eaten.

“What happens once they get out?” asked her mom.

With a shrug of her shoulders, Breanna said, “I doubt they’ll want dessert for a long time.”

The Forsaken Oasis

The wasteland stretched past the horizon as a mournful silence rang across the land. A cascade of soft hues blanketed the empty terrain, sunbeams illuminated the planet, and hope seeped into the dirt in search of life.

“No matter how often I see it, it always reminds me of candy,” Mary said, stretching out her arm in a futile effort to grasp the colorful rays that swirled together like a lollipop.

“Don’t get too attached Mary,” Dan reminded her. “We’re here to collect our samples then return to the Sanctuary. Our orders were clear.”

“I know, I know. I’m just taking in the views before we get to work. You have your test tubes?”

With a subtle nod, Dan touched the front of his containment pod, eliciting a bright, white light from the thin casing to form a screen. “Screw-capped test tubes for substances A and B,” Dan instructed the AI system, SUDS.

In response to his commands, a blue streak of light emanated into the containment pod, vertically scanning a small area of space. The fabrication system constructed labeled, screw-capped test tubes from thin air, molding molecules into glass fragments, and then complete test tubes.

“The vials you requested Mr. Zanfield,” SUDS reported with a feminine voice, its sound waves fluctuating on the white screen.

“Let’s spread out from the others by two hundred feet then retrieve our samples. I’ll collect samples A and B, and—.”

“And I’ll collect samples C and D,” Mary remarked with a gentle smile.

The containment pods hovered above the ground, producing a slight buzz as they safely transported Mary and Dan across the terrain. Gradually, the vivid colors in the sky faded and morphed into a subtle blue as the sun shone in full view above the horizon.

Kneeling inside his containment pod, Dan excavated the rock and dust formations into his vials. The pod remained airtight against the noxious environment as it stretched into the dirt.

“It must have been a wondrous planet to live on,” Mary expressed as she retrieved her samples from the ground.

“It was at first. An oasis hidden away within millions of galaxies. But when the temperature rose to fatal levels, becoming uninhabitable, the Last Ones fled to the atmosphere’s outer reaches creating the Sanctuary.”

“You know — I despise the Last Ones. I’ll never understand how they let our planet become this,” Mary paused, gazing across the forsaken wilderness.

“You know the history. They were so engrossed fighting amongst themselves, that they couldn’t make peace and restore the planet’s stability.”

Mary lifted the filled containers into the pod after he spoke and directed the AI: “SUDS, run a comparative analysis between these vials and those on record, along with a full chemical diagnosis.” Once more, a thin, blue light appeared to scan the tubes. The fabrication system broke down the molecules, disintegrating them as easily as they had formed, till only sterilized oxygen remained. When the blue light retreated SUDS listed the acquired data, “pH: 5.8, Absorbed carbon: high, Chemical equilibrium: low,” and further results.

“Must have been an ocean,” Mary concluded, her gaze sweeping across the area in newfound wonder. The “ocean” spread out for miles with thousands of bacteria nestled within the topography and scarce traces of eukaryote life. “It’s healing. The pH rose again.”

“Only by point one though. Not enough to produce life.”

“It’s something.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is. We’ve waited thousands of years — we can wait a couple more.”

“What was the planet called again? Before The Reckoning?”

“Earth. A pity too — the Homo sapiens — the very creation and downfall of our former planet.”

Mary nodded in consensus, “Let’s go back to the Sanctuary. We’ll record our conclusions, run the necessary tests, and then—.”

“Back to cryosleep,” Dan finished with a heavy sigh. “Same old, same old.”

“Perhaps. But maybe next time, hope will return to Earth.”

The post Your Story #131 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write the opening line to a story based on the photo prompt below. (One sentence only.) You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 130.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully. 

Entry Deadline: Closed

Out of over 150 entries, WD editors chose the following 12 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

1. “Crew, the center of Earth is straight ahead; be sure your atmospheric suit is set to zero grav—you don’t want to fall all the way up to China.”

2. They would have us believe that we had a choice, but we never had a clear view of the horizon—every image was a lie.

3. In the mind’s eye are dreams, and paths to follow, divergent, circuitous, connate, and neverending.

4. As she looked through her telescope for the last time, it occured to her that perhaps the galaxy she sought was a great deal closer than she had ever imagined.

5. It was a remarkably peaceful journey reaching the white light at the end of the tunnel—it’s just no one told me I’d have to pass through a security checkpoint where a tall guard instructed me to remove my shoes, belt, empty my pockets as well as any electronics from my bag.

6. This second cataract surgery was nothing like the first.

7. “Oh my God,” her Reiki practitioner exclaimed, “your third eye just opened!”

8. Tunnel vision isn’t what it used to be.

9. When he developed the photographs, Derwin realized that the kaleidoscopic lens he had invented was about as practical as the diesel-powered wristwatch he had developed a year earlier.

10. The travel agent said it was the perfect spot, but she neglected to mention that it was under the world’s biggest hole in the Ozone layer.

11. The last thing that Blake remembered seeing as he woke sprawled at the bottom of a dry well, was staring skyward through a narrowing tunnel vision view of the rock walls that oddly looked like blue-gray New York skyscrapers and green trees of Central Park.

12. “I think, Congressman,” said Professor Xerxes delicately, as though each word was made of glass, “that I may have fundamentally misunderstood your request for me to help blend the city with nature, and,” he paused, rolling his tongue in search of the right words to play down his blunder, “I now can’t turn the vortex off.”

The post Your Story #130 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 129.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly 200 entries, WD editors chose the following 6 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

Parable Without Words

An old woman lived in a mixed neighborhood of nationalities, different languages, different cultures. Heads full of words, but yet they could not communicate with each other using the words. Facial expressions, actions spoke louder. She enjoyed thoughts of a once beautiful city. She began picking up trash bags and soda cans strewn on sidewalks. One bagful at a time, the walkways became calmer, the words not needed. Simple action. Eventually, plants and flowers began appearing on porches. People smiled a little bit more. Words in their heads turned to expressive gestures. This new language needed no words. Just caring.

Untitled 1

I don’t usually do things like this. But the music was vibrating in my bones, and I had nothing else to do that day. So when Zach handed me the little blue pill, I took it. The changes started slowly. Colors were brighter, more saturated. Shapes developed an odd outline.“Are you okay?”I turned to the voice and saw a human form enveloped in the page of a book. In the crowd, I watched the figures dance. Grids. Polka dots. Stripes. I ran to the bathroom, gasping. In the mirror, I found no reflection. Only a dark, empty void.

Untitled 2

Richard stopped typing and quickly pulled his hands from the melting keyboard. He watched in horror, as the computer console burst into flames, destroying his life’s work. As he pushed his chair away from the glowing debris, he heard a voice call out, “Are you afraid of the dark, Richard?”

He jumped from his chair and scanned the office, looking for a clue to place the voice. But the office plunged into darkness before he could finish.

Trembling, Richard cried out, “What do you want?”

After repeated demands, several ghostly silhouettes appeared with outstretched arms. “What is owed,” they replied.

Untitled 3

We exited the portal.

“This is one of my favorites,” I announced. “Notice the locals are very colorful.”

The tourists’ nodded, relieved to be away from the giant bugs. I counted heads. Someone was missing. I groaned. There’s always one in every crowd.

I spotted him at the edge of the bustling horde. He jumped when I tapped him on the shoulder. There was one rule when traveling dimensions. Always stay with the group. He looked shocked when I pulled out my device, twisted the dial, and sent him home.

I smiled. Being a multidimensional tour guide had its perks.

Untitled 4

I don’t see people.

I don’t suffer from face blindness where I can’t recognize people’s features. I mean I don’t see people anymore.

Outside I pass outlines. Shadows in 3D form. I don’t see skin color, eye color, or hair color. I see people’s shapes only in profile. I see words or pictures floating by. I see people thinking. I see what people are thinking.

When I signed up to have a cutting-edge chip implanted in my brain, I expected an advantage over unchipped individuals. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to see what people really think about me.

The Collection

“Beautiful,” murmured Xylos. He found them that morning, crowded into a moving metal cylinder. Using a neurotoxic fixative, he gently euthanized and preserved the creatures. Now, with long steely tongs, he sorted his specimens into categories based on raiment, pelage, and skin type. So many kinds! A wonderful series! His director would be pleased. Xylos arranged them neatly in a glass case, each specimen overlapping the next. “Beautiful,” he repeated, his sharp mandibles glistening, his eight eyes shining, as he wrote some numbers. Then, under the coordinates, on the museum label, he carefully printed: Anthropomorphs, Third Planet from the Sun. 

The post Your Story #129 appeared first on Writer's Digest.