So Long, Farewell

The Hug by Shashank Shekhar

The Hug by Shashank Shekhar

 

“Here we are,” Cynthia tapped the steering wheel with one finger, her anxiety building. Her daughter eager to sprint from the car, bag and dreams in hand. Yet Cynthia’s heart quivered at the sight of so much excited abandon. Their sideways hug lingered. DNA was breaking off once more. Goodbye.

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Hey all! Wrote this shorty in response to the DP Weekly Writing Challenge. I simply loved it! It was hard picking the right words and hard to end it right at 50 but WOOO what a challenge. Can’t wait to experiment with super short bits like this some more =)

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The Others

Mercy lay as still as her body would let her. As frail and easily snuffed out as that body was it was a gift nonetheless. The new sheets she had just put on her bed were soft but smelled foreign, like plastic really. Mercy hated the smell of plastic. She allowed a subtle turn of her head so her nose could bury itself into her shoulder and inhale a familiar scent.

The rain pounding away on the roof only added to her sense of comfort. It was a hard and steady rain, her favorite. When it came down like that, the sound of a constant downpour created a sort of white noise that Mercy liked to imagine is what her mother’s womb had sounded like. Not loud and grainy like TV static or the harsh tones of an empty radio channel.

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Chase

Derek felt his legs beginning to ache as he sprinted past another large redwood. The tops of the tree branches groaned and leaned against the growing wind. Dark clouds shifted across the dimming sunlight, sending shadows playing ahead of Derek’s feet. His pace was hard to keep but he had no choice.

A scream drifted in on the wind to his right. Mid-stride he changed direction, his feet slipping slightly in the undergrowth. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let this son of a bitch get away, not again. Four days of little sleep and chasing leads had finally led Derek here to one of the Redwood State parks just outside Eureka, California.

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Can you spell that for me?

Name Nobre Nome Ainm Název

Name Nobre Nome Ainm Název

Way back, in the 7th grade, when I was 12, I started at a new middle school in a new neighborhood with zero friends. I had already completed 6th grade in a middle school setting so I wasn’t frightened by the change like many of the kids at this new school were. Their advantage however, lay in the fact that many of them had gone to Elementary school together and knew one another.

In my first class of the day the teacher was busy calling out names and pointing to seats so we’d know where we would be forced to plant ourselves day after day when we filed in for that particular class. Being that my last name starts with a Z I was used to being placed in the back so I made my way in that general direction and waited to be called last.

The other part of the routine that I was more than familiar with was the teacher inevitably butchering my name. Honestly it’s not that hard. See my name is spelled Janise and it’s pronounced jah-niece but many people tend to say jan-niss or even duh-niece. Yeah, that’s right, they would actually make a D sound when it’s clearly a J in the beginning of my name. Once I even had a substitute say (with much conviction) jan-is-ee.

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Scratches

Looks can be deceiving. Even with only five years of experience so far under her belt, Casey had learned that much as a coroner. Whether you were talking about the latest person on her table or the small town she was currently stuck in, deception was possible everywhere. Lately the old saying had been playing in her head more than usual. A string of murders at the edges of the town were keeping everyone busy and especially wary.

With a decidedly unladylike grunt, Casey pulled apart the latest victim’s ribcage. “Man! Even with a thorough cut you just didn’t want to give up that fuhh…fricken,” she trailed off mumbling to herself quietly. From a safe distance her tablet was busy recording her every word so she did her best to hold off on the cursing. This town was small but it was big on the one thing Casey couldn’t stand- religion. Continue reading

My Rock

Life had once been defined by linears and absolutes. The most basic of these absolute lessons is one that many kids learn at a young age. You’re born, you live, you die. What many people fail to explain is that this chain of events repeats itself over and over throughout your life and sometimes not even in the right order.

If she tried hard enough Jenny could probably recall at least a dozen moments when she felt as though she had become a new person.

Born again would be the expression but she hated that. Made her sound like some religious nut that’d just as quickly also reclaim her virginity. That ship had sailed long ago. Shaking her head she rubbed her eyes and tried to push these thoughts out.

They weren’t helping. The hardest of the repetitive absolutes was here again: death. It didn’t matter the type of death, this absolute was always hard. Continue reading

Clear Sharp Memories

“I remember his eyes. They are just like mine. Every time I look in the mirror I see him. I try not to look at my self too much.”
― Ida Løkås

“Enough Jenna! It’s just done ok? Stop it,” Jenna’s mother clutched her bathrobe with one hand, the other balled into a fist at her side.

She was shaking with anger now, the towel wrapped around her head threatened to fall down. Everything was in fact threatening to fall down. The house fell silent for a moment and suddenly a crevice seemed to split open the tiniest bit in the space between Jenna and her mother.

Catherine was barely twenty-eight but with three children and a divorce to handle with an idiot while also starting a new marriage to a man eons better, she felt more like she was twenty-eight going on fifty.

Jenna stared past her mother at the couch with its dark textured pattern and fought desperately not to let even a single tear well up in her eyes. She hated crying. Especially over the topic at hand. It hurt both ways and a frustrated knot in her stomach reminded her of that fact constantly.

“It’s just that…” the words wouldn’t come easily, another side effect of being only eight years old with limited vocabulary skills to call upon, “He’s my dad. I don’t want to call someone else that. Doesn’t seem fair.”
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