Between Living and Existing

…natural drug. She stopped feeling, she stopped caring, she was just one with the cold elements and like a harsh parent it controlled her with its cruelty.

She was now wet through. All her colours had drained away and her face was like a wrung-out cloth. From afar, she was a large bundle of damp darkness – the dark hues of failure. Her face failed to smile and her eyes refused to brighten as they had done once upon a time. Her skin was pallid apart from her weather-beaten cheeks and her hair was a lifeless grey. She was a shadow that nobody…

By Sarah Bowden

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Social Anxiety, Stage Fright and The Giant

…than before.

The giant knocked me down cold in the first round. When I regained consciousness, I looked at its face. It refused to give up. I was astonished. The lines on its forehead mirrored mine. The dark under its eyes was a lot like mine, but only darker. Perhaps it had fought many similar fights or even wars. It had my eyes, my lips. It was all me. But its hands were different. Why ? How can I be fighting against myself ? But I am. Right? If this giant is anything like me, then I know its weaknesses and…

By Mohini Awasthi

Website: http://mohini19blog.wordpress.com

Twitter: mohini_awasthi2

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/mohiniawasthi.96

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The Love Basket

…at the top of his voice! His Mommy open the door he just slammed and asked him, What’s wrong Harper? “Are you still mad about the cookie?” she asked. “YES and Daddy won’t play with me! I’m so bored!!!” He replied.

“Is that all?” Mommy asked with concern in her eyes. You see they were moving again and they had done a lot of moving. They called it “adventures” but Harper was attached this time. He was only three when they arrived in Washington but now he was turning 5 and he was feeling a lot more. More fear…

By Trina Casey

Website: http://galaxyswhale.com

Twitter: TrinaCasey13

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/GalaxysWhale/

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Wimpy Paddington

…how my friends and I insulted each other. John had started it and we followed whatever John did without thinking much about it. He wrote U2 on his schoolbag and within a week we’d all done the same. John had got the Arab thing from his dad who’d been in prison. There were no Arabs in our part of Avon.
Stephen looked up, eyes wide, shaking his head.
“What?” I sneered, staring at the streaks of red sauce. 
“What you just said…

By Matthew Roy Davey

Website: https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com/

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Our Saviour

Memories form the fabric of our identities: we encode, we store and we retrieve. Children's memories are often formed from play, games and fun finding. In an infant, memory is like sand used in a play pit. When shaken through a toy sieve most of the sand works its way through the grid and disperses. As adults to the grid is covered with a fine gauze mesh, most of the memories remain as they can't work through the holes. As toddlers, we make recollections from a smell, from sight, from touch, from what we hear, from indifference or…

By Alison Little

Website: http://alisonlittleblog.wordpress.com

Twitter: Alison05

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/alison.little1

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Bad Traditions

I had already killed three when I read the prompt “Bad Traditions” and thought of submitting. It seemed appropriate that I should consider myself a follower of bad traditions rather than a serial killer. Indeed, bad traditions had been responsible for a lot of my criminal development. First off, my family had bad traditions. One was called my father and he was a Marxist and a political fanatic. The second bad tradition was my sister and she was a global feminist with very bad traditions – one being to write boring academic texts about famous nineteenth-century women writers. There were many other bad traditions in my family. For instance, regular holidays to Dublin and to St. Malo, so regular that their repetitive nature became a major pain in the ass. Drinking too much beer was a bad tradition I must hang round my own neck like a frothy, mad albatross.
And it was this last-mentioned tradition that got me killing the fourth.
It was a summer night and I made for a couple humping in the sand dunes up above the nudist stretch of the Ostia beach outside Rome. It was nine-thirty and I possessed two long, pretty sharp blades. Why two? Well, I wanted a fourth and a fifth. As luck would have it, he thumped me on the head and ran away…but only after twisting off her, seeing her dying there under the Italian moonshine, pushing himself inside his downed trunks, and moaning off. That knock on the head led to other bad stuff, traditions, really, like the self-confessional writing up of murders I’m doing now.
As I watched that bastard who’d hit me and avoided the second blade running or scampering away from me, blubbering and wailing, I knew I’d made a big mistake. The bad tradition had been broken and he’d got away.
I’m sure there will come a knock at my door one of these days. They’ll come and want to know what I was doing on those Ostia sands, why a girl was found dead, why a panicked guy had turned up at the carabinieris, blabbing about a maniac with two blades, slicing down on his naked bird. It’ll happen….that other bad tradition that gets killers caught.

By Jonathan Finch
Website: https://www.amazon.com/author/finchjf
Twitter: JonathanFinch12
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/writereflect123go/?ref=bookmarks 

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As I remember it...

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” Mad says to the baby before leaving. The baby begins to cry.

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” she laughs at the baby before leaving.

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” she yells at the baby before leaving.

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” she shakes the baby before leaving.

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” she punches the baby before leaving.

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” she sets the baby on fire before leaving.

“Girl, you better wipe the dirty drool off your face,” she blows up the baby before leaving.

By Cristina WilCraft

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You're Good Enough

Introduction by Writer: A Lover's Conversation

————

“Tell me something I don’t know”, he said as I was snuggled up against him in the bedroom dark.

“If humans were killed at the rate we actually kill animals we’d be extinct in 17 years.”

“Wait what,” he chuckled.

“Fine, I’m not really sure if the poster said 17 years or 17 days,” I replied as I kissed the base of his throat.

“I meant about you.”

“Oh-”

A pregnant silence fell in between us for a long minute.

I could hear him resume his sleeping breathing pattern.

“Hey,” I called out before he could go back into nirvana.

By Deluxe Culture

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Fuzz

 Introducing 'Fuzz', a cute little rhyming tale of the life of a piece of fuzz. Written by Author Crystal Wenger who has previously published the funny, unique rhyming children's picture book Animiximals and who has many more to come!

———— 

...washing machine and boy all the bubbles sure do get him clean. 

He sleeps in pockets, dressers and drawers, floats on the breeze and sweeps across floors. 

He often hides under the bed, and there he finds all his fuzzy fuzz friends. He makes his way from room to room but must take care to avoid the vacuum!

His favorite place to be is outside, when he hangs on the clothes on the clothes hanging line.

He's always being blown away, picked out of toes, dropped on the floor or sneezed out a nose.

He likes floating on the breeze or relaxing on pillows is very comfy, that's one of his favorite places to be. 

Being a fuzz is a dream come...

By Crystal Wenger

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