Short Story Contest Submission: ShindaHotaru – Time Will Tell

Time will tell

It was supposed to be a quiet evening, husband out with the boys and the house empty and silent for once. You wanted to relax for once, just for once, even though you wouldn't have minded your husband's company. But the kids wanted to watch a movie you can't even recall the name of and he suggested to take them out, probably the only way to get your oldest son out of the house.

Things have gotten out of order the past weeks, or months or so, you can't remember when family life has stopped being only about weekend trips, movie nights and playing hide and seek in the garden. Someday your oldest son stopped coming downstairs for a play of hanafuda, the next he took his lunch upstairs into his bedroom. Logically, a fifteen-year-old boy needs privacy, some time on his own. But you can't find an excuse nor explanation why your son wouldn't want to eat with you anymore. What, upstairs in his room, was more interesting than familiar company?

You shake your head, nuzzle your back more into the sofa cushion and sigh your thoughts away. This is your evening, no need to have your family problems on your mind while they are out of the house. So you lie there on the champagne couch, your gaze wandering through the living-room, a mixture of crème and brown-colored furniture, the little nostalgic lamp on, sitting in her beauty on the table on the other side of the sofa.

Now that you are home alone, you have no clue what to do with the time given. Your husband and kids only left half an hour ago and they won't be back in the next three hours. Maybe even in four hours, when your husband comes up with the idea to treat them all with some fast food. He spoils the kids too much, you figure, he would grant them a wish when you didn't even allow them to make one. Or perhaps he has a better idea of raising kids than you have, and after all you're just too strict in most of the cases. And maybe that was why your oldest likes to stay up in his room instead of jamming on the guitar with you.

Maybe not? Well, you could use the time to find out, now that your son is far away, physically, and mentally even farther away. You get up, climb the marble staircase and walk over to your son's bedroom door, determined to enter and look for any evidence. Somewhere in the depths of your mind, your husband's voice echoes, that having trust in your children was essential, but you have no trouble to ignore your inner voice and walk into your son's bedroom.

...

30. April 2012

Short Story Contest Submission: Tensh_iie – I’ll Try Not To Destroy You

VOTING IS OPEN NOW!

„I’ll try not to destroy you“

Warm rays of sun wavered through the window, bathing the room in golden lightening. Birds were tweeting on the outside, talking and singing almost as if they wanted to greet the new day that was rising from the ground. Another warm and sunny day in Los Angeles. Another day full of chances, dreams and opportunities. Another chance to make things right.

Standing on the back porch of his house, a young man took in a deep breath, letting the fresh air rush through his body and fill his lungs with oxygen, as he stood there and greeted the new day himself. He did that every morning, no matter how the weather was outside. No matter if the sun was shining, or rain came crashing down from the sky. It didn't matter. Every morning at six-thirty A.M. he stood in the same spot, in the same position – taking in the first deep breath of the day. It was a ritual, something that meant a lot in Jon's world – the world he lived in.

Looking up from the ground, he watched a pair of blackbirds jumping over the green grass of the back yard. They were probably searching for some worms or seeds, which they could fill their growling stomachs with. Or maybe they were on the hunt for little branches they could use to build a nest somewhere. Who knew – Jon most certainly did not and yet he enjoyed watching them.

Smiling gently he finished the cup of coffee he was holding, another ritual that he fullfilled every morning, and turned around to step back inside the house, closing the sliding door behind himself. Every morning started the same; a routine that never got old.

...

30. April 2012

Short Story Contest Submission: Alison Bour – Hero

VOTING IS OPEN NOW!

Hero

By Alison Bour

Honestly I wasn’t all that scared until the bigger dude told us to hit the floor face down and put our arms out to the side. I felt like I was hanging on a cross that fell forward. I initially didn’t remember feeling that way. It’s interesting what surfaces now that I’ve moved on. A few people started to panic. Someone yelled, “My husband’s sick; I have to get home, please!” One woman started to whimper, and a man next to me sounded like he was hyperventilating. “Shut the hell up, everyone!” The guy’s voice roared like he was announcing a bullfight. Everyone got quiet, but I could sense fear building in the room like the moment just before a pot boils over. There was a smaller guy, too. Both were dressed in black and wore ski masks with slits for the eyes and mouth. I noticed that before I went down on command. I wanted to sneak another peek but it wasn’t worth it. Not with my wife, Jenna and little Nathan at home. “You,” the big dude said to someone behind the teller windows. “Fill this! Do it now!” I heard the sound of something hitting the counter. The guy next to me started to say, “Oh, God. Oh, God.” I clenched my mouth like a ventriloquist and told him to stop. At first I thought the robbery wouldn’t last long—they just wanted in and out with their cash—and we’d be OK. But for some reason the hyperventilator seemed like an omen. I thought maybe he would draw attention to himself and the robbers might snap. Someone behind me—there were about 14 of us in all—started reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I was afraid if I told her to lower her voice they would hear, so I silently joined in and hoped for the best. I’m not very religious so you might think praying during a crisis is hypocritical. I never know how people will judge the things I did that day. I’ve learned to forget all that, and let the chips fall where they will. That’s one of the biggest lessons I can pass on....

28. April 2012

Short Story Contest Submission: Amanda Hendrick – The Man And The Swamp

VOTING IS OPEN NOW! Her is the second submission for the Short Story Contest. You can vote for your favourite story after all submissions were posted. More to come! The Man and the Swamp

By Amanda Hendrick

We all know how arguments begin; they start very small with a word or a phrase, not meant to bite the way it does. And then a few words later you are both drowning, unable to tell up from down, in an argument neither one of you wanted to be in. People as with most other things, often come in sets, sets of two. The beginning of this story is no different. And these two people were currently drowning.

They pillaged and plundered and screamed and yelled, until what they were saying no longer sounded like words. The man hissed and the woman returned his fire. The man yelled out insults, but this time the woman spoke louder and words emerged, “You should leave, just leave. Come back in a week, or don’t come back at all. 7 days- no more no less or I will be gone. And you will never see me again.”

The man in a huff stormed from their home. His anger propelled him forward for three days. He would never go back. He spent those three days stomping and slamming doors everywhere he went. He spent three days with his fists clenched and his jaw tight. He spent three days bellowing instead of speaking. He spent three days scaring off any one kind or nice with one look from his dark anger filled eyes.

Then on the fourth day, he sat down and like a puff of smoke the anger left him. The next three days he spent in sorrow and self-doubt. Was he good enough? Should he go back? Would they work out? Was it even worth it to keep trying? He spent three days with his hand rubbing his forehead. He spent three days with tears just almost forming in his eyes. He spent three days slightly hunched over as if the weight of the world had just been placed there. He spent three days forming a new furrow in-between his brow. Should he go back?

On the seventh day he awoke with a start and instead of sorrow he felt something warm growing in his chest. Of course it had always been there, but the heat of his anger had disguised its warmth, and then the cooling off of his sorrow had made the warmth seem natural. Of course he would go home. This warm feeling that he felt deep inside himself was love. He spent the day filled with the passion of love and the contentment one can only feel when they recognize a soul mate. He spent this day moving with sure-footedness and dedication. Nothing would hold him back from his love. He would return today, beg for forgiveness and enjoy every fight and laugh with this woman he loved.

...

11. April 2012

Full Dark, No Stars – New Stephen King Story Collection

Simon & Schuster and Hodder & Stoughton (UK) will be releasing a brand new short story collection from Stephen on November 9th 2010. Entitled Full Dark, No Stars, the book will include four new short stories.

"I believe there is another man inside every man, a stranger . . ." writes Wilfred Leland James in the early pages of the riveting confession that makes up "1922," the first in this pitch-black quartet of mesmerizing tales from Stephen King. For James, that stranger is awakened when his wife, Arlette, proposes selling off the family homestead and moving to Omaha, setting in motion a gruesome train of murder and madness.

...

9. November 2010