Title: A Voice Inside Your Soul
Word Count: 4249
Rating: PG-13 for themes of depression and suicide.
Jonah was barely through the door when his mother called out to him. Can you sit down for a minute, we need to talk.
We need to talk. Nothing good ever follows those four words. He took a deep breath, jammed his hands in his pocket and said, “Sure thing.”
His mom was in the kitchen, bustling about mixing something in a saucepan. It smelled like hot chocolate. It was ninety-five degrees outside and his mother was making hot chocolate. She only did that for two reasons: It was actually cold, or she had something to say that required a cushion to soften the blow. Jonah tried to think of his school work; if there was anything he was slacking in bad enough to warrant a parental intervention. But no… No, he was fairly certain his grades were up to snuff. He wasn’t an ace student but he got by. Continue reading
Title: Growing Certainty of Over
Word Count: 804
Notes: Written to the prompt Recovery also reposted because wordpress ate my formatting and despite my best efforts, I could not fix that entry.
Her childhood bedroom is almost exactly as she remembers leaving it: pastels and stuffed animals and a shelf full of terrible body sprays painstakingly curated from over priced stores in the mall. Her bed looks too tiny – threadbare little mermaid quilt smoothed into place, beckoning her back, beckoning her home.
This is her life now. She sat her bag down, small and lonely and grown up though it was. Terribly out of place in this room of the past.
Word Count: 430
When you are seven you make plans to run away to Neverland. Your bag is packed, hiding under your bed with your piggy bank and all that’s left is to wait until the family is suitably distracted for you to escape. It’s not that they’ve been bad to you, quite the contrary in fact, and it’s not that you want to escape them so much as you want to sate this strange catch in your chest every time you breath. Continue reading
Title: Got Moxie
Word Count: 919 words
Mugsy flicked the safety of his gun on and off again and again. It’s a bad habit, he knows that, but he’s got too much nervous energy and nowhere to expend it. The back of the stolen ambulance is cramped, even gutted the way it is. It’s just him in the back, empty cabinets and drawers looking on accusingly, overhead light humming in the special way reserved for tense situations.
“You gonna shoot your own damn foot off,” warned Danny from the front. Danny refused to use a code name, said Mugsy was being dumb. “Call yourself whatever you want, you’re still Georgie from Fifth Street.” Danny didn’t understand, Mugsy was trying to get into the part, trying to fit his skin around the concept they were executing. Continue reading