Mid-Month Short Story Challenge #7

Responses to this month’s prompt

The Airport (Tabitha Wells)

Time Crunch (Me)

Welcome to the short story challenge that you’ll have the least amount of writing time on all year. With February being the shortest month of the year, you get only 14 days to complete this prompt rather than the standard 15 or 16 days, depending on the month. Not that it’s a concern — in this month’s prompt, you’ll take the point of view of a very hurried woman and tell her story. Now rush along and write your story.

Your prompt is for this month below. Your story should be posted on March 1, 2018. Be sure to link back to this post so I can see your story and share. Thank you so much to Stephanie for her help in coming up with this prompt.

  • Suggested number of words: 1000 word limit
  • Seven words to work into your story: Dangling, aquarium, stroller, data, orthodox, handbag, berries
  • Genre: Slice of life/melodrama
  • Rating/Content Limitations: Your choice
  • Topic: You are an elderly woman who is rushing through the terminal of an airport. You are wearing three hats on your head, trying to balance them on your head as you drag a small rolling bag behind you.

Mid-Month Short Story Challenge #6

After a month off for the holidays, the mid-month short story challenge is back. If you’re new to the challenge, the rules are simple. Follow the prompt/guidelines below and write a story based off of that prompt. If you’re posting the story on a blog or a publicly shared document, try to have the post up by the deadline so that I can share it. If you’re finding this after the fact, share your post whenever (and let me know so I can link back to the post).

Your prompt is for this month below. Your story should be posted on February 1, 2018. Be sure to link back to this post so I can see your story and share.

  • Suggested number of words: 1500 word limit
  • Seven words to work into your story: Sweatpants, immaculate, bird, independently, toque, flattery, polkadot
  • Genre: Your choice
  • Rating/Content Limitations: Your choice
  • Topic: Write about people watching in a public place

Good luck and happy writing.

November Mid-Month Short Story Challenge

Thank you to everyone who participated in last month’s short story challenge. Even though I’m currently doing the book charity drive, I wanted to get a prompt post up for those of you looking to get a leg up on starting your post for December 1st.

Your prompt is for this month below. If you do decide to blog your short story, link back to me and I’ll be sure to promote it where I can.

  • Suggested number of words: 1000-2000 words recommended, but feel free to use this as a guideline more than a rule this month
  • The first sentence of your story: “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” (You can make this a quote, or not…your call)
  • Seven words to work into your story: Confidence, scrappy, snowstorm, medicated, pickle, fugue, convulse
  • Genre: Science fiction
  • Rating/Content Limitations: None

Your story should be posted on December 1st. Be sure to link back to this post so I can see your story and share. Good luck and happy writing.


Note: The inspiration for the following poem comes from this writing prompt at Writer’s Digest, as well as from my previous promise to myself to work to write creatively more often.

Our relationship got off to about as inauspicious of a start as is conceptually possible. I met Mallory at the grocery store just down the road from my home in Newport, Rhode Island. She worked as a cashier when we first met, typically manning the lane with the cigarettes and RILot tickets. I’d come in once or twice a week, buy a pack of cigarettes, a two-liter of soda, whatever I wanted for dinner, and a bag of mints, then make my way home to my apartment where I’d spend my evenings enjoying some combination of eating dinner, watching football or baseball on television, showering, perusing pornography, and sleeping. On most visits, Mallory would be the one taking the money in exchange for my wares.

About a year after we first spoke, I came into the store for my regular visit, only to find Mallory behind the counter as normal. Her mascara was smeared and tear-stained, while her normally flawless hair appeared to be hastily stuffed beneath one of the store’s generic, bland hats. I offered to buy her a drink after she got off work and, much to my surprise, she took me up on it. Mallory’s long-term boyfriend had left her for one of Mallory’s close friends, so her sadness was understandable.

While that first night we shared at the bar wasn’t a date by any stretch of the imagination, we had our first date together less than a month later. We went to her favorite restaurant, a small Italian place name Donatello’s Family Pizzeria. It was a 25 minute drive away, but considering the tiny establishment had long been a favorite of mine as well, I didn’t mind. We both laughed when we realized that we loved the same kind of pizza — barbecue pizza with ham, green olives, almonds, and extra cheese. The waiter even joked that he’d finally found the only two people who would order such a strange pizza. It was mildly amusing to both of us.

The similarities between Mallory and me didn’t stop there. We both grew up in the small town of Allen, Vermont, a tiny hamlet just miles from Burlington. Considering the town itself was only 500 or so people, it was statistically surprising we had never met. That said, Mallory attended a private Catholic school in Burlington, which generally kept her away from town on weekdays, while my divorced parents’ custody agreement meant that I spent most weekends and holidays with my mother across the state line in New Russia, New York.

There’s always the chance we crossed paths at the grocery store here and there, but I feel like I’d remember someone with Mallory’s face. Even before we started dating, I found her to be incredibly memorable. Her eyes were tinted just lighter than azure, with a dark gray fleck in the right iris shaped like Bolivia. Her smile was a bit crooked, though I didn’t notice this until after one of our early dates. Whenever she laughed, her face would come back to a resting smile that left the right corner of her mouth slightly lower than the left. Unless she was actively thinking about it, Mallory’s mouth would naturally rest this way, albeit in a non-smiling manner. I found it charmingly cute, particularly because the asymmetry was completely undetectable when we kissed. Her face was typically framed by lengthy, straight brown hair that ran to the middle of her shoulder blades, though since we started dating, she had started wearing it up in a tight bun.

For our six month anniversary, I decided to take Mallory out to a nice restaurant along the coastline of the ocean. We had a lovely dinner — fettuccine alfredo and stracciatella ice cream for her and cheese lasagna and tiramisu for me — before a long walk on the boardwalk and beach. The night was calm and clear, with the waves from the Atlantic washing up on the shore with a serene, repetitive rhythm. After about twenty minutes of walking, we found a secluded spot on the beach to rest. Mallory removed a vacuum bag-packed blanket from her purse and laid it out on the ground. We curled up on the blanket, her head pressed tightly against my shoulder, and enjoyed the quiet of the night sky.

After twenty minutes or so of snuggling, Mallory broke the silence with words I always dreaded to hear from someone who I found to be so perfect for me.

“Listen, Chris,” she began. “I have something I really need to tell you. I like you a lot and I can’t keep going in this relationship without letting you know something about my past.”

“Oh?” I responded. I really hoped it wasn’t an issue she had with me. Everything seemed to be going so well, and I felt like Mallory really liked me. Of course, I’d thought that before, only to be broken up with rather unexpectedly on more than one occasion.

Mallory sat up and crossed her legs underneath her. She placed her hands together tightly, intertwining her fingers tightly as if to keep her hands from falling apart. She let out a long sigh, then began her speech.

“I’ve been living in Rhode Island for the last seven years now, though I don’t particularly enjoy living here. I’m actually only here because I’m trying to get away from my old life in Allen.”

“Did something bad happen to you while you were there?” I asked. I’d left Allen myself nearly twelve years ago after graduating high school. Despite its small size, Allen wasn’t the safest town in the world, as a string of six murders in six years had cut the town’s population nearly in half.

“Not exactly,” she responded.

Mallory went silent for a moment before burying her head in her hands and sobbing. I sat up from my laying position and wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as she cried. It took a few minutes for Mallory to compose herself, but eventually brought herself back to a more normal mindset.

“I really don’t know any better way to say this other than just to come right out and say it,” she continued. “You know how Allen had all those people die a few years back?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“I’m the Allen suitcase killer. I killed those six people, chopped up their bodies, buried them in suitcases outside of town, and kept the belongings they had on them. I never wanted to have to tell you this, but I didn’t want things to get serious without you knowing this about me. If you need to leave, I unde…”

“I knew there was a copycat!” I shouted, interrupting Mallory’s rapid train of thought.

“Wait…what?” she asked, perplexed.

“Once the first suitcase was found, I realized I had to get better about where I hid bodies, not to mention to stop only going after people from Allen,” I replied. “I didn’t recognize any of the other five suitcases that were found, though I figured I could have just forgotten what they looked like. I was nearly convinced of the copycat when two of the bodies dug up where people I had barely talked to, but this proves it.”

“So you’re the original Allen suitcase killer?”


Mallory wrapped her arms around my shoulders and embraced me tightly. Her sobs began again, though they were mixed with child-like laughter. For the first time since I met her, Mallory seemed truly at ease. And so long as she never uttered my secret to anyone, I could promise that her secret — and all that baggage that it entailed — would be safe with me.

Papers and an Apple

Note: The inspiration for the following poem comes from this writing prompt at Writer’s Digest, as well as from my previous promise to myself to work to write creatively more often.

Ron stared blankly at his computer screen

His coffee-colored eyes beginning to glaze over

Like those of a child at Sunday School.

To his left, a cup of yogurt sat beside a tall mug of cocoa.

The vessel’s green and orange paint obscured a beige clay beneath,

while the liquid inside released its steam complete with a ghost-like trail around it.

To his right hang Ron’s tuxedo. Unused — still wrapped tightly in its rental bag.

For all of his nerves leading Ron’s heart to do its best impression of a bounding kangaroo,

Ron never expected this.

Across the table, a pair of stapled papers was set, mercilessly mocking his motives.

The words on the pages were spaced tighter than a textbook, but Ron knew the summary.

She’s gone. She wasn’t coming back.

The tuxedo would go unused for the foreseeable future.

As Ron bit into the apple in his hand, one of his incisors let out a satisfying crunch.

Everything else was falling apart — why not a tooth too?