Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #3. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #3. Show all posts

Thursday, 19 June 2025

The Write-In 2025: The Complete List

2025 Prompts

 

2025 Responses 

 

 

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'Man’s Best Friend' by Allison Renner

The boy struggled as the dog pulled against her leash. His dad had said once around the block, not across the street.

“Please,” the boy whispered, trying to convey confidence as he rounded the corner, hoping the dog would give up and follow. Instead, she yipped and jumped, strong enough to pull the boy a few steps sideways.

“Want a treat?” a gentle voice asked. The boy looked, but the old man wasn’t talking to him. He held out his hand, a tiny brown treat in his palm. The boy could barely see it—how would the dog?

But she did, and came bounding up and settled at the old man’s feet to chew it to bits while he scratched behind her ears.

“For you, too,” the old man said.

The boy shook his head automatically. “My dad said don’t take things from strangers.”

The old man smiled. “I’m Charles, so I’m not a stranger anymore. And these are more dog treats, so if she tries to steer you wrong, you can keep her on track.”

The boy thought about it. Would his dad be madder if he chased the dog across the street or took something from a stranger? He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: he loved this taste of freedom. Being away from home, with his dog. When it was okay to be alone, when no one thought he was strange for not being surrounded by other boys his age.

He took the treats and pocketed them. “Thank you, Charles.”

The old man nodded once, and the dog stepped closer to the boy, acting like his shadow as they continued down the block. 

At the next corner, the boy glanced back. Charles was offering a treat to another dog walking by.

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'Ria, Ria, Ria' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar

She walked in as Diya and Dodo welcomed her with short barks that turned into squeals and a lot of head-butting. “Arey. Andhar to aane do,” she rolled her brown eyes and admonished them, sounding like a dadima.

Lakshman was Debu kaka’s replacement and Ria was Lakshman’s niece who had come to stay with him for the holidays. Dum aloo posto, keema curry, tomato borta and rice- all of a sudden, I was in the mood for a festive dinner, Ria smiling-approving my hukum.

As Lakshman busied himself in the kitchen, Ria she recited A,B,C, 1,2,3, ka,Kha,ga, when I asked about school and cooked and served me breakfast, lunch, dinner on the glass-topped dining table, her imaginary kitchen. 

“Aaj Dhoru ki Shaadhi hai,” she made up a ready-made context, started singing a Bhojpuri ghana, urging Sri to repeat after her in his deep teacherly baritone. He followed that up with tumkhas, hip-butting with her.

After Sri left to work, she sat me down on the maharaja vintage chair Sri and I had picked up from an auction in Kolkata, that was still as shiny as new. “Beena ki shaadi hai,” she announced, rubbing her palms and started braiding my colour-streaked hair like she was my Ma. Later, twinning in pigtails, we side-cheeked and smiled wide for the selfie, showing a lot of teeth. 

When Debu returned from his break, I took his help and made Chicken Rezala- an instagram recipe I had wanted to try for a long time. More postos and curry dums and bortas followed. Like two monkeys, Diya and Dodo trailed Ria, jumping up and down with her and catching crispy bits of the Goloroti or bhatura I was feeding Ria like I was her Ma. 
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'On the Bench Nearest the Disabled Parking' by Rachel Burrows

It takes a shuffling-while to reach the seat. She backs cautiously up and holds the arm to lower herself. The young man she nearly lands on, slides along without a word. They both stare out to sea. Behind them the world hurtles along on a skateboard, a scooter, a bike - and legs like she used to have. Screaming teens and barking dogs, lovers’ strolls and family swarms. Everything is behind them. There is no sand, the tourist tideline spills into the cafes and up the chine. 

She can’t remember the questions the girls have told her she can’t ask. She chooses to forget. But it’s time now.

Where are you from? she says. 

The man turns and looks at her. He takes in her silver hair and shrunken frame. And her eyes – their unusual brightness. 

The name of his home, the first thing he’s said all day, flies out to sea. 

By the time the sand appears, he’s told her about his studies, how he misses his family, and his dreams for the future. The beach fills up with life, and he laughs about how much she’d like his grandma, how they are similar. This would make her so happy. He puts his hand on his heart as he leaves. 

In the café behind them, three lost souls spot their chance and rise to make their way to the bench. The bench where the listening lady sits. They will all get their turn, eventually.

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'Time Killer' by Dimitra Fimi

Hercule Poirot stood in his shiny, patent leather shoes. Next to him, the Boy’s trainers looked scuffed, discoloured.

Poirot’s tailored cream suit crisped next to the Boy’s soft joggers and plain top. Luscious moustaches shined next to the Boy’s nose, slightly blocked from hay fever. The black homburg hat shuddered next to a bright-yellow Pikachu cap. Complete with ears.

Hercule Poirot and the Boy continued to look silently at the display of pricey watches. The airport lights were disorienting. A chaotic day. Many flights delayed.

“Is that a rabbit hat that you’re wearing?” Poirot asked.

“No. Pikachu is a mouse,” said the Boy.

“A strange mouse,” muttered Poirot.

“He’s an electric type,” offered the Boy.

“Are you thinking of buying a watch?” asked Poirot.

“No. They’re too expensive,” said the Boy. “I’m just looking. Hoping time will go faster and we’ll get on the plane at last.”

“Ah. You’re – how do you say it – killing the time?”

“I guess so.”

“I catch killers,” smiled Poirot.

“Like Ash catches Pikachu?” asked the Boy. 

“Pardon?”

The boy looked at Poirot head-to-toe.

“When are you from?” he asked.

“About a hundred years ago,” said Poirot.

“Are you flying too?”

“Certainly not. I didn’t like flying then. It’s even more uncomfortable now.”

“That’s what my dad says,” agreed the Boy.

Poirot looked at his pocket watch.

“I am afraid I have to go,” he said. “I’ve got a murderer to apprehend.”

“You got to catch them all,” grinned the Boy.

“I always do,” said Poirot. “It was great to have made your acquaintance,” he bowed. “You and that… mouse.”

The Boy watched him waddling away, leaning on his stick. As Poirot disappeared among the crowd, the advertisement screen over the watch display flashed with the next slogan.

Time flies.


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'Street art of a fox catching a bus at sunrise' by Ida Keogh

Fat beats and they oom, thrum, so sick my ears might bleed. I’m flying, the bike wheels a blur as I scream down the hill, midnight-slick, no cars, no people, just a streetlight and a light and a light like a second rhythm I feel in my eyes. 

I startle a fox as I skid to a halt. A mangy thing, all rust and hunger. He slips into the shadows as I chain the bike and sling a bag of brights over my shoulder, the perfect shades for that beautiful, bare brick.

I’m still deciding what to spray when I round the corner and… There’s someone there, pale and hunched like screwed up paper, sat on a bench like she’s waiting for a bus. I scowl but she looks up at me with a false-tooth smile and it’s so damned trusting that I stop, feel the corners of my mouth twist. I flash gold in return.

“You okay, lady?” I ask, loping over and ditching the bag next to my pure virgin wall she’s sat in front of. 

“Isn’t it a beautiful night,” she says, voice like the cracks between paving slabs where flowers push up, broken and sweet.

“Someone coming for you?”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will. But you’re here now, at any rate. Wait with me?” Above that chunky smile her eyes flash liquid moonlight, more scared than the fox, and I know she’s going nowhere, not till dawn at least.

“You like art? Not going to snitch on me, are you?”

“Something happy,” she says, and shuffles to get comfy, wraps thin shoulders in my scuffed denim, and together we paint two worlds into one.


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'Homing instinct' by Jeremy Boyce

The coach had left at 6am from the school car park, oval ball big day out at Twickenham, bagged and picnicked, travel sick pills. Back in the day, toe end kicking by doctors and dentists, wages paid in glory. Rugby school and rugby dad, he never played much on account of his chest, asthma, no National Service either. He’d have loved to come but… I waved goodbye but he was flat out. Anyway, the Boks were waiting.

Everyone sick on the long hot journey. Big crowds gathered, Land Rover picnic hampers and placard protestors in equal numbers. Mandela jailed, match to play, great unwashed versus establishment. Shouting crowds jostled our tickets to the gates. Late start, due to protests, but justice done on the field of play.

Beyond dark when the coach pulled in through the school gates, big day out, time for bed. In the darkness I clearly saw no Mum or little car. Strangely, the elderly neighbours from our old house stood, smiling, beckoning. The Fieldhouses. Why?

“Your mum asked us to come.”

“My mum ?”

“She couldn’t, she asked us to come.”

“Why couldn’t she come ?”

“Because she’s with your dad.”

“Where’s my dad ?”

“He’s…in the hospital. Not well, they’ve taken him to hospital and your mum’s there. Everything’s going to be alright, but you’re to stay at our’s tonight.”

I nodded, then shook my head. It wasn’t good, but I needed to be THERE, where we’d waved goodbye hours before, before….

“Thanks, but I’d like to go home please, I need to be there. Please. In case anything happens.”

They glanced, left, right, eyebrows creased.

They dropped me at the gates, then stayed, watching ‘til I let myself in, turned the light on and turned to wave, smiling, I waved back and pulled away slowly.

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'Mrs Murdoch' by Madeleine Armstrong

Our neighbour, Mrs Murdoch, is always walking around our close at all times of the day and night, even when it’s belting it down. Dad calls her Skeletor, and Mum tells him not to be so mean, but it makes me wonder if she has skeletons in her closet, like the ones Auntie Sarah’s always talking about. Maybe one of the skeletons is Mr Murdoch, who died last year.

That’s why, whenever I see Mrs Murdoch doing her slow shuffle to the end of the street and back, I put my head down and hurry past, like Dad when he’s on a mission.

But that day she shoots out a bony arm and grabs my sleeve. I’m trembling as she leads me back to her house, thinking about those skeletons, but I daren’t make a run for it because Mum’s always telling me to be nice, and Mrs Murdoch’s so thin I’m worried I might hurt her if I try to brush her off, and while I’m thinking all this we get to her door, and she’s opening it, and I’m cringing wondering what scary stuff might be inside.

But then she’s giving me a football shirt, Crystal Palace, my team, saying it used to be her son’s years ago but he’s too big for it now, obviously, and would I like it? And it’s an old shirt but it looks kind of cool, retro, so I say yes, then I remember Mum and say please and thank you, and Mrs Murdoch hands it to me, her face lit up in a smile. And at that moment she doesn’t look like a skeleton, just a sweet old lady. So after that, whenever I see her shuffle-walking along the road, I always smile back at her.

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Wednesday, 18 June 2025

'Playing the Boy Scout Outside Aldi in 1975' by D. X. Lewis

The old woman collapsed just as Edward was leaving Aldi. Her two wicker baskets fell on their sides. Wurst, cheese, biscuits and bottles spilled onto the pavement. Brown liquid fizzed into the gutter. 

Edward was carrying a plastic bag clanking with three bottles of cheap red wine. Also a new leather briefcase stuffed with eggs, frankfurters and peanuts. He deposited these by a lamp-post and bent down. He’d been a boy scout. It was his duty to help old ladies across roads — or in this case scrape one off a pavement. Other passers-by were, well, simply passing by.

The woman was stout and, Edward noticed, rather whiskery. Heavy coat, flat shoes, thick stockings. Frizzy grey hair under a grey felt hat. She looked not unlike his Grandma, who couldn’t understand him moving to West Germany for six months before university. ("I'd be afraid of being murdered in my bed.")

"Kann ich helfen?" Edward stammered, setting the baskets upright. Could he help? He’d arrived only two weeks ago, and his German was far from fluent. 

The woman allowed Edward to heave her to her feet, then looked him up and down. His mother had taken him to Marks & Spencer to buy a new suit, shirt and tie, together with smart black shoes. These were being deployed at a bank near Stuttgart where he’d just started an internship. 

Edward saw he passed muster. The old lady repeated her thanks. But might der junge Herr be so kind as to help her home? She lived close by. She would give him some money.

“Natürlich!” he replied – of course!  But she didn’t need to pay him.

"You have very nice eyes," she said, taking one of his over-loaded arms. "I can see you are spiritual. Do you play the piano?"
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‘Laughter Between the Lines’ by Alice Monro

“Come closer dear, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

Eileen is sitting out in her blue hospital chair with some thin blankets across her knees. Her glasses are large gold rimmed things that sit on her small face, and she has a cloud of white hair flattened from being in bed so much.

I was warned about her, but the seemingly frail creature in front of me doesn’t meet the ‘difficult’ hip operation patient I’ve heard about.

I crouch down so I am near Eileen and her catheter bag and the stench of urine that I have become accustomed to on this ward and introduce myself.

“Eileen my name is Alex; I am a student.”



“Well then?? What do you want? I am NOT standing up, I am not, I am not, and that is final. Those horrible nurses came this morning!”

“I just wanted to see you for a chat Eileen.”

Slowly, her head rises and a small smile forms on her face, quickly redressed by “Well? What do you want to talk about?”

She has an air of Catherine Tate’s nan and reminds me of my own family from the East End, and I immediately warm to her.

“I just want to know how you are, how you are feeling today. It can’t be easy being here.”

“I want to walk. I know I can, but they don’t tell me what I do right, I got out of bed didn’t I?” I nod as though to say yes and stay close.

She has tears in her eyes now and her voice breaks as she says, “You think I can do it, don’t you?"
 
        
“Yes, of course.”

She nods this time and adds, “Yes, in my own time and in my own way,” and I try not to laugh. 

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'A Trace Of Her' by Abida Akram

Babies and old people have such specific smells Becky thought. Mostly talc and milk… They also had silky soft skin and needed help with eating, bathing and staying warm. Becky smiled as she stroked Janet’s hand absently, whose skin was so thin and soft like the sheerest silk with a pattern of blue lines.

Becky helped Janet totter to the bathroom, whilst reminding her of her name. Janet felt the floor tilt and shift under her feet as if a slithering snake intent on escape. She caught a glimpse in the bathroom cabinet mirror of an old wrinkly woman with white wiry hair in a peach dressing gown. She wouldn’t be seen dead in peach, green was her colour.

Janet smelt sweat and urine. She wrinkled her nose and then sniffed loudly. Was it her? She asked kind young Becky for some perfume as Becky cleaned her up. Janet’s mum had always smelt of cooking smells. She was sure she could smell her and tears threatened to overspill. Like the constant murmuration of birds, her present took flight and memories started flitting. 

Janet wanted her mum. Young Becky sat her in an armchair and changed the sheets on the bed and smoothed the new yellow coverlet. 

‘Would you like some breakfast Janet? Let me go and get something for you and I will ask one of the other carers if she has any perfume as I don’t wear any.’ Off Becky went, whistling.

Janet crept back into the bed wishing her mother was tucking her in and smelling of fresh bread and chicken and leek pie. As she drifted off to sleep again, she thought a young woman had entered the room and smoothed out the covers over her. 

She smiled. She smelt like mum. 

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'Holding Harry' by Jane Claire Jackson

Chloe screeched when the barn owl’s wing brushed her hair. Her arm dropped and she turned away, seeking refuge in the black fabric of her grandmother’s dress. The lady from the birds of prey rescue centre let the owl settle back onto her own glove, stroking its feathers to soothe it. The beautiful, creamy bird swivelled its head, scanning the small crowd gathered to watch.

5-year-old Chloe was crying now.

A short queue awaited their turn to hold the barn owl, but the lady held up her right hand so they kept their distance. She crouched down to speak to Chloe.

‘Harry always flaps his wings when he moves on to another glove. It’s his way of making himself comfortable. He doesn’t mean to harm anyone. He’ll be calm again once he’s got his balance.’

Chloe turned to listen, her wide eyes fixed on Harry.

‘Would you like to try again?’, the lady encouraged.

Chloe nodded slowly, drying her eyes with the sleeve of her party dress.

‘How about you close your eyes until Harry gets settled? Hold out the glove and turn your head towards Grandma. Now shut your eyes tight until I tell you to open them again… Ready?’

Chloe did as instructed. And Harry was transferred from one glove to another, beating his wings briefly in the air for balance.

‘There! You can look now,’ the lady said gently.

Chloe’s expression instantly transformed as she gazed at the bird with its heart-shaped face. Her own face lit up with more than just sunshine. Harry allowed her to touch his plumage, remaining still while photos were snapped to immortalise the magical moment.

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'Pressing Clouds' by Cate McGowan

Murray meets her on the bus. She is ninety, maybe three hundred. Wears a coat the color of mistakes and a hat shaped like a small, aggressive boat. She carries a parcel wrapped in tinfoil.

He is twenty-seven, a professional understudy. Quiet elbows, nervous shoes.

She sits beside him, collapsing into her seat. “I’ve just ironed four clouds,” she says. “They were wrinkled with worry. Can’t have that drifting overhead.”

Murray nods. Of course. “Did they thank you?”

“One of them spat,” she says. “But in fairness, it was cumulus. They’re always dramatic.”

They ride in comfortable silence. Her parcel begins to hum. He offers a peppermint. She declines, but then takes it anyway.

“I like your quiet,” she says. “Most people clatter.”

“I try to keep my sounds inside,” he replies. “They get lost if I let them out.”

She pats his knee. She smells like cinnamon. “You’ll need a louder soul someday. You’ll be called upon.”

“For what?” he asks.

She considers. “Possibly a goat emergency. Possibly love. It’s unclear.”

At her stop, she stands with a series of creaks and one celebratory twirl. She hands the understudy the parcel. “It’s warm. Not in temperature. In temperament.”

He stares. “I can’t—”

“You already have,” she says. “The clouds told me.”

She leaves. The bus lurches forward. The parcel vibrates faintly, like a cat purring.

He does not open it. Instead, he speaks to it softly, like a future.

When he steps off the bus an hour later, a tiny rainbow follows him for three blocks. He does not ask it why.


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'The Fifth Son' by Birgit K. Gaiser

The boy rolls his eyes. “Why would I choose your hummingbird god if I refused the jaguar, the monkey and the shark?”

The old priest smiles gently. “And the eagle, no doubt. Maybe you won’t. But today, you must choose your path. Else, your father will choose for you.”

“But I don’t want to be a priest,” the boy says, quickly looking over his shoulder. His father hasn’t overheard. “The seventh son gets to be a wizard!”

“You’d prefer to become a wizard?” the priest asks.

The boy, all of ten years old, thinks hard, brow scrunched above his eyes. “I’m not so good with books. But the second son gets to be a general.”

“You want to fight?”

Again, his brow rises. “Not really. War sounds awful.”

“How about the third son then? A captain! Do you like the sea?”

He shakes his head vehemently. “I get seasick.”

The priest laughs, their ancient face creasing even more than the boy’s serious brow. “Not that then. A lord, like the first son?”

He looks towards his oldest brother, perfectly dressed, perfectly styled, always… perfect. “No.”

“What do you want?” the hummingbird god’s priest asks softly, making sure the lord won’t hear.

“The fifth daughter,” he whispers, “gets to dance for the gods.”

“I see,” they say, as if this was to be expected, as if there was nothing else the boy could possibly want. And there isn’t. They know. Some fifth sons are dancers, some fifth daughters are priests.

“In hummingbirds,” they say, rising as if to leave, “the males do the dancing.”

The boy opens his mouth to argue, then stops and gapes, realisation dawning on his face. He jumps up and, grabbing the priest’s hand, proudly walks towards his father.


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'Fiat Lux' by Willow Woo

John is a 73-year-old retired UC Berkeley library director. You’d never guess, as he’s humble and full of dad jokes. I’m a Berkeley alum, but never tell him.

He volunteers to shelve books at the public library, where I work part-time as a page. Our circulation room is always roasting hot. Management ignores this as we check in books and process holds, drenched in sweat like we’re running through Death Valley. A lack of fans stifles the air. No one cares, but John.

He was in college in the late 1960s, the era I wish I could have experienced. I want to know more, so I tell myself to ask soon.

This library is a new, 24-million-dollar, 24000 square feet, design award-winning building run by library staff who can’t stand to be here. They sit at the reference desk with permanent smirks, deterring anyone from asking for help. They walk through the circulation room, muttering about their hatred of books, patrons, and especially children. No matter how shiny and new a library is, the staff is the heart and soul, or not.

I’m a graduate student, just one semester away from obtaining my library degree. I want to become a children’s librarian who celebrates reading and lifelong learning with love, magic, and empathy.

John cheers me on, but we talk stories more. We love horror. I share my favorite short stories written by others.

When I’m finally ready to share one of mine, I print a copy, old school style.

I arrive at work with my story in hand.

The librarian, who always ignores me, flatly states, “John died at home this morning.” She walks away.

My eyes begin to rain. The heat suffocates me, and my sweaty hand grips my story tighter, blurring the words into unreadable smudges.
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'Tis the season of not asking him his name' by Roopa Raveendra

The girl built a snowman in the street next to the park. 

She never really meant to. She had gone out walking. The snow was sticky so she scooped some and rolled one ball. Then another. She stacked both the balls and stared.

The snowman looked somewhat smug.

“Wipe that look off your face,” she said.

The snowman said nothing. He had no mouth.

Then she took a stick from the ground and drew a mouth.

“Creepy smile you got now.” 

The snowman now looked like the shopkeeper who placed candies in her palms when her mother wasn’t looking. He had black nails and red eyes. "Candy monster," she whispered. 

From the park bench, an old man watched the girl. He had been there from the first ball. He had a green muffler and a big man bag. He hobbled towards the girl and the snowman. “Someone you know?”

“Well, yes and no,” the girl said.

“I made one last week. Looked like my ex-wife. Scared the hell out of my cat.”

She laughed. “Then what happened?”

“Well, it rained. She melted away. Like she always did.”

The girl fixed the snowman’s eyes using old candies she found in her pocket. The man placed his green shawl around the snowman.

They stood back and stared at the snowman. 

“I don’t like him very much. Looks like he eats kids for breakfast.”

The girl wanted to ask the old man his name but she didn’t. She was scared if she did he would vanish.

The sun came out. The snowman began to lean. They didn’t try to fix him. The girl and the old man sat on the bench, side by side, and watched the snowman slouch to its ruin.  

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'Cake Walk' by Scott MacLeod

Kids never cease to amaze you. This time in a good way, for once.

“Mom, you said not to pick people up, so I didn’t. But I parked and caught up with her on the sidewalk. She was really struggling. ‘I’m just headed to the Harbor House for dinner,’ she said. 

“I asked if I could help and she said no she reckoned the carrot soufflé would still be there when she got there. Mom, can we go check on her. See if she needs a lift home?”

It was the last thing I felt like doing. But how often does your preaching sprout a seed? This was no time to throw away the watering can. 

“I guess I could choke down a slice of their famous angel food.”

At the restaurant, the woman was paying her bill. We introduced ourselves and chatted a bit while the girl rang up my dessert order. Finally, our new friend Hattie accepted a ride.

On the way through the unfamiliar neighborhood, I peered in the rearview to catch my Jesse sliding my cake into the woman’s to-go bag, unnoticed. Wonders on top of wonders.  I figured I could do without the calories. 

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Tuesday, 17 June 2025

'Down and Up' by Michael Pettit

Fumes and concrete: the car park is a version of hell. My mood slumps in increments as I edge down the ramp, a devilish spiral devised to graze paintwork, bend bumpers, and fray tempers. It’s bumper to bumper, a descent in spasms. In time, it ends. I draw to a stop at the exit and check the road for traffic. A car swerves from the far lane in a pre-emptive jag and lands with a lurch at a badly judged distance from the ticket pylon. The driver is a seriously senior citizen, dented as her car. Wrinkles and rings; eyes, italicized, high-priestess style; lips, a buckled slash of red resolve – seriously feisty, she’s hell-bent on life. One rickety arm snaps out. It’s a twig in a high wind bobbing about aiming for the button. The button is a moving target but eventually she spikes it with a scarlet nail and the machine sticks out a tongue. She snatches the card, whips it in, clenches it in her teeth, winks at me – I wink back – and roars up the ramp. We’re down but not out.
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'Skipped' by Bailey Scroggins

She sidearmed a rock across the lake’s smooth surface, counting the skips until it veered left with a quick jerk, sinking into the horizon.

“Still got it,” she crooned, internally.

A nasty “plop” disrupted her moment. She glanced to the right in time to witness a reverberating ripple, then a little further to a sticky-faced child staring disappointedly into the water. She turned left and walked away from the inhabited part of the beach along the pebbled shore where a bald eagle perched in a nearby tree. A mucky “crunch” echoed behind her, the eagle took flight. She turned to again find the child, whose cow-licked hair appeared to be winning the battle against any and all attempts at grooming, holding out his hands to reveal – a jagged rock, a broken shell, and a smooth stone.

“Where–“ she rasped from phlegm and turned her head to clear her throat, noticing his mother pacing back and forth, tethered to her phone. She faced the boy and pointed at the smooth stone, “That one,” then surveyed her surrounding options, grabbing one similar. “It needs to be flat.”

The child, loosened his grip, discarding the rock and the shell.

“When I was your age,” – god, how she hated that line — “my dad, well, I guess if we were related, he’d be your great-grandfather,” – she stumbled with how to convey time to this munchkin – “said, ‘it was all in the wrist’.” She took the stone and held it tight, “See, you flick it.”

She walked back to where the water lapped at her toes. “You can bend down, winding up like they do in baseball. Or, if you’re really good, you just flick your wrist.” He stared up at her, rapt.

“Here”. The stone skipped, one, two, three, four, five. “Plop.”
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'Scar Tissue' by Melissa Flores Anderson

I drew the short stick and had to invite the gray-haired senior into my office for a chat. We took turns, with the elderly folks who stopped by the newsroom to pitch stories. Always something no one cared to read about, like how their grandchild won a school spelling seven states over. Never worth more than a couple sentences, but they’d use up as much time as we’d spend on reporting a front-page story. I expected the same as the man sat at the chair in my office. Bill Thompson, he said his name was. He placed a frayed folder on my desk.


“I’m hoping you can help,” he said.


He handed me yellowed paper, and as I read, I saw they were discharge papers from the U.S. Army. Decades before I was born. The same war as my grandfather.


“I was injured in battle, and never got my purple heart.”


Bill looked at me, his eyes small, his face open. He rolled up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt to show the scars across his bicep. I had scars on mine, too, that no one knew about. Self-inflicted.


“I’ll help,” I said. “I’ll start with the VA and see what we can do.”


I wrote about Bill, where he traveled through Europe, how he met his wife and moved to the same town I lived in now, the hardware store they owned until the big boxes opened, how he volunteered at the food pantry every week. When he got his purple heart, the picture ran on the front page. Even after he got his medal, he stopped by to chat every so often, until he died and I stood in the church and ran a finger along the raised lines on my arm. 

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