Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #5. Show all posts

Thursday, 19 June 2025

The Write-In 2025: The Complete List

2025 Prompts

 

2025 Responses 

 

 

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'P.E.' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Mick sat between Joey Oates and Terence Perez during warm ups. Joey wore short shorts and when they did push-ups the pale white flesh of his upper thighs wobbled as Joey’s body tired toward the end of the 30 count. He wished it was one of the girls sitting next to him in their co-ed class, but the teacher made them line up alphabetically. Said it caused less chaos when the gym was filled with three simultaneous classes of 45 students each. He wouldn’t have minded having Lilly Suarez next to him, to hold her feet steady for her as she did sit ups in the white shirt that showed the outline of her bra.

P.E. was the only time their paths crossed because Lilly was in accelerated everything. Mick wasn’t into any of his classes and muddled through with Cs.

The teacher whistled to get their attention and told them to start their mile run. Mick knew the route, positioned himself to be near Lilly as they squeezed out the gym door.

“Hey,” he said, holding the door for her.

“Hey,” she said, brushing her hair back out of her face into a scrunchie. 

As soon as they were out on the asphalt, he pumped his legs in his green P.E. shorts. Lilly dropped to the back of the crowd. She wasn’t a runner, and if he slowed to her pace, Joey and Terence would give him shit. Instead, he ran as fast as he could and circled back to where she was at the end of the pack, alone. He paused. He could keep forward and take first in this non-competition, or run the route again and keep Lilly company, not worry about the pace and the opinions of others. 

He took a step.

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'Suds for Duds' by Lenny Eusebi

The ladies of the East Wilmington Crocheting Guild always assembled on July the 23rd, the possibly apocryphal anniversary of their founding (no one actually remembered founding the guild, but this didn't bother a membership that had mostly ceased serious attempts to recall what they'd had for breakfast), as they hosted a car wash in the Church Street lot to raise money for yarn and scones.

"Slide on in here, big boy," called Sheila Masters to the driver of a dusty old Buick, running her thumbs up the spaghetti straps of that lipstick red bikini her daughter had called "garish" when photos of last year's fundraiser enjoyed a brief notoriety online.

She could perhaps be forgiven for not recognizing the vehicle, as it spent time in the Kingsleys' garage, while she spent time elsewhere. But forgiveness was of little interest to Betty (written "Mrs. Charles Kingsley" on the return address labels in her roll top), whose suspicions had been fueling feverish scarf-and-mittens work, when Charles cranked the window and blurted an overly cheery hello.

The silence frothed as wrinkled bikini babes began to scrub at years of neglect. Charles hastily reversed the window crank. Betty and Sheila locked eyes. Betty, smoldering with the fire she usually reserved for those who dared suggest a cane, eventually closed the distance, bringing them nose to nose.

"The hat you presented on Tuesday," she said sweetly, "Was loose and sloppy."

Sheila's cheeks reddened. "Well," she replied airily, "I found a large head to fill it."
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'Check Mate' by Scott MacLeod

Her profile said independent. Well was that just talk? She’d spoken at length during the meal about various exploits at work. Defeating gender-based expectations. She’d actually mentioned her bonus, which if he was being honest was a bit of a turn on, but he was relieved when she did not mention the amount. The point is it certainly seemed like she could swing it. Half, that is, he wasn’t asking for the moon. He understood conventions. But he worried about setting a precedent. 


His profile talked about traditional values. Respecting women, but also protective. Alpha dog. Throwback. That appealed to her. He certainly seemed in no hurry to get out of here. That too was a good sign.  But as for the current situation, she needed him to get off the pot. Equality is non-negotiable, but who doesn’t like being treated once in a while. He didn’t get that watch at Kohl’s. 


Meanwhile the little leather folder holding the bill sat in the middle of the table. Untouched. The dishes had been cleared. The wait staff circled uneasily. 
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'August' by Angela James

My stepson, Caleb, has corralled his friends for a weekend of celebrating his 25th birthday. I can almost see the steam radiating from their bronzed limbs in squiggly little cartoon lines as they burst through our entranceway. 

Sweaty night air, pungent with plant gametes, infuses the space. “Close the door, boys,” my husband, Keith, calls out to them. “You are letting out the cold.” He doesn’t attempt to rise from the padded upholstery of his automatic sitting-to-standing armchair as the boys make their procession over to greet him. 

The boys detail weekend plans of beaches, bonfires and barbecued meat.

Keith smiles and tells them we have plans too. Dateline on tv tonight. Paul and Dianne’s 40th anniversary party tomorrow at the new Italian restaurant downtown. 

When I was 30, Keith was my debonair 50 year old fiancé. Did I truly have a thing for older men then or had I enjoyed the currency that came with being younger? Now, at age 50 myself, I can’t say I’m sure.

Keith urges them to enjoy the heat, the sun and whatever shenanigans the summer has to offer. When the boys leave, he reminisces about how it wasn’t that long ago that he adored soaking in the summer himself. Breaststroking against the lake currents. Boating through the channels. His skin browning under the sun. “That would have been a while ago,” he says. “Back when I was a lot younger.” Back when he was still older than what I am now. 
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'Behind you!' by Jeremy Boyce

I was sitting at my desk, trying to write, something, anything, didn’t matter, but my fingers couldn’t hit the keys striaght. See what I mean ? Couldn’t hit them straight, couldn’t put one word after….. It just wasn’t... 

It wasn’t the beer, wine, spliff, the energy bills, price of petrol, wars, the end of the world as we know it or any other shit that was happening at that moment. 

“Will dinner be ready soon, Dad?”

She didn’t actually speak, but she was there, her cold back on the wintered-up radiators, mobile texting and whatnot, behind my back, not in view, present, in my space. Out of sight is out of mind? Out of sight is out of my mind.

“What’s she doing? Why is she there?  Do I have to speak? Is that what she wants? What do I say? What if she doesn’t hear, or answer? Would it be worth it?”

She moves in silence, a ghost of a ghost of a ghost, like mist, suddenly fogging your vision. Unheard footsteps tip-tap occasionally, but no creaky floorboards or staircase to warn you in this land of stone and tiling.

“What does she want, can’t she see I’m busy with this, that, and the other?”

It’s always been like that. Finding.The.Time.To.Fit.In.Some.Of.The.What’s.Wanted.Between.The.What.Needs.To.Be.Done.

“I’m here, Dad, and when will dinner be ready?”

She didn’t actually say it, but I could feel the words creeping and crawling across the open and closed space between us, like a ground frost.

“Are you going to talk to me, Dad?” 

Probably, but only when you stop asking, just leave me be and let me hit my keys striaght then I’ll live and love you forever more. Or at least ‘til next dinner time.

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'Elapse' by Willow Woo

I fell into a platonic limerence with my nephew at his high school graduation. He’s only three months away from moving across the country to Bowdoin College.

Paxie was born in 2007, the same year I moved to San Francisco to start anew, reluctantly leaving my beloved hometown, LA.

I wanted to be the present auntie.

My sister told my mother, “He’s my son, and now she (meaning me) gets to take him to
the park for playdates?”

So, I became the absent auntie.

I saw him on holidays, the same as his aunties, who flew in from the east coast. But I was local, and the distance felt the same.

As Paxie grew from a baby with lungs that could nearly shatter glass, to a funny toddler, to an introverted middle schooler, and an athletic and focused high schooler, I meandered. I was a bored paralegal, laid off, and was surprisingly diagnosed with Autism, ADHD, and OCD. I became a tired pastry chef who worked at 3.30 every morning.

Now, I’ll graduate with my MLIS in December and become a librarian. Why didn’t I find this path sooner? I could have read to Paxie and shared my favorite stories. But no, I wouldn’t have been allowed.

As I look at Paxie head out into the world, poised, sweet, and tall, I can only say, “I’m proud of you. I know you worked so hard.” But I want to say, “Paxie. I’m sorry I wasn't a better auntie. I’m sorry I let your bully of a mother push me away. I know that whoever gets to spend time with you, your new college friends, will be lucky in ways that I wasn’t.”

I wish I had gotten to know you, Paxie. Oh, how I wish.
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'Would You Rather…?' by Scaramanga Silk

The choice had been offered.

“Either, an exciting short life. Or, a boring long life.”

This made a big change from reading my horoscope in The Metro every morning, stuck on the commute, between BO Bobby and Handsfree Helen.

Sam had discovered the Would you rather…? game and insisted on us playing it when he boarded our packed train at Clapham Junction.

“Go to jail BUT keep the money OR Don’t go to jail BUT lose all the cash.

One night with your dream girl OR Ten years with someone less attractive BUT she’ll worship you.”



However, it was his current conundrum that was the real crux of the crescendo.

“A one-hit wonder with a Number #1 single OR a steady BUT unremarkable musical career.”

Sam wasn’t aware of what I did before this job. Sam didn’t realise how I had lived this scenario. Sam couldn’t have known how painful things had gotten.

We worked for a publishing company on the edge of London. They had transitioned to digital and were all about the data. Nice bunch of people… if you wanted your soul to die.

I’d been there for four years now and desperately missed the recording studio. Yet, late nights, travelling the world, and partying, were not compatible with the life my wife and kids needed. So here I am.

Sam didn’t know I was at breaking point. Sam didn’t know that I had my solicitor’s card in my wallet. Sam didn’t know about the unfinished letter to our boss.

What example would I set to my kids if I didn’t follow my dreams? What sort of father and husband would I be if I was miserable?

“Either, be someone who makes sacrifices and provides OR risk everything for an unrealistic goal BUT at least know you tried…”

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'The Gift of Gab' by Lisa H. Owens

“Benny, do you still love me?”

“In response, sweetheart, I’ll answer your question with a question. Once there was this kid, let's call him Rupert, who asked Santa for a puppy, and knowing he’d be good all year, he was certain he’d find a puppy under the tree on Christmas morning, therefore, to save money to buy things for his soon-to-be pet, he worked all summer—mowing lawns, pulling weeds, washing neighbors’ cars, until one day he cracked open his piggy bank and took a wad of cash to Pet-World, where he purchased food and water bowls and a medium-sized bed, because he knew puppies wouldn’t stay little forever, then hid the stuff under his bed, because if his parents found out he’d talked to Santa about a puppy, they would sabotage his plans since his dad was allergic to animal dander, but his dad didn’t just have an allergy, but would actually go into anaphylactic shock if exposed to fur and dander, especially dog fur, so had he known that, he wouldn’t have accepted a puppy from a lady in a parking lot who was giving them away—for free—saying the runt was the last in a litter of eight, which was his lucky number, and he wouldn’t have taken the pup home, who wouldn’t have jumped in Dad’s recliner…for just a second—but apparently long enough, and when Dad sat in his favorite chair, his airway wouldn’t have closed and the ambulance driver wouldn’t have gotten in a wreck while rushing to get Rupert’s dad to...” Benny paused to glance at Glenda, fast asleep on the couch, “...my question is, do you think Rupert jumped the gun?”
 
Benny smiled and hopped up to silently moonwalk and perform celebratory jazz-hands. No answer was always the right answer.
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'What’s For Dinner?' by Lucienne Cummings

        ‘What’s for dinner?’

My heart sinks. Em’s asked the same question every day since she was four.

        ‘What do you want?’ 

Here we go.

        ‘Don’t forget I’m out tonight Love.’

Claire’s social life is something to behold. There’s a spreadsheet somewhere in the Jurassic layer of reminders on the fridge, somewhere above the copy of our Save the Date cards, but below lists of what goes in which wheelie bin. 

        ‘You said we could have pizza if I did my essay on Catch 22!’ Dan grins. 

        ‘Have you?’ 

He hasn’t. Our son does his homework at the thirteenth hour, never earlier.
        
        ‘Miaow!’ The cat senses the worst moment. That, naturally, sets the dog off.

        ‘Woof!’

        ‘I’m sorry Astro, I know it’s walkies time.’ His tail thumps expectantly on my foot and his hot breath soaks my hand. 

        ‘I’ve planned the essay.’ Dan’s face contorts.

        ‘That’s not finishing it though, is it?’

        ‘I don’t want meat. I’m meat-free on Mondays.’ 

         ‘It’s Wednesday Em!’

I know what day it is. I put the bins out. 

Or did I?

        ‘Shit, it’s Wednesday? I’m in then. And I missed book club yesterday.’ Claire rubs her temple. It’s not like her to forget.

        ‘Can we have pizza anyway? If Mum’s home?’ Dan’s eyes are cartoon-wide, his expression trying to reach back to his baby days.

Can’t get me like that. I’m immune. Okay, not immune, but hardened.

        ‘Dan, you can’t have pizza if you haven’t finished your essay.’ I hate myself. I want pizza too. ‘And Em you’ll have to go with the majority vote.’ 
        
        ‘That’s not fair!’ 

        ‘That’s not fair!’ 
        
        ‘Life’s not fair!’

Astro and I discuss philosophies of the unfairness of life, as we leave for a very, very long walk. 

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'A Day In The Life' by Suzanne Hicks

Mothman wakes when the sun comes up. He’s a big believer in honoring your circadian rhythm. Too bad he’s a night owl. He brushes his teeth (no, they aren’t pointy), washes his face, and applies a moisturizer (yes, he knows the importance of a good skincare routine), but he doesn’t need to dress because you could say his look is ready-to-wear. He hides away during the daytime, watching his stories, playing NYT puzzles, exercising (cardio is critical to keep up his flying chops), and reading books. Truth is, he stands out too much in daylight. Even on a cloudy day. Once night comes, he ventures out. Tries to stay out of sight. Because despite what everyone thinks, he’s not trying to scare anyone. He doesn’t know why doom follows him around. But he’s working on himself. Taking up meditation and posting motivational memes online (okay, yes, he stole the password for a nearby house’s WiFi, but that’s not the point). Because maybe he’s not that different. A cryptid, yes, but perhaps he’s also just a man hoping to find a place where he can belong in this world. 
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'Got Lucky' by Michael Pettit

Malls: they’re not for me. Dead-eyed, I doom-trudge to the parking pay-point. I wait in line. I feed the machine. It snatches the ticket and swallows it whole, but before it figures out the fee, the elevator chimes. Steel doors part revealing a woman laughing her head off, face a squirm of hilarity. Mirrored walls multiply the mirth. I gape. She couldn’t give a hoot. Then: ping. Time’s up. Doors shut. Show’s over. But I can’t stop grinning. I’m grinning as I pay. The machine is gimme, gimme, grab. There’s a suspenseful pause – and my change comes clattering down. I feel I’ve won the jackpot!
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'Meditating about a Carp' by Anne Howkins

At the garden centre, my toddler grandson wants to see the fish. His father lifts him to watch his favourite, the huge white carp ghosting its way around the indoor raised pond. See how it swims we say just like you!

I remember the carp I fed in a Kyoto park, how they flooded towards me, glowing sunlit gold, pushing their gaping mouths out of the water for food. How they followed my slow walk around their pool, their lithe bodies rippling the water.

I wonder how long ago the ghost carp last saw natural light, if it remembers how that felt?

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'Never ignore a flashing light' by Alison Wassell

The washing machine breaks the day we bring the baby home from the hospital. When I try to look up the error code you tell me to leave it all to you. I’m tired and sore, and sad that I haven’t got the hang of breast feeding yet, even though my mother told me it would be a piece of cake. But you’re not the practical type, so I say let’s phone my dad, he can fix just about anything. You look hurt and I feel bad. A plumber then, I say, and you say we’ll never be able to find one on a Sunday.

I say OK, we’ll worry about it tomorrow, even though I’m worrying about it now, worrying about how we’ll wash the baby’s clothes, what the health visitor will say if the baby has nothing clean to wear, whether she’ll think I’m an unfit mother, whether I am an unfit mother, and I’m so, so tired that I drift off to sleep for a couple of hours on the couch.

When I wake up a white van is pulling up outside with a new machine in it. I say we could have fixed the other one ourselves, it was probably something minor; a kink in the pipe, or the door not closing properly. You say things aren’t built to last these days; it’s called built in obsolescence. Much easier to buy a new one. I say I wasn’t raised to think that way. In my world, if something breaks, you do your best to mend it. You kiss the top of my head and tell me I’m so cute and old-fashioned and that it’s one of the things you love about me, but in my head, an error code is already flashing.

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'Bianca is Happy All the Time' by Jean Feingold

Bianca had two boyfriends. She loved them both equally. They both loved her fervently. Until recently, she’d had three. One guy wandered off when he got tired of sharing. 

The other two were content with the current arrangement. This wasn’t a threesome. She would spend time alone with Jeremy some days and on other days would be alone with Stanford. Each man knew of the other’s existence although they never saw each other. They were each so devoted to Bianca and so disinterested in other women they preferred having only part of her to having none. 

Bianca’s friends told her she was nuts and should pick one. She was unwilling to do that because each man had different interests and skills. Everything each of them savored was also of interest to her. Jeremy was an artist, musician, and poet. They spent time at museums, concerts, art films, and lectures. Stanford was handy at fixing things, a gourmet chef, and liked cars. Together they went to car shows, races, and chase movies. He kept everything at her house in good repair and made delicious meals. Both men were fabulous lovers, each approaching lovemaking differently in ways she relished. How could she give up half of what she enjoyed in life by selecting one man? 

The only downside was the large number of other women who constantly flirted with both men. They believed the two men’s relationships with Bianca weren’t serious because they weren’t exclusive. Bianca ignored these women, knowing she satisfied both Jeremy and Stanford so well they had no reason to look elsewhere. She thought of herself as the luckiest woman alive. 

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'Drive' by Michele Catalano

They don’t say much on the drive. She leans against the passenger door, eyes shut. His eyes
are on the road, his head somewhere else.

They’re never alone. All these things travel with them, taking up room, making it difficult to talk.

The car is crowded with trysts and mistakes, lies and secrets. They whisper and mutter amongst
themselves, their conversation making the windows fog up with accusations and unspoken
apologies.

Even if she wanted to say something, she wouldn’t be heard. They just drive without talking,
letting the ghosts in the car speak for them.

The road never ends.
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'Let’s Pretend We Didn’t See Each Other' by Gargi Mehra

I hadn’t just been sheared of my fur. The pimply woman at the parlour hadn’t just spent a quarter of an hour bent over my face, primping and squeezing, massaging and tweezing, until tears welled up in my eyes.

You weren’t wearing that fuchsia V-neck tee that I loved, the one that clung to your ribs, the one that enticed me to reach out and touch you.

I didn’t see you across the glass window of the salon, through the glass walls of the bakery right opposite, as I counted out crisp notes to pay the price for my preening.

And of course, she wasn’t there, cloaked in the one dress that (she thought) focused on her substantial assets.

You never headed for the counter to pick up pastries and hot beverages with the steam rising from the cups, and you never carried the tray back to the table where she sat ogling you.

I never stood still as if frozen in time, catching her rub the coffee stain off your upper lip.

You didn’t watch me rush out of the parlour, down the stairs, onto the street, across the road.

You didn’t see me beckon the taxi, flag it down, climb into it.

Not once did I see her bat her eyelashes at you.

You didn’t smile at me as I floated past you.

We pretended we never saw each other.

You never spoke about it later.

Neither did she.

Fifty years our hearts have been chained together, and I’m still pretending.

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'The Deepest Part' by Cate McGowan

They walk to the lake in their coats, though it’s June and the heat clings. The path is mostly dust now, cracked and thin with thistle. They don’t speak.

Ella carries the jar. Just a wide-mouthed mason jar, damp from her grip. Inside: water, clear and sloshing. She watches the water as they saunter as if it might change if she looks away.

“I’m not sure it matters,” Jonah says.

She shrugs. “I want it to.”

The lake is lower than she remembers. Drawn back from its edges, the color of old coins. Along the shore, they spot bottle caps, bones of long-dead fish, and a single boot with a daisy growing through the laces.

They find the rocks where they used to sit with their feet in the water, telling secrets between them. Ella wades in. The water is cool against her shins.

At knee height, she unscrews the jar.

“What was in it?” Jonah asks.

She hesitates. “The last melted piece of snow. From January.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he watches her pour it in.

The lake takes it.

She holds the jar to her chest. They sit a while until the sky cobalts and the lake’s surface smooths over like breath settling.

That night, it rains for the first time in weeks. 

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Wednesday, 18 June 2025

'When Agatha rediscovered her own love story' by D. X. Lewis

Aggie discovered the document in a removal box unopened since she came to Geneva as a young secretary. Written in pencil on airmail paper, it was adorned with hearts and tied in gold ribbon. She returned from the cellar to her third-floor flat which, on good days, had a view of Mont Blanc. She poured a tumbler of whisky, and sat in her late father’s armchair. She felt she was about to do something very wrong, like reading someone else’s diary. But surely you couldn’t invade your own privacy? She pulled the gilt bow and dived into her own childish script of 50 years ago. Her eyes swam.


STEVEN AND I ARE INGAGED!!!

THE STORY OF OUR LOVE 

BY AGATHA AGGIE BAILEY (aged 8) 

PRIVITE AND TOP SECRET!!!


My name is Agatha Bailey, but one day it will be Agatha Pryke. That’s because Steven has ingaged me. And after our wedding I will take his sir-name. Because that’s what happens when men and women get married. Acshully I’ll probably call myself Aggie Pryke, because I don’t like the name Agatha. My mother only called me that because of some silly writer. I call myself Aggie. 

Steven lives four doors down the road from me. He’s in number 26, and I’m in number 18. Steven and I have set up a speshal phone between our bed-rooms made of empty baked bean tins and green wire. We saw how to on the telly. I can’t often here what Steven says, but Janet gets very jellous when I tell her he calls every night to say he loves me.  …

 

The manuscript ran to seven more pages, but Aggie couldn’t bear to read any more for now. She put it down. A sob erupted for a time when a shining future lay ahead. 

 

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'What would you do?' by Madeleine Armstrong

A fat raindrop plops onto your head, then another. You swear and dash back inside for your umbrella, suitcase dragging, rucksack bouncing. The house smells of coffee and buttered toast, and you wish you could stay enveloped in its warmth, rather than battling through rain to the airport.

Then you hear his voice from the kitchen, over the murmur of the radio.

She’s just left.

A laugh, low and gravelly. You remember that laugh from years ago, before everything became about ovulation windows and hormone injections.

Come anytime. I can’t wait. Wear that –

The next words are muffled. Your heart hammers so loud he must hear it – but no, he only has ears for whoever’s on the other end of the line.

With a red-faced rush, you know. The new girl at work he mentioned constantly. Caroline says this film’s amazing. Caroline loves this restaurant. Caroline reckons Thailand’s perfect at this time of year. 

Then her name ran dry. You hoped she’d left the company.

Behind you, wind batters the front door. In the kitchen, a knife clatters, then is still. There are no more whispered words.

The umbrella is propped, forgotten, in its stand.

You check your watch. You have a plane to catch. You have a baby to grow.

Do you:
a) Rush into the kitchen and confront him?
b) Turn and walk out, closing the door with the quietest of clicks?  

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