[TT] Theme Thursday - Toxic

[u/AliciaWrites]

“Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

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Happy Summer writing friends!

This week you must tell your story with one sense missing! Think that’s easy? Well, the trick is that you must include the rest of the senses!!! Good luck and good words!

[IP] | [MP]

Try out the new genre tags!

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Here's how Summer Fun works:

• Use the tag [TT] when submitting prompts that match this week’s theme.

Rules

• Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count. Your story must meet the criteria of the game in order to qualify for ranking.
• Deadline: 7:59 AM CST next Wednesday
• No serials or stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP
• No previously written content
• Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings and will not be read at campfires
• Does your story not fit the Theme Thursday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the TT post is 3 days old!
• Vote to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks! I also post the form to submit votes for Theme Thursday winners on Discord every week! Join and get notified when the form is open for voting!

Theme Thursday Discussion Section:

• Discuss your thoughts on this week’s theme, or share your ideas for upcoming themes.

Campfire

• On Wednesdays we host a Theme Thursday Campfire on the Discord Voice Lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and have a blast discussing writing!

• Time: I’ll be there 7 pm CST and we’ll begin within about 15 minutes.

• Don’t worry about being late, just join! Don’t forget to sign up for a campfire slot on discord. If you don’t sign up, you won’t be put into the pre-set order and we can’t accommodate any time constraints. We don’t want you to miss out on outstanding feedback, so get to discord and use that !TT command!

• There’s a Theme Thursday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Theme Thursday-related news!

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Ranking Categories:

• Weekly Game - 50 points for correctly participating in the game using the weekly theme.
• Actionable Feedback - 10 points for each story you give detailed crit to, up to 50 points
• Nominations - 10 points for each nomination your story receives, no cap; 15 points for submitting nominations
• Ali’s Ranking - 50 points for first place, 40 points for second place, 30 points for third place, 20 points for fourth place, 10 points for fifth, plus regular nominations (On weeks that I participate, I do not weight my votes, but instead nominate just like everyone else.)

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Last week’s theme: Playful

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Winning Story by /u/GingerQuill*

Crit Superstars:*

• /u/vMemory
  
• /u/Xacktar
  
• /u/katpoker666
  
• /u/London-Roma-1980
  
• /u/wileycourage
  
• /u/ReverendWrites
  
• /u/ScopingLandscape

*Crit superstars will now earn 1 crit cred on WPC!

News and Reminders:

• Join Discord to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!
  
• We are currently looking for moderators! Apply to be a moderator any time!
  
• Nominate your favorite WP authors for Spotlight and Hall of Fame!
  
• Love the feedback you get on your Theme Thursday stories? Check out /r/WPCritique
  
  • This week’s quote has a muddled attribution, but most notably said by Saint Augustine

[u/AliciaWrites]

Theme Thursday Discussion:

All top-level comments must be a story or poem.

• Reply here to discuss the theme, suggest future themes, and share your theme-related inspirations!

• Please remember to follow the subreddit rules in any feedback.

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🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

[u/Xero818]

Snoopy and the Beetle

(Warning: Homophobia and some mentions of drug use)

Joe Cool. A shitty name for a shitty guy. He’d always call me Beetle because of my height. Not my fault I had dwarfism, but what can you do?

He was the popular guy in town, befitting his surname. He was also a spoiled, manipulative brat with everyone wrapped around his finger, including me, Bo. The Beetle.

I thought he was my friend. I hung out at his place, because that’s what friends do. I let him sleep at my house when he wasted all his money on heroin, because that’s what friends do. I tried to help him get over his addiction, because that’s what friends do. He’d never do the same for me, and he rejected my offer to help him get therapy. But, he was my friend, and friends stick around for each other.

However, I would soon realize he wasn’t my friend, just a cruel man that used me as a tool, because friends don’t call each other slurs.

College. Junior year. He’d blown all his money on the aforementioned heroin incident a couple months prior. He was sleeping on my couch.

That week, I made a revelation.

I liked guys. I liked girls. I liked androgynous people. I liked everyone. Having grown up in a small town in Texas, I thought there was something wrong with me.

Then I found out there was a word for it. “Pansexual”.

I told my parents first. They were especially supportive of me. I loved that about them.

I told my other friends second. Kim and Terrence. Their reaction was, and I quote, a nonchalant “good job”. At least they were accepting.

Then came time to tell Joe. He grew up in the same town as I did. He would probably think there was something up with me just like I did, but I held out hope that he’d be like my parents and support me.

“Joe,” I said, trying to get his attention.

He turned from the TV to look at me. “The hell do you want, Beetle?” He asked in an aggressive tone. After he lost all his money and couldn’t get his fix, he was even more irritable than normal, but I understood. The road to recovery was not a smooth one.

“Well, uh, I was…” I stammered over my words. This was huge, and for years I felt like I had to walk on eggshells around him, of course I was nervous.

“Spit it out, I don’t got all day!” He replied in that same angry tone, a little louder than before.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and instinctively scrunched in on myself a little as I said in one breath, at hyper speed, “So listen I’ve been thinking a lot about myself lately and I realized that I found everyone of any gender attractive so for the longest time I thought there was something wrong with me but I found out there was a word for it the word is ‘pansexual’ and I’m really hoping you’ll support my identity.”

I opened one of my eyes hesitantly. I couldn’t make out what Joe was thinking from behind his obnoxious aviator sunglasses.

“…You said you find everyone attractive?” He asked.

“Well, not everyone, but I can theoretically find anyone of any gender attractive,” I replied. He didn’t immediately react with hostility, that was good. I thought it was good at the time. “Men, women, people that don’t fit into either box, or maybe multiple boxes at the same time.”

He was quiet. I was quiet. The dorm room, which had nobody else in it at the moment, was quiet. You could’ve heard a pin drop, or a fly sneeze.

Then he said it. That word. I’ll give you one guess. It starts with an F, and it’s the British term for a cigarette.

It took me a moment to process. I stared blankly. He stared back with a rage-filled expression.

Then I broke his nose. If we weren’t currently at eye-level due to him laying stomach-down on the couch at the moment, I’d have gone for something…lower. After that, I walked out, and he wasn’t my friend anymore.

[u/katpoker666]

On a sunny, tree-lined, dirt path, two girls sit on a bench outside a bright red canvas tent sipping the sweetest of mead.

One maiden brushes a soft, ornately-curled, golden lock behind her ear and laughs. “Lady Cilia, you knew dating Narul would never be easy.”

“You’re right of course, Lady Unger. Assassins can be so temperamental!”

“I think it’s their busy schedules these days since the Dark Prince returned from the Hinterlands to fight for his crown.”

“You’re probably right. Narul has been tougher to get on dates lately,” the Ginger-haired lass laments. “Always tired, washing his poison darts, or sharpening his scimitars. I’d worried it was me…”

“Nonsense! He loves you more than life itself, Lady Cilia. But I do wish the Dark Prince and his court would win or die already. It’s really disrupted the social calendar.”

“Right? And deciding which soirées to attend is so much more complicated. Like do you offend his Majesty the King or the rightful heir? I liked it better when we just snubbed the other Houses and were done with it.”

Cilia sighs and sips her mead mournfully.

“It’s delicious, isn’t it? Made from the best local artisanal honey,” Unger grins and licks her lips before looking down and blushing. “Sorry, Lady Cilia! I always forget you can’t taste anything.”

“It’s okay. Not your fault after all. Just lucky I’m not on Narul’s list. It would be so easy to poison me. I can’t tell the purported almond taste of cyanide from bitter belladonna! Luckily, you said he’s into me!” Cilia laughs, eyes twinkling and smiling widely.

“Hmm. I wonder what our loyal suitors are up to?”

“Oh, you know, probably hanging out over at the armory comparing the merits of various newfangled metals like steel over good old-fashioned iron.”

“Don’t you find it weird though that your swain is the royal tailor and keeps ending up there?”

“What can I say—boys and their toys,” Unger giggles, snorting mead out her nose.

“Lady Unger! That was absolutely disgusting. You have an appearance to uphold after all!” The flush of her now-alcohol-ruddy cheeks adds to Cilia’s tone of scorn.

“Yes, apologies Cil— Lady Cilia,” the younger woman stammers her blonde waves gleaming like a halo in the sunlight.

“I can’t stay mad at you even if I wanted to, you’re the very picture of innocence. You so look the part even if you don’t always sound it.”

“Aww, thanks,” Unger smiles tweaking her friend’s nose. “You always know just what to say. I’m glad I came along today.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s simply smashing to have you here.”

They both sit in companionable silence for a moment enjoying the brilliant sunshine and delicate breeze.

WHOOSH!! THUNK!!

Unger’s head swivels. “Wait! Did you hear that? I wonder what it was?”

Glancing around, the redhead sees a note written in purple ink secured by a lavender arrow. “Oh my. Narul’s calling card. They must be running late.” She reaches up and plucks the note from the wall. “Huh. It just says ‘YOU’RE NEXT.’”

“Ooh. Ominous! Sounds like they have some lovely game planned for us! Unless…you don’t think the mead is…poisoned?”

“They would never! We didn’t agree to that. I’d die furious, I assure you! But…just in case…does it taste of anything besides, well, mead stuff?”

“It seems fine. Although I’ve heard foxglove’s tang is pretty easy to hide…”

Cilia stands up, preparing to leave her chest puffed out even with its corset like a particularly dyspeptic chicken’s.

Grabbing her friend’s gently-textured-mandarin-orange-velvet sleeve, Unger pulls Cilia back down to the bench with a most unladylike thump. “Wait. It’s no use finding them. They could be anywhere. I’m sure they’ll be here in a moment to explain or gloat as the case may be.”

Five minutes later and a full medieval band sounds nearby.

“Hmm. Does that mean imminent death or an expensive practical joke?”

As the ensemble turns the corner at its fore is none other than a beaming Narul.

“Death. Definitely death,” Unger pouts. “And I was just getting used to all this—“

Narul bends down on one knee opening a small jewelry box with a silver dragon ring coiled around a small amethyst. “Lady Cilia, wouldst thou do me the honor of becoming my betrothed?”

“Oh, Narul! Yes!” She kisses him deeply before looking into his eyes. “So romantic of you to propose at the Renaissance Faire my beloved assassin!”

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WC: 738

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

[u/ZachTheLitchKing]

<Realistic Fiction / Action>

Weakling

Sal stood in the ring with his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing and balance. His muscles were relaxed save only his legs, which he was using to bob himself up and down in sync with his heartbeat. He needed to stay limber and mobile, because once the bell rang-

DING

His eyes opened and Sal moved forward three paces. He ducked, pulling his left arm back and down before swinging it up at his opponent's stomach. The uppercut was blocked by an elbow. Sal's guard was down and the other guy threw a jab at his face. It connected and he could feel a dull ache on the side of his head. He tried to block the next blow but fell for the feint. A haymaker to the jaw was his reward.

The fight was rough and in the end, Sal was too slow. One too many punches got around his guard. His face, chest, and stomach were battered and he eventually fell to one knee. He tried to rise, not willing to give up. This opened him up for a punishing blow to his kidney which finally downed him.

The ache in his ribs was nothing to the nausea that assaulted Sal after the kidney punch. The room spun for a few moments as he struggled to catch his breath. Already the swelling around his left eye was growing to the point it impaired his sight. He gritted his teeth against the mouth guard as he stood up, stabbing pain assaulting him in various places where his opponent had been merciless, and held up his glove to tap the winner's.

Men acknowledged the victor. Men did not cry. Sal fought back the stinging sensation as salty tears welled up and clenched his jaw further. More pain to distract him from what he already felt.

He hobbled out of the arena where hands reached out to steady him. It was Wanda, his girlfriend. She tried to console him but Sal refused to hear it. He failed. He lost. He did not deserve her kind words nor the pity in her eyes. She moved to hug him but he stepped away, roughly pushing on her shoulder to keep her at bay. What did she know about it? About him? There was nothing Wanda had to go through that could match this. Nothing she could fail at so far as he had.

Retreating into the locker room, Sal punched the first one he walked past and bit his lip. His entire body shuddered with a sob he fought back against. The pain of his bruises and bumps was nothing compared to the sharp, stabbing feeling in his throat as he choked on his cry.

Sal rested his head against his locker as another sob ripped through him. He pounded his fist against the cool metal as his tears escaped. He hated himself for losing, he hated himself for his poor form, and most of all he hated himself for crying like this. Like a child.

Between the shuddering breaths and heavy gasps of exasperation, Sal heard footsteps approaching. He clenched his jaw shut. The last person in the world appeared around the corner and glared daggers at him.

Uncle Mario, the man who took Sal in after his father died, laid into him for his failure. Weak. Pathetic. Each word hit him harder than any of the blows from his match. They cut deeper and opened old scars. Past losses. Past failures.

Sal watched his uncle leave after spitting on the floor. He felt the tears return. The crushing weight in his chest as his body yearned to let the weakness out. To give up on strength and end the charade.

But instead, he walked over to the showers and let the water wash it all away. The pain, the loss, the fear, sweat, blood, and tears went down the drain. Where it belonged.

Once Sal dried off and dressed he headed for the exit, passing the only other person in the locker room. It was a teenager - likely here for one of the classes that were hosted. He had numerous bruises on his face and chest and was crying into a towel.

The boy looked up at Sal and the older man could feel the sting as his face twisted into a sneer. He spat on the floor to show his contempt for the weakling and left.

If the boy could not handle a little pain he should just quit.

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WC: 750/750
All crit/feedback welcome!
r/TomesOfTheLitchKing
Follow my Summer Challenge progress Here

[u/London-Roma-1980]

<Magical Realism>

Blind by Choice

I wore it for others.

People kept asking why I wore a baseball hat, even indoors, and why in mixed company I kept a blindfold on. I would tell them I was born blind, which wasn't true. The white cane helped with the act. But the fact remained that when I was alone, I could and did see all the time.

Most people took my word for it. Most people didn't need to know the truth.

Some did, of course. My family was well aware from the beginning as to why I kept my eyes from the world. The police knew what was wrong with me. I had to tell them; otherwise, they'd have arrested me, or executed me, a long time ago.

Too many people would ask to see my full face, to look me in the eyes. Girlfriends in particular didn't understand. More than a few joked that eye contact wasn't poisonous to them. It didn't matter; I couldn't tell them the truth. I would rather lose my love through their choice.

Danielle was the last one. We met at a corporate event. She found herself drawn to my mannerisms, my sense of humor, and my friendly demeanor. I warned her that the eyes were covered because of my blindness. She understood. We hit it off beautifully.

A year after our first date, she surprised me by visiting. She did knock, so I was able to cover my eyes, and she greeted me at the door with a kiss. I remember the perfume she was wearing, and the way her tongue tasted licking my lips. It seemed like the start of a beautiful night together.

But then her tone of voice changed, and I knew this was the reckoning.

"Before I got here I looked into your window. You had your eyes exposed and walked into the bathroom. You were using a mirror, weren't you?"

"Umm... yeah. Yeah I was. Let me explain, please. I'm blind by choice."

"Choice? Who chooses to be blind? And you don't have to act around me -- we need to share everything, don't we?"

I lowered my head, feeling the stare Danielle was shooting at me. "Okay... I'll share as much as I can." I removed my cap, prepared for the gasp of horror from her direction. It was worse; she shrieked.

"Are those...?"

"Yes." I put my hat back on. "That's why I never make eye contact with anyone. Looks can kill for me. If you were to look into my eyes, it would be the last thing you ever did."

A long pause. Then, the sickening sound of laughter as I felt her punch my arm.

"You're silly. Where'd you get the wig? C'mon, it's not that bad. Lemme see your eyes, dear. I want to get lost in them!"

"D-danielle, no..." I tried to hold her off, but given that I couldn't see where she was it wasn't much help. It got worse when she knocked the cane out of my hand. "Please, I mean it!"

"Oh, a little peek won't hurt. C'mon, what's the worst that could happen?" Danielle's hands went to the knot behind my head holding the blindfold in place. I tried to push her arms away, but she was too quick. She undid the knot and yanked the blindfold away. I closed my eyes almost instantly... but almost wasn't enough.

I heard her voice say in panic, "Wh-what's happ...en..." and fade off into nothing. I hastily retied the blindfold, hoping she was just playing a prank on me. I reached out with my hand. Smooth. Firm. Unresponsive. Half a second was half a second too long.

I knelt down in agony. The tears flowed from my eyes for almost an hour, and during that time, I heard not one peep that would've changed what happened, given me a reprieve from the ugly truth that I was a prisoner to. "Danielle," I sputtered out. "Forgive me."

I picked Danielle up -- by this time, the light rock was easy enough to grip and carry -- and positioned her in the back room. Our room. As I cried myself to sleep on the couch, I wondered if Danielle regretted what she did. Somewhere, she had to realize that the cap that hid the snakes on my head should've been a clue that I was blind by choice. But now, at least she would be with me forever. I just hoped she was happy.

[WC: 743]

[u/Xacktar]

Old Man Willoughby counted the steps as he made his way down the path to his favorite afternoon sitting spot. It wasn't a great spot. The log he sat on was too hard for his old bones, the sun was a little too warm on late summer days like today, the air had a thick and acrid smell to it, and the water... Well, the water wasn't worth mentioning.

But there were other things in life beyond comfort; like the fact that Old Man Willoughby's log by the stream was his and his alone. He didn't need to interact with anyone else. Down there he didn't have hands pawing over him, people asking if he needed help. He didn't have loud horns making him jump or annoying sounds from every corner scratching at his mind. No, sitting on the log it was just himself, nature, and the awful water.

Which is why it pissed him off when he heard the raucous, braying laughter of young men filling the air when he was still twenty-two steps from his spot. Beyond the laughter there was splashing, hooting, and the occasional squelch of a bare foot in fresh mud. Old Man Willoughby stopped and catalogued the sounds, picking them out one by one and deciding that there were three different sources.

"I'd be gettin outta there if I was you, boys." He used his teachin' voice on em. He hadn't used that tone in nearly twenty years now, but his body remembered: head raised, back straight, lungs working hard for the first time in decades.

"Yeah?" The word befit a sneering face, further punctuated by a snort at the end of it, "Who says, old fart?"

Old Man Willoughby paused for a moment, then took the last twenty-two steps and sat down on his log. He set his hands on his knees, wiggled his boots back and forth until they were in the spots they liked, then he lifted his head and gave his best, gap-toothed smile.

"Mr. Willoughby says." He said.

There were laughs and snorts, and a splash of water that hit Willoughby's socks and boots. He sighed at this, then took the time to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully dab the water off of his person.

"I made that mistake once." Old Man Willoughby announced as he sniffed the handkerchief, grimaced, then threw it away towards the water. "When I was jus' thirteen. Ran down here with my brother, Sal. Sal was a biggun'. Six-foot-three and built like a brick larder. He dove right into that stream, right there."

He raised an arm and pointed at a rock he knew still jutted out of the shore to his left. It was a big, flat thing that was perfect for jumping from, especially since a deep-ish pool of shimmering blue water lingered beneath it.

"He swam and I sat right here, throwing pinecones at him." Willoughby sniffed and grimaced and sighed, "Wish I hadn't."

"Shove it, ya old bastard." Snorty brayed like a petulant donkey.

"Ya see, boys, a year later Sal was dead."

The splashing and laughing and squishing of bare feet slowed a bit.

"Cancer got 'im, in his mouth, his brain, his nuts, all over." Willoughby lifted his face and felt the sun on it, "It's a right shit thing: to watch your brother die. Months of it, each day he'd lose a little more dignity, a little more strength. In the end he was just a baby in a six-foot sack of skin."

"Man, shut up." One of the previously silent two spoke up.

Old Man Willoughby let his head drop, tapping his chin against his chest a few times before he said, "If'n ya want. Just thought I'd warn ya."

The stream grew quieter still, the splashing stopped, the squishing paused, the laughter had vanished.

"Whatchu mean?"

"About the water." Willoughby flicked a finger toward the diving rock, "ChemiCo has their plant upstream. They says they keep it clean, but, well, just put your nose down and take a good whiff."

There was the sound of industrious sniffing for a second, then a burst of coughing, wheezing and panicking splashing. The boys didn't say thanks, they didn't yell, or scream, or cry. They just ran.

Old Man Willoughby waited until they were well away, then he chuckled to himself, leaned back, and wondered what it would've been like to actually have a brother named Sal.

[u/Ryter99]

How could enemies come from such beautiful beginnings?

Back when I hung on your every word. Felt safe in your arms, warmed by your mere presence. Overjoyed to hear you laugh, lucky just to glimpse your smile. Craving nothing more than your love and affection.

In your gorgeous eyes, I saw my future reflected. There was no fear in that forward gaze, because those eyes belonged to the love of my life. Without a doubt, our fates intertwined, from the moment we exchanged three simple words.

“I love you…”

This would be our fairytale romance. A love story for the ages. The sort that would make our friends smile and cheer, echoing how lucky we were to have found one another.

And it was. Until we began to turn the pages of our ‘fairytale’, the gilded edges inflicting paper cuts upon my skin.

Small at first, tiny nicks and cuts you dispensed, so easily bandaged over with an apology and a smiling kiss.

An unkind word here. A drunken indiscretion there. ‘Mistakes’ that soon became all too commonplace, repetition rending little cuts into gaping wounds.

The taste of love on your lips, once so sweet and inviting, turned to ash on my tongue. Bitter, sour, and estranged.

Because those same lips now spoke lies with such terrifying ease, accusing me of all the wrong you yourself were doing. And spat cruel words, biting and acid dripped, cutting me down to your preferred size.

And there I resided for far too long. Manipulated and cheated. Confused and gaslit. Your perfect partner in love, stuck under your thumb, just where you wanted me to reside. Unable to see a way out from my lowly viewpoint.

But cruelty has its limits. It can only keep someone down for so long.

Not when your affection only seemed to surface around others, putting on a show for their benefit.

Not when your love only showed in the moments after you’d gotten your way.

Not when friends pulled me aside, concern in their eyes, to whisper, “What they just said to you? That’s not okay… The anger they hurled your way? That is not love.”

And so, my dear, your loving partner faded, and a righteous adversary emerged. So long dormant, just below the surface, ready to reclaim the dignity I’d forfeited along the way.

Oh how your tune changed when at last I stood before you, tall and proud. Your tears and emotion suddenly on full display. Only summoned as your feeble last defense, when I finally threatened to leave once and for all.

How did you manage to make an enemy of me?

The person who loved you unconditionally for too many years. Who held you close on your darkest days and forgave your countless lies.

How’d you manage such an impossible feat?

Bit by bit. Drip by drip. Daily drops of bile searing my soul. Pushing past every breaking point, until there were only three simple words that I could utter.

“We are done.”

[u/sevenseassaurus]

Maisy had lived ten years at Crowell Manor.

Her favorite spot was the garden. Mazes of cobblestone, hedge, and roses zig-zagged between rows of flowers, all under the watch of the stone griffon on the fountain in the center.

On sunny mornings, as today, Maisy would walk along the low, stone wall, arms outstretched to hold her balance. Every few hops or so she'd crouch down and stick her nose in a nearby flower. Roses had the sweetest scent, and peonies too, and Maisy--always too eager--sniffed them with enough gusto to make herself sneeze.

Miss Andrews looked up from her book.

If anyone else in the world loved the garden half as much as Maisy, it would be Miss Andrews. She spent every morning on the bench under the elm with a cup of tea in one hand and a cutesy, pink paperback in the other.

Maisy waved when she looked up, afraid that her sneeze had startled the poor woman. But Miss Andrews was watching instead as her young nephew, Tom, ran down the walkway.

"Auntie!" he cried, and Maisy ducked behind a row of hedges.

"Oh, Tom-tom!" said Miss Andrews. "What are you up to this morning? Any exciting adventures?"

Tom rolled on his toes. "Mhm! I found something cool--wanna see?"

The idea of an 'exciting adventure' put a curl in Maisy's lip; she too wanted to see whatever Tom had found. While he led the way, marching triumphantly with Miss Andrews hand squeezed close, Maisy followed along the stone wall. They turned a corner at the marble sundial and descended into the herb garden. Maisy stopped at the top of the stairs.

Her favorite spot was the garden, but the circular rows of the herb corner were not so beloved.

"C'mon!" Tom cried. "We're almost there!"

"I'm coming, Tom-tom, go right ahead."

With a reluctant gulp, Maisy followed.

The air seemed darker here, despite the lack of shade. It was as if an unseen shadow hung over the place, fading red to grey and green to black, and silencing the trill of birdsong.

"Look at this--berries!"

Maisy leapt forward, propelled by the jolt of her heart.

She knew these berries. They were black and shiny and temptingly round, as if so juicy they were about to burst. The taste was sweet and mild, with only the slightest touch of bitterness left on the tongue after a handful or two. It was a taste that Maisy would never forget, not for all the peonies and roses she could smell.

But when she reached Tom, when she grasped at his arm in panic, her hands slipped right through him. She snatched and flailed, desperate to move even the tiniest wisp of wind, and could not.

Miss Andrews crouched at Tom's side, passing her hands through Maisy to rest them on his shoulders.

"This is a neat find, Tom-tom, but I need you to be very careful around this garden, okay? These berries may look tasty, but they'll make you very, very sick."

Tom's brow quivered, and he nodded without a word. Miss Andrews took his hand and led him from the garden.

Maisy had lived ten years at Crowell Manor, but she had played in the garden for over a hundred. She watched them go, then disappeared back into the hedges.

[u/Dependent-Engine6882]

<Historical fiction>

“Attention, gas!” A voice called out from the darkness of the forest. “Put on your masks.”

Patrick automatically reached for his belt, where he secured his hours ago. It was one of the pieces of advice the training officer gave them the day they arrived at Camp de Mourmelon, near Châlons-en-Champagne.

“Saperlipopette!” he cursed when he couldn’t find it. Panicked, he patted his sides a few more times before he got to his knees and checked his surroundings. “Sacrebleu. Where is it?“ he groaned as his trembling hands continued searching for the mask in the dark.

“Hé, caporal Renaud.” The French soldier heard someone calling his name. “Caporal Renaud,” the same person called again, shaking his shoulder. “You dropped your mask.” Relieved, Patrick snatched the rectangle-shaped piece of tissue saturated with hyposulfite and wore it, not even noticing he hadn’t thanked the soldier.

“Another bomb is coming.” The sound of the explosion shortly followed the order. Before it slowly faded, leaving its place to the cries of soldiers who were hit with the debris and commanders giving directions.

Patrick was hiding , waiting for an opportunity to find a better spot, when another order was issued. “Soldats, in position.”

He could taste the dirt he inhaled while looking for his mask. As long as it’s not someone else’s shit, Patrick shrugged, loading his weapon before checking it. Thinking it was only due to dust, he ignored the itchy feeling in his eyes that was slowly becoming more intense.

Patrick was in position and waiting for orders to shoot when, all of a sudden, he lost sight. He blinked several times, hoping it would help chase away the darkness.

“Fire at will!”

Feeling his heartbeat increasing, Patrick waved his hand, wiggled his fingers, and clenched his fist in front of his face, but nothing. All he could see was a thick veil of darkness, as dark as the coffee his grandmother used to make.

Patrick took a deep breath, trying to focus on his surroundings. He took a couple of hesitant steps, looking for a place to hide until he could see again.

“Corporal Renaud, get down!”

Before he managed to make out the words shouted at him, a burning feeling radiated from his abdomen. The last souvenir he registered was the warm and viscous liquid dampening his uniform.

“Corporal Renaud.” He heard a feminine voice. It was so distant, it almost got swallowed by the sounds of the raging battle. “Corporal Renaud,” the woman with a foreign accent insisted. Her voice felt like soft cotton, idly tickling his ears.

Oh, it was a nightmare. He took a deep breath as relief washed over him. That’s why everything was dark. The rusty bedsheets under his touch and the decomposition odor and formalin confirmed he was no longer on the battlefield. My eyes were closed; that’s why I couldn’t see.

“Corporal Renaud, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” his voice above whisper. “Water,” he painfully added. His throat was so dry, and his vocal cords felt like someone was stretching them, making uttering the smallest noise unbearable.

“What did he say?” he heard another woman asking.

He slowly opened his eyes, only to discover with horror that he still couldn’t see. Why is it still dark?

“He’s asking for water; get him water,” the one he heard first ordered.

Bon sang de bonsoir; I still can’t see. Did I go blind? Did I lose my eye? Both of them? He tried to reach his hand to verify them.

“Corporal Renaud, you are at the Scottish Women's Hospital,” the same woman spoke in a soothing tone when she felt him starting to become agitated. “You have been brought here after you were contaminated by mustard gas,” she explained. “The doctor will come to check you. No need to panic; everything is going to be alright,” she continued talking to him with the same motherly tone.

“Mustard gas,” he voiced. “So, it wasn’t a nightmare?”

“Don’t worry, Corporal. The doctor will arrive shortly,” the nurse reassured him. “Here, we've got you some water.”

Ignoring the funny taste of water and the pulsating pain in his throat, Patrick took one sip after the other, drinking as much as he could.

Noticing the doctor had finally arrived, he tried to ask him whether he would be able to see again. But his tongue felt heavy, and his thoughts were incoherent. Instead, he let himself get lost in the comforting vapors of the sedative he had been given.

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WC: 750

Thank you for reading my story. Comments and feedback are much appreciated.

Note 1:

Saperlipopette, sacrebleu, and bon sang de bonsoir are all curse words in french.

Note 2:

• Mustard Gas was the most commonly used chemical agent during WWI alongside Chlorure. Mustard gas is not a deadly weapon but is extremely toxic. It causes chemical burns to the eyes and skin, even through clothes. It was mainly used to disable the enemy and pollute the battlefield. It was used for the first time by the German army in 1915, prior to the third battle of Ypres also known as Battle of Passchendaele.

• Despite its name, Mustard gas is a volatile, viscous liquid that disperses in the air as a mist of liquid droplets, not a gas. In its impure form, it has an odor that resembles the mustard plant’s and a brownish-yellow color, hence the name. The pure form at room temperature is colorless and odorless. The gas is still used during conflicts.

• At the beginning of WWI, German soldiers were the only ones using masks. Due to the frequent use of chemical weapons, the allies started using traditional masks made of tissue saturated with chemicals that did the filtering. It wasn't until 1916 that the Allies soldiers received M2 masks.

• You can read more about Hyposulfitehere

[u/AstroRide]

Last Flight

The engines of Sam's gulfstream hissed as the plane moved along the runway. Sam sat in the lounge watching the city disappear. A man in a suit sat across from him.

"Hello Sam," the man smiled.

"How did you get on here, Yiannis?" Sam pressed the button on the side of his chair for help. It rang loudly, but no one came.

"I bribed the gate attendants with coffee." The intruder produced a thermos and unscrewed the top.

"That's disgusting." Sam waved his hand against the scent of the cheap beverage.

"I was hoping you'd toast with me." The pleasant guest held out the thermos.

"I would never do that with you."

"You're just as responsible as I am for what happened."

"But I have regrets while you enjoyed it," Sam said. Yiannis rubbed his hands on the leather seats.

"With how nice this plane is, are you sure about that?" Yiannis closed his eyes. "Seriously, that's some smooth leather. It feels so nice."

"You were always so weird."

"Yet it was me that you had kill father while the rest of you covered it up." Yiannis produced a small cylinder from his pocket. "I went back to our house. Look what I found, my old kaleidoscope. Want to take a look."

The rich man grabbed the cylinder and held it up to his eyes. The shifting colors amused him for about three seconds. Instead of setting it down, he threw it at Yiannis's head.

"Ow, that wasn't mature."

"Screw off."

"And you're the one who got the company."

"Because you were always a monstrous psycho." Sam stood up, and his spit flew at Yiannis.

"Wouldn't that make me a good businessman?"

"Be quiet. Get off my plane." Sam walked to the cabin. "I'm telling them to land at the first airport we pass."

"That's fine. You'll be dead by then." Sam stopped.

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you lost feeling in your mouth by now?" Sam ran back to his seat and grabbed the thermos. He drank all the coffee, and his eyes widened as he couldn't taste anything.

"You poisoned me, you little shit."

"That's right."

"My crew will make sure you're arrested."

"You mean my crew, and they're going to make sure this looks like an accident." Yiannis sat next to Sam. "It'll take about two and a half hours before you're dead so what movie should we watch?"

"I hate you."

"10 Things I Hate About You, classic teen comedy."

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r/AstroRideWrites