Then you will vanish—becoming Amma, Chachi, Mami. No one will remember your name.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.
Chaos. More chaos.
In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.
The top selections in poetry, flash fiction and artwork for Day 1 of the Sehri Tales challenge; prompt: Ignite.
Surveying the decorated wall now vibrantly alive with Winnie the Pooh and Harry Potter characters, Sarah allowed herself a satisfied grin.
I’m not sure when I first realised that we’d met before. In the beginning, you were just the elderly man I often noticed pottering around our communal rooftop.
The slamming of the front door sounded an ominous note, warning of trouble to come.
Talespeople presents The Screaming Shorts, partnered with Daily Star Books and Star Literature
“Rapture’s coming, son. We best be happy when we embrace the Lord,” was all I heard him say as he pushed a needle into my arm.
My mother took me on her horse and started to ride south. I clutched my bleeding arm, the pain snapping me fully awake.
If you're Red-marked, you may be forever scarred.
Each submission, whether poem or prose, was limited to 250 words, and the first team to complete all the prompts would be crowned the winning house.
I think it was closer tonight. I really did not want it inside the lift.
