Break From Reality. Daily.
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2022 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Smashing peas is not Samantha’s idea of a dream job. Nevertheless, here she is, shoveling green mush into a tiny mouth. A spoon is useful for scaping off stuff that winds…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 10th Anniversary Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Walter poked a fork into a sizzling meat patty. “Come and get it, before I feed it to the hogs.” Five-year-old Nathan giggled. “You’re silly, Daddy. We don’t have any pigs.”…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2021 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Ted is driving, so I can keep my eyes closed and pretend that I am asleep. That we are still home in bed. That we did not get a terrible call…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2020 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. “If you’re just tuning in, the maiden voyage of the world’s first space cruise ship may have ended in tragedy. Lunar Loop was due to emerge from the dark side of…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Test
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Test
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. A red laser beam pierced the darkness to cast a bright spot the wall. The tiny dot flitted about the room for a few seconds before pausing on his chest. He…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2019 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. I’m five years old. Almost. My birthday is tomorrow, and my party will have a chocolate robot cake with blue candles just like the one Jules had. He’s already five. I…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2018 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. The old terrazzo floors gleamed, scrubbed and polished to a patent leather shine. Freshly painted walls resonated once more with clanging locker doors and chattering students. Lydia provided a red-carpet commentary…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2018 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. The phone rings. 6am. Only one person would call me at this hour. “Hi Mom.” “How are you this morning?” My head throbs. I was up ‘til three with that stupid…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2018 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. I wish I could just fly away. Not in an airplane. I long to spread my arms and glide through the air, over mountains and oceans. But a caged bird learns…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2017 Winter Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Timing is everything. It takes 30 seconds for the security camera to scan down the hallway. There is a slight click as it reverses to sweep back toward the elevator. Between…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2017 Winter Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Timing is everything. It takes 30 seconds for the security camera to scan down the hallway. There is a slight click as it reverses to sweep back toward the elevator. Between…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2017 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. “I just love the fall.” Helen whirled around, arms reaching for the brilliant blue sky. Her cheeks were flushed and her purple scarf fluttered in the breeze. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Wendell…
This story is by Gayle Woodson and was part of our 2017 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the Summer Writing Contest stories here. The barbed wire fence was laden with hundreds of thousands of faded and ragged pieces of cloth fluttering in the breeze. Soo mi Park told her tour group, “These ribbons…
I can’t see a thing. Maybe I’m dead.
I sigh. Nope. Not dead. I can still breathe. “Joel, are you here?”
No answer. I know he’s not here, can’t be here. Unless it was a dream—a bad dream.
Whatever drug they gave me, it’s worn off. They’ve moved me again. This place doesn’t smell so moldy. I sit up, slowly, then stand, cautiously. Don’t want to bump my head on something. Stretching out my arms, I gauge the size of this space. About 6-foot square, it’s the smallest room yet. But plenty of room to lie down. Curled into a fetal position, I try to go into meditation mode again. Sometimes I play old songs and movies in my head–anything to pass the time, to pretend I’m not who I am, where I am, to forget how I got here. Memories hurt, prayers have become hollow words. Consciousness gradually slips away; the line between reality and horrific dreaming blurs.
Nasila didn’t mind the sharp poke that woke her in the night. She put her hand on her belly to feel the lump moving under the skin, trying to guess: was it an elbow or a foot? She sang a soft lullaby, “Abiyoyo, abiyoyo.” Then she whispered, “If you are a boy, your father will name you Bakari, one with great power. You will go to school, like my brother. And if you are a girl…”
The hoot of an owl sent a shiver up her spine. She knew the chicks were safe in their pen. But the owl could be a bad omen.
“If you are a girl…” She paused to think. “I will hold you and sing to you. And I will tell you to be brave.”
