Break From Reality. Daily.
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Inky blackness is swallowing me, and I am terrified. I inch forward, arms outstretched, shuffling bare feet along a gritty surface. The air is thick and rancid. My toe bumps something hard….
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Sam squatted on his haunches, eye to eye with his four-year-old son. “Eli, be a good little man and go to bed when your gram tells you. I’ll be back before you…
Patricia glared in annoyance at the frumpy reflection glaring back from her full-length mirror. Who are you and what have you done with my body? she mocked. Today was her 60th birthday, and her mood was turning sour. Dismayed at her sagging figure, Patricia mourned her youth. Gone were the lacy ‘barely there’ panties and sexy demi bras. Nowadays, she squeezed her rolls and dimples into spandex briefs and underwire that poked and pinched but did little to lift her drooping cleavage. Maybe Stanley can invent a bra with a built-in wooden shelf. She laughed sardonically at the vision. Aging could certainly be a bitter pill to swallow, and today, Patricia felt as though she was choking on hers.
Stanley would arrive soon. She tried on dress after dress and one by one they pooled into a heap at her feet. Too tight. Too short. This one amplified her heavy chest and the next one suctioned to her ample backside. Finally, peeved, and glistening with perspiration, Patricia sighed, gave her damp armpits the sniff test, and reached for the one dress she was comfortable in; a shapeless black frock with full sleeves and a modest neckline. It was not flattering, but, she chided, Stanley liked her just as she was.
A moment later Stanley’s car squealed into her driveway, rock music thumping through his open window. Patricia raised an eyebrow at the racket, then hurried to put on lipstick. It was sweet of him to take her out for her birthday. She would do her best to smile, even if she had to paint it on.
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 2022 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. “On your knees Pledges!” Three young men wearing blindfolds jumped at the harshly barked command. They sank to their knees, ignoring the frosty air and ground dampness that immediately seeped through their…
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 2022 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Dylan’s baseball ricocheted off the wall above his headboard. The peeling plaster absorbed the hit with a resounding thump, leaving behind a fist-sized dent. Dylan launched himself onto the bed. When…
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 10th Anniversary Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Fireflies flickered and danced in the moonlit gardens as Charles and Grace swayed back and forth on their old porch swing. It was an unusually warm September and Charles savored the…
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 2021 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Old Albert Peterson stooped to scratch the ears of his little pal Chaser, a feisty border collie. Chaser dropped a ball at Albert’s feet, flicked his tail, and darted around stirring…
This story is by Sharon Hetherington and was part of our 2020 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. …“Hey buddy, wake up! I’m so happy to see you! Wow, you’ve grown, son!” Luke Tucker opened his eyes. “Am I dreaming? Dad, is that you? Are…are you alive?” Looking around,…
In a shadowed corner of the hospital stairwell she sits, crumpled like a discarded wad of paper, arms wound tight around her legs to still their trembling. In time, when her fury is finally exhausted, her body will unfurl, its energy spent. This stairwell is her private refuge, where the sobs that rattle her body and cleanse her soul are heard only by the walls around her. Perspiration beads her forehead, a display of damp patchwork darkening her scrub cap. Her skin prickles beneath it, but she barely notices. She barely notices the smell of stale sweat seeping out from scrubs that should have been changed days ago, if only she had the energy to care. There is no one here to judge, but there is no one here to comfort either.
