Using a one word prompt, I'm to write a fictional story of any length and share it with the world. I'm sharing here because I can, and I tend to write too many words for social media to handle.
Now, I'm giving you an out. You totally do not have to read any of the forthcoming fiction. It's purely for fun and writing practice. Should you feel the need to leave some feedback or join in on the challenge yourself, I'd probably do a little happy dance. But if not, my feelings toward you will not change whatsoever.
One more thing before I share the first short story: most of the time, I have no idea where the story is going until it's done. These aren't edited. They barely pass through my brain before hitting the page. But isn't that how the best stories are born? When they happen TO you? Well, I think so!
|Photo by Kaley Dykstra on Unsplash|
He slumps a little bit more than yesterday. Nothing is different today. But that's the problem.
Over and over. Day after day. The same.
He tosses the empty bag of chips across the living room floor and shoves the 3 cans of beer onto the floor. Grabbing the remote, he navigates his Apple TV. A movie, a show, the news? A mindless game? Stupid videos of stupid people doing stupid things?
He clicks on YouTube and drowns in the mindlessness of it all. At least he's not that guy. At least he's not parading himself (or being paraded) all over the internet. At least no one can see him now.
The loneliness tightens his chest and he reaches for food as a response. The chains grow tighter. Heavier.
His hands grasp at empty rappers and cans and bags. He's literally eaten through everything. Even if he wanted to get up--even if he could--he'd find nothing in the cupboards. His fridge has been empty for who knows how long.
His anger boils up. He wants to blame someone. He looks around like he might find someone to blame, knowing full well his eyes weren't going to land on anyone but himself. And when his eyes do catch a glimpse of himself--his tattered and stained sweatpants and large rolling gut, something explodes inside of him.
He leaps from his smelly and distorted lazy chair with more power than a man of his girth should be able to. Tearing through the room, kicking trash about, he rummages under the kitchen sink in search of a trash bag. He finds none.
He's sucking air, not only from the sudden exertion, but even more so from the chains ever tightening. They're thick and cold. And oh so heavy. He flails his arms, desperate to break free from the invisible chains of sin that have gripped him for far too long. That have stolen his entire life from him.
The room is empty but for him to the naked eye, but the spiritual war is waging hard. He thrashes about while the demons of his sinful life grip and pull on his chains, legs, neck.
He falls in a heap. Defeated.
Distant voices from the YouTube videos remind him, as he lay panting and still, that he's completely alone. He's crying now. He's like a beast, chained to the floor with demons for guards, taunting and laughing and pulling ever tighter the suffocating restraints.
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