Category: Competition

Her gaze rested on me for a moment, then went back to the kids, and on to her own reflection in the mirror.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said finally, “but they don’t even look like ours, you know.”

She was desperate to figure out the answer to his question without giving herself away.
Out of everything they covered, “What’s your sign?” had not been included.

Thirty-seven years of research, twenty billion dollars, six thousand hours of debate, seven tons of metal, one-half ton of silicon, one hundred miles of wire, and three-hundred-fifty million moving parts. What a strange price we pay for Armageddon.

I spent two years of my childhood pretending I was a squirrel and collecting acorns. I still stop to pick them up sometimes.

I chortled a little when she spoke into my ear, so stunningly-soft and desperately silent, as she collapsed into sobs. The warm breeze tickled little, but I wish that I’d hugged her when she told me her mother had cancer.

The old gypsy woman gazed into the crystal ball and saw herself engulfed in flames. “Impossible,” she laughed, unaware of the small boy playing with matches under her booth.

A lily rose out of the pond, its scent sweet and bitter, its colors yellow and blue, its posture bent and straight at the same time.

I wanted to be like the lily, strong and smooth and sweet, but life weakened, roughed, bittered me without remorse.

He was at the top of the roof when he fell, rolled down the shingles into the gutter that ran around the roofline; then blackness as he fell further.

Coming out of the dark after the long fall, he felt the others around him who had fallen, as they joined together to became a flood of water pouring out of the downspout, into the light.

Staring at him, I was mesmerized by the chiseled features, the GQ magazine good looks with the long aquiline nose, piercing blue eyes, full, generous mouth with sparkling white teeth, and indeed the handsomest man I’d ever seen.
Ahhhh, thank heaven for mirrors!

My addiction grows stronger every day, the desire to indulge in it intense, to the point where I can’t sleep without dreaming of it, can’t get through the day without thinking of it, can’t hold a conversation without it swirling in my head, begging me to do it “just one more time,” and one more “just one more time” ad nauseum.

Please tell me, is there a rehab for Two Sentence Story writers?

With a knot lodged firmly in his dry upper throat, a visible tremor pulsating his hand, and a hopeful yet fearful look on his face, he instructed the computer to display the literary life-sustaining data he had patiently awaited, while voicing a silent prayer. It seemed an eternity, as if his internet were an old dialup modem from the early nineties, as he waited for the monitor to display the number 650, 041, which was his sales rank on Amazon for his self-published memoir.

The neophyte had conjured up a number around the cauldron with his private equity partners, and by golly that was the number we were going use. It really made it so much simpler to finish the projections once we all got on board the crazy train.

Smiling glances traded by the aged couple sitting on the front row as cherished memories dance through their minds, whispered antidotes of childhood pranks and mishaps, and one fidgety dance of impatience all come to a halt when the gilded doors at the back of the room opened. Tony knew the wait was worth it, the extra few minutes time well spent, when his bride came through the doors and he watched his future walk toward him, one beautiful step at a time.

Defeated, disheveled, and bewildered, Gabe sat alone in his eight by ten cell pondering the predicament he’d gotten himself into yet again. This time though, a peace-giving promise of hope overcame the daunting demons at hand, shedding light on the road ahead.