Welcome to the Showcase…

file1661261181317This is where we’ll be sharing the best of the various submissions that you are readers have sent us through the submissions page.  Depending on the submissions received, up to four new stories a month will be posted for your enjoyment.  Plus, we’ll still keep you informed about the latest and greatest happenings in the Writer’s Thread World.

    You and I are We

    The sign blinked in the slow manner that signs in store windows do; on…off… on… off. He stood there watching it from the window of her hospital room across the street. He listed to the sound of the machine she was hooked up to and realized that it was in time of the sign. Beep… beep… on… off… beeps…beep.

    He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was still deep in a peaceful sleep. That was good he thought. With the hell of pain, she'd been through the last few days. He wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or the meds that had allowed her to finally enter into a deep sleep. He didn't care what it was, as long as she slept. The lights in the room were low; he turned and sat down in the chair by her bed.

    There was a soft knock at the door. He looked up and saw the nurse slowly enter. “How is she?” she asked in that stage whisper all nurses have. He wondered if they had a class for that in nursing school.

    “Asleep.” He watched his wife move in her sleep. The nurse moved to the machines looked at them, checked the IV drip, then straighten the bed covers and left. The woman who, for 46 years had been his rock and compass still slept but uttered a slight groan of pain in her sleep, if he lost her, he wouldn't know what to do. Should he think like that? No, No she's gonna be fine, just fine.

    Just a cold, the doctor had said. Admit her just to be on the safe side, they said. So they could keep an eye on her, they said. At her age, they didn't want to take chances. That had been six days ago and she had been going downhill the whole time she had been here. He wouldn't have minded it so much if they could tell him what was wrong. A place or a thing, even a person, somewhere to vent his anger, his fear, frustration, but they could tell him nothing.

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    Pink and Blue I Love You

    Bottle of pour out blue and pills of drugs on white background

    Gilda stood at the bottom of the stairs with fists planted on hips and forced a furious furrow onto her smooth brow. “For goodness sake, Beatrice, haven’t you changed yet? We have to get going soon!”

    “I know, I know. Sorry, I was just finishing my book.”

    “It’s Friday night. Read tomorrow. Read during the week. Just don’t read on Friday night. Bookworm!”

    Beatrice shook her head. “What’s a bookworm?”

    “It’s someone who’s always reading.”

    “But a worm? I mean, what’s that about? How can a worm live in an e-reader?”

    They stared at each other, from the landing to the bottom of the stairs. “Ohhhh! You’re jiving me again, aren’t you?” Gilda knew full well that Beatrice didn’t completely share her excitement for the party scene.  Beatrice was a shy (but not with Gilda), quiet thing that could live a full existence in her room with her e-books and her imagination. She was also, in Gilda’s humble opinion, the most drop-dead gorgeous creature in the entire universe. Still, even the pinnacle of beauty can try a girl’s patience every once in a while. In fact, it was pretty much <em>de rigueur</em>. “So, have you even decided on the color yet?”

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    Sally Picked Sea Shells by the Sea Shore

    One day Sally went down to the seashore to pick seashells. She had always loved the shore. Maybe because it was a transitional place- an in-between place caught between two distinct worlds. Unable to decide where it belonged or what it even was. Much like Sally herself.

    And she loved the tides endless flow. Its dynamic way of ceaseless ebbing and flowing, becoming and unbecoming as the waves build themselves up- in vain- only to be destroyed by their own very ambitions. Crushed by the weight of their own desire to reach the shoreline and stretch along the sand as if only to kiss the tips of Sally’s toes.

    “What a struggle” Sally thought as she watched the wave’s endless birth, death, and rebirth. They all traveled a thousand miles or more just to be washed up on this sand.

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    1984: Rogue State

    1458467872czgsn“My fellow delegates,” the president of the Eurasian Union began in addressing the General Assembly of the United Nations of the world, “esteemed prime minister of the United States of North America and the president of the United States of South America, premier of the Greater East Asian Wellness Coalition, I stand before you today to speak of the last vestige of the last major war. I stand before you to insist that the world can no longer wait for this vestigial appendix to wither away and collapse. Oceania Airstrip One, as England has called itself since coalescing into a totalitarian hermit nation in the wake of the last great war, can no longer be left to its own devices to oppress its own people, to starve them, to control their minds with fantastic lies. This island, sealed off from the world, has too long been placated to and allowed to continue its “INGSOC” programme of the brainwashing of an entire population. At this moment an English citizen is being tortured, at this moment sadistic INGSOC scientists are working toward removing any pleasure from life, at this moment, the English language itself is being whittled away into meaninglessness.

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    1984: Goldstein Lives

    Emmanuel Goldstein awoke slowly, as the sky became just grey and he starkly refused to fall back to sleep. There was much to be done in the free world and billions counted on his leadership. The King’s room in Versailles had been adorned according to his orders, and the rest of the palace opened up for the staff necessary in running Eurasian battle operations.

    Goldstein ran his hands over his face, over his stark white hair and his goatee. He blinked several times and reached over to the ornate nightstand and grasped his steel-rimmed glasses, which lay next to a framed photograph of him walking with Big Brother. Goldstein carefully turned aside the plain wool blankets and stepped out onto the carpet. He was a simple man and there were many without. Even if he were living in a palace, he would do so simply.

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