Your Story #129

Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line "Your Story 129."

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly 200 entries, WD editors chose the following 6 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

An old woman lived in a mixed neighborhood of nationalities, different languages, different cultures. Heads full of words, but yet they could not communicate with each other using the words. Facial expressions, actions spoke louder. She enjoyed thoughts of a once beautiful city. She began picking up trash bags and soda cans strewn on sidewalks. One bagful at a time, the walkways became calmer, the words not needed. Simple action. Eventually, plants and flowers began appearing on porches. People smiled a little bit more. Words in their heads turned to expressive gestures. This new language needed no words. Just caring.

I don’t usually do things like this. But the music was vibrating in my bones, and I had nothing else to do that day. So when Zach handed me the little blue pill, I took it. The changes started slowly. Colors were brighter, more saturated. Shapes developed an odd outline.“Are you okay?”I turned to the voice and saw a human form enveloped in the page of a book. In the crowd, I watched the figures dance. Grids. Polka dots. Stripes. I ran to the bathroom, gasping. In the mirror, I found no reflection. Only a dark, empty void.

Richard stopped typing and quickly pulled his hands from the melting keyboard. He watched in horror, as the computer console burst into flames, destroying his life's work. As he pushed his chair away from the glowing debris, he heard a voice call out, “Are you afraid of the dark, Richard?”

He jumped from his chair and scanned the office, looking for a clue to place the voice. But the office plunged into darkness before he could finish.

Trembling, Richard cried out, “What do you want?”

After repeated demands, several ghostly silhouettes appeared with outstretched arms. “What is owed,” they replied.

We exited the portal.

“This is one of my favorites,” I announced. “Notice the locals are very colorful.”

The tourists’ nodded, relieved to be away from the giant bugs. I counted heads. Someone was missing. I groaned. There’s always one in every crowd.

I spotted him at the edge of the bustling horde. He jumped when I tapped him on the shoulder. There was one rule when traveling dimensions. Always stay with the group. He looked shocked when I pulled out my device, twisted the dial, and sent him home.

I smiled. Being a multidimensional tour guide had its perks.

I don’t see people.

I don’t suffer from face blindness where I can’t recognize people’s features. I mean I don’t see people anymore.

Outside I pass outlines. Shadows in 3D form. I don’t see skin color, eye color, or hair color. I see people’s shapes only in profile. I see words or pictures floating by. I see people thinking. I see what people are thinking.

When I signed up to have a cutting-edge chip implanted in my brain, I expected an advantage over unchipped individuals. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to see what people really think about me.

“Beautiful,” murmured Xylos. He found them that morning, crowded into a moving metal cylinder. Using a neurotoxic fixative, he gently euthanized and preserved the creatures. Now, with long steely tongs, he sorted his specimens into categories based on raiment, pelage, and skin type. So many kinds! A wonderful series! His director would be pleased. Xylos arranged them neatly in a glass case, each specimen overlapping the next. “Beautiful,” he repeated, his sharp mandibles glistening, his eight eyes shining, as he wrote some numbers. Then, under the coordinates, on the museum label, he carefully printed: Anthropomorphs, Third Planet from the Sun.