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Four times a day,
we help you
get the words out.
Write in any genre in
300 words or less.
Hit publish.
Read. Be Read.
Write. Now.
"I really don't understand how you have survived this long," Roy muttered, tightening the bandage wrapped around Ed's head carefully. "It's a minor miracle you made it to adulthood."

"Is this not counting the times I've died?" Ed asked, and winced.

"That was rhetorical and I'm pretending(more)
     It takes all of my control to not fall into the gorgeously soft cushion of the chair. At the sight of my hair, many people either assume I'm terminally ill and extend their sympathies, giggle and insult me with what they think are subtle mockeries, or make evil-warding(more)
The harder you scrub, the redder everything becomes, the deeper the scars etch themselves, the closer you come to your fragile end. The water cascades across the plains of your bloodied hands, but it won't save you.

His choked last breath echoes off the walls around you and(more)
Anora looked from her hands, which were the same scarlet that was running freely from the noble's nose, to his face where he was writhing and cursing on the ground. Abject horror was suffusing her body, her blood and upbringing pounding at her, demanding that she RUN.
Whirling, Anora(more)
He said it didn't hurt, but I could tell it did.
                               I told her it didn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure
It is the end of winter.

Our relationship was not meant to endure the warm months. My heart is cold and while you flourish in the spring, I come apart. The light is too bright for my dull, dark eyes. The air is too dry for my delicate(more)
my heart is still there
but it feels shattered and
how do i go on
I wonder what it feels like. To slice myself one stroke the wrong way, or to just slit my throat. To sit there and just feel. Feel the gushing blood slip away from. My life slip away. I just wonder... Would it hurt? Would it be relieving? Would my(more)
panic sets in because
he won’t wake up
no matter what i try or
how i yell, his face
stays motionless as stone
Shivering replies in the Naugahyde booths
Cold shoulders ‘neath the heated neon
The lights cut like daggers
I’m not drunk, I’m staggering
From the loss of blood (and hope)
And then I realize what I have done; the blade leaves deep cuts on my right hand that will mostly likely never heal. And blood, a gushing stream of blood, drips down, down, down, watering the ground in splashes of silky red.
The obscurity of light
The shadow of hope
The façade of a smile
The tears that won’t flow

The end of the blameless (more)
You drag yourself over, trying to minimize the pressure on your right leg, and manage to sit down.
It's a strange place, with the glowing rocks and the all too smooth walls of the cave, but it's better than being in the dark. You would worry about the significance(more)