join us
{it's free}
already a member?
home recent triggers submit trigger news  
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.
everybody's writing about tears
but i just want to talk about worn books, and
watercolors, and
the dusky sunsets that sustain you
when you spill your cup of tea
on that very important essay, and (more)
i thought i could write you out of my life, after all it's what i always done before. with every letter etched some heartbreak flows out of my system along with the ink in my pen. i thought 50,144 words would be enough to erase the 567 days we(more)
even if you wait
for the wet paper to dry
it won't be the same
Every time I sit down to write, for real I mean, the paper is wet.  When I try to drag my pen across its empty canvas, it tears right through, destroying the whole thing.

No characters pop to mind.  No plot enters within.  Where did my imagination go?  Is it soggy? (more)
I try to impregnate the paper with pigment, to stain it not only on the surface but through to the fibers that I cannot see. The saturation is what ensures the value, and in my family we have always tended to favor bold colors.
“It’s empty.”


“It’s god damned empty, Kareem.”
and it all falls apart before you even really get the chance to take hold of it.
     I can't see the paper behind my blurred vision. Drops of water make flowers of bleeding ink rise and bloom - shades of flamingo and cerulean and violet in circular gradients that white out at their centers. My letters form a hazy scrawl across the sheet, dipping drunkenly(more)
She decided to drown herself.
She thought that that would be good. Calm. Peaceful. And it would only take a minute or two before she was unconscious and no longer thrashing. She thought that she would look pretty for once, too, with her hair floating gently around her an(more)
I walked in the rain last night.

I was walking home from work, and was carrying my giant Spanish folder, and my flimsy black journal. The folder is intimidating. Three fat sections, divided by plastic pink sheets, cost me a goddamn fortune, by my reckoning. Then there's th(more)
"Take your fucking time, not my problem."

Victor reaches up for his temple, massaging it there if he's got something lodged in his skull. I start to ask what's wrong, and then he whimpers, nails digging in.


"Get the papers, would you?"

"They're in(more)
She'd never been good at relationships. It always started out well enough-- a relationship was like a fresh sheet of paper, to her. Endless possibilities. But over time, so much was written on it, drawn on it, erased... and then the tears came. Suddenly, the paper became damp, and,(more)
emotions are spilled
turn letters to wet papers
letters to no one
Tears and spit and blood and pus and all oils your body could ever expel, leave your eloquent body out of panic and surprise.

Where have you left your muse! I cannot grasp your sense of carelessness. Soon my worry will devour my sight, and only your happiness(more)
What little the rain didn't completely ruin, the wind has taken care to spread as far as possible.

"It's not funny!" he hisses at her, scrambling after what is either a page from his notes or a chinese take-out menu. She obliges his request, but the smile o(more)