Note: This story was created in 40 minutes in one of our writing sessions. The story is based on a writing prompt which is the photo that can be seen above. 

Upbringing by Miguel Trindade 

I’ve met her some years afterwards, but her schooling and some manners particular of her education still prevailed.
She was timid and apparently mostly subdued. But strong inside. You could see that.
She did not shiver or tremble easily.
The monastic school where she grew was situated, in my opinion, in a great place, four miles at one side until you reached the river, six miles from the left corner until the next town.
But the look on her eyes, the quiet eagerness, she told me, might come I mean be caused by the room where she spent most of her idle time, her room. She shared it with classmates.
The windows of the building were tall and projected light in every direction, but the room faced north, and they came to believe this detail made them always miss something.
The light from the sun that reached them was indirect light, and so to see the sun they had to go outside.
True that during the week they always got up early, before seven or six, and that was no issue, but on the weekends, there was no morning with its [the sun] rays entering the room and enveloping the bed and the couch with warmth and light.
Sadly the sunset had also to be appreciated at the nearby hill.
All this could be her imagination, but it was a good pick up line, or I mean, a good follow up to the pick up line I blurted the twelfth time I saw her, at the local bakery.
We were young at the time and don’t ask me why, I always would come up with some excuse to not talk to her, besides the simple “hi” and “thank you”.
Eventually I felt sorry for myself and decided to talk with someone, and got to know her story. But this card has not enough space to write it all.

Note: This story was created in 40 minutes in one of our writing sessions. The story is based on a writing prompt which is the photo that can be seen above. 

Donald’s Discombobulation – Lenka Dvorakova 

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, with blue skies and a gentle breeze, and Donald thought life couldn’t get any better.

And then the murders started.

The pharmacist was the first one. They found him behind his desk, a knife sticking out of his back. Then the schoolmaster, with his head almost separated from his body, found by the janitor in the hallway. When they discovered the corpse of the bookstore owner in a puddle of blood, the town started to panic.

A serial killer, obviously. But why? Why here? Why now? And most importantly, who’s going to be next?

The next one was the notary.

All of them killed with a knife, and there was a clear pattern: all victims were middle-aged, married, respected and well-off. But the murderer never took anything. Except for their lives, that is.

The murders stopped with the butcher. Five crimes, five victims, five knives.

The police closed the case after some time without ever finding who did it.

The life in the town was never the same. Even years later, the air smelled of blood and people feared to look each other in the eye. The bookstore never opened again, and the new pharmacist never understood why people preferred traveling across the river to get their medicine.

All these years, Donald wondered why he was spared. He always suspected he was supposed to be victim number six. He was just like all the other victims, a wealthy doctor, middle-aged, respected. And his wife was in the picture, too.