Prompt: You are in your twenties. You wake up to find yourself in your eight-year-old body. You are in the time and at the place you were when you were 8, but with all the memories and mannerisms of your twenty-something self.
The smell of bacon roused Jess. It’s a smell that took her back to her eighth birthday; the most memorable one of her life. Dad had said that she’d become a big girl, and Jess had to agree.
She was certain that it was that exact day, because underneath the salty tang of the bacon was a hint of whiskey, a combination that’s involuntarily etched in her mind like a badly-drawn tattoo.
Barbie dolls and My Little Pony colouring books were strewn about her room, remnants of love from her late mother.
Wait, mom’s still alive, isn’t she? Am I dreaming?
Prompt: You’ve accidentally killed the Devil. God makes you the new Devil to replace the one you killed.
Amos had few regrets for taking to the bottle. He literally pissed my life away, but the haunting memories still remained. Sara and Janey. How I yearn for them. How old would Janey have been? How long has it been since I the accident?
Long enough, he concluded. He’d had enough of the cold, the hunger, the panhandling so that he could score another bottle to keep away the shakes. Tonight, he’d end it all—he was hopping back on the wagon. Going cold turkey. Committing suicide.
Photo credit: Thomas Leuthard
I remember the days before I had a blog. Days where my friends were free to humiliate themselves in my presence without asking if I was going to write about them. Things have changed; today they treat me like a reporter waiting for his big scoop. They think I’m secretly documenting their every tic for a grand exposé, soon to be read by millions. Well joke’s on them, because first of all, nobody reads my blog.