Featured Challenge #27 – Ghosts – Text#2

Escaping This World

by Garry Vakarian

« See? That wasn’t so complicated. » Priya words echoed in the empty void. Except I wasn’t listening. My mind and my attention were absorbed by the lingering image of Devon’s eyes – my first departed. She was chosen as my first culling and final exam for the Reaper’s assignment. She was staying at her favorite place, a small lake in the valley near her hometown. Her boyfriend had dumped her, and she had a mental breakdown at her work after that. Being fired from her job, and let go by the person, whom she thought was the love of her life was too much. She didn’t see the point of continuing her existence. After a rather short and grim post on her facebook page, she ended her life in the place she liked the most.

And it was I who had to take her soul to the afterlife.

In Purgatory, prior to meeting Devon, my supervisor Priya gave me the file on her case. Standard operating procedure required me to check it in order to better accompany the dead, and to effectively extract her soul from her body. In her dossier, I had access to a short summary of her life, the causes explaining her death and the location of the body. More importantly for my job, it had what we could call an autopsy report. In short, it gave the M.O. of her death, and how to “cull” or should I say extract her soul from the physical world and body. You see, the scythe isn’t just for show; it was our tool for exacting the incision freeing the essence of a person. Continue reading

WWW#36 – Broken – Text#3

by Irishdreamwalker


The marble sits in an expectant silence,
Waiting, fearful of what is to come.
Yet, excited. Now committed, it cannot run and hide,
Only hope, finally prepared for its fate.

The sculptor strikes with hammer and chisel,
Painful blows carving away layers of stone,
Digging deep into the core, cracking apart the hard shell,
Shattered fragments scatter over the floor.

Stone heart now exposed, the sculptor gently
shapes the rock, adding form with soft touches.
Deliberate blows and unconscious art combine,
guiding the marble as it learns to find its true self.

The sculptor comes and goes,
Each time bringing a voyage of emotions.
Meanwhile, the marble sits,
Waiting for the artist’s touch.

Waiting for completion.

WWW #37 – Out of Breath – Text #2

Départ différé

by B. 

Il la regardait au loin. Elle avait l’air pensive. L’esprit lourd, préoccupée par des tracas qui lui étaient bien étrangers.


Pendant des années, il l’avait vue sans la voir. Elle travaillait dans le restaurant qui se trouvait juste à côté de sa boite, celui où il allait chaque fois que l’occasion se présentait d’impressionner un client. Un établissement sans prétention qui ne payait pas de mine et n’amassait pas foule, mais dont chaque bouchée remplissait le cœur des convives en ravissant leurs papilles.

Deux mois plus tôt, lors d’un diner professionnel, elle s’était révélée à lui avec la rareté d’une apparition ordinaire dans un contexte familier. Elle avait décroché son téléphone lors de son service. Par ce geste, elle était sortie de l’anonymat qui l’avait caractérisée jusqu’à présent. Il n’avait pas pu s’empêcher de l’écouter dévoiler soudainement son intimité par bribes.

D’abord un peu gêné par cet excès d’observation à sens unique, il s’était retrouvé absorbé par son monde, l’intensité de ses sentiments, la force de son timbre de voix. Cette affirmation insoupçonnée lui apparaissait soudain comme une évidence. Elle s’en trouvait transformée en un être magnétique, et son regard ne pouvait s’en détacher.

Sans le savoir, celle qui s’était toujours fondue dans l’espace, en un instant de contraste avait capté son attention pour ne plus jamais la relâcher. Elle hantait ses jours et ses nuits. Il avait pris de l’avance sur les sentiments qu’il espérait qu’ils pourraient partager. Il savait que c’était à son tour à présent de créer les circonstances qui pourraient engager une réciprocité. Continue reading

WWW #35 – Slipped – Text #2

by B. 

He was observing her. She was standing there preparing their supper, with the same enthusiasm she always applied to her daily tasks. Smooth and sculptural, grounded yet dreamy, soft and surprising. He knew he loved her still.

She looked unchanged. So unaware. How could she not notice the tension that was rising within him? He thought she knew him better than that, did she not? It was burning at his core now. He would not be able to hold it in much longer. Yet she was there, going about cheerfully. Singing softly. Improvising on the acoustic tune that was playing on the stereo. It felt as if she were a vision. She had come to visit him from their past. Transported. Transposed. Unaffected.

In his heart though, it felt like everything had changed. He felt heavy. Burdened. He wished he could just erase from his mind, what had happened last night. How useless! He could not even blame it on alcohol. He would not. He remembered everything. He was conscious of everything. He had felt everything. He was in control. He could still sense that foreign lingering touch on his skin. That scent. He forced himself to chase that residual image from his conscious mind.

He ought it to her, to them, to keep away from it.

He let his eyes wander over her body. Continue reading