Comfort Food
MicroZine Image Prompt #9
The Challenge:
Write a story using the following rules:
Must be exactly 6-words, 50-words, or 100-words in length OR between 101 - 500 words. Title is never counted towards word count.
Any genre is allowed but if a Trigger Warning is needed, please indicate so behind the title. (Ex. TITLE [TW])
Share your story in the comments or Substack Notes. Remember to TAG
for a chance to be featured in future posts.
DIGITAL ISSUE OPPORTUNITY
If we receive submissions from at least 5 different people, then one of them will be selected to appear in the next issue. I haven’t decided yet if the chosen story will be based on judging against the others or random or community votes. And, to make things more pressing, this offer is only open to stories submitted in the next 72hrs! For consideration in the next issue you must use the below template in the comments section (stories shared in Substack Notes will not be considered):
SUBMISSION TEMPLATE:
Word Length:
Story Title: [doesn’t count towards word count]
Story:
OPPORTUNITY CLOSES: Wednesday, September 4th at 9pm EST
[This is only for those who wish the opportunity for their story to appear in a digital issue. Otherwise, please contribute a micro fiction story anytime.]
Good luck!
Bonus Challenges:
For those of you who like to push yourselves beyond what you already know you are capable of…
Write a story using ALL of the unique story lengths: 6-words, 50-words, and 100-words.
Write a STACKed STORY. This is a story that starts as 6-words then is a continuation story at 50-words, then has a conclusion of 100-words.
50 words
THE THING ABOUT PASTRY
If you’re going to the market, bring me a pastry, please.
What kind of pastry?
Just find one that’s labeled, “She should definitely not be eating this one.” That’s the one I want.
But why?
Because sometimes, Ed …. sometimes … you just have to do something bad to know you’re alive.
Word Length: Stacked Story (6/50/100)
Story Title: Comfort Food [TW: Gore, Violence, Domestic Abuse]
Story:
Pasta would be her comfort food. (6)
She’d made her decision after the incident where she’d gorged on the flesh of her fiancé. She imagined the tomato sauce plopping on the plate like clotted blood, the meatballs rolling down the mound of spaghetti like eyeballs. His eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes which she’d ripped from the sockets. (50)
“How did it feel when he hit you?”
She blinked and looked up. The counselor sat silently, waiting for her to speak.
“He never hit me,” she said. “I’m the one that hurt him. I beat him, ate his flesh, ripped out his eyes, slashed his ugly face.”
“It was like eating comfort food,” she continued, her eyes dancing. “The more I chewed, the more I felt calm.”
She shook her head. “But not anymore. I know it’s wrong.”
“It is all in your head,” said the counselor. He smiled, leaned over, and whispered in her ear. “I’m still alive.” (100)