Atop a rolling hill overlooking the town of Westfordshire, resided a residence of great renown: Mrs. Kensington’s Home for Children of Uncertain Parentage.

The manor home surrounded by wrought iron fencing was perhaps the most politely named orphanage in the whole of Britain.

Inside, ten-year-old Ollie Alsworth sat at the edge of his bed, fidgeting nervously. Though it was past midnight, he was fully dressed in pants, a tweed jacket and flat cap, waiting to spring into action.

The gentle knock at his door didn’t rouse his slumbering roomates, but Ollie hurried out into the hallway.

There, his best friend Maggie awaited him. At twelve, she stood half a head taller than Ollie, and was similarly dressed for their serious task.

“Ready to go?” she whispered.

“Um. Yes…?”

Sensing his unease, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Courage, Ollie.”

With a shared nod, they were off, tiptoeing through the winding hallways.

They were an unlikely pair of escapists. Ollie and Maggie had always been rule followers, but fate forced their hand. They’d overheard they were to be separated, Maggie moved to the new all girl’s orphanage several towns over. And that, they’d decided, simply would not do.

Quiet as mice, they moved past Mrs. Kensington, slumbering in a chair in the front lounge, and out into the front yard.

There, in the circular driveway, sat their target. A pristine 1933 Bentley, only a few years old.

Door flung open, they were inside in a flash. Maggie pulled a pair of wooden blocks from her bag and began tying them beneath Ollie’s feet.

“Can’t you drive?” Ollie asked. “You might see over the dash.”

“You’re our wheelman. You’ve got the expertise!”

Ollie frowned. He’d ‘driven’ a car once as a boy, on his uncle's lap before his passing. That hardly made little Oliver feel an expert.

“Besides the driving, though… What’ll we do for food? Or money? Or—”

“We’ll figure it out,” Maggie replied as she finished the last knot. “Together.”

“But…”

“I promise you it’ll be alright, little brother.”

Ollie nodded, stiffening his upper lip. A promise from Maggie was not a trifling thing. She was his sister in all but name and shared DNA. She’d never lead him astray.

With a turn of the key, the engine roared to life.

Awoken by the racket, lights turned on all over the manor, and Mrs. Kensington burst out the front door.

“Go!” Maggie shouted.

Ollie began rolling forward, but quickly spotted a problem. “The gate’s shut!”

“Oh, sod it. Give it the beans, Ollie!”

Closing his eyes, Ollie stomped hard on the gas and they burst through the gate with a tremendous, clattering crash of metal on metal.

Maggie glanced back. Finding no pursuers on their tail, she stuck her head out the passenger and let loose a Whooooooooop! of joyful freedom. Ollie mirrored her.

The car sped down the narrow country lane, a head poking out of each window, shouting and laughing all the way.

It's Time to be Thankful

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"Shut up!" I shouted, throwing the paper to the ground. I don't know what kind of face I am pulling right now on my mother. Hatred, Anger, Sadness, all three? More?

"You never understand me, you never try to!"

"What are you talking about? I always try to understand you!"

"Liar!"

Walking past her, I walked to the front door and open it. Without looking back, I slam the door shut.

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"So, let me get this straight. Y'all are fighting because she was saying some stuff about you?"

"My mom just don't understand me, Ryan! Every time I would relax, she would get mad".

"Come on man, not on Thanksgiving," Ryan sighs, standing up. "Look, you can stay here and play video games with me. But at some point, you have to go back home to your mother".

"You think I want to right now?"

"Who knows, she's probably upset and crying right now," He shrugged, pulling out Civilization V. "So, shall we?"

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After a while of playing, we both got bored.

"Oh, it's getting late. We about to celebrate our Thanksgiving. You should go home".

I groaned. "Do I have to, man?"

"I want you and your mother to make up and experience true Thanksgiving".

"Which is?" I sarcastically asked.

"Being thankful that your mother alive, she was the only one who raise you after all. The least you could do is be thankful".

"You do got a point there, man," I sigh. "Sometimes, I just hate how much she put pressure on herself".

"And the son made it worst by yelling-"

"Shut up," I groaned, standing up. "Alright alright! I going to make thinks right".

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Opening the door, I could smell something good from the kitchen. It was my favorite food. Fried Chicken, Green Beans, Rice. Quickly running to the kitchen, I noticed that I was alone.

"..." I bit my lip. I want to celebrate Thanksgiving with my mom. I just yelled at her, and it was selfish of me. But I want to make things right.

"M-Mom!" I shouted.

Mother walk downstairs, hearing my voice. Her eyes were bloodshot, looks like she been crying for hours.

"M-Mom," My voice cracked. All the memories begin flooding to my mind. From my fifth birthday up to yesterday when she baked me a cake. And all I repaid her was those cruel words.

"You don't have to say it, dear. College is just stressful for you," She whispers, wiping down my tears.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close to me. "Mom, can we have a nice Thanksgiving?"

"Anything for you, sweetface".

A smile slowly begins to form on my face.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mom".

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‘My Biochemical Romance’

—-

The downy depths of the dark duvet beckon. I yearn to pull it over my head and shut out my heartbreak.

A distant siren wails, strengthening my resolve. Doing something, anything has to be better than this.

Lacing on my running shoes, I bolt outside into the chill November air. I race down the cobbled streets. My shoes tap the pavement like an ever-accelerating metronome.

And still, I run.

Past shops we’d visited. That cafe Clare liked with the double cocoa tiramisu.

Euphoric endorphins surge through my body, filling the gap of oxytocin’s sweet embrace.

And still, I press on.

—

WC: 100

—

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

Tucked into an old blue sleeping bag, Jackson let the lapping of the waves lull him to sleep. The sound echoed off the old table that he had overturned to give himself some privacy from Thomas and Sheila. The stars and moon above bounced off the surface of the water, casting the old skyscraper he called home in cold light that sapped the world of nearly all its color.

Five years after the end, he was finally learning to see the beauty in the world again.

It helped that his two companions were able to smile and laugh. Sheila was excellent at fitting into small spaces and spotting useful supply caches. Her memory of the city from before was invaluable. It made sense. She’d been a tour guide. Thomas could mend their gear and get most mechanical things into working condition. Jackson thought he might’ve been some kind of engineer.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he heard it. A rustling, crinkling noise from behind the table. He narrowed his eyes. Their last foraging expedition had been less than successful, and they had gone without dinner.

Yet that sounded suspiciously like a wrapper.

He’d lost a lot of weight since the end, and sliding out of the sleeping bag quietly was easy. Peering around the edge of his chair, he saw Thomas in the glow of the dying embers from their fire. He was always the last to go to sleep. He was also the one who had lost the least weight.

Now Jackson knew why.

Bare feet padding silently across worn low pile carpet tiles, Jackson managed to sneak around a desk before the crinkling stopped suddenly.

“Jackson?” Thomas whispered. “You awake?”

Jackson waited, holding his breath. He heard Thomas sigh in what sounded like relief, and the crinkling started again. Jackson saw red. Withholding food from hungry friends would be the last mistake the man would make.

He let out a scream as he vaulted the desk. Caught completely by surprise, Thomas yelped and fell off the beaten office chair he had claimed when they staked out this floor as theirs a month ago. He tried to roll out of the way, but Jackson was already on him, fists flying, his knees driving hard into the man’s ribs.

After a few minutes, Jackson felt Thomas go limp. He was vaguely aware of screaming, crying. Sheila’s hands on him, trying to pull him away. He let himself stop.

The man below him was nearly unrecognizable. But the prize was within reach. His hands shot up and he yelped out wordless triumph.

Reaching for the wrapper, he grabbed it. He recognized the logo, a sweet confection from before. The sugar, grease, and preservatives would have made his mom go nuts about it.

But there was something hanging from it. Jackson frowned, lifting the little bit of paper. In Thomas’s tidy handwriting, there was a small message:

> "To: Jackson. Happy Birthday. From: Your Best Friend, Thomas."

r/TenspeedGV

"Linda? Linda? Liiiinda?"

Linda pulled her bifocals down just enough to pinch the bridge of her nose. She knew that warbling, tittering call. It was her neighbor, Mrs. Briggleham. Judging by the strength of the call and the movement of its tone as it closed in, Linda surmised that the old woman was approaching from the front door.

"Linda, dear, are you in?" Three knocks on the old wood, "Linda?"

"In the kitchen!"

There was a huff, and a shamble, and the sound not unlike a distant bellows working a furnace, then Mrs. Briggleham waddled in the back door. She squeezed through, panting and holding a hand to her chest. It was exactly sixty-one steps from her house to Linda's. The journey winded her each time.

"I have news!" The old woman trumpeted.

For all her feelings about her neighbor, Linda appreciated the visits. Nothing ever happened anymore. Nothing except more doctors and more medications. The kids didn't call, the husband was dead, and she was allergic to everything but the cleanest of goldfish. Life had petered out for her.

She closed her crossword, "Grab us a drink then tell us all about it."

Mrs. Briggleham nodded and waddled over to the cabinet. She knew where to find the bottle, the cups, and the corkscrew. She thumped them down on the red, plastic tablecloth, then collapsed into the chair opposite Linda.

"It's about Old Frank Curman."

Linda pulled a face, "Then I doubt I want to hear it."

"No, no, my girl. Listen, listen." Mrs. Briggleham performed the cork-popping ritual with practiced ease, "You remember how he sent all them angry letters to the nice couple down the lane? All because they had one of those yippy dogs?"

"Of course I remember." Linda took the bottle and poured for both of them, "Frank Curman is a bitter, nasty, stupid old bully. He was after me last year over my sunflowers. Kept screamin' about how they were 'too tall' and 'unsightly.' What sense is there in that? Flowers being unsightly? They're flowers, fer christsake! Ridiculous."

Mrs. Briggleham smiled over her cup, sipped and said, "Oh, and don't forget the whole affair with the parked car. You remember? The- Oh, what was their name? Family with the beanpole teens?"

"The Hadleys."

"Right, right. The one son saved for months to buy that car, then has the misfortune of parking it in front of Frank's house. Old turtle had the thing towed! No warning!"

"Heard the impound fine cost more than then the whole car," Linda said.

"Bastard."

They drank.

"Right bastard." Linda nodded, trying to remember where the conversation had started from, "You said you had news?"

"Oh, yes. I did. Frank passed last Sunday: heart attack."

"Well!" Linda stared down at her glass, shook her head and announced, "I think that deserves a better bottle! Fetch the champagne, dear. I'll break out the good crystal."

Hi. Let me introduce myself. I'm everything wrong with the sport.

What? Don't look at me like that. Haven't you heard? I grew up in the city and used my athletic skills to get a break. And that break came from a scholarship to the school I'm with now. You know, the arrogant, pompous, preppy, school full of *them*. *They* don't deserve a team with our talent. And especially people *like me* should not go to a school *like that*. As if getting a top-class education and plying my trade on the national stage is somehow making me a sellout.

Apparently it does. Really. Just ask the people who worked together to find my private email address. Ask the ones who posted my private cell phone number to fan groups so I could hear the words all day. Every day. Dozens of messages. People wishing for me to fail, hoping I choke on the big stage... and those are the ones I can repeat. Campus security had to check in on my younger sister after a few of those messages.

The nationals was my chance at redemption. The championships were when I stood tall. Memories of last year still remain. I know what it's like to be in that dogpile of players who achieve their lifelong dream. I've raised that trophy high. I've felt that euphoria -- it's addictive. This year, we had a chance to do it again. That's the kind of history making you undeniable.

But something happened along the way... we played a team that was up to the challenge. Hey, it's the championships, this happens. It was a back-and-forth game, and it came down to the last shot. And as luck would have it, that shot, the one that would have flipped the game result and allowed us to continue through to history, left my fingertips.

And... well, it didn't go in.

Look, I've made and missed game-winners before, but this one hurt, because it was my last game for the school that gave me a chance to escape poverty. I do want to thank my coach and teammates who consoled me... and yeah, the alums sent hundreds of messages thanking me for my service, keep your chin up, blah blah.

But THEY were out in full force. Hundreds of emails. Hundreds of text messages. Hundreds of voicemails. People drunk in their glory. Rivals and wannabe rivals upping their attack 100 percent. All of them, taking pleasure in my failure. All of them, telling me I deserved it. Some of them using hateful speech, others saying I sold out my heritage so I can go... well, you know. All directed at me.

So that's me. I'm 21 years old. And as you can see, I'm what's wrong with the sport.

---

[Author's Notes: slightly based on an amalgam of actual events. Word count: 463. No celebrities were harmed in the making of this story.]

##First Day in the Sun

Ackley sits alone in the cellar. Someone opens the door and tosses in a plate. The door shuts quickly. Outside, Ackley hears the villagers teasing the unlucky soul who had to interact with their prisoner.

Picking up his stick, he walks to the plate. The chain restrains him from getting next to the plate. They never bother to ensure he can reach the food given. Ackley uses the stick to slide the food closer. Collapsing on the floor, he stakes several bites. Stale bread. At least, it isn't moldy.

Using the plate, Ackley strikes at the chain several times. The chain has rusted faster down here. The villagers never considered that their curse would effect it. One of the links splits. With all of his spite, he pulls with his leg until the chain breaks.

The harvest festival will get another guest.

People gasp and stare when he enters the town square. A few people faint at the site of him. A few whisper in confusion. Some deny their eyes. There's no way he could've escaped. Ackley walks to the table and grabs a piece of the turkey.

"Such a lovely day isn't it." Ackley squints his eyes as he looks at the sky for the first time in years. No one dares respond to him. Ackley laughs. "You've kept me locked up for thirty years, and you have nothing to say to me?"

"I'll say something." Caldwell stands supporting himself on a small cane. "We were all horribly distraught when the witch cursed us. No child should've gone through what you did, and no parent wanted to see their kids suffer. That's why we drew lots; luck didn't favor you that day."

"Do you still tell that story?" Ackley laughs. "My mother told me the truth before she died. You made a deal with the enchantress. Prosperity in exchange for all the suffering going to a single person. Volunteering would've been the true selfless act. You cowards took the option that would prolong the effects."

"You are correct in that we were selfish fools," Caldwell sighs, "But what would you have us do instead?"

"You're going to have to figure out the answer to that question." Ackley takes a bite of fruit. "I am retaking my time in the sun. Enjoy the pain and horror you inflicted on me."

His legs move with the power stored in them for decades. Fresh air kisses his face. The birds sing to welcome him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees their fields start to go bad and laughs to himself. No more easy path, but he will not concern himself with them.

In the woods, the grass welcomes his feet. The branches part for his arrival. In a small clearing in the middle, he bathes in the sunlight. Ackley is free and alive.

r/AstroRideWrites

Storm clouds are gathering over mountains that normally shield our village from the setting sun. People scurry to shelter our sheep, pigs and cows. Chickens take to their roost knowing what will come. Elders prepare the town hall and villagers bring their bedding, for this will last the night.

We have less than an hour and for me, that passes quickly. The wind is up and I can just hear friends calling my name, but I can't stop. I have to stable the horses and our prize stallion has other ideas. I'm out of breath, barely able to dodge flashing hooves as I open the barn. He's a beauty, probably worth more than me, so I take care that Horace isn't injured. At last, his bucking subsides and he follows me into his stall. None too soon, for the wind smells damp. Locking the barn doors open is hard and I pray this wooden relic holds.

Fifty yards of swirling dust stand between me and safety. Should I try? A bucket flies past four feet above the ground and branches shoot through the air on their way to the next county. The door is shaking violently in my hands and I can barely hold from being sucked out into the growing maelstrom.

Horace whinneys as if to beckon. Once I haul my body back inside I'm able to pull myself hand over hand, then climb up and over to fall into Horace's stall. He's on his side so I snuggle in behind him, stroking his neck to keep him calm. He softly nickers and we face Armageddon together.

The next onslaught is hail, battering the wall and roof. It sounds like gunfire. Holding Horace calms me. Been through a few of these I have, and this is one of the worst. There'll be some rebuilding for sure and this is not the end.

Now comes the final act; a deluge of rain, pelting the roof and timbers as the storm vents the largest part of its fury. Water flows into the barn, through and then out the other doorway. The stalls are raised and we get none of this brown and stinking water, though we're drenched from rain coming through spaces in the wall. And so the night goes on.

It's amazing to me how the crow of a cock can be music to a young man's ears. Though I've slept, I'm exhausted and hang on to Horace as he rolls then extends his legs till he's standing. I can hear calls from the hall and yell at the top of my voice "I'm in the barn with Horace." Cheers fill the air, and they tell me they're all safe. It'll be a day before the knee-deep water subsides. Perhaps my friend will let me ride out of here.

[WC: 469]

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Please don’t make me go home.

Today has been freedom. A beautiful day with beautiful people. A celebration of identity not in some party or special day but in the simple acts of being accepted, the simple “River”s and “ae/aer”s and inclusion.

My favorite part of today was the ferris wheel, because normally I’m scared of heights. But I went with Shruti and she showed me how to look out at the horizon. She took my hand and rubbed it across the carpet of trees in the distance, and all of a sudden I wasn’t a small body up way too high but was a giant crouched down low, and it felt way better.

Though it was a bit too bright and hot at first, the sun faded as the day went on. I saw the shadows move up and up and up the rollercoasters until they were covered. Fareeha pointed out that one of them had looked pink in the daylight but looked purple as the sun set, and I started to see colors all around me. The colors had always been there, but I hadn’t been seeing them.

And if I have to go home I won’t get to see colors again. I will never be a giant, just a small, fragile body. Powerless. Tiny.

It’s just about night now and I’m back on the ferris wheel, this time alone. The sky is purple with low pink clouds and loud orange fireworks from somewhere else in the park. The trees in the distance are soft with darkness. But I don’t feel any of it.

I am haunted by a sense of dread, and it isn’t from the heights.

I peer over the edge of my seat as it approaches the top. I feel dizzy.

I would die if I fell from here, wouldn’t I?