The sound of suburbia during the spring.
Birds: chirping.
Lawnmowers: mowing.
Cars: speeding.
Wind: blowing.
Doors: knocking.
Salespeople: selling.
Dogs: barking.
Kids: crying.
Kids: screaming.
Kids: laughing.
Wind chimes: chiming.
Motorcycles: revving.
Beer cans: cracking.
Leafs fans: crying.
This is the 7.5%...
Calder.
Cool!
I'd take the under.
Multiverse stories aren't new.
Not parallels.
He sat and pondered, lost deep in thought, universes away, seeking answers over the age of endless lifespans, each one its own yawning eternity.
A riddle wrapped in puzzles secured in a vault locked with a conundrum.
Yet he could not - would not - yield until he knew why people hated Clara Oswald.
What a terrible problem to have!
Why not?
The kitten sat erect at the window, butt firmly plopped down and forearms fully extended.
Little pointed ears completed the silhouette, black fur in sharp contrast with the snowy white terrain outside.
Her ears twitched and her whiskers followed. She pawed at the cold glass and meowed longingly.
A gentle flurry of snow steadily fell, draping a white blanket over the city.
Cars crawled slowly up and down the streets, covered by the heavy dusting.
A snowman already stood tall with its twisted carrot nose and hockey stick arms, guarding the snow fort at the park in the dormant dead of night.
The man shifted his weight uneasily. Left to right. Right to left. Right again. Left again. He refused to stand still.
Beardoff couldn't tell if the anxious display was him shaking off the cold from outside or having to go to the washroom but not wanting to lose his spot in line.
He guessed both.
This is a bizarre way of stopping kids from reading.
🌫🌬🌪
Beardoff grabbed a handful of spoons from the dish tray.
"OW!" he bellowed, catching a stray fork that he'd missed prior.
He removed the fork from the bunch and placed the spoons in the drawer.
"And you?" he addressed the rogue utensil, lifting it close to his face. "Well you can fork right off."
One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One.
Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three.
Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five.
Twenty-Six. Twenty-Seven.
Twenty-Eight. Twenty-Nine.
Thirty. Thirty-One. Thirty-Two.
The ceiling fan kept spinning and spinning, then kept spinning some more.
Shadows followed the blades round and round, then followed round some more.
Cold air blew, circulating and circulating, then circulating some more.
Beardoff's dizzy stare dropped down and down, then dropped down some more.
Anticipation slowly built from a timid simmer to a rolling boil to a scorching spillover. The heat was on and Beardoff was ready to cook.
A dash of genre, a sprinkle of character and an object to garnish; the perfect recipe for a brand new Winter 2025 Writing Battle story.
NOTE: Add salt to taste.
The skeleton danced on the wall, surrounded by a who’s who of Disney Princess stickers.
Rectangular labels named the various bones of its body; nothing labeled the iconic Princesses.
Jasmine, Snow White, and Belle; Elsa and Anna. Princesses dancing with their skeletal Prince Charming at the ball.
Beardoff's wet, blurry eyes stung and felt heavy. He blinked rapidly like an old camera shutter before squeezing them shut tight. It did little to help; he was hitting the over-tired zone.
He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, eyes still open. The plan was now clear: passing out cold.
Holding his phone with his right hand, Beardoff flicked the video window out of the way of the keyboard on the screen so he could type unobstructed.
With his left hand, he jingled the little pink ball and tossed it down the hallway. His cat scampered after it, skidding and crashing into the wall.
Beardoff's teeth tore into the tender meat - charred black crust coating a fleshy pink interior.
Juices gushed from the chunk in his mouth with each eager bite, spilling out over his lips.
"Where have you been all my life?" he mused aloud to the meat between chews; "what farm were you hiding on?"
The cold wind grabbed his neck and tickled its way down his back. Shivers followed.
Hunched over and swaying side-to-side, Beardoff shifted his weight between legs.
He glanced around once more, just to be safe. Satisfied, he unzipped.
White muddied to yellow around the base of the tree. Relief.
• Writing Battle Winter 2025
• Complete 7+ Writer's Digest February Flash Fiction Prompts
• Finish Untitled Short Story
"No Name", "Red Shirt", "Tall and Hairy", etc.
Buried in pillows and blankets, he was perfectly cozy.
"This is the life," Beardoff thought proudly to himself. "Time to scroll," endlessly through Bluesky.
He reached for his phone, but missed. He reached and missed again.
That's when he noticed it, still plugged in on his desk across the room.