Water-Themed Prompt Contest and Havok!

Today is the day! My story “Stealer of Secrets” is now officially published on Havok Publishing’s website!

“Stealer of Secrets” is based on a 70’s song (let me know if you can guess which one!). It’s about a telepathic girl despised by her people who dedicates her life to saving those trying to commit suicide, and in the process, she just might be saved too.

Unfortunately, the story is on the website TODAY ONLY. On Havok’s website, each story is posted for one day to the public, and a new story takes its place the next day. Once that special day is over, only Havok members can view the story. So, unless you’re a Havok member, if you want to read “Stealer of Secrets,” go to Havok’s website now.

Prompt Contest

That’s not the only exciting news I have, though. To celebrate my acceptance on Havok’s website, I hosted another prompt contest, similar to the one I did when I launched my blog. In this case, though, the prompts were water-themed, and the stories had to be under one-hundred words. The theme came from the fact that both “Stealer of Secrets” and the story I’m posting on my blog next week, “One Way,” revolve around water!

If you missed the contest, here are the posts I made, including all the incredible entries I received.

I didn’t want to choose just one winner from the entries, but that’s how a contest works. So, without further ado, here are the winners.

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Golden Hour

Many things can inspire stories––words, pictures, and music, to name a few. This song––”Stand Still” by Mia Buckley––inspired me to write a story.

I hope you enjoy “Golden Hour,” my look at loss and letting go.


The tip of my brush dips into the paint, then hovers over the canvas propped up on my knees. The bench wood presses against my back as I close one eye and mark the painting with a golden streak.

It had been a beautiful hour––an hour I thought would lead into the rest of our lives. But life is strange that way.

Footsteps pound against the concrete. A man jogs along the park pathway, backlit by trees and a cheery blue sky. I turn back to my painting. Then I hear the wheezing. His footsteps slow, and his ragged breaths quicken. I look up.

“Sorry, can I sit here?” The redness of his face highlights the pale stubble clinging to his chin, sparse in some areas, thick in others. “I’m dying.”

“Don’t apologize for dying.” I pick up my palette to clear room on the park bench.

“Sorry,” he says again, plopping next to me. The bench rattles. He holds his head between his knees and inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales.

I balance the palette on my lap and resume. Another stroke of gold. Another spark of memory imbued in color.

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