Merry Sisters of Fate Prompt Contest!

Merry Sisters of Fate is hosting an amazing prompt contest! Four winners will snag prizes, which include a signed copy of Linger, a signed Linger audiobook, an awesome totebag, and a signed ARC of The Replacements! All you have to do is write a short poem/story/scene based on the prompt, which is the picture below.

Sound good?

Ends July 26

ENTER HERE!

My entry:

No matter how many luxurious mattresses I bestow upon my bed, no matter how many blankets or pillows or afghan throws, my nights are always cold and sleepless and lonely.

Every time I close my eyes, instead of seeing a soothing lull of blackness like most people, I see blinding flashes of pain. The whip slashing into my skin, branding a snake-like trail that would eventually harden into twisted scar across my back. The miserable shrieks of dying souls and bodies, the sirens that announced the village raid. The cruel, merciless stars blinking indifferently as they watched the turmoil unfold below.Though it was many years ago, that day still haunts me, a lingering phantom of pain. Disturbing images of anguished faces are emblazoned on the inside of my eyelids; whenever I close my eyes, I see nothing but a montage of suffering.

My obsession to be able to sleep began a few months after the attack, when the mourning and danger dwindled, and horrors began to plague me. I could not sleep; my pillow was too scratchy, my blankets were not ample, and my mattress was thinner than a moth's wing. The series pathetic excuses, masks for the real pain, were not what actually prevented my sleep, yet I continued to solve them, continued to perfect my sleepless sleeping lair. Whenever I pass the quilter's, I snag a few yards of fabric and more thread to make more blankets, more pillows, more fluffy mattresses. But no matter how many features I add to my bed, I know nothing could chase away the pain. Even if my bed is fit for a princess, sleeping is still virtually impossible, and if I do manage on a rare occasion to drift off, my own piercing scream interrupts sleep a few moments later.

Beautiful blankets and feathery pillows could never cure an insomniac like me. Not if guilt plagues her heart, guilt for the suffering she has caused.