been so long since i wrote stories, for some reason the creative juice in me has squeezed out. so one day i came across on September 14, 2024 i signed up for a writing competition at a book club called Zedulu Book Squad. they offered two categories to compete in, poetry and short-stories. And for the short-story competition they had this restrictions
- Opening line “No one ever told me the price of freedom would be my own reflection”
- Deadline : October 22, 2024
- Language : English
- Word Count : Min.500 and Max. 1000 word
- Submission Format : Word Document
With evaluation criteria of:Relevance to opening line,Creativity in interpretation,Originality,Imagination,Logical Flow,Coherence,Pacing,Clarity,Tone and Voice,Vocabulary,Grammar,Emotional depth,Sentence structure,Memorability,Effectiveness and they all add up to 100
Short Story
No one ever told me the price of freedom would be my own reflection. Perhaps it was too abstract for them to understand, or maybe they were afraid of its simplicity. Whatever the case, I learned it the hard way, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of the desert, with nothing but the endless sand and the unforgiving sun as witnesses.
The mirror had been waiting for me, buried halfway in the ground like a relic from another time, shimmering with a light that seemed to come from within. It looked out of place, surreal in its perfection—too clean, too polished to belong here. But I was drawn to it. Something about it felt… necessary.
It wasn’t the kind of mirror you’d find in a bathroom or a vanity, reflecting mundane things like your tired face or the clothes you wore that day. No, this was different. Its glass had a depth to it, like a pool of water that you could drown in, with no bottom in sight. The frame was strange too—twisted, knotted metal that resembled roots or veins. It felt alive.
I leaned forward, examining the face staring back at me. My face—but not. It was as if the mirror had stolen my features and rearranged them. The nose was slightly off-center, the eyes a touch too wide, the mouth curled into an unfamiliar smirk. It wasn’t me. It was me. I blinked. It blinked. I smiled. It smiled. But it wasn’t the smile I had intended.
I stepped back, unsettled. The reflection remained.
The desert stretched endlessly behind me, a sea of sand and heat. I had come here seeking freedom, running from a life that had grown too small for me. The city had been suffocating, its towers of steel and glass boxing me in, its people carving out pieces of my soul with every passing glance. I had wanted to escape, to find myself again, to be free.
And yet, here I was, trapped by my own image.
The reflection stepped forward, independent of me now. I stood frozen, watching as it tilted its head, studying me with a curiosity I could not return. It spoke, but no sound emerged from its mouth. Instead, I felt the words, as if they had bypassed my ears and settled directly into my mind.
“Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out. My throat was dry, parched from the desert air and something else—something more existential. What was I looking for? Freedom? But what did that even mean? I had left behind everything—my job, my family, my responsibilities. I had cut all ties, burned all bridges. I was free now, wasn’t I?
The reflection smiled again, and this time, it felt sinister.
“Freedom isn’t the absence of chains,” it continued. “It’s the acceptance of them.”
That made no sense. I had broken free. I had walked away from everything that held me down. I was out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no one to tell me who I was supposed to be, no expectations to meet, no roles to play. How could I still be chained?
The reflection took another step forward, closing the distance between us. I tried to move back, but my feet were rooted to the ground. I could feel its breath now, warm and intimate, as if it were breathing for me, not with me.
“You think freedom is an open road,” it whispered. “But what is an open road without direction? You’ve escaped, but you’re still lost. You’ll always be lost.”
The words cut deep, like shards of glass sliding into my skin. Was that it? Had I traded one prison for another, one set of walls for a vast, empty void? Was this what freedom was—just a different kind of confinement?
I reached out, instinctively, toward the reflection, as if touching it might give me some answers. My fingers brushed the cold glass, and for a moment, I felt a pulse beneath the surface, like the heartbeat of something alive. But before I could pull away, the reflection grabbed my hand.
The sensation was immediate—an overwhelming flood of memories, emotions, thoughts, all pouring into me at once. I saw myself as a child, laughing in the sunlight, before the weight of the world had settled on my shoulders. I saw myself growing older, making choices, each one carving away a piece of me until I was unrecognizable. I saw every version of myself that had ever existed, from the hopeful dreamer to the bitter cynic. I saw all the chains I had willingly put on—the identities I had chosen, the roles I had played, the expectations I had met. Each one a shackle, binding me tighter.
The reflection pulled me closer, and now I was staring directly into its eyes—my eyes. But they were not my own. They were filled with something I had never seen before—an understanding, a clarity that I had always lacked.
“You are me,” it said. “And I am you. We are one. You cannot be free from me because I am your freedom. I am the sum of all your choices, the weight of all your regrets. You cannot escape yourself.”
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The reflection released me, and I stumbled back, gasping for breath. The mirror was still there, but now it was just a mirror. My reflection was normal again, a simple copy of the person standing in front of it. But something had shifted. I could feel it.
I turned away, looking out at the endless desert once more. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the dunes. I had come here seeking freedom, but now I realized that freedom wasn’t something I could find out here, in the emptiness. It wasn’t something I could run toward or away from.
Freedom, I realized, was something I had to accept within myself.
The mirror shimmered one last time as the sun dipped below the horizon, and then it was gone, swallowed by the sand as if it had never existed.
I walked away, feeling lighter but more aware of the weight I carried. The price of freedom wasn’t escape. The price of freedom was facing the reflection I had been avoiding all along.
And now, I was ready to pay.
Conclusion
So i do hope you enjoyed the story and in your view did i fulfill all the criteria laid out ?, and as you can sense this story had a heavy inspiration from H.P. Lovecraft - the outsider, Stephen Crane - In the desert, Ibrahim al-Koni - Gold Dust. Will let you know if i do win the competition i don’t even know what price is…hehe