Day 122 Writing Short Stories

August

At night, the still warm August breeze sweeps over the valley under the cloudless sky. The shooting stars light up the sky behind the mountain. There is nothing but the quietness of the valley and the rustling leaves. This was where her ancestors had buried their hearts. This was where her fight to free her land from the invaders started. She could see their rising tents and their bulldozers robbing away the once beautiful nature. If she let them, they would use this land, and for centuries, there would be no life, no heart left.

Dog

It was one of those hot summer days. He had been biking through the town, searching for something to do. He stopped at the sandwich shop and got himself ham on a rye. He tugged into the alley behind the shop to eat the sandwich, but there was a mangled dog there who looked hungrier than he did. He scooted slowly towards the timid dog and pushed his lunch closer to it. The dog hesitated, but then it gulped the bread down.

He motioned for the dog to follow him and, to his surprise, it did. It followed him all the way to his home. Just to be sure he could keep it, he hid it in the shed, leaving water and stolen food from the family fridge. He would somehow have to wash the dog and make it presentable, so his father wouldn’t say no.

Broomstick

The brush had been left dead on her lawn. She looked around to see if there was someone who had forgotten the ancient broomstick there, but there was no one to be seen. She took it with her into the garage and left it there for safekeeping. She almost forgot the whole thing, finding it the next morning where she had left it.

The broomstick was a fine-looking thing. It even had a monogram carved into it. Esmeralda Brewstone. She lifted it in the air to brush the spiderweb from the ceiling, and the thing tugged her up, lifting her feet from the ground. As she swung it around, it spun her in the garage. She let go, and then the broomstick dropped dead on the floor. She carefully approached the thing, poking it with her foot. It did nothing. She lifted it up, and it was still inanimate. She swirled the thing in her hand and found a phone number.

“Stay,” she said and let go of the thing. It stayed frozen in the middle of the air. She lifted her leg over the broomstick. It held her weight.

“Let’s go,” she said, and the thing shot out from the open garage door high above the neighborhood.

She smiled. She might as well take it for a spin before calling the number.

The Prompts are from the book A Year of Creative Writing Prompts.

I’m starting to get the hang of this one-and-a-half-handed typing. But still, it’s a chore, and I leave my ruminations short. I’m still practicing writing settings. I have started doing it while driving or walking to new places, trying to come up with new, creative ways to describe things. Yesterday, I thought that treeline could be associated with the word canvas when creating the mood for the setting. I have also been paying more attention to setting scenes and dialogue tags in books to learn. Now, I’ll stop this typing thing and give my shoulder a rest.

Thank you for reading ❤ I wish you a marvelous day!

• The word marvelous always makes me think of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel TV show.