Day 143 Writing Short Stories

Frost

The landscape was growing colder every day that passed. She had been watching the frost color the green grass white. This was a special time of the year. This was a magical time of the year when everything was possible. Others withdrew indoors to escape the cold, and she finally ventured out to live.

The air was clear, and her thoughts were sharper with it.

Casanova

The woman swirled her dagger on the table. She had caught him at a bad time—his trousers around his ankles, and the dive out the window was too big to survive.

She measured him with every gaze. The whore he had been with had already fled with her money. The woman in front of him had insisted that she get her share.

“So,” the man said. He was at her mercy. She was the captain of the city’s law enforcement, and she had the scars to prove that. The dagger in her hand was sharp enough for laws not to matter. And he had screwed her and big time. He had stolen her pension without knowing who she was.

“I think we have a thing or two to discuss,” she growled.

“I’m always up for a chat.” He flashed a smile.

“Not that kind of talk.” She squinted her eyes and hit the dagger on the desk. Both knowing that the dent came out of his pocket if he survived this encounter alive.

“Then take me away, madam.” He thrust his hands in front of him, playing to the comical effect of his clothing.

She snorted and ignored his attempt to make a joke out of the situation. “I have been looking at things, and you have left behind a string of duchesses and old widows out for blood. And while I believe in the law, I believe more in justice, and here in the city, men might get funny ideas when the courts let you speak. So yes, I’m taking you away, but not to be sentenced by men like you, but women like me.” This time, it was she who flashed a smile.

And the next thing he knew, he felt the cold iron wrap around his wrists. He didn’t like the sound of women sentencing him for his crimes. He would rather have taken the state penitentiary.

Dog

It was the smell of the city that drew him back over and again. It was the busy boots walking past, dropping a morsel of food more often than not. This was his city. He was no country dog. They made the dogs work there. He was a dog of leisure and adventure. He was the king of the nighttime, having a bitch on every corner. And he was the best rat catcher in the city. And a good boy. This was a dog’s life.

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

Oh, it feels so good to write. My mind is churning in a good way, like there is a string of stories wanting to come out.

Thank you for reading! I hope the muses are kind to you today and your head is full of stories. Happy creating ❤