Day 172 Writing Short Things

Vicious

The fox circled her cage, hissing at the neighboring cage. The little idiot was again upside down on the sand, letting its tongue stick out, watching her from its own cage. The little idiot was a fool. It thought that by obeying the master with the food and playing nicely, it would be rewarded. It wasn’t. She got the same amount of food as she did without having to yield to the master’s will.

She hissed again at the little idiot, trying to bite it through the wires keeping them separated. The idiot grinned at her, letting out a playful bark. She snarled at it viciously. The little idiot didn’t mind. It went back and forth between them against the cage wall, lifting sand in the air.

She let out a high-pitched bark, making the whole yard silent.

They listened to her lament, calling the little idiot an idiot, calling them all stupid and morons. She was going to do everything in her power to escape. No one replied. No one dared to tell her that they had heard it thousands of times, and she never did anything, even when she had had ample opportunities; that she liked the food she got from the master as much as they did.

A Misanthropic Telepath

The noise-canceling headphones were tight on his head. She checked herself in the mirror and was satisfied with how off-putting she looked. The jacket she wore looked like something she had found at the back of a lost-and-found box. It smelled as bad. The shirt she wore had stains, and it didn’t smell good either. The stench was making her eyes water. She liked to be clean, but a desperate situation needed drastic measures.

She sighed at the thought of having to go out of her apartment. She rarely liked to venture out. It was the other people. They were insufferable. Their constant chatter drove her insane. But there was no other choice. She had to return her books to the library herself. There was no other choice.

She opened the door carefully, peering out to see if there were any neighbors outside. The hallway was empty. But that was no salvation. It was only a delay. Once outside, it started. She only had to look at the passerby and they at her, and she got a full blast of their thoughts. They were mostly about her appearance and how appalling she looked, making her smile. At least, the comments were truthful. Occasionally, when the thoughts were particularly interesting without the usual worries about the self and the looping thoughts about what someone had done and said or what they had done and said, or about hunger, or about losing weight, or something else as silly, she stopped to listen. What she liked most about people who had hobbies or professions that consumed all their thoughts, she learned from them about music, painting, what it meant to write a book, and what it meant to argue in the court of law. Yet, as soon as the thoughts turned to themselves, she tuned out. People were awful. They were insecure, petty, hateful, spiteful, stupid, moronic, selfish, jealous, all those things, and she had had enough of such chatter since her childhood. It never changed. She never changed. She had never had the chance to like others. Not when she knew what all their thoughts about her, about themselves, about the world were. The only thing that brought her pleasure was the strange emptiness in the books, where the narrative stayed on point. There was only the line, and that was it.

Messenger

The King’s lands were not too far. The rain was beating hard down against the land and the hood of his cloak. He had been running all night, and his legs were sore from the fast pace he was keeping. It was paramount that he got to the King’s keep before the day came. The last messenger had caught him at his post just before the darkness descended. He still had a few hours before the sun would rise, and it would be too late.

The letter bestowed on him felt heavy under his cloak. It bore bad news. That much the last messenger had told him. The man had said that there was an army marching against them with their fires and orcs. Soon, the lands would be burning, and there would be nothing to defend if he didn’t get the letter in time to the King.

Despite the pain in his legs, he pushed harder against the slippery, wet ground. The water was getting through to his shoes, but he had run enough times in the rain not to mind. He would have his rest at the keep. There would be heat. There would be bread and soup.

The last stretch to the keep felt heavy on his bones. The ache from the legs had moved up to his chest, and it was burning deep and hard. He wanted to give up and walk the rest of the way, but he didn’t.

The night watch saw him coming. They saw his messenger cloak, and they were raising the gates for him. He dragged his hoot down, letting the rain wash his face, so they could see it was him. He handed the letter to the quartermaster with trembling hands, letting the guards drag him into their quarters to wait and warm up. He slumped in their chair and met their expectant eyes.

“War,” he gushed out.

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

There was a slump. I couldn’t force myself to write the prompts. I managed to edit my book, but writing the prompts felt surpassable. I hate it when I cannot function as I planned and want, but this week was too much. But as I opened the prompts today, I was glad to see words and concepts I could play with, even though my head felt foggy.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a foggy free day!