Day 179 Writing Short Stories

Pretty

The fog swirled over the city, hiding away the sins of the residents. No one spoke. They just waited for the weary night to be over. They were huddled in their homes, feeling the terror move through their city.

She smiled at the empty streets. She saw people looking at her through their windows.

Pretty, she heard whispered, and then the speaker was pinned down.

They knew that there was always a price to pay for the city to prosper. That was the deal. She would have her picking, and they would have a year’s worth of good fortune. They thought she took one of them at random. That they could hide from her. She could smell her—the little girl who would have to die.

Whenever they whispered the little girl’s name, they whispered pretty along with it. But there was more inside her. There was a chance and the death of old superstitions. She would be the death of her, and the town didn’t know it. They had left her unguarded. They let her walk there, fearing for their own lives. They didn’t know value even when it bit into their faces. They desired small things. Dreamed of small fates. They were petty, jealous, greedy. They were perfect creatures to be controlled. Their hearts trapped them in hers.

She yanked the door open. The iron nails screeched as they came loose. She stepped inside, pushing the protective symbols aside. There was a whimper upstairs. There was a sigh of relief throughout the city. The little girl was tugged behind her mother, so like her daughter, with fiery red hair and green eyes that sparkled with sadness. In her daughter’s eyes, hope died as her figure cast a shadow over them.

She pushed the mother aside with ease. The woman’s head snapped limp from the force of her push. She took the girl into her arms and bit her.

There would be prosperity for another year to come, but no hope. Never hope. They had to choose it, and they never did.

Competition

I’m sick and tired of this world of competition. It stands in the way of everything and all, feeding the little devil inside us, screaming to be accepted and wanted. Not knowing that winning won’t get anyone to love us. Only desire for our masks.

Sorry, I wasn’t able to write about two friends competing over everything, even cookie-making.

Housewife Schedule

She wrote in beautiful cursive down her schedule for today. The kids were in school, but she would have to pick them up at two o’clock. Until then, she had the freedom to run her errands. She had already tidied the house. The thought made her glance at the sleeve of her shirt. The little red stains from the morning breakfast were still there. She would have to change before heading out to take out the trash.

She penned the first item on the list: “get rid of breakfast.”

She wouldn’t have to go and get dinner. Her husband promised to handle it today, so she didn’t have to tie her hair or put on her makeup like she had last night to get breakfast ready. She licked her lips. It had been fun. It had been divine. For a moment, she had been free of her new life in the suburbs. She had been her old self—the queen of the night.

Her porcelain-colored hand trembled. The little red dots on her sleeve made her fangs push out. This wasn’t what a life was meant to be. This was survival, and she hated it. She was the most powerful predator on the planet, and she was forced to play a housewife for her children and husband to survive.

She glanced at the corpse in the kitchen aisle. What a prey he had been. She had toyed with him, and when he had realized that it wasn’t a game, the terror in his eyes had made her come alive.

She penned a bank visit to her list, snorting at the thought of what kind of trap humanity had made for itself. Coins had become power. She touched her teeth. They were power. They were superiority, and she wished she were the one hunting for their dinner, providing for her children. The new generation of vampires, who didn’t remember the olden days. Days of terror and dark, smelly alleys. No electronics in sight. No one there to film. Just legends telling of her reign.

The last item on her list was to pick up soccer uniforms for her daughter.

She let out a scream that scared the neighborhood dogs into a pitiful howl.

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

I was sure I couldn’t write any of the prompts, but I was glad I got something out. I had to put a darker spin on them to make me excited about them. I still rebel against the mundane. There’s nothing wrong with the mundane, but clearly, the speculative is more for me.

I have been avoiding writing the synopsis and afterword for my sci-fi book, which is still empty of a title. I feel the pressure of getting the synopsis and the name right. I have an outline for the afterword, but I need to get it right, too, meaning a lot of work, and I feel like I can’t concentrate on anything now. I hope this mood passes, as I’m getting anxious about not writing my next book. I can feel it forcing its way out, wanting to be birthed, but my mind feels distracted by all and everything.

I need to get my head straight.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a day without distractions!