Day 193 Writing Short Stories

Machine

It was a small gadget. Not really bigger than his palm. There it had been on Paul’s front steps, waiting for him this morning. And it was for him. His name was on the package. He just wasn’t sure what it was and who had sent it. He had poked it, propped it, twisted it, and nothing. The brass thing was mute.

He glanced at the clock and stared at it in disbelief. It was already noon, and he had missed going to work. He was sure he had just gotten the thing out of the box and given it a shake or two before he planned to leave for work.

He panicked and took out his phone, expecting to see several missed calls from work, but there were none. He dialed his boss’s number and listened to it ring. Then, the phone disconnected. He dialed again with the same result.

“This number cannot be reached,” came a serious voice finally. He was about to hang up when the voice said, “If I were you, Paul, I wouldn’t be bothered with the whole going to work thing. You have a chance for a decent escape from the mundane; I would take it. And no, this is not a prank. And no, you are not losing it. You just have to accept it.” Then the line went dead.

He jumped away from his phone, dropping it on the floor. He shifted his focus from it to the machine and then back.

“Accept what?” he said aloud.

Like magic, the machine swirled. It began unfolding, growing bigger and bigger, and when it was done, a door was in place where his kitchen counter had been. He stepped closer, feeling the pull of the door. It was like a faint whisper in his head, a memory of the future. He felt more at home near the door than he had ever done in his life. He took hold of the doorknob and twisted it. The door opened, welcoming him with its bright light. He stepped in, somehow knowing that whoever this Paul had been, it wouldn’t be so from now on.

Pilot

The air was clear today. The distant mountain peaks were visible. The plane was flying without turbulence. It was perfect flight weather. She had done this run countless times. She enjoyed flying small passenger planes with cargo to the remote villages. It gave her the sense that she was flying on her own, since the copilot was usually doubling as a flight attendant.

She was cruising at a perfect altitude, watching as the snow-peaked mountains slowly came closer.

Then there it was, a flash to her side. She composed herself. Read the readings, checked, and then her surroundings. There was nothing to indicate trouble. It was just light playing tricks on her.

Then it happened again. And this time, she saw what her father had seen so many years ago. It was an unidentified flying object. It hovered beside her craft in an impossible way. And then it was gone for good.

She had heard the older pilots speaking about these things when they were drunk and careless enough. They spoke of the encounters as something every pilot would and should experience, as if it would explain everything. She knew what she had seen. It was no light playing tricks on her. But she knew that, like those pilots before her, she would explain it away, and utter what she had seen only when really drunk.

Theft

His legs trembled as he pushed up the high stone wall. With just a few more pulls, he would be at the top-floor window. He had been hired to steal from the most notorious man in the city. He had almost said no, but then he had thought of the job, the specs, what it would mean, and why they had come to him, and he felt too tempted to pass up the opportunity, especially as the rumors spoke of all the riches inside the house. Yet, his employer wanted him to steal something as dull as documents. The city seemed to be obsessed with paper. They knew nothing of what was valuable and what was not. Paper wasn’t as far as he was concerned. Bread was. A warm bed to sleep on was. Gold was. Diamonds were. Hexes were. But papers, he really could live without papers. They seemed to make things far worse.

The ledge was big enough that he could balance himself there to get his kit to jam the window open. He was pretty sure that no one was inside. Everyone who was who in the city was at one of those silly balls they drew once a week, so that they wouldn’t feel empty sitting at home like normal people did. He didn’t mind. It gave him ample time to go shopping.

The window was too easy to open for his liking, and the hex guarding it was rudimentary. He didn’t like it when security in these kinds of places was loose. Usually, it meant that there was something far more terrifying inside waiting for him. He had encountered countless demons, ghosts, a few dragons, and werewolves. Thus far, he had been able to reason, fight, or sneak through those situations, but with a man like he was robbing—the crime boss that somehow got invited to the mayor’s balls—he doubted that whatever was waiting inside would let him pass with mere words.

Nevertheless, he stepped in. He was too curious to pass up the opportunity. He entered the bedroom. From the state of things, it looked like it belonged to a grandma, whose, was still out for the jury to decide. He rummaged through the room and found a couple of diamond necklaces, posh rings, and brooches, but he left them there. He knew who they belonged to, and she was far scarier than her son was. She was, after all, the wicked witch of the city, who was the source of all the scary stories whispered as a warning for all the kiddies, he included.

He left everything behind and headed carefully out. The house was empty. It shouldn’t be. But he knew it was. He had done the recon, and he knew all the maids and staff had gotten their night off.

The office was on the lower floors. He located the safe easily. Again, it was too easy to crack. It was like the place relied on its reputation to keep people like him away. The stack of papers in question was in the safe. He tugged them under his jacket, tightening the ribbons to hold it in place.

He turned around and saw why he hadn’t seen any security at all. There it was, a ghost, grade ten. Almost as solid as they could be. And this one looked pissed off. But in a cute way.

“Hello,” he said, knowing there was no use in pretending.

The ghost twisted her face into a snarl.

“Wow, wow, wow.” He lifted his hands into the air. “There’s really no need for that. I just came to snip in to retrieve something that belongs to my master. You see, I’m just like you, doing my work, and it would be bad for me if my master didn’t get what is theirs. So if you don’t mind, I would love to get past you and head outside.”

There came a roar as the ghost rushed at him.

“Or not,” he said as he ducked behind the office desk.

“You could come along,” he tried. That stopped the ghost in her spot.

“We could search for the urn they tie you in, and you could accompany me to my master, and then we could take a nice stroll around one of the love cemeteries we have in the city. How does that sound?” He dared to look over the desk and flash a smile to the ghost.

She looked as if she were thinking.

Then she spoke in a hollow voice. “Market candy?” The words came out disjointed, as if she was getting used to talking again.

“We can do candy. I like candy.”

“Yes?” she tried.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“Do you happen to know where your urn is?”

She nodded.

He followed her out of the room and into the basement, not sure where this might lead, but he might as well follow the path he had set himself up to. It might be a good thing or a really terrible thing. Getting rid of a grade ten ghost would be tricky at best. But he could always try to sell her, if they didn’t get along. There was a huge market for grade ten ghosts in the city. He would eat for a month’s end with a price like her.

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

I feel really bad about skipping two days of writing the prompts. I just couldn’t get myself to write. My head felt mushy, and I couldn’t muster any motivation to write. I had one of those days when everything felt empty. I even sat down to draft the structure for the prompts, jotting down the names and all, but I just stared at the words, and there was nothing. No sparkle. No thought. Nothing.

I have my light therapy lamp on, so I hope that gets me out of this slump. I have to use it actively now. The days are so dark here. I barely see the sun. There are days I don’t see it at all. When I was a kid, this period of polar nights didn’t get to me like it does nowadays. It was usually the other way around. When the light came back, I usually got depressed then. Now it is the darkness that gets to me.

The lamp seemed to have worked at least for now. It helped me to write the prompts. I didn’t have the urge to go to the sofa and sleep the day away. Not even when my cat came onto my lap, he usually makes me want to go sit on the sofa and cuddle with him.

I would love to see where the Theft story might lead. It was fun to write. I situated it loosely in my Necropolis series. I can’t wait to get my scifi book out and ready, so I can start working full-time on my Glorious Mishaps book. I could make the thief reappear there. He would fit into the story. So would the ghost, who might have become his new companion.

Thank you for reading! Have a day full of energy ❤