Day 198 Writing Short Stories

Bridge

The land was scorched clean. There was nothing left of the village that had once been there. There was only the bridge leading into a black field where nothing would live for decades. She had done that. She had made the call.

The fighters were gone, and only she was left to witness the village and its destruction. Before the call, she had logged everything into the system. All the dead people taken by the fungus. All the missing people who might carry the alien pathogen.

She sighed and hiked back to her car. There were more and more villages like the one she had found every day now. She wondered how long they could keep the war hidden, and how long until the aliens turned the tide around.

Lost At Sea

He had been watching the sharks circle him for days now. They knew he was a dying man. They knew he would soon let go, so they had something to eat. He had begged forgiveness from all the sea gods he knew. He had asked them to spare him so that he would get back home alive. All of his shipmates and the captain were dead. Storm had taken them, and the sea had swallowed its sacrifice. But none had heard him. The sacrifice has to be finished. The sea needs its last blood. The sea needed him.

He had never learned to swim. It had been a miracle that he had ended up on a wrecked board from the ship. A miracle not meant for him. He was sure of that. He had never been that lucky. He had never been loved by the universe. It had been meant for someone else, and he had taken it. Taken their luck. But there was no returning it. There was only the inevitable death by the sea, the sharks, or the thirst that was gradually making him lose his mind.

The worst part was that no one would miss him. His death was pointless, even more than the normal death in the span of centuries. At least with most, there was someone who mourned them. He had done. None who had looked kindly at him. Just the people who tolerated him.

He glanced at the sharks.

“You bloody bastards,” he yelled at them. “I still could be somebody.”

But he knew that even if he was spared, he wouldn’t be. He was a weak man. Always had been. There was only the urgency of the now. He had fucked, drunk, and fought his way out here, and he deserved this. So did everyone. Bloody bastards, all of them all.

He snarled at the sharks. “Have your way then! This is what you have been waiting for!”

He let go, and his legs hit a rocky bottom. The sharks were farther away than he had thought. He stood up and let go of the board he had been leaning on. He was standing in the middle of the ocean.

“Bloody miracle,” he shouted. Yet, part of him knew that the little rest wouldn’t amount to anything. The sea would still have him. But he shut his eyes and stood there, feeling the fresh air against his face. This was as good as it could get.

The Hour of the Ox

The first nail was hammered into the sacred tree. She was watching as her mother hit the nails in. Her mother knew not that she stood there, guarding her aunt from the curse sent towards her. It had to be done. Her mother was a madwoman. She still believed…

—

I had to stop writing this. I felt like I wouldn’t do justice to Japanese traditions, and I didn’t want to do shoddy work while writing the short story.

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

I found it hard to write today. I wasted my morning doing nothing and tried to write, but I just couldn’t. I had to bribe myself to write with a slice of chocolate. It worked. However, I struggled to write the prompts, unsure what to do with them. I’m happy that I tried, and I managed to write today.

I hope you had a great day! Thank you for reading ❤