Day 203 Writing Short Stories

Comply

The stone walls were high and rugged. They stood there mocking him, telling him to stay where he was meant to stay. He had never been that good at complying. His mother always complained that he was born under unruly stars. Now she wanted him to stay in the castle, to be its prisoner, to behave and, one day, take his place as the king. He was not made to be a king. He dreamed of days on the road. The distant lands that he could explore and not conquer.

If he wanted that, the wall couldn’t be a match for him. If it were, he would have no chance with his mother. He crimped his fingers around the stone edge and pulled hard. He pushed his feet on the cracks, and one by one, he got farther up the wall. Every time his feet slipped, he was sure he would plummet down and break into a million pieces. But he didn’t. He knew he had to conquer the wall or else his destiny was given. He mantled up and sat on the stone wall to watch the valley gazed by the high castle. There was his first quest.

He ignored the screams coming down the wall, behind him. He kept his back to the sounds and looked at all the houses that belonged to the king. Past them, there was an ocean as big as the world. He would soon swim under the waves. He would dive deep to find buried treasures. He would build places out of the sand. He would fish for the biggest fish and let it go. He would know every inch of the shore and disappear into the deep caves full of monsters.

There was another scream, this one telling him to stay put.

He did, he was not in any hurry to go anywhere. The ocean would be there tomorrow, now, as he knew how to climb.

Light

People spoke about the old house at the end of the road. They told spooky stories about it. They warned their children to stay away. There was always that one light glowing on the second floor, despite no one ever having seen anyone going in and out. The yard was full of ivy and weeds that had taken over everything, forcing the neighbors to fight against them at their sides.

She had always wanted to know who lived in the house, what the household was like within it. She had never gotten the sense of what people were saying about the dangers. The house seemed lonely and sad, but not dangerous and evil. In the past, she would have ignored her instincts, but here and now, as she got more attuned with herself, she knew that they were more often right. She pushed the rusted gates open. They let out a creek.

She left them open, welcoming the street into the abandoned yard. She carefully stepped forward, waiting for someone or something to tell her to stop. There was no such sound. Not from within or out.

When she got to the door, she paused before she knocked and then let her knuckles fall against the door. She knocked three times, waiting to hear footsteps, waiting to be greeted. But there was only the silence.

“Hello,” she tried to say, the words getting caught in her throat.

“Hello,” she repeated louder.

Now there was a shuffle of feet behind the door.

“Hi,” she said again.

“What do you want?” came an old, weary voice.

“I’m not sure, I just wanted to know if you are okay and if I might help you in any way,” she said. Talking to the door felt odd.

There came a deep sight. She was sure it meant that she was to leave, but the door cracked open.

She held her breath, and then she saw her, an old woman with deep lines around her mouth and eyes. She was shorter than her. The woman’s hair was all wide and wild, flowing loose against her shoulders. She wore a black shirt, denim overalls, and no shoes or socks.

“You may come in, if you want,” she said, and turned around without waiting for an answer.

She hesitated, but then stepped into the foyer. The woman moved past the rooms to the stairs leading upstairs. The place was magnificent. Everywhere she looked, there was old furniture, paintings, shelves full of books, plants, and statues of all sorts. The wallpaper was dark, but the space felt like home, like a kingdom of its own with the soft light coming from the chandeliers.

She followed the woman up the stairs, who walked them with light steps. Her own steps made the wood groan. The woman took her into a huge atelier full of drawings and paintings, and there, in the middle of the room, was a portrait of her, painted in green and earthy colors. Her own eyes looked back at her expectantly.

“You always come back,” the woman said.

Sunday Child

She had never known any care in the world. She had never known sorrow that she couldn’t let go. She had never known fear or pain that would consume her. She was born on Sunday, and the world looked kindly at her. She was a child of laughter and love. She was the child of magic, who never lost the need to play.

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

There is this ball inside me, full of expectations and demands, that tells me to do things as they should be done. It feels like this stopper against play and exploration, as if there was this duty to perform, leaving no room for failure. I have to try some hocus pocus to drive it away. The need to perform takes so much away from creativity, learning, curiosity, and play. And for some reason, I’m letting it take over. There is this persistent voice inside me that I’m not good enough or worthy enough. I know where it comes from, but I don’t know how to make it go away. Not when I expect solutions to come from outside, not within. I feel like the voice is making me avoid writing my book. And I hate that.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a day full of play and laughter!