Day 217 Writing Short Stories

Smoke

The fire burned hot and bright orange among the crowd. The smoke rose high, accompanied by sparkles. People circled the fire, dancing. Their bodies jerked as the spirits surged into them. The air was filled with howls from the beyond, in languages forgotten by time.

The shaman stood at the edge of the ritual, seeing every jerk, hearing every lament. He guarded the space that no spirit escaped past the circle he had drawn around the dancers. The spirits would dwell in the men and women, and they would become mighty warriors. Souls and minds would be lost, but he would command the flesh, the spirits. The chief would have his army, his victory. There would be beasts. There would be blood and torn heads.

Mothers

Mothers speaking about their children playing in the next room. Children speaking about their mothers. I skipped this one.

Sisters

It was one of those quiet mornings when nothing special was in the air, yet it was one of those mornings that you would remember for the rest of your life. The two sisters were in the kitchen. They had woken up before their parents had. There were whispers in the air. There were plans being discussed. There was the joy of making, and there was flour, sugar, milk, eggs, salt, and pepper everywhere—all by choice and all by accident.

The two sisters baked their father breakfast. One of the sisters stood on a stool next to the stove, mending the pan as the batter baked into a perfect golden-brown crêpe. Some of the batter was scorched on the stove. It dripped down the cabinet next to it. Still, both sisters beamed with pure happiness. They had seen their father make the crêpes so many times, and now they were doing them on their own, and he would be surprised.

The younger sister was whipping the cream, which was flying all over the counter. The electric whisk hummed and clattered to the sides of the bowl whenever the arch got too big.

If someone had recorded the whole act, it would have been a perfect memory, despite the mess, the stickiness, the chaos, and the pepper in the batter, which didn’t belong there.

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

I had a terrible night. I woke up from a dream about war. Tanks and barricades rolled under my window. I usually can brush off my nightmares, but it felt so substantial, and the feeling stuck, so I’m slightly agitated now. I need to alter my thoughts, but I have been waiting for my husband to wake up so I can speak to him. Speaking to him usually helps me.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have an insightful day!