Day 221 Writing Short Stories

Master

She bowed at her knees, feeling the first slash come down on her back. She had lost the ability to speak a long time ago. There was only a muted screech caught in her throat. The second slash came down, and she wished her mind somewhere else.

“No,” came the voice behind her. The voice of her master. “You will need to remember, or else you will not understand the cost.”

He twisted his own mind around her, and the third slash felt more painful as he had pulled her full focus onto her back.

“Yes, master,” she gushed out.

She was to remember, or the cost was far worse than the pain. The cost would be her mother, her sister, her brother, their sister, their brother, and their father and mother. The cost would be the living, and she would be to blame if it ever happened. No one else.

Statue

The deep descent into the darkness under the old god statue always caught her breath. The underground air was full of the salt of the sea, the bones of the dead, and the fishy smell of the old lanterns. The rotten vegetation on the walls wavered with the gust of air coming from her steps. She carefully put her feet on the black marble, not wanting to slip down.

At the foot of the stairs, in the dark underground layer, she heard the screams of the living and the moans of the dead, hungering for their mortal souls. She lit the old lanterns one by one, illuminating the room and its altar.

She caught a glimpse of the eyes of the young boy, whom she was meant to give to the gods. There was a stab of pain inside her from the wrongness of it all. Yet, he would die by her hands. The sense of duty, her guardianship, was beaten into her. The lashes on her back still stung from the memory. Their ragged skin caught at the back of her dress, and there was no mistaking why she was here and why the boy would die, despite how much he begged of her to set him free. The gods needed sacrifice, or the dead would be set loose, and there would be no lives to spare.

She had performed this ritual every year for ten years now, since her master died. She would be performing the ritual until she died. She had done the arithmetic and knew how many dead souls that would mean. But she had to trust it was far less if she didn’t do it.

The boy would die as the nine before him had done.

Fireworks, Food, And Company

I have to skip this one. My friend called to ask me to go to the Christmas market, and I promised to go with her, and I still need to eat. This prompt was about a good company on a fine evening.

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

I had an office Christmas party yesterday, and I’m so tired now. I had to take another nap just after I woke up. But I’m happy that despite the tiredness and the promise to my friend, I wrote today. It makes me so happy.

Have a joyous day! Thank you for reading ❤