Day 222 Writing Short Stories

Shell

The rugged edge felt smooth on her skin as she traced the lines on the seashell. Every groove, every notch spoke of a time when humans didn’t exist. The shell had been hidden there under the bed of rocks for eternity, yet here it was, standing the test of time in her hands.

She pressed it against her ear, hearing the whoosh of the ocean. The primordial soup that had birthed her. She closed her eyes and imagined the early period of Earth — the tree-sized ferns, the thick sandy beaches, all the weird lizards. There was only her imagination left, and she could picture thousands of worlds, and in this one, the seashell transported her through time.

Box

The little box was hidden in their closet. He had never seen it before. That wasn’t the oddest thing. It was the fact that his wife had written a handwritten note on it, warning him of divorce if he were to open it.

The note made him angry. He didn’t like the nastiness and the clear trap set for him. He tore off the note and opened the box. There was a little red button inside.

He took it out and swirled it in his hand. The button was on a silvery mount. It had no switch. It had no writing. It was just a random red button.

He sat there holding it in his hand, feeling both numb and angry. All could be forgotten if he just put the thing back inside the box. She wouldn’t know. But he would. He knew the note and button existed.

He lodged the red button between his thumb and index finger and squeezed it. The closet began to swing, or he did. He wasn’t sure what was happening. All he knew was that he had let go of the button and it had swirled away from him.

When the room stopped swaying, and he was sure he wouldn’t vomit, he stood up and stepped out of the closet. The bedroom, which was supposed to be there, wasn’t there. There was just a vast jungle with tall trees and distant hoots of monkeys. The door slammed closed behind him, and there was the jungle in its place.

He looked at his bare feet, his pajama pants, and the t-shirt he was wearing, and knew he was in deep shit, deeper than a divorce. He dropped to the ground and began searching frantically for the button. It was his only salvation, especially as the hooting and the brush of branches got ever so louder. Around him, the cacophony of bird caws along with the flapping of wings grew louder.

He was sure he would die, but then his hand brushed the red button. He pressed the thing frantically, and the world spun again. This time, when it stopped, he was back in his bedroom, kneeling on the carpet that was stained by the mud on his hands and knees.

Funeral Home

People always thought that working at a funeral home was somehow scary, that the dead would haunt him. Mostly, the most frightening thing that happened was the news coming from the radio he kept at the morgue. Otherwise, there was nothing to fear. The dead were good listeners, and they never complained.

The old Mrs. Henderson had been quite chatty when alive, and now she lay mute on the slab as he painted her lips and cheeks.

“You wouldn’t believe what Margaret did yesterday…” he said.

Mrs. Henderson would believe. She wasn’t on good terms with Margaret Hudson. They had always been rivaling over who was the queen of the neighborhood — who had the biggest garden, most appearances on the Christmas fashion show. Now, Margaret would win by default.

“…She sang in your memory at the community event. They have raised money for a bench named after her for the park. Margaret’s idea…”

There came a quiet rumble at first. He was sure it was his stomach and the tuna sandwich that wasn’t agreeing with him, but then it came again, louder this time. Mrs. Henderson clutched the slap underneath her and let out a loud moan.

He scattered backward, almost knocking over with the high stool he had been sitting on.

Around him, the freezer doors clattered. Mrs. Henderson rose to sit on the slab, and her head lulled towards him. Her jaw snapped open, and there was a loud moan.

That was enough to get him flying out of the morgue and into the funeral parlor, only to see out of his window that the cemetery next to his house was full of the dead he had helped bury in the ground.

He turned to face the morgue door only to see Mrs. Henderson shambling up the stairs. He rushed to the door and slammed it shut. He took the keys out of his pocket. They rattled in his hand as he almost dropped them on the floor. He locked the door and leaned against it as Mrs. Henderson thudded against it again and again.

The dead weren’t supposed to rise. This had to be the tuna sandwich, or else hell had broken loose.

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

I had a slow morning today. I spent most of it under my cat, and then I did frantic editing of my sci-fi novel as I got notes back from my editor. I’m not sure what happened, but she can’t do the second round of edits. She told me that there are issues with her health and family. I have worked with her for a long time, and she has always been able to deliver, and we have had honest conversations about my books, but now she says she cannot continue with the book. It makes me sad. She advised me to get another editor and didn’t charge me for the edits she’d done so far. She was sorry she had taken a month with the book. I’m kind of baffled about what to do now. I need to find a new editor, but it is really hard to replace someone you have trusted, whose judgment has always been spot-on.

But I have to see this as an opportunity to find a more suitable editor for my work. My previous editor was more tuned to romantic-type books, so she wasn’t a perfect fit from the beginning, but she was excellent nevertheless.

I have to muster some energy to search for an editor. I don’t even know how to do that, as I have worked for years with Emily. I guess I’ll try Reedsy, Fiverr, and maybe Goodreads.

Also, I have to find a cover artist. I have done my previous covers, but I want to get a professional one with this one.

If you want to beta-read the book, then let me know. You can contact me at my email: k.a.ashcomb@gmail.com. And ask for my sci-fi novel. I will send you a PDF or an ePub file, depending on your request.

Thank you for reading once again ❤ Have a primordial day!