Day 249 Writing Short Stories

Trunk

The giant oak towered into the skies. It was older than she could ever be. The trunk was bigger than the hug she had measured the oak with. It was magical. It was ancient, and it knew more than she would ever do. She sat down, leaning against the trunk. She lifted her gaze to the skies, watching the sunlight sieve through the oak leaves.

Periods

The electric lights flickered over her as she walked down the street. It had gotten dark sooner than she thought. She glanced over her shoulder, sure that someone was following her. The roads were empty behind her, yet she heard the faint echo of steps.

The silver moon illuminated his steps as he made his way through the dark city. The occasional candlelight in the windows gave the sleeping city a haunting look. He walked along the outskirts of the city, heading past the walls to the road, which led to the fields. There was an odd echo in his steps, and occasionally he caught glimpses of the fairy lights. He was careful not to invoke the lights to guide him from the path.

She took running steps, sure that someone was following her. It was just behind her. The street lights flickered over her. The air was getting colder, making it rasp her throat. She cursed for going out this late. She had gotten a foolish craving for chocolate cookies and milk to be able to concentrate on late-night writing. The deadline for her editor was tomorrow, and if she didn’t get her article out, there would be hell to pay.

The echoes grew louder. He saw strange lights flicker over him. Lights that were inhumanly possible. They glowed oddly bright and crackled as he made his way through them. He kept his gaze on his feet and on the road. He wasn’t going to let the fairies get him.

Why couldn’t there be anyone on the road? She searched for a familiar face, but the streets were empty. There was only the echo and a pressing feeling that someone was following her.

The lights were getting more pressing, and he could see a woman walking just a few steps past him. She was a fairy for sure. The air around her rippled. She was wearing strange clothes and running, guiding him deeper into the lights.

She turned around and saw a man staring at her. He was odd. He had a bewildered expression on his face. His long wool coat and entire attire looked like something from the revolution era. As their gaze met, he shielded his eyes, drawing his hand over them.

“Be gone, fiend,” the man shouted.

She just stared at him, stupefied. The lights around her went out, and there was just a silver moon and stars in the sky. There were no houses, nor was there the road she had been on: just empty fields and a dark city behind the man.

She tried to stutter words out, but nothing came. The air went cold again, and the man was gone.

When he lowered his hand, the woman and the lights were gone. There was just the stars and the moon.

She stood there alone in the street, trembling. Not sure what had happened. The city around her looked like her city again. The stars barely showed past the electric street lights. She clutched her cookies and milk.

Wolf

The dawn was setting over the forest, turning from blue to deeper indigo. She stopped to listen to the forest coming alive in the darkness. There was a distant hoot of an owl, and the odd quietness as the day birds had stopped singing. Her sister never liked it when she ventured this late into the forest. She feared for all that couldn’t be seen. She, on the other hand, felt more alive when the sun descended, and the moon had her time to play. It was a different world. It was her world. There was no hum of city life. No expectations. Just the quietness of the night, and all the possibilities for her to dream.

She continued moving through the familiar path between the trees. This was her forest. This was where her heart was buried. She knew all the trees, all the plants. She knew where the spiders made their webs, where the foxes made their dens, and where the winter lynx had hunted its first deer. The forest was her, and she was the forest.

There was a quiet rustle beside her. She could feel the pressure of someone observing her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a huge silver wolf staring at her. It was a first to the forest. A first wolf for her. They usually stayed in the bigger woods, away from humans.

It was as curious of her as she was of it. It did nothing. Just stood there. She kept eye contact with it, facing the creature.

Again, it did nothing. Just looked at her.

She raised her hands over her head and took steps back calmly. She let out a loud noise. The wolf tilted its head. And as she blinked, it was gone. The pressure she had felt was not there. There was only the calmness of the forest.

She lowered her hands and kept looking in the direction where the wolf was. This was her forest, where her heart was buried. This was her home, and now she had been welcomed in.

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

My government gave permission to hunt wolves in Finland. Why do we kill what we fear? There have been more wolf sightings closer to cities and yards, but that is only due to human action. So we punish the wolves and don’t change our actions. I think we get so much wrong about how we view the world.

I spent a lot of time alone in the woods, and knowing that there is a huge pack running around in the local woods is scary. Wolves are what they are, but still, I don’t think killing them is the right way to go about it. Not when the deer population is as high as it is. Not when we need wolves to keep the herbivores at bay. Not when it is our actions that have led to the situation in which there is a conflict over living space. I feel so sad that we make these decisions based on feelings, desires, and wants, rather than on science or facts.

Lately, I haven’t been able to spend enough time in the forest I love. I pictured my local nature reserve as I wrote about the wolf story. I keep prioritizing everything else, even when I think about the forest, and a great calmness takes over me, and I feel more centered. I love seeing how the forest changes with the seasons. How the winds that blow past the city have taken down trees, and how life takes over those fallen logs. How the forest is never the same yet always constant. It feels more real than anything else I do and think.

About writing. I found the prompts hard. I kept searching for words. Nothing flowed. I had to fight everything out. I hope tomorrow is a better day, and I get some writing done on the train back home.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a spirited day!