Day 250 Writing Short Stories

Gramophone

The music played throughout the house, traveling from room to room. It invited everyone to a jolly mood as the day gave way to night. Around the house, crickets played their own tune, and the occasional hoot of a distant owl made the night seem haunting. The music from the gramophone kept the darkness away and the smile on the dancer’s lips.

They knew what was there in the darkness, what it meant if the doors weren’t locked and the windows nailed shut. They knew that it was the cheer that kept them slipping, kept them from opening the doors and inviting the darkness in. They all had seen it happen. They had all been there when the music stopped, and the monsters came out to play.

Now they danced and danced, and kept a watchful eye out for the others. Any crack in the smile merited a night in the solitary cell in the cellars, where no one heard you, where you could barely move.

There was a stop in the record as the nearest hurried to turn the side. Everyone began the pantomime of good times again. They had found old twenties-style dresses in the attic, and most of them were dressed for the theme. The beads swayed along with their bodies as the jive rolled over them. When it was time to jump, they all jumped. They ignored the wishers coming outside. The whispers to be let in. It was their child, their husband, their brother, their sister calling for them. The smiles turned into tears, and those who couldn’t dance the dance were pinned down.

When the dawn came, no one would blame them. They all had been there. The whispers were too much.

Tonight, no one opened the doors or the windows, no one went into the cellars. There were only the tears and the curse of living, when the dead had all the peace.

A Memory

They call me memory. They call me an accident. They call me theirs. I have tried to escape, reclaim a name. I have done everything to be more than a shadow, yet their hold is too great. They think I have stopped fighting; that I’m theirs to keep. I haven’t.

It is iron that burns them. It is their names that command them. I have to find one or both, and I will set myself free. I will set all the other children free. They keep all that hidden. They make us work. I steal things for them. Stupid things. Pennies here and there. Ribbons. Baby shoes. Wedding bands. Useless trinkets. Yet, they hold them like treasures.

The other children whisper that they have the wearer’s soul. I refuse to believe that, but I fear they are right. I fear that I was that child whose shoe got stolen. Mary was the girl whose ribbon was taken. Jack is the kid who never got born. All of us lost in the realms with the fairies. All of us bound to our lords.

One night, they sent me out. They tell me to get a painting. They tell me where it is. I sneak and crawl, and see the painting being taken. I reach for the thing and pry it loose. And I see what I haven’t seen before. There is a nail on the wall. An iron nail.

I reach for it and shimmy it loose. I pocket it and step into the portal, taking me back to the fairies. They fawn over the painting, barely seeing me. They are so used to having me around. I take my nail out, and I poke at them. They scream as the iron hits them. They scream so that it wakes everyone up. I wave the children to follow me to the closing portal. I push them in one by one, and I dive last before the other fairies come. The portal closes behind us, and we stand there in the bedroom of a man that we have woken up. I still hold the nail in my hand.

Precious Place

When I close my eyes, I see a forest—a wild one. I see mountains high above me and an ocean that reaches far. There I would have my house and my life. I have no place in mind. But I know what it feels like. It feels like home.

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

I’m traveling back home and writing on the train. Again, I find it easier to concentrate on writing when there is nothing else to do. Okay, Dungeon Crawler Carl is waiting for me beside, and I’m happy to read it after publishing this post. I accidentally started two dnd books simultaneously, which didn’t end well. Dungeon Crawler Carl is so much better, so the other one felt like a task to complete, and I didn’t give it a fair chance to wow me. But sometimes that happens.

I’m in the mood for light horror. For some reason, they calm me down. I’m not sure why they feel that they make sense of the world better than any other story. I have been writing them a lot lately, too. My mind seems to twist to those stories. Maybe because they still have some morals left. I think we have lost some of that from our stories. There are things that are right and wrong, and one of them is not to hurt others, not even with our best intentions. I think we are too focused on ourselves to see the damage we do to others. And I wish that we weren’t. I wish that there were more kindness in the world. Maybe the possible war wouldn’t be coming if there was.

Humans are silly creatures. Me included. It is odd to find out how limited your view can be and has been, and how easy it is to reason otherwise. On my visit to my sister, I spent a quiet morning with my mother, and we had a good talk. I have been unfair to her sometimes. I know I have been. I think it is the same blindness that hits all of us, including our politicians, when they make so-called right calls. They are blinded by their own importance to notice the other.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a spooky day!