Day 300 Writing Short Stories

Intricate

I have always had a very intricate relationship with my past. Something of which I’m not proud. I regret so many things that if I let them fester in me, I would be a ruined man. You know those bitter men who sit at the local pub and tell stories about their glorious past. How fucking amazing they were, and all everyone sees is a drunken fool they took pity on.

But I had a glorious past. I usually don’t tell anyone about it. But I tell you, as you came all the way here and asked.

I used to be a pilot. A damn good one. As you know. They let me fly those huge-ass spaceships for the mining companies. You could call me a genuine space cowboy, a proud one. It was not given that I would get to fly those things. Not with my background. But back in the day, you didn’t have to have a fancy education for others to give you a chance to prove yourself. I had my wit, my obsessive reading habit, and one purpose and one purpose only. I wanted to get off this piece of shit rock and see the stars. And I did.

I taught myself advanced mathematics and physics. I beat myself into the best shape a man can be in. And I got myself where I wanted: under the right man, who, in the end, paid for my pilot’s license and made me work my ass off.

Forgive me for sighing. I would love nothing more than to end my story there. Let you paint a picture of the first space cowboys as hard-working, dedicated men and women, who got there with grit and gumption. But I let it all get into my head. I was a proud man. And I made sure others knew how I got there, especially the uppity types. I can test that you don’t make friends that way, and you need friends in this world, at least with my background. A poor man needs more friends than one born with connections. But I thought merit was enough back then. Back then, I was a fool.

A fool who got into a fight with the other pilots over silly things. Things that don’t matter now. And no, I don’t mean girls. I mean, for things like: best pilot, fastest pilot, most daring pilot, most flights, and so on. And you don’t get those things with grit; you get those with drugs and cutting corners. So, so that I ended up crashing a billion-dollar spacecraft, ending my career.

There’s no coming back from that. When they pulled me out of that wreckage, I was out of it. I was out for a month, coming lucid now and then. When I finally gained full consciousness, the stay in the hospital had rehabbed me, but I was a man with a debt so big that no lifetime could ever repay it. Not with a ruined reputation. Not without friends.

It’s a sobering experience to notice that no one visits you in the hospital. No one cares. All they care about is gossip, and when you finally emerge into public space, they avoid you as if you were the devil himself.

So here I am. I had to reinvent myself. And to be honest, it was the best thing that happened to me. I get to be a park ranger in this piece of shit rock with a view that takes your breath away. And I have made a friend or two. I just wish that my younger self had known what life was all about. Maybe I could have gotten those amazing views somewhere up there, in space, on those distant planets the lucky ones now get to travel.

INTF

This prompt is about 16 personalities and writing a story around one of them. I initially thought of writing this one too, but I skipped it for now.

Backpacking

Her only dream was to backpack through the galaxy. She could see herself on Alpha Centauri’s beaches, surfing the nebula with a nice cruiser, and doing all the shit they do on those ads, telling that the best thing a young person can do is to experience space travel.

She had bought a ticket with her summer job money; she had been able to save. And tomorrow she would leave with the last shuttle of the day. First, she would spend a day in Earth’s orbit. One of those space stations that now housed millions. Then she would leave the solar system and see where her ticket would take her.

It was just that, now that she was listening to Mark, who had just gotten back from his tour, she had second thoughts. The free surfing idea didn’t exist. Mark stated that it was just an endless queue from security check to another, that instead of beaches, you stayed in crammed pods, and barely saw what was happening outside. It had been a total scam, according to Mark.

But Mark was drunk and high on something. He wanted all eyes and ears at the party to be on him. Mark was an asshole. But Mark didn’t lie, and that was the worrying part of it. What if she had given all her savings to a company that didn’t deliver?

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

300 days! I will have to celebrate this somehow. (I will dance as soon as I hit the publish button.) I have been able to write at least 300 short stories, and I have stuck to the decision I made over 300 days ago. 300! I think this is one of those times I should be proud of myself. Big thanks for being here belongs to you too! Your likes, comments, and the reading counts push me to write these things day after day. Thank you!

300 freaking days and prompts!

It hasn’t always been easy. I have been honest about that. There have been good days and bad ones. There have been prompts that I have been proud of and those I have published despite knowing that they need more work. Yet, I have shown up and done this. It’s all we can do for ourselves, to show up. No one else will do it on our behalf. So once again, thank you for reading ❤ Have a fantastic day!