Day 328 Writing Short Stories

Zealous

The single-minded determination, the zealous pursuit of success, achievements, and to matter, riddled with self-doubt and constant worry. No wonder people burn out.

Typewriter

When his father had passed, he had left most of his things to his other kids—the ones from the second marriage. All he had gotten was his old typewriter. He had been bitter about it. He had, and still does to some extent, resented his father. He was a selfish man who had not given a second thought to his firstborn son since he left his mother.

Yet, it was as simple as that. He stared at the finished manuscript on his desk. It was a thing of beauty. It had made him weep, laugh, love, and scream in anger. And it had been suddenly there, typed clean by the typewriter on its own.

He had put a second set of papers in, and instantly the typewriter had gone to work, producing papers full of words that transformed a person.

And now he knew how his father had done it all, how he had become the most successful asshole in the film industry. He had stolen the words of the typewriter.

He knew he would be rich if he sent in the manuscripts. This was his ticket out of his mundane life. This was his ticket for literary success, which he had been so desperately seeking for so long that he had been willing to give up. And he knew why his father had left the typewriter for him. It was his last fuck you, and here you go, son, I have done what was needed.

He packaged the typewriter in, accompanied by a dull ache in his chest. He wanted nothing more than the success the prose proposed, but he wanted more than that, not to be his father and destroy lives with his undeserved egoism.

He buried the typewriter at the back of his closet and left the manuscripts underneath it. He didn’t have the heart to destroy them. They were still masterpieces and had brought him so much joy.

Imaginary Friend

He watched her daughter play outside. She had been giggling nonstop for days now. She told him she had a new friend named O-1-3. He hadn’t questioned her choice of name, and in a way, he was happy that she was happy and had a friend, even when it was imaginary. She had been so sad when they had moved to the other side of the country. She had a hard time making friends at her new school. This was good, he reminded himself.

He poured three glasses of lemonade and took them outside.

“You two, come and drink,” he ordered.

Her daughter ran to him as he set the glasses on the garden table.

He took his seat, and she sat next to him. For a second, he was sure the third chair had moved, but then he thought better of it. It had been just a flicker of light. But he jumped up, knocking his chair down, when the lemonade started to disappear from the glass.

He screamed.

“Dad! You are scaring O-1-3. She doesn’t like it when humans scream.”

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

I had a good morning. I’m feeling a lot better now. It feels like my nervous system and body are mine again, like the constant buzz and tension are gone. And it is. I went to see a sports masseur, and he said the same. I saw him last week, too, and there is a big difference in how my body feels this week than last week.

Anyway, I had fun writing today. I got the ideas down. I’m a bit sorry that I didn’t make the son of the screenwriter more of an asshole and use the manuscripts for his own advantage. I would have written against my own morals, and that would have been a good thing. But maybe next time.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a wonderful day!