Day 343 Writing Short Stories

Pumpkin

It was her head that was going to get her into trouble again, not in a mind sort of way, but in a looks sort of way. People were appalled by her pumpkin head. They found it repulsive. She did too, but there was nothing she could do with it. It was her master’s choice, and it stayed on.

She bit her lip and kept the desire to bark at the people in the line in her belly. She welcomed them into the horror park and handed them their tickets.

The little boy at the back of the queue asked if her head was real. His mother shushed him, telling him it was impolite to ask.

Yes, it was, she wanted to shout. It was done so that you fucks could enjoy yourselves. She said none of that. She handed the boy and her mother their tickets and told them to enjoy themselves. Fucks, she added in her head.

Her day went by at the gates. Sometimes she worked in the back parlors, selling food, or doing the horror installments. She mostly liked it if she was assigned to the installments. It was as if she belonged there with the automatas rather than with the people. She wasn’t sure what she was. If she had been a real person once, or if she was made like this. It didn’t matter; this was where she belonged. She couldn’t go out into the real world, not looking like she did. If she got the stares she did here, it would be so much worse out there.

She locked the gates when the day was done, and the little kids and their parents were gone, leaving content with the moderated, curated, R-rated terror they felt, having emptied their pockets at the food and toy stands.

She dragged herself back to her quarters and laid her pumpkin head against her pillow, dreaming of a world without hot dogs and plush toys.

Hour-by-hour

Tell a story happening in a span of a day, mentioning every hour. I skipped this one. Doesn’t serve the purpose of writing these things in one sitting.

Disillusioned

I skipped this one. My mind went blank with a story where the character wakes from their disillusions.

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

I’m not sure what to make of today. I keep thinking about stories and how they should be told. What purpose do they serve, and what do they tell about modern times? I keep thinking about The Catcher in the Rye and Holden and how it spoke about alienation. What are we supposed to think of our modern era? What stories are we to tell? I think alienation doesn’t cut it anymore. Is it disillusionment with reality and the meaning of life? Is it death and dying? Killing? Plastics? Loneliness? I keep thinking about what Erich Fromm wrote in The Sane Society, are we insane? We are happy, yet we don’t feel happy; there is no reason, no love, just commerce and status. Likes and viral videos are not a life. I don’t know what to do with any of that. I’m not sure I’m getting it right in my book: the hollowness of our society and what it does. Yet I keep editing my book, trying to make it right. And I need to give up soon and be content with what it is. It’s all I can say within those perimeters. I need to find another story. Maybe it is about a pumpkin-headed girl and her life in an amusement park.

I’m not sure what has gotten into me. I keep thinking about pursuits and doing things for themselves. I keep thinking about grades, purposes, and why we do what we do. I feel tired of the performance. There’s something wrong with it. Life is not a performance. Climbing isn’t a performance. Writing isn’t either. They are to be done for their own sake. But what does that mean? What does that look like?

I’m tired of the concrete jungles and the contrast they create with the natural world.

Sorry about the ramble and its pointlessness. I’m not sure where I wanted to go with it.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a good one!