Day 358 Writing Short Stories

Regret

The music stopped, and the last one standing looked helpless, lost, hurt. The wide eyes, the terror in them, made the others look away. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. She had better learn not to care, yet there the man stood, knowing his fate.

She flinched as the shot was fired, and the man dropped dead on the floor.

There were so many regrets. So many things she would do differently to avoid ending up here with the others. Yet, nothing would change once the last one of them was gone.

A chair was dragged out of the circle. She heard the other business executives gasp in terror when the music started again. All of them knew that not getting up meant instant death. They had seen it happen.

This childish game was to be their punishment, their payment for all the deeds they had done. She knew she wouldn’t survive, that when there was only one chair left, both players would be killed. The game was designed to torment them, to put them in the shoes of those they had looked past when making decisions, handling millions. So she had been told, so she had figured out.

The music stopped, and she dashed into the free chair, feeling a release for staying alive, having survived the song. The woman next to her wasn’t as lucky. She dropped dead cold on the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” a man wailed from two chairs over.

The masked men just stared at the man.

“You monster,” the man spit on the floor.

“I think you have a greater body count than I do. So if I’m a monster, you are the Devil.”

A Game of Chance

The cards stood between them. It was the traditional bet. It was what she knew to do. But so did the Devil. Yet, there was no choice. This was the only way to save her father’s soul. Her hands trembled as the Devil dealt the cards in.

He grinned, knowing that there was no way she would win this game of chance. That the odds were stacked against her.

She would not only lose his father’s soul, but she would lose hers too.

His father sat in the corner, mute, with a tormented expression on his face. He was there to distract her, to remind her who he was and why he had done it. There were no noble reasons. He had done it out of greed, out of reservation, then run to her to beg her to help him. And she did just that. There was no reason to do it. He wasn’t exactly the father of the year. But blood meant something to her, especially because of him. He had shown her that blood could be exchanged, bet against, and sold on just like that. She did not want to be like him.

The cards were dealt, and the Devil gestured for her to start.

“Before we do,” she began, expecting the Devil to cut her short.

He didn’t. He looked more amused, happy, one might say. Every word, every thought was a currency to him, a possibility for a greater pay.

“If I win, I want you not only to free my father, but I want you to guarantee that you will never let him come to you again, and you and your kind never bother him or me again. Or anyone on my bloodline.”

The Devil chuckled. “And if I win, your entire bloodline is mine.” He gestured towards her belly.

She drew her hand over it, shocked. She couldn’t afford to think about it. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. The Devil was just playing her. It was all there was. And she knew the cards. She spoke the cards. That was the only thing her father ever taught him. She knew how to cheat them and make them do as she wanted.

She shuffled her cards without looking at them. “Add three more?”

The Devil smirked.

Music Box

The tune was soft, almost sleepy. He watched her close it and yawn. He had been testing the music box out, and the tune changed with every person, with every mood. The music box read the mind of the opener. It seemed sensitive to feelings.

This morning, the song had been harsh, agitated, and short when he had opened it. It had made him go to bed until the song was calm enough for him to get up. It was a perfect thing. But he didn’t have a clue about the use.

It was a music box of emotions. A curiosity.

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

I was pretty sure I would write on one prompt, “I skip this one”, but I didn’t. Okay, I half-assed the last one, not sure what to do with the prompt, but at least I was able to put some words down.

I think I’m starting to form a picture of how this blog will continue after the prompts are done. What I want to do is write little stories still; they make me happy, but maybe one at a time. I also want to write about writing, not only writing about the mood I’m in. About writing in general, publishing, and yes, of course, about the day-to-day struggles of writing. And maybe I will occasionally mention the book I’m reading and what I think of it. But let’s see what will happen. All I know is that I enjoy writing every day.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a day of music and friendship!