Day 365 Writing Short Stories

Mutiny

She had always thought mutinies happened out on the sea and not on a church bike ride to nature, but here she was in the middle of the biggest argument of her life. She was defending her choice of the route. The others wanted to take the less-traveled road back to the church to cut down on time and have their picnic.

The twisted mouths and the crossed arms were spreading wide and far. People were taking sides, and they were threatening to strip her of her community manager status in the church.’

“Oh, go on then.” She drew her hands in the air, almost making her bike fall. It caught between her legs.

She watched as the group, one by one, took the road, and she was left standing on the small patch of grass between the dirt roads. She sighed as she was left alone. The argument had run so heatedly that it was thought better if she didn’t follow the group. It suited her fine. She had had enough of people who knew better, who thought their views mattered somehow, even when they hadn’t done the massive research for the route, as she had done, not to mention the fact that she had organized everything: the excess bikes, the picnic, the time and date, the fliers, all of it.

Sod it, she thought, and got on her bike. She was going to take that scenic route she had planned so long. She was going to make her legs work and her mind rest.

A Coat of Arms

I’ll skip writing my own coat of arms. Too tired for that.

A Sinner

The church’s arch welcomed sinners and saints alike. The doors were open, and the chorus of a hymn floated out into the street. He listened to the praise of God on the steps of the church. He could feel the headache rising. His teeth pushed out, and he hissed.

He groaned at the involuntary reaction of religion and God to him. His dead body remembered what it was like to be shunned out of light. His mind did no longer. He craved the music coming from the door. He, more than anyone, knew that God existed. That, in a way, his demise from stepping in might be his only salvation from the sins he had accumulated. There was enough to send him to hell when someone pushed a stake through his chest. But the love of God was stronger than that.

He floated up from the steps and faced the music. It repelled him away, but he pushed against the urge to flee and floated up the stairs. He could smell the sweat, the prayers, sweet, sweet blood flowing inside. His fangs pushed out again. He let them be and stepped inside the house of worship. Instantly, his body caught fire. He was glad it did. Otherwise, the predator in him wouldn’t have let him repent.

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

I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to write. I barely slept last night. There was a fire alarm at my apartment building, so I spent the middle of the night talking to the fire rescuers and then to the building repair person. Why do they always happen in the middle of the night? It’s like this cruel joke, the little monsters who wreak havoc cause. I wonder how the bad night’s sleep will ripple on. Is it the purpose of the chaos monsters?

Anyway, tomorrow is the time for the last prompt. So bizarre. Everything comes to an end all of a sudden. I’m finally sending my book to an editor. I found a good one. I completed my 7B boulder project yesterday. I thought I had found a cover artist, but his work was too expensive. I still have to find one—a week of things ending and new things starting.

Thank you for reading ❤ Have a day of new things!