Day 38 Writing Short Stories

Release

Death. Nothing has to be added after that. Not with your father. Not with your family. It was written all over their faces. He was going to die, and there was nothing you or your brothers could do about it. So you would not fall to pieces and mope around. It was already shitty enough for you to be around your family, waiting for the inevitable. If he hadn’t been lucid and talking, all this would be easier, but the bastard was tough. He still made everyone around him miserable. So did the reporters, circling his almost gone flesh, getting their last interviews from the greatest literary mind of the century. Bastard. That was all you thought. All you had ever said. But brilliance, fame, and connections make such things go away.

And you had come. You always come when he asks.

The machine over his bed peeped. You watched the lines rise and fall as they should.

When he croaked his request for water and ice, you took your chance to escape.

—

That’s all there is. I think there could be more, but in all honesty, writing about family relations in a normal way doesn’t really get me excited. What I got was literature, quest, second-person, and experimental, and all that came to mind was the first word: death.

My cat curled up on my lap, and I wondered if I should have written about him rather than humans. And something happy. I should have.

Anyway, my visitors left, and now I have my writing room back and time to write again.

Thank you for reading! Have a day of happiness and cute cats ❤