Day 102 Writing Short Stories

Birth

Matter was made to be deterministic, constrained by the laws of nature. You always believed in that. You shaped your life around that idea and held it dear. The world was structured to make sense. You loved your little world and the order it created. You were content, waking before the dawn struck and going to work, delivering mail. It had left you time to dream and think, and occasionally stop and enjoy the morning sun and its warmth.

So it was this morning. You got up before four, went to work, sorted the mail, and took your bike as you ventured out to deliver your route. By the midpoint, you were already in the rhythm of biking and stopping and biking and stopping. You hummed a tune you had heard on the radio as you sorted the mail. It was an old 80s pop song. You knew the lyrics and the melody, but not who had sung it originally or what it was called. But you liked the song nevertheless.

You were nearing the end of the road, and you had to turn at the odd house and go down the narrow pathway leading to another residential area. You usually liked to take the little woody patch, not minding the unkempt trees and the darkness it cast even on a clear day. But today, the hairs on your back stood up, and you went in anyway. Before you knew it, you were knocked to the ground. You felt a sharp pain in your right shoulder, and then you passed out. Next time you woke up, you were in your own bed. You had no idea how you had gotten there. You hurried to check your phone and were relieved it was just shy of midnight.

You lowered your head back to your pillow and tried to replay what had happened yesterday. You had foggy memories of getting up from the ground, delivering the rest of the route, and heading back to the post office. Then there were no recollections of what you did the rest of the day.

You curled to your left side, fretting at the sickening feeling inside you that something was wrong. The room you had always thought of as a sanctuary stretched long, the lines between the floorboards and the wallpaper twisted and turned, making you want to throw up. You sat up, closed your eyes, and squeezed your knees. You felt a heave come out. Then you collapsed on the floor, convulsing. Then you stopped. The matter you had gotten used to was not there. Your hands had hardened, growing long talons. You felt your wings press against the floor. Like an urge, you shot up and spread your wings. The same urge made you hiss, and the night outside your window responded. The neighborhood dogs and cats let out a cacophony of warnings. You heard them clearly. You knew what they said.

You glanced at the window and saw your own reflection watching you back. Instead of a man, a gargoyle with glowing red eyes and sharp fangs stared back.

—

What is the inner life of gargoyles like? What do they want? They are fancy rainwater eaves with a spiritual purpose attached, protecting against evil. And of course, mockery and all that is involved with their absurd appearances. But still, in modern writing and media, they have taken a new form. So what is their inner life like? Is it up for interpretation? In my Necropolis books, the city and its banks use them for surveillance. They can pop in and out of existence. They are slow. And no one knows what they think or want, aside from the occasional pigeon dinner. I think there is more to explore there. Hmm…

Anyway, what I got today was a period fantasy rebirth story written in the second person. I had fun writing this one. I like gargoyles.

Thank you for reading! Have a gargantuan day, and see you tomorrow ❤