Her tears froze half-way down her cheeks. Summer had left overnight while he had packed his bags. Why hadn’t she brought gloves?
Marika took up the ball that was laid down at her feet and threw it far away. Rayleigh ran after it, hairs flowing up and down, just a few seconds slower than her small body.A few moments later the dog was back again, ball pressed between teeth.
“Welcome to flight 39221. My name is Elsebeth and I’ll be your hostess for today. I am here to make this experience as pleasant as possible. Would you like a drink, sir?”
Harold looked to his right, to what was supposed to be a window, but there was nothing to see. Just a vast blackness that extended until forever. At least, that’s what it looked like. It wouldn’t go on forever, obviously.
“When will we be arriving?” He turned to the lady wearing a purple dress that fitted her tight like a second skin, carefully covering her five tentacles.
The impossible can only happen when you are able to see it.
“Hello, how can I help you?” This was the fun part of his job, David knew. That moment he picked up the phone and anything was possible. It was why he always volunteered for the weekend shift. No stupid assistant to take his calls. Now he didn’t have to miss out on all the fun. A sheep in labor that needed his help, a cat that had thrown up his own bowels. Of course, most days nothing exciting like that happened. Lately, the most pleasurable thing he got to do was snipping the balls from guinea pigs. But even that got boring after a while.
“Kind Sir. Am I correct to think that you the veterinarian?”
This is a drabble, which is a specific type of story of exactly 100 words. Including the title. This one is written especially for a contest organised by The Writers Block on Steemit, based on the prompt that was given: fighting & rays, which had to be included in the story.
It felt like the thing to do. Slowly I moved on. Everybody thought I was ridiculous, they couldn’t see me moving. But I knew I was going in the right direction, going up. There was no other way to go, fighting against something invisible that tried to keep me in the dark. The lack of resources, of time. Existence seemed meaningless. I was all alone, resisting the urge to give up.
But when I moved my first leaves above the soil that had trapped me, I felt the rays warm me. It was all worth it. Spring once more.
Checking in to a mental institution shouldn’t be that difficult, right?
“Excuse me? Hello!” Daniel pressed the button again. Finally he saw some movement through the glass door.
The door opened and a man wearing a white coat popped his head through the opening, scouting the surrounding. His hair was undone and his glasses were thick, like the ones from the 70s. Daniel didn’t really think about it, though. Anyone working at an asylum must be at least a bit crazy themselves, right? Although that was probably not politically correct. It was a mental hospital, for the mentally disturbed, or something like that. All those bullshit social rules, and the government still wondered why people were going mad? Continue reading “Checking In :: Short Story”
When she started out, many months before, she had never thought she’d be able to pull it off. But she was no longer afraid.
There had been times she had almost given up. All the lying, the sneaking around. But today she once more managed to continue to smile to whoever she met. Walking in and out. Slowly, but not too slow. Making sure not to catch any attention
Today was her last day. Her final day. It all came down to these last three, The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, and Flatland by Edwin Abbott. When she started out, many months before, she had never thought she’d be able to pull it off. But she was no longer afraid. As the months passed, as her visits to the library remained unnoticed, her boldness had grown beyond proportions she had ever dreamt of. At first she had taken just one book at the time. Maybe she had gotten sloppy as the month passed and nobody ever stopped her. Her own house was filled to the brim with books by now, carefully sorted and catalogued over the months. Her collection was pretty much complete. Except for these these three slim, but weighty classics. Continue reading “One Book at the Time :: Original Short Story”
Writers don’t judge, they describe, Anne Enright says. “I am interested in the way that things that are latent become known.”
For some time I’ve been involved in something called ‘Write Club’, an initiative of some fellow short-story writers who felt it’s good to push yourself to write and edit more in order to bring yourself to a higher level as a writer, while doing this as part of a group trying to do the same thing.Continue reading “Anne Enright Writing Prompt”