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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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A Glimpse Inside the Mind of a Stranger

Everything seems familiar, but it’s as if I’m viewing it through a mirror of a different life. A different version of me who managed to slip through the cracks of my consciousness, and is now just a vague memory pieced together by the musings of a childhood life my family recounts with perfect smiles on their faces. I throw up a mask of my own creation, pretending I remember, pretending I’m not just a ghost of my former self, smiling along and trying to hide the cracks so they don’t see.

Everything seems to be mocking me, singing melodies I can no longer hear, whispering secrets I can no longer pick up on. The glaring purple walls of my childhood bedroom laugh at me, turning their once loving embrace into a sinking pit of despair, like they’re slowly closing in on me until I can’t breathe, until I can’t leave. The bookshelf beneath the window is covered in dust, holding hostage stories I can no longer remember, stories that no longer feel welcoming. I can’t recall the long summer days where I would turn the pages and inhale the words, letting their sweet scent transport me to new dimensions. Now, they just feel like poison, giving me the sensation of fake nostalgia, taunting me from beneath the layers of hardcover bindings. A corkboard hangs on the wall, images and scraps of paper I had pinned up a lifetime ago and never taken down, full of smiles and that childhood pride of displaying what mattered most to me. A newspaper interview from a local circus I can’t remember going to. A poster of my younger self’s favorite singer haunted with the feelings of a concert I can’t remember attending. Drawings and inside jokes I no longer have access to, lost in the deep recesses of my mind. Now just a dust coated reminder of what once was.

Everything seems distant, like it’s just out of reach and no matter how hard I try I can never grasp on. I wander through the halls, my hands brushing against the freshly dried layer of paint. I know this place; I’ve been here before, I’ve lived here before, I’ve laughed here before, I’ve cried here before, but it’s like I’ve never existed here at all. My face smiles down at me from up on the wall, my tiny arms clutching my younger brothers, looking past the camera towards my mom on the other end. I was carefree then. I don’t know what that’s like anymore. I don’t recognize the little girl in the photo. How could that be me? I don’t look like her anymore, I don’t feel like her anymore. I’ve lost sight of her in the changing tides of my brain, tossing her aside to fend for herself in the unforgiving waters. I know nothing of that time, I feel nothing of that time.

Everything seems broken, frozen in time. Everytime I come back here it’s the same. I’m hit with a sense that something’s wrong, that I shouldn’t be here. It’s like the house wants me to leave, and I want to obey. I want to leave it all behind, to not be hit with the sense like I’ve done something wrong, to be hit with the sense that I don’t belong here; not really, not anymore. The folder on my laptop adds to the discomfort. I have countless photos and videos spanning the years I spent here, making up the only “memories” I do have, contributing to the stories that I tell to strangers to convince them of the childhood I experienced. My elementary school artwork decorates the basement walls, colorful bursts of unrestrained artistic expression seeps through the cardstock. I lived with reckless abandon then, laughing with my friends on the schoolyard and daydreaming of the future. I guess that’s what I have in common with my younger self, looking towards what comes next, where my path will take me in my next steps. I briefly smile but it doesn’t last as I glance at the granite desktop behind me. Yet another place where I have no recollection of, a room that feels eerily familiar yet foreign at the same time. It’s like a detachment from reality, this room, this whole house, warping me into its confusing timeline trying to trap me and never let me go. I almost let it. I wander outside and breathe in the summer air from the edge of the driveway. In front of me, a dirt road where I guess I learned how to ride my bike, and where I walked my dog for the very first time. Now it just looks like a collection of broken past crushed into the earth, worn down by time.

Everything seems lost, or maybe that’s just me.

#story #writing

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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Covered In Thorns

You grab my hand and drag me through sectors of unloveable masses,

Twisting my arm until it breaks, a devilish grin on your face.

It’s a never ending cycle that I have long since given up trying to break.

I limply follow along behind you, my feet sore from constantly running around

And carrying out your every wish and whim.

I’m tired but you tell me not to be

So I put on a smile and pretend everything is okay.

You said not to tell anyone

So I nod and diligently look away from any prying eyes.

It’s not a trap anymore, it’s a home;

Broken and disheveled, falling apart at the seams,

But a home all the same.

You tell me that I’m worthless, and I agree,

Berating myself for not being better for you,

For not being perfect for you.

I’m stepped on at every turn in life,

But you told me to take it with a smile, so I do;

For your sake, not mine.

I once got greedy for freedom and tried to leave you behind,

But I didn’t get far before I pictured how sad you would be once you realized I was gone.

In fact you were not sad, you were angry,

The only time I had seen you this way.

I curled up inside myself in self-loathing for ever making you feel this way.

How could I have ever let myself hurt you this much,

To the point where you were breaking apart in rage?

I never did it again.

You broke down in tears one day,

Telling me I never did enough for you.

I always let you down time and again;

And it broke me to see you this way.

I punished myself for ever letting it get this far,

For ever hurting you to the point of tears.

I promised you it would never happen again,

Wrapping you in my arms as you sobbed into my shoulder.

Other times it feels like you are trying to hurt me,

Tugging on my heart like it is only a lowly plaything.

Everytime I’m near you I feel like lashing out,

Like bashing your head into the wall.

How could you do this to me?

How could you hurt me when you promised you loved me?

But then you lay your arms around my neck and brush back my hair.

You whisper soothing words into my ear,

Shutting down all my fears.

You say you’ll always be out to protect me;

And I believe you.

Everytime.

You took away all the mirrors in the house,

Except for the one down the hall in your room.

I kept breaking them,

Swinging my fist into the glass again and again

Until every last shard had fallen to the floor.

I didn’t like looking at myself;

I didn’t recognize who that was anymore.

I don’t remember the last time I truly felt like that person staring back at me.

So I break them,

Turning their image into a million tiny pieces,

Until I don’t have to look at them anymore.

You tell me that it’s alright as you bandage my hand,

That you think I’m beautiful.

And suddenly that is all that matters in my world.

You took everything I am and smashed it into a million pieces,

Picking them back up at your leisure and handing them back to me as you chose,

Altering them every step of the way.

You said you were trying to make me better,

To make me shine again.

So I just smiled at you and tried to let the conviction behind your words sink into my bones.

And it worked for a little while,

Until it didn’t.

My brain has been swirling into oblivion,

To the point where I can’t tell which thoughts are yours or mine.

It keeps me up at night,

Clutching my head in the hope that it will go away.

That you will go away.

But then I feel guilty and the thoughts are back,

They’re always back.

So I don’t really remember that night too clearly.

It was all hazy-like.

I don’t know if the fog was really in the air that night

Or if it was just in my mind.

I remember the feel of the knife.

It was cold.

I had just washed it.

I remember the carpet in your room.

It was soft and fluffy.

I remember your bedsheets.

They were blue with little clouds stitched everywhere.

I remember your sleeping face.

You were smiling.

You looked peaceful.

I finally felt free, like I was untethered from you.

The next clear thought from that night was the breeze.

It felt good on my skin.

I looked up into the cloudless night sky and smiled.

My hands stained red and covered with dirt,

I stared down at the mound below me.

It felt incomplete.

I picked a dandelion from nearby and carefully placed it on top.

Now it was complete.

I was complete.

And I realize now that I love you.

I love the way that the pebbles fall down from the mountain onto the upturned dirt of your grave,

Covered in thorns.

#fiction #poem

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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Imitation of “The Masque of the Red Death”

The virus had long swept across the world. Nothing so vile and quickly corrupting had been seen like this in anyone’s lifetime. Coughing was its sentence - the closing of the lungs making it difficult to breathe. There was loss of taste, of smell, and then the struggle to let in a breath leading to hospitalization. The sheer nature of the rate at which one can catch the virus caused everyone to stray far away from the victim lest they catch it themselves. And the whole process of catching the disease could take as little as two weeks.

But the mayor was arrogant and extremely confident. When the world began to shut themselves indoors away from the presence of the virus, he brought to his manor a hundred of his closest friends and confidantes. His manor was a marvelous piece of architecture, the result of many wine happy evenings with the planning committee. A large wrought iron fence surrounded the property, locked with the most advanced security system money could buy. He hired those he trusted the most to board up the entrance, to ensure that no one could get in or out, lest his company make any rash decisions and risk the virus infecting them all. The building was stocked full of toilet paper and bottles of water, ransacked from countless grocery stores in the area. With these precautions in place the mayor bid goodbye to the outside world, condemning it to fend for itself. In the meantime the mayor deemed it ridiculous to grieve or to spare any thoughts towards those outside the gates. He had provided his guests with everything necessary to entertain themselves, and keep themselves happy. There were live plays, musical acts, there were puppies, there was alcohol. All of this on top of layers of security. Outside, was the virus.

It was nearing the fifth or sixth month of the quarantine, and while the virus raged across the world outside, the mayor decided to entertain his guests with a murder mystery party of the most fabulous kind.

It was a sight to be seen, that party. But first let me tell of the location in which it took place. The mayor’s property held the ruins of an abandoned castle, long ago worn down by the pressures of time and human disinterest. In the prime of its life the castle had held fifty rooms all displayed on the sides of a long and winding hallway. Now the case was very different; as influenced by the mayor’s craze to try and preserve the ruins. The seven remaining rooms were mostly caved in and one could only travel to them by embarking upon a treacherous climb over fallen bannisters. Once into the crumbling hallway, each room held a tall and ornate golden mirror. Each mirror was decorated with the jewels that matched the interior of the room it resided in. For example the first room was decorated in deep reds - and rubies adorned the mirror. The second room was royal yellows across the walls and cushions, and here the mirror was flecked with gold. The third reflected shades of green, and so emeralds shone from the base of the mirror. The fourth was orange - the fifth was pink - the sixth was white. The seventh was draped in copper colored fabrics that hung across every available surface leaving a wide berth around the mirror. But only in this room was the mirror different, the jewels peppering its edges failed to match the color scheme of the rest of the room. The jewels here were black - a deep shadowy color. Now the mayor requested that the castle not be modernized, hence the lack of lighting in any of the seven rooms. All light into the space relied on the single row of burning torches fastened into the walls of the hallway. The mayor’s eccentricities scared his guests, especially since there was a significant lack of fire extinguishers in order to preserve the “history” as he claimed. However, these torches were enough to cast an eerie glow into each of the chambers, illuminating the center of the rooms: the mirrors. But the concerning light source didn’t quite reach as far as the seventh room. What little light did penetrate through the doorway cast a ghostly appearance over everything, unnerving anyone who entered, sending shivers down their arms. Yet hardly any of the guests could gather enough courage to head down to that end of the castle.

It was in this room that against the far wall, stood the mayor’s self-proclaimed greatest invention. A guillotine to tell the time, carved from the finest mahogany wood, it’s sharpened blade hung precariously from the top of the device, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. And in fact it often dropped its blade, and when the hour struck it rang out with such a loud tremendous sound that it caused all the guests to freeze in their tracks. The echoes traveled through the ruins reaching the ears of everyone, no matter how far from the room they were. All chatter subsided and left the guests confused with a lightweight, airy expression on their faces. They stayed in this peculiar state until the echoes ceased and the blade slowly began to rise back to the top to prepare for the start of the next hour; when the whole strange occurrence would happen again.

Other than the oddities of the seventh room the party was truly a magnificent affair. The mayor had a strange liking for the decor of the past. He had a fine eye for accuracy and set the ruins up as if no time had passed at all, like the whole slew of people present were still living in medieval times themselves. His tastes were eccentric and he had a hunger for the elaborate. Some were concerned for his well being, but those in his present company were not. They knew him well enough to appreciate the maddening inner workings of his thoughts.

He had assigned the roles for the murder mystery himself, taking great care to consider who would best be suited for which outlandish character he had devised. The guests donned designer brands and layered on heaps of diamonds, claiming it helped them “embody their character” even though it was really just to flaunt their wealth. Because of this bragging show, the torch light reflected off the jewels and beams of sparkling light danced across the ceiling, bathing the partygoers in soft light. Stalking in and out of the rooms was a horde of cats. And these - the cats - hissed at all who approached them, extremely territorial of the castle they occupied. The mayor noticed ages ago that they had begun to live in the ruins but he decided to leave them there, letting them become mascots of the place; the only ones who were truly in charge. However, not even the power of the cats was enough to protect them from the fear of the guillotine’s strike. Every hour they too would freeze up along with the guests, only to begin their journey once the echoes ceased. But no one, not even the cats would venture into the seventh room. The mirror shines from the entranceway, an uninviting glow casting shadows on the faces of those who dare to get close. For those who are near the room when the guillotine strikes are overpowered with a sense of fear stronger than that of anyone else in the building.

But the other rooms were crowded with guests, carrying on the heart of the murder mystery scenario. And laughter rang through the halls and wine was poured, until the guillotine struck midnight. As usual the guests seemed to freeze in place and the cats stopped roaming the halls; and of course an airy feeling floated through their minds. It must have been something about midnight, for the echoes rung out longer than they had all night. And it may have been because there was now more time to think, to be frozen in time; but not one person seemed to have noticed the new figure slipping into the crowd. And once it spread, the knowledge that there was a new guest among them caused the people to whisper and point, fascination sparking in their eyes before quickly turning to horror.

At a party in which each of the guests is required to come adorned in costumes and elaborate pieces, the appearance of this figure normally wouldn’t illicit such a response. But the shadowy person was dressed in such a way that was horribly wrong and couldn’t possibly be explained in any kind of joking manner. Those around the stranger found themselves inching away from the monstrosity in front of them. The figure was tall and draped in a pitch black robe, glinting in the torchlight in the same way as the jewels from the seventh room’s dreaded mirror. The figure's robe was tattered and covered in streaks of blood, left open to see a gaping wound seeping blood from where their heart should be. The blood began to pool onto the floor under their feet, leaking into the cracks of the ruin’s foundations. The figure was wearing a mask that was cracked at the edges and resembled a human face; frozen in terror, blood leaking from its eye sockets joining the puddle quickly growing on the ground.

When the mayor noticed the strange sight (which began to slowly pace around the room, leaving a path of blood in its wake) he squeezed his eyes shut, perhaps to try and make it disappear, before opening his eyes in a fit of rage.

“How could you?” he shouted at the retreating figure - “I never once assigned the role of ‘dead body’ to anybody in this household! Take your mask off at once and show yourself, coward! We must know who to kick out of our quarantined estate!”

It was in the center of the ruins, atop a fallen pillar, where the mayor stood and shouted out to the newly arrived. His voice carried throughout every room in the castle - for the mayor was an intimidating man where his entertainment was concerned.

Upon the end of the mayor’s declaration the figure began to slowly pace towards him. The crowd murmured in fear and stepped away, leaving a clear path to the pillar’s edge. Seized by a sudden burst of stupidity and courage, the mayor leaped from atop the platform and rushed through the halls, grabbing a torch off the wall as he went. He backed into the seventh room and awaited the presence of the masked figure. As soon as the two of them were alone in the room with the shadowy mirror, the mayor lunged forwards and made to plunge the flames into the figure’s gaping chest wound. However, before he could make an impact, the torch rolled out of his hands and came to a stop at the far side of the room, extinguished. With confusion warping his features, the mayor looked down at his hands and back up around the room. Before he could take another step, the figure had swooped out a long arm, sweeping the mayor across the shoulder and leaving him to fall to the floor, dead. Crying out in shock and grief, the partygoers rushed at the figure in a futile attempt to try and avenge their host, as the figure stood perfectly still in front of the guillotine clock and the mirror in which no reflection could be seen. The guests ripped the mask off of the figure and fell back in shock, for there was no solid form beneath the layers of blood and disgust.

And now it was well known that the party had been cursed by the presence of the virus. It had appeared without a warning, and one by one swept its way through the crowd, making contact with each guest. And one by one they all doubled over coughing, their lungs beginning to close up before they fell to the floor as dead as their host. As the life went out of the party, the guillotine struck another hour, and the torches flickered out, plunging the place into utter and complete darkness. And fear and death and the virus held power over all.

#edgar allan poe #fiction #short story

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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Bloodied Swords

The children were fast learners when it came to cleaning weaponry. Grab the hilt, scrub off the blood, rinse away the remains, and stack in the barrels. If they worked without breaks the children could get through two hundred weapons a day; with breaks, one hundred and twenty. The littlest ones stood on bricks to reach the work benches, their grubby hands learning quickly not to touch the blade. Gloves were scarce, and only allotted to those who had been there the longest, those nearly old enough to be drafted into the war themselves. They worked before the sun came up until after it went down again, trudging home to their place in the village, weary legs collapsing upon their cots. And it repeated, day after day, for twelve years; until the village ran out of soldiers.

It was gradual at first, men would suddenly not come home to their families anymore; roses dropped outside their doors, the only message the living were allowed to give. What was only ten men not returning from battle a day became twenty men, then thirty, and finally it was seventy. The entirety of the army, wiped out by the enemy. Children wept for their fathers as wives silently mourned in what little alone time they were offered.

The enemy, ruthless as they were, refused to fall back and accept the victory that was handed to them. They wouldn’t accept surrender; surrender was the action of cowards. The attacks became more relentless, and more frequent. The outskirts of the village burned, whole families lost their homes or their lives. It wasn’t enough anymore to just sit inside and hope the threat took care of itself. It would have to be dealt with; violently. The women took charge of village maintenance and refused to leave their posts, as they believed it was their only purpose in life to serve the army, even if it was gone. So that left the children.

The breastplates fell loosely around the shoulders of the oldest, and were hopeless to attempt on the youngest. They wore helmets they couldn’t see out of and tunics worn by the fiercest of warriors, now dead, with bloodstains that never came out. Years of weapon care provided the children with the strength to lift even the heaviest of swords. They practiced on stacked bales of hay, learning the best ways to land a killing blow, and how to deflect one. Training was short, as the enemy never waits for their opponent to be prepared. And soon enough it was time to send the underprepared army of children into battle.

At first the village army was able to hold their own, defense was strong and the children put up quite the fight. They had high energy and treated the whole thing like a game, swinging their swords, the very picture of glee. The oldest ones managed to cut down a few, their swords piercing the hearts and necks of those unfortunate enough to be first in the line of soldiers. The younger ones startled at the sight of the blood and their steps began to falter, they became less certain of their movements, missing swing after swing. The first one to die was an only child, six years old, and full of stupid courage. He raced forwards to the enemy and didn’t even have an opportunity to lift his sword before he was falling towards the earth. After that, more children began to fall to the enemy. Screams resounded throughout the battlefield as fear became the primary motivator of the army, and retreat became the primary goal.

But the enemy had time to prepare themselves for the next battle after so long without a fight. They blocked off all exits, circling the helpless children as some began to drop their swords and cower in fear. Those who could think straight fell among the dead and tried to bury themselves beneath the blood and disembodied limbs, where they either died by suffocation or impalement from a falling sword. The enemy pressed in, forcing the children who were still alive to huddle in a bundle together, closer and closer, until they began to stab each other from the close proximity. Those that hadn’t been taken care of thus far, were rounded up and struck down all at once. The enemy searched the field for hours until they were certain every last one of their opponents lay dead on the ground, no mercy behind their pitiless eyes.

That night there were no roses by anyone’s doors, no one left to report on the dead. Mourning mothers filled the streets, regret fueling every step they took. They gathered at the center of the village, where a fountain lay, full of stagnant water. The mothers took turns walking into the water and submerging their bodies beneath the surface. As the sun rose the next morning the village stayed quiet and still. No one to clean the weaponry as it lay, abandoned and bloody, in the center of a massacre.

#death #shortstory #fiction #writing

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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The Three Little Spirits

The Afterlife is overflowing with spirits, an overcrowded hotel with no one over checking out. It’s a dismal place, reminiscent of the universe’s crappiest office building. Honestly, this is supposed to be some mythical, magical place where the dead go to thrive and reap the benefits of what their life brought, but it’s really just depressing. Just one mass of concrete, stretching up into the empty sky, tinted windows leading to who knows where, and billions of unhappy spirits.

I guess that’s where I come in. Supposedly long ago I had a great life where I helped a bunch of people, but it’s been so long I don’t even remember if that’s true or not. Anyways, some higher ups decided that meant I needed a job here in this miserable place. A job that isn’t necessary might I add, that only exists so we have more space for dead people to reside. Yeah I know, it sucks; and this is only my first day.

My first assignment is to “analyze” this group of triplets, whatever that means, and then decide if I think they get a second chance at life or not. That’s too much pressure for one spirit, how am I supposed to be this judge of character all of a sudden? I wasn’t even given a manual for this thing. How am I supposed to even be able to tell someone that they aren’t worthy of life? Isn’t everyone? This is too much of a moral dilemma for me to handle right now.

The elevator is clunky and rotting when I step inside. When spirits just materialize in their rooms, there really is no need for elevator maintenance. Still, the ride up makes me feel like I’m about to die for a second time. The hallway of the twenty seventh floor feels just plain creepy. The spirits aren’t permitted to leave their rooms so the hallways go unused, and same as the elevator, they are absolutely disgusting. I try not to gag as I walk past mold and spiderwebs years in the making.

The first of the triplets lives in room 2712; don’t ask, I don’t know what’s inside. I tentatively raise my fist and knock on the door. I wait - no response. I don’t know why I was expecting anything else. I knock again, but there is still no response.

Calling out, I say, “Hey! Triplet...person….spirit? I’m here to talk to you! Let me in!”

I’m about to turn and leave after more silence, but then the door shifts open a crack.

“Hello?” A small, afraid voice asks. The door opens further; and it’s a child. The spirit beyond can’t be more than ten years old. Their chest is covered in blood, they look afraid.

“Oh no,” I whisper, my voice caught in my throat. Of course I’m sending this child back to have a new life. I close my eyes and instinctively snap my fingers. I hear a gasp and upon opening my eyes the child is gone, back to start anew.

The next door houses another of the triplets. Before I call out I’ve already made the decision to send this child back. The process is nearly identical to the first of the triplets and before I know it, I’ve knocked on the door of the last triplet.

I knock and call out over and over again, but there is no response whatsoever. Frustrated, I kick the door and it easily swings open. Inside is a void of darkness with a lone figure standing in the middle. There’s a spotlight over their head and their back is turned to me. I’m afraid to step in the room.

“Hello?” I call out. The figure turns around. This time, the triplet is covered in blood from head to toe and holding something in their right hand. They smile at me, and I slowly walk in.

“Care to join me for dinner?” The triplet asks. Confused, maybe this is a test, I nod. They smile wider. Opening their hand, they show me the bloody knife they have resting on their palm.

“I hope you like fear,” The triplet raises their hand and the knife flies to my throat. I grasp at it, it can’t hurt me I know it can’t. But somehow it does. Somehow this child has rendered me frozen and my eyes start to close. I can feel myself falling to the floor, I can hear laughter. And then I find out the true definition of pain.

#fiction #shortstory #the three little pigs

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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One With the End

He woke up abruptly; it was here. He instinctively knew it was the reaper, the thing of nightmares that steals everything, leaving behind shattered lives and careless sobs. It was ridiculing him, challenging him to move.

The reaper extracts all noise from the room, leaving those unfortunate enough to encounter it in deafening silence.

The office was suddenly silent, as if all the keyboards had given up. The boss handed the man the papers telling him he had been fired, detailing his wrongdoings through pages of blame and mistakes. He ran his hand through his hair and then began to collect his belongings. His coworkers observed as if he were the most fascinating thing they had seen all day. He grabbed his box, walked down countless flights of stairs, and climbed into his car. He stewed in silence the whole way home, the air conditioner spouting pathetic blasts of air into his face before coughing one final time and succumbing to its death. The man hardly noticed, his eyes on the motorcycle in front of him with a license plate reading, wakeup. Oh how he wished he could.

He clenched his eyes shut to block the reaper from sight. It wasn’t real, and it would never be; at least not for many years. But when he opened his eyes again it was still there. It was always there.

The reaper drains all color out of the room and pockets it to feast on later.

All the color left the man’s face and he sprinted to her bedside. He gripped her hand in his and squeezed it as hard as he could, willing her to squeeze back, to prove they were lying. The baby started to cry, the tinny wails permeating his racing thoughts. The doctor pulled him off her, afraid he would break her lifeless wrist, while the baby howled on. The man threw the doctor off and rocketed down the hall, his footsteps echoing. He burst into the nearest bathroom and stared down the mirror, his red rimmed eyes filled with rage and unspeakable grief. When he couldn’t bear to see his own reflection any longer, he brought his fist up to meet the glass. Shards rained down and blood started to pour from his knuckles, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if she wasn’t there.

The man’s face contorted into resentment at the reaper for making him break the one promise that meant the world to him. He told her he would always be there for their little girl, he would do everything he could to take care of her. The man brought his fist down into his sheets, twisting the fabric until it seemed it might rip. He would do anything to never break that promise.

The reaper sucks all air out of the room, leaving anyone in its presence gasping for relief.

Air left the little girl’s lungs as she blew out the candles. The man cheered and she laughed and raced over to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his legs. The man asked her for a piece of cake, promising he would play dolls later if she agreed. Giggling, the little girl nodded, pulling the man towards the table and watching with glee as he cut the cake. He grinned back at her, handing her a slice.

The man tried to speak, but the reaper stole the words from his mouth. He silently pleaded instead, begging to see her face light up one more time. He frantically searched his mind for something, anything, he could offer but his pleadings were futile. The reaper was void of emotions, lacking any understanding of a father’s love for his little girl.

The reaper radiates a crackling energy, always ready to burst.

The little girl carried a bag that looked as if it was about to burst at the seams as she waddled into the man’s room in high heels. He glanced up from his stack of bills, forced the tired expression off his face and smiled at her as she twirled. She was dressed in a bright pink dress covered in frilly bows, and was sporting a sparkly green cowboy hat. She told him she was the queen heading to a ball, and of course he had to take a picture. How else would the public get to see their queen? He brushed aside the envelopes and picked up his phone, snapping a picture as she looked up at him, and he couldn’t help but let a genuine smile slip past his lips.

The man let the tears fall as he glanced at the photo of the little girl on his nightstand. Who would tuck her into bed and sing her favorite songs to scare the shadow monsters away? Who would pack her lunches with little drawings of fairies that she could excitedly show to her friends? Who would be there dancing around the living room with her as her face broke out in smiles? What would she do when morning arose and he wasn’t there anymore?

The reaper reeks of emptiness, exuding feelings of nausea.

The man felt nauseous watching the little girl pump her legs, swinging higher and higher. She shouted for him to look as she jumped off the swing and landed on her leg. The man rushed over and scooped her up, cradling her in his arms. The little girl’s eyes started to water as the man internally berated himself for not being there to catch her. The little girl stared up at him, and said she would be okay, that it didn’t hurt that bad. She folded her arms around his neck, and he smiled against her, knowing he couldn’t always protect her from everything. Besides, she had always been stronger than he had ever been.

The man smiled as the tears continued to fall. His little girl was his rock. He never wanted to leave her, but he had done everything he could, and what he had done was enough. He would fight for her until his last dying breath, fight until he could no longer. The reaper reached the bed and grasped the man with shadowy tendrils. He closed his eyes as his soul was sucked into the unknown, his mind now devoid of the struggles of the mortal world. He floated in the nothingness, weightless and one with the darkness.

The reaper is not merciless. It tosses the soul into the vast expanse of nothingness, leaving it neither here nor there. The reaper is generous, letting the souls be free, letting them embrace the darkness. Letting them become one with the end.

#fiction #shortstory #death

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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Potential Ideas on Broken Promises

Ashen smiles and lingering cigarette fog chased her. She stumbled forwards, her

Back turned away from drunken laughter and cold stares. She leaned heavily on the front door,

Carelessly knocking and failing to disrupt the noises of irritation from within. smudged makeup

Dotted her face, her wild eyes unable to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Echoing sobs bounced through the halls as she haphazardly tossed her bag on the counter,

Following the cries to a room lit with a single lamp. The golden glow threw shadows like

Ghosts at the ceiling, hiding the figure of the trembling child within its embrace.

Howls from the crackling television broke up her whimpers as muffled shouts shook the walls.

It wasn’t like her to be gone this late, leaving the child to contend with her own demons,

Juggling her own crippling fears, left afloat only by the appeal of a single promise. “He will be

Kind. He will love you like his own.” So the little girl held on night after night, waiting for the

Love that never came. Waiting for her mother to slither back in the night to tell her another lie.

Make another promise she couldn’t keep. The mother kissed the girl good night and left,

Nervous footsteps receding as the girl watched her lifeline disappear back into the shadows.

Opening up her covers, the girl slipped out of bed and crept to the doorway, gripping its edges,

Positioning herself as if any moment she was prepared to run. Her tears had stopped flowing but

Quieting her fear was a separate battle. She let her eyes fall shut as the voices started up again,

Reverberating through the house, getting louder and louder as the seconds passed,

Showing no sign of letting up. The girl allowed one last sob to shudder through her body before

Tiptoeing back to bed and pulling the covers up to her chin. The ghosts shifted on the ceiling,

Ugly smirks painting their faces, taunting her with their carefreeness and ability to slink into the

Void whenever they pleased, escaping the world and leaving their baggage behind. The girl

Wondered listlessly what it would be like to slip away for a moment’s time, no longer

Expected to pretend that everything was okay, that her world wasn’t falling apart, losing her

Youth with each passing shout and menacing footstep. The girl shut her eyes, the ghosts

Zipping into the void and the little girl slipping along in dreams, finding solace in the night.

#poem #fiction #iwrotethisforclass

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audreythewriter · 3 years ago

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The Figure on the Dock

I clicked on my flashlight and pointed it towards the dock. There was a figure standing there, as I knew there would be. I began to walk, careful not to startle them. They slowly turned and I dropped my flashlight. I watched it roll towards the person at the other end, watched them pick it up slowly, turning it, inspecting it.

I knew this person. We had met in some lifetime by chance. Me, on a morning coffee run; them, crashing into me, sending their handful of flowers flying. It had felt like fate. Like coming home to someone you didn’t know was waiting for you, but couldn’t imagine not being there all the same. Yet I lost them just as quickly. The shared glasses of wine, the laughter underneath the awning of our favorite restaurant, rain washing all our sorrows away. Gone. All in the flash of a moment. When the brakes didn’t work, when the cobblestones were stained a new color.

But none of that mattered anymore. They were here. At my dock, in my backyard. I finally reached them and cupped my hand around their face. They looked at me and smiled. I lowered down on the dock, feet dangling over the edge, and they followed suit, resting their head on my shoulder. We stayed there for the longest time. We didn’t need words. This was enough. They were here with me and that was all that mattered in the world.

Our fingers intertwined, our breaths reaching the same rhythm, our hearts beating in time as the moments passed us by. As the first light of the sun began to show I felt them slowly fade away. I gripped their hand tighter, willing them to stay. I wasn’t ready to lose them again. They squeezed my hand one final time before fading completely. Gone forever, a wisp in the wind. I knew this would happen, it was the same as every night. But this one hurt the most. I sit with strangers, listening to them confess their deepest regrets, hopes, wishes, and dreams before they pass on to the great beyond. But tonight was different. I knew them, I had fallen in love with them. And now they were gone. It felt cruel that they would come my way again, rekindling my hopes only to snatch them away just as quickly.

I let the tears fall as I watched the sun come up and the birds fly above the water. I breathed in the bittersweet smell of the morning air, feeling the cool breeze on my skin. I was still here, I wasn’t broken. I find closure for those who need it most, but maybe I needed closure too. To know that they never stopped caring either, to have one last fleeting moment. I took in a deep breath and exhaled, feeling a laugh bubble up as I thought of all the good times we shared. Somewhere out there, I think I heard them laugh too.

#shortstory #fiction #iwrotethisforclass

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