Post your stories in the comment section below. The story with the most LIKES will be featured in a future post! Deadline will be 11:59 pm EST Monday.
*Author’s Note: I wrote this short story over five years ago. It’s dark. It’s creepy. It’s one of my secular, mainstream stories that I decided NOT to submit for publication now on Wattpad.
Leesa, a mother and wife, contemplates on the undesirable state of her life…but one should be careful, you might just get what you wished for in the most unexpected of ways.
Shadows wavered in the expansive backyard as the woman peered through the round window in front of her. The reflection within the twilight didn’t reveal a happy face. The skin under her brown eyes, fixed on the deck that spread beneath the small set of panes, sagged with a purplish hue. Premature wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth. No, she definitely wasn’t a happy person. Her hands mindlessly moved each dish from the stainless steel sink, rinsed under cool water, and then carefully placed in the racks of the dishwasher. She then reached for the knife and grabbed the wrong end.
“Damn it!” She recoiled and placed the bleeding finger into her mouth.
Nope, it’s been the week from hell, and this was just another reminder that it hasn’t end yet.
Voices drifted into the room from a nearby television.
“Here are our top news of the hour.” A male news anchor said. “State and Federal law officials are investigating multiple cases involving children who have gone missing in the past three days. In every cases, each child reported to have disappeared sometime between bedtime and morning…”
“Frank.” She turned her head towards the living room. “Please turn it to something else.”
“Yes, dear.” A man’s voice said.
A click sounded and a commercial about a brand of soda came on. She went back to rinsing a coffee mug with the uninjured hand when the floor board creaked. She turned and smiled at her four-year old daughter who stood, wearing a pink nightgown, at the entrance of the kitchen.
Renee. The small child was the only source of joy in her otherwise joyless life.
“What’s the matter, Renee? Did you have a bad dream?”
The girl shook her head, locks of blonde curls waved over her petite shoulders. “No, mummy.”
Mother picked up a towel to dry her hands. “What’s wrong then?
“There’s a boogeyman in my room.”
I have two other short stories also on Wattpad. These two have been previously published.
Gabriela Pereira: “Share an example of when resistance has pointed you toward a writing project that was juicy and high-stakes… and maybe even a little bit scary. Did you face that fear head-on and overcome your resistance? What was the result of pursuing (or not pursuing) that project?”
This is a tough one. I’ve encountered a lot of resistance to a lot of things for many reasons in my life.
Where to even begin?
There’s resistance due to having disabilities, and feeling inferior in that I don’t feel I will ever amount to anything.
There’s resistance due to experiencing verbal and emotional abuse as a girl, and then some as an adult, and along comes the feeling of not being good enough for anything or anyone.
These usually result in self-sabotaging myself so instead of succeeding in life, I end up failing or being bypassed for career opportunities.
A typical mantra I kept repeating and believing in.
And what did I end up with?
A lifetime of regrets.
I could play the blame game, or a victim, but I won’t.
There are things I want to share with my readers, to let out, but I don’t want to hurt certain loved ones. So, I thought about writing certain experiences in my fictional stories in hope that it will provide the cathartic healing that my soul yearns for.
So, I wrote dark poetry, and dark flash stories. I journaled in notebooks now hidden away. And as the years melted away, some of the pain from the past went along with them.
Now, I’m hoping to write my first book, and already I’m hit with fears and the feelings of inadequacy. Why? The book is a romance story with bits of comedy…what do I have to be afraid of?
That I want to be an author? That I desire to be traditionally published?
That I want to be–successful?
Then an idea hit me.
Why don’t I write in certain subplots that involve abuse in relation to PTSD by using my own personal childhood and adulthood experiences?
Yeah, I think this might just work.
Now that’s Christmas is over it’s time to focus on the New Year. 2017 was a fairly good year overall both personally and as a writer.
I saw a few of my writings published:
The Hungry Chimera Literary Journal (two poems)
Doll Hospital Journal (essay)
Motionpoems, Inc (film credit/interviewed both poet & film-maker)
Piker Press (poem)
I took on a role as a moderator (in a team of four) for Tuesday Serial; as well as a moderator for the weekly THURSDAY TALK SHOP over at Facebook with We PAW Bloggers (of which I plan to step down to a lesser role for the coming year). I’ve created and am trying to grow (hopefully to add a few volunteers to help) Serial Fiction Digest (Twitter, Facebook, blog).
2018 is looking to be a year of crossroads for me as a writer. I plan to work on a romance (clean) novel as well as continue to plan out another. In the past, I’ve focused mainly on flash fiction, poetry and serial fiction. I will continue with these forms, but gradually shifting some of my attention/time to writing a book-length story. My goal is to be not just a writer, but an author.
I will be taking on a role as a citizen journalist for The Crossover Alliance (a Christian publishing company) of which I am very excited about.
What about you? How was 2017 for you as a writer? Have any specific goals for the new year?
(for each comment, I will stop by and read your most recent blog post! 🙂 )
Nearly a year passed since the start of the undead plague
she’s been on her own since
in an empty house, in a not-so-empty neighborhood.
she decorated the dead tree with handmade ornaments
made from cereal boxes;
took the last can of Spam as her treat for the white bearded man
and placed the plate on a table beside the sofa.
With a bat in hand, and the sounds of death rattling at the front door,
she fell asleep on the dusty furniture
in front of the cold, stoned hearth.
Rustling sounds awoke her
with a great start,
as she swung the bat through air,
a voice sounded,
a voice so beautiful and warm
it caused her eyes to sprang open;
she stared at the not-so-frightful sight.
A chubby man dressed in a red suit
stood before her;
she blinked and swinted
thinking she’d died already or just dreaming
but saw that this was no dream
he was really real!
He held out his hand,
“Come, let me take you to a wonderful place.”
In a blink of an eye, she found herself
on the roof-top
where a sleigh and eight reindeer stood waiting.
Santa, beside her now, smiled;
a smile she’d thought never would form on her lips again,
she returned with glee.
Over at the WritersCafe.org, I recently ran a contest called, It’s the Apocalypse!
First placed winner had the option to see their story turned in to a video which she opted for. I’m sharing her winning story in video format below:
I’m running one other contest over at WritersCafe.org where the winning item will have the option to see their story turned in to a video like above. If you’re interested, just click in the image below!
*Note: This story’s inspired by the very first short story I ever wrote decades ago.
Penny, the new kid on the block, stood in front of an old, rickety house along with two new-found friends.
She swallowed hard as she stepped up to the front door.
“Don’t be a scaredy cat and go in!” Darla called out.
Inside the dank-smelling entryway, cobwebs littered every nook and cranny. Dark and not a living soul present as the young girl walked down a hallway.
A movement on her right caused Penny to pause.
On the long, narrow table sat a huge glass platter with a steel cover.
The cover rattled ever so slightly.
She slowly reached for the metallic lid, and lifted it.
The first thing she saw was the wrinkled balding head, and in a great start, she released her grasp on the heavy top which landed on the hard floor with a thunderous clang that echoed throughout the building.
Her brown eyes widened as she stared at what sat on the glass dish.
A head of an elderly man who appeared to be asleep. His skin pallor and sunken except for one eye where folds of flesh drooped.
The sight had her rooted to the spot as she held her breath fearing that any noise would awaken him.
Suddenly, his eyes sprung opened. Black as coals they completely mesmerized Penny…
Until the mouth opened and an evil cackle bellowed from it.
She turned and ran screaming out of the house, and didn’t stop screaming until she reached her friends down on the curbs.
What dismayed her further was that they were laughing.
“It’s not funny!” She said.
Darla, the brunette, giggled through her hands but it was the blondie who spoke.
“If only you could have seen your face!” Roxie said as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
Penny glared at them. “You knew about this?”
“Oh yeah.” Darla finally replied. “Old man Marco’s been doing this every year for years.”
The red-head folded her arms at her two so-called friends. “And where does he usually pull this prank?”
“In the kitchen. On the table with the red cloth.” Roxie answered.
“Well, his head was on a platter in the hallway between the kitchen and living room.” Penny stated. “And it did NOT have ANY table cloth.”
Roxie and Darla looked at her.
“Go on.” Penny pointed to the house. “Go check on the old man!”
Clasping each other’s hand, the two girls walked across the front yard, and through the door way disappearing into the murkiness.
Penny continued to stand with her arms folded, and waited.
Moments passed before screeching screams sounded through the house, and the pale-faced girls galloped outside, nearly colliding with Penny.
Unmoved, Penny asked, “Well?”
“Th-that wasn’t Marco!” Darla said. “And-and there was no body under the table!”
“But the head is real, right?” Penny asked.
Both girls nodded in earnest.
All pairs of eyes turned to the house just as the front door creaked shut.