Story Sunday: Journey’s End

 

There, he stood at the twilight of life

where the sun quickly descended for the horizon.

He glanced back and saw all the closed doors.

So many.

Regrets. Wrecked promises. Missed opportunities.

Yet…

there were also realized dreams, unbroken vows, seeds sowed now in full blooms.

Legacies to live beyond the barriers of the physical body.

No, he refused to linger another moment

for there was one remaining door to cross,

into the rising moonbeams that will carry him

up, up

to the final journey.

 

 

 

 

 

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#Halloween #Story The House

 

*Author’s Note: I’m re-posting a story from one year ago.  This one was based on the very first short story I wrote as an eleven-year-old and of all genres I naturally wrote a horror story.  🙂

 

 

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 open. 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.

At her.

“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 tablecloth.”

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 doorway 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 was real, right?” Penny asked.

Both girls nodded in earnest.

All pairs of eyes turned to the house just as the front door creaked shut.

Friday’s Story Prompt Challenge #9

Pixabay

 

October is the month for all things Halloween related and hence this spooky image.

For this Story Prompt Challenge we’ll use the image and the following setting:

You and your little sister woke up, and discovered you both are in a dark, creepy forest. There is a structure nearby, and the door has opened.

What happens from here will be up to you.  You’ll have until October 26th to write your version of the story (500 words and less). From there an open vote will be taken.  The winner will receive a badge, and the story will be featured on this blog (and if you’re open to the opportunity, be interviewed which would also be included in with the featured story).

*Author’s Note of Apology: In the last Challenge, I’d like to apologize to the sole participant for not creating a video of your story. If you’re still interested, I could go ahead and create one and post to this blog even though it’s a bit late.  Just let me know. 🙂 

Friday Fun (A Story Prompt Challenge #8)

 

 

You’re face to face with a large creature…

Write what happens next in less than 100 words.  You’ll have until 11:59pm EST Monday to do it!

All entry items will then be compiled in to a poll, and voted on.  Winner will see his/her story in video format.

Have fun!

Time To Vote For Your Favorite Story! (July 6th Story Prompt Challenge)

 

 

Story A

Yum, he thought, that hiker was delicious. And the new clothes were just the right size for him too, though the shoes and the hat were a little too shabby. Yep, he’d been a hiker himself — actually more like on the run, ever since he escaped that circus sideshow — but he’d found a place here that suited him fine. High in the mountains, isolated, plenty of unspoiled water to drink in the stream, and best of all the hunting for food was almost too easy.

 

Story B

Path of Seasons

In spring, the explorer jumps at the possibilities his map presents. One step, the flowers bloom, the rains fall.

Another step and summer blazes. His face is rugged now, the map unnecessary, compass barely helpful. The trail is his friend, adventure his companion.

One more stride and the leaves fall. A look at the map reveals wasted time – why didn’t he travel beyond the known? But now he tires easy and can’t travel as far.

Walking into winter, the explorer takes off his hat and boots. He drops the map, a few new trails marked by his own hand.

 

 

*Video for the winning story should be live by early to mid-August.

#IWSG: The Ultimate Writing Goals

Click on the image to access this group’s official page

 

This month’s question: What are your ultimate writing goals, and how have they changed over time (if at all)?

 

Ultimately, like many other writers, I’d love to have a book published. But, fearing that I’d be penalized by Social Security (am on disability benefits for my progressive vision loss-called Usher Syndrome) I can’t earn very much so I’ve tabled that…for now.  In the meantime, I write poetry and short (as well as flash) fiction of which some are published in various zines.

Another one of my goals is to learn the playwriting craft, and attempt an one-act play.  I already have a title, just need to write it.  I then would love to see it performed through a local Council for the Arts performance group. Having moved to North Dakota back in 2015, I haven’t made too many friends yet; I figure what better way to get to know people in the community than through the local arts.

I don’t think my writing goals have changed much over the years (started writing seriously in 2007) since they usually involve being published in some capacity which I have done with several of my short works.

 

What about you?  What are some of your biggest goals that you would like to fulfill?

 

 

Story Sunday: The Final Sunset

 

She watches as the sun slowly lowered in the purple-hued sky.  Another day is done, and she is alone.

Not really by choice.  Not directly, anyway.

She blames the booze.  She also blames her mother who introduced it to her before she was even in high school.  And because of them both, she never saw graduation.  Just endless days and months in rehab centers.

All for what?

To end up alone and penniless?

Today she buried her mother.  Rather, a woman who gave birth to her.  She never really cared for her.  Not as much as she cared for those colored bottles that forever littered their home.

Mother died a drunk.  That is what she’ll always be known for. Not as a woman who tried to raise a daughter by herself.  Not as a woman who nursed sick and premature babies back to health.  And certainly not as a woman who became the town’s first female mayor.

No, her life has and will always be linked to the bottle.

For years, she defied her mother.  She never wanted to end up like her.

She stood over the wooden casket, deep in the hallowed earth, and allowed the tears to flow.  Not for her mother.  She was happy that the woman, the thorn in her side, was gone. No, she cried for herself.  For her unborn child.

What kind of future will her baby have if her or his mother was a drunk?

A nobody?

Her eyes turn up to the darkening sky. Stars glittering among the dark purple clouds.  A soft breeze sweeps over her like a whisper. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head to one side to listen to this whisper as if it has some great secret to share.

With her eyes still closed, she smiles.

She still has something that her mother no longer has…

A tomorrow.

Another chance of a new beginning.