Here I will post short stories, writing challenge creations, poems, excerpts from my diary, excerpts from your diary, and generally anything I made up and feel like sharing.
A Valentine's Day Short Story:
He placed the last candle by the window. That made fifty in all. Fifty tiny, flickering, battery operated candles, that gave the room a lovely artificial glow. She wouldn’t mind that they were electric. It was the thought that counted.
The music was soft and slow, the way it had been on their first date, and again on their wedding night. She liked soft, slow music almost as much as she liked the champagne that he had brought in under his coat. One glass was all it ever took to get her feeling like she was floating.
After placing the roses in a vase near the bed, there was one more thing he needed. He turned his back to her so that she couldn’t see, not that she would be peeking, but it was a natural part of surprising someone. The chocolate covered strawberries he pulled from the bag need not have been removed so carefully. They had rolled around during the car ride and were a bit of a mess. With a sigh, he opened the carton and shifted them around, trying to fix the presentation.
She didn’t wake when he sat down on the bed after setting the tray of strawberries on the small table. Nor did she wake when he leaned down to kiss her, and to brush the hair from her forehead, where it always seemed to fall.
A whispered “I love you” went unheard, and his smile unseen, but he opened the smuggled bottle of champagne, and poured two glasses, one of which he set on the table, where it would stay for a while.
Watching from the doorway, two women sighed and turned away. “If that doesn’t wake her up, nothing will,” the first said.
The second woman smiled for a moment. “If I was in a coma, I doubt my husband would go to all that trouble.”
“Yeah, mine either. But at least we know it’s Valentine’s Day.” She glanced toward the room, feeling a wistfulness that would follow her the rest of the day.
© 2018
He placed the last candle by the window. That made fifty in all. Fifty tiny, flickering, battery operated candles, that gave the room a lovely artificial glow. She wouldn’t mind that they were electric. It was the thought that counted.
The music was soft and slow, the way it had been on their first date, and again on their wedding night. She liked soft, slow music almost as much as she liked the champagne that he had brought in under his coat. One glass was all it ever took to get her feeling like she was floating.
After placing the roses in a vase near the bed, there was one more thing he needed. He turned his back to her so that she couldn’t see, not that she would be peeking, but it was a natural part of surprising someone. The chocolate covered strawberries he pulled from the bag need not have been removed so carefully. They had rolled around during the car ride and were a bit of a mess. With a sigh, he opened the carton and shifted them around, trying to fix the presentation.
She didn’t wake when he sat down on the bed after setting the tray of strawberries on the small table. Nor did she wake when he leaned down to kiss her, and to brush the hair from her forehead, where it always seemed to fall.
A whispered “I love you” went unheard, and his smile unseen, but he opened the smuggled bottle of champagne, and poured two glasses, one of which he set on the table, where it would stay for a while.
Watching from the doorway, two women sighed and turned away. “If that doesn’t wake her up, nothing will,” the first said.
The second woman smiled for a moment. “If I was in a coma, I doubt my husband would go to all that trouble.”
“Yeah, mine either. But at least we know it’s Valentine’s Day.” She glanced toward the room, feeling a wistfulness that would follow her the rest of the day.
© 2018
'Tis the season for spooky stories, and so I present to you:
Archie's Nightmare
Nightmares, not memories. That’s what they were. That’s what they had to be. Horrible, frightening visions that came in the night and stayed there. Archie couldn’t say for certain that there was no such thing as ghosts, but he was very comfortable keeping them in that small collection of things seen only in dreams.
Maybe buying the old house was a bad idea. The previous owners had joked about a “friendly ghost” who occupied the pantry. A strange but kind elderly couple, they seemed to have an attachment to their pet spirit, but Archie didn’t pay them any mind. He’d found that smiles and nods always satisfied old people when they were trying to tell you something.
Archie’s first night in the house was as uneventful as he could have hoped. The usual creaking sounds didn’t keep him up late, nor did the knocking pipes wake him before dawn. It was in the morning that the strangeness began.
Everything looked the same as the night before, except that his slippers were on the wrong side of the bed. He couldn’t remember moving them, but shrugged it off and went about his day.
The flowers were harder to overlook. Fresh flowers on the kitchen table. No note. Door still locked. Perhaps the Watsons had brought them as a parting gift, although he was certain they’d given him all their keys to the house.
Finding that doors had locked on their own was more frustrating than anything. New places had their quirks, he knew, but he was starting to get a bad feeling and that bad feeling was eerily familiar.
The house was suddenly a bit confining, so Archie spent the rest of that Saturday in the garden. The Watsons had kept it up nicely. There wasn’t a weed to be found. The one bad spot was a rose bush in a stone planter right in the center. By all appearances, the thing was long dead, but closer inspection showed signs of trimming and fertilizing. Hopeful people, the Watsons.
Evening shadows forced him back inside his house, although Archie would firmly deny that he’d needed forcing. He was starting to remember something, and whatever it was, he didn’t think he’d like it. Twice, he thought he’d heard someone in the next room, but no one was there.
Going to bed early was not something he did often, but the day seemed very long and draining and tomorrow sounded better and better. Sleep came quickly, and so did the dream.
She was there again; hovering over him, laughing at him, looking through him as though he were the one without a body. “Follow me,” she said. She laughed again as he shook his head. “Follow, and I’ll show you my special place.”
He tried to hide under the covers, but she was there beside him. “Come, Archie,” she whispered. “You’re too old for this.”
Archie’s eyes snapped open and his hand flew to his ear. Something cold had been there. The dream replayed itself in his head. Panic gave way to reason and Archie rolled onto his side. “Just that old nightmare,” he said. “It was a nightmare, Archie, not a memory.” He touched a hand to his ear again. Warm now. “Nightmares, not memories,” he muttered, still not closing his eyes. He would forget it by morning.
A figure in the corner smiled to herself. He was always saying that.
Maybe buying the old house was a bad idea. The previous owners had joked about a “friendly ghost” who occupied the pantry. A strange but kind elderly couple, they seemed to have an attachment to their pet spirit, but Archie didn’t pay them any mind. He’d found that smiles and nods always satisfied old people when they were trying to tell you something.
Archie’s first night in the house was as uneventful as he could have hoped. The usual creaking sounds didn’t keep him up late, nor did the knocking pipes wake him before dawn. It was in the morning that the strangeness began.
Everything looked the same as the night before, except that his slippers were on the wrong side of the bed. He couldn’t remember moving them, but shrugged it off and went about his day.
The flowers were harder to overlook. Fresh flowers on the kitchen table. No note. Door still locked. Perhaps the Watsons had brought them as a parting gift, although he was certain they’d given him all their keys to the house.
Finding that doors had locked on their own was more frustrating than anything. New places had their quirks, he knew, but he was starting to get a bad feeling and that bad feeling was eerily familiar.
The house was suddenly a bit confining, so Archie spent the rest of that Saturday in the garden. The Watsons had kept it up nicely. There wasn’t a weed to be found. The one bad spot was a rose bush in a stone planter right in the center. By all appearances, the thing was long dead, but closer inspection showed signs of trimming and fertilizing. Hopeful people, the Watsons.
Evening shadows forced him back inside his house, although Archie would firmly deny that he’d needed forcing. He was starting to remember something, and whatever it was, he didn’t think he’d like it. Twice, he thought he’d heard someone in the next room, but no one was there.
Going to bed early was not something he did often, but the day seemed very long and draining and tomorrow sounded better and better. Sleep came quickly, and so did the dream.
She was there again; hovering over him, laughing at him, looking through him as though he were the one without a body. “Follow me,” she said. She laughed again as he shook his head. “Follow, and I’ll show you my special place.”
He tried to hide under the covers, but she was there beside him. “Come, Archie,” she whispered. “You’re too old for this.”
Archie’s eyes snapped open and his hand flew to his ear. Something cold had been there. The dream replayed itself in his head. Panic gave way to reason and Archie rolled onto his side. “Just that old nightmare,” he said. “It was a nightmare, Archie, not a memory.” He touched a hand to his ear again. Warm now. “Nightmares, not memories,” he muttered, still not closing his eyes. He would forget it by morning.
A figure in the corner smiled to herself. He was always saying that.
Copyright 2012. May not be reproduced without permission.