You Can’t Go Home Again

This six-sentence story using the word “Shelter” is proof that you can be inspired by one thing, and write something entirely different. I was thinking shelter from the storm, listening to Castle on a Cloud, thinking about pour Cosette, when I wrote a story of a girl who wakes up somewhere with no clear memory of how she got there, and the overwhelming temptation of food.

When she awoke it was like she was laying on a cloud, she had never felt something so soft and hadn’t been so warm since summer. She would have stayed there forever had it not been for the smell of warm bread, and she was so hungry when she hopped down, she didn’t notice the strange texture of the walls, like the bark of a tree, or that the ground beneath her feet was actually a thick moss; she didn’t even notice the strange gown she was was wearing, light as feather, soft as silk, and terribly warm.

She found the bread, along with fresh cream, fruit, more food than she had even seen before really, and she barely resisted the urge to cram her mouth full of it. Something about this seemed so familiar to her, and yet it was hovering at the edge of her memory, just out of reach.

She blinked as she tried to clear her head, remember how she got here, but all she could recall was running into the forest, snow like knives against her bare feet, desperate for shelter from the cold of winter, knowing if she returned to town she would lose a hand for the theft of a meat pie a week prior, and if she stayed outside she would die.

Her last clear memory was of finding food, a circle of mushrooms, she had whirled around in the center of it at her good fortune, and, and, the smell of bread overwhelmed her thoughts, she was half way through the load when she realized what she had done, but by then it was too late, she could never go home again.

For the Love of Dairy

This was written for the six sentence story prompt juice. It is an ode to milk, and the sad story of someone who found out that they will no longer be able to drink it. As I exist partially on cheese, I cannot myself imagine enduring this.

She looked down at the “milk” in her glass, and a frown furrowed her brow. It wasn’t milk, there hadn’t been any milk in months, since she finally went to the doctor about her stomach problems and was diagnosed as lactose intolerant.

She couldn’t do soy, not with her thyroid issues, and as much as they wanted to call what she was trying now milk, there was a part of her brain that remembered the meme, and could only remember the term nut juice.

She stared into the glass a little while longer, trying to get up the nerve to try it, everyone said that she would love it, it was better than milk even, but at the end of the day it wasn’t what she was craving. She probably would have thrown it out, but it was so expensive that she just couldn’t bring herself to do it, it was a waste of food and money.

In the end, she was saved by her roommate, who loved almond milk, and was more than willing to take it off her hands, and Ashleigh had an unsatisfactory glass of water.

A Zealous Missive

This was written for the six-sentence story prompt “express” on girlontheedge’s blog. I got stuck on the concept of expression, as in express one’s feelings, and ended up writing what would be considered epistolary fiction, on someone expressing their deeply hidden feelings for their boss.

Dear Mr. Thomas, I am writing this letter to you to express the true depth of my feelings for you, which I have wished to do for sometime, but did not dare to until now.

I have walked around each day with a smile on my face, pretending everything was normal, that I was just another employee and you my employer, when this cannot be further from the truth.

To state it plainly, I loathe you, every fiber of your being, from your shady business practices, to your your oil slick voice, all the way to your perfectly quaffed hair.

I hate the way you fired the most senior of us to save a buck, then punished us all for not hitting deadlines on projects that were assigned to other people a week ago, and are now our responsibility with no time to catch up.

I despise the way you call yourself an upstanding citizen, when what I really want more than anything is to hit you upside your upstanding head until you realize that your actions have consequences that affect more than just you.

She signed the letter sincerely, Jane Howowitz, and then tossed it in the shredder, taking Mr. Thomas a cup of tea, barely resisting a glare as his eyes lingering too long on her behind.


Okay, so this was written for the six sentence story prompt of charm, by girlontheedge. I am blaming this one on the fact I am reading The Stand by Stephen King right now, because its strange and a little twisted. It started off as a cute little idea, someone with a good luck charm, a rabbit’s foot, then it was the foot from a real rabbit, and then the guy carrying it got dark, and well, Happy New Year!

He walked into the house with a good luck charm in his pocket that you wouldn’t realize was the actual foot of a rabbit unless you got close enough to see the small rust colored stain on the fur where it was attached to the keychain like all the dollar store knock offs.

He was a superstitious man, even though his job relied far more on precision and skill than luck, but when you were raised by a woman like his grandmother, the superstition never quite left you, even when you knew it was foolish. 

He was a hard man, the type that in another time people would have accepted as a necessary evil, someone who got things done regardless of the costs, but in the here and now, his ruthless efficiency and cold demeanor scared most people when he let down his mask.  Even when it was up, it was like they could sense it, a lingering aura of death following him home in the case for his M82, which he carefully stowed in his attic until his next job.

When he was clean, and clothed, the charm back in his pocket,  he practiced in the mirror until the smile on his face no longer looked plastic, and then he picked up a different case and walked across the road, bracing himself for the noise within.

He stepped through the door, fifteen minutes before midnight, handing over the case of champagne with his apologies to the host, and sat surrounded by the unsuspecting sheep from his neighborhood, one hand in his pocket, fiddling with the rabbit’s foot to make sure he brought only good luck into the New Year.