This was a 250 word piece written based on the picture below, a large number of alpine horns. I wrote from the perspective of someone experiencing sensory issues in relation to them.
She flinched as she stepped into the station. It was silent, but she knew the horror that awaited her. It wasn’t the subway’s coming and going, that was calm, rhythmic, and comforting. It wasn’t the sound of people talking, even though it reached a dull roar. The PA system was a joke, only in the case of a delay did this place become quiet enough to hear it over the din. None of these were the sounds that she braced herself against as she entered the tunnel that would go to her train.
Maybe, maybe they weren’t here today, she hoped, a little desperate. She was halfway through and was on her way to relaxing when it started. First a small sound, tentative, but pitched in a way that made her shudder and walk faster. They had moved.
Then the first horn sounded in full, and she went from a walk to a run, trying to escape the echoing tunnel, but it was too late. Just as she turned the corner, and saw them full on, it exploded. Dozens of the alpine horns began to bellow, the sound reverberating through her head feeling as if they were rattling her brain. She froze a moment and then fled, grateful as she left the tunnel and saw the door open on an arriving train. She jumped on, hoping this was the train she had wanted to take.
As the doors closed, and silence fell, she cursed the hornists, her head pounding.
This tiny horror fic was inspired by the scene of a young girl laying in a field of flowers in a blue dress day dreaming. I am sure you know the one I am not mentioning explicitly. It quickly took a very dark turn.
She lay in the field, eyes closed, the sun warm on her skin. She relaxed as the long grass cushioned her body, and tuned out the screaming.
She ignored the liquid splattering on her, stupid brother never could leave her alone. “Stop splashing Jonah.” She said languidly in what she assumed was his direction as more hit her. She didn’t bother opening her eyes.
“Not doin’ it on purpose, she won’t stop strugglin’.” He whinged.
Another splatter, had her frowning, and then she smiled as the noise and splashing stopped. God, it really was the most beautiful day out.
So this was based on a song that I accidentally set as my alarm for two months. Which is very random I know, but bonus points if you can guess the song in question.
She looked down at the diploma in her hand, and she knew she had made it. The job she had waiting for her was the icing on the cake.
She wished that she could talk to her past self. The woman that cowered. That stayed when she should have left. The woman who let someone else make her believe that she was nothing without them.
She would tell her that she could do it. That leaving would be the best and worst day of her life. That the fear she felt was only temporary, and the relief she would feel wasn’t. That it wouldn’t be easy, and that she would be miserable for a while, but the misery would eventually end.
That she would end up standing here today, with a diploma. Alone, but happy.
So this is another Jimmie prompt that I wrote some time back, but got pushed in posting due to camp nanowrimo, and then my August event. It was based on the picture below, and once again my microfiction is horror, is it just me or does the genre call for it?
She stepped into the empty Victorian house, and remembered what Savannah had said. “Perfect restoration except the bathrooms and kitchen. Compromise is necessary for convenience.”
It was lovely, but it felt wrong walking through alone like this. Could she really live here? It was supposed to be her sister’s fresh start. Savannah who had lived a few hard years moved in here two months prior. It seemed like everything was looking up, and then…
She shook her head to clear it as she stepped into the kitchen and saw the bulletin board. The movers must have missed it. It was covered in blank post-it notes except one in the center. It said “Make things happen” in her sister’s handwriting.
She stifled a sob as she ran her fingers over it, and as her finger brushed the next note she realized it wasn’t blank at all.
In a flash she remembered Savie’s love of mystery novels, specifically the invisible ink. She fumbled in her purse, hoping she still had a spare blacklight from work. She did.
She turned off the lights, and flipped on the flashlight. The post-ts all had the same message “Help Me”.
It was on the walls too. Dozens of different types of writing, most of which looked finger painted. Then she realized that it wasn’t paint splattered, and smeared on the walls. The black light went dead.
She stumbled blindly to the door and flung herself out onto the porch gasping. She was selling the house.