A Short Story : A Story?

It was just for one night, thought she as she closed the window. The wind is howling and the rain is conducting a symphony of drums against the glass. She turns around and starts walking across the room, the white carpet is soft underneath her bare feet, as she walks to her chair, fixing up her mess of long, beautiful black hair into a messy bun. She has the hair of a Disney princess and the school thought she's one of the most beautiful girls in the entire class, with eyes of ice and a heart of gold. Underneath the mountain of clothes she has yet to put away she finds a towel and hands it to Roman. He takes it from her, their hands lightly touch and he flashes that million dollar, white as snow smile. His dad must be drinking again. Why else

As I closed the door, “Marie, honey we’re in here!” I heard from down the hallway.

The sun was high in the sky, gleaming down on us. The air was breezy, but not cold. The day was ordinary, or so it seemed. But what was out of place? That would be my brother, the only person who could possibly get himself into such a situation, with his impossible ability to almost die, but just miss the mark. As he sat there on the ground with his back to us, legs sprawled out in front of him, we didn’t even realize that there was anything wrong. Hold on a second. Let’s rewind this just a little.

Mrs.Chipley and Sally are at the front door soaking wet the moon was so close I felt like I could touch it. We knocked on the door someone was opening the door.

It was a rough couple of days after that. She decided not to go to school, afraid her emotions would get the best of her. She pretended that she had a fever and rolled in bed for what seemed like hours, worrying her busy mother. "Are you sure you'll be alright, honey? I dont want to-"

All of James' life he thought that he was just a simple man and that he would die, perfectly ordinary, in his small village. For 18 years he had lived life as it came to him, growing up in Thornwood. His life was peaceful and dull. Every day since he was young he gathered edibles and alchemy ingredients from the forest, to be sold at a small price. It was an easy job that he was good enough at, but for a long time, he had held a secret dream, to leave this place. If only he had more money, more power, he could do whatever he wanted.

I held open the door for the boy and he mumbled something inaudible as he shuffled past me. “It’s just sitting on that first pew over there,” I told the boy as I slowly began to pull the athame from having had it tucked away in my waistband. “Ah, man!” the boy exclaimed. “What the hell is that… did something die in here?”

Snow was a blanket upon Atlas’ austere domain, almost blindingly glistening against the waning sun. The chilling breeze bit at cheeks and battered noses until they were tinged pink. Children wandered the streets with deftly-crafted snowballs and prepared for a winter’s war while adults huddled cozily inside by the crackling fire. The bitter, arctic season was upon them.

As the young woman clung to the picture a single tear rolled down her cheek. She could not believe that it had been 363 days, 4 hours and 7 minutes since the day. As she walked downstairs and plopped down on the couch covered with dust, she smelled the sharp stench of alcohol. Of course, her mom had her morning 5 shots of vodka mixed with, you don’t even want to know.

The morning light shined bright, the breeze blew softly. A perfect day in utopia. This was also the day Kristina Baker ended the lives of four young citizens. She lived a wonderful life, until she murdered the family on her twenty-first birthday. Kristina Baker graduated high school winning the title of Class Valedictorian, started multiple foundations and charities to support cancer awareness, and went on to attend Harvard University. With beautiful lemon blonde hair, everyone envied her at school.

75 miles per hour. 80...85. Grave pressed on the gas. 100 miles per hour. They had to drive him into a corner. They had to keep him contained. But where?.... Grave watched the car in front of him take a left. He spoke into his radio,

Hetty brought a tortoise the day after her daughter died. Her only daughter, as it turned out. Her only daughter and her only tortoise, as it had also turned out. That was almost twenty years ago. The tortoise, Bertram, was, all these years later, still going strong. Still ambling around the house like an old man with dementia, bumping into furniture, getting lodged beneath furniture and nibbling said furniture in case it turned out to be as edible (or more edible) than it appeared. Sometimes, often in fact, he would creep up behind Hetty while she was doing the washing up or making breakfast, lunch or dinner and she was now in the habit, had been for approximately nineteen and a half years, of checking where she was putting her feet before moving away from the sink, the cooker or the kitchen surface, or anywhere else she had been standing still for longer than a couple of minutes, so as to prevent herself from feeling Bertram’s hard carapace beneath her foot, or worse, hearing the soft crunch of that carapace being crushed beneath her shoe.

A humming engine roars through the brisk morning air. Two men dressed in grey suits drive in a white car, their dress matching the dull sky. The driver has light brown hair, slicked straight back. His partner in the passenger seat sports dark hair and dark brown eyes, his short hair parted to one side.

It was the smell of smoke that was the reason I awoke on that dreadful night.The smoke was not from that of a candle nor of a fire, but rather the heavy pungent smoke from a cigarette.The unmistakable scent sent shivers racing up my spine and memories seeping into my brain.In the 25 years, I have lived only one individual I had encountered smoked strawberry cigarettes.I sat silently and pleaded that I was still dreaming, that the scent was conjured up by my imagination.And when I finally did sit up in bed I let out a blood-curdling scream.Standing in the doorway of the room watching me intently was my father.

“MASON! Can you come down here please?” I heard my mom scream for the 10th time. I ran down the stairs to see what she needed. “What do you need mom?” I asked. “So what are you doing for your summer job? Are you still going to help out around the campground? We do have new people coming you can help them.” She wondered. “Mom do we really have to talk about this again? Why do I need to get a job? I can help out around the house like I always do and I can still enjoy my summer doing that.” I said started to get annoyed. “Mason you need to get a job and start earning your own money. How about Barns and Noble? You don’t know how to read anyways maybe they can teach you.” She shot back. “Hahaha mom so funny. I’ll go check it out after I finish unpacking.”