This is not an exaggeration.
This week’s story will be posted soon. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s seventh year!
The Year of Prompts is done! That was the theme for Storyfeather Year Seven. Take a writing prompt and write a short story from it.
Thank you to everyone who read even a single story. Thank to you everyone who liked or commented. Thank you for your time and interest, and for being a part of Storyfeather, especially Year Seven.
A lot happens in the seventh year stories. An inventor builds a time machine out of a jukebox. Three friends do their science project on a forgotten novelty invention, a self-peeling banana. A small team of marine explorers search for a mythical jewel that fell from the heavens. A family is haunted by a demon that is not satisfied with collecting the fallen teeth of their children. And a young drummer commits the crime of “creativity without a license.”
I’ve written over 350 stories now. And I posted my 150th podcast episode (I’ll soon be wrapping up Season Three, in which I’m narrating stories from Storyfeather Year Three). Year Seven was a worthy challenge, but I’m glad to be moving on. Sometimes I “cheated” and deviated by just writing a story based on a dream or a notion (and reverse-engineering some kind of prompt from that). It’s easy to find writing prompts. There are free apps and sites. But what I found challenging was to find a prompt with the proper level of specificity.
Storytelling is still my true love, still my destiny, still my path. And this year in particular, storytelling has been and still is my haven. And my hope.
Year Eight is on the horizon. Here’s to seeing what stories I’ll be spinning up (that’s a dorky clue to the theme). I hope you’ll come along.
I have stories to tell you.
Edith Evilez passed in terror and fright on the night of October 31. The year is yet to be determined according to one of three profane calendars she might have followed. She is survived by her faithful, long-suffering and slightly malnourished assistant, her beloved pet hornet, and the partially sentient carnivorous pitcher plant that resides in her otherwise fetid greenhouse. Sometimes joined forces with Natalia Nogud and Ralph Rotneg. Gave stingily of her time and talent to the Society of Whisper-mongers. Was awarded the dishonor of the Pale Medallion for her work with wandering spirits. Served a partial term as a junior board member for the Pocket Goblin Company. Held certifications in dental assisting, equine communications, and eyebrow threading. Known for her collection of historical thimbles. Her last words, as recorded by aforementioned faithful assistant were, “Perhaps today, Satan.” Edith will be begrudgingly remembered by acquaintances and enemies for her stalwart efforts at frightening children, trodding upon the downtrodden, and the surprisingly delicate madeleines she baked for the summer block party every year. Edith will be missed by no one. Her passing being celebrated by all those who value dignity, humanity, and goodness.
Phoebe glanced from her to the tunnel ahead of them. It was still full daylight, but her sight could not penetrate the shadows within. She had expected more overgrowth—vines snaking up from the sides of the tunnel’s arch, weeds bursting from cracks in the crumbling concrete of the road that once led into the tunnel. She had expected rotting wooden boards blocking the tunnel.
I gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, and glanced at the rearview mirror, as I eased my foot off the accelerator. My car began to slow.
Legend says that the draugamunninn were once human. They were a practical but severe people who after suffering one terrible winter too many, and after failing to feed themselves with their own hands and their own labor, began to pray to their old gods for relief. But their prayer was not answered by a god.
It was answered by a demon.
Naomi clicked on her recorder, took a deep breath, and asked her grand-aunty Z about the one thing that her mother and grandmother told her to never, ever, never, never, ever ask her about.
“Aunty, what did you see when you went into Mausefalle Manor? And how is it that you got out when so many other people never did?”
In those days, there were doctors of teeth already, just as there are now. And in those days, the doctors of teeth were avoided by most, just as they are now. The doctors did their best, just as they do now, the good ones that is. One such doctor of teeth did his best, but failed to root out the deep infection that had taken hold in his patient’s mouth, an infection that had seeped from the teeth to the gums to other teeth, and then began creeping to the patient’s brain and his heart. The man—the patient—was past middle age but not yet old. He died of that infection. A painful and bloody death.
This week’s story will be posted soon. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s sixth year!
The Year of Definitions is done! That was the theme for Storyfeather Year Six.
What have I done? I asked myself. And the question sparked excitement. And the question sparked fear.