“I didn’t think you would choose to wake her so early,” the voice on the other end said.
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.
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.
At the center of my memory is the image of a horse, a horse the color of orange cream, rearing up, and glancing at me, with an oceanic glint in her eye. She has wings. She has fins. She is fast. I remember. She was fast. Slicing through the water like a ray of sunlight.
So I don’t know how it could have happened. But I have to do something.
I must free the hippocampus.
The other passenger’s name is Elena. She’s younger than me, by a decade, so I should be comforting her, taking charge. But then, there’s just two of us. So we’re more like partners in this thing. I’m using my journal to start documenting. She had the same thought, but she’s going to use her computer and phone. We checked the overhead bins, and no one else’s luggage is there. Just ours.
When pigs fly
“Obviously, it’s a hoax,” Rita said, switching out the microphone cover for that furry one that she used when they went somewhere windy. “But can you imagine if it were real? I mean what would it mean?”
Quentin sighed. “It would mean that Nature herself is against my ever getting a real shot at doing real journalism.”
“So, pigs can fly and somehow that’s all about you, huh?”
“You’re looking for a story.”
“That’s right. What’s your story? Where did you come from? How did you get inside that whale?”
And then he woke up.
He huffed out a breath and gasped. He was covered in sweat, even though the room was cool. His eyes were still shut, but he felt the wetness gathered at the rims of his eyelids. He squeezed and a tear rolled down from the corner of his eye and wet the outer rim of his ear.
Right away, he calmed. The intensity of whatever emotion he’d been feeling that brought him to tears just vanished.
“There they are again—don’t look!”
Yolie froze, mid-fold, and snapped her head forward again to look at Luxe. “Who?”
Luxe glanced up over Yolie’s shoulder. “You know who…Burgundy.” He glanced back down at the socks that he was rolling. “So, are we going to do it?”