Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Short Story - The New Pet
Labels:
creative writing,
free story,
short story,
short story collection
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More news about the collection will follow, but for now, enjoy!
The New Pet
It was a sad, sad day when Brooke came home from work and found her roommate, Belle, sobbing on the couch, a pile of wadded up Kleenex decorating the coffee table in disgustingness. Belle’s dog was nowhere to be seen.
Naturally, Brooke inquired as to what happened, dropping her purse and work papers on the kitchen table before sliding in next to her friend, regarding her with an expression that could only be described as complete and utter worry.
Tearfully, Belle explained. That morning, Daisy, her Cocker Spaniel, hadn’t wanted to get up. A trip to the emergency vet had shown that the dog had pancreatic cancer, and the kindest thing had been to put her down.
What followed were the saddest weeks in both of their lives. Belle had always been the kind of person who loved animals more than people, and losing her first and so far only pet had been a blow that sent her spiraling into a depression she had only just gotten out of after a rough senior year in college. The fact that Daisy had been the perfect dog for her; quiet, sweet, and always wanting attention, did nothing to help. Nor did the fact that her mother had hated dogs, meaning her first opportunity to get one had been when she’d moved into an apartment of her own.
They discussed the possibility of getting another dog, because, as Brooke had oh-so-accurately put it, “You’re the kind of person who will either go out and get another one right away, or never get another dog again.” Belle, however, wasn’t yet ready for another pet, and Brooke understood that. She did her best to be by her friend’s side, but work and other commitments did limit her ability to help, something she was ashamed of. But as the months went by and Belle didn’t seem to get any better, Brooke started urging her to visit shelters.
“I don’t have time,” Belle would say. Or, “It won’t be Daisy!”
Brooke even went so far as to mention the possibility of grief counseling, which Belle had vehemently refused. But Brooke was near the end of her rope, for watching a loved one suffer, especially when there isn’t anything that can be done about it, hurts more than anything.
So Brooke decided to take matters into her own hands.
One morning, Brooke came back into their shared apartment, sneaking in and purposefully avoiding the spot on the wooden floor she knew squeaked in order to get inside unnoticed. It appeared Belle hadn’t yet come home from work, which was just perfect. She took the box into her room, slid a small treat inside which was lapped up by a warm tongue, and lay on her bed to get back to the book she just couldn’t put down.
Unsure how much time had passed, her heart jumped in nervousness and joy as she heard a key turn in the lock and the door open.
“I’m home,” Belle said, sounding perfectly normal. It was only late at night when she would cry, sometimes desperately desiring Brooke’s sympathy and other times craving the solitude of her room.
“Welcome back,” Brooke said, emerging from her room to see Belle putting away the leftovers of the lunch she’d evidently had with co-workers.
Unable to wait a moment longer to break the news, Brooke said, “I have something for you.”
Something in her roommate’s tone got Belle’s attention right away. “What did you do?” she said in the playfully exasperated tone she frequently used to address Brooke’s crazy antics.
Brooke slid back into her room and came out carrying a box with holes punched in the sides. “Here.”
Suspicious, Belle took the package and gave her roommate an incredulous look at the same time. Brooke was not the type of person to go around buying animals for other people without their consent. Nonetheless, she got her fingers under the cardboard and opened the box.
Inside was a small dragon with blue-violet scales.
Belle gasped in shock and joy. “Oh my gosh, he’s perfect.”
FREE SHORT STORY - Journey Through Time
Labels:
creative writing,
literary fiction,
short story
·
Journey Through Time
Karen Lofgren
One moment, you’re in ancient Egypt, standing on the banks of the Nile. You can see why this beautiful river was so long held sacred by these people. Off in the distance, the pyramids of Giza stand tall, no longer corroded by time. The dryness and the heat is almost suffocating, the only moisture coming off the river.
A little way down the shore, you see a body, a girl. Your natural human empathy kicks in and you try to go to her side, but you’re rooted to the spot. You are merely an observer to times long gone by, and cannot influence them, no matter how badly you may want to. You see a priest stumble down the caked mud of the bank to the body. A nameless girl, slain in some horrible way, is treated like a queen because the river chose to accept her in death.
Egypt declines and Rome rises, its victories over Carthage to the south heralding its triumph. In just a short while, the Roman Empire goes from city state to a mighty empire that dominates land on three continents. Roads are built. More wars are fought. New religions arise and take the place of those of old. And in many ways the world will never be the same again. Every empire that comes afterward does its best to imitate Rome.
The image fades, and you’re no longer in Rome, untouched by the ages and at the height of its glory. You see the Andes mountains reach up and scrape the very sky. You look upon Machu Pichu in all its splendor, and see the Inca farm in the terraced fields of the mountainsides. The engineering these people mastered so many centuries ago is absolutely incredible. You then watch helplessly as the Spanish come and burn this society to the ground. But they never find Machu Pichu. It will remain forever as a monument to those who built it.
Back in Europe, you bear witness to a light piercing through the Dark Ages. The Renaissance has begun. Breathtaking art, social reform, a somewhat stronger emphasis on science... You witness its birth. It reminds you that just about anything can change in an instant.
Cheers make your ears ring as the French Revolution begins. It is simultaneously terrifying and awe-inspiring. The scent of gunpowder fills your nostrils and panicked shouts permeate the air, while at the same time cries of freedom and hope for a better tomorrow ring. You see hope fade into despair as the Reign of Terror settles in, and you flinch away as the guillotine falls, severing a world in its swipe.
The modern age has crept up on you. Whispers of war blow across Europe. You see young men eagerly enlist as soldiers, only to return years later broken and suffering. You see death, shell explosions, twisted trees, land you can’t believe was once green; and less dramatic but no less painful things, like infection and disease. You see soldiers in the trenches huddled together in the long hours between active fighting, their lives becoming more and more unbearable and jaded as the years pass by.
But it is not only in the trenches of Europe where World War I occurs. Oh no, it is everywhere. From the steamy jungles of Africa where German, British, and Belgian colonies are held, to the eastern front where weary and scared Russian soldiers march, wondering what is to become of their country, to the Ottomans, struggling against Arab uprisings propped up by the British and French.
World War I is terrible, forever leaving a scar on humanity’s collective memory and a swath of destruction and death in its wake.
But in spite of the world’s efforts to prevent it, war happens again. Human nature to obey authority figures and a fear of communism doom Germany to its fate, and you watch them go from boycotting Jewish businesses to a calculated extermination that will forever be remembered as one of the darkest blights on human history.
Finally, you come to Hiroshima, moments before the bomb goes off. There is nothing for a moment, all is still, and then you see a white light that consumes and blinds you. Tears you don’t remember crying stream down your face.
You come back from World War II and see that the exhibits have ended. That was the last one for you to see. You thank the docent who escorted you through different worlds and different lives, a sweet old lady volunteering her time, and you leave the museum.
FREE SHORT STORY - The Coming of the Wolves
The Coming of the Wolves
Karen Lofgren
The horizon line is aglow with the end of the day. Long shadows cast themselves over the forest. Soon it will be dark.
With a shawl wrapped around my shoulders, I stumble through the trees, my breath visible in the air. It is the dead of winter, with at least four feet of snow covering the ground, impeding my progress.
Where were they?
I was home. Not in the bustle of the city, or even in my own house, a small cabin nearby. No, I only felt at home here. In the forest.
But even better, I loved hearing them.
The wolves. Gorgeous, intelligent, affectionate creatures. Humankind cannot hold a candle to them. The songs they sing to each other every night are as beautiful as their fur. A haunting melody, echoing through the trees until the very end of time.
I come to a frozen river, autumn leaves still visible under the ice. I touch the hard surface with my boot carefully, before deciding it is safe. I put my full weight on the ice, but my foot slides out from under me, and I barely catch myself. I stand to my full height again, my muscles aching. I’m not as young as I used to be.
Grace, beauty, and resourcefulness. Just like a wolf. Qualities I no longer possess.
No children have been a part of my life, and my parents are long dead and buried. There was no one who would miss me.
Wolves mate for life. Many people believe they actually fall in love.
I fell in love with a man once. I thought we were happy together, but he betrayed me, and our relationship ended. I never married.
All I wanted in life was to be a shape-changer, like so many other young women in the land, so I could take the form of a wolf and live as one until the end of my days. But I was not born a shape-changer. It took many long years for the hard truth to sink in.
I brush a hand through my gray hair. In the end, this is how I wanted it to be.
Ah, there they are.
A pack is near. With no underbrush to conceal them, I can see their dark shapes moving in circles around me. They are shy, fearful. Humans have made them that way. Proud predators, brought to their knees before us. How unfair the world is.
They continue to circle, unsure what to make of me. I spread my arms, welcoming them, but none draw near. Knowing I will need to draw them in, I pull the knife from my coat pocket. It’s small, but it will get the job done.
Like a wolf that has reached the end of its life, I have ventured out into the wilderness to die, even though I have no pack mates to burden. The wolves will go for my throat first, to make sure I am dead before they begin their feast. My body will be torn apart and eaten. My intestines will decorate the ground in an exotic pattern, and only my bones will remain once my carcass has been picked clean. It will be painful, and brutal, but that is the way of nature. That is the way things should be.
The wolves will not approach me, so I will go to them.
I barely feel the pain as the knife slices open my numb skin.
The smell of the blood entices them. I fall to my stomach, my face looking to the side. Some of the more hungry ones pounce forth, and come to me. Their pack will not starve this winter. Not tonight, anyway.
I watch on, embracing my end.
The blood is beautiful against the snow.
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