FOR SALE

I did my workout this morning and my body hates me. I’m in a puddle here but fell in love with the short story I was able to come up with. Positive thoughts and vibes today. Maybe another short story later.


‘FOR SALE’
Being a piano teacher I thought this piano would make a great yard ornament.
‘This is being sold as is and still plays. Will not deliver.’ I thought that was a reasonable request.
‘Must be of Christian faith and have a priest present at pickup. NO RETURNS.’
I called the number provided because this is EXACTLY what I am looking for, faith or not.
‘Do you have a strong faith and priest?’
I said, ‘I’m not much of a churchgoer.’
The seller said, ‘your choice.’

Demonic notes played all night that first night. My ad started, ‘FOR SALE’

© Jo Creative PTSD Gal
Word Count: 100

Trained Love

I needed a break, however brief, from the toxicity of work and decided to try my hand at this week’s twittering tale. This is not my usual fantasy, horror-ish theme. How about something that a young woman might have felt from a historical period? Kind of new to me but here it is.


Clara sat nervously next to strangers as her stomach turned. The echos of passing tracks below hinted her new life was soon docking.
‘Will he be good to me? Will there be love? It’s survival.’ Clara pondered.
The picture-bride was pulled closer to the station where Eli was waiting.

© Jo- Creative PTSD Gal
Character Count: 280
Word Count: 49

Desert Proof

Taking a little break from work and recharging my study of HTML to try my hand at another Twittering Tale hosted by Kat.


Deep in the desolate desert, a rumored oasis sits.
Shawn’s dad swore it was there but warned that it’s a wasteland for society’s failures to quell their thirst.
Ten long days he traveled and at the end of the tenth night, ‘THIS IS IT’ glowed in the darkness.
Now he sits and drinks.

Characters: 280
Words: 53
© Jo Creative PTSD Gal


I had mentioned earlier about possibly trying to publish some of my short stories let me know what you think. I’ll start adding polls to my short stories for input. Comments are welcome as well.

 

Freshly Baked Secrets

I had the hardest time with this photo and I ended up in the weirdest place for the story but I ran with it.


Ana’s home has a bakery, ‘Fresh Baked Secrets’, in front where she sold secret recipes baked into sugary confections. On the table next to her register sat a vase full of gold trimmed roses. Customers had nothing but compliments about the arrangement when purchasing cookies.

We all know the darkest of secrets are behind closed doors and the basement was always locked. ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ warned the sign. This was Ana’s space where she honed skills in the darkest magic imaginable. Her cookie recipe would enchant her next victim never to be seen again. Each rose represented the innocent soul captured.

Word Count: 100
© Jo Creative PTSD Gal

Friday Fictioneers: Painful Panes

I HAD to write this quick short story…it’s Friday after all. I promise I’m going to lay down after this. I know there is more back story here but I haven’t quite figured it out. I think this is a great starting point though. Don’t you?


‘I’ve only seen these panes from the inside. What am I supposed to do now?’ Tess asked the nurse.
‘Well, you’re going to live and prove to others that you are just as normal and sane as everyone else,’ Tess’ nurse reminded her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Tess picked up her suitcase turning to give the mental asylum one last look. All she could remember was the pain she felt looking to the outside world through those very same panes of glass. No one was there to pick her up but everything she’d done was in self-defense.

100 Word Count
© Jo Creative PTSD Gal

Friday Fictioneers-The Peaceful Appetite

I had nothing. No ideas. Not a clue what to write about for my Friday story. Then I came across this picture prompt for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I thought how perfect! My short stories have been rather long and this helped with a word count maximum. I edited this quite a few times so that was also helpful. Next…What in the world am I going to take a picture of today?


The Peaceful Appetite

Photo credit: Renee Heath

‘I QUIT!’ Tabitha said grabbing her bag. There were no tears, no explanation, and no looking back. Thinking about that last day in a ruthless society, she grinned staring at her backyard for the week. She knew leaving was the right decision.
‘Mommy, are we going to tell stories tonight?’ Tabitha’s daughter asked through a toothless grin.
‘Yes, love.’ Her daughter was just an infant when she went off the grid. Now, four years old. Lucille can read, write, paint, and is an avid storyteller.
‘What’s the story for tonight?’ Tabitha asked Lucille.
‘Erm…The Peaceful Appetite.’
Tabitha started, ‘I QUIT!’

 

 

Innocent Cutouts

I’m a day late but thought I would try my hand at this. This is a nice little exercise hosted by Kat helps get the wheels turning. There are a lot of sweet stories about cookies (no pun intended) and I wanted a twist. I’ve been really working at adding twists.


The investigators couldn’t find the culprit for the devastating loss of life. The cutout shapes of flour and sugar seemed harmless rolled out on the counter. The kitchen once full of warmth and life was now a cold and quiet scene.
‘Do you suppose she meant to do so much damage?’

Photo by Oleg Magni at Pexels.com
279 Characters
© Jo Creative PTSD Gal

I want to really start committing to submitting my short stories for publishing either online magazine or print. Any advice on where to start? I have searched online and sites are asking for payment just for the list. Advice, sites, places for submission would be GREATLY appreciated.

Have you seen a lassie?

I thought I would be able to get my Havamal study and writing done this morning but the snow came in (not as much as was predicted) and that warranted some attention so I could get to work. I have been working on this little short story since I was nominated by Matthew over at Normal Happenings for his prompt the Monster In The Dell. I got to choose a nursery rhyme and try to turn it into a nightmare of sorts. I have to admit I was stumped at first then really wanted to do more like this. Oh, also, beware the content is for mature audiences which are also not of my norm. I’m just stepping out all over the place today.


Did you ever see a lassie, a lassie, a lassie? A once upon a time innocent nursery rhyme is now forever associated with one of the most horrific crimes in our town’s history and sung as a warning reminder by the remaining innocent children. For those not familiar with the game that goes with the rhyme; children would form a circle with a single child in the middle and when the song was over the child would perform an action and the circling children would imitate. Then the process would repeat. The circle and game changed in 1962.

Best was a small Texas town that had the picturesque quiet living community where families lived the American dream. Houses full of families, a butcher that knew you by name, a paperboy with true aim, block parties full of games, gossip, and food, and the quiet neighbor that all the children adored. The quiet man, Gregg, always kept snacks and juice for the kids as they played on the playground equipment behind his house. It wasn’t until after the investigation and trial that Best learned the fate of their children and of their neighbor’s true nature.

The radio crackled, ‘In breaking news, Best citizens are still searching for seven of their children that have been missing for seven days. They were last seen playing in the community park. If anyone has any information please contact the local police department.’ Monster Mash started to playing with October 31st being the seventh day into the search for the missing children. ‘Have you ever seen a lassie, a lassie, a lassie could be heard over monster mash. I could see my Susy playing with four other children in the park from my window. It was getting time to get her in her costume so I headed that direction when I noticed Emma, Susy’s friend in the middle of the children flopping around on the ground. The kids do the weirdest actions for the other kids to follow in this game. Walking towards the children I could see blood pooling around Emma’s tiny body. The other kids seemed to have been in a trance of some sort and a record player was nearby playing the nursery rhyme.

The closer I got the stronger I could smell copper. Emma’s tiny body was being mutilated by a man in a mask. Not a Halloween mask but one that was made from an animal hide of some sort. What happened next was all a blur. I remember screaming then trying to push the kids away from the center of the circle. They just fell over staring in off not fixing on anything. Some were making gurgling sounds some were in a catatonic state. I picked up the radio and blocked the knife-wielding masked man and then everything went black.

‘A young mother discovered the gruesome scene of a murder in progress possibly saving the lives of other unnamed children. Gregory Church has pleaded guilty to a total of thirteen murders.’ I sat there cradling my child realizing how close I was to losing her. Greg was actually the leader of a cult that believed in sacrificing innocent children to please his God. The investigation proved that he had several followers in our small town of Best and that he and they were responsible for the other seven missing children. The nursery rhyme he played helped him drug the children. He would give them all cups of poison and they would follow his lead as he drank from an empty cup. A neighbor heard my scream that day and tackled Greg to the ground before killing me. This allowed other people in the community to come and help the children and notify the authorities. Gregg got greedy on Halloween night and he was caught. If he had waited who knows what other town and what other nursery rhyme he would have destroyed.

As the town got older the incident turned into a memory that spawned several different versions. But the one thing that remains true throughout each version is the nursery rhyme. Kids sing it as a way to warn and remind others of what happened and that one of the members weren’t caught in 1962.

© Jo Create PTSD Gal

Fates Dread

I had such a difficult time with this story. There is so much more I want to add and write but I have to get ready for work and if it’s any longer then it’s no longer considered a short story. I strayed from the normalcy of Norse mythology and wanted to dabble a little in romance and fate.


Even at night in the comfort of darkness, Asta felt uneasy. She had a gift and honed it over the years. A völva is respected, feared, and regarded but Abigail couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. She was feared more than anything as her beauty was still intact but she accepted the solitude as it was her path in life. She paced with nervousness and rubbed her sweaty palms on the back of her linen gown. She thought about tossing her runes and thought perhaps not and knew it wasn’t her time to be taken from the earthly realm.

She could hear the wind pick up outside as if helping her dread come to her door. The candles flickered on the tables in her room and the fire roared a little louder than it should for being in a hearth. Asta sat at her weaving and began to work on her blanket when she lost herself between the threads and hand motions. She could see a man walking away from bodies, sword in hand. With every footstep, she could hear thunder and feel the steps vibrating through her. A feeling of emptiness consumed her but was rescued from it with a banging on her door.

She opened the door to find a young child looking up at her. This was not her usual seeker of truth. She knelt to his level but he said nothing. ‘I’m Asta. Would you like some stew?’ The boy didn’t answer but took her hand. Not to lead her but to show her. The moment he gripped her hand she was taken back to the bloody field. This time the man was walking to her and not just in her direction. When the boy let go of her hand she was standing in the field behind her home and in front of her was the man from her visions.

Asta finally spoke, ‘Gulbrand.’ She said in a knowing timid whisper. He stepped closer to her, ‘Asta.’ They knew each other’s names without knowing one another. He took her hand and the final scene was revealed when he kissed her cheek. The moment his warm rough lips touched her smooth cool cheek she was taken back to the field. In a tent of red fabric, she sat in a chair cradling a full term belly rubbing the soles of her feet on furs that covered the ground. Gulbrand entered and washed his hands and face before kneeling in front of Asta. He cradled the unborn child looking up at Asta and smiled. The field of bodies was a cost of protection. Then Asta was shown the same field where Gulbrand was playing with a young boy. He was the same child at her door, her future son.

Then it was darkness and dread and willed its way back to her. Gulbrand, as if reading her mind, ‘Don’t fear your fate. Our saga began the moment your vision revealed me. Our paths were chosen by the Gods. Our son is destined to be the future of man.’ Asta knew more than Gulbrand. Their son is may be the future of man but also ends the futures of others. That was the dread she felt.

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