yoosungmcawthery
Short Stories
The following stories may hint at/mention/include mature themes!
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Hippowdon! They’re all just so goofy and beautiful, plus they’re not combatively incompetent! I have never heard anyone else agree with me though, so I’m assuming it’s unpopular?
Okay, I've got one I'm curious about:
Add in the tags if you feel like your favorite Pokemon is unpopular/an uncommon favorite.
My favorite is Ninjask, and I've only had a couple other people say it's also their favorite.
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Stuck Luck Struck
“All day you’ll have good luck,
Find a penny, pick it up
They’d wished it was true
The old adage will always speak to you
They found and retrieved one
For life’s line to be unstrung
Struck out, struck mould
Struck love, struck gold
A quivering wound that bleeds
Now barely a little sneeze
But to gain is to lose
There is no unexpected news
Nothing is new
But that, they already knew
Again, they wished for good luck
And they received, and are now stuck struck”
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The Reverse of Nothing
“He’d like to imagine the roles were reversed
Wishing his verdict hadn’t been decided so perverse
He was the one down on his knees hurt,
Praying and begging, imagining nothing worse
I was the pearl in his world’s oyster
Shining so brightly, but the shine is now sober
Stars couldn’t compare, I brightened his life
No tension was ever there, nothing to cut with a knife
Nothing was redacted, it all lay there
Finally, something in his life felt fair
It all began to mend at the seams
He had hopes and exaggerated dreams
He forgot all his pains, left them behind
Day after day, I was always on mind
Emojis to chats, he started to swoon
It all started on a happy July afternoon”
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“And what brought you to such a conclusion?”
“I remember our nights together. Also, this is literally Hell. I’m your only good memory.”
“Nah, you can’t prove it, or can you Jer-bear?”
“I missed you Boss.” He cracked up, a few tears escaping, long awaited.
“I know.” Urthi started, taking his lover in his arms. “My question is why the actual fuck it took you five years?”
“I love you too, honey.” Jeremy chuckled through his sobs, enjoying the moment before he had to inflict eternal torture on deserving people. His sins granted him the power to continue adding to the list, and alongside him, how could he not?
“I know…I longed for you. Guess that means I love you too.”
“You never got better at hiding your feelings for me, Boss.”
“Yeeaahhhh, well. Want to kill shit?”
“Thought you’d never ask!” Jeremy pulled himself away from his husband’s chest and took his hand, grinning as he regained the life they would’ve had.
“Gonna have to be honest and say that you haven’t crossed my mind in five years.”
“… You think you can lie to me?”
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Her eloquence hid a secret only her gardens knew, and the corrupted chambers she slept in. She was a woman of determination and one of pure beauty, yet it deceived the truth. A perfect being, supposedly sculpted by god - believed by two types of people.
The first, her loyal subjects. The people who served her, and she served in return. She was an honourable monarch and had always done well to her kingdom and her word. All she set out to do was make her world better.
Notice the phrasing. Her world.
The other type of people were the cultists. The cultists? I hear you ask. How absurd! Someone of such power and charisma couldn’t possibly have cultists.
I scoff at your weak, close-mindedness.
Serial killers once possessed the same traits before being proven guilty; she was just that. Not a blood heir to the throne, but blood was spilled for her right to it. She took advantage of a royal family not seen by public eye and rid of a whole system through regicide. A modern day Lady Macbeth, if she had the balls to do it in stead of her husband.
Yet Celena Aldrich possessed no partner. She possessed an AI to act as one, to claim true power in the patriarchal society she lived in. Power she could’ve claimed through through tyranny, but in place used manipulation and sex appeal. Since the public feasted their eyes on the royal couple and the three children almost newborn - hers to a different man, one she knew no longer - the husband had been declared sick. It was a great façade, their reason to appear so suddenly.
He would one day die as a symbol of the cult’s uprising, although unbeknownst to any but the cult. She would have lead this cult for some time since, and would commit the fake crime herself.
That day was today. And as she made way through the gardens, to her ‘husband’, she planned the murder with the intelligence that matched her elegance.
Click clack, swish slash, thump and scream. The reckoning was to begin.
The Queen, because what else could she possibly be, slowly stepped down the garden path. Her face was serene and movements elegant as her dress of pressed flower petals and leaves rustled along the cobblestones.
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“But Myles, we-“ The beggar was cut off with a slap to the cheek and a look of disgust.
“Myles Ziegler, aged 17, is found to be practicing the dark arts and will be tried for treason. For this, he must leave Villipend and resign to live with the ordinary. Any further contact with the former warlock will result in further action. The consequences must take place immediately.” Myles recited, a scene they’d replayed in their head many times.
“Myles, please, you don’t understand, I couldn’t-“ Tears stung the beggar’s cheek, though Myles hadn’t struck them this time. It only took a glare.
“Myles Ziegler, aged 25, ban unlifted, is to be asked to return to Villipend as the very thing we sentenced him for will be the only thing that can save our magical kingdom. We will not take into account the trauma of taking his childhood away, and his dying mother out of sight. After 8 years, The Imperatives will recognise no wrong and still find the audacity to beg for mercy.” He mocked further, turning on his heel to leave.
“Myles…listen-“ They tried once more, hoping to save all they’d ever known.
“To make matters worse, we shall send his little brother to recruit him back. The little brother now a member of the thing that tore apart his family, or maybe even ‘fixed’ it. After the 8 years of having never spoken to each other, the first conversation they will have is a request.”
“MYLES PLEASE, IF NOT US, DO IT FOR MOTHER!”
Myles turned on his heel once more to face his little brother, gritting his teeth and giving a deep inhale to the conversation. “How fucking dare you. Half a decade ago, I would have done such a favour. I would be eager to help the family I loved so much. Five years have passed since that time, and now I can’t stand to look at your face. If you’re suffering, then suffer. Look into the eyes of the monster your ‘empire’ created and squirm in the pure hatred I possess. Leave me be. Find someone else to be your puppet bound to strings.” He spat, and that was that.
"You need to come back."
"I was kicked out! Banned from ever speaking to any of you and told charges would be pressed if I ever tried to go back to the house! Like hell am I coming back."
"We need you."
"Tough shit."
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(I’m feeling Urthi-related angst today!!)
Jeremy leant back as he digested the utter bullshit spouting from the other’s mouth. The former mafia lieutenant sat comfortable in his chair, the once usual cheeky smile twisted into a frown depicting distrust. “And, enlighten me, please, what if they didn’t have my loyalty, Celena?”
“No need to get snappy with me, Jeremy. I’m speaking from experience. It’s a simple rule to stop yourself from being assassinated. Excuse the irony, but I don’t feel that’s truly what’s wanted here.” She answered, a similar look of distrust on her face. She wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t the unfortunate break of a link. A partnership to be held up one last time for the sake of a last wish.
“Leave his name from your lips, Your Majesty,” He spat with venom, lifting his head to briefly look past her figure, “You of all people should understand he didn’t die because he was honest. Remind me, is it not how he gained your trust long ago? Excuse my irony.” The dead’s lover narrowed his eyes at the murderer’s accomplice.
That hurt her, more than she felt it should’ve. “I apologise,” She muttered, feeling overpowered for the first time since her reign.
Jeremy felt satisfied by that answer and stood up, his boots clicking against the tiles as he came face to face with Celena. “I have no political aspirations, sweetheart. And I’m not afraid of being killed. In fact, I welcome it.” He sneered, his eyes heavy and brimming with honesty and a hint of tears threatening to leave their home. “Maybe then I can reunite with the only person to ever love me and in turn leave the planet I so despise.”
She stayed quiet. She had nothing to say. The monarch was speechless, somehow.
“Remember your place. You’re here to keep his reign ongoing, not yours. I saved you from death so you could repent, and happily will resign you back to your original fate without a second thought.”
no. 218
“If anyone ever asks you, ‘Can I count on your loyalty,’ you shut your mouth, put on your most earnest smile and nod. Got it?”
“But what if they don’t have my loyalty?”
“Do you want to get murdered? Is that on your list of political aspirations?“
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(This’ll be a nice continuation, I really enjoy this concept for my OC Urthi :) )
Although, that seemed to be an echo of past experience. With the work someone like me finds yourself doing, being understood is an unnecessary privilege - and being forgiven a luxury.
You grow accustomed to it. The sense of loneliness, and the rage that not only results in that loneliness but intensifies from it. You learn to love it. You learn to use it. You appreciate it as if it’s your only true friend.
Of course, there were people in my life that I adored. I wouldn’t be human without them, and I’d transform into the monster I’m told I am. Jokes on them, I agree! Especially since one of those adored has to die by my own hands.
Now, what would that have to do with being mean? Sure, it was a cruel realisation. It was a truly immoral act, also. But the mean part is how you choose to deal with it. It would have been as quick and easy as a bullet between the eyes, caught by surprise and a sorry unheard to the cold corpse.
But emotion makes it messy; emotion leads to you putting the cold shotgun (you spent time perfecting by yourself) against the warm, tender flesh of one your best friends.
You wanted it to go peaceful. You tried to see if the information you were fed was true, even though you knew there was no doubt. You tried to justify it. But when it failed, you were in a wild rage. It felt primal, natural and raw - stemming from not only the act of being backstabbed, but the denial followed by the weakest of admittance. Not to mention the crime you needed to commit to balance out theirs, that you were required to do.
And so emotion led to you pulling the trigger with only disappointment and anger flooding your chest; physical and mental torture seething from your bones from the recoil of the double barrel and the thud of the lost life. Your gloves torn off and thrown. The vodka poured. The match lit.
The worst part is no one would understand.
No one but them.
And now they’re gone.
no. 220
Have you ever been mean?
I mean, really mean. You feel that keening tension in your shoulders, your spine, the back of your throat, below the ears—and you just let it rise and rise and rise. It’s heat, it’s energy, it’s screaming through you, pulls your lips back, opens your mouth into a snarl, it has you by your head, ribs, heart and everything else. Letting it through you is like biting onto live wire, it’s just as hard to hang on as to unclench your jaw and let go… so you don’t.
But it ends, somehow. Raw, aching, veins de-electrified and weak, you limp down the street to vomit over a drainage grate. The crying and sobbing after that is as unstoppable as everything else. Maybe you recover, maybe you don’t.
No? Haven’t felt that way before?
Then you’re really not going to understand what I do next.
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A Tail of Woe
Warning!
Sensitive topics such as r**e and ab***e mentioned.
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There once was a boy, one without a name,
With eggshells he’d walked on his whole life,
And like the twisted fate of a child’s game,
He’d escape only through afterlife.
He rests his little head, one full of trouble,
Not one of anger, for his heart is a lotus.
But one of fear, one which made him see double,
Though it’d been so long he’d hardly took notice.
So his sight was troubled, as clouded as his head was clogged,
Of which naught could declog the messily organised catalogue.
One of trauma, terror and torment,
Due to a family that denied the importance of consent.
Think nothing of it, he’d tell you with a plastic smile.
One he shouldn’t have been able to replicate in quite a while,
Worry they’d find out, keep it behind porcelain expressions,
Though it’s hard when you’re carrying the weight of your family’s transgressions.
End there it should’ve, but life had different plans,
For I missed a detail, that this young boy was trans,
Boy he was born, yet the body wasn’t male,
Which offered no support in this fictitious tale.
Issue it wasn’t, yet not for long,
As that one fated day occurred when carnage came by,
His brother found out, though he didn’t think it wrong,
Instead he did things that’d make you cry.
The boy lived on but his mind did not,
For ‘R’ is the letter which people don’t hear ‘stop’,
Surely you’ll know his body suffered throughout,
As the letter ‘A’ easily took away his shout.
‘Boys will be boys’ the father would’ve said,
And the ignorance of the mother would give Jack The Ripper dread.
The torture went on for not a decade, but two,
And karma for the brother had been long due.
Took away by fate’s safe hands,
You’d think trauma’s growth would stop,
But his father thought to explore his son’s netherlands,
Making the boy able to let the tears drop.
He wouldn’t rest for long after his sudden demise,
Though he found a good life with a loving man.
The original abuse once again arrives,
Yet this time with a much more cohesive plan.
And if it weren’t for the famed killer Gabriella,
He wouldn’t have had a life so stellar,
And in place of the scars and ghouls that haunt him,
He’d have been locked up in a room with a fate far more grim.
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Abandoned Ancient Anarchy.
Prompt: Write a story about an abandoned home.
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Ethan walked the same way slowly, the one he'd walked his entire life. He made a slight detour this time. He'd memorised both walks by heart. Except this time his reason for visiting wasn't such a horrific or traumatic reason.
He was visiting for another reason.
He'd fallen.
Deep.
Deep in love.
Head over heels.
It wasn't okay.
Not for him.
He was visiting the place he'd first had these very thoughts.
"Home, sweet home." He smiles softly, an undertone of sarcasm in his voice. He steps into the rustic building hidden by the starlit road, and the lights that had once blinded his sight.
He walks to the tattered mattress and chuckles. He remembers running through these halls as a child. Just a bunch of kids helping kids live. No adults. No one to rule them. But they were mature. They each had their stories. They were co-dependent...for a while.
He'd still visit in hope he'd see one of them once again. And to think in general. It was his special spot.
He began to think about the one he'd fallen for - the one that doomed him to frustration.
Kalmin Fuego.
Adorable little dumbass.
To add a little context; Ethan Koju is an assassin. He was hired by a strange contractor named ‘Donovan’. His job was to protect an important piece of land to Donovan. Through this, he met Kalmin as apparently his contractor had some powerful people after him for all the right reasons.
And it just so happened to be Ethan’s luck that he’d fall in love with (well, essentially his target) Kalmin.
It made things incredibly complicated. Especially since he couldn’t stop himself from all the charming lines that flew out of his mouth like a ripple in the water.
He was adorable - light brown eyes that he could stare in, not because they were beautiful, but because of the pure personality and vulnerability he could sense underneath his gentle look. Light tan skin that he wished his hands had been able to explore, to just please the other - but not explicitly sexually - to hold him close and keep him radiating warmth. To give Kalmin the feeling he gave him deep in his stomach. And that beautiful dirty-blonde hair that he wanted to run his hands through and play with. To show him he was there and he was there to relax him, to comfort him - to trust him.
“What the fuck are you doing here…Did you follow me?” Ethan whispered, in pure shock and disappointment.
(To Be Continued…?)
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The Debate of Our Fate.
This is an entry for a competition I took part in!
Thought you might enjoy it :D
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Skies were inexplicably gloomy and bone-chilling; corrupt by the darkness of what was thought to be thunder clouds. Air so thick that it served as a shelter to the rain we could see, but never feel, as it never penetrated the smog that hung high above our heads.
Little land was left to share, the majority had been washed away by the wrath of Mother Nature to spite the men, women and children alike who were responsible for her demise. Surely this would be enough to convince us to change for the future of our kind? However, the evils of mankind continued...
A poem that had been written long ago, before my own existence, or my parents', that foresaw our 'end'. Upon first reading, it didn't seem to be an 'end' I would ever witness. How wrong I was...
'Our problems exist as one,
With unity we proceed
Through strength we won,
Alas, we fell from greed
Outcomes and expectations differ greatly,
Fears and hopes will only rise
Haven't we all felt this lately?
The crippling reality we cannot hide
Eats us from within with stolen pride
All will fall, chaos ensues
Few will remain with little purity
Cursed to have lives that are forever bruised
Land shall be no more,
Brutality lives on through only us,
And for that reason alone as I told you before
And with no further room to discuss
Our end shall be bitter
Our end shall be near
As all of us are sinners
And I'm making this clear
Fault belongs to none but we
Who corrupt everything we touch
Forget your pleas
For there is little we can do, indeed not much.'
Like all dystopian literature made available to us in our youth, we understood it as a feeble intention to warn us, to shock us into undertaking small insignificant changes to make us compliant.
Instead, it damaged us emotionally to even try and comprehend the potential reality within this poem. Instead, we ignored its message.
How would the poet react to know their words painted the exact image of the future?
How the world consisted of just this one damned country that had been cursed. If we had listened to the truth spoken in fiction, would it all be different?
If we delve deeper into the detail of a poem with our adult brains, would we listen now? Could we change? It would take more than just age I suppose. It would take... What would it take?
This question I ask has different answers.
Despite our rotten world, racism burns on, setting alight the lives of many innocent children. Stereotypes are thrust upon us with even more force. Gender still dictates your rights. Police have more authority and less accountability. Adults continue to traumatise their children in thousands of unspeakable ways. Global warming has peaked and doomed us all to this pitiful dot of land. Homophobia slaughters more men and women daily. In fact, that's what bothered me the most...
I experienced that specifically first-hand and had to endure the hardships of not falling victim to cruelty.
***
I didn't have the time to dwell on fiction or the past. There was no point really...
Everyone I once loved, (and hated) had long passed, but being alone, the mind wanders, often into memories long buried.
In the here and now though, I look across at my belongings and sigh. A carved picture on a slab of wood. A religious message accompanies it.
I could not bring myself to discard it. A trophy won by my torturers in a sense as when I looked at it I remembered the day I had come out...
Slurs had come crashing into me, like the waves that bounce off the corroded shore I often visit. That wasn't the hardest part, believe it or not. Trying to then find a partner was the struggle. Those who were gay, and simply uninterested, felt inclined to insult you as they turned you down.
The straight ones of course beat you black and blue, leaving you helpless on the street as onlookers laughed: pointed, recorded, joined in, passed by...
The most painful thing though, were the ones that gave sympathetic stares, but were either too cowardly, or felt too helpless themselves to even attempt saving you. Given this, wasn't it clear why the poem did not resonate? Why I couldn't fathom 'the end'? I had what I thought were bigger problems to solve...
I erase my memories and lay my head down. Suddenly though, I spot a strange phenomenon in the crack of the darkest corner of the ruins.
***
A Middlemist Red. Sprouting from the earth once more!
The rare Camellia itself beginning to reproduce and make its return. The flower was previously known to be extinct! Could it be that Mother Nature was trying to give us one last shot?
The Middlemist's Red had been flowering for more than two centuries within a couple of miles of its first home outside China. There were believed to be only two left in the world – the one that lit up the (now abandoned and derelict) Duke of Devonshire's conservatory at Chiswick, West London, and another in Waitangi, New Zealand.
Due to the total devastation, the remains of the old flowers were never found.
We may not have time machines, but with this flower I was reminded we have something greater.
This minuscule being - this tiny flower bloomed hope into my heart. A spark in the candle of my own darkness. For all the poems that prophesied our end, authoritarian prejudices or the torturous memories of youth, nothing can beat determination and courage.
If Mother Nature had deemed this land as capable of being home once more to these flowers, then maybe we could begin to do the same. It'd take work and time, without a doubt, but isn't that what makes life so worth it?
I stood up and headed out of the ruins, a smile blossoming after decades.
***
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A Dash To Death.
Prompt: Write a story about a character who can't figure out when they're dreaming or awake.
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January 11th, 2XXX:
I had a dream today. It was rather interesting. I was going about my normal life, but something seemed different. I couldn't tell what was wrong.
It took me a while to figure it out, but we were all in a giant snow globe. Everyone else knew it, too. And no one seemed to care, in fact, they seemed to actually enjoy it!
I made a run towards the glass currently before me, in an attempt to find a way to escape. Just as I did so, I heard a colossal smash above me, just in time to see the building beside me falling.
Or I would have seen it, if I had moved. Then I woke up. In the same blank room I was confined to.
April 12th, 2XXX:
I wish I knew what year it actually was. I wish I knew what I was forgetting.
Something strange happened today.
Something appeared in this dull room. I couldn't explain it well if I tried.
It was a demon, but an angel.
A spirit, but alive.
Red, but blue.
Black, yet white.
Odd, but familiar.
It dashed away from my sight before I could ask its name.
Was it real or fake?
I forget.
July 13th, 2XXX:
Another dream, another night.
Or another supernatural phenomenon.
The TV had been on.
I felt drowsy when something strange came on the channel.
I felt a warm liquid overtake me. It tasted sour and metallic. It rushed into my wounds. Or out.
What was the difference?
I forget.
I identified it as blood soon enough. I could open my eyes somehow, but could do nothing else in the thick fluid. As much as I wanted to dash. To sprint. To leave.
There it was again. It stood at the exact same place I saw it before. Blood blackened soon enough and it seemed to spread.
It didn't.
It was communicating. In its own sick way.
It spelled out a word followed by another.
My name. 'Hannah Rhodes'.
Was it my name?
I forget. I keep forgetting. Why do I forget?
I can't remember. But it does. Why does it?
October 14th, 2XXX:
They know I keep this diary.
Why do they let me have it? I only know these dates from what they say.
Do they want me to record this stuff?
I forget. I should know, but I don't remember.
I befriended the thing (a month or two or three, maybe even four) after it dashed. It seemed to have more of its kind. Friends.
It's the only thing I can't forget anymore.
I should know why, but I forget.
I learnt their name. They all share one. It seems to be their species' name.
'Amatorculists'.
I know that name. I remember why I know that name. Why have I only just remembered? I forget.
October 16, 2XXX:
I'm beginning to remember now. It's all so clear.
My name IS Hannah Rhodes.
I came here willingly.
I no longer trust the Amatorculists.
They tried to keep me out of here.
They told me in their native language—
He puts the pen down. He hears a noise now. Where was he? He didn't remember. This entry...this wasn't his words. He turned around. He saw the first Amatorculist he met. He beckoned him nearer.
He ran.
No. He dashed.
He dashed to every one he saw. He eventually dashed to a door. Was this an exit? He opened the door.
No, there was his parents. He remembered them. He should remember them...
He remembered why he remembered them. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't real.
This was a memory. He was in a coma.
He remembered he was told to 'dash' and not 'run'.
That's why!
His parents had—
He saw the Amatorculists again in his peripherals.
He forgot.
What was he doing? He wandered back towards the room. Didn't he have an entry to write?
(To Be Continued…?)
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The Corrupted Killings...
Silent. It's a silent night, except for my heavy breathing and the squelch of the horseshoes against the mud. The horse and carriage are about a mile away from me. I want - no, need - help. I run, my worn-out boots' condition worsening with each step. The two men on the carriage stop and help me, riding me away with them out of pity. I shouldn't be with these strangers, as I'm only nine...at least that’s what I appear to be. Either way, I'm too desperate, so I needed to hitch a ride.
They ask for my name, which makes me evidently a little anxious, and I answer quietly, "Keaton. Keaton Lurr." The men both look shocked, and I shrug it off, not worrying about their astonishment.
But then - I got overwhelmed, because of the man driving, as he was drinking alcohol excessively. He has drunk too much, which results in my nerves rising, which seems obvious as the carriage becomes unstable and the horse gets frightened, and completely derails from the track, and it gallops away until we meet a cliff. The horse can't stop in time. We fall and fall and fall. Crack. Splat. Thud.
It's been more than twelve hours, noticeable since the sun has arisen. It takes me a while to fully come conscious, the fall quite large - which makes me surprised we made it. I start to panic since I can't hear any breathing or sense any movements around me. I look down, and the scene before me sends a shiver up my spine, and it causes my eyes to dilate.
The horse is long gone, and the carriage is broken to pieces. The two men are there too. Lifeless, not breathing, with a rope-like material around each of their necks. I find that it's the horse's reins, and I try to find the beginning of them, only to find that I'm holding them.
I don't believe this, not one bit. I drop the reigns and untangle them from around their necks, trying to shake them awake. They’ve passed on. Terminated. I should be too, but I can't let them down by ending myself so soon. I start to search for a way out. I run and look for a way out of this hell.
It feels like I've been running for hours, and I can't catch my breath. I stop and lean against a tree, closing my eyes and telling myself, 'It will be alright, you are fine. You did not kill those men.' I then hear a voice. It wasn't too deep nor too high. "Hey, could I help you?"
I open my eyes and look up to see a woman, man, girl, boy, non-binary person - they were too androgynous for me to make any assumption at all, which judging from their appearance would be not just dangerous to do so, but also incredibly stupid. We soon exchanged names, theirs being Aloralael Oxtsis. They told me that they are like me, and have done similar, but they had done it just for the joy of the kill. They were a demon - and I was to discover soon that I had the same abilities, although it wouldn’t be before multiple episodes of psychosis.
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Nostalgia is Neutral.
Prompt: Write a story about a teenager visiting the place where they grew up.
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She returned here for business. She had to meet up with an old friend to brainstorm some ideas to help her company. But when she step foot into the small village, she realised just how long she'd been gone. Joy rang through the streets; all roads looked perfect, and weren't patched over, the shops looked brand new, people talked to one another on the streets, no land was unused, no buildings burnt or broken, more safety measures, new beepers in the traffic lights, considerate drivers - none of which she had in childhood.
She sighed as she continued to walk to their agreed meet-up spot, somewhat hating how well she remembered the route. Then she passed it. Her childhood home. Oh, god. Memories flooded back to her and all she could do is look away with hope that she wouldn't cry. She continued on, making sure she wouldn't be jailed for arson just yet.
Her disbelief only rose when she got to their designated spot. McNora's Marvellous Café...it lost business? It was always the centre of attention in her youth, and nobody could disagree with why. However, somehow (due to some strange circumstances), there were few customers inside. The café had shrunk and it seemed more like a desolate date destination.
Her shock didn't stop her from entering the establishment, however, and she smiled at the waiters, waitresses and cashiers alike. Every single one recognised her, all members of the village that had stuck around. Taking a seat at the newly added bar, she looked around. It seemed although it had shrunk, McNora had made some improvements.
She tapped her pen on the counter, ordering a milkshake - she had sworn off alcohol. After all the emotions she had felt that night, surprise at the other's meet-up destination wasn't one. They always loved the place, and visited it often. Their eyes used to sparkle whenever they saw or stepped foot into it and there was no doubt in her mind that it hadn't changed.
As if summoned, her ears pricked up when hearing the familiar and comforting sound of the bell above the door, her head turning around as a result to see them. A smile tugged at her lips when she saw the other's big grin and eyes sparkling with joy and curiosity. Some things never change.
They exchanged greetings and they chuckled, "Medina, it's so nice to see you again after all this time. How long has it been now?"
The question floated in her head and she giggled, "Well, I'm 19 now, so 6 years now? How old are you now?" She counter-questioned.
They answered with a small joyous laugh, "21 now. So you got into a hot new business firm, huh?"
She took in a deep breath and inhaled the sweet aromas around her, brushing a loose strand of her fiery hair and tucking it behind her ear. For once, for a change, she had let her hair down. It was unnatural, but she felt free today. "Yeah. Hold on, if you're 21...you've really been managing this place for 8 years, McNora?"
McNora had no doubt took over the business when they were 13, and maybe that was the reason business was booming. A child running a café at that age - and so brilliantly too, it was sure to attract tourists.
They of course hadn't chosen to run the business, but overbearing parents with handfuls of cash put you in these positions. They loved it when they started to work on it and they clearly had a natural talent for it too; but you can imagine the great burden that had been placed on such small shoulders.
"That's correct, yeah. And it's actually Ackerman now. So, Medina, why did you call me here today?"
"Please, Sean. Call me Teresa. Cut the formalities."
"Ah, sorry, Teresa. It's become something of a habit now."
"Anyway, to answer your question, I had a proposition."
"Oh, yeah?"
"I remember long ago what you longed to do alongside this cafe. I've already talked to the two neighbouring shops, I can get a team and extend your business. And the business right next to that one...? Well, I thought..." Teresa trailed off a second, deep in thought.
"You thought...?" Sean answered, his interest seemingly piqued.
"Maybe, just maybe. We could give you what you originally wanted."
"...! You don't mean...?"
"Of course I do. We could give you the flower shop you always wanted."
"And what would you want in return?" He asked worriedly, although his body was trembling with excitement.
“Nothing, Ackerman. You've helped me out too much these past few years. This is on me. I owe it to you. And to them."
((Ackerman is Sean McNora’s wed name. To be continued...?))
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The Diverse Rejects!
Prompt: Write a story about a group of people who meet every month to air out their mistakes.
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Every month we meet once through the cornfields, past the city, around the river, under the low-hanging trees, and down a burrow into a nicely tidied and comfortable area where we would all sit together and talk. Which was strange, because none of us actually knew each other. All we knew were names and any mistakes or regrets we ever had or made. It was our therapy group, and we made the decision that outside of the meetings, we never had to talk much. That rule didn't last long.
First off was Keaton Lurr. He was this orphan boy that had lost his brother through adoption and was treated unfairly ever since. He confided in us and we once had to persuade him to not run away. He would be better off without doing so.
Next up was Marcel Ananta. He's a prince, and has a power that gives him immunity to any physical pain. He calls it his holiest blessing but his evilest downfall. He has two brothers, but they don't get along.
Also, there was Sammy Akira - sweet boy, really. Honestly, I think he just sticks with us because he likes having a friend group. He does have anxiety and autism though, so he does vent about his problems with those from time to time.
Sougo Ice was one to remember. He was the son of a millionaire and a seemingly great singer. He always had this intriguing gem around his neck too, which he was extremely protective of to the point he would die for it. I think it's a family heirloom.
Ethan Koju was definitely the most defiant of us all. He was blunt, and never afraid to tell someone something he didn't like about them, someone else, etc. He had anger management issues, but he'd gotten better after talking with us monthly. He's not a big fan of talking about the world in general, however. He believes change is necessary.
Xolani Darlon! A much more interesting case. An intriguing one indeed. He was never confident in all the time we'd known him. Although we figured the reason why was his brother. To put it shortly, Lani was a slave to Aurelio. And there wasn't much he could do about it in his poor mental state. If he opened up more, I bet he could've fixed it sooner than he did.
Hannah Rhodes...I could never figure out what to make of him. He had this considerably odd-looking dog. In fact, I'm not too sure what it was. We decided not to question it collectively. Creeped us out too much. And it was VERY obedient towards Hannah. God knows what would happen if we enraged him.
Me? My name is Aloralael Oxtsis. Strange name, I know. They know me as Ox - for one reason only. To them, I'm a regular human with horrible problems. Or more simply who I once was. My true identity? I'm a demon.
Unfortunately, these seven don't know it yet, neither does the one who is yet to be born. But they play a big role in future society. My role? Make sure everything goes smoothly and according to plan.
They will fulfil their destiny. It starts with emotional therapy. It ends with lost lives.
(To be continued...?)
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If Wills Had Yelp Reviews…
Prompt: Write a story that starts with someone writing their will - one they know people won't like.
Content Warning (CW): Mention Of Death
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"If you're reading this right now, it must mean I'm currently dead and you aren't,"
I couldn't believe it as I read the words on the thin paper between my fingers, typed so neatly but still so hard to comprehend. What did it mean, and who was this person revealed in this letter? You might be confused by now about what's happening. Recently, a friend of mine had died due to mysterious circumstances. No one really knew the cause of his death, and the only people that did - died with him. I was called consistently over a time span of a few weeks, and I had recently taken a call about his will. I was close to him, so the life insurance company wanted me to know the contents of the will. They also couldn't identify someone.
"I wonder how it happened. It's something I'd like to know, and I guess you already do,"
Strange, isn't it? That none of us knew either. There was a mysterious name written down on his will, and no one knew them. What was even stranger is they were left all of his belongings. Family, friends, his lover - none of us got anything. But this...This man. Woman. Non Binary person. They got the right to everything he had. And we couldn't find out why.
"But that's not what this is about, is it? You came here to see what I left everyone - and if I had anything to reveal,"
You see, in the end, we figured out who this person was and why they received everything - but I could never understand this part in the will. Nor did I like it. It felt like he was accusing someone or some people. By now, you know that we were all close to him and were left nothing. This part just makes me feel there were personal reasons as to why. And wonder what he had to hide.
"Well, I leave everything to _____ _____. They know why. Life is funny, isn't it? You never expect anything,"
What was it? What made him think such a thing? The person we knew...never talked in that kind of way. And as to the person, we couldn't figure anything out because he gave an alias and a collective/singular pronoun. Meaning he used a nickname and either a collective term or singular. Making it impossible to decipher whether this was a group or one person - or their gender identity. But watch. It gets interesting.
“Like how Aunt Caroline drinks Uncle Phil's liquor at night and posts death threats to herself every now and then for attention,"
This evidently caused an argument amongst us. But it doesn't stop there. He exposes everyone he had ever met. In ways that were perplexingly detailed and accurate that we felt we had to meet this stranger on the will. Who really was the man behind the pen and paper?
We immediately found his address written on the will and went to investigate both this person, why they got all his belongings - and who they both really were.
(To be continued...?)
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