I’ve written five more realistic very short stories for the hashtag #vss365. I’m really please with how they turned out, especially considering how difficult I felt some of the prompt words were for the past couple of weeks.
They walked along the shore, picking up driftwood and other flotsam.
"What are we going to do with this?" one of the children asked.
"We're going to make mermaids," Mama said. “Sinuous driftwood tails, shells and pretty stones for eyes, seaweed hair.“
Useless, they said. Wasteland. They didn't see the way the sun set over the stony mountains, or the way delicately jeweled scarabs swarmed the dead like mourners at a feast. They didn't know how the sand purified the aquifer they needed to survive. Until too late.
Rain fell over the battlefield. The scent of petrichor mingled with the smells of blood and decay. Jasper lay where he'd fallen. Distant sounds from the victorious army's celebration reached his ears, but the only living he saw were ravens. He tried to sit up.
The stage lights came up as the house lights faded. The audience held their breath in anticipation, and a frisson of excitement and fear trilled in her nerves. She took a deep breath and strode out, her violin cradled in her hands.
I'm in the library, amidst a myriad of books. I touch their spines and gaze at fascinating covers, surrounded by joy and calm and quiet. And books, all the books I can read, true kind friends. I'm okay here. I'll be okay.