Abandoned Stories (Part 6/6)
In case you somehow missed last weeks post, I am tackling old abandoned short stories of mine in an attempt to feel more accomplished as a writer…despite most of these being from 2018. I’d like to think that means I completed the ideas I thought of from 2020 onward (since I was in short story courses, it is highly probable).
Here are several short stories that I came up with at various times, whether it be the first paragraph or the first page, I want to finish them. So this will be part 1 in a continued series. These are taken from my laptop, but there will be some from my phone as well because I am a devil-may-care writer with very little self-discipline.
The original portions of the stories I will make purple (or #7600FF) and the new additions will be traditional black. I will also put notes at the top and bottom in bold and bracketed off.
This is the last week of this series, sorry if putting the series out weekly without anything else in between was a little boring, but I assure you—the stories were all new, not continued, but simple little one-offs.
The first is from January 2019:
“Firelight Emporium”
(I dabbled with stories that centered around shops, in fantasy settings. It gave me the vibe of dungeons & dragons meets the real world. I mean sure fantasies can have stores but I haven’t experienced a library. It’s normally something practical like taverns/inns for gossip and rest.)
The library was tucked into a long row of shops in the main marketplace. From the outside the shop looked simple with its brown siding and black roof; the only spectacular thing was the door, a bright yellow with two quarter moon windows at the top. The two dragons glanced at one another and then at the “Welcome visitors!” mat outside the door. They communicated silently and then opened the door.
The bell above the door rang throughout the silent bookstore, drawing the attention of the bookkeeper. She titled her body to see, surprised to see not one but two elderly dragons shuffling closer to the front desk. One of them still had the colour to their scales, a greying red. While the other lacked any colour but had massive horns.
She moved toward the desk with an armful of books still needing to be put away. “Hello, welcome to the Firelight Emporium! How can I help you today?”
Inside the shop had 100 feet tail vaulted ceilings, obviously to accommodate any creature who wished to purchase sacred texts. How a human had acquired all this knowledge long since forgotten, it was no one’s guess. The floors were marbled tile with blue-frayed carpets scattered on nearly every square inch. The book shelves stacked almost as high as the ceiling with leather-bound, cloth-covered, wood-plated, and animal skin lined books of every size. The dragons would be impressed if they were not in a hurry.
The grey dragon lifted its head, looking deeply into the bookkeeper’s eyes. I don’t trust your kind, is there a dragon-born I could receive help from?
The strange, and often invasive, thing about dragons is their ability to telepathically link themselves into anyone’s mind. A gift they only waste on (what they perceive as) the inferior. A dragon’s voice is pure and full of truth, something they only use with their own kind and those they trust.
“I’m afraid not, I own this shop. there is nothing you would ask of me that I wouldn’t know.” The bookkeeper closed her eyes and felt the books in her arms start to fly through the shop and put themselves away, neatly into their assigned spaces.
There was a pregnant moment where the bookkeeper was worried the dragon would not reply, but after a silent conversation between the two, the grey dragon once again spoke. My kin and I require the knowledge of the Everwinter Healing Rituals.
“That is a highly dangerous spellbook, I wouldn’t recommend using the information within by yourselves,” the bookkeeper warned.
It is none of your concern, witch. This is dragon knowledge, do not interfere.
The bookkeeper took their book to the counter at the far right corner of the showroom. “I cannot sell this to you if you intend to harm yourselves by using it unprepared.”
It is not for you to decide what my kin and I do. The grey dragon’s face contorted into a glare. I will use force if necessary.
The books nearby ruffled from the sudden expansion of the dragon’s wings, if they truly wanted they could have destroyed the shop earlier and taken the book. The horned dragon looked sickly, as though this is not how they planned to acquire the book. “It is my shop, I am responsible for the customer’s purchases and what they seek to do with my goods. I meant no offense, if you wish to continue the ritual I simply wish you do it here.” The bookkeeper knew within the protected sacred walls of her library, they would be safe from further harm. She build the enchantment herself.
Grey lowered their wings then spoke, this tiny room is hardly enough room for either of us as it is.
“Not here.” The bookkeeper gestured to the large midnight blue curtains nestled between two book shelves. “That is the study, I let researchers and those attempting spells to use it. It is enchanted to fit the purposes of those who enter. I know the conditions you need for the spell: full-moon, twilight sky, and a large open field.”
Grey tried to decline but Horns nudged them. Fine, the ritual needs three participants—we will fetch our kin and return. The dragons leave giving the bookkeeper enough time to fill the wand and newt barrels, clean the stains from the children who wandered in for chocolate covered snails, and call her assistant to help for the rest of the afternoon.
“Thank you. Marcella. The list on the counter has our regulars, and if there is anything you do not know, you can consult the oracle.” The bookkeeper whipped off a large leather bound book with ten eyes that spun in dizzying directions.
“I know, this isn’t my first shift!” Marcella donned her robes.
The bookkeeper fussed around the shelves, straightening the same books until Grey and Horns returned with the injured and nearly dead black dragon with neon green spots. Neon’s voice is a whisper in the bookkeeper’s head, thank you.
The bookkeeper led the trio to the curtains and with a snap they are pulled back to reveal a black void. “Don’t worry, this is the natural state of the room. Once you walk through it will take shape.” The bookkeeper waved the dragons in. Grey and Horns drug Neon over the threshold of the void and with a twist the room became an open field under the moon light around twilight. “See?”
Horns spoke this time, patting the witch on the head. Please do not help, the ritual is difficult for us dragons.
“I appreciate the worry, and while I will do my best not to help, I cannot promise I will not.” The bookkeeper walked tot he edge of the circle Grey had conjured and placed Neon within.
You must promise, it is not written what can happen to non-dragons who perform the ritual. Horns grabbed the bookkeeper’s hands and shook them.
“Okay! I promise, I will not help!” The bookkeeper stumbled a few steps back. Horns nodded opening their mouth.
It is time. Untha take the left half of the circle. Horns—Untha took two steps and reached the left portion of the circle. Steady Cluv, try not to move. Grey told Neon—Cluv. The bookkeeper remained silent, it is not usual for outsiders to hear a dragon’s name. If the bookkeeper were a better witch, when the dragons' entered the shop the witch’s eyes should have averted. A shame that taboos were so easily broken. The bookkeeper watched as the dragons began humming and growling but never speaking words. The circle twinkled and then lit ablaze in white fire, the bookkeeper wondered if the fire represented the dragon or if it would always be white flames, as the dragons’ “chanting” grew louder.
The flame lapped at Cluv’s body, ripping the green spots from it’s body. The bookkeeper noticed the circle’s flame flickering, glancing at the dragons the witch saw their brows were furled in exhasution, it would be moments before they could no longer hold the spell. As the flame hissed toward Grey, the bookkeeper acted despite promising she would stay out of it and conjured her own white flame that circled the uncontrolled one. Forcing both flames to burn the spots away on Cluv faster then either dragon could chant.
“Witch.” Cluv opened his mouth and produced the most velvety voice.
The bookkeeper gasped in delight, a dragon’s voice truly was magical. “Yes?”
Cluv closed their mouth again, Never do that again.
Untha crushed the bookkeeper in their arms, “Thank you, human.”
Grey refused to speak, Yes, our child might not have survived without you…you will not speak of his father’s or his voice to anyone or I shall be back.
The bookkeeper nodded, still grinning as the witch escorted the dragons back out of the curtained room. The bookkeeper bid the two dragons goodbye with their promise of keeping her informed of Cluv’s progress. The witch flicked a wrist and the sign turned off and the doors locked.
Glancing at Marcella, shooing her home, the bookkeeper walked upstairs and promptly fell asleep for two days—dragon magic took a toll on a human’s body. The last thought the bookkeeper had before passing out was “Another day spent proud to be a bookkeeper.”
(this one I had to cut off. Unlike many genres, fantasy is harder to contain to a snippet. It needs a ton more world-building to feel realistic and developed characters as well and if you are attempting to submit your short stories to Lit. magazines or websites, they will often have a very short word limit like 1500 words—very occasionally 3500—the closest this idea could be to short is a novella, which is normally around or less than 100 pages.)
The second from May 2019:
“The True Mission”
(The ocean scares me, I think about the fish and how they’ve adapted for the deepness of the ocean and—-well, it just scares me. Even lakes have the effect but at least I can feel the bottom, but I’ve never been a very good swimmer so maybe it’s tied to that sensation of losing yourself to the sea and you might be lost for a while… anyway, I think that’s where I was going with this as a way of turning my fear into something like wonder. I also liked the concept of Journey to the Center of the Earth.)
(Also! Here is an example of an idea written like a plot-graph. Very little information, even less to go on, but a general idea of how a story could plan out.)
The first ever mission to the bottom of the sea, a mission that some would call a suicide. There is not guarantee that you will survive the trip, even with rations and resources. It’s a scary reality, but one that must be taken for Mao. But upon reaching the bottom, she emerges onto the water's surface. Somehow on a different planet, one that sees to be thriving better than that of Earth.
“I hate the ocean, just look at how dark it is out there.” Mao shutters.
“How did you ever pass training?” The captain, O’Shea, shakes her head. O’Shea uses the pulse and proximity radar to navigate past a large rock formation then turns to Mao, “You did pass training, right?”
“Of course, I did! The simulated “freezing” ocean water they put us in was pretty much just a deprivation tank and I felt safe. I guess I didn’t expect to feel like this when we started. This far down fish should not be alive but they are…it’s creepy.”
Her co-diver, Mattias laughs, “All fish are weird, some have teeth. But we aren’t here to catalogue fish. We had to sign and N.D.A and a waver in case of death, normal marine biologist don’t have to do that before they go spelunking.”
Mao rubs her forehead at the sudden headache, “Don’t remind me, happy thoughts Mao, happy thoughts.” Mao takes a few breathes. “How far till the bottom, Captain?”
Mattias scoffs at being ignored but turns around in his chair. O’Shea taps the screen of her proximity radar, “About 1000 feet, it’s time to buckle up. I imagine it’s going to start to get bumpy.” Luckily the crew had been chatting up her announcement so the creaking and shifting of the hull went unheard, but now the sound permeated the air with gasped breathes from Mao. All eight members clicked into their seats and waited.
Mao’s breathe shutters with another creak of the hull. Mao looks at the sensor and notices they are 750 feet from the bottom. It is a surprised she volunteered for the mission, but it was her dad’s research she wanted to confirm. His theory explained that the bottom of the ocean was simply the surface—he called this the “Tunnel”—his research had recorded several disturbances at the bottom, sightings of animals mouths that never broke the surface tension of the water. An impossibility for the supposed bottom of the sea floor. He also had schematics for prototypes of submarines, if they were small enough the pressure near the bottom shouldn’t effect it as much, and the places it would like the observer glass could be removed.
This was unthinkable for any pilot or captain, it was hard enough to navigate the depths but without even vision confirmation of where you were and the need to rely on sonar imaging, his research was scrapped. Until three months ago. Another researcher at the time was trying to identify a noise coming from the depths, they assumed it was some undiscovered animal—but after sending down countless drones, the researcher picked up dialogue. Words unlike those spoken here. Mao’s father called the language explorative since he couldn’t place which regional dialect (if any) it belonged to.
The Tunnel was based on the knowledge of a the debate around the straw. The straw has two entry points but one cylinder connecting both points—much like a wormhole. Each point of entry technically lead to the same place simply at a different time. Mao’s father thought after years of studying it on his own that the ocean developed this quality over time as the ocean rose and fell so to did the bottom until each entry point met in the middle. The sounds and broken images could be see from this middle point with drones.
After their lastes reinforced drone survive a partial trip beyond the Middle, the True Mission was scheduled.
Mao watches the sensor as it goes from 560 to 340 feet, the creaking increasing but does not pierce the hull or disrupt the feed. Mao hits the audio amplifier and listens as they descend. There is the ambient noise from the ocean, the whales and seals communicating thousands of feet above and the scuttling of the bottom-feeders. Mao turns the volume knob and uses a mixer to quiet the ambient noises, waiting for the words in the dark.
100 feet to the bottom, the submarine halts and jolts the crew in their seats. “Captain?” Mattias questions as he straightens his uniform.
O’Shea settles into their seat, attempting to turn the tiller but strains. They shift in their chair, “Is everyone alright?” after the crew nods, they continue, “I cannot move the wheel at all, David can you check if the manual override kicked in?”
“You think someone is controlling the ship?” Mao asks with one hear still to the audio device.
“It was a built-in feature for most of these prototype subs, it’s meant to steady the ship should we lose consciousness at the depth.” They answer but their brow remains furrowed. The system should not kick in unless the ship is drifting but O’Shea was piloting the ship on course until moments ago. David unbuckles his harness and grips the railings as he wades on unsteady legs towards the command center console. David taps a few bottoms, flicking several data sheets on the monitors.
“The override is engaged but there is no precendent for the error, by all means it shouldn’t be—” The submarine jerks downwards, David flies a few feet in the air before the ships gravity pulls him to the floor.
“Brace!” The captain shouts as they reach for David.
The submarine is pulled another few feet and shaken back and forth. "The proximity cameras are catching something on the feed. Let me just…” David clicks at the screen before a projector displays the information for the rest of the crew. On the screen is a several camera feeds and on one particalr feed, a mouth grips the tail of the submarine.
As the crew sits in shock, the audio device starts to emit sounds. “Er do conta dem…explot, fir hat.” Mao and the linguist, Caterin gasp.
Mattias turns to David, “It’s…I think we’re within reach of the Tunnel. Can you open the central posterior camera?”
David pulls the feed up to the camera and they are once again in awed silence. Beyond the fangs of the creature pulling their ship to the tunnel was purple. A grainy picture which shows the swirlings of purple clouds or some form of parcipitation on the other side of the water. “David issue the flare and the shock,” the captain orders.
“Aye!” David twists a key into the slot at the base of the console before punching the red button marked “Stinger”, the creature’s mouth loosens and retreats. He runs back to his chair and nods to the captain.
“Okay everyone, reentry is going to disorient you. But our boyancy should right us since the latch is heavier than the bottom of our ship. I’m going to initiate the surfacing procedure so I need everyone to brace again okay?” the captain hears their agreements and enters their command code on the keypad above their chair.
An AI announces, “Initiating breach, prepare for impact. Starting countdown. 3….2…..1….Breaching.”
The submarine plummets and shifts the crews organs into pancakes in their throats, the water around them disappears and suddenly their organs right themselves as they breach into the oxygen rich environment of the otherside. Another couple of jolts and the submarine rocks against the current of the green water.
Mao squeals, “Let’s go!” She tumbles out of her seat and rushes to the hatch at the top of the submarine where the Enviro suits are—another schematic from her father was these suits. The Environmental Regulation Suits, or Enviro Suit for short, help keep all the normal levels of oxygen, nitrogen, humidity, even heat levels of Earth. Mao’s father was uncertain of the conditions of this otherside but he wanted to prepare a kind of astronaut suit for explorers. His suits were lighterweight as he hoped they would not also need to regulate gravity through heavy materials.
The rest of the crew dashes after Mao, their excitement sky-rocketing now they survived the journey. Mao dances around as she waits for everyone to gear up.
“Are you ready?”
(Hehe, I know I’m cruel but I think that’s a nice little sneak peak into a short story. Not too much world-building but hopefully enough that it feels contained? If not leave a comment to let me know!)
The third is from September 2019:
“People Linger”
(this one is practically finished, I think I just didn’t like it in its current state so I’ll add things in-between instead of tying up the end.)
It’s a dreary night. Not truly, though. Just for Simone. Her apartment is newly renovated, meaning there is no creaking or rustling of pipes, just quiet. Lonely. She’s getting ready for bed now, brushing her teeth in the bathroom.
She finds her eyes skimming the beige backsplash near the sink. She notices how old the grout looks, cracked and brown instead of the white grout around the tub. She’ll need to fix that soon, the last thing she needed was for mold to sprout. Thankfully, most of the place had been renovated prior to her moving in all those years ago, despite the location housing some questionable types. She really couldn’t complain.
The bedrooms were massive, the kitchen had all new appliances, and the laundry was in-suite.
The worst thing about new places is the colour scheme. Modern homes have stainless steel appliances and white cupboards. White everything really, suppose it shows how tidy a place is. A real bitch to keep clean. Which is what Simone finds herself thinking, looking at a black spot of mascara on her sink. It’s not so much the stain that bothers her, or the fact that it’s from three weeks ago and she hasn’t tried to clean it. It’s him, the man in the mirror.
He isn’t new either, been there for a couple years, probably why Simone moves so often. Trying to get rid of a stain without actually doing anything. But there he is, smiling sadly at her reflection. It’s not a problem, really, just a reminder.
Simone works too much, never had time to date or keep many friendships while climbing the business ladder. Unspeakable sadness washes over her.
Why does he always show up?
His sallow face stares back at her from the mirror, she learned to control her breathing and rationalize the appearance to herself over time. Though his face still scared her, it’s been too long and his face no longer holds warmth in the cheeks. Just stiff and yellowing skin stretched too thin over bone too sharp.
The first time she saw him, he took a quarter out of her ear. She was so happy, then time caught up. Like it always does, quietly but tragic. It takes us all in the end, then you are just laying in a wooden box as your mother cries on your shoulder and you can barely breathe but you can’t stop yourself from inhaling, so you just choke on air. Then suddenly strangers are hugging you like they’ve known you forever, until your grandmother comes up to you and whispers in your ear how proud he was of you. Then the pressure is worse, but it spreads from your heart to your arms and legs until all you can do is stand paralyzed, hoping for the feeling to end but it doesn’t go away. Not in a week, nor a month, nor two years where you finally think you don’t feel it but then you see him anyways. Always.
With warm tears rolling down Simone’s cheeks, she laughs. She laughs because it’s easier than acknowledging the pain that has created lesions in the deepest part of her heart, as she constantly remembers him and the love that she had for him. It overthrows her.
Simone blinks back the tears and finishes up, walks over to her bed and promptly cries herself to sleep, like always.
Tomorrow she will see him again in the mirror, a little worse for wear.
(Actually about grief not the supernatural. Unlike the others, this one actually feels contained. I think because it open and closes with one character? Maybe I’m overthinking that but still, let me know what you thought in the comments!)
And the forth and final story in this series is from October 2019:
"I Woke Up…”
(I believe this was a poem idea)
I wake up and the house smells like smoke, it makes my eyes water as I choke on blackness.
I call to my parents, but I don’t live with them anymore.
The cold floors greet bare skin as I stumble into the kitchen,
an orchestra of fire, smoke, and ash fight over the remnants of food on the stove top I must have left on.
The harmonious entity recoils at my presence, Its you, they wail and moan.
it’s the forgetful joyless being who birthed us, now I suppose you want to take us away.
no, we don’t want to leave yet, not when there is so much food to eat.
Burn buuuuurn, eat consume.
I cough and choke as it builds its chant, consuming a large portion of the countertops and cabinets.
I abandon the fire and hope to grab the essentials.
I grab my laptop, keys, phone, chargers, important documents from the office.
I rush to the bathroom and fix my hair and brush my teeth.
Burn buuuuurn, eat consume.
I move to my bedroom and hesitate. My stuffed animals look back at me.
“I could always buy more,” I say though they were all gifts.
I grab a change of clothes, a blanket, a pillow, and depart.
The fire licks at the edges of the walls spreading into the living room, burn buuuuurn, eat consume.
you didn’t deserve the things you had, material items with no other value that what you placed on them but the sentiments of your room will be destroyed.
i will be back, larger and stronger, until you can’t choose what you’ll take. Perhaps the small jewellery box, or pictures will enter your mind.
I wake with impression of smoke in my lungs,
I bound into the kitchen—no flame, no voice just a pristine kitchen I cleaned last night.
I slump against the wall and wonder when I grew up.
(And there you have it. A small little poem to wrap up the series! Not my most visual or imaginative poem but I have this fear a lot. Waking up to a fire and realizing I’ve taken adult and responsible things with me instead of years and years of memories imprinted on stuffed animals and silly drawings I’ve hung up)
