I discovered this wonderful event that Rachael Ritney runs over on her blog Writing Rachael Ritchey. It’s a challenge to write a short story on a particular theme. As I need some serious motivation, and because I like a challenge, I thought I’d participate. Here are the rules:
1. 1000 words max
2. fictional tale (or true if you really want)
3. PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
4. Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related
5. Go for the entertainment value!
6. Use the hashtag #BlogBattle, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this post, and/or include a link to this post in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
7. Have fun!
Not sure I’ve got the entertainment value one, but here’s my entry on the theme of: Side table.
Her fingers ran over the scars ingrained in the wood. Once polished, now lifeless and scarred and worn.
Kind of like her.
She sat down on the threadbare carpet. The room hadn’t seen much love in the past twenty years. Her mother had let things slide.
She got up, opened up the curtains, let a little light in. Dust floated around her, tiny specks picked out by the weak sunlight.
As a child her mother had told her there was magic in those specks. Tiny sparks that kept things going.
She hadn’t known how right she was.
“This place needs a good clean,” a small voice said into her ear.
Winter settled on her shoulder, her fluttering wings sending out a cold draft of air on her ear.
“I know,” Layla said. “It’s just going to take some work, and time.”
A moment’s silence, then the fairy asked, “Are you going to come and live here?”
The unasked question was one of abandonment.
“No. I couldn’t. This was my mother’s home. I’m going to clean it up, then sell it.” Her eyes alighted once more on the scarred side table. “I’ll just keep one or two things.”
Winter flitted over to the table, hovering above it. “This is special?”
“Yes. I used to sit and write at it.” Layla knelt down once more behind it, feeling her childish shadow kneel with her. She saw the ghost of that small hand reaching out, marking down stories of witches, fairies, ghosts and goblins.
So innocent. So young. Unscarred.
She ran a finger along a groove in the wood. “Life was a lot different then.”
Winter landed on her hand. Small ice-blue eyes met hers. “You’re hurting.”
“Yes.” A sad smile. “Remembering does, sometimes.”
Winter’s eyes dropped. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t asked how things are at home. How are you doing?”
“The same.” The way she said it, it was as if she were hiding something.
“You can tell me. I’m still here for you. Even though I’m away at the moment.”
“I know.” She flitted her wings. A shower of tiny snowflakes fell on Layla’s hand. “Come on, let’s get started on cleaning this mess.”
The unsaid words: then you can come home.
Winter was just as lonely as Layla.
“Okay.” Layla stood.
Winter flew over to the window, looked out. “Maybe we should let some fresh air in.”
Layla opened the window. Chilly air seeped into the room, displacing the stuffiness and dust. She took in a deep breath of it.
If only it were that simple to freshen up a heart.