A Collection of Short Stories

{three stories I wrote a while back, all extremely different. 8D;; enjoy?}

"Guilt" {horror}

Her voice was unmistakable through the telephone receiver.

"I told you I'd be back."

He pictured the last time he saw her, in a large wooden box. The box was luxuriously cushioned for some reason- it wasn't like she could feel the orange velvet. Maybe it was to respect the memory of the deceased? Either way, it had seemed a bit much at the time. Her lips had been sewn shut and painted pink, her face painted a more healthy complexion. Her eyelids had a thin, barely visible film of glue under the lashes to keep them shut, to make it look as if she was resting in peace. And it did look like that. The morgue had done a good job. It was like she was napping, only in a coffin, with candles and flowers and framed pictures surrounding her.

No one else at the funeral noticed the seams, the glue or the makeup. No one even noticed the bullet hole in her temple. And if they did they sure weren't ready to say so. He, and only he, noticed these things because no one else had seen her die- her eyes wide open, her lips formed into a scream. Formed into words. Words like "I told you I'd be back".

The murderer had to wonder for a moment, as he ran from his phone and through his door, the door to the house that him and her had shared, how she could have possibly spoken through those stitches. Then he remembered, forget the stitches, how did she dig through all that dirt? And then he remembered, with a scream much like hers, how can she talk when she's dead?

That was when the neighbors started to take notice of him, running screaming past their doorsteps. They noticed him, but not her blood on his back fence, screaming just as loud to him, saying, it's too late to apologize, it's all your fault and there's nothing you can do.

That was also when the man on the other end of the phone call turned off his tape recording. This was the man who truly loved her. He let out a sigh, figuring he'd already had his fun and he should get around to calling the police.

"Prom Night" {romance}

She stood, in the shadows, waiting. And as she waited, she felt like the ugliest girl alive.

She glanced up the road, and down toward the gym entrance, light and music and dance exploding down the steps and into the night like a herd of rhinoceros. She didn't belong, she thought; she never belonged. She shouldn't even try. The makeup the other girls wore, neatly applied, made her jealous, making her wish she had makeup to wear. Maybe then she would look pretty... Or at least, passable. Her hair was pulled back and tied into a braid winding down to her waist, her uncomfortable face exposed to all the world for what it was: ugly.

She felt the fabric of her dress between her fingers; soft silk with a jade stone shine. It clung to her small frame, falling down in a waterfall of green sea. Every time she closed her eyes she knew her stomach stuck out, her arms looking colossal, the rest of her disproportionate and gawky. She'd open her eyes, and see her thin body in its shiny dress, and yet, it still wouldn't convince her.

She'd watch girls go by with their dates, with their friends, with their mothers and fathers. Every girl that passed her, she thought, she's prettier than I am. Soon, every girl had gone in, and every girl was having the time of her life. Their senior prom. They would only get one.

And standing outside, in the cool night, alone, was one girl, too afraid to have fun.

"Is that you?"

Her head turned. The streetlight showed a boy in front of her; not just a boy, the boy she'd spent all this time alone for. All that time alone to wait for him to get there. All this time being ugly. He looked so perfect, perfectly out of reach, clean cut and handsome, looking like himself.

"Step into the light. I want to see you."

She hesitated. She didn't want him to see her. Her face. She wanted his mind's eye picture of her in her dress, at her prom, to be the one he remembers. It probably looks better. Anything must look better. But yet, he should know. She anticipated a disappointed expression, and a single clop echoed down the empty street, a single step under the yellowing street light above them.

"Oh, my God..."

And suddenly, for just a moment, under her makeshift spotlight, she felt like the most beautiful girl to ever walk the earth.

"Journey to America" {historical fiction}

I bent over the railing, watching the dark waves lap at the sides of the boat. The ocean was a nice color that day; the day before it had been churned white by the heavy weather. We were all afraid we wouldn’t make it through the storm, but it was over much earlier than we anticipated.

“Do you see shore yet?” my father called to me in Norwegian. He asked me that every time he caught me staring out over the water; he thought of watching the waves as a waste of time. There were many other things on the boat for a girl like me to do, like care for the sick or mend ripped clothes. I was one of the only girls on the boat, and for some reason the men had too much pride to wash their own garments. My feet dropped back onto the deck as I went to check into the sick ward.

It took me forever to convince Knut and my father to go along to California. The ship was cramped enough already with nine other families. They only let me go along because I told them I’d work extra hard, and that I could carry the sack of gold up and down the valleys once we finally got there. That way both their hands would be free to pick out the gold paving the streets.

Just thinking about all the gold made me grin with excitement. The words of the article father had read to me rang in my head as I opened the door and went down into the makeshift hospital.

“Elsa!”

I glanced over to see my brother, wrapping a crewmember’s injured arm. He never minded doing women’s work on the ship; I respected him for it. “Hallo, Knut!”

He smiled, and started talking in English, trying to practice for when we arrived. “No dead people today, but they haven’t gotten better, either.”

“Good.” I glanced back down the aisle of cots, and deciding I had some free time, went back out to the halls, looking for someplace quiet.

The corridors were dark and lined with candles, the dust kicked up from my slippers showing only in the light of the flames. Once I thought I was far enough down that no other people could see me, I felt around in my pocket, and eventually found the corner of a page of newsprint. I pulled it out and read over the same article I read every day since leaving Oslo.

“The gold we find is almost completely pure. The size of the nugget varies. In some places pieces have been found that weigh up to seven pounds.”

Seven pounds! Imagine that! I could certainly imagine it; the sidewalks glittering with gold flecks waiting to be picked, sitting in the grass, in the dirt, glistening in the streams. Oh, the streams must look beautiful adorned with gold, even prettier than the waves when they hit the side of the boat. But then again, father would never let me stare for too long; he would say to ruin it, to pan it out and put it all in bags and sell it. Art never mattered to him.

Then again, we needed the money, more than anything. We were in debt back in Norway, debt even deeper than the ocean. My siblings were starving back home, as was my mother. We could barely keep our house properly paid for, and I just knew the eviction notice would be on its way soon. Once we found the gold, that wouldn’t be a problem. Gold was our only option; to take the perilous journey to the United States, to get as much gold as was possible and to make the long trek back to our families. That was everyone’s motto, every family’s sole motivation. I had heard people who were doubtful of the gold rush; people who said, it’s a lie, most people find nothing. That the only stories they published were the lucky ones. But I don’t believe this. I believe the gold would solve all our problems. It would make our lives perfect, as we’d always wished. And even if it were true that only a select few found gold, I was sure that we would be one of them.

I sighed and put the clipping back. Straightening out my skirt, I walked back up to the deck… I suppose we will have to see once we reach America.