Short Story

Day 100 – One Hundred – Short Story

One hundred days, one hundred days, one hundred creations and still the focus that was initially instilled in his work shines through. He stands back and looks at the images before him, his creations, his mark on this world. He runs his hands through his hair and pulls, letting out a short, sharp grunt of frustration, one hundred days and today, for the first time since he started this journey, he feels lost. A sudden knock on the door startles him and he grits his teeth together, grinding them, he feels his jaw lock for a moment and a sharp pain shoots up through the side of his face and into his temple, his eye twitches vigorously for a moment before he turns quickly around and storms towards the door, as the knocking continues. He pulls it open and is greeted by an empty hallway, for a few moments he stands there, confused, lost, until he finally steps out from his apartment and looks down each side, but spies nothing out of the ordinary, just an empty, vacant hallway. He steps back in and slowly closes the door and shakes his head in confusion and makes his way back towards his workspace, before the knocking begins again.

“For fuck sake!” He screams as he charges at the door and pulls it open, once again revealing an empty hallway. “You’re not fucking funny!” He yells as he slams the door, standing there, he peers through the spy hole and waits, sweat pours quickly from his forehead as he presses his face against the door, a spark of white explodes in the hallway and the bagging begins again. He stands there, his eye widens, he sucks in a breath as he watches the white glowing bubble hover in front of the door, it buzzes around like a bee, searching a garden bed for the best, succulent flower to pollinate. His lip trembles as he pulls himself away from the door and rips it open, he stands there, as the white bubble hovers in front of him, and then, shoots into his apartment. He spins around and watches as it buzzes around his working desk and then, turns back towards him and takes the shape of a young girl, she stands there, staring towards him and the room ignites as an explosion rips through his work, and he goes crashing to the floor.

He opens his eyes and slowly lifts himself to his elbows and looks towards his workspace, the smoking remains of his desk wisps into the air, he feels the rage burn in his belly and he scrambles to his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs, his heart beats furiously in his chest, he staggers over to the remains of the desk, as tears run down his face.

“Today, you begin a new challenge,” a voice says from behind him, he spins around to face the ghostly girl’s image.

“W-W-What the fuck are you?”

“I am its herald, its omen, I am the word before it comes, you have been chosen, you are its seer, and you will foretell its coming. You will make its name known, you will hear its words and you will spread it, and you will prepare the world.”

“Listen, whatever you are, I’m not doing anything for anyone, especially not someone who…..” His words freeze in his throat as he feels the room drop in temperature, the lights flicker, the TV switches on and off, and the little girl smiles.

“It’s coming……”


18 replies on “Day 100 – One Hundred – Short Story”

You have. She is in your head , someone who made you question your existence or how you defined it so far….. Once you answer all those questions ….that is a new beginning. Life is about reinventing one self again and again. My best wishes.

Liked by 1 person

Someone said to me the other day, ‘Being writer is a privilege, something we get to do for fun.’
There are times when the muse drags me from life, when it rages untamed in my head, when I can’t eat or sleep, when I can feel the whole of the story wanting to come out at the same time. I’m not sure I’d call it fun. It does however feel like a privilege to be part of something I don’t understand.
I love the end, where she tells him, ‘You will make its name known, you will hear its words and you will spread it, and you will prepare the world.’ Pretty damn spot on as far as I’m concerned.

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To see your minds eye on the paper in front of you, to see your words in a picture, the thrill, to make it end, to quell its cries, therein lies the fun. To slay the beast, to be the hero, or, to be the beast itself. But in the end its like the girl said, the driver, your own dark eyed mistress, riding shotgun, on the road to madness, and you will spread its name.

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There is an angry out burst for being bitten by the writer’s bug or passion or obsession. Who was she ? The muse who burns your desk , yet confirms that you are condemned to write. This was a pause in your novel ?
My pauses are studded with lonely poems.
I understand that this is so damn important for defining your very existence ! Happens.
Like the ” Muse”
She must be worth living for………Enjoyed it.

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She, the girl, defines the beast inside, the inner moment when this blog started becoming more than just a distraction from my novels, but a birthing of something else, the coming of something new, maybe what I was always destined to write. The enjoyment I have taken within these stories and the disappointment in releasing stories I feel needed more time, but my desire to work by the set rules remove my ability to overwork them, and in most cases they work better than I could have expected, where if I had more time I would’ve lost the soul of the story. But 100, it defines the next stage, the curve that takes shape. But I’m getting lost in what I’m talking about, I guess my excitement as the stories take shape, but, If I was to have a muse, it would be it that’s she speaks of, this blog, it is controlled by the creature in the background, slowly pulling the strings and soon, soon it will be here. But what of the writer, what power does he really have, I think the concepts of blurring reality and the words on the page and slowly the blog itself, all intermingling into the stories entertain me and to that end I hope entertain you all 👍 and I think somehow I may not have really answered any of what you were asking.


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