Joyfully Ever After – Short Story

September 1, 2024 ~ Ashley ~ 2 Comments

I’m joining my writing group in attempting to write every day in September by following along the Hooked on Writing daily prompts. The assignment for Day One was to create an ordinary scene from a day in the life of a fantastical character.

Cinderella jerks awake to the unmistakable sounds of glass breaking downstairs. She groans as she sits up, stiff from another restless night. Her husband wanted her to sleep in this morning, but as another crash echoes off the floor underneath her feet, she knows she can no longer postpone the inevitable. She cringes as her feet hit the cold, stone floor and wonders once again where she left those dang slippers. Her eyes meet her reflection in the gilded mirror once impeccably cleaned, but now chronically smudged with flecks of toothpaste. As she attempts to corral her blonde hair into a bun on top of her head, she tries to remember the last time she washed it. Shrugging her shoulders, she sighs and grabs her robe and throws it over the yoga pants and tee shirt that have become her standard daily uniform.

She pads down the hallway and notices the finest carpets from faraway lands now play host to abandoned Legos and headless Barbies. She almost trips over her stepmother’s cat, Lucifer, on the grand staircase. She imagines the old lady laughing up at her from the grave as her last vengeful act—bequeathing the monster to her least favorite child—almost breaks her neck. Cinderella wonders if sheer meanness is going to help him outlive them all. She makes a mental note to add litter to the grocery list.

She winces as a wail rises from the kitchen and pauses to gather herself before she officially begins this day that will be identical to the one that came before and the one before that. She braces herself for the disaster she expects to walk into. She heads into the kitchen and grabs a handful of cheerios left on the marble countertop as she makes her way to the long, wooden table running the length of the kitchen. She spots two curly blonde heads bent over art projects and feels her breath catch in her chest.

She remembers once upon a time, she thought life was hard and exhausting and all she wanted was an escape. Now here she is living her happily ever after and it doesn’t look anything like she expected. But as she goes to the kids and breathes them in, kissing smudged cheeks and holding dimpled hands, she sees a glimpse of her reflection in their eyes. And she knows that here in the trenches of motherhood, doing the hard and holy work of breaking cycles and raising kind humans in an unkind world, this is right where she wants to be. Happy endings are overrated. She would choose joy over happiness any day.

A Family Forged in Fire — A Short Story

July 1, 2024 ~ Ashley ~ 2 Comments

The following short story was written for my writing group and is in response to this prompt: “A firefighter who saved a bunch of children from a skyscraper after many harrowing hours of trying, finding himself in the midst of the chaos of billowing smoke and crackling flames and then adopted two of them with his wife who couldn’t have children.”

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The flames angrily surged in red and orange leaps as if they were trying to break the earthly bonds of gravity itself. Eric stood frozen, entranced by the frenzied dance being performed before him. The intense heat from the blaze aggressively enveloped his body. His brown eyes darkened as the fire reflected in his unwavering gaze.

He came back to himself with a start as Maggie handed him the platter of steaks. She put a soothing hand on his shoulder and lightly kissed his cheek. “The grill looks ready. Are you sure you’re good?” She whispered. He nodded silently, absentmindedly touching the scars running up and down his arms as the meat sizzled over the fire.

A rowdy chorus of giggles erupted from the sandbox. The kids, at five and three years old, were having the most fun with the shiny new firetruck the guys brought over today. She took in the precious view of her boys’ curly blonde heads bent over the red engine. Her heart swelled almost to bursting with the love she had for them. As she circled the deck refilling perspiring solo cups, she marveled at the love Eric’s fellow firefighters had shown them all over the last few years. She looked around her cozy backyard filled with blooming hydrangeas and bordered by a white picket fence. It was hard to believe how much life had changed since that fateful night.

Just three years ago, Maggie and Eric’s suburban life was but a dream. They were living on the sixth floor of a rundown apartment building. Desperately wanting to start a family, Maggie felt the gut punch of disappointment month after month. Eric tried to support her in every way he knew how, but the long shifts at the fire station took him away for more nights than he liked. Maggie seemed to retreat into herself more with each passing day. When Eric came home from a 24-hour shift one sunny October morning, he found Maggie slouched on the floor in a corner of the room that should have been a nursery. She was holding onto a teddy bear as if it were the last thread of hope and rocking back and forth.

The unfairness of it all was an ember of resentment in the pit of his stomach that had been smoldering for some time now. Here was his beautiful wife with empty arms and so much love to give. And yet, all around them in this dump of a building were apartments full of ignored or even unwanted kids. Just next door lived the most adorable towheaded toddler and a newborn whose raspy cries echoed through the living room walls and into the cracks of their hearts. That day in October, everything changed for Maggie and Eric.

Just hours later, thick gray smoke slid under doors and through the cracks of the dingy apartments. Day turned to night as the smoke choked out the last of the sunlight. Flames licked the ceilings with fiery tongues. The roar of the inferno masked the chaotic screams and shouts of the neighbors. It wasn’t until much later that the absence of alarms was even noticed.

As the tragedy unfolded in the press, the media latched onto the harrowing story of the firefighter who risked his own life to save others. How lucky those kids were to have such a hero living right next door. How criminally negligent the building owner was to have dysfunctional safety measures. How heartwarming to hear the newly orphaned kids were adopted by the very man who saved them.

Yes. It was incredible how life had changed since that fateful night three years ago when two desperate people decided to make their own fate with the strike of a match.

Vengeance is Served — A Short Story

April 17, 2024April 17, 2024 ~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

This is a big departure from my usual stories. This piece is dark and heavy and I offer a few trigger warnings: bullying, suicide, child loss. With that said, this was an excellent writing exercise that stretched me far outside my comfort zone. If you choose to read it, I would greatly appreciate any feedback. This fiction stuff is all so new to me, but I’m truly enjoying exploring this side of writing!

The original prompt: “A serial killer tries to justify his crimes.” The assignment was a 60-word story. I thought it might be a good chance to stretch a bit without too big of a commitment. Then–surprise–the next assignment was to expand the 60 words into 1,000. Oops! What did I get myself into? The first paragraph is a version of that original assignment. The remainder is the second. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

I don’t kill because I enjoy it. No. Everyone would misunderstand if they knew me. But they don’t know anything, because I’m invisible. They don’t even see me anymore. For all they see, I’m just hands slinging sloppy joes day in and day out. But they’re not invisible. Not at all. I see every single cruelty the bullies dish out. And it may be the last thing they ever see, but eventually I’m not invisible anymore.

Not that I mind living my life unseen. I wear my invisibility like a favorite blanket, heavy and warm. It allows me to conduct my grave business with the utmost efficiency. That’s how I see it—this is my job, my duty. This isn’t some perverse hobby or a middle-aged onset of psychosis. This is my calling. It’s a calling I feel uniquely equipped to walk in.

You see, I’m not unfamiliar with the harassment and torture of bullies. I have had a front row seat to the utter destruction of this specific brand of torment. It’s the slowest death of all when the mind and heart are daily poisoned. The soul eventually succumbs to the inevitable pull of promised peace in release from this earthly life.

So really, the justice I serve is so much more merciful than they deserve. Mine is quick and relatively painless, except for the moment realization dawns in their eyes just as the life drains from them. That’s when I whisper two names. The first belongs to the child being avenged. The second one—well, I’m not quite ready to share just yet.

She looks up from her notebook where she has been writing these words.

It’s a confession of sorts. The lined pages are blotched with tear stains. She didn’t realize she’d been crying. She was surprised there were any tears left after all this time. If she could have saved them, the kitchen shelves would be lined with them floor to ceiling.

It wasn’t always like this. She wants everyone to know that, so she picks up the pen again.

When I first began working in the high school cafeteria, it was the best part of my life. I loved seeing the faces of the precious students every day. I found such joy in encouraging them with a smile and an extra helping of mashed potatoes if they seemed sad. I took special notice of students with unpaid lunch accounts, and I spent every spare cent in my meager paycheck to bring accounts back into black. I kept a backpack or two on hand to fill with bread, peanut butter, and granola bars to send home with those same students. No child goes hungry if I can help it.

It wasn’t until my own child was a student at the high school that I first learned how cruel those precious angels could be. My sweet boy came into these halls as a happy, hopeful honors student. He was an old soul who was kind to all, loved animals and history, and was a gifted artist. His only crime? His mother was the lunch lady.

For some unfathomable reason, being a lunch lady had been declared embarrassing and uncool. Therefore, my precious son was marked as the official target for any student looking to build themselves up by tearing others down.

My happy boy seemed to wither before my very eyes. Every day, he seemed smaller and grayer as if he were folding in on himself and fading from view. He never complained to me. Not once. Even as his own heart was slowly dying inside his body, he wanted to protect mine. And he did. Until the day he didn’t wake up for school and I found him next to an empty pill bottle.

A guttural, animal-like sob escapes her throat, and she throws the pen across the room as she stands to pace.

This is too much, she thinks. No one could reasonably expect a human heart to survive this.

She would tell you she did not survive. Not in her original form. Her heart shut down that dark day and she hasn’t been aware of a single beat since. Like a terrifying aberration of metamorphosis, she has emerged from her chrysalis not as a beautiful butterfly, but as a monster. Only a monster would wish death on children, she thinks.

She grabs another pen from the table and continues her writing.

For Ryan.

This is the second name I whisper to the condemned as their sentences are carried out. Because for every child I observe being targeted by the bullies, I only see my Ryan. I can only think of saving another parent from this zombie-like existence as my body continues to walk the earth, but my heart and mind and soul are with my lost child.

Somewhere a timer begins to ding. She looks up from her writing, taking a second to orient herself to the cozy room filled with warm sunlight and cheerful houseplants.

“That’s time, Marta,” the therapist says. “How do you feel about this exercise? Were you able to purge the dark thoughts you mentioned last week? I just want to remind you that it’s perfectly normal to have dark fantasies after experiencing the kind of trauma you’ve been through.”

Marta walks to the window and looks out at the busy street below, filled with people continuing to walk and breathe and live as if the world hadn’t stopped turning on its axis. How could they not notice there was now a gaping chasm?She walks over to the tastefully decorated coffee table and hands the notebook to her therapist. Marta can tell the hopeful young woman wants so badly to help. She feels a twinge of compassion for her. But Marta knows no one can help her now. Yes, this was all just a therapeutic exercise to this earnest therapist. But to Marta? It feels a bit more like a recipe for revenge.