Tag Archives: short story

The Spot – A Short Story

Posted on by
2

 “You’re fired,” my boss for the past 2 years says.

Those words made my gut tumble into a knot for so long it felt like years had passed.

“W-What?” I stammer out.

“You heard me, Clay, you’re fired. You come in late every day, you fall asleep at your desk, you never finish your work on time, and you enter some sort of trance that lasts for almost the entire day. You no longer benefit our company. We can’t have someone that daydreams all day working for such a huge business. Pack your things,” my now ex-boss, Walter says.

Without responding, I tread to my poorly decorated cubicle. The only thing on the walls is a photo of my mother and me when I graduated high school. I smile before quickly putting a straight face back on when I realize my current situation. I have no job.

How am I going to take care of myself? How will I afford a bag of food for my cat? How will I pay my rent?

Although I live in Florida, the rent here still isn’t cheap; especially since I live alone. I have no financial help from anyone but myself.

As I gather my very few things into a box, I remember the important meeting I was supposed to have today. I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

After I gather a small box filled with all my belongings, I say goodbye in my head and walk to the elevator. As I go down to the lobby, my mind goes blank. What just happened? My parents are going to be so disappointed in me.

Since I live right down the street to my office, I walk home. I think about what I will do to make sure I can pay my rent. Do I get a roommate? Do I move back home?

After about 5 minutes, I get to my apartment. I turn the key, unlocking the door, and my cat, Patches, comes up to me; she rubs her face against my leg. I can feel her purring as she brushes up against me.

Ever since I moved to this apartment a few years ago, there is this one spot on the roof I just love sitting at. I can just chill and sometimes I take Patches with me too. My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend, George.

It’s a photo of him and his cat. I smile and send a selfie back.

I change into some sweatpants and a hoodie, pick up Patches, and head up to the roof. During the winter in New York, it can get pretty cold. I brought Patches a blanket as well.

As I walk up, I hear my phone begin to ring in my pocket. I take it out and look at the screen. The caller ID says George.

I give myself a confused look, wondering why he would be calling me at this hour. He lives in England, so usually, he would be asleep around this time.

I decide to decline the call, not wanting to go on my phone. But, before I press decline, I hear the sound of a phone ringing. A different phone.

I walk over to my usual spot and see a boy sitting there. It’s a cloudy day and I can’t really make out a face.

He stands up and walks closer to me. I become slightly frightened, unsure of who the strange man is.

On his third step over to me I recognize the face. I could find that face in a crowd of one hundred people. I could recognize him in a mosh-pit at a concert. It’s George.

“George?!” I question, slightly excited, but mostly shocked.

“Surprise?” he says.

You’re Enough

Posted on by
2

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough. I’m sorry I can’t help you with your homework. I’m sorry I have an accent. I’m sorry I’m such an embarrassment.” Growing up, I heard my father utter these painful words as he looked tearfully into my eyes. But, even then, I wished I could make him see his true value in shaping me into the person I am today. 

I want my father to see himself as I see him: as a hero. I want my father to know that his scarred and callused hands are not merely the hands of a working-class man, but the hands of a selfless father who has given up everything for his children. The countless scars, cicatrixes, and wounds that decorate his hands are like shining medals in my eyes. Yes, my father came from an impoverished town in Mexico, never earned a college degree, and arrived in America with nothing but the clothes on his back; but in my eyes, he is a hero and his scars are his superpowers. His scars tell the story of a young boy who crossed the border illegally into an unknown land in which people spoke a foreign language. They tell the story of a boy who was forced to work in the fields at the age of seven, later abandoned by his parents at the age of eight. Most importantly, they remind me of my story and of my background. They remind me that just as my father wears his scars proudly, so must I. His scars are a physical representation of his dedication to our family. They remind me that just as he works tirelessly from morning to night to provide for our family, I must work to fulfill my dreams.

I wish I could make my father see that his white beat-up work truck is worth more than any Mercedez and that his tattered work clothes are more valuable than any luxury business suit. Because, in my eyes, his run-down truck and stained clothing tell a story, not of wealth and privilege, but of perseverance and incomparable strength. His scars, beaten truck, and tattered clothing are the reasons I have the opportunity to achieve my dream. They have given me insight into the value of hard work and inspire me to challenge myself daily. One day, I will make my father realize how valuable he truly is. For now, all I can do is hold his hand, look into his eyes, and say, “I promise, you’re enough.” 

-Yvette C.

Alternate Ending for “The Landlady”

Posted on by
1

I recently read a short horror story called “The Landlady,” which was left on a cliffhanger. I decided to write an alternate ending for it! I would highly recommend that you read the original short story before reading the alternate ending. You can find the story at https://www.teachingenglish.org.uk/sites/teacheng/files/landlady_text.pdf

Alternate Ending for “The Landlady”

Something, just something about this whole affair bothered Billy. He couldn’t quite place his finger on what it was, a stirring of the mind, a brief flash of thought. He attributed it, of course, to the heat of the room and the time of night. “I think I should like to go to bed now,” he said.

“Of course, dear,” cried the old lady, fussing over him, “I should think so!”
Billy sighed, stepping gingerly over the dachshund to make his way to the stairs. He turned back to look at the landlady. She had her back to him, serenely gazing into the dying embers of the fire, petting the dachshund, a cold, stiff travesty of a dog. Yes, something about this whole bloody business just wasn’t quite right. Shaking his head, he stumbled slowly up the stairs and into his room. He sat down heavily on the bed, still thinking. The fourth floor? The men were still here? But how? Eyes drooping, he fell straight to sleep, questions still echoing around his head.

3 a.m. the following morning
Billy started out of sleep, thrashing wildly about his bed like a trout out of water. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked blearily around the room. A quick check of the nightstand clock confirmed his suspicion that it was indeed very early in the morning. Just a minute! A voice was coming from the landing above his. It was a mere mumbling, but a voice nonetheless. It was a crooning, haunting tone that rose and fell eerily; yes, it was a voice as smooth as silk, yet as sharp as glass. Billy was wide awake now, no chance of ever falling asleep in this cursed house again! Pulling on his robe, he slowly pushed open the door to investigate.

He crept up the stairs, thoroughly examining his surroundings. He was on the third floor now. Looking about, he saw a small sewing machine, overflowing boxes of cloth, and shelves overflowing with a large variety of small bottles. The room itself smelled faintly of hospital disinfectant. Intrigued, Billy slowly stepped closer. A curious smell came from the flask closest to him. Reaching out, he pulled it from its place and gave it a cautious sniff. The flask reeked of bitter almonds and garlic. Covering his nose with his sleeve, Billy replaced the cask on its shelf and continued his trek.

Something wasn’t quite right. Billy was tripping now, stumbling and coughing. His vision doubled and his eyes watered. In front of him he saw the landlady, crooning gently to- to- he collapsed, the cold, dead face of Christopher Mulholland still swimming in his memory, mouth affixed in a plastic smile, ghastly and preserved.

The face of the landlady, cruel and hard, stared down at him. In the light, she looked a hundred years old, like the old Greek demons Billy had learned about in school. His head felt like a lump of stone. The woman leered down at him, spinning a scalpel expertly between her fingers. He rasped out one word. “Why?” The landlady’s lips turned down. She looked put out to see him awake. “Why, darling, I must keep you! You’ll wither away otherwise.” Billy coughed again, then screamed as a sharp pain sliced into his flesh, below his abdomen. As he floated in and out of consciousness, he heard the landlady singing. My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea, my Bonnie lies over the ocean. The landlady smiled cruelly as she pulled her final stitch. “Please bring back my Bonnie to me…”

I hope you enjoyed it!

-Vaidehi B.

“The House” Short Story

Posted on by
Reply

I strolled down the sidewalk on the sunny Thursday morning, lost in my thoughts and worries. Was I ever going to find a home that was perfect? I idly examined the mansion I found myself in front of. Manicured lawn, tall hedges hiding the home, marble fountain bubbling up on the walkway… “I could live with this,” I mumbled to myself. I peer through the hedges, trying to catch a glimpse of the house. Suddenly, two boys sauntered up the lawn in front of me, no more than three yards from me! I fervently prayed they wouldn’t notice me, and they didn’t. Breathing a sigh of relief, I strained my ears to hear what the taller of the pair was explaining to his squat friend. “Yeah, the house is nicer since Dad put the new stone siding and fireplace in…” Hmm… a fireplace? I listened closer, sneaking around to the back where I could hear the boys’ voices through the open kitchen window. Newly painted living room, nearest house a quarter mile away? “Lovely, lovely,” I thought. Damp and musty basement? Could get a discount for that… But new plumbing was an added plus. A den was rather unnecessary but perfect for a home theatre system. “Speakers, projector, screens..” Quite lost in my reverie, I came to when the boys were already upstairs! I put my ear to the wall, and was barely able to hear Tall’s voice over Squat’s rapid questions. Three upstairs bedrooms… Perfect for a study and a recreation room. I could hear Tall’s voice more clearly now. “The bathroom in the hall is mine, since Dad added one to my sisters’ room for them… yeah, this is a leak; the roof finally rotted…” A leak! That was worth a hefty price reduction… Grinning to myself, I decided that I had heard enough. As I ambled down the street, I imagined myself putting in an offer, one they wouldn’t be able to resist. How did I know so much about their house? Well, that was my little secret… 

Linwood Custom Homes Named Finalist in Six National Home ...

-Vaidehi B.

Cat in the Rain by Ernest Hemingway

Posted on by
Reply
Cat in the Rain - Ernest Hemingway - listen online for free

One rainy day an American couple visiting Italy stayed in their hotel. The husband was reading in bed and the wife was standing by the window looking out at the view when she came across a cat crouched under a dripping green table. In a spirit of compassion, the wife decided to carry the cat back to her room in the rain. But when she got down, the cat was nowhere to be seen. The wife returned to her room in great disappointment. A maid was standing at the door with a large tortoise-shell cat, which the landlord had given to her wife.

The novel comes to a screeching halt, leaving the reader with plenty of room for imagination. Cat in the Rain is one of the few short stories that reflect female consciousness. In this novel, the heroine does not have a name, but the author gives her different titles in different situations. This paper analyzes the desire and awakening of the female subject consciousness of the hostess princess in the patriarchal society from the perspective of appellation. It embodies Hemingway’s simple narrative style and implicit stylistic characteristics.

The novel was written in the early 1920s, when the status of women in the United States was undergoing great changes. The new women redefined their roles in the family and society. They demanded to be equal to men and no longer played the roles played by traditional women who were sheltered and subordinate to men. In fact, the new women are more like men, looking and acting like tomboys: they wear short hair, short skirts, play golf, drive cars, smoke, and drink like men. They are open-minded, enthusiastic and pursue fun. Cat in the Rain fully reflects Hemingway’s profound thinking on the status of women in the family and society under the background of that time.

Cat in the Rain is one of Hemingway’s few works with a female protagonist. In this novel, Hemingway delicately described their inner desires, anguish, needs, words, and deeds from the perspective of women, conveying the subordination of women in the patriarchal society and their strong desire to change the situation. Even with the gradual awakening of their self-consciousness and their struggle against the society, the theme of women in the works is more implicit, profound, and thought-provoking, implying Hemingway’s understanding and attitude towards women.

As a nameless woman in ordinary life, the American wife has no choice and no ability to choose between inner needs (desires) and external temptations during the journey of life, so she can only create an unreal world for herself to seek temporary satisfaction through whispering. The reason why women have a special liking for cats is determined by the specific aesthetic characteristics and perceptual requirements of women under the social conditions at that time. A woman and a cat are naturally linked by her natural maternal instinct and compassion. Cat in the Rain inspired the American wife’s desire to find the lost self, which was the inevitable result of women’s understanding and thinking about their own destiny.

-Coreen C.

Old Rogaum and His Theresa by Theodore Dreiser

Posted on by
Reply

This is a short story written by Theodore Dreiser and I read it last week from an old book I found on the bookshelf. Though I wasn’t really expecting many surprises from this story, towards the end I was still surprised by its content.

The story starts off with old Rogaum who is a German butcher with his family living in New York. He calls his children one by one to bed every day at nine. His oldest daughter Theresa however, refuses to obey her father’s bed calls thinking that it is restricting her personal freedom. She is a girl in her puberty, therefore, wishing to show her charisma to boys. Almerting, the son of a stationer and also a member of a gang club, fell to Theresa’s interest. They were together for quite a long time before Almerting starts to complain about Theresa’s curfew. But since Theresa comes from a religious family, she refused to listen to Almerting’s wheedling. However one night, Rogaum decided to show his daughter some consequences of coming home late and locked her out.

Desperate to get in and later angry at her parents, Theresa wandered off by herself and met Almerting who coaxed her into coming with him to his club room. This leads to Rogaum looking for his daughter crazily when he saw a girl attempting to suicide laying half-dead at his feet. The girl galvanizes Rogaum to look even harder afraid that the same thing might happen to her daughter. Eventually, he was notified by the police that Almerting was with Theresa.

Overall, there weren’t a lot of surprises. But what I learned from this story is the love our parents give to us. They might be mad at us for not obeying them like Rogaum. But they do it for our sake. So as children, it is probably not a good choice to imitate Theresa and get ourselves hurt in the future.

-Coreen C. 

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Posted on by
1

yellowwallpaper_charlotteperkinsgilmanThe Yellow Wallpaper is a short fictional story written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. It was written in the late 1800’s and tells the story of the daily life of an average woman living in the late 1800’s. The main character’s name is not revealed, but is referred to as The Narrator. The narrator is suffering from postpartum depression, which is condition where women are ill or depressed after giving birth and seeks to find help.

I really enjoyed this short story as it related to the reality of women being treated poorly and unequally. Back then, men believed that women should just stay put at home and do nothing because they did not want them to stress about working hard shifts like men did. They also believed that women should not be educated because it will make them even more stressed. In The Yellow Wallpaper, the narrator does have a male physician to make her feel better, but the physician only tells her to do nothing at home and did not even bother to give her any medications as physicians would normally do in today’s world.

While she is at home, the narrator starts having hallucinations as she sees yellow wallpaper. She stares mysteriously at it and believes that the color carries horrible symbolism. She believes that the yellow wallpaper is intriguing as it gives her something to do in her life rather than sitting and doing nothing all day. This relates to sarcasm and the average woman living in the late 1800’s because it relates to how women had nothing to do everyday and was desperately looking for a hobby that intrigues them; although, staring at a wallpaper would not intrigue anyone. Considering how she is at a state of having hallucinations, she does not notice that she is actually in a house that is meant for the mentally ill as the beds are similar to those of mental hospitals. Also, another example of how she is suffering from hallucinations is that she believes that the physician is actually her husband. Overall, I would recommend reading this story as it was very interesting due to how it influenced thought on the treatment of women and how it should be changed.

-Matt J.

Creative Writing: Adventures in Ilvermorny Part 2

Posted on by
1

This is part two of a short story about some kids that attend llvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (US version of Hogwarts). These characters are entirely made up by me, and my descriptions of Ilvermorny are no doubt very different from what J.K. Rowling’s are. Enjoy!

Cyrus shook her hand, “Well then Jane….?

“-Ingram, Jane Ingram”, Jane affirmed.

“Jane Ingram, are you a first year too?”, Cyrus questioned, “Because I’m stressed beyond belief.”

Jane nodded. “Yea, but I bet you have more of an idea of what’s about to happen. My mom’s a Muggle-born and so she thought it would be best if I was raised without magic until Ilvermorny, like her. Supposedly it will make me appreciate magic more, but I just feel like I’m ten steps behind everyone else.”

Cyrus waved a hand. “Nah there will be plenty of Muggle-borns who just found out about magic weeks ago. That’s not even the issue, its not like Eyla and I get our wands any sooner than everyone else. What’s nerve wracking is the sorting. Eyla is set to be a Wampus, but I’m not really sure where I’d fit”. Cyrus shrugged, looking a little embarrassed to have just shared this with a stranger.

Jane smiled sympathetically, “My mom says the carvings never lie. They know you better than you know yourself.” Jane’s smile slowly turned into a quizzical expression. “Wait did you say that Eyla is a first year too? She’s as tall as many of the 7th years!”, Jane exclaimed a little too loudly.

Eyla, in hearing her name, turned to face Jane again. “Yea, and that’s what’s going to get me to be the first female admitted onto the Quidditch team as a first year”, Eyla announced proudly. “Although, I do wish Ilvermorny had basketball, the one thing I will miss from living so close to muggle cities”, she stated mostly to herself, while sighing.

A smooth woman’s voice on the crackling intercom abruptly interjected the conversation.

“Ladies and gentlemen we are now boarding flight 934 from Miami to Massachusetts, repeat, we are now boarding flight 934 from Miami to Massachusetts”

 

Creative Writing: Adventures in Ilvermorny Part 1

Posted on by
4

In the spirit of learning more about the magical world in the U.S. with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, I decided it would be fun to write a little short story on some kids that attend llvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (US version of Hogwarts). Enjoy!

      Jane had been dressed, packed, and ready to leave since 4:30 this morning. And while waiting for her mother to get ready to take her to the airport, she had brushed her teeth six times and continuously rearranged her chestnut bangs until she gave up in a huff and left them down. Jane was going to Ilvermorny for the first time, something she had been dreaming of the entirety of her eleven years. It was also the first time she would be without her mother, the first time she would leave Florida, and her first time going on an airplane. There was a lot to be nervous about.

     When Jane and her mother finally got to the airport, her mother knelt down and looked into her daughter’s matching honey colored eyes. Her eyes became glossy as she whispered, “Jane, don’t worry about a thing Ilvermorny is going to be the best times of your life, and I can’t wait to hear which House you get into. Don’t think you have to be a Pukwudgie like me, because all of the houses are wonderful. Don’t forget to write darling, I’ll see you soon!”. Jane felt herself get teary eyed as well and was only able to nod and hug her mother one last time before she turned towards the terminals.

      Her ticket, unlike other tickets, had a shimmering red and blue Ilvermorny stamp which was invisible to No Maj’s. As her mother instructed, Jane promptly pressed the stamped ticket onto the oddly shimmering wall at the end of all of the terminals. Before Jane had time to worry that it wouldn’t work, the shimmering wall glowed more intensely and like a magnet, pulled her onto the other side. With a slight yelp, Jane was on the Ilvermorny terminal going from the Miami to Massachusetts.  

      Witches and wizards from ages 11 to 17 sat, ran, and laughed in the terminal, waiting for boarding. Jane chose a seat in the corner and watched all of the kids, trying to see if she could tell what house they were in. She guessed that the small framed, black haired, 15 year old looking boy listening to music was a Horned Serpent. Jane looked over at a tall girl chatting loudly, wearing a basketball tee, and speculated that she must be a Wampus, when suddenly the girl caught her eye and said, “What? Have you never seen a witch before?”.

      Startled, Jane just looked at her blankly. A boy who had similar red hair to the girl, looked over to Jane and said reassuringly, “Don’t mind my sister, she’s just being a jerk because she’s nervous”. The sister immediately interjected with, “I’m am not! I just….hope my roommates aren’t lame…”. The boy rolled his eyes at his sister and holds his hand out to Jane, stating, “I’m Cyrus, and this is my sister Eyla”. Jane hesitates before shaking the boy’s hand and firmly replying with, “Jane”.

To be continued! (P.S.) Many of these Ilvermorny descriptions will be false as there is little information about how Ilvermorny operates and really looks like. Thanks for reading!

-Ava K.