The plane was unharmed, or at least not any more harmed than it had been before the unfortunate fall to the concrete beneath the tree. Jack blew on it with relief, dislodging a leaf from a wheel, and then spit on it to rub out an especially dirty spot on the intact wing.
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1917
Lottie,
I know the War Office will have contacted you by now (I also know receiving communication from them must fill you with anxious trepidation: I am so sorry to be the cause of that), and you will have been told that I am back where I should be. Safe and returned to duty.
They tell me I spent several days recovering at the hands of a beautiful war nurse (I am only kidding and testing if you are paying attention. In truth, she was shaped like an elephant and had a thicker mustache than I) but knowing the war to be coming a close, I chose to finish my post rather than come home to you just yet. I hope you aren’t angry, though you know how are adorable I find you when you are angry.
I have been transferred to the Rifle Brigade 10th Battalion BEF for now. I think they are leery of giving me a plane since I rather annihilated the last one. Being on the ground is no place for me though: I march through the mud and muck with stomping feet and scowl at everyone I see.
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Dear One,
You will get the news soon enough, but by some kind hand of God and one enemy soldier, you will hear it from me first. I have been shot down and am now behind enemy lines. Now don’t be scared. I am injured, yes, but not mortally – even my spirits are lifted as this letter is being lifted: right over the walls by the very man who brought me down.
You see, the flight was cloudy, and I became disoriented. Before I knew what had happened, I’d been hit. The man who did it followed me as I made an emergency landing. I wish I’d known then it was an enemy airfield. They are so hospitable they wouldn’t hear of me leaving!
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A short story in three parts.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
“Mrs. Lemon, I do believe you’re crazy.”
“No, no, not crazy! Just rather inventive. And creative, too. I’ve always been creative, I think, it’s just that I’ve never really shown it much. I think I’ve been holding myself back. I never really knew what kind of good ideas I could come up with until now.”
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A short story in three parts.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Bored to death, she thought, and it gave her a strange and wonderful idea.
You see, that morning of the idea she had found lipstick on the collar of Charles’ best button-up, the one he only wore for special occasions and yet had worn for no good reason just the day before, and he had smelled strange, like someone else’s perfume, and he had whistled – whistled! – in the kitchen before work. Charles never whistled, hadn’t whistled in years and years, and she knew right then, that she – his wife – was not the cause of it. Read more
A short story in three parts.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
“It is the best time for a ghost story,” said Nick. “Or at least, that’s what the living would say.”
“Yes, but they never get anything right.” Belinda grumbled. She wound a strand of curly blonde hair around her finger, and crossed and uncrossed her ankles impatiently, as though she couldn’t sit still. “It’s so overly dramatic, with the stroke of midnight and the screeching of the owls and the thunder and all that.” Read more
The receptionist at his office.
Zane turned to look and in doing so, he released Hailey’s hand and knocked over his beverage. He didn’t even react to the cold liquid splashing on his suit. He stood on shaky legs, watching the woman in the doorway. Hailey felt a sudden and familiar stinging in her eyes and a small tear escaped; it ran unhindered down her cheek, glistening and shining in the lighting of the restaurant. The tear slithered slowly until it formed a tiny, perfect droplet and then disappeared, evaporated into her thirsty skin. Read more
“I’ll just have a salad,” Hailey said, demurely. The words were rote. They would have escaped her lips in spite of herself; she’d said them so many times in her life. The waiter left. “We need to talk about what exactly?” Her tone altered into something more aggressive as she turned her attention back to Zane, this man she called her husband. Read more
Hailey entered the restaurant and approached their usual table. She knew which one it would be – which table he would be sitting at – of course she did. She even knew how many steps it would take in her heeled boots to reach: 49. It would have been 45 in ballet flats; she knew that, too. Read more
Short stories are a great way to refresh your energy, give you new ideas, create new characters, and distract you when you’re in a writing rut. If you are sick and tired of the world you’ve created in your full-length novel, create a new world in a day.
By getting into the practice of regularly writing short stories, especially with an outside prompt from a short story contest, you will stretch yourself as a writer and find inspiration when you turn back to your novel.
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