Prologue Chapter One
The largest chimney stack of St. Lawrence is the first thing you’d see for at least a mile before even getting there. The smoke bellowed out of it and carried far across the rural fields, mixing in with the wispy clouds. As you got closer, you’d see an enormous brick-built Victorian style building closed off by a black iron gate. Behind that building were several other buildings that were all styled the same, but varied in different sizes for various purposes.
I wasn’t expecting to see any of that when I finally went to the institution. In fact, it contrasted greatly with the image I had set in my mind; dark sky, cracked windows, and overgrown grass to name a few traits.
This was submitted to The First Line Literary Journal
Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die.
Stacks of books laid everywhere; papers from the last sixty years were strewn across her desk. Her old green eyes scanned the clutter in front of her. Where was it?
The only sound that accompanied her was the sound of rummaging–and the occasional tea sip coming from a tall and thin young man stationed right by her desk.
“Found it yet?” the man questioned before taking another sip of tea.
Mrs. Morrison could only glare as she sifted through boxes and boxes of ancient, wonderful memories. Anyone would stop to reminisce on the days of old, but not her: she had a job to do.
In response to a writing prompt on Reddit
When together, my little brother Charlie and I became hellions. We’d scheme about who would steal the potato chips from the cabinet, we’d bounce on the leather sofas and beat each other up with mom’s very expensive pillows. When it came time to point fingers, we’d always blame on our dog, Betsy. Looking back, I knew mom and dad didn’t believe us; they just found it easier to pretend the lie was the truth rather than scold us about it.
To read chapter one, go here
Later, I found myself standing in front of a mirror, hat in hand and eyes looking everywhere but the glass. I told myself I still looked nearly the same; that the demonic horns I now sported weren’t so bad and that I could handle going places without my favorite hat. After all, demons didn’t need hats. I also told myself being dead wasn’t so bad. Hell, I still kinda felt human, which was odd because I had always imagined giving up your humanity meant, well, becoming a different creature altogether. I had imagined that I would be nothing more than a snarling beast, one that would enjoy serving my master while my soul was forever tortured without the guidance of God’s great angels.
In response to the one word writing prompt, Fifty
I watched as my dad blew out the candles on the cake. A cheesy grin crept along the corners of his mouth. One candle had refused to go out.
That single candle danced back and forth, in front of the wax five and zero. Fifty years old.
For a brief moment, I looked at his face. There were wrinkles that hadn’t been there before. Stressful gray seemed to be winning the battle against his naturally black locks. My smile wavered. For the first time, I was scared for my dad.
This is in response to the one word prompt theme: Jeopardize
She didn’t know why she saved him.
Beady and expressionless black eyes stared down at the sleeping child. Every time he breathed, a wisp of gray escaped his almost blue lips. This prompted the creature to pull him closer against her still chest.
Vincent Samson was his name: a cold, cruel, businessman who distanced himself from everyone he came in contact with. He was an alleged womanizer, someone who couldn’t be trusted. And yet, Clara Rumpke found herself on the steps of his company’s headquarters. She still had bills to pay, and he had the money.
In response to a writing prompt on Reddit.
“I wish you would stop trusting me.”
John looked up at his friend, his ill fitted glasses nearly falling off again.
“Why would I do that, Andrew?” He questioned. Stop trusting the person who’d played with him on the playground when they were kids? The one who’d been the best man at his wedding?
The one who had cried the most at his funeral?
To read the prologue, you can find it here
It wasn’t every day that a middle class couple was executed in America. But then again, it wasn’t every day that you get two spies convicted of selling atomic secrets to the Soviets.
The Rosenbergs were the hot subject in Charley’s Bar: a place where men usually came to drink and smoke their troubles silently away. A frequent downtown goer would’ve noticed that us boys were completely distracted from our daily hobbies. Hell, even the cigarette smoke wasn’t all that bad. If anything was in the norm, we all still sipped away at our drinks while having arguments about the matter.
Writers! What’s your favorite genre to write? Do you like to mix up genres?
For me, it’s historical fiction. Being fond of history, I like to incorporate historical elements into my stories. That being said, the paranormal genre is a close second for me. Oftentimes, I’ll pair both the historical and paranormal genre together–which admittedly, loses some the realism in the process.