The newspapers called the affair a ‘dalliance.’ It was a politeness the actor would’ve found funny, if the stories hadn’t endangered his career. The vague details of their salacious escapades with his costar would’ve been nothing more than tawdry gossip, if they hadn’t both been men. The studio worked quickly to quash the rumors, putting the filming on ice. They were both seen with popular starlets hanging from their arms at Hollywood premiers. Slowly the story died away. And he waited until the eyes of the world were off of them, when he would dally with his true love again.
The first rule of his business was never to fraternize. Do not get involved with your target and never make yourself memorable. Do the job. Get in, get what you came for, and get out. Friendships were only complications. That was what it meant to be a world-class thief, and he was the best that you’ve never heard of. But it was cold, living in the dark. He was tired of standing in the shadows and watching light and life pass him by. He was bored of trinkets. He wanted to steal hearts. And hers was just waiting for him.
The chair didn’t go with the rest of her furniture, and it barely fit in her tiny apartment. It was a heavy piece of dark oak transported from the other side of the country. She kept the chair in the corner of her living room where it sat unused except when she needed an extra seat for company, or on days when she needed it the most. When she came home exhausted or frustrated, she would pull out the old kitchen chair and sit down. She would feel the phantom touch of her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder, reassuring her.
The village had a tradition. Every youth spent a year traveling abroad. It was a rite of passage that signified their adulthood. The children would choose their destinations, and their parents would make the arrangements. Most boys took apprenticeships or jobs on ships or caravans, and came back having learned a trade. Most girls stayed with distant relatives or family friends, and many came back with husbands. Some never returned, and were mourned as though dead. The practice ended when the War started. After the village was bombed, friends from all over the world came to mourn and help rebuild.
We are so back! Welcome to Everyday Drabbles, a daily 100-word short story. After participating in The Dog Days of Podcasting by recording some of my favorite stories from my original run, I got inspired to get the project going again. Please bookmark this site to read a new story every day, and subscribe to receive a weekly summary email in your inbox!
The puppet-maker set down his paintbrush and took in his work. She was magnificent: A demon princess with fully articulated wings and a cold, haughty expression. With so many intricate moving parts, she would require a master puppeteer to operate. He hoped she would find someone worthy of her. The art of puppet theatre was dying. It was being replaced with larger-scale, more convenient entertainment. He still kept to his traditional craft, refining the methods that his elders had passed down to him. Art was valuable for its own sake, even if the ability to manipulate his creations was lost.
Thanks for reading! You can support me and find links to all my other work via my Linktree!
The tree stood in a corner of the little churchyard, a resilient and determined evergreen. The city had grown up around the church, and after the old neighborhood had been demolished to build skyscrapers, nobody came to mass these days. The land the little old church sat on was valuable, and the city had grander houses of worship. It was only a matter of time. The tree didn’t know any of this. But it was steady and had good roots. The priest strung it with lights for what would probably be the last time and thanked his most faithful parishioner.
Thanks for reading! You can support me and find links to all my other work via my Linktree!
She’d never been able to master her piano teacher’s favorite piece, even after she became a world-renowned concert pianist. She just remembered the way he’d drilled her for hours, pointing out every flaw. He’d been an exacting mentor. When she returned for his memorial, she knew what composition to play. But she sat on the familiar bench and hesitated. She felt ten years old again, with his voice in her ear and his hands pressing on her’s. She took a deep breath and began. The performance was flawless. But whether her tears were sorrow, relief, or joy, she couldn’t say.
Thanks for reading! You can support me and find links to all my other work via my Linktree!
Everybody at the college had a story about the memorial. The stone obelisk stood in the center of a hidden courtyard. Both the inscription and the bust on one face had been worn away by time and weather, leaving a blank that the students filled in with their own legends and ghost stories. The tales ranged from the mundane: It belonged to the institution’s founder, to the macabre: The student beheaded in a car crash who roams the campus looking for a replacement. They would be disappointed to learn that a dispute with the artist simply left the statue unfinished.
Thanks for reading! You can support me and find links to all my other work via my Linktree!
She leaned out the window and sighed. She looked out through the cool darkness into the neon-soaked alleys of the city, searching for something that she couldn’t name. She wouldn’t say she was unhappy. Her days were filled with light and joy. But at night, she sat up instead of sleeping. She was missing something in her soul, and the lack of it was the missing stair her mind tripped over in the dark. She got dressed and headed out into the city. Somewhere in the night was a missing piece of her. She went to go and find it.
Thanks for reading! You can support me and find links to all my other work via my Linktree!
The Mountain’s Shadow and Other Very Short Stories
Hugh J. O'Donnell 