Category Archives: Short Stories

One of my good friends suggested I embark upon a project to help break my writer’s block. I’ve finally thought of one: I’m going to write short stories based upon my favorite songs.

I wrote my first story in January, for Francesca Lia Block’s online workshop. Francesca asked me to write about one obsession (surreality), to base my characters upon aspects of self, and to base the story upon a fairy tale. The story’s original title was “Chains,” but since I was inspired by “Cosmic Love,” a song by Florence + the Machine, I decided to change the title. (I plan to revise (and expand) this story at a later date.)

“Cosmic Love”

Today I cover the walls in blue cellophane. I pretend I am from Neptune. I forget what I did yesterday. The faded chair in the corner is the distant Sun.

I am alone. As I smooth the cellophane, it whispers in a familiar tongue. It speaks of synthetic rubies and silence. Atoms like red raindrops. Chemistry.

Decay.

There is a skylight: I can feel the moonlight. There is someone here, listening.

“Are we underwater?” he asks.

“Yes,” the cellophane rustles.

“Have you seen a dog?”

I am alone. It is quiet. There is no dog.

There is no dog.

* * *

“I think you should befriend the ghost. He can rattle your charm bracelet and keep you company.” Chloë gently pulls the silver frog on my bracelet. The tinkling sounds like the warning clank of kitchen knives. Chloë smiles at me, but her pale eyes seem strange.

“Charm bracelets don’t rattle. Besides, you keep me company.” I dip my paintbrush into the nearby bucket. Saffron has asked us to paint the front door red, for good luck. She seems ill at ease. At night, she paces the room and palms the doorknob, but she knows better than to open the door.

“What do you think the ghost does during the day?” Chloë twirls a silver tendril of hair around her finger and dabs at it with her paintbrush.

“I don’t know.” The ghost is opaque: a shadow with dark circles beneath dark eyes. Late at night, he calls out to us. No one speaks to him, but his voice haunts me.

“Do you think he can open the door?” Chloë asks.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Today the cellophane walls remind me of marshmallows. I am alone. It is quiet.

I pretend I am from the moon. Orbiting gas giants echo across the stuffy room. I cannot feel my heart beat. I know he will come for me.

“If I were you, I would paint the door red,” he says.

I am alone. It is quiet. There is no door.

There is no door.

* * *

Saffron presses her palm into the wet paint, turns the doorknob, and walks into the void.

“Should we follow her?” Chloë asks.

“No. You know what will happen.”

Chloë toys with the silver spaniel on my charm bracelet and peers at me through hooded eyes. “Do I?”

I suddenly feel uneasy. I’ve forgotten the outside world, but I can recall certain sounds: a laugh; the turn of a key; the tap of fingers upon a keyboard. “I remember another room.”

“Do you?”

“Let’s follow her,” I say.

“Don’t leave me,” the ghost whispers.

I turn toward the familiar voice, but I find my own shadow, dim in the bright light streaming through the skylight.

I look back at Chloë, but she is gone.

* * *

I am alone. It is quiet.

I pretend I am in a padded cell. The red paint on the door bubbles in the pre-dawn gloom. I feel as though reality has shifted. Why am I here? What has brought me here? What keeps me here? Will turning the knob burn my hand?

Late at night, I hear Chloë and Saffron. “Come with us,” they whisper. Sometimes I hear a dog barking very far away.

The ghost keeps me company. I can almost feel him rattle my charm bracelet. The tinkling sounds like a passing streetcar.

Outside, it is raining. The droplets drum against the skylight. Tiny atoms like silver waves. Strange music. The unknown.

What is real? I only know that I am alone.