Writing Challenge - Day 14
To all who are reading this,
We are slowly approaching the halfway mark! The last challenge for writers I completed was the ELEMENTAL CHALLENGE and it was for fifteen days. This is almost like doing two elemental's, which I think are always fun!
So, without further ado, we are onto our next prompt.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 134- MILK
My mother always told me: "Never cry over spilt milk". Sadly, the story that I am about to tell you involves me crying over a small puddle of spilt milk in my kitchen. The doctors and psychiatrists have recommended I write down this tale, to see if it helps things get any better. I suppose that we shall have to see.
My name's Robyn and I'm twenty-three. And I am the victim of paranormal activity.
I moved into my new place just a few short weeks ago. It was my first home. Well... flat. A small first floor place, just big enough for me and my guinea pig, Hamish. I am scrimped and saved for the deposit, and even my parents helped. I bought second hand furniture, and called it "shabby chic". Some of it I brightened up with a bit of paint, and a good clean. Some stuff had to be bought new though, but those things I was happy for.
It took a day and a half to transport some of my belongings. The big stuff had already been installed like the new fridge freezer and a washing machine. The delivery men had told me and my parents that I should get to sorting the heating out, because the flat was chilly. I laughed it off, saying that a window must be cracked open slightly. After they had gone, I pulled the cardigan I wore tighter around myself.
The first night alone, I barely noticed the lack of heat. I was so busy setting up the bed, filling drawers, unpacking boxes of books and films. Hamish seemed skitty in his indoor hutch, but I put it down to the new home. It was incredibly different to what he was used to, and I set about hooking up my CD player, and dancing around to Fall Out Boy. That night, I slept soundly in my double bed, my duvet tucked up around my chin.
The next day, I finished setting up my flat, and wrote out a shopping list of what I needed, starting with cleaning supplies, and then later down the list, actual food stuffs. My parents picked me up, and we went around the local large superstore, piling the trolley high. When we brought the bags home, I made them both a celebratory coffee, using my new kettle.
In the afternoon, after they had left, I tried taking Hamish out of his hutch, but he squealed and squeaked like a crazy person. Instead, I topped up his food bowl, and gave him an extra large helping of all his favourite vegetables.
As I read on the sofa, I kept hearing the kettle whistle, as if it had boiled. Then it would go off, and five minutes later, it started again. I called my Dad, explained what was happening, and he told me to unplug it. So, following his advice, I did it. And still, I heard the kettle whistle, on and off. Hamish's squeaking was getting louder and louder. The book in my lap, which was shut and had a bookmark in it, suddenly opened and shut, the bookmark flying out across the room, landing my the CD player. It turned itself on, and without warning, the radio crackled into life. I never bothered to have the radio tuned, and here it was, playing Compass FM, without a care in the world.
I spoke aloud to myself: "I'm not going crazy."
I reached for the glass of cold milk on the side table, beside the sofa, and took a drink. I spat it out onto my shiny wooden flooring. The milk was warm, as if I had warmed it in a saucepan on the stove, like Mum did when I was little.
As I looked up from my milk puddle in disgust, I felt dead inside. There, hovering above the puddle, was a black cloaked figure. Its face was mottled and rotting, whilst the nails had fallen off. Bones protruded from where the legs would be, and it wore no shoes. The cloak was drawn tight about it, and part of me suspected that beneath it, the figure was naked. That was something I did not want to think about.
The figure lifted a hand, or what was left of it, towards me, and I screamed. I screamed bloody murder, burying my face in my hands, whilst its voice, so gravel like, towered over mine, telling me that I must, "Get out". I was terrified, I had no idea what was going on, until my neighbour burst in, and tried to get me to calm down. I struck out and hit him so hard that he stumbled back, and landed on his butt in the warm milk puddle.
Since then, I have spoken with various people. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Police and paramedics, doctors and nurses. Psychiatrists of every shape and size, with every varying degree known to human kind.
And now, I don't live in my first flat. Hamish lives in his hutch, with my parents, but they send me updates all the time. Now, I live on a psychiatric ward of a hospital, pumped with drugs, living a recurring nightmare that that black phantom will come back for me, that he is not finished with me. What he wants - I don't know. Why me - I will never know. All I know is that I cannot stand the sight of milk.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
We are slowly approaching the halfway mark! The last challenge for writers I completed was the ELEMENTAL CHALLENGE and it was for fifteen days. This is almost like doing two elemental's, which I think are always fun!
So, without further ado, we are onto our next prompt.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 134- MILK
My mother always told me: "Never cry over spilt milk". Sadly, the story that I am about to tell you involves me crying over a small puddle of spilt milk in my kitchen. The doctors and psychiatrists have recommended I write down this tale, to see if it helps things get any better. I suppose that we shall have to see.
My name's Robyn and I'm twenty-three. And I am the victim of paranormal activity.
I moved into my new place just a few short weeks ago. It was my first home. Well... flat. A small first floor place, just big enough for me and my guinea pig, Hamish. I am scrimped and saved for the deposit, and even my parents helped. I bought second hand furniture, and called it "shabby chic". Some of it I brightened up with a bit of paint, and a good clean. Some stuff had to be bought new though, but those things I was happy for.
It took a day and a half to transport some of my belongings. The big stuff had already been installed like the new fridge freezer and a washing machine. The delivery men had told me and my parents that I should get to sorting the heating out, because the flat was chilly. I laughed it off, saying that a window must be cracked open slightly. After they had gone, I pulled the cardigan I wore tighter around myself.
The first night alone, I barely noticed the lack of heat. I was so busy setting up the bed, filling drawers, unpacking boxes of books and films. Hamish seemed skitty in his indoor hutch, but I put it down to the new home. It was incredibly different to what he was used to, and I set about hooking up my CD player, and dancing around to Fall Out Boy. That night, I slept soundly in my double bed, my duvet tucked up around my chin.
The next day, I finished setting up my flat, and wrote out a shopping list of what I needed, starting with cleaning supplies, and then later down the list, actual food stuffs. My parents picked me up, and we went around the local large superstore, piling the trolley high. When we brought the bags home, I made them both a celebratory coffee, using my new kettle.
In the afternoon, after they had left, I tried taking Hamish out of his hutch, but he squealed and squeaked like a crazy person. Instead, I topped up his food bowl, and gave him an extra large helping of all his favourite vegetables.
As I read on the sofa, I kept hearing the kettle whistle, as if it had boiled. Then it would go off, and five minutes later, it started again. I called my Dad, explained what was happening, and he told me to unplug it. So, following his advice, I did it. And still, I heard the kettle whistle, on and off. Hamish's squeaking was getting louder and louder. The book in my lap, which was shut and had a bookmark in it, suddenly opened and shut, the bookmark flying out across the room, landing my the CD player. It turned itself on, and without warning, the radio crackled into life. I never bothered to have the radio tuned, and here it was, playing Compass FM, without a care in the world.
I spoke aloud to myself: "I'm not going crazy."
I reached for the glass of cold milk on the side table, beside the sofa, and took a drink. I spat it out onto my shiny wooden flooring. The milk was warm, as if I had warmed it in a saucepan on the stove, like Mum did when I was little.
As I looked up from my milk puddle in disgust, I felt dead inside. There, hovering above the puddle, was a black cloaked figure. Its face was mottled and rotting, whilst the nails had fallen off. Bones protruded from where the legs would be, and it wore no shoes. The cloak was drawn tight about it, and part of me suspected that beneath it, the figure was naked. That was something I did not want to think about.
The figure lifted a hand, or what was left of it, towards me, and I screamed. I screamed bloody murder, burying my face in my hands, whilst its voice, so gravel like, towered over mine, telling me that I must, "Get out". I was terrified, I had no idea what was going on, until my neighbour burst in, and tried to get me to calm down. I struck out and hit him so hard that he stumbled back, and landed on his butt in the warm milk puddle.
Since then, I have spoken with various people. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Police and paramedics, doctors and nurses. Psychiatrists of every shape and size, with every varying degree known to human kind.
And now, I don't live in my first flat. Hamish lives in his hutch, with my parents, but they send me updates all the time. Now, I live on a psychiatric ward of a hospital, pumped with drugs, living a recurring nightmare that that black phantom will come back for me, that he is not finished with me. What he wants - I don't know. Why me - I will never know. All I know is that I cannot stand the sight of milk.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
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