The vault is filled with dead stories. I come down once a year, to see what remains.
Some still have names, bodies, souls. Only recently dead. They can still be saved,
with love and care. It takes time, but they recover. Soon, they will breathe again.
Some have no name, no heart, no soul. Only their broken bones remain. They are skeletons, nothing left to save. I return them to their rest, closing coffins on the past.
Some are ghosts, skeletons long gone. I have to let them go, even if it hurts.
I return upstairs, to the living stories.
Christopher about 1 year ago
Wow, this is great, Sarah.
Jamie Clapperton about 1 year ago
Slightly creepy but in a bracing way. Glad to have read it.
Neville Hunt about 1 year ago
Nice one, Sarah. I can’t help wondering though if some of those skeleton stories might just need a bit of flesh put on the boney structure. I never like to throw away the bones of a story, but maybe I’m just a skinflint...
VerityAlways about 1 year ago
Loved the way you wrote this, Sarah!
Sarah Oakes about 1 year ago
Thanks for all your lovely comments. Credit for this one goes fo writers hq was one of their flash face off prompts.