sarahoakes32 avatar


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.

5 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Christopher about 2 years ago

    Wow, this is great, Sarah.

  • avatar

    Jamie Clapperton about 2 years ago

    Slightly creepy but in a bracing way. Glad to have read it.

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 2 years 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...

  • avatar

    VerityAlways about 2 years ago

    Loved the way you wrote this, Sarah!

  • avatar

    Sarah Oakes about 2 years ago

    Thanks for all your lovely comments. Credit for this one goes fo writers hq was one of their flash face off prompts.

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