There's nothing old about being old. In fact, you've never been as old as you are now.
Being old is always something new.
And it's not the slow, stumbling pace that matter.
It's the novelty that should surprise and amaze us, because we are never old to be young, and there is always something new to discover, even when we are tired, worn out, we are always renewed every time we discover something new in what is old.
Therefore, let's be amazed, because it is amazement that rejuvenates us, despite the thousands of days that have passed on the calendar.
It's fascinating how many traits of a vampire you can mess with and still call it a vampire. Some fantastical beings are a good deal more restrictive.
So long as one can avoid creating the outcry in a reader of 'That isn't what [insert thing here] is like' it's all gravy. You can suprise a reader, but betraying expectations just makes them want to read something else.
Though there's definitely a point where even if you can pull it off, you're better off making a new proper noun for your creation, than wearing the skin of the old.
“I moved out when I was eighteen,” Mr. Hesh said with a smirk. “Kids these days.”
I tried explaining the cost of living as I bagged his groceries.
“Don’t give me that shit. Your generation just doesn’t have it,” he said. He headed off on his scooter. I clocked out. I walked home to mom’s house through sweltering heat, though it was December. Mr. Hesh blew past me in his corvette.
I checked online for enviro-cleanup jobs. Got an ad saying we’d ruined that industry too. So, I stared at the ceiling and wondered when it was our turn.
Gran in her blankets unable to rise but her vivid mind full of worlds she said used to be. Hacking she recited:
Those days the wind's keening was real.
If you peered through the rocky clefts might be you'd spy her silhouetted there standing on the roiling sea, her crown a burl of dead kelp. Oh and the weight of it when she looked to you! A falling.
Hers was the first loss and now we all carry it in our legs. Be giving the water a wide berth, else you too drown lame in a downy bed.
Man, maybe! Now you have me wondering whether I should expand it. This is the second prompt I've tried here and for some reason they've both been a little doomy.
When Detective Miller finally caught up to Doughty, he was wheezing and puffing like an outboard motor.
“I’m… getting… too…—”
Miller’s partner looked on, uninterested, as he hiked breaths between his spread legs like an NFL center. Detective Doughty had a knee in the groaning suspect's T12 vertebrae. “I’d like to get this done before you retire, Bill.”
Bill straightened, red-faced and shiny. “Seems you… have it in hand…” then he winced sharply, “Ah, shit,” he said, frozen stock-still, one hand behind and the other in front like a butler.
“You good?” Doughty asked. The suspect yelled into the ground.
Was gonna go another direction today but you forced my hand lol.
Heshie sat cuffed in the squad room thinking the bracelets would leave a mark, all the blood thinners he was on.
Detective Comagee strode in like he swallowed a canary. “Got you, you degenerate fossil.”
Heshie wondered where he went wrong. Checked paper for weather. Checked radio for traffic. Checked road atlas for directions. Did the job early enough to avoid rush hour witnesses, and drive home before dark in time for the evening news.
Comagee, no spring chicken himself, read his mind. “Only a man of a certain age strangles somebody with a white belt after Labor Day.”
Jeremiah, who was 12, knew it wasn’t one of theirs. He handed the skull to his dad, who turned it over in his fingers, but all he could say was that it wasn’t the retriever he buried out back as a kid.
“Could be a hundred years old,” he said.
We marveled. Ran our fingers over the ridges, imagined little boys like ourselves petting dogs like ours. Burying their friends in the yard, like we did, to keep them close.
Then we went home. Settled our hands on the fur we could still touch.
Old
What’s that line they say?
“One day, this will all be yours.”
I gaze on his wasted body, that once-strong man that threw me skyward to sit, giggling on broad shoulders.
Now the only sign of a life is the faint pulse that beats slowly in his neck. Blue vein beneath transparent skin, a man literally vanishing.
His eyes open, the light of a smile within, the faintest squeeze of a hand.
“You alright Dad?” I whisper.
He beckons me closer with the slightest turn of his head.
“Just piss off home, son. Get some sleep.”
PROMPT: OLD
THE HUNGER
It was a cold night.
Too cold to be out alone, with frost already forming on the trees and a biting chill in the air.
He was getting too old for this.
Too old to be wandering the streets, searching for scraps of discarded food outside restaurants.
And it wasn’t particularly safe, either.
Most people despised him, and didn’t want him anywhere near them. They would look at him with contempt, shout abuse, and even throw things at him.
But he had to keep going.
He had four hungry cubs waiting back in the den, and they needed to eat… 😎
Title: Wisdom of time
There's nothing old about being old. In fact, you've never been as old as you are now.
Being old is always something new.
And it's not the slow, stumbling pace that matter.
It's the novelty that should surprise and amaze us, because we are never old to be young, and there is always something new to discover, even when we are tired, worn out, we are always renewed every time we discover something new in what is old.
Therefore, let's be amazed, because it is amazement that rejuvenates us, despite the thousands of days that have passed on the calendar.
It's not as easy as it seems to pick between encountering a vampire or a thug at night.
Either could pass you by, but the vampire is likely to remember you for later, where as normally the thug won't recall who he passes.
Either way, a nice piece of role reversal.
A vampire could catch something nasty by picking such targets though.
That is an interesting thought. Do Vampires get sick if they drink a sick blood? I think I'll work around that in some of my future stories!
It's fascinating how many traits of a vampire you can mess with and still call it a vampire. Some fantastical beings are a good deal more restrictive.
So long as one can avoid creating the outcry in a reader of 'That isn't what [insert thing here] is like' it's all gravy. You can suprise a reader, but betraying expectations just makes them want to read something else.
Though there's definitely a point where even if you can pull it off, you're better off making a new proper noun for your creation, than wearing the skin of the old.
“We don’t accept old things,” he said. “We’re not poor.”
And they weren’t. He wore a designer suit with a leather designer bag and shiny designer shoes.
“Be gracious,” said his mother. “Be kind.”
And she accepted the ragged doll from the young child.
That night, a ghoul met him on his way out his room.
He stood frozen in fear, then pointed at his mother’s bedroom before softly closing the door behind him.
The ghoul trailed away.
His mother’s screams echoed down the hallway only to be cut by a stark, lonely silence.
“Be gracious,” he muttered. “Be kind.”
Prompt: Old
“I moved out when I was eighteen,” Mr. Hesh said with a smirk. “Kids these days.”
I tried explaining the cost of living as I bagged his groceries.
“Don’t give me that shit. Your generation just doesn’t have it,” he said. He headed off on his scooter. I clocked out. I walked home to mom’s house through sweltering heat, though it was December. Mr. Hesh blew past me in his corvette.
I checked online for enviro-cleanup jobs. Got an ad saying we’d ruined that industry too. So, I stared at the ceiling and wondered when it was our turn.
really bites into the biscuit of things, that one. nice!
Prompt: Old
Gran in her blankets unable to rise but her vivid mind full of worlds she said used to be. Hacking she recited:
Those days the wind's keening was real.
If you peered through the rocky clefts might be you'd spy her silhouetted there standing on the roiling sea, her crown a burl of dead kelp. Oh and the weight of it when she looked to you! A falling.
Hers was the first loss and now we all carry it in our legs. Be giving the water a wide berth, else you too drown lame in a downy bed.
so mysterious! surely more to this ?
Man, maybe! Now you have me wondering whether I should expand it. This is the second prompt I've tried here and for some reason they've both been a little doomy.
Microdose Old 100 words
When Detective Miller finally caught up to Doughty, he was wheezing and puffing like an outboard motor.
“I’m… getting… too…—”
Miller’s partner looked on, uninterested, as he hiked breaths between his spread legs like an NFL center. Detective Doughty had a knee in the groaning suspect's T12 vertebrae. “I’d like to get this done before you retire, Bill.”
Bill straightened, red-faced and shiny. “Seems you… have it in hand…” then he winced sharply, “Ah, shit,” he said, frozen stock-still, one hand behind and the other in front like a butler.
“You good?” Doughty asked. The suspect yelled into the ground.
The Last Deal
The old man sat alone in the corner of the café, hands shaking as he sipped his tea. His suit, once sharp, sagged like a memory too worn to keep.
A younger man slid into the seat across from him. "You've been quiet, Edward," he whispered, eyes darting around. "Did you bring it?"
Edward's wrinkled fingers tapped a faded briefcase by his feet. The younger man leaned in, eager.
But Edward smiled—a sad, knowing smile. "Not this time, kid. I'm done."
The younger man's expression darkened. "No one just quits."
Gerald's hand slipped into his coat, brushing cold metal.
Was gonna go another direction today but you forced my hand lol.
Heshie sat cuffed in the squad room thinking the bracelets would leave a mark, all the blood thinners he was on.
Detective Comagee strode in like he swallowed a canary. “Got you, you degenerate fossil.”
Heshie wondered where he went wrong. Checked paper for weather. Checked radio for traffic. Checked road atlas for directions. Did the job early enough to avoid rush hour witnesses, and drive home before dark in time for the evening news.
Comagee, no spring chicken himself, read his mind. “Only a man of a certain age strangles somebody with a white belt after Labor Day.”
i dont understand this reference... can someone explain?
Nice touch with the white after Labor Day.
Thx. Today’s category is in my wheelhouse
Revenge is a dish best served...unexpectedly! Nice story.
Miguel - really, really good twist
Thank you.
Old Friends:
Nobody knew whose dog it was.
Jeremiah, who was 12, knew it wasn’t one of theirs. He handed the skull to his dad, who turned it over in his fingers, but all he could say was that it wasn’t the retriever he buried out back as a kid.
“Could be a hundred years old,” he said.
We marveled. Ran our fingers over the ridges, imagined little boys like ourselves petting dogs like ours. Burying their friends in the yard, like we did, to keep them close.
Then we went home. Settled our hands on the fur we could still touch.
This is beautiful
I love this delicious story of revenge! Very clever!
Thank you, Sharon!