Short Story

this is the first time i ever wrote a short story, and i had a limit, so i had to compact this thing as best i could. if it were up to me, i would have went for three pages at least... anyway, hope you like it (if you read it)!

The backdoor swung open, violently, nearly taking it off its hinges, and out came a woman of magnificent beauty, dressed in a black skirt and white, button-up blouse. She stood at about five and half feet tall, and had a slender and healthy figure. Her skin was fair, and almost pale, and contrasted with her long, ebony hair. But perhaps her most stand-out feature were her brilliant, baby blue eyes; however, underneath that beautiful exterior was a frustrated soul--a demoness--seething with fury. Priscilla was her name, and she was a woman of outstanding success: twenty-six and already an editor, and a best-selling author of two book series, as well; and yet, this was not enough, and she knew not why. The answer alluded her--and it always had.

Priscilla lit a cigarette and took a drag, filling her lungs with its warm and soothing fumes. It almost made her cough, and she could feel a rush of nicotine enter her system. But the sensation was calming. She rarely smoked, and most couldn’t imagine her being a smoker--or one to turn to a substance for comfort--but on occasions like these she’d quickly turn to any addiction; and whatever else could quell her worries.

Priscilla tapped the tip of her cigarette, twice, letting ash drop to the ground, then she took another drag and exhaled, and watched as the short-lived fumes dissipated in the air. As a child, it use to always fascinate her to watch someone blow smoke out of their mouth; it looked funny, and she would think of them as dragons in disguise.

She chuckled.

Children and their silly notions, she thought. Priscilla took in another puff of smoke, and, slowly, blew it out. She looked up at the night sky. The night was still, and eerily beautiful; the moon was full and shun overhead, but fog and mist dimmed its light and blocked out the stars. She took notice of her surroundings now, hoping that maybe she will find something spectacular about them. Nothing as of late impressed her, and everything seemed so bland. Her inspiration was lacking; her ambition left yearning--for what, however, she did not know; and life itself was about as exciting to her as a match of chess. Though, ironically enough, life is like a chess match: challenging its players to be careful and wise about every decision they make--whether big or small--and forcing them to make sacrifices along the way, in order to achieve their end goal: Checkmate.

Priscilla took yet another drag, this time, nearly finishing the remainder of the cigarette in one puff, and continued looking at the garden. The gloom gave her garden an enigmatic and supernatural quality, and just a few yards ahead stood an army of trees, zigzagging and forming a perilous, and almost endless, labyrinth. The trees spooked her, and always have. The way their branches swayed, and the sound they made as their leaves rustled together made them seem as though they were alive and marching; and at times--especially during nights like these--Priscilla wouldn’t let them out of her sight, afraid that the moment she turned around, they would come from behind and snatch her away.

She kept staring at the garden, and she could feel it glaring back at her, almost like it was calling to her--challenging her. It made her think about why she came out here, about herself, her situation, the situation of others, and the garden itself. And the longer Priscilla focused on those dark woods and pondered its significance, the more she felt a connection to them; it consumed her. She could almost hear it whispering in her mind… taunting her… tormenting her… and laughing at her. She heard echoes, then she saw shadowy figures appear, dancing and moving from tree-to-tree. Priscilla stood there, mesmerized, confused, and terrified, all at once. Suddenly, one of the figures stopped, noticed her, and leapt at her. Panicked, she screamed, rose an arm up to cover her face and closed her eyes, then--

Nothing.

The echoes ceased. She opened her eyes, and the illusions were gone. Priscilla put cigarette to mouth, inhaled one last puff of smoke, finishing the cigarette, and then put it out with her heel. She looked at the trees one final time, and felt a chill in the air. Her body trembled, but she shook it off.

“Perhaps another day,” she said, and with that, went back inside her estate.