Today I have something different in store for you. This is a short story that I actually wrote a year or two ago, but this past week, I took another look at it and revised it. Recently, after a two-year break, I have once again begun submitting short stories to magazines and journals. Writing short stories is honestly one of my favorite things to do. Furthermore, now that I have taken novel writing and revision courses in my college studies, I feel like my skills have improved in not only novel writing, but also in short story writing as well. Hope you enjoy!
Eleanor sat, holding the last piece of her parents she had. She was trying desperately not to cry, but the tears seemed to come all on their own. She ran her hands over the sterling hallmarks of butterflies, birds, and cherubs that rimmed the clock in her hands. It was expensive, but the man who’d sold it to her father had lost his job, as many in London had, and was desperate, so her father had gotten it for a great amount less than what it was actually worth.
Eleanor’s aunt and uncle told her that she was mad for keeping a clock that didn’t work. It would, she always told them, if she had the clock key, but it had been lost in the fire, along with everything else she’d ever loved. She knew that burglaries and crimes were running rampant in London lately, especially on the West End, but she never expected that tragedy would befall her family. Continue reading