Short Story Ideas

Emmet hates Art.

The house was empty. The living room had a large couch facing the window. Usually, my father would sit there, read his newspapers, and watch the news. My mother would sit on the other side drinking her disgustingly sweet coffee. I would sit in the kitchen, and look at the backyard through the large window. A wooden fence bordered the backyard. There was an oak tree, that covered most of the yard in shade, but now it covered the ground with its leaves. Its branches were bare. The neighborhood was usually quite busy, with the sound of lawnmowers, kids, and dogs in the park a few blocks away, or just noise from the kitchen when my mother cooks dinner. It was quiet now, it was raining. My parents were out running errands. The car was gone, and the cracked driveway was visible to everyone. When no one is around, I read. I flip through an old book my parents gave me when I signed a contract. It was a "script", with long lists and descriptions of what I should, will, or won't do. There are bits where things will happen soon, and some will occur in 20 years. My parents wanted me to follow this script, to lead a perfect life.

The contract was a sheaf of papers that I hadn't bothered to read when I signed it. I signed it when I was 12 and insecure, so having someone else lay a path down in front of me seemed amazing. But now, I'm 16. I wish I had my own life. Don't do anything not in the book. Don't tell anyone. And never go look for the person who creates the road for me. When I was 14, I tried to sneak into a theatre. I did get in, but going back home, or trying to, was a nightmare. My phone died, the subway didn't let me in, and I was stuck there for hours. I'm never doing it again.

I know that a person somewhere in the city writes the book. Someone was paid to make my life's story thing. I want to know who it is. It could be anyone, there are over a million people in Toronto, a few miles away. My mother made me swear to never look for him. I agreed, but there are some days that I wish I didn't. Like today. On one of the pages, it has today's date at the top, with "emmet learns about art" scribbled in red underneath. I know nothing about art, however, Dad said that if I tried to alter anything, bad things would happen to me. I was scared of what might happen, so I never tried anything. I guess I will have to paint or something today.

Maybe today is the day I find the person. How? I have no idea. If I do something stupid, will it catch the attention of him? My parents will come back home soon. I'll just ask them.

When the small blue car finally pulled into the driveway my mother opened the car door. Dad was nowhere to be seen. I stood by the table, and waited for her to come in before speaking up.

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

"The contract, the book, and the person you paid to write the book."

"Emmet, you know I can't tell you about him."

"Please? I'm sixteen. I can handle my life now,"

My mom hesitated. "There is no way for me or your dad to cancel the contract. if you find Art, he can maybe do it."

"Art?" the book said that I would learn about art. Maybe it didn't mean I would have to do art.

"Art. He lives in Toronto."

I got off at the St. Clair's stop and went to an old apartment at the end of the street. It was tall, the sides covered in vines and dirt. Art's place was close to the bottom, thankfully, since the elevator was broken and I didn't want to climb up 50 flights of stairs. My mom texted Art, so he wouldn't be to surprised when some stranger. comes up to his door. When I reached his room, number 437, I was done with the stairs. I knocked.

The door opened, and a guy around his 30s opened the door. He had a book that was a perfect replica of mine in his hand.
"Hi. I'm Emmet."
"Art. Come inside."
The flat was nice. It had a small tv and chairs clustered around a table. Another door led to what i think was the kitchen. "I wanted to talk to you and maybe resign the contract?"
Art laughed. "No." he plopped down onto a chair, leaning back.
"Why not?"
"This is a good way to make money." As if that explained anything.

I was there for almost an hour, debating it with Art. there was one more thing I haven't tried yet...

"How about I pay you?" I blurted out.

Art raised his eyebrow. "How much?"

"Um..." I pulled my wallet out, I had about 400.

"I have 400 in cash."

Art shrugged. "Sure."

I placed the wad of cash on the table, on top of the book. "So... how do you resign it?"

"Last page of the book. Just write your name on it. And then burn it. goodbye." Art handed me his copy of the book, and grinned, before standing up and dragging me out. He slammed the door. What a nice guy.

The second I got home, I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a lighter and a pen,and went to the backyard. I wrote my name in the books and lit it up. The flames swallowed the books. The books became ash. They floated away with the wind. I don't feel different. But when I went back inside, on my desk was another book. It was empty. For me to fill up with my own life. I sat down and started to write.

1000 words <3

Im entering this in for some flash fiction thing soooooo