A collection of short stories of varying sub-genres.
Part I: Wilted Roses contains romantic short stories
Part II: Fairy Dust & Starlight is where you'll find fantastic and paranormal stories
Part III: Black Hearts is the place for my dark fic...
This story originally appeared in the 30 Tales of Spring anthology by _Once_Upon The ending is somewhat rushed and I'm not happy with it. I will edit it sometime in the future until then, be aware that this is a rough draft.
(Btw for those who might be interested, Naomi is a character from a very old story of mine revolving around sirens that I started writing a long time ago but never finished)
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Lorelei
I groan as I heave the box up and set it down on top of the waiting ones. The sound of clinking porcelain penetrates my ear as the items inside of it move and shift against each other. I blow a strand of my hair, that has come undone from my braid out of my face. Who would've thought that a bunch of tea cups could be so heavy?
"Careful with those, Naomi." Comes my mother's voice from my right as she peeks her head through the door frame. "Your grandmother spent years collecting these, we don't want to break them now that she's barely under the ground."
She sighs, running a hand through her dark hair and I can't help but notice that it looks less lush than it used to. Her nail polish is chipped and her blue eyes are rimmed with dark circles. Just like that, she seems to have aged several years over the last few days.
My hand lingers on the stack of cardboard boxes before me, fingertips drumming a quick beat of impatience. I hesitate for a second, contemplate whether I should ask her or not. But in the end, my obnoxious teenage-self wins.
"Are we done yet?" I say and try as I might, I can't seem to keep the annoyance from my tone.
No offence grandma, but I really need to call Anna and try to convince her into coming to Oliver's party tomorrow. I'm sure, if you were still alive, you wouldn't want to interfere with your granddaughter's love life, would you?
My mother sighs again, hands reaching down to brush the dust off her black blouse. She blows a strand of hair out of her face, just like I did earlier, before her eyes finally settle on me.
"No, we are not done." Her mouth is set in a straight line, disapproval written all over her features. "We still have to clear out the attic."
I want to groan again. This was supposed to be done in an afternoon, but now it has been two days. But I don't say anything, sensing that she won't like the response I would like to give. Instead, I turn and head for the attic.
When I manage to climb the steps of the old wooden ladder—carefully, as the thing keeps trembling and shaking with every tiny move I make, as if it might collapse at every moment—and peek at the single room, I feel like crying.
The place is cramped with boxes, shelves, and objects covered in white sheets. Specks of dust dance in the dim light that falls through the cracks in the roof. It will probably take the whole day to sort through all these things.
