Have you found yourself stuck in the middle of a particularly bad writer's block? Need a dose of inspiration? Or are you simply looking for some creativity to kick-start your newest novel? Then look no further!
Paranormal Prompts aims to bring you...
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Hi everyone and thanks for joining us in our newest prompt! This week we're featuring a word prompt. Remember that you can interpret the prompt in any manner you see fit, provided that your entry relates to the prompt.
WORD PROMPT:
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WINNERS:
Please note that winners are not listed in any specific order. To read the rest of the entries, please check them out in the comments below!
She sighed, unpacking her things. The duster glanced over them as she went. It was almost an order more than a request from her mother that everything was to be spotless. For every different mob they make, each house, she was always unpacking things for the attic.
Her lips curled up in a smile as she came across an old frame. She gently wiped off the dust with her sleeve. She placed it on the dresser next to her, going to grab for the next thing in the box.
She came up short.
"What are you doing here?" She murmured. Her hand reached down and picked up one of the many glass balls. "I thought Christmas was in the other box."
She peered at what appeared to be initials engraved in it. G.A.V. She sucked in a breath at the familiarity of it, "Genevieve Anne Vaughn."
Suddenly a loud crash came from down stairs. She jumped, sending the ball crashing to the floor. With out thinking, she bent down to pick up the shattered pieces.
"What do you think you're doing?"
She froze, her hand midway on its way to pick up a piece. Some one other than her was here.
She didn't dare speak. Slowly, without moving, her head lifted up towards the voice. A painstakingly familiar voice.
They looked at each other, one in a mid crouch, they're hand reaching. The other staring down at them, hands fisted on their hips.
She was staring at herself, Genevieve Anne Vaughn.
"Who are you," The little girl asked, "and what are you doing in my attic?" She couldn't have been older than eleven, but her long wavy hair was a silvery grey that emitted a bluish glow. I couldn't tell you what color her skin was because one moment it looked white, the next, a light pink, and the next moment it looked baby blue. Her clothing wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before. The fact that she just appeared out of thin air– or rather, broken glass– had me wondering whether I should find out who she was or go change my soiled pants.
I chose former. "YOUR attic?" I said, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "This is MY attic. And who I am doesn't matter as much as who YOU are."
She squinted at me, the look on her iridescent face screaming annoyance. "I am Amelia Wilkinson, firstborn to William and Annetta Wilkinson. I play in this attic every day, but I have never seen you before. And what are those awful clothes you are wearing?" She sniffed disdainfully.
I looked down at my t-shirt and jeans. Okay, so maybe I wasn't the most fashionable person on earth, but she didn't need to be insulting. "Listen here, little miss whatever-you-just-said-your-name-was," I said hotly, "I don't know where you came from, or if you're even real at all– heck, I could be dreaming for all I know. But let me make one thing clear: this is MY house and MY attic that I bought with MY money. You can't just come in here with your fancy clothes and freaking awesome hair and act like you rule the world! So you can just go back to wherever it is you came from because I need to change my pants."
"But I can't go back. You have broken my sphere."
"Your... your what?"
"My sphere," she reiterated. "Everyone in my world has one."
"Wait, what do you mean YOUR world?"
"In my world, this is my house where I live with my family. We each have a Sphere, which you have. When one breaks, we appear in your world. We have a Sphere in my world for you. If we broke it, you would appear there."
The cardinal rule. Never go in the attic. That's what mother always said. It was just one of the many things I was never to do. I had to be perfect. Like a little doll. Hair always curled and smooth. Dress always clean. Posture straight and smile pleasant.
I hated being perfect.
I wanted to run. I wanted to go outside and play in the mud like the little boy next door. I wanted freedom.
She scolded me just before she left. One toy left out. One boring doll left two inches from the place I was to always keep it.
I pulled the rope and the ladder dropped down like a hidden passageway. My heart thrummed inside my chest, and the blood it pumped almost seemed to buzz inside my veins.
I couldn't turn back. Not now. I climbed the steps faster than was safe and pulled myself onto the worn wooden planks above.
Empty. The entire room. Empty apart from one wooden crate on the opposite side.
I crept towards it.
Christmas ornaments. Glass balls. Each had a name scrawled in gold that seemed to shine despite the dim light. Despite the little voice warning me to step away, I picked one up and lifted it towards my face.
Something inside it moved.
I let it go and jumped back, and the shattering glass was enough to make my drumming heart explode.
Golden glitter burst into the air, swirling like a cyclone in the space in front of me, and I stared, wide eyed, as the dust settled to reveal a girl in a perfectly white summer dress.
She met my gaze with sorrow filled eyes. "You're not perfect anymore." She pointed behind her to the box. "Only tarnished things go in the attic."
