Posted in A Round of Words in 80 Days, A Round of Words in 80 Days 2017, Blogfest Entries, Challenges and Contests, Flash Fiction Pieces, Round Two 2017, Story a Day May Challenge, Writers' Resources, Writing in Freedom, Writing Samples

“The End” for Story A Day May; Day Eleven

  • For Story A Day May, Day Eleven (click the heading to see the full post with prompt by Bea a bilingual writer and freelancer currently living near Venice, in Italy. She blogs and helps writers with their writing and creativity at  The Busy Muse

“The End”

“What’s wrong, Marilyn?”

Her sister doesn’t answer, but Ophelia thinks she knows.

It’s something about the story. Did Marilyn know that it was real – her own mother’s account of her first meeting with their father? No. How could she know that was the night her mother claimed Ophelia had been conceived, by the incoming tide on a magical Hawaiian spring night?

“I’m going to tell you a story now.” She sticks her bottom lip out like a pouty child. “I don’t like yours.” She waggles a finger at Ophelia. “But first, I have to pee.”

Ophelia knows Marilyn well enough to be suspicious. Her sister won’t let her use that bathroom, and, every time she comes out of it, she’s high on something. She wants to sneak in there and clean it up, but Marilyn guards it fiercely.

She’d done it once, while Marilyn was in rehab, but Marilyn had walked out, found herself a few men – even with her obvious pregnancy, the men she propositioned didn’t seem to have any trouble trading sex for drugs.

And now the bathroom is locked, and Marilyn won’t say where she’s hidden the key.

So Ophelia waits, knowing that her sister is poisoning herself again in there, and, even worse, poisoning that innocent baby inside her who maybe never had a chance.

It’s twenty minutes before Marilyn appears again. She’s moving slowly, almost zen-dancing her way back to the couch she seems to love, and the pile of rag dolls, who seem to be the only friends she has, unless Ophelia can count herself –

But would she ever be friends with Marilyn, if they didn’t share a genetic history?

Honestly, she doesn’t think so.

And she’s not sure why she doesn’t just leave. This mess is too big for her. It’s too big even for the people at rehab, and they’re trained for this kind of thing. She’s just a kid.

But she’s all Marilyn has.

The older girl – really, she’s not a woman yet, either, even if she’s biologically ready to reproduce herself – sinks onto the couch, leaning back, her eyes drooping.

“Story, Marilyn. You were going to tell me a story.”

“Huh. Oh. Right.” She doesn’t move for so long Ophelia’s sure she’s going to sleep. Then, she says, her voice slow and slurry, “You’re an accountant.” She picks up one of her dolls, the movements heavy and in slow-mo. “See? This is you.” She smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile. “You just started a new job. Your company sent you to this house. It’s in a nice place – good neighborhood, like this one. Maybe it’s this house.”

She pauses. “What’s next?” Ophelia asks, even though she doesn’t really want to know. There’s something almost menacing about Marilyn’s manner, even with her languor.

Marilyn laughs ominously. “The door’s half open. Your ring the bell again and again, cause you’re so polite.” She’s sneering now. “You go in, calling. Nobody answers, but there’s a big banana plant in a pot, and it’s tipped over – wet dirt all over the fancy rug…and footsteps. Big ones, tracking the dirt all over the floor. And then the door closes and clicks locked behind you.”

Marilyn stops talking, but she’s staring at Ophelia.

“Then what happens?” She doesn’t really want to know, but –

“That’s the end. Like the title of the story. It’s called “The End of Ophelia.”

Her smile is so chilling, Ophelia shudders.

Is Marilyn actually threatening Ophelia’?

What did she do in the bathroom?

What happens next?

Any guesses?

Come back tomorrow for another installment, and we can explore this new story seed together!


I am myself. I own my life, and live with three other people who own theirs. My intention is to do only those things that bring me joy, and to give myself wholly to those things I do. Writing has been my passion throughout my life, and this will become the home for my writing life...because it brings me great joy!

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