Through the power of social media, I’ve become re-acquainted with friends from the past.
Today, one friend, Leslie, posted a short story I wrote when I was a wee sprite.
My. What a fecund imagination. Honestly, I don’t remember writing this at all.
I have to admit, I kind of dig it.
Without further ado, here it is. “The Cave” by Anne Lower:
They came, the terrible slimy things out of the deep caves of the earth. Slowly at first, their eyes not adjusted to the brightness. With voices that would chill one’s bone marrow they whispered excitedly, “When? When?” The one voice deep and loud cried, “Not yet.”
Over at a small farm nearby Mark and Carolyn Henderson were moving out of the ancient house that generations of the family had lived in.
“Carol,” Mark said, “I still don’t see why you want to move. Those dreams are just a lot of nonsense.”
Carolyn was indignant. “They are not. Those horrible creatures….I can just feel them crawling over me.”
“Why don’t you take a walk in the fields. That’ll calm you down.”
At the mouth of the cave, the leader quietly said, “Now.”
Carolyn had been walking down the road. She then stopped, seeing a cave about two hundred feet away. Deciding that the cave would be the best place to go, she turned towards it.
Carolyn had gone about 20 feet when she thought she heard whispering voices. She waited a minute, then walked on deciding that it was her imagination. She then turned, hearing a scuffling noise – and screamed for her life.
At the farmhouse, Mark had stopped working, and, hearing a scream, turned towards the cave and smiled. He then faded away, leaving a blank space where he had once been.
At nightfall the cave again hummed with the chilling voices saying, “When, when?” Then a voice answered them. It was a young woman’s voice saying, “Not yet.”
Good to know that the Saturday am fright movies on Channel 5 led to something.
Do you remember your first story? What was it?
Now, go write.
HRH, Princess Scribe
I don’t remember my first story, I remember one of the first. I wish I had saved it. I wish I had saved my first published poem, my first essay that won a prize (age 12), and so on. But they’re all gone. No worries, I have more where they came from, eh? Write on.
i hear you! It was so interesting to discover this… and the more I read it, the more familiar it feels… funny. Write on, indeed! xo
I do. It was about a baseball maned “Homer”… get it. Anyway, all Homer wanted in life was to get hit over the fence. It was a fully illustrated book. I was 8.
Do you still have it? What a treasure!
A lifetime ago, I was writing puppet shows to perform in my elementary school class. Couldn’t give you the context, however, it follows that there were three puppets, a stage built from a cardboard box, and I’m remembering an island setting.
It would be wonderful if you could find a picture or script! But see, it starts early, yes?
I have a short story I wrote in grade school. I still laugh that I called the bad guy Sam Francisco. I’m sure I must have thought that was terribly clever.
And it was! Youth is all about that kind of edited fun…
ENJOYABLE STORY–again, expressions of a prolific mind!
I’d make some judicious edits… but how fun to have this shared with me. 😉
My first story was about how humans were brought to the Earth by other beings as an experiment for a new form of life, the other beings died and we were left to flourish. I’m sure it was a terrible story, sounds it anyway! Working on a sci-fi novel now so I certainly agree we start early. Unfortunately I didn’t recognise it in myself until I was 28 – now 31 so a lot of learning and writing to be done.
I loved the last line of your story, brilliant!
We do start early! Thank you! I think I’ve found a new short film project 😉
Ha, wrote that at about 12, if you expand on it and make it into a good story I’d love to read it if not help you write it. Cheers Princess x
I do still have my first story, which I believe I wrote in high school for creative writing. Set in the Old West, it’s about two men (named Alex “Red” Green and Bob James) meeting and escaping a bit of danger whose resolution relies on a bird pooping on the bad guy (which still tickles me).
What stands out to me now is my memory that I wrote it by imagining it as a movie – one of the many clues over the years that make my recent discovery of and love for screenwriting seem like an inevitable development.
Isn’t it funny that when we return to our often forgotten childhood, we discover, before the filters of time/money/so-called responsibility begin to warp our world, what we were destined to become? Oh, new blog post.
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