Using Story Cubes, the story below came alive. The cube’s faces: magic, house, eye, dice, torchlight, keyhole, justice, footprint, sad face.
Once upon a time in a faraway land, magic existed. Though it was fading and few remembered a time when the land had been alive with magic, there still were places that remembered. One house in particular. It was a crusty old house, with cobwebs and creatures trailing through the house. Some say it was haunted, that you couldn’t blink your eyes for fear of disappearing. Others laughed at the tales of the haunted house and claimed that it was just a sad house because its' owners had abandoned it and no one had bought it.
I wasn’t sure what to believe.
One night, my friends and I decided to go to the haunted house. We’d roll the dice to see who would enter the house and a picture as proof. There was no justice in the world, I thought, as the I rolled the designated number.
“I’m so sorry, Clara,” my friend Maria said as she passed me the torchlight. Her twin Jenny smirked. “It should be unlocked at least.”
I nodded and grabbed the torch. “Lucky me.” And headed towards the front porch. The wind whispered through the trees as I crept closer and closer to the house. Finally, I stood on the porch and looked at the giant keyhole. Placing my hand on the knob, I tried to open the door. It wouldn’t.
I tried turning it again. It remained stuck. I tried pulling and pushing. It stayed closed. All of a sudden, words appeared around the keyhole.
I require a price of an equal item in order to enter, read the glowing words.
“You are crazy.” I shuddered and began to back up. How did the words appear? I didn't want to say that outloud.
New words appeared. I’m not crazy. Tell me a story. If you promise, I’ll let you in.
I quickly nodded in agreement. With the nod, the lock clicked and the door opened. I slid inside.
Quickly snapping a photo, I began to sneak out.
Immediately, the sound of footsteps rang out. They came closer and closer. I stayed still, not moving.
“Are you trying to sneak out, dearie?” Swinging around, I saw the old lady, gnarled and white-haired, her face in a permanent sad smile.
“Who are you?”
“Why, I am the house. Who are you?”
“Clara.”
“Lovely to meet you, dearie. Now, you promised me a story. Come, I made tea. Let’s sit in the kitchen.” I shook my head and followed the old woman to the kitchen and sat where she had patted the seat.
“What kind of story do you want?” I asked, trying to still my shaking hands.
“I want a story of magic and love. One of trials and triumphs. But most of all, magic.” The lady handed me the tea.
“But, I don’t know any stories like that. Not outside of fairy tales.” I took a sip and smiled. The tea was absolutely delicious. I could drink more of this, I thought.
“Oh dearie me, I want your story. The one that you want to write. Write it, and don’t leave out the magic. There’s more tea in the pot.” With that, the lady disappeared and in her place was a leather-bound journal, made for writing about magic.
I smiled. “Of course.” At the acceptance, the quill and ink appeared. I reached for the quill. “I have just the thing.” And began to write.
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