Pentober 2026 - Day 29: Laurel

Ok so, what is Pentober? Promptober? It's a writing tradition that's been around the web for a while where you write up a short story every day in October based on prompts. Some go for pen and paper, some digital; everyone has their own style. I'll be posting here, and I'll be using the prompts from https://www.topinfiction.com/p/pentober-2026 

House rules are that I vomit-write the story; no planning, just taka taka taka on the keys. I get ONE edit at the end of the draft (if I even have time, lol), then we post it. House rules also say that I get to play catch up and do multiple days separately on one day or combined if work gets wild and I can't write. Get it? Got it? Good! Here we go.

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Evergreen shrubs blew in the breeze, gently perfuming the air with the scent of bay and laurel. It mingled with the smell of limestone and salt on the ocean breeze. She had been named after one of these shrubs: Laurel.

The name shaped her life. Laurels were used in cooking and they were used to crown champions. In her twenty-five years on this earth, Laurel had worn both at the same time. She'd won several awards for cooking, as had her restaurant, which was only a few minutes away from the cliffside she was sat upon, soaking in the late Summer sun. It was going to be her last day on the island.

She had watched the little town, tucked in against the setting sun in the middle of the sea, dwindle in population over her lifetime. It went from a fishing town, to a tourist town, to, now, a ghost town. She had been able to get by as one of the sole residents for a few years; her staff lived for free on the island and the ferry brought patrons for their twice-daily dinner service. It worked. But, now, the island was being requisitioned. It was needed for the war effort that was looming. Neighboring countries had started shooting and bombing, and Laurel's government figured they would get pulled in soon, too. The island was the perfect space for barracks, training, and batteries. It overlooked an important line of sea commerce.

So, they were moving the restaurant to the mainland and, hopefully, safer shores. The last ferry out was tomorrow morning. She stood, walked over to a laurel tree, and clipped a few boughs. Then, she walked down the centuries-old, worn, stone path towards the restaurant, towards home. She worked several of the boughs into a laurel wreath and put it on top of the sign that marked her restaurant. It was a painted sign featuring a mermaid holding a trident, equal parts warrior and siren. She hoped crowning it would mean victory and safety for the building and the island.

The other boughs she fashioned into a crown for herself. She knew she would survive, rebuild, exceed to new heights, and return a crowned victor over circumstances beyond her control.