This weeks six-sentence story is a little sad, and surprisingly mundane. Based on the six-sentence story prompt of Confetti from Girlontheedge, this is the story of someone who has come to the realization that there is a little more to her projects being behind, and having to make a choice what in her life is more important.

Sharon took a deep breath in, held it for a count of four, and then let it out, as she took a moment before she assessed the damage.

Her projects were going to be late, that was a given, and as much as she would like to pretend it was an accident, it was quite clearly sabotage.

She had held the same schedule for three years, and each week without fail Gerry would contact her during her project block and start asking questions about something.

At first Sharon had thought it was a coincidence, that maybe that Gerry knew she would be on-line then, but the more progress she made, the more insistent the other woman had become with her need to discuss just a few things during these times.

As things started to work out for Sharon, Gerry stopped being the supportive friend who looked over her work, making small corrections to help it along, and started being the person who would tear up Sharon’s self esteem until all that remained was a pile of confetti.

Today she had to make a choice, THE choice, of what she wanted from her life, her friend or her passion projects, because it seemed like she no longer could keep them both, and it weighed heavy on her heart, it was so hard to make new friends…

The Perfectionist

I have to start with May the 4th be with you! This week’s six sentence story prompt by girlontheedge was CONTROL, and it got weird. What started with a perfectionist researcher being interrupted turned a little strange, and well it’s up to you if you want to interpret this as horror/fantasy or take it as a metaphor.

The sounds of Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 came from a waterproof speaker mounted high in the corner of the lab, the only deviation in an otherwise textbook set-up.

The lab equipment was all stored as precisely as if it were a demo rather than a working lab, and the few samples being worked on were set up on an immaculate bench top, all labelled with perfectly legible capital letters, all spaced exactly one inch apart.

The scientist working on them also appeared picture ready, with nary a hair out of place as she methodically reviewed her data, making notations in her lab book with a precise print that almost looked typed, and only when she was sure that every detail had been captured did she move onto the next step in her procedure.

Then HE stepped into the lab, him in his open toed shoes, stopping the music, waving his hands as if he wasn’t surrounded by fragile equipment, and all hell broke loose when he finally made contact, her sense of control shattering along with the glassware.

She turned, snarling, her hair bursting from it’s tie as the strands turned to snakes ready to devour their prey, claws escaping through the tips of her gloves, and he barely had a chance to widen his eyes in horror before it was all over.

Three hours later the lab was back to it’s impeccable state, Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 drifted from the recently sterilised speaker as she stepped inside, freshly showered in a new lab-coat and gloves, she was ready to resume her work without interruption, and the only attention she gave to the now bulging biohazard bag was a note in her lab book to have it scheduled for removal when she was finished for the day.

Side note, going forward theses are moving to Wednesday’s and the Short Stories will be moving to Friday’s.

Panic Attack

This weeks six based on the word RHYTHM is the story of a man on the way somewhere important (maybe a job interview), and not having a great time of it. Despite the tone, this one isn’t based on experience, as strangely the huge moments almost never give me anxiety… Also the title is based on the song of the same name.

The anxiety went flashed through him, every muscle primed for a fight that was only in his head, and he tried to will himself to relax. The sensation of unfamiliar fabric rubbing across his skin with every movement set his teeth on edge, and the press of the tie into his neck felt like it was choking him.

He tried to focus on the rhythm of the engine, but gave up when he could barely hear it over the sounds of horns from the traffic jam outside. The possibility of being late ratcheted his anxiety up to a whole new level, and he fumbled his headphones out of his pockets, to pair with his phone.

It would eat his battery, but it would be worth it, and when they beeping of the blue-tooth was replaced with the sound of electric guitars, he cranked the volume until the lady sitting beside him gave him a dirty look. He closed his eyes and let the music fill him, tapping his feet to the beat as the chorus rose and he took in a deep breath, then let it out, he could do this.


This dark little piece is a continuation of last weeks story about the witch and her vengeance. It was inspired by the six-sentence-story prompt HARMONY, by girlontheedge, and a few comments that were made on last weeks story concerning revenge.

She scraped a slash across the four lines, and felt a pang of regret as she looked at the scratches that decorated the bulk of her cauldron.
She could remember like it was yesterday, when she had stepped into the pool of harmony to join the order, and the water of purification had turned jet black.
Apologies had been made as she was ushered to the door, and it had taken weeks of crying, begging, before someone would finally tell her why she would never be welcome, why the others would not so much as look at her.
The water had turned because her soul bore a stain, a mark of her her own making, telling all who could see that she had used the gifts she had been given for ill purpose, and nothing she could do would ever remove it, would ever make her what she was before, worthy.
She had gone home and carved the first scratch into the side of her cauldron, making a vow, then and there, if she could not be of harmony, then she would be of vengeance, and as she ran a hand across the hashed pattern on the cauldron, she realized that she had kept that promise far too well…