Cleaning House

Hello Hello, the word of the week is Mess, and this week I am using it in the cleaning up a mess sense of the word.  Follow the story of Heidi, who hates the smell of bleach, and is cleaning up someone else’s mess.  There is a lot implied here, but not much said outright, so I suspect triggers are off the table this week, but let me know if I am wrong. Thanks. Also this is in thiller/horror because while it is not suspenseful, it has that creepy vibe


The smell of bleach was so thick in the air that she could almost taste it, as it burned it’s way down her throat with every breath she took.

This was the part of cleaning that Heidi hated the most, the smell of it, and while every bit of her hurt from two hours on her hand and knees scrubbing the floor, it was taste in her mouth that made her angry.

This wasn’t her mess, she shouldn’t have to be the one the clean it up, but if Olga had the kind of control that was needed to do clean-up, there wouldn’t be a mess to clean up in the first place.

It should have been their mother here doing this, after all it was her decision to let Olga out, even though Heidi had begged her not to, and less than two days later here she was on her knees trying to scrub every bit of evidence from the grout on the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t perfect, this much bleach would let anyone with a nose know that something had happened here, and that alone would bring suspicion upon them, but there would be no forensic evidence to tie to them to it, not if she could help it.

Heidi had liked it here, had liked being Heidi, but that was over now, as once things settled, they would be moving on, lest they be suspects when the next missing happened, and she longed for the day they got to stay somewhere long enough to call it her home.

Ctrl + Shift + C

Hello hello, the word of the week is PASTE, and I was inspired in large part by a program asking me if I wanted to retain all the information on the clipboard after it closed. Follow our narrator as she presses v and pastes something she doesn’t expect to see.


It seemed ridiculous really that her marriage was over, due to a malfunctioning paste, or rather her missing the c key when performing the copy.


Maybe the real blame lay on her husband for not clearing the clipboard, or really for having the affair in the first place, that was probably what did the marriage in.


The worst part was that she didn’t feel angry, sad, or betrayed when she read the incriminating text, just relieved, because she had a reason to file for divorce.


If she was honest with herself, her marriage didn’t end with the text, or the affair, and she couldn’t really identify when they had made the transition from husband and wife, to flat mates that sometimes got each other off.


The whole thing had just happened by degrees, the proverbial frog in warming water, and the message on the shared computer was just the moment that she realized that the pot was boiling over.


It probably said something about her marriage after all, if she found out he is cheating after ten years together, and the only thought that was running through her head was that soon she would have the entire bed to herself.

Welcome to My Parlour

This was written for the weekly picture prompt on The Writer’s Mess pictured below.  Meet Selina, psychic running her small shop, a hole in the wall, to get by.  It wasn’t exactly honest work, but well, what did they expect?


It had taken Selina a lot of time to get her space set up, balancing that right combination of mystery and tacky.  The fabric draped the walls, doing triple duty in ambiance, noise reduction, and hiding how shitty the small space actually was.

A single shelf of spell books, some literally just nicely covered phone books, gave the air of ancient knowledge.  The phone books were of course labelled “Do NOT Touch,” and depending on the clien,t she either told them they were fragile or dangerous.  The rest were either legit second-hand finds, or home crafts that had taken hours.  The room was lit solely by fairy lights, giving it a soft low that made the space feel more intimate.

On the table sat a single book, her “ritual” book, and her crystal ball.  She had a few tarot decks, pulling out the expensive “old” ones for the true believers.  She didn’t haul them out often, but when she did, it was because the client was the kind who visited enough to pay the rent.

Overall, it was a scam, from beginning to the end, but it paid the bills, vacations, the new car that she never brought here, less someone catch on.  Some days she almost felt guilty, but then the same old lady who paid her to contact her late husband would see her in her normal clothes at the grocery store and tell her to go back where she came from, and suddenly, the guilt was gone.

The Dawn of Panty-Girl

Hello hello, the word of the week is lead, and I am taking it to mean that heavy toxic substance on the periodic table.  Follow Kacey, as she makes a break from being one of the popular girls, and lives with the consequences.


The teacher stood at the front of the room holding up a pair of underwear at the end of a ruler like they were the most disgusting thing she had ever seen, demanding to know whose they were, and Kacey’s stomach felt like it was full of lead.

Those were her underwear, the ones that were missing from her gym locker after her shower, and from the smug smirks and giggles, she knew who the culprits were, not that there had ever been much doubt in the first place.

It had started last year when she was still one of those girls, but then life happened as it is wont to do, and she could no longer stand by and watch as they tormented classmates for things out of their control, so she broke free.

Being an it girl in high school bears more similarities to being in a gang* than one might expect, in so far as you didn’t get out, they kicked you out, and those who did leave typically suffered for it, though here the death was social in nature.

She didn’t regret it though, getting out, because her friends now, as few as they were, were actually her friends, and there was no pressure to perform to standard so that she could stand at the edge of a circle of girls that she knew spent their hours without her talking trash about her.

There were however, moments like these, where her underwear were being waved like a flag by an irate teacher that made her wish that high school would just end, and that she wouldn’t be known Panty-Girl, but alas there were three more months left of classes, so she raised her hand, accepting her new identity.


*Special add on here, I know that this is overly dramatic, and that being a girl in high school is very different from being a gang member.  That said, if you have ever been a high school girl and gotten too close to one of these groups you know that they are brutal and relentless, and in the moment this is what it feels like.  I will say the above is not my story, it is fiction, but what I went through makes me incredibly glad I was in University before social media came out.