Highway to Hell

Usually my writing is dark, but every so often, it is tragic. This week’s entry for the six sentence story word of DETOUR by girlontheedge is definitely dark below the surface. Not much is said directly, but a lot is implied. If you have triggers, read the tags before reading, this one is a bumpy ride.


People tell me that life is a highway, that it isn’t the destination that matters, but the journey you take to get there.


If that is true then meeting you was like finding a detour in they construction zone that was my life, finally a chance to get out of the slow lane and drive.


At first it was perfect, the wind blowing through my hair, and by the time I realized you had led me onto a dark isolated road, I was so far away from the highway that I couldn’t find my way back.


So I kept going, when the road got bumpy, I slowed down a little and told myself it was okay, it would get better soon.


I didn’t turn back at the first blowout, the sixth, or even the broken axles, and it took a full blown crash to make me realize I couldn’t keep doing this, one day it was going to get me killed.


When I got back on the road, I was a cautious driver, always going below the limit, and it took me months before I could even think of hitting the highway again, let alone taking detour, but it’s been three years; I am ready to try again.

Shredded

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.

Final Print

This week’s six-sentence story, based on the word TERM, was supposed to be a lightheaded one. That said, I have been reading The Stand, and so again, we have gone dark. This week we meet Joe, who violated the terms in conditions with dire consequences.


Joe was a healthy 32 year old man in the prime of his life, with a great job, a beautiful home, a wonderful wife, two amazing children, and less than a week to live.

The worst part was, that it could have gone on like this for years, him living the perfect life, but with an act of hubris he had ruined it all.

In the early days, the deal he had made weighed heavy on his mind, making him question his every decision, was this within the bounds of the agreement, would that violate a term or condition?

Eleven years later he had become sloppy, time dulling the terror he had felt in the circle of mushrooms as he was told what fate would befall him if he was ever to renege on the contract he himself had negotiated.

With distance, he started to doubt that it had happened at all, a vivid hallucination brought on by the drugs to treat an illness he never had, the last damning consequence of what the Doctor’s called a misdiagnoses of the highest order.

He had held onto that foolish belief until this very morning, when he looked out upon his garden of death, a coffee in had as he surveyed the leafless trees, wilted flowers, yellowed grass, and the only thing left alive was a circle of mushrooms, mocking his arrogance, letting him know that his hour had come round at last.


Part of the continuing saga, of why we don’t mess with the Fae.