Quaint

This is just a slice of life story about life in a small town. It feel like it could be a prologue to a much large peice, but when I tried to write a continuation, it didn’t really connect, so I have made the choice to post this on it’s own.


Margie was dumb. Okay, that wasn’t really that nice, but she wasn’t slow, she didn’t have a learning disability, or have an especially low IQ. Margie really was just dumb. So much so that other people really should have found it frustrating talking to her, but they didn’t. Because Margie, sweet Margie, was something akin to the little engine that could as she tried so hard again and again. The thing was, Margie would more aptly be called the little engine that couldn’t, because the trying never really amounted to anything.

Most people would give up, but not Margie, and that seemed to be why people liked her so much, nothing ever really got Margie down. Its also how despite perpetually failing at life, Margie was doing as well as she was. People, did a lot for the silly girl, mostly out of a sense of pity, and a bit of guilt at their own ill will towards her sometimes.

So Margie had a job at the grocery store, as a greeter. She had started as a stockboy, but had been confused, as she was not a boy. She labeled things wrong, and put them where she felt they belonged rather than where they actually belonged causing more harm that good.

No one thought that Margie would be able to handle cashier, so they tried her on bagging next. AS much as the other town residents understood Margie was as she was, Margie could only pack so many bags poorly before it was suggested that maybe Margie not do that. After all, people wanted to get their food home, relatively undamaged, and there were too many loaves of bread being squashed under canned goods for people to abide by Margie.

Greeter wasn’t a real title, not at a store this small, but everyone smiled when they saw her, and Margie made sure to stop and greet every person that entered, if they wanted a greeting or not. That said, everyone liked seeing Margie taken care of, and she was a fairly sweet girl and she did try, so people who didn’t usually shop at the store made a point to stop by now and then, just to say hi to Margie. The increase in business wasn’t huge, but it did rack up to a little more than a greeter salary a month, so they kept her on.

That was the odd thing about small towns, people cared. Okay, they didn’t really care, people were not inherently better in small towns than the city. In small towns though, one didn’t have the veil of anonymity to hide behind. Everyone in a small town knew who you were and what you did, and who your parents were, and what they did. There was a sense of being watched that some found comforting, and many found invasive. If you were rude to the greeter, you would be hearing about it from your own mother within the hour, so you better mind you manners.

This led to a sense of obligation to be a better person that one actually was at heart. In a small town reputation was everything, and you couldn’t be the only person in town that didn’t stop by and say hi to Margie, so you did it. For all they are portrayed to be more “real” and “down to earth” in small towns, you had to wonder if they were actually just spending a lot more time being really good fakes.

In the city you could have a work personality, a home personality, and for some, a friends personality. Which one, if any, was you, was a choice, and rarely did they overlap enough to worry someone might foul the waters. Meanwhile in small towns, home, work and friends would see the same thing, and it would be distributed far and wide, and why most of us had a sneaking suspicion that Trevor who helped Ms. McAvoy with her groceries was not as nice as he seemed.

Its why, when they found the body, it was both more and less surprising than it would have been in the city. It certainly gave everyone something to talk about other than the weather, and for many, that made the murder the best thing to have happened in years.

In Any Universe

Hello Hello, I realized that I wrote this on Monday and then never scheduled it for release, but here is this week’s response to the six-sentence writing prompt of BRANCH by girlontheedge. I am writing this one for Asexual Awareness week, about a Aiya, who is enduring the most boring/out of touch lecture of her life.


Multi-verse theory stipulates that every time a decision is made, there is a branch made for every possible outcome, and so there are infinite universes, with infinite diversity.

That said, sitting in a classroom, listening to a seventy-year-old white guy lecture her on women’s sexuality, Aiya couldn’t imagine that there was a universe where she didn’t think that this guy was full of shit.

Intellectually she understood that humans, as a species, had evolved in ways that meant that the animal homo sapiens sapiens had certain natural inclinations when it came to sex, but that all ignored the effect of civilization on humans as a whole, and she wasn’t having it.

A few students walked when he droned one about “deviant” sexual behavior, but Aiya always enjoyed a good train wreck, and besides, when she did file her complaint after the end of class, she wanted to make sure she had recorded the entire lecture, lest he later pretend that she missed the critical piece.

It was however illegal to record someone in a conversation you were not a part of, so she spoke up, and asked the question about her own orientation, only to have the man just about self-destruct in his rant on how asexuality does not exist.

It wasn’t even the most offensive response she had gotten to the ace question, doctors, therapists, friends alike, all recoiled when faced with someone that simply did not have interest, and it was then that she was saved from hearing more this day, by a member of the administration showing up to stop the man mid-lecture, but she did wonder, what else he was going to say to cover the second half of what would likely be his final lecture at the university.

Happy Valentine’s Day, My Love

As you might have guessed this one was written for a Valentine’s Day challenge. It was to write a microfiction about Valentine’s day, and I chose to write this dark, gruesome, twisted love story. I couldn’t post it at the holiday due to contest rules, but it seemed that October would be a fitting home…


There was something powerful about standing over a man whose whole heart was in your hands. He knelt before her, trusting her to take care of him, to do him no wrong, and she would sooner tear out her own heart than betray him

She stepped into the ritual circle, blood still dripping warm between her fingers, and made the offering. She felt the power burning its way though her, more excruciating than anything she had ever experienced and knew that it was working.

As quickly as it had started, it was over, her hands emptied. She collapsed to her knees, energy gone, and crawled to the still form of her lover. She placed her right hand over the hole in his chest, and the left over her still flat stomach. The end of his story had became the beginning of hers, a Valentine’s day gift of a life, and really could anything be more romantic.

Perfectly Quiet

Hello Hello, welcome to this weeks response to the six-sentence story prompt of the week FILM. I wanted to write something in the horror genre for Halloween, but while it is horrifying, I didn’t quite hit the mark. Follow our narrator as she returns to a perfectly quiet house, which can be one of the worst things when the house shouldn’t be empty!


She knew something was wrong from the moment she opened the door, to the intense kind of quiet that had never existed in her home, and a layer of dust on the floor.

In the living room a half cup of coffee sat, with a film of separated milk floating on top, and when she hit the kitchen, she knew that the news was going to be terrible.

A glass lay shattered on the floor, the dried juice around it the parody of a puddle, and three servings of macaroni and cheese sat on the table, entirely untouched.

She began running then, calling out for her husband, her children, as she went from room to room, only to find it empty, looking for all the world as if they were simply there one moment and gone the next.

She pulled her phone from the nightstand and watched as it turned on with agonizing slowness, wishing for once that she had the kind of job where she could take it with her, but nothing would change that now.

When the backlog finally loaded, she scrolled through them, horror mounting with each new message, until she reached the one that spoke of a loss that could not be overcome, and she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.


So you could ask me what happened, and I could tell you about 12 different stories, because I didn’t really plan that. This is one of those stories where you get to decide what happened. I have always found that what we can imagine is much worse than what actually occurs.