Hello hello and welcome to this week’s short story, which by all accounts is strange. We are currently running a challenge on The Writer’s Mess Discord, which features a youtube drawing challenge, modified for writing.

So, in May we made a playlist and this month you use a random number generator to get two songs from the playlist, and use those songs to make characters, then use the week theme to give them a relationship. I thought it would be easy, then I got week 1, a friendship between character inspired by the songs “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult, and “You Belong with Me” by Taylor Swift.

This led to the story below, a relatively light story, with dark humor, and darker themes. If you are a person who gets triggered by death, you might wanna scan the tags before reading. Otherwise, enjoy!

She sat, to the appearance of most, alone in a shaded section of the bleachers, watching the practice below. To those who looked closer, the shadow beside her was just a shade too dark, but people dismissed it as a trick of the light, as when they tried to focus on the darkness, their eyes seemed to slide right past it.

“You know, there is a pretty easy solution to this,” a voice said from that darkness.

“There really isn’t,” she argued.

“No, really, a tiny shove here, a misalignment there, and oh, no, they didn’t catch her this time. No more head cheerleader. Done right, no more head at all.” Their voice was light, but she had known them long enough to know that the offer was legit.

“Then he would be sad, and mourn her the rest of high school. Or he would be scarred for life, because decapitation isn’t something most people can handle.” She explained it gently, as she didn’t want to upset them.

“But after,” they started, and she cut them off.

“After he would go after another cheerleader.”

“I’d imagine the visual would be enough to put him off cheerleaders.”

“Okay, then he would go after someone else that was pretty, well dressed, and dumb as a post. He has a type, and clearly, I am not it.” It hurt her to say it, but she had to face facts. She was never going to be on his radar.

“Well, you could change your clothes, and besides, trauma changes people, maybe a little decapitation would make him look for someone with a good head on their shoulders.”

She laughed, it was wrong, so wrong, but she couldn’t help it. “I can’t believe you went there.”

“I can’t believe that you can’t believe it,” they countered.

She sobered up a bit, before continuing on. “I, you’re right, I could change.” She wasn’t sure where to go from there, but she didn’t get a chance to.

“Don’t!” They said it loud enough that some people looked over, and she was surprised. They were usually a lot more careful about that.


“Don’t change, not for him, not for anyone. You won’t always be in high school, and pretending to be someone you aren’t… Just trust me on this one, it isn’t worth it.”

She scoffed, “it’s easy for you to say, you aren’t on a deadline. Your going to go on forever, and I-“ She gestured to them, sitting beside her.

She had spent enough time near death to become a friend. She could only see them when it was close, and they were a constant reminder that the treatments were never going to be a cure. She was just delaying the inevitable, and everyone knew it. It was why she had no friends, and why no boy was going to look at her twice, not with an expiration date less than a decade away, if she was lucky.

“You,” they started quietly, coming more into focus than she would like, and for a brief moment she wondered if the expiration date was going to be today. “You are worth getting to know, even if you aren’t going to be around forever. Tomorrow isn’t promised anyone, Auggie. I won’t tell you who, but, you are going to outlive more of them than you think,” they said, gesturing at the field. “You just have the misfortune of knowing it, and that shouldn’t stop you from taking advantage of it, from living a life just as full as the rest of theirs. More so even, because you don’t have to worry about saving for retirement.”

It was a dark kind of humour, but it was hers, and she let out a bitter laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it. Live for today, Carpe Diem, all that jazz.”

They smiled at her, and it should have been terrifying, but she felt warm, loved. It wasn’t a conventional friendship, but it was the best she had ever had.

She took in a deep breath, let it go, and asked the first thing that came to mind. “So, I know you can’t tell me who, or like, how, but, like, numbers?”

At their raised eyebrow of confusion, she continued, “I am going to outlive some of them, but like is it 1, 6, 14, 72 or 9? Come on, give a girl a hint, at least.”

“Less than 72,” they deadpanned, and at her pleading look, sighed before continuing, “but more than 14.”

She blinked, “really?”

They nodded, “really.”

“Point made. So, new goal then,” she started.

“Different boyfriend?” They asked.

“I am thinking life is too short to stick to such narrow traditional relationship definitions.”

“New girlfriend?”

“Well mostly I was thinking, get laid, but ya, maybe you’re right, girls could work too,” she conceded.

They met each other’s eyes, and cracked, laughing like idiots. She didn’t care if she looked like a nutcase, laughing alone in the bleachers, because at the end of the day, what she would really be missing in a life cut short, were more moments like this.



Hello Hello and welcome to what should have been a weird, but ultimately funny story. It was originally inspired by the image below from and if you haven’t checked out their stuff, do, it’s absolute gold. Of course, me being me, took a light hearted story and just absolutely destroyed it, and oh my god, read the tags if you are easily triggered, because this one is a doozy.

I hated the way Joey didn’t shut the god damned cupboard doors after he opened them, and it was like he did it on purpose lately.

He’s been doing a lot of things like that recently, wiping his toothpaste on the good towels, dropping his laundry beside the hamper instead of in it, putting his dishes in the sink instead of the dishwasher, and I am his wife, not his mother, and he is old enough to clean up after himself.

 We had a big fight about it a while back, and I stormed out of the house, angry, and well, I tried to apologize for the leaving, not the argument, because he needs to grow up, but he is being a fucking child, and he won’t even look at me anymore.

I should be the bigger person, I should let it go, but I can’t, not after giving in so many times, not after forgiving him even before the bruises had faded.  Maybe I should just go, maybe this time he would let me go, and not come after me. Maybe this time I could move on from him, and find someone who isn’t so angry all the time, who isn’t such an asshole.

All that anger though, it fades away when I see him, sitting on the bed, night after night, crying, looking at my picture, and I know he is sorry for all of it.  If only he would apologize, look at me, and tell me I am forgiven, maybe I could get over it and maybe, just maybe I could move on.


Hello hello and welcome to this week’s response to the Girlontheedge’s prompt CONCEQUENCES. There are consequences to our actions and this week’s narrator was willing to face what was coming to them, and got quite the surprise. Follow our non-gender specific narrator, as they explain how they go to where they are today, and why they made the decisions that they did. You may want to check the tags for triggers if last week’s squicked to, as this piece could be a follow-up.

I stood there, numb, in the wake of the verdict being read, too number to cheer at my good fortune, too numb to flinch from the wailing accusations of a mother saying I took away her baby, and it felt like all I did was blink my eyes and the courtroom was empty save me and my lawyer.

In my wildest dreams I had never expected this ending, when I bought the gun, I knew that there would be consequences to my actions, but I did it anyway, and so I never thought to make a plan for after.

The gun was registered to my name, purchased for only one purpose, I didn’t even learn how to shoot, because I knew that I would do it up close, and even someone who has never held a gun before can hit the target at point blank range.

I didn’t run after I did it, just stood there, waiting for the police, watching him die, knowing it was over, that he couldn’t hurt anyone else the way he had hurt her, and I felt free for the first time since I found her bruised and broken after the attack.

I let my lawyer choose the strategy, not-guilty by reason of temporary insanity, a parade of experts displayed before I sat on the stand telling the story of my sister, how he killed her, how I felt he had killed her, how she wasn’t dead but she wasn’t herself until she ended it after the judge read not guilty, how it wasn’t just her but there wasn’t enough evidence, and that I couldn’t live in a world where he walked free to do it again, because he would do it again, they always did.

My lawyer was smiling, jury nullification, he called it, them knowing that I did it, but in knowing why they understood, choosing not to charge me, and I knew I should have been happy with that, with being free, but I also knew that there was a mother mourning a son as I result of my actions, making the sweet taste of victory turn to ash on my tongue.

Don’t Blink

Welcome to this week’s six-sentence story, based on the word of the week, SECOND, and oh my, this one is not for the faint of heart. This one has trigger warnings a plenty, and while there is nothing explicit in the story at all, there are implications a plenty, the least of which is that the narrator was a victim of a crime, and how far you take this, is really up to you. I suggest you read the tags if you are triggered by ANY kind of crime or assault, because again, there are implications a plenty here. For those who choose to go on, I hope you find this interesting.

Blink, he was gone, it was over, it would never be over, it had changed nothing, it had changed everything, and she lay stunned, alone, unable to do anything, even cry.

Blink, she was surrounded by people, all asking questions that she couldn’t answer, not knowing what had happened, how long ago, or why, and she allowed herself to be guided into the ambulance, flinching from the bright lights and screaming siren.

Blink, the fabric of the hospital gown was rough against her skin, but nowhere near as abrasive as the cloth cleaning the sticky blood from her forehead, and she stared uncomprehendingly at the officer by the door, holding her clothes in a a clear plastic bag labelled evidence.

Blink, there were more of them here now, voices overlapping to form a sea of sound from which she could not pick the words, and she wished she could remember something about what happened, but they told her it was Thursday, not Tuesday, scoffing at her unreliability.

Blink, she walked down to the cab wearing gift shop pajamas, since she knew no one who could bring her clothes, and she clutched the voucher in her hands, along with the cards for the detective, the counsellor, the hospital follow-up appointment, hoping someone would be there to let her into the dorm because she didn’t have her keys.

Blink, she answered the door, listening as they told her that the case had gone cold, no leads, no cameras, no descriptions, and she forced herself to keep her eyes open, even as they began to burn, because she knew now what could happen in second it took to blink her eyes.