On a writing forum I am on, every Friday we get a prompt and have to write a 500 word (though I tend to go a little over) short story on it. When I write these I write them off the top of my head, with no planning, and I leave them totally unedited. I pop em off and walk away, usually in about 20 minutes. One of these is ripe for some expanding into a longer short story. It's a fun challenge writing a story in 500 words when I am used to writing a story in 120,000+ words. So every weekend I should have a new one up. People on that writing site seem to really like them, so I hope you do as well!


One Magical Morning - September 6th 2015

Timmy was a bad boy, a very bad boy. The entire semester at school he had bullied the other children, most of the time simply to get a reaction out of them, though, on some occasions, he would physically take the belongings of others, but he would not take these things because he wanted them, he would take them because he detected cherishment from the other students; these things were important to them, and he would take them, smash them to bits, and then do everything but lap the saline solution streaming down their cheeks. There were many detentions, many notes sent home, and due to two instances, both involving another student getting bloodied, Timmy's parents were called into the principal's office, which aggravated his parents to no end since the commute from work and then back to work was not only brutal but one of them must stay home with Timmy both to reprimand him and to supervise him. Timmy hated them for grounding him for a whole month after the second incident. "He started it!" Was Timmy's response, but it fell upon deaf and fed up ears.

As soon as his grounding was over, as if to tell his parents their discipline had no effect, he immediately thrashed another student and was suspended from school for a whole week after the threat of expulsion was mitigated both by Timmy's parent's pleading and Timmy's crocodile tears.

When November came to an end, his parents threatened Timmy that he would get not a single present from them for Christmas and that they have personally notified Santa Claus of his wrongdoings, and, if there was no improvement in his behaviour, Santa would give him nothing but coal.

Timmy was fine with that. He was not threatened by threats. All the same, as the days rolled along, he tried his best to be good because if he got no presents and the other kids got wind of it, they surely would never let him live it down. And as days turned into weeks, he became paranoid that the other kids knew of the threat as one by one they challenged him by gallivanting around the schoolyard with their beloved objects; some called him names; some merely stuck their tongue out him; but it was the kid who gave him the finger that almost drove him into a blind fit of rage yet, somehow, even to his own surprise, he maintained control.

On December 23rd, he was outside playing, and there was a stray cat that limped along the sidewalk, shivering and wet with barely any meat on it, so Timmy, unable to vent his rage on his classmates, took his this opportunity to pelt the starving, freezing feline with snowballs. Of course he checked first, to ensure his parents or none of his neighbours were watching him or that no cars were approaching, and when the cat freaked out and ran into the street, its panicked paws comically fighting for traction on the icy roads, Timmy laughed and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

On Christmas Eve, his parents congratulated his behaviour and told him even Santa must be impressed with how he turned himself around. That night Timmy slept, and he slept well.

When he awoke before the sun on Christmas Morning and saw all the presents with his name on it, he was so overcome with anticipation he didn't even wait for his parents to watch him tear apart the wrapping paper with spurious glee. Ice skates. A remote controlled truck. A Skylanders game. Pokemon Cards.

He came to a present that said, 'To: Timmy; From:_____'.

Timmy ripped open the box and he did not just scream, he ran around the living room bawling his eyes out, howling at the top of his lungs for his mother, his father; anyone, really.

Inside the box was a cat skull, still moist and sanguine with sporadic tufts of hair pasted to it, and clipped between its fangs was a note which read, "I see everything - SC"


Shutterbug - September 11th 2015

It keeps happening.

It won't stop.

I know, you don't believe me, but it's true. I'll show you.

Oh I haven't told you what 'it' is yes. Let me explain.

Two days ago, I took a photo of myself to send to this guy who I think is really hot. And there was something--different--different about my face. I just didn't know what. So I took another. It still bugged me. What was it? After taking a dozen photos of myself, I shrugged it off as anxiety and sent the picture. He never replied. It was because of my face, I know.

I took another photo. Then I saw it.

It was like I had a weird rash on my cheeks.

But it wasn't in the mirror.

I called Jenna over and she saw nothing.

I couldn't sleep. I kept looking at the pictures and every time I scrolled through them, the rash got worse and worse.

I looked in the mirror again. No rash. I took a hundred pictures of my own reflection and in the photo of my reflection, it got worse and worse. It wasn't even a rash anymore. It was just a sea of imperfections, freckles, blackheads, pockmarks, pimples.

I knew that couldn't be me. It was a trick. Someone was pranking me with some new filter. So I bought a new camera and took a selfie still in the checkout.

It wasn't a trick. I looked hideous. I ran out of the store crying.

I asked strangers on the streets to look at my face and I received nothing but compliments.

Was it all in my head?

I looked great in all the storefronts. I ran into that guy. He almost didn't recognize me. We're supposed to have a date tomorrow. I felt better.

Last night, I had one of those coma sleeps. When I woke up, my new Nikon was beside me. I can't--I'll show you. Just let me adjust the camera. Okay, when I slept, I apparently took enough photos of myself to fill up the memory. As I scroll through, can you see? See me withering away? The picture me is like forty pounds lighter. And ugly, so fucking ugly. I'm hideous.

I deleted the SD card. The photos came back.

There is no way I'm going on that date. Now. Look at me! On the video camera I can actually see myself wasting away. Can't you? My skin is like dripping butter. I scratched an itch and my skin disintegrated.

I'm so dry inside.

Why am I so dry inside?

Look at me close my eyes, bet you can't even tell they're closed because my eyelids are gone.

They're gone.

I have to look at myself. My hand is just a skeleton. See?

I tried to look in the mirror but it's plastered with photos of myself.

All of them ghastly, dead, decaying.

Did I take them? I don't remember it.

Shit. Look at me! I'm taking pictures of myself right now. I'm not trying to. I'm just doing it. I need to do this. Hold on.

Okay, steady. You can do this.

FUCK THAT HURT THAT HURT SO MUCH.

Wait. How am I supposed to cut off my other hand now? This hand that is still taking pictures?

Oh my god. On the monitor. Something--something is holding my wrist. I see it. No. It's gone. It's back.

Are you seeing this? Are you?

God, God, God, God.

The Nikon. It's floating. No. The hand I chopped off it holding it and It's--the strap--it's wrapping arou---y--neck---and--fl-sh-b---ding me. Can't bre--------------