One of the saddest stories on FictionMania is Janice's 'The Slut': "Three teenage girls exact revenge on the older brother of one of them, who is obnoxious to them, with dire results." Six minutes ago, I posted it here on BCTS as 'The Slut (By Janice)'. It's a short but powerful story, cutting 'close to the bone' of reality. Many of its reviewers demanded a sequel. 'Aftermath' is my unauthorized tribute to Janice's gut-wrenching realism. Please do not associate any shortcomings in my work with her thoughtful gem. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to her.

A little observation about fiction v. non-fiction.

Cedric scrupulously audits 'Donna's Dungeon of Domination'.

The aftermath of a bachelorette party that went awry.

Leanne's daughter needs surgery soonest. Alas, there's a problem.

Warning: do not read if depressed.

To the credit of its author, one TG story on a site disturbed me to the conclusion that, in order to sleep better at night, I needed to write a moral counterpoint to it.

This next story is a bit personal for me. It's one I'm still having trouble coming to terms with. One one hand, it could have been a trick of the mind. I was on some pretty powerful painkillers at the time. My life too it seemed had fallen apart, like a piece of priceless china that had been dropped on the floor. The tiny porcelain shards scattered to the four winds. I guess I should start at the beginning of the story.

For generations the legend of 'Jenny Greenteeth' has haunted the imagination of the children of Benton. The tall tales of the malevolent water hang with green, mottled skin, long hair and sharp, pointed teeth. That is supposed to lurk out of sight beneath beds of duckweed in ponds, canals or gravel pits. Biding her time, waiting for her chance to rise up and snatch from the banks careless children or the elderly that had strayed too close to her hiding place.

There is a common misconception among the general public that cheerleaders have it easy. I've been a cheerleader now for close to eighteen months and I can safely say without a shadow of a doubt that these eighteen months have been among the hardest months in my life. One would assume being the little sister of the cheerleading captain, I would have it made. If one would have assumed that then one would have assumed wrong.

In 2006, I fell in love.

Hunter goes out with Alex and the family and makes a little personal headway for her and Alex.

This is the conclusion to the interconnected Amy Amstel stories started in “My Date as a Teenage Girl Model”. If you haven’t read the earlier stories I suggest you start there (330+ Kudos clickers can be wrong but the odds are in your favor). The stories about Amy Amstel are mostly self-contained though.

Transatlantic flights seldom are fun. If you start from Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport terminal 2 you don’t exactly get off on a good start either. If you really are a bit too tired to work it’s even less fun. Flying west I try not to sleep on the flight since that really messes up my sleep-cycles. I was a bit surprised to find a scraggy teenager in the seat next to me. Not the usual passenger in first class. I decided that a long chat with the boy would be preferable to pretending to work. It didn’t start too well. When I introduced myself, Harry Howard, and told him that I was editor–in-chief of the most important fashion magazine for men the boy looked horrified. Apparently not a fashion aficionado. Well, I could have told that from his clothes. Jeans and white T-shirt as well as disheveled hair. Despite that he had a “groomed” look if you looked closer. Actually if you looked very closely he was kind of “pretty”. Shaped eye-brows, holes in his ears, just a hint of mascara remaining on those very impressive eye-lashes. Intriguing.

 

Part 13 of 29

Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Is it genetic? Why can't women leave the phone ringing when there is something else going on? It's not like we don't have an answering machine that we can check later. I have no trouble letting the thing ring if I am doing something important.

Jane took a deep breath as she peered toward the three hundred gallon tank that was slowly being filled with water. She was starting to have second thoughts about volunteering for the dunking booth now. As she released her breath she did her best to push those thoughts away from her. It was after all too late to back out now. And so with a growing sense of uneasiness she watched as the last few gallons of water were pumped into the tank.

It was cold. The windows of the small cabin rimmed with frost and wisps of cold air intruding through any opportunist gaps in the defenses. The cast iron stove in the center of the small abode struggled against the encroaching chill as the last bits of furniture smoldered in its belly. It was a race, Mother Nature vs human ingenuity... and human was losing ground.

It was the coldest winter ever recorded, lasting a full month longer than any other winter thus far that was known of. Even the local stories didn't compare to this extent, of this winter.

Two siblings, children to bakers, form a bet without wages. If no one loses anything more when they lose, what does the winner get?

HOMEWARD BOUND

BIGGER THAN ME

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD

MISS YOU