Short Stories

Apologies to the Readers

Death is such a fickle, fickle thing. Some are consumed by it and some, well, some of us can only hope to grasp it. Sarah was one of the latter and this is her story, the story of her death.

_

The room was bathed in a silence that was only broken by the persistent murmur of a liquid leaking from an unknown source. Red was splattered across the walls, the floor and a few drops had even reached the ceiling. A prone figure laid on the only piece of furniture in the room: the bed. The female figure covered in red did not move, did not feel. Was she dead?

“Ugh… imaginary best friend, remind me to never eat that much sugar with any paint nearby ever again.”

Sadly, no, the cretin named Sarah Garza was not dead… yet.

“Don't make threats that we both know you will never go through with. I am your only friend and you always bring me back, Author.”

Argh, I have heard of food fighting back, but this ridiculous! I am in control, so why do I continue to write this? Sometimes I fear for my sanity.

“Author, you lost that a long time ago, probably before you even started to write these things. In fact, I am certain that you were never sane to begin with.”

Shut up already! I have a story to write and you have a part to play.

“Fine, grumpy pants,” Sarah giggled. “What's on the agenda? Did the teacher assign you a fantasy piece yet?”

No, I just get to kill you again, but this time I have to paint a picture of what happens when I bring you back to life.

“That sounds fun,” she squealed.

Then, let's get started.

___

Rain poured from clouds that had kidnapped the moon for the night. Mud splashed onto city sidewalks as a few cars drove through dirty puddles on dirty streets. Muffled voices from a nearby pub and distant traffic could be heard and questionable smells were in the air. In a graffiti covered alley a bleeding corpse rested on soggy broken boxes.

Suddenly, a ringtone blared out, “Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows! Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!”

A groan cut through the murmur of the city as the body began to move. It twitched, it seized and, finally, it laid still. The stillness carried on for a few minutes, long enough for the spasms to be thought of as a product of imagination.

Then, she opened her eyes.

“Trade your soul for immortality, they said; it'll be fun, they said,” Sarah groaned. “Why am I such a gullible person?”

She got up and stumbled a bit. Her faded leather jacket was crumpled and her leggings were ripped. There was blood on her shirt, but there wasn't a wound in sight. Glass fell from her burnt, brown locks as she swept a hand through it and looked up at the window she had fell from.

“Well, that happened. Why do I feel like that won't be the last window I jump from? Those idiots always forget about the immortality. Now, I'm gonna go find me some pancakes!”

And with that, she skipped out of the alley.

___

“That was a stupid story,” she said to the air.

Well, I thought I did good with that one. You know how bad I am at comedy and that was sort of funny.

“No, no it was not. And why do you make me obsessed with pancakes in every story? You don't even like pancakes.”

Uh, it was funny? I don't know! I wrote this without any sleep in the previous twenty four hours. You try making sense without any sleep! Besides, it's not like you're funny.

“Oh, really? Well, did you hear the one about the guy who stuck-”

Woah, woah! This supposed to be PG-13. What is wrong with you?

“Hey! You're the one who made me and you're the one writing this!”

...Touche.

“You know what? I'm done with this,” Sarah said and then she walked out of the room.

Well, my sweet reader, now that I've got you alone…

The door open again and Sarah poked her head in and shouted, “And no harassing the readers!”

Awww, you're no fun.