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Throw Away Fics, Writing

That’s Just How It Is

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Important: This is the 2nd last fic of the year! I’ll be taking the last half of December and first half of January off from posting. I’ll be back January 17th, 2025 with the first story of the new year!

Written: 22.12.01

Words: 860

Fluff, Destiel, 2024’s 1st Christmas story

This fic is based on this head-canon prompt by the incredible DeanCasKiss. (Tumblr)

“I’m back!”

Cas brushed himself off as he made his way through the door. He had to use more strength than usual to push it closed against the howling wind. After a moment of wrestling, he leaned against it to catch his breath as it finally closed. He dropped his shopping bags and toed off his boots, ears perking at the silence that greeted him, “… Dean?”

“I, uh, I thought you weren’t coming back until later.”

Cas’ brows furrowed at the hesitant tone as he made his way up the small steps that led toward the living room, “The specialty store was closed, so I’m gonna have to go back out to get Gabriel’s present.” If it’s still in stock by then. He stopped a few feet away as he spotted the blonde up on the ladder in front of the mostly decorated Christmas tree. He raised an eyebrow as he noticed his husband’s tense back, “You need any help?”

“No, no,” The blonde quickly descended the ladder, tossing something quickly into one of the decoration boxes, not bothering to turn around, “I’m good.”

Cas let out a small chuckle as he ventured closer, “Think you could tell that to my face?” He slipped his arms around the hunter’s waist, wrapping him up in a tight hug, “What’s wrong, Dean?”

“Nothing.”

The angel gave his husband a pointed look before rolling his eyes as he noticed the blonde was staring at the ground, “Fine. Don’t tell me.” He let go of his waist, making his way slowly toward the kitchen, “Guess I’ll just go get started on the pies… alone…”

That got the blonde’s attention. He whipped his head up and took a half-step closer, “P-pie?”

“Uh-huh…” Cas nodded, unable to help the smile that crept up his face as he held the door open, “Are you too busy to help?”

“No! No, I uh,” The blonde flicked his eyes to the box before shaking his head, making his way over, plastering his signature thousand-watt smile on his face, “I’m never too busy for pie.”

“Just remember we’re making them and not eating them.” Cas chuckled, allowing the blonde to pass him. “Let me just grab the fillings and we can start.”

“No, wait!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Cas dashed away from the kitchen, making a bee-line for the box of decorations. He paused as he scanned the ornaments, what was he hiding from me?

After a moment of finding nothing, he frowned, looking up to a clearly embarrassed blonde, “I don’t get it. It’s just a box of decorations.”

“I…” Dean let out a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face, “It’s under the blue bulbs.”

“Under the…” Cas turned back to the box, brows furrowed. He carefully lifted the box of ornaments out, furrow deepening as he spotted a picture of himself, sitting inside a gold frame.

He pulled the picture out, eyes scanning it carefully. He opened his mouth after a moment, “I… don’t get it.” He flicked his eyes back up to the blonde, “Why would you hide this from me?”

“I…” Dean rubbed a hand at the back of his neck and gestured half-heartedly to the tree, “was gonna put it on the tree.”

“Why?”

The blonde sucked his teeth in annoyance, letting his eyes go skyward, “Are you really gonna make me say it out loud?”

Cas spun around to face the tree, holding up the picture, “I don’t get it! Why would you…”

His question died on his lips as he saw the ladder again and the realization finally hit him. He couldn’t help the swell of love he felt in his chest as he turned back around, face melting at the hunter’s absolute embarrassment, “You were gonna put me at the top of the tree.”

It wasn’t a question, but the blonde reluctantly nodded in response, anyway.

Cas rushed backward, wrapping the blonde up in another tight hug, this time also capturing his lips. Though he wasn’t expecting it, Dean wasted no time in kissing his husband back.

The raven-haired man pulled back after a breathless moment, wide smile still on his face, “Let’s do it.”

“D-do what?”

Cas rolled his eyes before backing out of the hug, climbing up the ladder to place the picture of himself on the top of the tree. He gently rested the picture against one of the top-most branches, curling a few others around the edges of the frame to ensure it stayed in place.

Once he was happy with the placement – and sure it wasn’t going to crash to the floor – he carefully climbed back down the ladder, wiping his hands on his pants, “There.”

He turned around, chuckling as he spotted his husband’s confused look, “What? You don’t want me up there anymore?”

“No, I just, uh…” Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, blush sweeping across his cheeks, “What about the party? When everyone, y’know…”

“Pfft, please,” Cas waved a dismissive hand before leading the blonde back toward the kitchen, cheeky grin on his face, “It’s not weird to have an angel at the top of the tree.”

Like this story? Check out my Patreon for more FULL stories!

Writing, Writing Tips

Story Word Counts: Should You Pay Attention?

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If you’ve been a writer for any length of time, or paid attention during English class, you’ve probably heard about how one way we categorize different kinds of writing is by word count. Like how you probably know short stories are, well, short, compared to a novel.

But if you’re a writer, you might be asking yourself: do I really need to pay attention to these distinctions?

The short answer, as with most things, is: it depends!

It mostly depends on why you’re writing, or what you’re attempting to write for. For example, if you’re writing a story in the hopes of submitting it to a magazine, you’ll want to make sure you stay inside the word count they give you as part of the instructions. Same as, if you’re contracted to write a book to send off to a publisher, most of them won’t publish works in certain genres if they’re not within the expected range. This is usually because they know avid readers of a certain genre are typically expecting a certain word count, and if your book is shorter, or longer than such, people might not read it. (Unless you’re an already established big name – for example, Stephen King can colour outside the lines)

On the other hand, if you’re writing just for you, adhering to a strict word count limit isn’t as necessary and, I’d even go so far to say, it can actually be detrimental!

If you’re trying to write a story while keeping a firm word count in the forefront of your mind, you might find you’re more frustrated, distracted, and it might just become all around harder for you to get the story out of your head.

I recommend just letting your story flow, and not worry about a word count until you’re done getting it out of you. Once you have it down on paper, then you can add the word count parameters as part of your editing. If you’ve come up too short, see if you can fit an extra scene in, or if you’re over, see if there’s parts you can take out without changing the flow or plot, or leave it on a cliffhanger/to-be-continued, if you’re planning to make it a series.

One of my all time favourite pieces of writing advice I’ve ever gotten is: a story takes as long as it takes.

It makes writing sound so simple, doesn’t it?

I keep this advice in mind all the time, which is why I don’t bother checking a word count of a story until I’m done writing it. Now, I know I’m lucky, since I mostly write for myself on Patreon, (and here) I don’t have to adhere to a strict word count limit. The only word count rules I have to keep in mind are ones that were self-imposed. (And those were only put in place because I upload so many)

That said, I still think it’s a better way to write, and would recommend anyone to try adopting this style!

Instead of getting bogged down with all the nit-picky editing elements – oh, your story is 10 words off from your word count, you used ‘too many’ adjectives, you misspelled a word – if you let your critical editing voice sleep – or beat it to death with a stick, because you’re a good writer, damn it! Stop being so hard on yourself! – you can focus all your energy on telling the story.

In my opinion, telling the story is the most important part of writing. Screw the rules! Take your time, focus, and tell your story. It’s more important to tell it ‘correctly’ than to try and squish it to fit into a predetermined sized box so it’s ‘right’.

Also, in my experience, if you take the time and tell the story you want, in the way you want, most readers won’t care if it’s a little over or under a specific word count. They’ll just be happy they have a new favourite piece to add to their collection.

Also also, once you get the story down how you want it, and know the word count, it can help narrow your focus of where to submit it. Instead of being at the mercy of the magazine, publisher’s, etc. rules, you can find the rules that fit your story, instead.

Like this article? Check out more writing tips here!

Throw Away Fics, Writing

The Tattoo Killer (Preview)

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Finished: 18.10.17

Words: 3,027

NFF, 2018’s 1st Halloween fic (2nd is Candy Coma)

“E-excuse me, Sir?”

He didn’t bother to turn, rude, “I was just wondering… since we’re not doing anything… do you think I could go to the bathroom?”

“Bathroom?” His back straightened, hands stopping whatever they were doing.

She failed to swallow the lump forming in her throat, “Y-yeah. Y’know, a bathroom? Usually has a toilet and sink?”

He half turned, “Why would you need to go to a bathroom?”

She rolled her eyes, “Gee, I don’t know,” he swerved his stool around to face her, eyes dark, her heart skipped a beat, “I-I need to pee.”

His eyebrows went up, as if he’d never considered that before, this guy kidnaps people and straps them to a chair but doesn’t know what to do if they need to pee? He nodded to himself before getting up, coming over to where she was bound. He grabbed a pair of handcuffs off the tray, before beginning to undo the straps. I can’t believe he’s actually buying this, her heart sped up, beating harder against her chest, now all I have to do is time this right… She chewed her lip as he undid the straps, carefully placing a knee on her as they fell.

“Hold up your hands.”

She complied, getting her good first look at the room as he clicked the cuffs around her wrists. Her eyes immediately went to the tray, hoping for a weapon, but finding small bottles of paint and a needle, is that… tattoo supplies? Her eyes went to the table against the opposite wall, it was littered with drawings, was he… gonna tattoo me? What the fuck?

He roughly grabbed her by the elbow, hoisting her off the chair before pulling her toward the door. They entered a hallway, and she instantly felt the temperature drop, wind, she looked to her left and saw a ladder resting against the far wall, please let that be a door. He shoved her into a small bathroom, standing at the entrance before looking at her expectantly.

She reached for the door, but was stopped by a hand on her wrist, his expression stern, “The door stays open.”

“I can’t pee if you’re watching.”

He rolled his eyes before turning around, so he was facing out into the hall, “Better?”

“Hardly.”

“If you don’t want to pee I’ll just-”

“No! No, it’s fine,” she went over to the toilet, sitting on it, “Just… don’t look, okay?”

“I promise.”

Will this girl escape, or become the latest Tattoo Killer victim? Find out here!

Throw Away Fics, Writing

Truth

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Written: 18.03.08

*Warning: Graphic content ahead*

The sound of a door slamming open startles me out of my sleep. My eyes go wide as I see him, standing in the doorway, small light that’s spilled into the room lighting up his features, showing us the true menace in all his glory. He laughs as he takes a step in and hears some of us gasp. There’s a flash of metal, and something else is dripping off his free hand. I swallow hard as the smell fills the room and close my eyes momentarily to keep myself from vomiting at the thought, blood.

His eyes scan the room, hungrily, “Who’s next?”

The room explodes with cries, and screams. Everyone begins scrambling, trying to move backward. A feat that’s near impossible because of the shear number of us. We’re stuffed pretty much wall to wall, barely enough space to turn around, let alone stretch out our legs, or run. I’m pretty far back from the door, but that won’t matter for long. Not with how quickly they’ve been taking us. In droves, it seems. Each time they take more and more, ripping us away from our family and friends, we scream at them not to, but they never listen. True evil.

He stalks slowly over to one corner of the room, I see a few duck, a last attempt to hide from his callous hands. The room goes silent as he bends down, I crane my neck fighting to see who he’s taking. I can barely see over everyone in front of me, but I’m able to make out the small cluster he’s in front of moves back as if they were one, leaving a child out in front of them. Like an offering. I fail to swallow the disgust I feel building in my throat.

He laughs again, features twisting up into a smirk as he bends down, picking the child up by the leg, “Guess it’s your lucky day.”

I watch helplessly as he turns back toward the door. He’s gonna take her. She twists in his grasp, fighting to get away. Her eyes sweep the room, pleading with us to help her. I take a deep breath and surge forward, enough is enough.

Leave her alone! I manage to squeeze myself a few feet forward, still too far to actually help.

He stops and turns back around at the noise, “What are you screaming for?”

He grabs his flashlight and turns it to where I am, fighting my way to the front. He raises an eyebrow in silent question as I continue to push past everyone, scanning their scared faces, what’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you helping her? He takes a few steps forward, and doesn’t even bother smirking as everyone in front of his feet moves away.

He squints into the darkness, eyes finally locking with mine, “You want to come to?”

I finally burst through to the front, and pointedly look to the kid he’s still holding. He follows my gaze to her before turning back to me and letting out a belly laugh, throwing his head back with the force of it.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he lets the child fall from his hand, tucking his flashlight back into his pocket.

She lands on the floor with a deafening smack. I turn my eyes over to her, some others rush forward to help her up. I deflate a bit in relief as I see her breath. The relief in her eyes is all the thanks I need. I take another few steps forward, puffing out my chest as I stare him down.

He looks at me, head cocked to one side before shrugging, “Don’t matter to me.”

He kneels down, snatching my foot before dragging me upwards, body scraping against the hard gravel as I go before the cool air rushes over the fresh scratches. I look back over the room, grateful I was able to save everyone else. I can see the relief and fear that’s on their faces. They’re conflicted.

I’m walked through the door, and am forced to squint as harsh light floods my eyes. This room is so much brighter then where we’re kept, it’s hard to believe that they’re part of the same building. It’s so loud in here; my eyes don’t know where to look first. I see some of my friends are hanging upside down by their feet, just hanging there motionless. Why aren’t they fighting? My eyes follow the conveyer belt as they’re pulled underwater. I watch as water splashes up the sides of the tank before they remerge out the other side. I could see some of them twitching against the shackles around their feet, and something felt… wrong. I couldn’t place it, but they didn’t look well. More sickly then before, like they didn’t have any fight left. Their bodies weren’t moving, but I could see their eyes, they were screaming for help.

I fought, hoping maybe I’d get dropped, but he just tightened his grip around my leg. I felt my heart break as I continued following them with my eyes. My eyes swept a few feet in front of them, to see where they were going and I felt my blood run cold. They were headed right toward a saw blade. Oh my God, no! I turned back to my friends and started fighting harder against the monster holding me, why aren’t you fighting? Get out of there! The buzzing from the saw filled the air, and I watched, helpless as they were pulled through it, blood gushing from their necks. I couldn’t help but puke at the sight, the smell of fresh blood and feces filled the air.

He readjusted his grip and laughed again, “Aaawww, what’s a’ matter? You don’t like this ride, anymore?”

He lifted me over his head and I felt cold metal click around my legs, he was strapping me in! No! Please! I haven’t done anything! I squirmed and maneuvered every way I could think of, I heard a deafening snap before I felt a bolt of pain shoot through my leg. I cried out in agony as the bone snapped, effectively stopping me from fighting. I was panting from the effort, tears free-falling down my face.

He brought a finger up to my face, wiping a tear away as his features contorting back into that evil smile that made my blood run cold, “Your turn.”

Pretty gruesome, right? Well, what if I told you this is only scratching the service of what’s really happening. This is a POV short story about what happens to chickens in a slaughterhouse. If you’d like to learn more, I highly recommend you check out this documentary. It covers pretty much every important point there is.

If you’d like some advice on how to make a change, please check out my Veg Life page, that has recipes, tips and more on helping you make a change.

Check out more FULL short stories here!