Short Stories . . . Of Death

So, as you may or may not know, I am enrolled in a short stories class at my high school.

Being the nerd I am, I enjoy it immensely. But, I tend to be quite the problem child.

My teacher gave us some rules at the beginning of the year on how we are not to end our stories:

1) No waking up from a dream
2) No turning off the television - everything was fake
3) No killing off characters

Since then, she has had to add the new rules:

1) No 'drifting off to an eternal sleep'
2) No school shootings
3) No zombie Apocalypse
4) There must be happiness

Out of all these rules, I struggle with the last one. Happiness? Let's be realists here. Not every story is happy. And people die. In every single one of my short stories somebody has died.

          Example #1

           “Anna,” his voice was full of hushed pride, “I always drive by her house – it’s a habit. The night she died, I had driven by. I should have stopped, gone in to talk to her. I feel like . . . it’s my fault,” he admitted. Lea’s brows went together. Before she could talk, Nate continued on, breathlessly. “How did I not see she was so sad? I didn’t even know my own girlfriend wanted to . . .” He trailed off, voice wavering.

Lea said what he was not strong enough to say: “She wanted to die, Nate.”

He stared unblinkingly at Lea. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I know what it’s like to live a life you can’t keep living, Lea. I miss Anna, yes, I’m trying to move on, but nobody will let me.”

Example #2

Jake motions to my billboard. “You’re trying to prepare your mom for when you die. You can’t make her better, Liese. You can’t make this . . . this awful thing any easier, because you’re so special. You're dying. You’re not gonna get better, I know that. I don’t want to know that, but it’s the truth. And, sometimes, the truth sucks. But, Liese, you have to see – this whole world – it’s beyond repair.” His eyes soften and his voice drops to a whisper. “Because without you in it, I’ll always be broken.”

And finally, example #3.

His finger goes to the trigger just as my hands touch the icy metal. I had to try. I can’t let them die. And if I fail, which I know I will, at least, I will have tried. I close my eyes as his finger presses the trigger.

In an effort to stop the never ending flow of killings, ax murderers  the Book of Death, insane asylums, incurable diseases, and sadness my teacher gave us a new assignment.

To write a fractured fairy tale. I asked if I could just give her one I wrote last year - The Jabberwocky. A girl has to travel to hell in order to slay the beast that consumes young children's souls. But she didn't like that idea. She wants rainbows and butterflies. She says my darkness makes her unhappy. She deserves a prize for having to read my depressing stories. 

I just want to take this opportunity to apologize to her. 

This is what is going to happen next class when we have to write and she has to read my short story- my 'fairy tale':

I am going to bake that woman a cake.