Chapter Text
Step into the twenty-first century, they said.
It’ll be fun, they said.
“They” was Enid, and Wednesday should’ve known it was a ruse. That her clicking add to cart on that onyx laptop would bring trouble. The kind she didn’t enjoy.
Wednesday was still in possession of her typewriter, but it was too late now. She’d listened to her friend (actual definition: tormentor) and purchased modern technology. Enid had made a case for a phone and laptop, but only her argument for the laptop held a crumb of logic. Wednesday would rather sear her own tongue than admit it, but that crumb made her reconsider. Her typewriter was an efficient workhorse, but it would be nice if the pages of her stories didn’t bear proof of mistakes, no matter how rare. It would be nice if she didn’t have to worry about losing them. It would be nice if she could write in Crackstone’s Crypt or anywhere else without lugging the heavy machine along. And it would be advantageous to meet people (actual definition: lab rats) online to test new drafts of Viper de la Muerte on.
Mailing that editor a few mouse traps had been fun, but “few” was the operative word here. She couldn’t mail mouse traps or snakes or flying cockroaches to every editor and publisher in the United States. Wednesday came from money, but her parents would surely see it as a waste. They’d rather invest in a new iron maiden or redecorate the dungeon.
So, it was better to test her writing on a few normies who didn’t know her in real life and couldn’t bother her. If she wanted to get published younger than Mary Shelley, she had to strike a balance between keeping her voice and not causing readers to vomit with her…vivid descriptions.
That was why Wednesday ended up purchasing the computer. She tried to hide the package from Enid when it arrived, but her nose sniffed it out. The discovery was followed by fifteen minutes of squealing and Enid saying, “Now we can FaceTime and, like, text and…”
Wednesday drowned her out. Those things would only happen after Enid dug up her cold, rotted corpse.
The next day, Wednesday joined an online community for mystery and horror writers called The Purloined Press.
Yes, she’d turned down an invitation to join a secret society, but for the sake of her writing she’d join one online.
She wouldn’t talk to anyone, of course. Just announce what kind of feedback she was looking for, post her stories, and see where things went.
She’d always been open to constructive criticism, after all.
If delivered correctly.
In order to join The Purloined Press, Wednesday had emailed the moderator an excerpt of her work (being selective was a good thing) and wasn’t surprised that she’d been permitted to join a few days later. After scrolling through the small community’s body of work and reading comments by various members, she was pleased to see they took writing seriously, and only forty-five percent of them were idiots.
When she posted some Viper de la Muerte shorts, she was even more pleased to see they weren’t scared of a few disembowelments.
But Wednesday’s decision to stick around wasn’t solidified until she received suggestions that were shockingly adequate.
Satisfied, she fell into a routine. She’d write, ignore Enid’s FaceTimes, post her work and read the respectful comments. The only thing she didn’t like about The Purloined Press was their monthly writing prompt. All members had to participate or risk being kicked out, and she’d quickly run out of dying family members to use as excuses.
So, in November Wednesday wrote about a girl finding a secret room in her residence.
Hardly a stretch.
In December, she wrote about a man opening his door and finding bloody footprints in the snow.
A reoccurring fantasy of hers.
And in January, she wrote about a detective who realized her lover was her suspect.
Betrayal was an easy subject, but the comments under her submission claimed her detective was “unrealistically” ruthless once she’d discovered the truth. That she showed no hesitation in bringing her lover to justice, and didn’t grieve. Wednesday’s eye had twitched, but she’d taken the criticism in stride and made a note of it.
Everything had been fine, and Wednesday’s writing was even improving…until February’s prompt was announced.
Now she was occupying a booth at The Weathervane, glaring into her quad, because it had all been too good to be true. She’d known ‘stepping into the twenty-first century’ would end up being a hassle.
“Is your quad…insulting you?”
Wednesday looked up at the cloying, warm voice.
“No, but your presence is.”
Tyler Galpin gave her That Look™. The one he reserved solely for her. Seventy percent amusement, twenty percent exasperation, and ten percent wonder. She could recite it like a coffee order. His dopey puppy dog face gave everything away.
Wednesday had never met a stranger life form— and she roomed with a werewolf.
“Don’t—”
Tyler sat across from her.
“…sit down.”
Hurt flashed through expressive eyes that were a swirl of brown and blue. But like always, he weathered Wednesday’s storms and emerged with a sunny smile.
“My feet hurt. And if you stare at that quad any harder, it’ll explode.”
“I’m not telekinetic,” she groused.
When his smile just got wider, Wednesday realized the error of her ways and wanted to hiss. He was starting to learn what kind of statements would make her engage.
“So, why do you look angrier than usual?” Tyler rested both forearms on the table, leaning on them. “It’s Saturday afternoon. Prime writing time.”
She regretted slipping up and telling him that was something she liked to do. If only she’d “slipped up” about her grave digging kit instead. She glanced around the coffee shop/bakery. Didn’t he have customers to help? But it was empty except for one elderly lady in the corner having a full blown conversation with herself. Or perhaps a Thing of her own.
“That’s the problem,” Wednesday muttered.
She blinked in surprise. Those words were supposed to be “Go away”. Why had they changed on the way out of her mouth?
“How come?” Tyler’s brow furrowed.
She sighed. The deadline for February’s prompt loomed ahead and she hadn’t come up with any ideas.
“Because for once, I have to write about something I don’t have any experience in.”
“But…you write about beheadings and stuff…” Tyler said slowly.
Wednesday gave him a pointed look.
“You know what? Never mind. I don’t wanna know. What’s so hard about this particular topic? You have a great imagination.”
“My imagination has never been an issue,” she said. “My regard for the topic is. I don’t understand it and I don’t care to.”
She watched Tyler wrack his brain. Sadly, it didn’t take him long to arrive at the right conclusion.
“Feelings. You have to write about feelings,” he said, and smiled That Smile™.
That Smile™ was fifty percent teeth, thirty percent twinkling eyes, and ten percent lines of all kinds. Straight, short ones that fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and curved ones that bracketed his mouth. The last ten percent was all in the brows.
Wednesday despised That Smile™. Sometimes it even made her feel ill.
“I’m not sure why you look so smug. It’s not a difficult connection to make,” she snapped.
“Alright, alright.” Tyler raised both hands in surrender. “Why write about it then? It’s not like someone’s twisting your arm.”
“No, that would actually be fun.”
He hit her with That Look™ again. It was more grating right after That Smile™.
“Tell me,” he implored.
Wednesday didn’t want to, but ever since she began attending Nevermore, she found herself doing just that whenever she craved a quad.
So, she told him about Enid suggesting a laptop, betraying her beloved typewriter and buying one, and joining The Purloined Press in hopes of modifying the Viper de la Muerte series for publication. She even told him about the last three mandatory prompts, and how they’d only been mild annoyances up until now.
“First, let me say: welcome to the twenty-first century!” Tyler clapped merrily.
Wednesday considered throwing coffee at him. How dare he smile after she just emotionally disemboweled herself.
The merriment soon melted into his tender brand of empathy.
“You really don’t want to get kicked out, huh?”
“I’ve looked around, and the other mystery/horror communities are pathetic,” she admitted.
The things she did for her writing.
At that moment, a gust of cold wind brushed Wednesday’s back, signaling a customer was coming into the Weathervane. It turned out to be two normie boys, and Tyler’s eyes tracked them to a booth.
Ah, loitering.
If only they’d accost her, so she could blow off some steam.
Once Tyler confirmed they weren’t ordering anything or starting trouble, his eyes slid back to hers.
“What’s February’s prompt exactly? Is it pretty generic or specific like the others?”
She hadn’t elaborated, because the very thought of saying it out loud made her nauseous.
“Why? Why do you need to know?”
“Come on, Wednesday. We’re past that now.”
She glared at him. For a long time. Only satisfied when he began to fidget. She liked making him uncomfortable even though it happened less and less these days. But he was right. Wednesday gulped down the rest of her quad. They were past that. She’d already told him everything else.
“The prompt is to write about a first date that surprises both people, but in different ways. And it can’t end in murder. I asked.”
Tyler stared at her blankly. It was like he’d been stoned by Ajax or something.
Wednesday snapped twice in his face after a few seconds.
“Hello? Are you still with the living or has rigor mortis set in?”
He shook his head to clear it, blond curls falling into his eyes. He opened his mouth, blushed, and closed it. This was repeated three times.
Meanwhile, Wednesday grew impatient.
“What? Spit it out, Tyler.”
“I can help you.”
“No. I saw you misspell macchiato once. I don’t trust you to help me craft a good story.”
“That’s not what I’m offering.” His face was still red. “If you— if you experience the prompt, it’ll be easier to write about.”
What dawned on Wednesday was horror of the most potent kind.
Tyler was asking her on a date.
And maybe part of her had known he would, which was why she hadn’t wanted to tell him.
“I’d rather build a time machine and travel back to when I released piranha in the pool, so I can jump in,” she grated out.
This time there wasn’t a hint of hurt on that puppy dog face. Just determination that grew stronger with every passing second.
“I know you’re not interested in dates or feelings, but don’t you want to dominate the prompt? Don’t you want to crush everyone else’s story?”
She hesitated. Dominating and crushing sounded nice.
“Let me take you out, Wednesday,” Tyler said confidently. “I know how I seem, but I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve. Trust me.”