Category: Uncategorized

Seven posts in, and somehow we have a story.

Not a planned story. I didn’t sit down with an outline and decide who these people were, what secrets they were keeping, or what kind of trouble they were going to get themselves into.

I spun a wheel.

Then I rolled some dice.

And things got weird.

That’s kind of the point.

When I started this experiment, I wanted to see whether random generators could actually help build a story without taking over the writing. I don’t want a tool to write the story for me. Where’s the fun in that?

I want it to throw something at me and make my brain go, Okay…what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

And after seven posts, I’m starting to see how that works.

The Dice Aren’t Instructions

This might be the biggest thing I’ve learned so far.

A generator result isn’t a command.

I don’t have to use every result exactly as it appears. I don’t have to cram it into the very next scene. And if something doesn’t work, I can toss it aside or save it for later.

Sometimes I know immediately what I want to do with a roll.

Other times?

Not a damn clue.

And that’s okay.

The result can sit there until something clicks.

Sometimes the Story Gets There First

The second Character Complication roll was probably my favorite example of this so far.

The dice gave me:

🎲 Stubborn
🎲 Values honesty, hides the truth
🎲 Doesn’t see what’s right in front of them
🎲 Emotional trigger: Betrayal or deception
🎲 Refuses help even when needed
🎲 Change or the unknown

I decided the roll belonged to Miss Alma.

Then I started writing.

I didn’t make a checklist and try to work all six results into the scene. Actually, I started with Miss Alma teasing Marla about Zack spending the night.

Because apparently Miss Alma had other plans.

The conversation wandered.

Pete came up. Then a grandson Marla had never heard about. Then Miss Alma started dodging questions. The phone rang. Something was happening with a thirteen-year-old. Miss Alma refused Marla’s help and practically threw her out of the house.

Marla agreed to leave.

Then peeked through the window.

Miss Alma caught her.

And suddenly that betrayal or deception trigger made perfect sense.

So did refusing help.

So did hiding the truth.

So did being afraid of change or the unknown.

Even doesn’t see what’s right in front of them started to take shape. Marla is trying like hell to help this woman, but from Miss Alma’s perspective, Marla said she would leave and then stood outside watching her through the window.

Same moment. Two completely different ways of seeing it.

I didn’t plan any of that before I started writing the scene.

The roll gave me some ingredients.

The characters decided what to do with them.

And Some Pieces Still Don’t Fit

We’ve already generated things that haven’t found their place yet.

I’m not worried about them.

Maybe they’ll make sense five scenes from now.

Maybe twenty.

Maybe I’ll eventually decide they don’t belong in this story at all.

That’s still me writing the story.

The generators aren’t in charge here.

They’re just tiny chaos machines sitting beside me occasionally yelling, “HEY, WHAT ABOUT THIS?”

Sometimes I say yes.

Sometimes I say not yet.

Sometimes I tell them to shut the hell up.

So…Now What?

At this point, we’ve spent seven posts throwing people and problems onto the table.

We’ve met characters.

We’ve discovered pieces of their pasts.

We’ve created complications.

We’ve stumbled into secrets I didn’t know existed until the characters opened their mouths.

Now it’s time to start looking at all these pieces together.

What connects?

What doesn’t?

What have we accidentally set up?

What happens if we start pushing on some of it?

Because creating characters and giving them problems was the easy part.

Now we get to make everything worse.

Welcome to the messy middle

Generator Used: Character Complication

My Roll:

🎲 2 — Stubborn
🎲 6 — Values honesty, hides the truth
🎲 6 — Doesn’t see what’s right in front of them
🎲 4 — Emotional trigger: Betrayal or deception
🎲 6 — Refuses help even when needed
🎲 4 — Change or the unknown

---

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

Here’s What I came up with:

**The dice didn’t necessarily give us six new things to add to Miss Alma. They may have identified six things that were already emerging in her.

“Was that Zachary?” Miss Alma raises one grey eyebrow as I walk through her front door.

“Yeah, Zack stayed over last night.”

Both of Miss Alma’s eyebrows raise.

“On the couch!” I quickly clear up my statement.

“I see.” She smirks as she turns to the coffee maker on the counter. “He’s a fine man. If I was twenty years younger—”

“Miss Alma!” I gasp.

“Did I say twenty? I meant thirty. If I was thirty years younger.”

My jaw drops. Thirty years would still make her a cougar.

Miss Alma turns and offers me a mug of coffee. “Why aren’t you all over that boy?”

“We’re friends. He’s like a brother to me.”

Miss Alma snorts at my protests.

I sip my coffee while doing my best to check out her eye without being too obvious. That scumbucket son of hers. I silently fume. Purple and dark black bruising surrounds her eye.

“Heard from Pete today?” I ask, setting my mug on the battered wooden table.

Miss Alma stiffens slightly, then sets her mug down opposite mine.

“Pete won’t call for a few days,” she whispers, sounding on the verge of tears.

“Good.” I reply and reach for my coffee.

Miss Alma shakes her head gently. “Not good.” She looks me directly in the eye. “He won’t call, but my grandson will. When Pete is in jail, or the hospital.”

She sucks in a breath and purses her lips.

“How old is your grandson?”

I’ve known Miss Alma forever, and this is the first time I’m hearing about a grandchild.

Why doesn’t he come to visit? I wonder.

Miss Alma picks up her coffee and sips at it, eyeing me over the rim.

“Robby is…” She stalls. “Different.”

Tipping my head to the side, my eyes scour her face. She’s lying, but I’m not sure why.

“Different?”

I get up and take my empty mug to the sink. I start to wash it as I wait for her to answer.

“It’s nothing.”

Miss Alma’s chair scrapes across the floor. She stands and turns toward me. I reach to take her mug, but she skirts around me.

“Marla, I am perfectly capable of washing my dishes. You’re not my maid,” she scolds me lightly.

Changing the subject.

Stepping to the side, I watch her pick up the rag I set down and begin to wash the mug like it’s the most interesting thing she’ll be doing this morning.

The message is clear. The subject is closed.

“I guess I should get going,” I announce as she rinses the damn mug, still avoiding eye contact.

“Oh.” She turns and smiles like the awkwardness of the past few minutes never happened. “What are your plans for today?”

She winces as her smile pulls the skin around her eye.

“I…” I stall. I actually don’t have anything planned.

Junior the Jerk called and told me I didn’t need to come in to work this morning. Lila must have needed the extra hours, or Junior really needed to “discuss” the migration habits of polar bears in the walk-in with her…again.

Miss Alma waits expectantly.

“I guess I really don’t have anything planned.” I smile. “Junior gave my hours to Lila,” I explain.

The shrill ring of the phone cuts off whatever Miss Alma was going to say. She straightens up, her shoulders stiffening as she walks to the old nineties-style wall-mounted telephone.

“Hello?” she answers tentatively, her voice dropping to a low mumble.

I make myself busy wiping the already spotless countertops.

“When?” she questions the person on the other end of the line.

“I don’t know, he’s thirteen.”

I can hear the tinny sound of the voice but can’t make out what they’re saying.

Who? Robby?

I move across the kitchen and scrub the tabletop.

Miss Alma turns slightly so her back is to me.

“I don’t have the space. I really don’t know if I can.”

Doesn’t have the space?

I raise an eyebrow. She has the empty second bedroom she keeps offering to me.

Eyeing the trash can, I set the rag back across the spigot, then grab a fresh trash bag from the cupboard.

What the fuck is going on?

Pulling the trash bag from the can, I tie it up and set it aside.

“I suppose, if there’s no one else,” she responds to the caller.

Fuck. What did I miss?

I put the new bag in and march the full bag outside to the can as fast as possible.

Not fast enough.

Miss Alma hangs up the phone, resting her hand on the receiver as if she’s bracing herself.

Sighing loudly, she says, “Marla, you should go home.”

I stop in my tracks, dumbfounded.

She has never sent me home so abruptly.

“Miss Alma?” I step up behind her and rest my hand lightly on her back. “Are you okay?”

“You should go home,” she repeats softly.

“If there’s anything I can do?”

“You can go. Now.”

Her voice is still soft but firmer this time.

I step back, dropping my hands to my sides.

“Okay,” I agree. “If you need anything, anything at all,” I emphasize, “please let me know.”

I open the door and step out onto the porch.

I drag my feet as I slowly make my way off the porch. Peeking in the window just before I hit the first step, I watch the tears track down Miss Alma’s face as she drops into a chair at the table.

Miss Alma looks up before I can move away.

Fury like I’ve never seen on her before replaces the anguish of seconds ago.

Your turn. Have fun with it!

Generator Used: Character Complication

My Roll:

🎲 2 — Stubborn
🎲 3 — Preaches morality, breaks their own rules
🎲 4 — Clings to outdated beliefs
🎲 4 — Emotional trigger: Betrayal or deception
🎲 6 — Refuses help even when needed
🎲 2 — Being forgotten or irrelevant

---

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

Here’s what I came up with:

The front door slams against the wall.

I jerk my head up as Dad stumbles through the doorway.

“Where the fuck is your brother?”

Great.

“He’s sleeping.”

“Wake his ass up. We got a problem.”

I glance toward the hallway. “What kind of problem?”

“The kind that ain’t got shit to do with you, Dakota. Go wake your brother.”

Of course it doesn’t. Nothing has shit to do with me until he decides it does.

Before I can get off the couch, Jax’s bedroom door opens.

“What the fuck is all the yelling about?”

He comes down the hall wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, his hair sticking up on one side.

Dad turns on him. “Some girl showed up at the house.”

Jax stops. “What girl?”

“Says she’s pregnant.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Yeah. Ah, fuck is right.”

Jax rubs both hands over his face before dropping into the chair across from me.

“Who?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yeah, Dad. Who is she?”

Dad’s face twists like Jax is the one being unreasonable.

“Clare. Clary. Clara something.”

Jax looks at me.

I shrug.

“Anyway,” Dad continues, “she says it’s yours.”

“And you believed her?”

“She came to my house.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“She knew who you were. Knew who I was. Knew where to find me.”

“So does half the town.”

Dad’s face turns a deeper shade of red. I can smell the alcohol from where I’m sitting.

“If that kid is yours, you’re going to take responsibility for it.”

“Okay.”

“And marry her.”

I look at Jax.

He laughs.

“No.”

Dad takes a step toward him. “What did you say?”

“I said no.”

“You knock some girl up, you’re going to do the right thing.”

Jax turns his head toward me.

“This.” He points at Dad. “This shit. Right here.”

I press my lips together.

“You think this is funny?” Dad asks.

“No. I think you’re ridiculous.”

“You better watch your mouth.”

“Or what?”

“Or maybe you can figure out how you’re paying tuition next semester.”

Jax’s smile disappears.

Dad sees it and keeps going.

“While you’re at it, figure out where you’re going to live.”

“Dad.” I stand.

“Stay out of it, Dakota.”

“Then quit threatening him.”

Jax stands too. “No, let him talk. Apparently we’re doing family values tonight.”

“You want to throw your future away over some tramp, that’s your choice.”

“I don’t even know who she is.”

“You knew her well enough to fuck her.”

“According to some woman whose name you can’t remember.”

Dad steps closer to him.

“Somebody in this family has to act like a man.”

Jax laughs again.

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Dad’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

My shoulders tense.

Jax sees it too, but instead of backing off, the dumbass steps closer.

“You want me to handle it the way you did?”

Dad’s eyes narrow.

Jax smiles.

Not his normal smart-ass grin. This one has teeth.

“Oh, you mean like how you and Mom were when she got pregnant with Amber?”

“Leave your sister out of this.”

“Why? You brought up responsibility.”

“I said leave Amber out of it.”

“Why? Doesn’t she count?”

“Jax.”

There’s something in Dad’s voice that makes me straighten.

Jax hears it.

He just doesn’t care.

“You show up here drunk, threaten my tuition, threaten where I live, and tell me I’m marrying some woman you can’t even name. But you’re gonna lecture me about responsibility?”

“I did what I had to do.”

Jax snorts. “Of course you did.”

“You think I had choices?”

“Pretty sure nobody held a gun to your head.”

Dad stares at him.

For once, Jax shuts up.

“You find the girl,” Dad orders. “You find out if that baby is yours.”

“For once, we agree.”

“And if it is, you’ll marry her.”

“I’ll take care of my kid.”

“You’ll marry her.”

“No.”

Dad’s jaw clenches.

“You will marry the tramp, just like I had to.”

He turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Jax drops back into the chair.

“Well, that was fun.”

I keep staring at the door.

Just like I had to.

“Did you know Mom was pregnant when they got married?”

Jax looks at me.

“What?”

“Dad said just like I had to.”

He shrugs. “Amber’s older than me. I assumed.”

That’s not what I asked.

I glance back at the door.

Something about the way Dad said it bothers me.

I just don’t know why yet.

---

The Wheel chose Character Complication for tomorrow, too. Come back for the dice roll tomorrow and let’s see whose life gets complicated next.

Your turn. Have fun with it!

Generator Used: [Generator Name]

My Roll:

🎲 5 — A vulnerable outsider
🎲 1 — Murder
🎲 6 — A digital trace
🎲 5 — Unknown past with the victim
🎲 3 — Multiple witnesses with conflicting stories
🎲 3 — The crime was personal revenge

---

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

---

Here’s what I came up with:

I tossed and turned in the blonde’s bed. She was out. My mind spun. Someone should have found it by now, maybe even opened up the warehouse where the real story was hidden.

Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have dropped the phone there too. What if it gets overlooked when they find what’s in the warehouse?

That’s going to be a mind fuck for the boys in blue.

I couldn’t open that door. No one can know I led them there. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill me if he found out I had anything to do with it.

Obviously, if he was willing to drive his only daughter to her death, mine would be no skin off his nuts.

I turned over, bunched the flat pillow up, and tucked it under my head again.

Shit, shit, shit. Did I just fuck this up?

Two years. I’ve followed the bastard for two years. Two years of learning all of his dirty secrets.

I took care of the three fuckheads in the pictures on that phone. Got rid of the pictures too.

Rotten bastards. All of them.

Not one had the same story.

Didn’t see anything.

Didn’t know anything.

I ground my teeth.

And the best of them all—

I thought she was willing.

Outraged all over again, I sat up, ready to leave.

Fuck. That could really screw this plan up. I needed to stay.

Fuck, I hope they get them out of the warehouse.

A face flashed through my mind.

I didn’t know her. Didn’t know the truth was so ugly until the day I followed him to the warehouse for the first time.

She fought. Just a tiny girl, but she fought like hell against grown men.

It shouldn’t have had to be that way.

The next time I saw her face was in a picture on the news. Police asking for help identifying her.

I saw her one more time after that.

The first time I powered on my sister’s phone.

---

Your turn. Have fun with it!

Generator Used: Villain Generator

My Roll:

🎲 1 — Charismatic manipulator
🎲 3 — Expose a life built on lies
🎲 4 — Chaos & destruction

---

---

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

---

Here’s what I came up with:

The bass thumps. I smile down at the girl clinging to my arm as I pull her toward the table lined with liquor and mixers. She’s a talker, this one. I wish she’d shut the fuck up.

I keep smiling as I pour cola into a Solo cup, then grab the rum from farther down the table and twist off the cap. She sticks to me like glue, babbling on about who the hell knows what. She’s too busy peacocking to notice the powder I tip into the cup.

Just a little something to put her to sleep, nothing more.

I have shit to do tonight. I need her off my arm long enough to do it.

Being in this sardine can packed to capacity is annoying, but still, I smile. This is where I need to be seen.

I turn and hand her the cup.

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?” she asks before putting the edge of the cup to her lips, batting her eyes over the rim as she drinks.

I wonder if that’s supposed to be sexy.

Doesn’t matter.

I was planning to leave her here. But walking out the door with a pretty blonde on my arm?

Even better.

“Sure,” I respond lightly. “You drive yourself here?”

“Uh huh.” She giggles.

She pulls her keys from between her tits and dangles them from one fingertip.

“You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive.”

“‘Kay.”

I follow her through the crowd and out the front door to a little red Mazda. Like the gentleman I am, I open the passenger door and help her into the seat, then reach over and buckle her seat belt.

“You smell nice,” she slurs.

Shit.

I don’t have long. She needs to stay awake until we’re down the road.

I slip into the driver’s seat, jam the key into the ignition, and twist it. The car purrs to life. I take my time pulling away from the curb, easy on the accelerator in case anyone is watching us leave.

By the time we reach the stop sign at the end of the road, the blonde is already slumping in her seat.

“Just a nap,” she whispers.

The gravel crunches under the tires when I pull into the parking lot outside the warehouse. I glance over at the girl passed out beside me. She’s snoring lightly, her chest rising and falling.

She should be good for a little bit.

I ease the door shut behind me and glance through the window. She doesn’t move.

Good.

I run to the small outer building and grab the gasoline. The warehouse butts right up against the woods behind it. I pour the accelerant, light a stick, and toss it into the tree line.

That should do it.

I slide the bright pink cell phone from my pocket and dial 9-1-1, keeping the rag wrapped around it while I wait for the call to connect.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

The tinny voice hits my ear.

“Fire. 333 Sander Road. The woods behind the warehouses.”

I let the phone hit the ground beside my feet, stuff the rag into my pocket, and run back to the Mazda.

I make the thirty-minute trip to the hole-in-the-wall motel my father owns in fifteen.

Once I’m parked, I check the blonde again. Still breathing. Still out.

I reach past her and open the glove compartment. Her registration is right on top.

The address pulls a smile from me.

Perfect.

She lives a couple blocks away.

I lock the doors. I’ve already done enough to her tonight. I’m not leaving her defenseless for some dirtbag who happens to wander past.

Room 6 is waiting for me. I strip off my clothes on the way to the shower.

Thirty minutes later, I have the still-unconscious girl tucked into her bed, the blanket pulled up to her neck.

I lie down beside her and close my eyes.

This was a great night.

Your turn. Have fun with it!

We know what he is. We know what he wants. We know how far he’s willing to go.

What we don’t know is who the hell he is—or what he just set in motion.

Tomorrow, we leave our mystery villain in bed with his alibi and let the dice decide where this story goes next.

Come back tomorrow for the next roll.

Generator Used: Supporting Character Generator

My Roll:

🎲 6 — Protector
🎲 1 — Long time friend or companion
🎲 4 — Bold & Impulsive
🎲 2 — Craves freedom or adventure
🎲 4 — Talented in arts or crafts
🎲 3 — Torn between loyalty and personal goals

---

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

---

Here’s what I came up with:

“You’ve got potential, dude.” Riley leafs through my portfolio, pausing to look at a sketch before looking me directly in the eye.

Marla sits beside me, sipping her soda. Her eyes sparkle with excitement. I’m glad I asked her to come to this meeting with me. I didn’t mention the party when I invited her along. From what I know of Marla, she is all work, no parties these days.

“I’ll take your portfolio to Jimbo, have him look it over first thing Monday morning. Cool?”

Riley reaches for a vodka bottle, pouring the clear liquid into the soda in his cup. He holds the bottle out to me in offering. I raise my cup and watch as he pours a healthy guzzle of the clear alcohol into my soda.

Twisting slightly toward Marla, he silently offers her a splash as well.

She declines. “Somebody has to drive tonight.” She smiles indulgently at me.

Marla has always been that way with me. She has my back even when I’m doing something she wouldn’t do herself. I tip the cup back. The sting of alcohol mixed with the sweet soda coats my tongue and burns its way down my throat.

Growing up, I only saw her on the weekends I visited Gran and Pops. Running wild through the trailer park was a special event for me. Nothing like being at home learning how to build cabinets, use power tools, and ensure the future of Wheeler and Sons Woodworking.

Gran and Pops let me be a kid.

Marla was the unofficial nurse for all my daredevil bullshit, cleaning up the inevitable cuts and scrapes while I munched on the snacks she brought in her backpack for us on any and every adventure I dreamed up.

Riley drains his cup and sets it down.

“Well, boys and girls,” he nods at me, then Marla. “Shall we?” He gestures to the door that is between our meeting and the house party beyond it.

“One drink?” Marla begins negotiations with me. It’s cute.

“Two?” I counteroffer.

“Keys.” She holds her hand out expectantly.

I drop the keys into her hand before grabbing the vodka bottle and splashing a little more into my soda.

Riley stands at the open door and smirks when Marla immediately says, “That counts as one.”

“She’s got you there.” He sides with her, teasing me.

The music is loud, the bass thumps almost obnoxiously. Marla tenses up as we make our way down the hallway. Her body stiffens a little more with each step closer to the noisy room.

A line stretches from what must be the bathroom door all the way down the hall. Marla hugs the opposite wall as we pass.

Deliberately, I position myself between her and the line of bodies. I put my hand on her lower back.

I got you.

She knows it.

It’s a tight fit in the packed hallway, but Marla’s body starts loosening, so it’s worth brushing against everyone.

Stepping into a living room packed with enough bodies to give a fire marshal a fucking aneurysm, Marla presses herself tighter to my side.

If I was here to pick up a woman, this would not do. I’m not, and the only woman who matters here tonight is the ride-or-die who’s been my friend since we were ten.

I drain my cup and spot a table set up with alcohol and soda for mixing.

“Hang on, I need a refill.”

“After that, we leave,” Marla reminds me. “I have to be to work at six in the morning.” She explains it like she thinks I might be mad about leaving.

I’m not.

I have to get back home tomorrow so Dad doesn’t know I’ve been out here showing my portfolio to a potential new boss.

Refill accomplished, I place my free hand on Marla’s back to guide her through the crowd. She’s tiny. If I let her go too long, I’d lose her in this crowd.

“You’re not bringing that in the car,” Marla tells me, stopping to lean against the wall. “Open container means I’m getting a charge for being the driver.”

I lean my ass against the wall beside her. She sips her soda, so tense her shoulders are almost parked around her ears.

“So, the offer to crash on your couch is still open?” I ask teasingly.

“Of course.” She rolls her eyes.

I lean in, pitching my voice in my most scandalized tone. “I don’t know about this, Mars. The neighbors will talk. What would Miss Alma think?”

Marla tips back her head and laughs loudly.

“Probably…” Her mouth tips into the lopsided smile I’ve always thought makes her look innocent, but I know something smart-assed is about to come out of her mouth. “About damn time.”

We both laugh.

Mission accomplished. She’s not focused on the partygoers closed in around us anymore.

I drain the cup and put my hand on her lower back.

“Time to go,” I tell her as I guide her through the throng of twisting, bending, dancing bodies.

---

Tomorrow we roll for our villain. Come back and meet them with us.

Your turn. Have fun with it!

Generator Used: MMC Generator

My Roll:

🎲 1 – The Protector
🎲 5 — Bold & Impulsive
🎲 5 — Brave & Resilient
🎲 5 — Lost His Way or Purpose
🎲 2 — To Seek Justice or Right a Wrong
🎲 1 — Hides His Feelings Behind a Strong Front

---

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

---

Here’s what I came up with:

“Holy shit.” My younger brother Jax breathes out in disbelief.

I tip my red Solo cup. The sour, yeasty beer flavor spills across my tongue as I glance at my brother to see what has him stunned. I raise an eyebrow, silently indicating I’m listening.

“Marla fucking Bennett is here.”

I swallow hard and whip my head in the direction he’s staring, his eyes wide with surprise.

The fuck is she doing here? I wonder. This isn’t her usual scene.

“She hasn’t been around in…” he pauses. “Three years?” he asks.

“So?” I muster up as much casual disinterest as I can manage.

“So, she’s still fucking hot,” Jax replies. “I used to have a thing for her in high school.”

I know he’s full of shit. I had a thing for her. He chased the cheerleaders.

“Wonder what she’s been up to?” Jax muses.

I know the little prick is trying to get to me. He knows how much I wanted Marla back then, and now he’s testing me. Deliberately looking anywhere but at her, I answer, “Working.”

Jax’s eyes swing to my face.

“It’s what adults do, Jax.” I cut in smoothly before he can ask questions I don’t particularly care to answer.

“Makes sense,” Jax concedes, then adds, “Looks like she’s been doing more than working.”

My eyes track to her instantly.

Who the fuck is that guy?

I know I’ve seen him before.

“Get a room,” I mutter for Jax’s benefit while seething inside. Why is he all over her? Why is she letting him climb all over her?

I step forward unconsciously.

Distantly, I hear Jax clear his throat. Visions of ripping Party Boy off my girl circle around my head.

“Dakota?” Jax calls out.

“Daxie!”

A short redhead in a tight black bodycon dress steps in front of me and grabs for me. Sharp red nails circle my wrist.

“It’s Dakota,” automatically slips from my lips.

“Daxie! It’s me, Cheryl.”

I glance past her. Marla’s eyes dart away as she leans in to Party Boy, who seems to be whispering in her ear.

It takes effort to pull my attention to Cheryl. Her fingers are locked around my wrist. Pushing her chest out while flicking her hair behind her shoulder, she reminds me, “You never called.”

Jax steps in. “My bad, Cheryl. I told my brother I was hoping to get your number that night.”

Cheryl pivots toward Jax and lets go of my wrist.

“Really?” She steps closer to him.

As she moves, I see Marla tip her head back and laugh at whatever Party Boy was saying.

Damn, she’s beautiful when she laughs.

I haven’t seen her laugh like that in a long time.

If Party Boy doesn’t get his hands off her…

I glare at the offending appendage against her lower back, guiding her through the tightly packed bodies.

My jaw tightens, teeth grinding.

“Dude, do you gotta take a shit?” Jax’s voice shakes me loose.

“What?” Trying to tamp down the irritation I’m feeling, I turn to face my brother.

“You look like you gotta poop.”

Cheryl is no longer with him. I don’t know how he gets rid of them as swiftly as he reels them in. It’s a gift my manwhore of a little brother was born with.

“Shut the fuck up,” I demand. We are not talking about my bowels in the middle of a packed house party.

“Just worried about you, man.” Jax is as sincere as he can be. “You know it’s bad to hold it in, right?”

Throbbing begins behind my right eye. Sweat trickles down my spine. My hair feels too tight.

“Let’s go,” I order Jax.

“Party’s just getting started,” Jax shouts as a small blonde dances up to him, shaking her ass.

“I’m leaving,” I warn him.

“It’s cool. I’ll catch a ride with…” He eyes the girl, who supplies her name.

“Katie.”

“Katie,” Jax confirms.

The girl nods and steps closer, sliding her hands up his pecs, over his shoulders, and around his neck, her sky-high stilettos giving her the boost in inches she otherwise wouldn’t be able to manage.

Whatever.

I turn and push my way through sweaty bodies gyrating against each other. The smell of sweat, perfume and cologne, alcohol, and weed has my stomach twisting.

I catch myself scanning the crowd of bodies as I make my way to the front door.

She’s not here.

Where the fuck is she?

My lungs feel like they’re being squeezed.

Did she leave with that guy?

Who the fuck is he? I wonder as I finally cross the threshold and force myself to breathe past the tightness in my throat and chest.

I scan the smattering of couples spread across the front yard—some making out, some drinking, smoking, and bullshitting. Marla and Party Boy aren’t among them.

I should make sure she got home safe. Just a quick drive-by.

With a solid plan, I pull my keys out of my pocket and head for my car.

See that she’s there. Don’t stop.

I remind myself.

---

Tomorrow we roll for a Supporting Character. Come back and meet them with us.

Your turn. Have fun with it!

Generator Used:
FMC Generator

My Roll:
🎲 3 — Archetype: The Caregiver
🎲 5 — Personality: Independent and Free-Spirited
🎲 3 — Strength: Intuitive and Insightful
🎲 4 — Wound: Failed to Live Up to Expectations
🎲 2 — Motivation: To Seek Justice or Right a Wrong
🎲 6 — Contradiction: Struggles with Control or Power

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

---

Here’s what I came up with:

Pulling up beside the beater in the driveway, I put my little Honda Accord in park. Pete, Miss Alma’s son, is here today. Figures, Social Security checks just hit bank accounts.

Reaching over to grab the little brown bag of groceries, I breathe deep and remind myself Miss Alma would not appreciate it if I beat the shit out of her son. No matter how much of a dirtbag he is.

Popping open my door, I climb out of my car, hug the grocery bag tight to my chest, and force the irritation down. A pained cry from inside the tiny white trailer has me sprinting up the steps to the small wooden porch. Barely twisting the doorknob, I sling the door open.

Wild-eyed and furious, Pete turns from where he was towering over the slight frame of his mother. Tears flow down her face; tiny, wrinkled hands cover her eye.

“The hell are you doing here?” Pete slurs.

Shouldering past him, I drop the groceries on the oak kitchen table and reach for Miss Alma.

“Go.” My voice is low, a growl ripping up my throat as I gently grasp Miss Alma’s hand and pull it away from her face. “I’m calling the police.”

All I can do at this moment is bluff. Miss Alma would never let me sic the cops on her son.

The front door slams behind me. Hurried footsteps cross the porch and pound down the steps.

“Fucking coward.”

Black bruising, swelling, and a cut across Miss Alma’s cheekbone twist my stomach in fury. A trickle of blood seeps from the cut down the side of her face.

Gently squeezing her hand, I tell her, “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

She peers at me from the one watery blue eye that isn’t swelled shut. How? I silently seethe. How can someone do this to their mother? I would give anything to have my mother here with me. Could never imagine hurting her.

“Don’t.” Miss Alma’s voice is thick with pain and grief.

Already standing to get a cloth, I stop and look down at her frail frame sitting on the chair. “Please, Miss Alma, let me help you get cleaned up.”

I can hear Pete reversing out of the driveway, then—bang! Metal against metal.

That motherfucker! I know he hit my car on purpose.

Miss Alma startles when we hear the unmistakable bang from outside. She knows I have to do it. I know I should, too.

Shoulders drooping, Miss Alma whispers desperately, “Don’t call the police.”

Sniffling, she looks up at me. Shock and pleading crease her already lined face in new ways.

Wetting the washrag in the sink, back turned to Miss Alma, I stiffen.

Don’t call the police?

I gnaw on my lip while I ponder her request and wring out the rag. Taking a deep breath, I turn back to my neighbor, the grandmother I never had and have mentally appointed Miss Alma to the role, and force a smile I don’t feel.

“He hit my car.”

“I’ll pay for the damages,” she offers.

“You can’t keep letting him get away with draining your wallet, Miss Alma,” I counter.

Miss Alma tucks her chin to her chest as I make my way back to her, shoulders shaking as she cries softly.

“He’s my son,” she hiccups between sobs.

“He’s hurting you.”

I gently hold her chin and tip her head back to clean the blood, snot, and tears from her face.

My mind is reeling while I do my best to be gentle cleaning her face.

Don’t call the police? I think again.

I don’t want to cause Miss Alma more stress. Pete is enough.

But I will handle this.

“I won’t call them, but we have to do something to stop him.”

Pulling a few tissues from the box she keeps on the kitchen table, I hand them to her as I stand to return to the sink. Rinsing the washcloth, I give her a few minutes to calm down. I wring out the excess water and turn back around.

“I’m going to put the groceries away for you.” I hand her the cloth. “Hold this on your eye for a bit.”

Putting the milk in the fridge, I ask, “Why does Pete need to borrow money from you so much?”

Miss Alma doesn’t respond. She’s not offended—we’ve had far too many personal talks for her to be—but I realize we’ve skirted the Pete topic for years.

“He’s my son,” she answers plainly.

“Yeah, but he’s grown. Doesn’t he have a job?”

Getting whatever information I can about the loser is the first step in figuring out how I’m going to handle the issue.

“He’s not like you, Marla,” she begins.

I raise an eyebrow as I tuck the butter into the door of the fridge. “Not like me? I’m a waitress. He’s probably doing better than I am,” I joke.

“For now,” she corrects me.

“I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“You’re still as smart as you were back then,” she reminds me.

Closing the refrigerator, I stand and begin folding the paper bag neatly.

“It’s too late now,” I sigh. “I can’t get a scholarship. I failed out and never went back.”

Tucking the bag into a drawer with the other saved bags, I take a deep breath, shut the drawer, and walk back over to Miss Alma. Scanning her face, I see the bleeding has stopped. I hold out my hand for the cloth.

“Let’s rinse it and get it cold again.”

She places it in my hand.

“Do you think your mother would want you to give up on yourself?” she asks me softly.

An invisible fist squeezes my heart, my nose stings as tears well up behind my eyes.

I force a chuckle around the knot in my throat. “I’m too old to go back to high school.”

“Get a G.E.D.,” she responds like it’s no big deal.

“I have to work. No one else is going to pay my bills.” My shoulders sag under the weight of responsibility.

“No. You have enough going on, Miss Alma.” I look her directly in the eye. “I’m not going to take charity. Besides, you’re on a fixed income,” I remind her for at least the millionth time. “I appreciate that you want to help me, I do,” I insist, “but there’s no way your income can carry three people.”

---

Tomorrow we roll for our MMC. Come back and meet him with us.

---

Your turn. Have fun with it!