'tis the damn season

Miranda Morrissey
Jul 1, 2024
9 min read

Welcome to the first story from Taylor Swift Song Wheel Generator: The Writing Challenge!

When it comes to Taylor and her songs, they always fill my imagination up the way I believe great artists oftentimes refer to as "the muse". For my writing challenge, I took a song from an album, added a genre, and let the characters and the genre lead the way.

I have always loved 'tis the damn season, and every time I listen to it, it fills my mind's eye with a quaint, woodsy town where drama unfolds, kind of like Gilmore Girls but with a more adult, lumberjack vibe. Plaid shirts, tall evergreens, mountains, muddy boots, trucks, a dive bar and a general store. Love and heartbreak. Christmas.

Please enjoy the first Wheel Generated Story! And if you decide to write along with me, please tag me in any Social Media posts, or send me an email so I can read it. :)

evermore - ‘tis the damn season - romance

A little light streams through the crack in the curtains. A husky yellow, like a blurred sunflower. It’s not a warm light. Winters are never warm here. But it’s bright, and beautiful, and would have made me hopeful if my pessimistic soul would have allowed it.

The silence is marred by the quietest little snore.

I roll over, my blonde hair streaming across the white pillowcase. Under the brown duvet next to me is Frankie. Her dark skin gleams, more beautiful than any of the models back home (I work in fashion, I know a lot of models). They’d be out of a job if Frankie decided to stand in front of the camera.

But she hates that kind of attention. Always has, probably always will.

She snores again, and it makes me smile. Just barely. There had been too few nights like this, near the ending of our relationship. At the time, we were eighteen, fresh out of high school and totally in love, enjoying one last summer together—we just didn’t know it was our last summer together ever. Our relationship was still on the DL, we were going to different colleges, but we had each other, and it didn’t matter if anyone else knew or if we were separated by thousands of miles. When we could, we’d sneak into each other’s beds, feel each other’s bodies, and fall asleep to the sound of each other’s synchronized heartbeats. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed those nights together.

Hell, they’re still the best sleep I’ve ever gotten in my thirty-four years of life.

Frankie stirs, eyes squeezing shut, lips puckering. Arms and legs stretch out until she’s one long line. Every muscle in my body wants to lean over and kiss those lips, welcome her out of her slumber to the world of the awake. Good morning, I’d say. She’d smile back. Good morning…

“Renee?”

The daydream is broken.

Frankie’s hazelnut eyes stare at me. Her face is neutral. Not happy or angry, but certainly unreadable. She does not wish me good morning.

“Hey.”

She glances around the room, her long black braids falling onto her forehead. I reach a hand out to brush them back, but she gets there first, not registering my movement. Deflated, I sink my hand back onto my hip, curling the fingers together, remembering the feel of those braids against the palm of my hand.

“What time is it?” she asks, sitting up. She doesn’t bother covering herself. Despite her outward quietness, Frankie is fiercely confident with who she is and what her body looks like. If asked, she’d answer, God made it that way. Who am I to question His path for me?

“Um…” I reach for my phone. It’s dead. “No idea.”

Frankie strides to the window, pulling back the curtains just enough to peak out.

“Shit,” she breathes. “The sun is way up there. I think we had one of our noon sleepovers.”

At seventeen and eighteen, when we could get away with it, we slept in until noon. In the same bed or not. Being a teenager was tiring.

Being an adult is so much worse.

Cursing, I jump out of bed, searching for discarded clothes. I find my pants quick enough (pants and shoes had been the last things to come off last night) but can not for the life of me remember where we took our shirts off.

Frankie watches me with folded arms. “What’s the rush?”

“The realtor is coming over this afternoon. At two.”

“What realtor?”

I pause with my hand on one olive green sock.

“You haven’t heard?”

Frankie blinks once. Waiting.

With a sigh I stand up, eyes still on the floor, a small part of me wondering where the other sock is. The bigger part of me wishing Frankie wasn’t here so I wouldn’t have to tell her.

The silence stretches on.

With a sigh, I cave.

“My parents are selling the house,” I say, gesturing to the four walls around us, the sock flopping in my hand. “They decided to make their summer house in Florida their permanent house.”

“No,” Frankie sighs, sitting heavily on the bed, her back to me. How I want to lay my hands on her bare skin, trace patterns along her freckles and kiss her all over. “I can’t imagine this town without your parents.”

“Yeah,” I say. There’s a ton more I could say, but I don’t have it in me to try.

My parents are – well, were the wealthiest people in town. They put so much money into the community through my dad’s business, and my mom had been on so many committees I lost count, giving back to the town any way she could. From organizing charity events to collecting donations for those in need, my parents’ names are known by everyone in town. There are no celebrities in this little town, but my parents come close enough.

“And you’re clearly not taking over for them, seeing as you’re talking to a realtor later…”

It didn’t really sound like Frankie was directing her words at me, but I answered them anyways.

“Frankie, we both know I’m not equipped to take over for my parents.”

The complete truth: I’m a selfish pessimist who has no attention span for helping others. Dad’s company bores me, despite him spending too many years and too much money trying everything he could to get me interested in running it one day (it’s going to my younger cousin now, thank God). My days are filled with high-fashion, glamorous galas, photoshoots, and runway walks. I live alone in a penthouse in New York City. I don’t even own a dog. Or a cat. It’s barren and to my exact taste and I love it so much more than being CEO of a closet company.

But it isn’t perfect.

“But if not you, then who?”

I shrug. “There are plenty of people in town who could take over.”

“But no one with the funds.”

Frankie looks at me over her shoulder. Like an idiot, I purse my lips in a thin line and shrug one shoulder. She rolls her eyes and looks away. I let out a long breath.

“Look, it’s not like my parents didn’t leave the town without--”

“It’s not enough,” Frankie interrupts, standing. Her hands are balled into fists. “It’s not going to be enough,” she repeats, quiet. Her shoulders start to shake.

“Babe…”

I run around the bed and hold her. Her chest is warm, her tears warmer still as they fall lightly on my pale, tattooed shoulder. A small green sea turtle, just the outline, made to look like it’s swimming in the ocean. In my head, it’s swimming away from this small town to be with me. Its name is Francesca. (Frankie’s favorite animal is a sea turtle, if you hadn’t guessed by this point.)

Frankie had noticed it immediately last night once she got me out of my many layers of flannel (it had snowed again last night, fourth night in a row, and it was cold as shit). Her eyes took in every millimeter of it, but she didn’t say a word. Instead, her hazelnut eyes had returned their sharp focus on me, and we’d made our way to the bedroom.

“I’ll talk to my parents. They’re still loaded, they have no one to give it to in Florida yet. I certainly don’t need it when they’re dead.” (I make a lot of money. Hello, NYC penthouse.) “I’m sure they will make sure everyone here is taken care of, even if they decide to also take care of people in Florida. Okay?”

Frankie nods her head, loudly sniffs her nose. I offer her a tissue and she gratefully accepts.

“I’m going to find the rest of our clothes. You go take a shower, okay?”

Frankie nods again. I start to move away, but Frankie holds me to her, tighter than she has since the day of the argument. The day I left for good, never planning to return. Until this week.

The sound of cascading water hitting tile fills the second floor of the house. It’s too quiet here. I miss the sounds of the city, as trivial as that may sound. If not for the windows showing me neighboring houses, I’d believe we were in this house on some tiny unpopulated island somewhere. I used to wish that were true. Now I wouldn’t trade my life for anything I used to dream about.

Not even Frankie. And she knows it.

In the kitchen I plug in my phone and let out an easy breath when the time on the microwave says 13:33. I still have twenty-seven minutes until my appointment, and now that I found my shirt in the living room - and left Frankie's folded up neatly on the bed for her - I’m technically all set to greet them. I just need Frankie to leave.

I don’t want her to. I wish she would stay, hold me in her arms and kiss me and declare that she’ll follow me to New York City. She could teach kindergarten there and live in my penthouse. Those kids would love her. Everyone loves Frankie, how could they not?

Even me. I love Frankie. For eighteen years, I have loved her.

But I don’t love this town; I don’t love her dreams of needing to help people; I don’t love her dreams of living forever in the town we were born in; I don’t love that she picked this town over me.

“I’m gonna get going,” her voice says, and I whip around. I hadn’t heard her footsteps. Standing in the doorway, she doesn’t meet my gaze. “It was good to see you, Renee. Bye.”

I don’t reply. My lips are parted slightly. I don’t know what I’d thought, but I guess I thought there would be more to our goodbye.

My feet finally remembering themselves, I start moving through the kitchen. The front door opens and I’m sprinting, hair flying behind me, lungs panting even though I’ve barely taken a few steps. Tears well in my eyes.

“Frankie!” I shout. “Frankie!!!”

She turns around, eyes wide. I never scream, and yet here I am, shouting at her.

I throw my arms around her, pulling her close. Tears stream down my face in the most unattractive way ever. I’m heaving and shaking. Her arms hold me, her hands making small circles on my back. She kisses the top of my head.

“Stay,” she whispers.

Gulping for air I stammer, “I-I can’t—.”

“You can.”

I shake my head. “I c-can’t!”

Frankie squeezes me, plants one more kiss on my head, then steps away.

“Goodbye, Renee. Thank you for talking to your parents for us. I hope you have a wonderful life in New York, and remember: You can always come home.”

With that, she turns and leaves. I drove us from the bar where we’d met last night, and it doesn’t register until she’s halfway down the snow-lined sidewalk that she doesn’t have a ride home. I want to call out to her, but I’m so in shock at her abrupt departure that I’ve stopped crying, and I don’t have the breath for words. So instead, I watch her walk down the street, by the Methodist church and the school that used to be ours, covered in snow. Now it’s just hers.

Once Frankie rounds the corner, I close the door and lean against it. I figured there’d be more tears and heavy panting, but nothing happens. There’s an ache in me, sure, and I bet it’s in Frankie too.

But nothing else happens. So, I take a deep breath and walk away from the door. The realtor comes, assesses the house, and we game plan the sale. Then, with nothing more to do, I pack up and drive away.

Down the road that will always lead back to Frankie, and our hometown.

Maybe I’ll take this road again someday.

I don’t think so.

But maybe…

Thank you for reading! I'll be posting new stories every Monday. Please follow me on Social Media to stay up to date for all blog posts, books, and editing. Select the drop down menu below for links.

Social Media

You can also email me at MirandaMorrisseyBooks@Yahoo.com, I'd love to hear from you!

Welcome to the first story from Taylor Swift Song Wheel Generator: The Writing Challenge!

When it comes to Taylor and her songs, they always fill my imagination up the way I believe great artists oftentimes refer to as "the muse". For my writing challenge, I took a song from an album, added a genre, and let the characters and the genre lead the way.

Please enjoy the first Wheel Generated Story! And if you decide to write along with me, please tag me in any Social Media posts, or send me an email so I can read it. :)

A little light streams through the crack in the curtains. A husky yellow, like a blurred sunflower. It’s not a warm light. Winters are never warm here. But it’s bright, and beautiful, and would have made me hopeful if my pessimistic soul would have allowed it.

The silence is marred by the quietest little snore.

But she hates that kind of attention. Always has, probably always will.

Hell, they’re still the best sleep I’ve ever gotten in my thirty-four years of life.

Frankie stirs, eyes squeezing shut, lips puckering. Arms and legs stretch out until she’s one long line. Every muscle in my body wants to lean over and kiss those lips, welcome her out of her slumber to the world of the awake. Good morning, I’d say. She’d smile back. Good morning…

“Renee?”

The daydream is broken.

Frankie’s hazelnut eyes stare at me. Her face is neutral. Not happy or angry, but certainly unreadable. She does not wish me good morning.

“Hey.”

“What time is it?” she asks, sitting up. She doesn’t bother covering herself. Despite her outward quietness, Frankie is fiercely confident with who she is and what her body looks like. If asked, she’d answer, God made it that way. Who am I to question His path for me?

“Um…” I reach for my phone. It’s dead. “No idea.”

Frankie strides to the window, pulling back the curtains just enough to peak out.

“Shit,” she breathes. “The sun is way up there. I think we had one of our noon sleepovers.”

At seventeen and eighteen, when we could get away with it, we slept in until noon. In the same bed or not. Being a teenager was tiring.

Being an adult is so much worse.

Cursing, I jump out of bed, searching for discarded clothes. I find my pants quick enough (pants and shoes had been the last things to come off last night) but can not for the life of me remember where we took our shirts off.

Frankie watches me with folded arms. “What’s the rush?”

“The realtor is coming over this afternoon. At two.”

“What realtor?”

I pause with my hand on one olive green sock.

“You haven’t heard?”

Frankie blinks once. Waiting.

With a sigh I stand up, eyes still on the floor, a small part of me wondering where the other sock is. The bigger part of me wishing Frankie wasn’t here so I wouldn’t have to tell her.

The silence stretches on.

With a sigh, I cave.

“My parents are selling the house,” I say, gesturing to the four walls around us, the sock flopping in my hand. “They decided to make their summer house in Florida their permanent house.”

“No,” Frankie sighs, sitting heavily on the bed, her back to me. How I want to lay my hands on her bare skin, trace patterns along her freckles and kiss her all over. “I can’t imagine this town without your parents.”

“Yeah,” I say. There’s a ton more I could say, but I don’t have it in me to try.

“And you’re clearly not taking over for them, seeing as you’re talking to a realtor later…”

It didn’t really sound like Frankie was directing her words at me, but I answered them anyways.

“Frankie, we both know I’m not equipped to take over for my parents.”

But it isn’t perfect.

“But if not you, then who?”

I shrug. “There are plenty of people in town who could take over.”

“But no one with the funds.”

Frankie looks at me over her shoulder. Like an idiot, I purse my lips in a thin line and shrug one shoulder. She rolls her eyes and looks away. I let out a long breath.

“Look, it’s not like my parents didn’t leave the town without--”

“It’s not enough,” Frankie interrupts, standing. Her hands are balled into fists. “It’s not going to be enough,” she repeats, quiet. Her shoulders start to shake.

“Babe…”

Frankie nods her head, loudly sniffs her nose. I offer her a tissue and she gratefully accepts.

“I’m going to find the rest of our clothes. You go take a shower, okay?”

Frankie nods again. I start to move away, but Frankie holds me to her, tighter than she has since the day of the argument. The day I left for good, never planning to return. Until this week.

Not even Frankie. And she knows it.

I don’t want her to. I wish she would stay, hold me in her arms and kiss me and declare that she’ll follow me to New York City. She could teach kindergarten there and live in my penthouse. Those kids would love her. Everyone loves Frankie, how could they not?

Even me. I love Frankie. For eighteen years, I have loved her.

But I don’t love this town; I don’t love her dreams of needing to help people; I don’t love her dreams of living forever in the town we were born in; I don’t love that she picked this town over me.

“I’m gonna get going,” her voice says, and I whip around. I hadn’t heard her footsteps. Standing in the doorway, she doesn’t meet my gaze. “It was good to see you, Renee. Bye.”

I don’t reply. My lips are parted slightly. I don’t know what I’d thought, but I guess I thought there would be more to our goodbye.

My feet finally remembering themselves, I start moving through the kitchen. The front door opens and I’m sprinting, hair flying behind me, lungs panting even though I’ve barely taken a few steps. Tears well in my eyes.

“Frankie!” I shout. “Frankie!!!”

She turns around, eyes wide. I never scream, and yet here I am, shouting at her.

I throw my arms around her, pulling her close. Tears stream down my face in the most unattractive way ever. I’m heaving and shaking. Her arms hold me, her hands making small circles on my back. She kisses the top of my head.

“Stay,” she whispers.

Gulping for air I stammer, “I-I can’t—.”

“You can.”

I shake my head. “I c-can’t!”

Frankie squeezes me, plants one more kiss on my head, then steps away.

“Goodbye, Renee. Thank you for talking to your parents for us. I hope you have a wonderful life in New York, and remember: You can always come home.”

Once Frankie rounds the corner, I close the door and lean against it. I figured there’d be more tears and heavy panting, but nothing happens. There’s an ache in me, sure, and I bet it’s in Frankie too.

But nothing else happens. So, I take a deep breath and walk away from the door. The realtor comes, assesses the house, and we game plan the sale. Then, with nothing more to do, I pack up and drive away.

Down the road that will always lead back to Frankie, and our hometown.

Maybe I’ll take this road again someday.

I don’t think so.

But maybe…

Thank you for reading! I'll be posting new stories every Monday. Please follow me on Social Media to stay up to date for all blog posts, books, and editing. Select the drop down menu below for links.

You can also email me at MirandaMorrisseyBooks@Yahoo.com, I'd love to hear from you!

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