Waiting by Alina Happy Hansen

Here is a short story I am currently working on. Consider this a somewhat polished rough draft. The story revolves around Marc, a man that has an outburst in a hospital waiting room.

Thank you for reading my work!


Waiting by Alina Happy Hansen


Marc looked solemn as he flicked through the magazines in the parlor. The nurse at the reception desk glanced over in his direction every once in awhile, her hand inches away from the phone just in case. The chairs had been put back where they belonged, papers and garbage thrown away and the entire room was now restored to its previous neatness before Marc’s outburst. A vein on his forehead was still prominently pulsing but his face was no longer flushed. He appeared to be completely calm now.

A few people trickled into the office and in a matter of minutes there was a break in the tension felt in the room between the nurse receptionist and Marc. But even as the minutes sped by he continued to revisit and shuffle through the same five magazines within his reach. The pictures meant nothing, the words a blur, Marc only went through the motions to divert attention from himself and his own irritation.

His wife was somewhere in the labyrinth of halls, somewhere far away and possibly in pain. They had grown worried about their unborn child a few days before and finally scheduled an appointment to see their doctor. But it had now been over two and half hours since they first arrived and his wife had disappeared behind a shut door. She wanted to be alone, wanted to talk the doctor privately, not in front of Marc.

Marc tried thinking about work, about the home, about all the errands he had to do this weekend as he was grinding his teeth and trying to keep his eyes away from the reception desk. His outbursts were embarrassing and rarely occurred but the mounting worry that he had felt during the first hour finally exploded when the nurse had told him that the doctor was not done evaluating his wife. His temper, his frustration, and feeling of lack of control is what drove him to throw a few things around and yell like an overgrown child.

Did she tell them? Did his wife tell the doctor about the incident that happened two weeks ago? Did she tell her parents? Her friends? The housemaid? Marc’s frustration was mounting yet again and he felt like he was going to burst. The image of his wife slipping in the bathroom, the sound of thud her body made on the tiled floor. His constant worry about his wife and child had led him to the point where he could barely sleep or eat because the loss and pain that had plagued him and his wife for the last five years was overwhelming and never-ending.

This was not the first time they had had to come to the doctor, this was not the first pregnancy but again it was possibly their first child. Marc had found himself stressed between his work and his wife where his constant worry had pushed him over the edge. Too many times had his heart suffered, to be overjoyed and elated with a pregnancy then torn up with his wife’s heartbreaking sobs and another loss. It was too much for Marc to be in that office again waiting for the news he was going to receive.

A quiet voice called to him, he looked up, the nurse was approaching him her hand now on his shoulder. They were finally done with the evaluation, the doctor was ready to talk to him, his wife was just fine. Marc’s heart jumped into his chest and he quickly followed the nurse to one of the rooms down the maze-like hallways. In one of the abrasively white and fluorescently lit rooms, his wife sat there in a chair her face no longer pale or stained with tears. It was beaming and warm. Marc felt instant relief and wrapped his arms around her. The doctor rummaging through paperwork looked up and smiled. Everything was going to be ok this time.


Thank you for reading my work! I hope you will return in the future! 



The Note

Folded up and placed away. The note began to fade as the years went by. Moving from book to book, placed higher and higher on the shelf until it made it’s way to the attic. Now dead and gone, relatives search for valuables and vital documents. Rustling in the dark, the note waits to be picked up, to be read once again. Finally little hands grasp it, crunchy and smashing. Till the words begin to tear. “What is that in your hands? Throw that away! It’s garbage!” The note is tossed in a garbage bin full of moldy doilies and romance paper backs.


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The Roommate

The Roommate


Alina Happy Hansen


The snake slithers across the floor, touching no one. Hidden under the floorboards, it is a silent occupant in this house. I have only seen it a couple times but each time was a vivid and odd experience. The first time, I was in the kitchen sipping my morning coffee and he slithered in from the living room glanced at me with disdain and slithered out. The second time, I was sitting on the toilet, part of my morning routine before leaving for work, I heard him before I saw him, hissing and sliding across the floor. The door was open a crack and I saw as it was gently pushed open, his small face poked in to look at me in disgust then disappeared. I don’t mind this guy, we don’t have mice anymore but I’m starting to wonder how a snake got in the house in the first place.


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I hope you will return in the future!


Flash Fiction #8 (Cowboy in the Desert)

Cowboy in the Desert


Alina Happy Hansen


He looks to the sky, the sun burns. The blue lake glitters in the distance. The sound of coyotes somewhere nearby. The gun is heavy on his hip, and his boots are full of sand. He takes a step then another. His chapped lips, cracked and bleeding. Hands limp and lifeless hanging in defeat. His horse dead, miles back, its black eyes shine in his mind as he shot it lying on its side dying of thirst. If he could just make it to the blue lake glittering in the distance.


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I hope you will return in the future!


Short Story Sample: The Bump

This is a rough draft of a short story I’ve been working on for a while.

WARNING: Graphic details and gore elements.


The Bump

by Alina Happy Hansen


Alison touched the back of her head. There was a tiny bump at the base of her skull. She pretended to scratch her head just so she could feel it. Yes, it was still there. Was it a bug bite? An ingrown hair? A pimple? A cyst? Alison wore her hair down; worried that someone would notice the bump. She tried multiple times to see it by positioning herself in front of her bathroom mirror with her compact angled behind her head but there was nothing visible that she could see just golden brown hair and the delicate curve of her pale neck disappearing into the collar of her blouse. Absentmindedly she found herself throughout the day touching the bump, trying to pick at it with her perfectly manicured nails which only ended in scratches and a red patch were the skin had been agitated.

The first night after noticing the bump she laid on her back in bed as usual but quickly felt an irritating itch where the bump was. After adjusting her pillow and realizing she was only comfortable sleeping on her side, she finally dozed off and proceeded to sleep like this the nights after. In the mornings she would get up, jog about three and a half miles then come home and take a shower. She lathered new shampoos into her hair till it was thick and foamy and then rinsed it out for a few minutes careful to make sure there was no soap left. Unsettled by the bump she had bought a slew of conditioners as well as scalp treatment products but nothing worked. Eventually her hair became dry and brittle and a soft down of dandruff began to appear on her pillows and shirts. Frustrated, Alison threw out the multitudes of bottles she had bought and began to ……

It was a couple months until Alison noticed the bump had grown. It was no longer the size of a mosquito bite but a lump. Again, positioning herself in front of her bathroom mirror, she looked for it, whatever it was. Feeling it out, she left her finger right on top of it then tried to see it in the reflection, again she could see nothing but the lump felt like it was the size of a ping pong ball. Alison attempted to look up information on the internet about skin growths but eventually drove herself into a state of self induced anxiety. Afraid someone would notice the lump on the back of her head she gave herself a perm and fashioned her hair into a large set of curls thick enough to hide the mysterious lump.

Alison looked up local dermatologists and started scheduling appointments. Alison would call on a Monday morning and schedule an appointment at the end of the week but by the time the appointment would come up she found herself driving home and walking straight into her bathroom. Sitting on the closed lid of her toilet, she would convince herself that the lump was nothing. The dreaded word ‘cancer’ surfaced occasionally in her mind but she would quickly dismiss it. Unable to see the lump in the mirrors reflection Alison tried to convince herself that the lump simply was not there.

At night Alison had to put a movie on to distract herself from the presence of the lump. Positioning herself up on a couple of pillows behind her back she fell asleep her neck strained resting against the wall. Alison noticed that she was getting frequent headaches now and her neck was stiff. She stopped jogging and began drinking a lot of water, reluctant to start taking aspirin regularly she tried eating more to cure the headaches but they only got worse.

Eight months passed and Alison had gained twenty pounds. She got a new perm every month and refused to cut her hair. She began to measure the lump on the back of her head. It was now about three inches long and half an inch wide. She could now spot a small outline on her scalp when she checked her reflection and in response bunched her curls together with pins to create a poof where the lump was. Alison didn’t want to go to the doctor and had not revealed the lump to her family or friends. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. If she ignored the lump maybe it would go away.

Aware that she had gained a few pounds, Alison began eating only red meats and fresh greens. Her worry surrounding the lump had made her self-conscious. She had not been on a single date in months. The last date had ended horribly. She still remembered how Mark’s head had disappeared under her dress, his roaming hands feeling every curve of her back and buttocks, the slim dip of her belly, squeezing her full supple breasts. He had pulled her dress off and came up to kiss her neck. Then her heart began to pound as his fingers got closer and closer to the back of her neck. She jolted up and pushed him off. After that date he never called her back and she decided not to go out again until the lump was gone.

Alison stayed at home and found herself in the kitchen or bedroom unless she was at work which had become an increasingly uncomfortable environment since she had to leave to go to the bathroom and secretly check her lump multiple times a day. She wrote down the size and shape of the lump, scribbling doodles of the lump. She kept track of her water intake and details of what she ate and how long she slept, what positions were the most comfortable and which ones irritated the lump and gave her a headache.

It had only started happening recently that she would wake up and there would be a large spot of greenish ooze on her pillow near the back of her head. Her hair crusted and sticky, she searched the lump for a secretion but it looked unchanged only the mysterious fluid on her pillow would appear. She would wash her pillow cases daily and began to wear her curls wrapped up in a large handkerchief. She doused herself in perfume when she began to notice that her hair had begun to smell. It was constant and stagnant the smell of something molding. She would wash her hair before work, after and a couple more times during the night but the smell remained.

Regardless of Alison’s new diet she continued to gain weight, at the end of the year she had gained fifty pounds and the lump had grown to the size of three golf balls in a line on the back of her head. Alison found it harder and harder to sleep. She tried soothing ocean sounds, whale calls and even rain but nothing would do the trick. Whenever she did wake up she was tired, her head a massive throbbing weight on her shoulders. She had finally begun to talk herself into telling her mother about the lump. At the end of the week she would call her mother and ask her to go to the doctors with her. She collected all the pictures, notes, and drawing she had made of the lump into one folder as well as her eating and sleep habits.

Alison woke up the next day to the foul smell of the lump. It had permeated her room, her bed, her house. She lighted scented candles and opened the windows in an attempt to get rid of the smell. Instead of jogging, Alison now went into the bathroom every morning for a few hours to check the lump and wash her hair. She had gotten a magnified mirror and brighter bulbs to help her see the lump.

Short Story: Amelia (Part #1)

This is an excerpt from a short story series I started working on three years ago. Found these remnants earlier today and I am thinking about working on these stories again and posting my work.

Amelia brushed her long blonde hair, applied a little make up here and there, smoothing out her frazzled black skirt, she grabbed her long coat and pulled it on, more similar to a cloak than an actual coat, it was inky black with numerous pockets and a long hood that hung low when she put it over her head. Besides her blonde hair, she was all in black and ready for the night.

Her boots made  heavy clomping sounds as she stalked through the old house she called home, she opened the front door did a quick check over her shoulder to make sure the house was silent, no ghosts or dead would enter her house tonight, then shut it, and locked the door.

Tonight was the full moon, and it had been a while since everyone had gotten together. They were meeting at a local diner before sunset to eat before they commenced their rituals. There were seven of them now, even though there had been about fifteen only a few years ago. Many had moved on, gotten married, died, or disappeared. It was a constant struggle to keep the clan together.

The house was on the outskirts of town, and it took Amelia a little over fifteen minutes to walk to the diner. She could already hear them before she opened the door. The infectious laughter and arguments had already begun.

If you’re reading this Thank You, for taking time out of your day to read my writing! I hope you return in the future!


Mrs. Morrison’s Afternoon

This is a short story I wrote for a submission for thefirstline.com. This site gives a prompt called ‘the first line’ which for this particular submission period was, “Mrs.Morrison was too busy to die.” This story was declined but I am very fond of it. I also admire thefirstline.com for their ingenious prompts and amazing stories.


word count approx: 900


Mrs. Morrison’s Afternoon

by Alina Hansen


Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. She could see a small pool of blood beginning to form on the carpet. The gun heavy in her hand Mrs. Morrison groaned; she needed a drink. What would she tell the kids when they got home?

A glass of scotch in hand, she shrugged off cleaning up the mess. She lit a cigarette while she put on her favorite jazz record. The carpet would have to be replaced. Surprised that no one had come knocking on her door about the gun shot, Mrs. Morrison sat facing the living room window so she could watch for cars.

Mrs. Morrison realized the logical thing to do would have been to call the police beforehand but it had never crossed her mind. It was an accident; she thought it had been a burglar. She poured herself another drink and flipped the record over to side B.

She had good aim though and now that she had a couple drinks, if she had to, she would say she was distraught. Stubbing her cigarette in the ash tray she wondered if anyone had even heard the shot. It had been about a half hour now and not a single car had even driven by.

Mrs. Morrison got up and peaked out the window to look next door. At this hour everyone had already left for work, all she expected was her elderly next door neighbor to be home but to her relief the driveway was empty.

Feeling a little buzzed, she decided she should clean up the mess. Surely there could not be that much blood. The record clicked, the needle swung back to the off position. Mrs. Morrison picked out a couple more jazz records trying to decide what she felt like.

It was a shame and she felt guilty. A catch in her throat, her eyes began to water. She put on another record, sniffling. It wasn’t her fault really when she thought about it. She had just been taken by surprise.

In her mind she went over the events; it was right after she had finished breakfast a door had shut down the hallway. There was no one home except her; she was convinced it was a burglar. Knowing where she kept her gun; she went to her bedroom to retrieve it, safely hidden where the kids would not find it.

She knew now how foolish it had been of her to not call the police but really it had worked out fine. Remembering that the safety was on she checked it, loaded and safety now off, she crept her way down the hall. Thoughts raced through her head, Was it just one burglar? Was he even a burglar? What if he was a murderer or a rapist? Her heart pounded in her chest but she remained calm enough to convince herself to walk up to the door.

Ear to the door, she made no sound, holding her breath for just a few seconds to listen in silence. She heard a bump and the sound of things falling onto the floor.

Slowly turning the knob until it clicked open, she took a breath and pushed the door open. The window was open; the curtains billowed in the wind. A shadow flinted across the room, Mrs. Morrison pulled the trigger; a shot rang out. Twinkles, the kid’s large fluffy black cat, was on the floor dead.

Mrs. Morrison was relieved it had not been a burglar. It was still horrible, what would she say to her kids? Should she even tell them? The cat had disappeared a few days ago anyway and they thought she had run away. She must have crawled through the open window and accidently shut the door.

It looked like some books had been knocked off the bookshelf that must have been what she had heard. Mrs. Morrison did not even like the damn cat in the first place. It had been a vagrant that just appeared about a year ago. The kids had taken him in and given him that ridiculous name.



If you are reading this, Thank You for taking time out of your day to read my writing! I hope you return in the future!