This is a CrazyRickRiordanFan Challenge! you can chose ANY well known or popular song and make it into a story

e.g. Stupid Song by Olivia Rodriguo

Those stupid song writers, as if they know anything about teenagers. She thought to herself angrily as she walked home. Abruptly, she stopped and threw her phone to the floor, the glass shattering. Where's my fricking teenage dream? She screamed at the sky. Everybody should feel how I feel when somebody says his name! Tears started streaming down her cheeks. I'm a car, speeding down the boulevard without a brake and I want YOU MORE THAN ANY STUPID SONG COULD EVER SAY... to be continued.

I look forward to hearing your stories!

They say there is a boy, out in the snow, a desolate place whose name does not truly matter, a European place between Sweden and Poland. The pines grow tall, and the village once loved him, his family a strong stock, generations of carpenters. The men in this family have bore a curse—they say it is the men, anyways.

They ignore every one of us.

We come from no family, no unifying line or beautiful pale skin that covers talented muscle like the Hartfoop’s. We are a mosaic, a beautiful latticing mass of bodies and skin like the clear blistering layer of tissue that grows over a new wound. LIsten to our story closely: he hurt me as his brother hurt my sister as his forefathers hurt my foremothers.

My mother's name was Annika Nielsen. She was once betrothed, years ago in her youth, to Erik Karr, the carpenter's son. He had impregnated her, and decided he wanted no more to do with fatherhood. he kidnapped my mother in her sleep--took her from where she lay in her bed at her mother's house, wedding dress still hung on the back of the door, and pushed her out to sea on the little rowing boat he had made with his father in his own youth. She landed in the dead of night, with the darkness hanging above her like a star-studded blanket, alone and freezing, face buried in frost and fear.

She gave birth all alone, and she died on the shores that night. I surely would have too, a freezing babe, shaking in my blanket of seawater, if he had not been there to save me: Johan Karr, an old relative of my father who did not know who I was, only that I had washed ashore in the arms of a dead woman. He was sixteen when he found me, and thirty-two the first time he stole my innocence, as if I were nothing more than a pig he was fattening for slaughter, and once he was done with me, he expected my silence. He did not have it.

He had thrashing and screaming and hysterics: he had his own breadknife in his side and a child herself with child setting back out for the mainland--the home of a mother I had never known, on the very boat that had been her coffin. My small boat moored that evening and I lay by the train tracks with my dress bloodied, hoping that someone owuld take pity on me. They did, in a way, the only version of pity that comes to this village is transactional, because that's the way life is when you cannot afford to lose a minute of productivity in these dark winters. I lay in an inn nine months later, on a bed that had been granted to me on the condition that I clean every inch of the hostel, and out of me came the only thing I have ever truly trusted enough to love since: Freyja Nielsen.

My daughter.