Here is this week's speculative fiction writing prompt. I'm labeling it as science fiction, but you can, of course, take it in any direction you please. I hope it inspires some great ideas and stories!
A shooting star just changed directions.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
#fridayflash--The Horizon
The Horizon
by Eric J. Krause
We stared out at the horizon, none of us saying anything. I had no idea what the other two were thinking, but I couldn't get my old high school crush out of my head. Funny since it'd been over twenty years ago now, and I had a great life, a great family. But with the impending doom coming, she's who my mind chose to flash to first.
Debbie Clark. We'd been in senior year Language Arts together. The memories that laid dormant for a couple of decades poured into my consciousness. We talked each day before class, and sometimes during. We'd crack each other up like old chums and shared gossip that had been life-altering at the time, but now would probably sound mind-numbingly stupid. Why didn't I ever ask her out? That answer wouldn't come, no matter how much of the past I let back in. Where was she at this moment? I hoped surrounded by loved ones like I was.
I rubbed Cindy's shoulders and sighed. She smiled up at me, dried tear tracks traced down her cheeks. Our attention went back to the horizon. The sun would be setting in a few hours, but we wouldn't be around to see it. I envied those in other time zones, those that got their final sunset. I always counted it as the best part of the day.
My first date with Cindy included the most beautiful sunset in recorded history. Maybe I'm a bit biased because that moment also featured our first kiss. We stood on the end of the Newport Beach pier and embraced as we watched the sea swallow up the sun, all framed with an orange and pink sky. We were one of many couples enjoying the moment, but all that existed for me was her. She later admitted the feeling was more than mutual.
I ran my fingers through Tabby's hair. She didn't look back, no doubt to spare Dad from seeing her cry. It was unfathomable I wouldn't get to see her grow up. She had such a kind heart and a sharp mind that she would have made me proud. As I focused back on the horizon, a flock of birds passed. I'm sure Tabby noticed. She always loved birds.
Ducks swam in a pond in the small park down the street from our first house. Cindy and I loved to push Tabby in her stroller down there. She'd sit and squeal in delight as she watched the ducks frolic and float. As she got older, she fed them stale bread crusts, an act which started her habit of eating crustless sandwiches. In the past year, I'd lost count of the number of injured birds or abandoned chicks that she brought home to care for. Cindy and I thought we'd need to put a foot down, but Tabby never asked for help. She nursed most back to health, and even when she lost a patient, she took it in stride. It was sad, but part of nature. We wondered if she'd be a veterinarian.
Of course, that was all before scientists discovered the interstellar comet heading right for Earth.
The light dimmed, and the air grew thick. This was it, and we had front row seats. Tabby buried her head into Cindy, and I engulfed them both in a bear hug. I felt their sobs and joined in with my own, but I couldn't hear anything over the unearthly rumblings, the thunder on hyperdrive. I tried to watch the huge rock enter the atmosphere, but it burned too bright.
I focused on the horizon and concentrated on the two angels in my arms.
by Eric J. Krause
We stared out at the horizon, none of us saying anything. I had no idea what the other two were thinking, but I couldn't get my old high school crush out of my head. Funny since it'd been over twenty years ago now, and I had a great life, a great family. But with the impending doom coming, she's who my mind chose to flash to first.
Debbie Clark. We'd been in senior year Language Arts together. The memories that laid dormant for a couple of decades poured into my consciousness. We talked each day before class, and sometimes during. We'd crack each other up like old chums and shared gossip that had been life-altering at the time, but now would probably sound mind-numbingly stupid. Why didn't I ever ask her out? That answer wouldn't come, no matter how much of the past I let back in. Where was she at this moment? I hoped surrounded by loved ones like I was.
I rubbed Cindy's shoulders and sighed. She smiled up at me, dried tear tracks traced down her cheeks. Our attention went back to the horizon. The sun would be setting in a few hours, but we wouldn't be around to see it. I envied those in other time zones, those that got their final sunset. I always counted it as the best part of the day.
My first date with Cindy included the most beautiful sunset in recorded history. Maybe I'm a bit biased because that moment also featured our first kiss. We stood on the end of the Newport Beach pier and embraced as we watched the sea swallow up the sun, all framed with an orange and pink sky. We were one of many couples enjoying the moment, but all that existed for me was her. She later admitted the feeling was more than mutual.
I ran my fingers through Tabby's hair. She didn't look back, no doubt to spare Dad from seeing her cry. It was unfathomable I wouldn't get to see her grow up. She had such a kind heart and a sharp mind that she would have made me proud. As I focused back on the horizon, a flock of birds passed. I'm sure Tabby noticed. She always loved birds.
Ducks swam in a pond in the small park down the street from our first house. Cindy and I loved to push Tabby in her stroller down there. She'd sit and squeal in delight as she watched the ducks frolic and float. As she got older, she fed them stale bread crusts, an act which started her habit of eating crustless sandwiches. In the past year, I'd lost count of the number of injured birds or abandoned chicks that she brought home to care for. Cindy and I thought we'd need to put a foot down, but Tabby never asked for help. She nursed most back to health, and even when she lost a patient, she took it in stride. It was sad, but part of nature. We wondered if she'd be a veterinarian.
Of course, that was all before scientists discovered the interstellar comet heading right for Earth.
The light dimmed, and the air grew thick. This was it, and we had front row seats. Tabby buried her head into Cindy, and I engulfed them both in a bear hug. I felt their sobs and joined in with my own, but I couldn't hear anything over the unearthly rumblings, the thunder on hyperdrive. I tried to watch the huge rock enter the atmosphere, but it burned too bright.
I focused on the horizon and concentrated on the two angels in my arms.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Speculative Fiction Writing Prompts
I've discovered I really enjoy writing prompts. I realize that's not an overly profound statement for a writer to make, but it's true. The writing prompts I tend to enjoy are the short ones--just a few words to no more than a short sentence. These allow my imagination, and therefore my words, to branch out in countless directions.
The writing prompts I've been using are good, but they're very generic. What I mean is that they tend towards the literary-type writing. I make speculative stories out of them, but I'd love to have prompts geared specifically towards my favorite genres: horror, fantasy, and science fiction. Sure, with a Google search you can find some, but I thought it might be a fun exercise for me to come up with my own.
I decided that I'd post a new one every week--probably on Monday. Feel free to do whatever you like with the prompt. If you use it just for a quick warm-up, great. If you're in the #fridayflash group and need an idea, super. If the prompt takes your fiction to a longer piece, excellent. I'd love to hear success stories with these prompts, but don't feel obligated to tell me. I'm just having a good time putting them together.
Sometimes I'll put in the title that it's a horror writing prompt, or a fantasy writing prompt, or a science fiction writing prompt, but don't feel that you need to be bound by that genre when you start putting the words down on paper (or more likely on your computer screen). For example, if I call this--Your favorite video game is actually a training manual for death--a horror prompt, you don't need to make it a piece of horror fiction. You could turn it into a sci-fi piece by having the video game be about saving the human race from space aliens, for example. Or you might make it a contemporary piece about a group using the video game as a recruiting tool. Or you can spin it into a humorous story. The possibilities are endless. I'm sure you've already found a slant that I haven't thought of to make it your own.
So, with that in mind, I'll repeat what this week's writing prompt is: Your favorite video game is actually a training manual for death. Have fun with it! I'll see you here next Monday with another writing prompt!
The writing prompts I've been using are good, but they're very generic. What I mean is that they tend towards the literary-type writing. I make speculative stories out of them, but I'd love to have prompts geared specifically towards my favorite genres: horror, fantasy, and science fiction. Sure, with a Google search you can find some, but I thought it might be a fun exercise for me to come up with my own.
I decided that I'd post a new one every week--probably on Monday. Feel free to do whatever you like with the prompt. If you use it just for a quick warm-up, great. If you're in the #fridayflash group and need an idea, super. If the prompt takes your fiction to a longer piece, excellent. I'd love to hear success stories with these prompts, but don't feel obligated to tell me. I'm just having a good time putting them together.
Sometimes I'll put in the title that it's a horror writing prompt, or a fantasy writing prompt, or a science fiction writing prompt, but don't feel that you need to be bound by that genre when you start putting the words down on paper (or more likely on your computer screen). For example, if I call this--Your favorite video game is actually a training manual for death--a horror prompt, you don't need to make it a piece of horror fiction. You could turn it into a sci-fi piece by having the video game be about saving the human race from space aliens, for example. Or you might make it a contemporary piece about a group using the video game as a recruiting tool. Or you can spin it into a humorous story. The possibilities are endless. I'm sure you've already found a slant that I haven't thought of to make it your own.
So, with that in mind, I'll repeat what this week's writing prompt is: Your favorite video game is actually a training manual for death. Have fun with it! I'll see you here next Monday with another writing prompt!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
#fridayflash--Real Monsters Don't Take Time Off
Real Monsters Don't Take Time Off
by Eric J. Krause
"Daddy, the monster under my bed says he gets Sunday afternoons off."
Jim nodded as if this was common knowledge. What he was really doing was trying hard not to bust up laughing.
"Good. That'll give you plenty of time to play Barbies or read a book."
Cara smiled, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and scampered up to her room. Only then did he allow himself a chuckle as he walked in to grab a beer.
He'd only just popped the top when a grunt, thud, and scream erupted from upstairs. He managed to set the can down without spilling any before rushing up the stairs. She'd probably just scared herself with the monster under the bed talk, but that'd been a pretty loud thump. Life never slowed down when living with a child with an overactive imagination.
At the top of the stairs, a cold breeze brushed by him, though he knew all of the windows in the house were closed. Cara didn't yet have the strength to open any of them.
He burst into her room, his heart racing so fast it hurt his chest. "What? What happened?"
She lounged on her bed, the picture of the teenager she'd become in a few years: a book lay open in front of her, and a Princess Dream slipper hung from her toes. She gave him a sweet smile.
"I told him that the monsters above the bed don't take any time off."
by Eric J. Krause
"Daddy, the monster under my bed says he gets Sunday afternoons off."
Jim nodded as if this was common knowledge. What he was really doing was trying hard not to bust up laughing.
"Good. That'll give you plenty of time to play Barbies or read a book."
Cara smiled, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and scampered up to her room. Only then did he allow himself a chuckle as he walked in to grab a beer.
He'd only just popped the top when a grunt, thud, and scream erupted from upstairs. He managed to set the can down without spilling any before rushing up the stairs. She'd probably just scared herself with the monster under the bed talk, but that'd been a pretty loud thump. Life never slowed down when living with a child with an overactive imagination.
At the top of the stairs, a cold breeze brushed by him, though he knew all of the windows in the house were closed. Cara didn't yet have the strength to open any of them.
He burst into her room, his heart racing so fast it hurt his chest. "What? What happened?"
She lounged on her bed, the picture of the teenager she'd become in a few years: a book lay open in front of her, and a Princess Dream slipper hung from her toes. She gave him a sweet smile.
"I told him that the monsters above the bed don't take any time off."
Friday, January 15, 2010
#fridayflash--Black to Blue
Black to Blue
by Eric J. Krause
Dear Stupid Diary:
I hate the idea of writing in you, but if Dr. Quack says I need to, I'll give Dr. Quack what he wants. Meds aren't enough anymore. A padded room with no sharp edges isn't enough. Now they need to make sure I'm happy. Why can't they see the only way that's possible is if I join Sonia? One quick slash of the wrist should do it. I know where to cut now.
Is this what you want, Dr. Quack? Are these the feelings you wanted to read about?
Fine. You were smart to prompt me on this. Otherwise I'd have just cussed at you and your hospital, your jail, over and over again. I still might if this doesn't go well.
My life with Sonia was dark. I hated her, and she hated me. But were we happy? In our own little way, yes, but no one else would have said so. I'm sure those around thought our lives together foolish, destructive. But we thrived on the hate. The more I hated her, the more I loved her. And vice versa.
We lived in a rat hole little apartment on the shitty side of town. We hated our jobs and took it out on each other when we came home each night. I fed off of her negative energy, as she did with me. More often than not we'd fling food and insults over the dinner table and then create the most deviant acts in the bedroom minutes later. In our sick, twisted way we were the happiest, the darkest, beings in existence.
When she died, that darkness faded. I didn't hate. I didn't love. The only thing--the only emotion--was sorrow. I lost everything, both inside and out--my job, my friends, my soul. Black gave way to blue. I could exist in the darkness. Hell, I did more than exist; I thrived. I couldn't do that in my depression. That's why I tried to bleed my life out with a jagged bottle.
One thing you told me stuck, though, Doc. I want you to know that. You said that we need to make do with what life gives us. Fight through. Persevere. And I will. Those guards you have posted are watching, but not close enough. I'll have enough time to jab this pen in my wrist and yank. It should be sharp enough to get the job done. It'll hurt like hell, but what do I care?
Black may give way to blue, but that's not to say it can't all come full circle. Open your arms, Sonia. Here I come.
by Eric J. Krause
Dear Stupid Diary:
I hate the idea of writing in you, but if Dr. Quack says I need to, I'll give Dr. Quack what he wants. Meds aren't enough anymore. A padded room with no sharp edges isn't enough. Now they need to make sure I'm happy. Why can't they see the only way that's possible is if I join Sonia? One quick slash of the wrist should do it. I know where to cut now.
Is this what you want, Dr. Quack? Are these the feelings you wanted to read about?
Fine. You were smart to prompt me on this. Otherwise I'd have just cussed at you and your hospital, your jail, over and over again. I still might if this doesn't go well.
My life with Sonia was dark. I hated her, and she hated me. But were we happy? In our own little way, yes, but no one else would have said so. I'm sure those around thought our lives together foolish, destructive. But we thrived on the hate. The more I hated her, the more I loved her. And vice versa.
We lived in a rat hole little apartment on the shitty side of town. We hated our jobs and took it out on each other when we came home each night. I fed off of her negative energy, as she did with me. More often than not we'd fling food and insults over the dinner table and then create the most deviant acts in the bedroom minutes later. In our sick, twisted way we were the happiest, the darkest, beings in existence.
When she died, that darkness faded. I didn't hate. I didn't love. The only thing--the only emotion--was sorrow. I lost everything, both inside and out--my job, my friends, my soul. Black gave way to blue. I could exist in the darkness. Hell, I did more than exist; I thrived. I couldn't do that in my depression. That's why I tried to bleed my life out with a jagged bottle.
One thing you told me stuck, though, Doc. I want you to know that. You said that we need to make do with what life gives us. Fight through. Persevere. And I will. Those guards you have posted are watching, but not close enough. I'll have enough time to jab this pen in my wrist and yank. It should be sharp enough to get the job done. It'll hurt like hell, but what do I care?
Black may give way to blue, but that's not to say it can't all come full circle. Open your arms, Sonia. Here I come.
Friday, January 8, 2010
#fridayflash -- The Next Great Adventure
This story is a companion piece to a #fridayflash story I wrote last September called Uncle Ron. If you didn't read Uncle Ron, you can read this one with no problems. This one is told from the Point of View of Uncle Ron, so his motivations are now clear. Like Uncle Ron, this one is more a slice of life story. I hope you enjoy!
THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE
by Eric J. Krause
Ron watched as Mars shrank from view. He wished he could have said goodbye to everyone in person, but the message was easier on all of them. They wouldn't have tried to stop him, he knew that, but knowing he'd never see them again would have made it hard.
Yeah, this was the right way.
Ever since he saw the space elevator at New Vegas, he knew he had to go. He couldn't stay on Mars. The mining gig at Olympus Mons was there for him, but that wasn't his life. He couldn't waste away the years digging in an armored space suit. That was no way to live. He needed adventure, not suicide, especially a long drawn out one.
He waited through the entire flight from Earth to the Mars Space Port in New New York Harbor. Something would present itself. He just needed to be patient, like he had had been in the Old Grand Canyon. He'd be dead already if it hadn't been for that.
Ron paid little attention to the excited babble of his family once they landed. Since he didn't participate, they didn't try to include him. They knew better. Little Jaycee glanced at him a few times, but nothing came of it. She didn't realize what he was like, what he had to do.
On the way past, Ron spied a few opportunities that held promise. He didn't jump yet; better to wait, see them all, and weigh his options. He had a week to show up at the Olympus Mons Mine Station. He'd see the family settled and come back later.
His chance came sooner than expected. The family decided on an aero-taxi, but it only held five. Ron made six. He said he'd find his own way home. And he had every intention of doing so. This was just a preliminary scope-out mission.
Until he met the man going to one of Saturn's moons.
"Five years is all we ask. You'll get a house and never go hungry. We'll even match you up with a mate if you'd like. After that, you're free to do as you please. There might even be an experimental hyperspace jump to another solar system. Or beyond."
Sold.
After he left the message and headed to the staging area, guilt tried to grab him by the throat. He'd miss his family, right? After all his crazy schemes, they'd always been there to help pick up the pieces and see him through to the next.
Mars disappeared from his view. Yeah, he'd miss them.
But he'd miss the adventure even more.
THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE
by Eric J. Krause
Ron watched as Mars shrank from view. He wished he could have said goodbye to everyone in person, but the message was easier on all of them. They wouldn't have tried to stop him, he knew that, but knowing he'd never see them again would have made it hard.
Yeah, this was the right way.
Ever since he saw the space elevator at New Vegas, he knew he had to go. He couldn't stay on Mars. The mining gig at Olympus Mons was there for him, but that wasn't his life. He couldn't waste away the years digging in an armored space suit. That was no way to live. He needed adventure, not suicide, especially a long drawn out one.
He waited through the entire flight from Earth to the Mars Space Port in New New York Harbor. Something would present itself. He just needed to be patient, like he had had been in the Old Grand Canyon. He'd be dead already if it hadn't been for that.
Ron paid little attention to the excited babble of his family once they landed. Since he didn't participate, they didn't try to include him. They knew better. Little Jaycee glanced at him a few times, but nothing came of it. She didn't realize what he was like, what he had to do.
On the way past, Ron spied a few opportunities that held promise. He didn't jump yet; better to wait, see them all, and weigh his options. He had a week to show up at the Olympus Mons Mine Station. He'd see the family settled and come back later.
His chance came sooner than expected. The family decided on an aero-taxi, but it only held five. Ron made six. He said he'd find his own way home. And he had every intention of doing so. This was just a preliminary scope-out mission.
Until he met the man going to one of Saturn's moons.
"Five years is all we ask. You'll get a house and never go hungry. We'll even match you up with a mate if you'd like. After that, you're free to do as you please. There might even be an experimental hyperspace jump to another solar system. Or beyond."
Sold.
After he left the message and headed to the staging area, guilt tried to grab him by the throat. He'd miss his family, right? After all his crazy schemes, they'd always been there to help pick up the pieces and see him through to the next.
Mars disappeared from his view. Yeah, he'd miss them.
But he'd miss the adventure even more.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Newest Published Story
I had a story published today on The New Flesh. It is called The Bird. I hope you enjoy it. It's a horror story about a very strange bird. Let me know what you think, either here or as a comment on the site. Thanks!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
#fridayflash: The Antigravity Flymabob
The Antigravity Flymabob
by Eric J. Krause
Beezle charged through the workshop, sweat beading on his forehead. What had the elves done with it? The Antigravity Flymabob was the only thing that would get Santa around the world in one night. Sure the reindeer would get him off the ground, and they could weld a rocket onto the sled, but flying and magically flying were two very different things. Why couldn't the elves be as careful as the gnomes?
He heard all the fanfare that accompanied the take-off, punctuated by Santa's jolly ho-ho-ho's. Wouldn't that end quickly if Beezle couldn't find it. The elves, always looking for a way to get on the gnomes' good side, had promised it'd be on the sleigh, but ten minutes to go and where was it? They might be great at making toys, but when it came to magic you couldn't trust an elf as far as you could throw him.
Beezle grumbled under his breath. No Antigravity Flymabob here. He'd have to go out and tell Santa. He'd just ask the elves, but he doubted they even remembered making the promise, let alone where they left it. At least no one outside the North Pole knew gnomes existed. The entire blame for a ruined Christmas could rest on the elves' scrawny shoulders.
Beezle hurried out to the launch pad. Every second counted if they were going to get Santa off with enough time to keep Christmas on schedule. He busted through the door and into the crowd.
"Wait!" Beezle shouted. "Don't go yet!"
With all of the noise, no one heard him. He looked over to the sleigh and saw the Antigravity Flymabob latched snugly in place. He glanced over to the group who'd promised to put it in. They looked over at Beezle, smiled, and saluted. Before turning back to watch Santa depart, they said something. Though Beezle couldn't hear over the din of the crowd, he could read their lips. "Merry Christmas, Beezle!"
Beezle grunted and allowed himself a small smile. Maybe the elves weren't so bad after all.
by Eric J. Krause
Beezle charged through the workshop, sweat beading on his forehead. What had the elves done with it? The Antigravity Flymabob was the only thing that would get Santa around the world in one night. Sure the reindeer would get him off the ground, and they could weld a rocket onto the sled, but flying and magically flying were two very different things. Why couldn't the elves be as careful as the gnomes?
He heard all the fanfare that accompanied the take-off, punctuated by Santa's jolly ho-ho-ho's. Wouldn't that end quickly if Beezle couldn't find it. The elves, always looking for a way to get on the gnomes' good side, had promised it'd be on the sleigh, but ten minutes to go and where was it? They might be great at making toys, but when it came to magic you couldn't trust an elf as far as you could throw him.
Beezle grumbled under his breath. No Antigravity Flymabob here. He'd have to go out and tell Santa. He'd just ask the elves, but he doubted they even remembered making the promise, let alone where they left it. At least no one outside the North Pole knew gnomes existed. The entire blame for a ruined Christmas could rest on the elves' scrawny shoulders.
Beezle hurried out to the launch pad. Every second counted if they were going to get Santa off with enough time to keep Christmas on schedule. He busted through the door and into the crowd.
"Wait!" Beezle shouted. "Don't go yet!"
With all of the noise, no one heard him. He looked over to the sleigh and saw the Antigravity Flymabob latched snugly in place. He glanced over to the group who'd promised to put it in. They looked over at Beezle, smiled, and saluted. Before turning back to watch Santa depart, they said something. Though Beezle couldn't hear over the din of the crowd, he could read their lips. "Merry Christmas, Beezle!"
Beezle grunted and allowed himself a small smile. Maybe the elves weren't so bad after all.
Friday, December 18, 2009
#fridayflash: Summer Santa
Summer Santa
by Eric J. Krause
"Santa left a present, Uncle Jim."
Jim patted Nat, his four-year-old niece, on the head. "No, Natalie. Remember? Santa Claus only comes at Christmas."
"I saw him, Uncle Jim, I saw him. He was even dressed for summer."
Jim would have to ask his sister, wherever she was, if Nat often had imaginary friends. It'd keep him prepared for next time he came to visit. "What did he look like?"
"He had on shorts and a t-shirt that he painted red. And he took off his beard and his belly. Mommy says summer Santa has a total surfer's bod."
Jim struggled to keep a straight face. "I don't know, Nat. That doesn't sound like the Santa I know."
She glanced around and leaned up to give him a conspiratory whisper. "Santa is Daddy."
"Oh yeah?"
She nodded, grabbed his hand, and lead him to the living room. "See? There it is. He didn't need to wrap it because it's not Christmastime."
Jim peaked into the room. In the middle of the floor stood a wicker basket with something oozing out. Oh crap, was that blood?
"Nattie, honey, why don't you go up to your room? I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
"But I wanna see what Santa brought me." Her bottom lip quivered. Brent had confided in him once that he was helpless when she pulled off that look. If what was in the dripping basket was what Jim thought, would Brent ever again be around for it to work its magic? Not if Jim could help it.
"It's not for you, sweetie. Santa only brings grown-ups gifts in the summer."
She started to protest, but a quick offer of a trip to the toy store and ice cream shop hushed her up. She skipped up the steps, humming a song as she went.
Jim turned his attention back to the wicker basket. That had to be blood. What else could it be? He hesitated for a second, not wanting to see, but powerless to walk away. He'd never really gotten on with Brent, felt there was something off about the guy, but was he capable of this? More important, was this why Sara wasn't here?
He flung the lid open. Relief and horror mixed, becoming one. It wasn't Sara, but the decapitated head of some shaggy-haired blond guy. The stench of death wafted up at him, and though his stomach turned and clenched, he kept himself from losing his lunch on the already stained carpet. Puke after this is solved, he told himself.
A flash of color on the lid tore his attention from the head. He found a piece of paper inside with "You're next, you cheating whore," written in what was probably the blond guy's blood.
He slammed the lid back down. Shit. He needed to warn Sara, needed to get Natalie somewhere safe. When he got here and found Sara gone, he'd guessed she was out running errands. Now he hoped to god that was true. He dug in his pocket for his cell phone, but before he could flip it open, Brent spoke from behind.
"You picked the wrong day to visit, bro."
Jim spun around just in time to see a hatchet screaming for his head.
by Eric J. Krause
"Santa left a present, Uncle Jim."
Jim patted Nat, his four-year-old niece, on the head. "No, Natalie. Remember? Santa Claus only comes at Christmas."
"I saw him, Uncle Jim, I saw him. He was even dressed for summer."
Jim would have to ask his sister, wherever she was, if Nat often had imaginary friends. It'd keep him prepared for next time he came to visit. "What did he look like?"
"He had on shorts and a t-shirt that he painted red. And he took off his beard and his belly. Mommy says summer Santa has a total surfer's bod."
Jim struggled to keep a straight face. "I don't know, Nat. That doesn't sound like the Santa I know."
She glanced around and leaned up to give him a conspiratory whisper. "Santa is Daddy."
"Oh yeah?"
She nodded, grabbed his hand, and lead him to the living room. "See? There it is. He didn't need to wrap it because it's not Christmastime."
Jim peaked into the room. In the middle of the floor stood a wicker basket with something oozing out. Oh crap, was that blood?
"Nattie, honey, why don't you go up to your room? I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
"But I wanna see what Santa brought me." Her bottom lip quivered. Brent had confided in him once that he was helpless when she pulled off that look. If what was in the dripping basket was what Jim thought, would Brent ever again be around for it to work its magic? Not if Jim could help it.
"It's not for you, sweetie. Santa only brings grown-ups gifts in the summer."
She started to protest, but a quick offer of a trip to the toy store and ice cream shop hushed her up. She skipped up the steps, humming a song as she went.
Jim turned his attention back to the wicker basket. That had to be blood. What else could it be? He hesitated for a second, not wanting to see, but powerless to walk away. He'd never really gotten on with Brent, felt there was something off about the guy, but was he capable of this? More important, was this why Sara wasn't here?
He flung the lid open. Relief and horror mixed, becoming one. It wasn't Sara, but the decapitated head of some shaggy-haired blond guy. The stench of death wafted up at him, and though his stomach turned and clenched, he kept himself from losing his lunch on the already stained carpet. Puke after this is solved, he told himself.
A flash of color on the lid tore his attention from the head. He found a piece of paper inside with "You're next, you cheating whore," written in what was probably the blond guy's blood.
He slammed the lid back down. Shit. He needed to warn Sara, needed to get Natalie somewhere safe. When he got here and found Sara gone, he'd guessed she was out running errands. Now he hoped to god that was true. He dug in his pocket for his cell phone, but before he could flip it open, Brent spoke from behind.
"You picked the wrong day to visit, bro."
Jim spun around just in time to see a hatchet screaming for his head.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Holiday Story
With Christmas coming up, don't forget that a great gift writers can give their family and friends is a short holiday story. This doesn't cost much at all (maybe a few pennies when you factor in the printer ink and paper), and it's a unique gift that only those closest to you will receive.
I try to write one that fits on a single page (usually ends up being single-spaced with bigger margins than normal) so it's easy to fit into Christmas cards. My family has expressed that they love opening up their cards and finding a short holiday story to read. Though I usually write speculative fiction (more often than not on the dark side), I stick with nice and happy themes and ideas for this story. There's no wrong way to go, however. If your family and friends prefer that walk on the dark and scary side, by all means write it for them.
While I keep my family holiday stories simple black on plain white printer paper (though I usually type them up with a fancy font), you can dress yours up with colorful paper and ink. The sky really is the limit. So if you're searching for that little something extra for your loved ones, why not take the time to write a short story for them (or a poem if that's more your style)? They'll love the special feeling that such a unique gift can bring! Happy holidays!
I try to write one that fits on a single page (usually ends up being single-spaced with bigger margins than normal) so it's easy to fit into Christmas cards. My family has expressed that they love opening up their cards and finding a short holiday story to read. Though I usually write speculative fiction (more often than not on the dark side), I stick with nice and happy themes and ideas for this story. There's no wrong way to go, however. If your family and friends prefer that walk on the dark and scary side, by all means write it for them.
While I keep my family holiday stories simple black on plain white printer paper (though I usually type them up with a fancy font), you can dress yours up with colorful paper and ink. The sky really is the limit. So if you're searching for that little something extra for your loved ones, why not take the time to write a short story for them (or a poem if that's more your style)? They'll love the special feeling that such a unique gift can bring! Happy holidays!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
#fridayflash -- Slice of Cake
Slice of Cake
by Eric J. Krause
The slice of wedding cake thawed. She watched it. In the freezer for a year, and now out to find its final moments. She laughed at the irony, the similarity. That way she wouldn't cry.
Through this first year, their newlywed year, she smiled each time she popped open the freezer and saw their cake waiting to help them celebrate year one. Rick admitted he did the same. For the first six months, he couldn't have been a more perfect husband.
Then the late nights started. At first she understood. He brought home good money, better than good money. Enough so she could quit her stupid dead-end job to focus on being a mommy. Too bad he was shooting blanks.
Strike one.
Not to say she couldn't deal with it. Adoption was an option. Or a sperm bank. But it was still a blow to her happiness. A minor one, it turned out, to what she'd soon learn.
As part of her perfect little housewife routine, she did all the laundry. Rick knew it and should have been more careful. She couldn't decide if she was glad or not that he was too stupid to remember. How could he bring home a tiny leopard-print g-string that smelled of sex?
Strike two.
She didn't confront him. He always said he enjoyed that she didn't bring the drama, so she wouldn't start now. Anyway, it was better to wait until he created more rope to hang himself with. And preferably enough to hang whoever the slutty whore was he was banging.
Not long after that she realized he was too dumb to cover anything up effectively. For the first six months of marriage, not to mention the year they'd dated, he couldn't keep his hands off her. Pretty good, she realized now, for a guy who didn't have enough fish swimming in his pond. About the same time she discovered his secret, their loving dropped to once a week, twice if she'd hit the sexual jackpot. Gee, could those damp panties he brought home in his pockets way too often have anything to do with it?
She could live with both of those. Rick still provided her with a nice life. She had options. Adoption, her own affair, plenty of shopping. She could make due. Not just make due, but have a nice life. And since he thought he was hiding it all, he still treated her like a human being when they were together.
But what would she do if that respect dropped out altogether?
Strike three.
He stumbled home at seven AM on the morning of their anniversary at the exact moment she took it from the freezer. Their wedding cake. Their symbol, defrosting on the counter as she'd hoped their love would that night in the bedroom.
But here he was, twelve hours late, hung over with dried blood under his nose, lipstick on his collar, and who knows what kind of fluids in his undershorts. If he even managed to pull them on.
He mumbled something and somehow found his way to the stairs. With no need to have him call in sick to work, a perk to the millions he pulled in for his company each year, she let him go up to grab some sleep. And she turned her attention back to their cake, her cake.
Now, with dinner over, they looked at that slice of cake. Like their marriage, she'd dressed it up with a fancy serving dish and a new heap of frosting. Rick took a bite and wondered what the strange taste was. She could only shrug and suggest that the freezer added some interesting flavors.
She didn't mention that Drano, rat poison, and bug spray probably didn't taste so great, either.
by Eric J. Krause
The slice of wedding cake thawed. She watched it. In the freezer for a year, and now out to find its final moments. She laughed at the irony, the similarity. That way she wouldn't cry.
Through this first year, their newlywed year, she smiled each time she popped open the freezer and saw their cake waiting to help them celebrate year one. Rick admitted he did the same. For the first six months, he couldn't have been a more perfect husband.
Then the late nights started. At first she understood. He brought home good money, better than good money. Enough so she could quit her stupid dead-end job to focus on being a mommy. Too bad he was shooting blanks.
Strike one.
Not to say she couldn't deal with it. Adoption was an option. Or a sperm bank. But it was still a blow to her happiness. A minor one, it turned out, to what she'd soon learn.
As part of her perfect little housewife routine, she did all the laundry. Rick knew it and should have been more careful. She couldn't decide if she was glad or not that he was too stupid to remember. How could he bring home a tiny leopard-print g-string that smelled of sex?
Strike two.
She didn't confront him. He always said he enjoyed that she didn't bring the drama, so she wouldn't start now. Anyway, it was better to wait until he created more rope to hang himself with. And preferably enough to hang whoever the slutty whore was he was banging.
Not long after that she realized he was too dumb to cover anything up effectively. For the first six months of marriage, not to mention the year they'd dated, he couldn't keep his hands off her. Pretty good, she realized now, for a guy who didn't have enough fish swimming in his pond. About the same time she discovered his secret, their loving dropped to once a week, twice if she'd hit the sexual jackpot. Gee, could those damp panties he brought home in his pockets way too often have anything to do with it?
She could live with both of those. Rick still provided her with a nice life. She had options. Adoption, her own affair, plenty of shopping. She could make due. Not just make due, but have a nice life. And since he thought he was hiding it all, he still treated her like a human being when they were together.
But what would she do if that respect dropped out altogether?
Strike three.
He stumbled home at seven AM on the morning of their anniversary at the exact moment she took it from the freezer. Their wedding cake. Their symbol, defrosting on the counter as she'd hoped their love would that night in the bedroom.
But here he was, twelve hours late, hung over with dried blood under his nose, lipstick on his collar, and who knows what kind of fluids in his undershorts. If he even managed to pull them on.
He mumbled something and somehow found his way to the stairs. With no need to have him call in sick to work, a perk to the millions he pulled in for his company each year, she let him go up to grab some sleep. And she turned her attention back to their cake, her cake.
Now, with dinner over, they looked at that slice of cake. Like their marriage, she'd dressed it up with a fancy serving dish and a new heap of frosting. Rick took a bite and wondered what the strange taste was. She could only shrug and suggest that the freezer added some interesting flavors.
She didn't mention that Drano, rat poison, and bug spray probably didn't taste so great, either.
Friday, November 27, 2009
#fridayflash -- The Last Ride
The Last Ride
by Eric J. Krause
The latest text message pushed him over the edge. "Danny cussed out his teacher. Probably suspended." He wondered if Julia had been chuckling when she sent it. No doubt she blamed the teacher. Lord knows Danny never did anything wrong. It seemed the only time the two of them talked anymore was when they argued about their delinquent son.
"Mind if I sit, pal?"
Brad blinked and looked up from his phone. The bus had just picked up a few more passengers and not many seats were left. He slid to the window and smiled at the man in shabby business casual clothes. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Off in my own little world."
"Thanks." Luckily that appeared to be the end of it. Nothing made a bus trip more intolerable than having to make small talk with a stranger.
Half-a-dozen more stops. Knowing traffic--and a quick glance around at the gridlock proved he did--it'd be another fifteen to twenty minutes. He turned his attention back to the phone and mulled over his reply. Anything he typed would be wrong. He needed to find something that would lead to quiet hostility rather than an out-and-out fight the second he stepped in the door. Inspiration did not strike.
Brad watched the next stop come and go. His palms broke out in sweat at the thought that there was one less buffer between him and home. He gripped his phone tight in anticipation of another text, this one wondering why he hadn't responded.
"This is stupid," he said, drawing a look from the big lout next to him. He readied an explanation, but the guy turned back to his sports page without a word. He looked around, saw no one paid him any mind, and shut off his phone, an action Julia deemed sacrilege.
As they made the next three stops, he fingered the power button, but willed himself not to push it. As they neared the stop before his, he almost cheered when someone pulled the cord.
"Why am I doing this to myself?" he said to the guy next to him.
"Don't know, pal." He didn't look up.
Brad laughed. It was so clear now. When the bus pulled away from the curb, he didn't reach up and mark the next stop. He used to have a life that didn't involve Julia and Danny, so why couldn't he have that again?
About a block from his stop, Brad sighed and pulled the cord. He couldn't start a new existence out of the blue. He didn't have the connections to disappear. When the bus stopped, he got off and headed for home.
There were other ways to vanish from life.
by Eric J. Krause
The latest text message pushed him over the edge. "Danny cussed out his teacher. Probably suspended." He wondered if Julia had been chuckling when she sent it. No doubt she blamed the teacher. Lord knows Danny never did anything wrong. It seemed the only time the two of them talked anymore was when they argued about their delinquent son.
"Mind if I sit, pal?"
Brad blinked and looked up from his phone. The bus had just picked up a few more passengers and not many seats were left. He slid to the window and smiled at the man in shabby business casual clothes. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Off in my own little world."
"Thanks." Luckily that appeared to be the end of it. Nothing made a bus trip more intolerable than having to make small talk with a stranger.
Half-a-dozen more stops. Knowing traffic--and a quick glance around at the gridlock proved he did--it'd be another fifteen to twenty minutes. He turned his attention back to the phone and mulled over his reply. Anything he typed would be wrong. He needed to find something that would lead to quiet hostility rather than an out-and-out fight the second he stepped in the door. Inspiration did not strike.
Brad watched the next stop come and go. His palms broke out in sweat at the thought that there was one less buffer between him and home. He gripped his phone tight in anticipation of another text, this one wondering why he hadn't responded.
"This is stupid," he said, drawing a look from the big lout next to him. He readied an explanation, but the guy turned back to his sports page without a word. He looked around, saw no one paid him any mind, and shut off his phone, an action Julia deemed sacrilege.
As they made the next three stops, he fingered the power button, but willed himself not to push it. As they neared the stop before his, he almost cheered when someone pulled the cord.
"Why am I doing this to myself?" he said to the guy next to him.
"Don't know, pal." He didn't look up.
Brad laughed. It was so clear now. When the bus pulled away from the curb, he didn't reach up and mark the next stop. He used to have a life that didn't involve Julia and Danny, so why couldn't he have that again?
About a block from his stop, Brad sighed and pulled the cord. He couldn't start a new existence out of the blue. He didn't have the connections to disappear. When the bus stopped, he got off and headed for home.
There were other ways to vanish from life.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
My Novel Revision Pt. 1
As I've said in previous posts, I know how authors are often interested in seeing how others work on their writing projects. I know I like knowing these little secrets. Because of this, I decided to share how I'm working on my revisions. I'm still early in the process (hence the Pt. 1 in the title of the post), but I'll share more in future posts as I get further along in the process. If this helps some people figure out a different way to revise, great. If not, at least you get a peak into my writing life.
The first thing I did was let the project sit unseen for a month. I've heard this is a great amount of time to give the project some distance, and it seems to work. Of course I remember writing it all, but it's not nearly as fresh as it would have been if I'd started revising right after finishing the first draft. The little bit of breathing room really does make it easier to tackle it with my trusty red pen.
After the waiting period, I printed out the manuscript and read it through. In this first read through, I changed very little. The only time my red pen touched the page was when I found a glaring spelling or punctuation error, most likely the result of a typo. The plan for the first read through was just to immerse myself into the story. I wanted to make sure it flowed, if there were any glaring holes, and if the beginning and ending worked. As I read, while I didn't touch much of the manuscript, I did take plenty of notes on how to make the story stronger.
Once I finished reading, I checked all of my revision notes, both the ones I took during that first read, as well as the ones I took while I wrote the first draft. With a fresh mind on my story, I was able to see which notes made sense and which were already taken care of (or didn't need to exist). I rewrote these notes on two separate pages. The first was notes on the overall story--things that didn't have a specific spot, but could be in any number of places in the manuscript. I'll keep this list handy at all times while I rewrite. The second list was ideas that go in certain parts of the story. I wrote these chronologically, and as I go through the manuscript I will add them.
This is actually where I am in the process. I'm starting my second read-through. As I read, I have a red pen, a blue pen, and a black pen, as well as both sets of notes and blank paper. In this read-through I'm not concentrating very hard on grammar or spelling or even word choice, but simply ideas. As I get to points in my notes that I want to add to my manuscript, I'll change it right on the page with my red pen if it's a small item. If it takes more, I'll write a number in blue ink where I want the change to go and complete the change on another piece of paper (labeling it with the page number and the number I put in blue). I'll go through the work until I'm happy I addressed all my notes.
That's where I am right now. When I finish this step, I'll still need to make sure the writing is tight and error free, so I still have a few read-throughs to complete. As I do get further in the process, I'll make another post to show how it's going. I hope you enjoyed a brief look into my revision process. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
The first thing I did was let the project sit unseen for a month. I've heard this is a great amount of time to give the project some distance, and it seems to work. Of course I remember writing it all, but it's not nearly as fresh as it would have been if I'd started revising right after finishing the first draft. The little bit of breathing room really does make it easier to tackle it with my trusty red pen.
After the waiting period, I printed out the manuscript and read it through. In this first read through, I changed very little. The only time my red pen touched the page was when I found a glaring spelling or punctuation error, most likely the result of a typo. The plan for the first read through was just to immerse myself into the story. I wanted to make sure it flowed, if there were any glaring holes, and if the beginning and ending worked. As I read, while I didn't touch much of the manuscript, I did take plenty of notes on how to make the story stronger.
Once I finished reading, I checked all of my revision notes, both the ones I took during that first read, as well as the ones I took while I wrote the first draft. With a fresh mind on my story, I was able to see which notes made sense and which were already taken care of (or didn't need to exist). I rewrote these notes on two separate pages. The first was notes on the overall story--things that didn't have a specific spot, but could be in any number of places in the manuscript. I'll keep this list handy at all times while I rewrite. The second list was ideas that go in certain parts of the story. I wrote these chronologically, and as I go through the manuscript I will add them.
This is actually where I am in the process. I'm starting my second read-through. As I read, I have a red pen, a blue pen, and a black pen, as well as both sets of notes and blank paper. In this read-through I'm not concentrating very hard on grammar or spelling or even word choice, but simply ideas. As I get to points in my notes that I want to add to my manuscript, I'll change it right on the page with my red pen if it's a small item. If it takes more, I'll write a number in blue ink where I want the change to go and complete the change on another piece of paper (labeling it with the page number and the number I put in blue). I'll go through the work until I'm happy I addressed all my notes.
That's where I am right now. When I finish this step, I'll still need to make sure the writing is tight and error free, so I still have a few read-throughs to complete. As I do get further in the process, I'll make another post to show how it's going. I hope you enjoyed a brief look into my revision process. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Friday, November 20, 2009
#fridayflash: The Refrigerator Door
The Refrigerator Door
by Eric J. Krause
"Can I see you in the kitchen?"
Bryan jerked awake. He hadn't even realized he'd been asleep. Nadine, his girlfriend, glared at him from the kitchen doorway.
"What?" he said.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. "I said I wanted to see you in the kitchen."
"Why? We're the only ones here."
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Would you just get in here? Please?"
Bryan grunted as he stood up. There would be no arguing with her, but he couldn't think of what he'd done.
"What's the meaning of this?" She pointed at the refrigerator. Both its and the freezer's door were standing wide open.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't do it."
"Well, when I left, they were both closed. Now look. The ice cream is melted, the frozen pizza isn't frozen, and I'm sure the sour cream and milk have spoiled."
He shrugged again.
Nadine threw her hands up. "Do you think they opened themselves?"
As soon as she said that, Bryan saw a little man on the counter behind her. It stood about six inches tall and wore a tiny green suit which made him think of a leprechaun. He wanted to point it out to Nadine, but it jumped out of sight behind the cookie jar.
Nadine slammed both doors shut. "You were in such a rush to grab a soda and put some ice in it so you could get back to the couch that you didn't even check to see if you'd closed the doors. Am I right? Don't even answer. I know I'm right."
She stormed out of the kitchen and he heard the bedroom door slam shut. He just stood there. He hadn't been in here since breakfast, before she'd left. He was about to go back to the couch when the leprechaun-thing came back onto the counter. It covered its mouth with one hand and pointed at him with the other. It's belly jiggled with laughter.
He took a step towards the little man, expecting it to bolt, but instead it motioned to the freezer. Bryan turned and watched the door pop open. Two more leprechaun-things, which looked identical to the first, jumped out. Once they hit the floor, they scurried towards the sink, opened the cabinet underneath, and scampered inside. The refrigerator door opened next, and four more followed. Bryan looked back at the one on the counter. It stuck its tongue out at him, then pointed and laughed. He stepped forward with every intention of smacking it across the room.
"You have neither the guts nor the strength, human," it said in a soft, squeaky voice. The six other leprechaun-things climbed up the drain and walked over to the first.
"While we distracted you in here," one said, "our pets captured your lady-friend."
Nadine. Bryan ran from the kitchen and burst into the bedroom. She lay on the bed wrapped in what he thought was a coil of rope. After a second look, though, he saw it wasn't rope, but a thick strand of spider web. Her lips were also glued shut with webs. Three spiders, each as big as German Shepherds, stood next to the bed. He took a step towards her, but the huge beasts cut him off. He gave her an apologetic look and hurried back to the kitchen. The seven leprechaun-things still stood on the counter.
"What's going on?" Bryan asked.
"Don't take it personally. Look outside. Don't be shy; we'll still be here."
Bryan took a deep breath and went to the window. He opened the curtains, but just as quickly closed them. Flames engulfed the whole neighborhood.
"You humans have ruled this world with an iron fist, leaving nothing for us. But we've been patient. We devised a plan, stored up our resources, and when we deemed ourselves ready, we struck. As you can see, it's going quite well."
The three spiders came into the kitchen carrying Nadine on a web stretcher. They set her down and turned their attention to Bryan. Before he could react, he found himself covered in webs and unable to move. His lips, like Nadine's, were stuck shut.
"They will make fine slaves. Nemby, the stove. The rest of you, the portal."
All of the little creatures except one ran to the refrigerator and jumped inside. Bryan almost choked on his own saliva. A huge tunnel had replaced the inside of his refrigerator. The spiders placed him on a web stretcher like Nadine's and followed the leprechaun-things into the refrigerator. He watched the straggler cast some sort of spell on the stove, causing it to spit fire around the kitchen. The little man emitted a gleeful laugh and followed the rest down the long tunnel.
Bryan looked back at his now-burning house, and all he could think was that Nadine was going to be pissed. The leprechaun-things hadn't shut the refrigerator door.
by Eric J. Krause
"Can I see you in the kitchen?"
Bryan jerked awake. He hadn't even realized he'd been asleep. Nadine, his girlfriend, glared at him from the kitchen doorway.
"What?" he said.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. "I said I wanted to see you in the kitchen."
"Why? We're the only ones here."
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Would you just get in here? Please?"
Bryan grunted as he stood up. There would be no arguing with her, but he couldn't think of what he'd done.
"What's the meaning of this?" She pointed at the refrigerator. Both its and the freezer's door were standing wide open.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't do it."
"Well, when I left, they were both closed. Now look. The ice cream is melted, the frozen pizza isn't frozen, and I'm sure the sour cream and milk have spoiled."
He shrugged again.
Nadine threw her hands up. "Do you think they opened themselves?"
As soon as she said that, Bryan saw a little man on the counter behind her. It stood about six inches tall and wore a tiny green suit which made him think of a leprechaun. He wanted to point it out to Nadine, but it jumped out of sight behind the cookie jar.
Nadine slammed both doors shut. "You were in such a rush to grab a soda and put some ice in it so you could get back to the couch that you didn't even check to see if you'd closed the doors. Am I right? Don't even answer. I know I'm right."
She stormed out of the kitchen and he heard the bedroom door slam shut. He just stood there. He hadn't been in here since breakfast, before she'd left. He was about to go back to the couch when the leprechaun-thing came back onto the counter. It covered its mouth with one hand and pointed at him with the other. It's belly jiggled with laughter.
He took a step towards the little man, expecting it to bolt, but instead it motioned to the freezer. Bryan turned and watched the door pop open. Two more leprechaun-things, which looked identical to the first, jumped out. Once they hit the floor, they scurried towards the sink, opened the cabinet underneath, and scampered inside. The refrigerator door opened next, and four more followed. Bryan looked back at the one on the counter. It stuck its tongue out at him, then pointed and laughed. He stepped forward with every intention of smacking it across the room.
"You have neither the guts nor the strength, human," it said in a soft, squeaky voice. The six other leprechaun-things climbed up the drain and walked over to the first.
"While we distracted you in here," one said, "our pets captured your lady-friend."
Nadine. Bryan ran from the kitchen and burst into the bedroom. She lay on the bed wrapped in what he thought was a coil of rope. After a second look, though, he saw it wasn't rope, but a thick strand of spider web. Her lips were also glued shut with webs. Three spiders, each as big as German Shepherds, stood next to the bed. He took a step towards her, but the huge beasts cut him off. He gave her an apologetic look and hurried back to the kitchen. The seven leprechaun-things still stood on the counter.
"What's going on?" Bryan asked.
"Don't take it personally. Look outside. Don't be shy; we'll still be here."
Bryan took a deep breath and went to the window. He opened the curtains, but just as quickly closed them. Flames engulfed the whole neighborhood.
"You humans have ruled this world with an iron fist, leaving nothing for us. But we've been patient. We devised a plan, stored up our resources, and when we deemed ourselves ready, we struck. As you can see, it's going quite well."
The three spiders came into the kitchen carrying Nadine on a web stretcher. They set her down and turned their attention to Bryan. Before he could react, he found himself covered in webs and unable to move. His lips, like Nadine's, were stuck shut.
"They will make fine slaves. Nemby, the stove. The rest of you, the portal."
All of the little creatures except one ran to the refrigerator and jumped inside. Bryan almost choked on his own saliva. A huge tunnel had replaced the inside of his refrigerator. The spiders placed him on a web stretcher like Nadine's and followed the leprechaun-things into the refrigerator. He watched the straggler cast some sort of spell on the stove, causing it to spit fire around the kitchen. The little man emitted a gleeful laugh and followed the rest down the long tunnel.
Bryan looked back at his now-burning house, and all he could think was that Nadine was going to be pissed. The leprechaun-things hadn't shut the refrigerator door.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
3 Short Stories
This week I want to bring you another few short stories that I've found online and enjoyed.
The first comes from the November issue of the Absent Willow Review. It's a story entitled The Call, written by Daniel W. Davis. This chilling little tale makes you wonder if it might not be better for some phone calls to actually turn out to be prank calls.
The next comes from Volume 10/37 of Allegory Magazine. It's called Simple Pleasures, written by Molly Campbell. This one asks if dolls can replace loved ones, which the main character believes to be the case.
The last one for this installment is an audio story from the podcast, Podcastle. It is called Scar Stories by Vylar Kaftan. Everything has scars, and these are the stories behind them. You can also find this one on iTunes. It's listed as Podcastle Miniature 18 if you'd rather find it there.
Give these stories a shot. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
The first comes from the November issue of the Absent Willow Review. It's a story entitled The Call, written by Daniel W. Davis. This chilling little tale makes you wonder if it might not be better for some phone calls to actually turn out to be prank calls.
The next comes from Volume 10/37 of Allegory Magazine. It's called Simple Pleasures, written by Molly Campbell. This one asks if dolls can replace loved ones, which the main character believes to be the case.
The last one for this installment is an audio story from the podcast, Podcastle. It is called Scar Stories by Vylar Kaftan. Everything has scars, and these are the stories behind them. You can also find this one on iTunes. It's listed as Podcastle Miniature 18 if you'd rather find it there.
Give these stories a shot. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
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