Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Friday Flash: Russian Roulette



Russian Roulette
by Eric J. Krause
 
Ryan took a deep breath and tried to remain invisible. He'd already revealed that he asked Hannah Bailey, the prettiest girl in school, out on a date. She'd been polite about it, but still turned him down faster than a rocket accelerating out of the Earth's atmosphere. He'd never told anyone, not even James, his best friend, and now everyone at the party knew. No doubt that would equate to the entire school. Why had he come tonight? He'd have been much happier mining and blacksmithing in World of Warcraft while watching a MythBusters marathon. But, no, he had to be stupid and show up in the hopes that a girl would somehow notice him. He should wait for college when girls actually took brains into account when judging guys. At least that's what Brandon, his big brother, and maybe the only person he knew who was smarter than him, said.

Now he just had to stay hidden in the background and hope no one noticed. It worked well at school, and since these were his classmates, there was no reason it shouldn't work here. He hoped. After all, in this game of Truth or Dare, if someone didn't answer a truth or perform a dare, they'd be held down, pummeled, and who knows what else. From the stories he heard, the last part was scariest.

Diana Samson scanned the room and found Tyler Huxley. "Tyler, Truth or Dare?"

Tyler flipped his hair and flashed a smile that made the girls swoon. Ryan didn't get it, as Tyler was a slacker who did nothing with his life but smoke pot, drink booze, and skateboard. What sort of future was that setting up? He probably wasn't even going to college, which Ryan had planned for himself since the second grade.

"Dare, baby," Tyler said. "And I hope it involves you."

Diana giggled, blushed, and looked at her friends, who giggled back and nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I dare you to go into one of the empty bedrooms with me."

Tyler shrugged and stood. "Accepted." The two headed for the back of the house amid cheers and cat-calls. If Ryan could be assured of a dare like that, especially with a hottie like Diana Samson, he'd try to be noticed.

"Okay," Henry Rogers said, "we're not going to wait for them to come back, so I'll choose the next person." No one objected. "How about you, Ryan? Want to tell us about more girls who were out of your league?"

Ryan's face ignited as all eyes turned to him. He looked to James for support, but found him staring at his shoes. Thanks for the support, bro.

"What's it gonna be, lover-boy? Truth or Dare?"

Everyone expected him to choose Truth, but there was nothing safe about that. By the twinkle in Henry's eyes, the question wouldn't be comfortable, and maybe a bit dangerous. Besides, since Henry, who was quite popular, teased him about girls, maybe he'd pick one of his lady friends to do something with Ryan. And if not, Henry had the imagination of toast and would probably come up with a lame dare on the spur of the moment. Ryan wasn't a gambler, but this bet was worth taking.

"Dare." He again glanced to James, and this time his friend stared back, but his expression didn't exactly send Ryan's confidence soaring.

"Wow, didn't think you had the balls, Egghead. But let's see what you're really made of. If you do this, Hannah Bailey might even go out with you." Henry reached into the backpack lying at his feet and pulled out a pistol. The room gasped and went silent. "This is a six-shooter with one bullet loaded. You ever hear of Russian Roulette?"

Ryan nodded, his mouth too dry and his throat clenched too tight to answer.

"Good. I dare you to play. Just one time. Spin the chamber, put the barrel to your head, and pull the trigger. That's it."

"No, come on, that's stupid," James said, leaping to his feet. "Where'd you even get the gun, Rogers?"

"What does that matter? He doesn't have to play. But, remember, there are consequences."

"No, Ryan, don't do it" James said. "It's better to get beat up than risk your life. C'mon, man, you got MIT waiting for you. Take the black eye, and we'll get out of here."

Ryan almost agreed, but then he looked around the room. Some of the girls had lust in their eyes. If he did this, it might mean a date before high school was over. Maybe more than a date. Sure, the one in six odds were bad, but still. Five out of six were safe.

He strode over to Henry. "Fine. Give it here." Ryan had been smart his entire life, and he'd received great grades and entry into a pristine university because of it. But right now he wanted a girl. A hot girl. And this was his best bet.

Henry popped out the chamber, showed him that there was indeed only a single shot loaded, and spun it before popping it back in. Ryan couldn't tell where the bullet went. He took the gun and saw the fear in Henry's eyes despite a desperate attempt to remain cool. No doubt he'd expected Ryan to not only decline but to try to run to get out of the punishment. It wasn't too late, and now he had the gun in his hands. No one would grab him while he held a gun.

Another quick peek around at the girls drove him to continue this stupidity. He'd be a legend, right? And girls loved legends. James again tried to talk him out of it, but Ryan ignored his buddy. Henry gave him a shrug which said, "Whenever you're ready," and Ryan put the gun to his right temple. Sweat beaded up on his forehead, but he barely felt it. He cocked the hammer back, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

Monday, April 16, 2012

(test) Coyote--short story

This is a test to see if I can get downloads to work. I plan on making all ten sample chapters of Ghost Betweens available in one .pdf document, but I need to know I can do it first. If you'll help me by downloading this short story, hey, you get to read the short story! This is a story about a woman who is face-to-face with a coyote and remembers a horrific incident with a coyote from when she was younger. I'm sure most of you won't believe this, but I'm classifying this as contemporary fiction rather than speculative. I know, I don't write things without ghosties, ghoulies, dragons, or other such things very often.

Anyway, if you could download the story via the link and let me know it worked for you, I'd appreciate it. When you click on the link, there will be a big blue button on the right of the screen that says "Download or Print." Click it and follow the instructions. If you're not interested in downloading it but are intrigued and want to read the story anyway, it's posted as a .pdf below. Let me know if it was successful either in the comments below, on Twitter, or on Facebook. Thank you!

EDIT: Okay, looks like there is a download button on the bottom of the embedded file right here on the screen. What do you folks think: when I post my sample chapters, should I only have the embedded content since there is a download option (for those who would like to read it on their eReaders or whatever) or should I continue to have both the link and the embedded page? Thanks for your opinion! I appreciate it!

Click here to get to the download page

Coyote

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Newest Published Story: Special Order

I have a new story published over at the e-zine, short-story.me. Go give it a look. It's called, Special Order, and it's a modern fantasy/horror story. I'd love to hear what you think, so let me know in the comments. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the read!

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Newest Short Story

I have a new short story published in the Internet magazine, 69 Flavors of Paranoia. It's a horror story called "Dora's Book" (click the title to see the story), and it's a take on the Pandora's Box myth. Give it a read and let me know what you think. I'd love to hear!

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Newest Published Story

I have a new short story published over at Escape Into Life. It's a horror story called, "Weeds and Dead Flowers." Go give it a look and let me know what you think!

Thursday, March 10, 2011

The Highest Stakes

This is being posted as if it were a Friday Flash, but since it's about 2700 words, it's much too long to be considered a piece of flash fiction. Two weeks ago, Neil Colquhoun (@necol66 on Twitter) threw out a random fact that the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666. I tweeted back that it could make a cool story, and he answered by challenging me to write one, and he'd write one, too. We'd make it a contest to see which one readers enjoyed more. The rules were only that we had two weeks to write a story under 3000 words, and it had to relate to the numbers on a roulette wheel totaling up to 666. The two week deadline is up, so it's time to post. Here is my story, and check back later for a link to Neil's story and the poll where you can vote for your favorite. I'll update this with both links when I have them. Until then, enjoy my story. Let me know what you think!
UPDATE: Click here to view Neil's story and to vote for your favorite. Simply scroll down for his story once you're on his site.

The Highest Stakes
by Eric J. Krause

He stared down at the roulette table, unsure why he was here. Which casino was this? When did he get here? He blinked hard and shook his head to dislodge the cobwebs. But before he could figure those out, he had to discover who he was.

There was no question that he was here to play. He had 100 chips in front of him--five stacks of twenty. And he couldn't up and walk away. Some unspoken rule reminded him he'd have to play until the end.

Though he tried, he couldn't see anything around the table. He might as well be playing in someone's dark basement, and for all he knew, he was. The dealer wore a long black robe, complete with a huge hood that kept his face from sight. Three other players sat around the table, but he couldn't focus on them. He made out their features well enough to tell they were males, but no other defining characteristics popped into his mind. It was like looking at them through a mix of dense fog and plastic wrap. He couldn't even check out their hands for hints of their ethnicity or age--the chips moved out as if pushed by telepathy.

And as far as bets went, he needed to get his out there. Though it was a standard roulette board, this wasn't a normal game. He had no clue as to who briefed him on the rules, but he knew them well. One chip needed to be placed on a single number each roll of the ball--no more and no less. 13 was his lucky number. It meant something, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what. There was more leverage on the outside bets; at least one chip needed to be wagered with each spin, but there was no upper limit. He could choose odd or even, red or black, and 1 through 18 or 19 through 36 for even money. For two-to-one odds, he could choose the first twelve numbers, the second twelve, or the third twelve, as well as on of the three columns. The game was limiting, but as straight-forward as roulette could get. He tossed a chip on odd.

The dealer picked up the ivory ball with hands of polished white bone and flicked it around the wheel before motioning for no more bets. He tried to speak up, ask if anyone else saw the dealer's skeletal hand, but his voice wouldn't work. He took a deep breath and tried to push it from his mind. As strange as it was, that wasn't what mattered here.

The ball flew around the wheel, hypnotizing him. Hopefully it wouldn't land on the zero or double zero. If it hit the former, something dastardly would befall the player with the lowest amount of chips. If it hit the latter, that fate would be shared by the one with the second lowest. He was fine for the moment in either of those regards, but that didn't make him eager to discover the terrible secret.

No worries this round. The ball skittered around the wheel and settled on Red 7. The dealer set a new chip on top of his winner. As soon as that chip lay on the original, his head spun. His name was Clayton Briggs, though everyone called him Clay.

He pulled the winning chip off and stared at it. It looked no different from any of his others. He shrugged and placed it on 13, while keeping the one on odd in place. The game here was to have more chips than the other players, so conservative was the way to go. A quick glance at the three other piles showed him way ahead.

The next roll landed on Black 8, and the dealer slid both his chips away. He refilled 13 on the inner board, but changed his outer strategy by placing a chip on the third twelve and another on black. He was rewarded with a Black 33. Once the dealer paid his three new chips, his head swam, and he knew his about family.

Clay had a mom, dad, and younger brother, though Dad had been dead for twenty-five years, and Mom for close to ten. He hadn't talked to, or even heard from, his brother Jeff since shortly after her funeral. He felt something about a wife, but nothing stuck in his mind.

Before the call for no more bets, he picked up the chip on the third twelve but left the one on black alone. That decision paid off as the next number was Black 17. The new chip told him he did indeed have a wife, at least he used to. Maggie had stayed with him for eight years. Some of those had been good, but most had been miserable. For her, anyway. He'd had too many mistresses and one-night stands to count. After years of knowing without hard evidence, she finally caught him in the act and demanded a divorce. The only good to come from it all was that they didn't have any children to drag through the mess.

He kept his bets on 13 and black, but this time the tiny ball settled on Red 21. No win meant no memories. What would happen if he bet two different places outside and only hit one? Would he get a memory or not? He didn't want to chance it; now that he knew a win meant learning more about his life, memories were more precious than chips. He placed two--one of the obligatory 13, and the other on 19 through 36. This time the ball plopped down on Black 15.

A bright light exploded above the table. Black 15 had been one of the other players' numbers. Feelings of peace and tranquility trickled down, and the player to Clay's right rose into the air. He still couldn't see him clearly, but he couldn't miss the look of relief on the man's face. Plus the feelings of giddiness flooding off of him were contagious. When the player was gone, the good feelings lingered, and Clay didn't care that he'd lost his second roll in a row. He put his chips onto the same bets and waited. Before the dealer started the next round, a new player replaced the departed one. This guy had the same anonymous look, but the depleted chips turned into five stacks of twenty.

The ball this time landed on Red 18, just one away from making him a winner on his outer bet. The euphoric feelings left over from the ascension faded, but before he drifted into despair, he noticed he was still far ahead of the two players who'd been there when he arrived. In fact, one of them was down to just a few chips.

Before the dealer called for no more bets, Clay decided he needed to worry more about getting his chips closer to 100. He moved his outer bet chip to the third column and added another to red. He watched the ball spin around and gasped as it almost stuck in the slot for his lucky number 13. Instead it wound up one spot over on Red 36. Though the result wasn't as good as hitting his number, he still won both outside bets, bringing his chip total back up to 96. And, more importantly, the tingling feeling in his mind meant another incoming tidbit about his life.

Clay was an accountant for CRASH-GAP, a highly successful computer repair business that specialized in fixing both hardware and software issues. CRASH-GAP stood for Computer Repair And Software Healers-Gerald And Paul. Gerald and Paul were the founders and owners--Gerald Wilkins and Paul Marx. Clay got on well with both.

He focused back on the table and decided to continue his conservative play. He left a chip on red, but put the one on the third column back in his bank. The player across from him went all in with his few remaining chips. The ball stopped on Red 23, giving Clay another win. The guy on the other side of the table, though, hadn't been as lucky. As soon as the dealer swept away those final chips, an intense heat erupted from behind the player, eliciting a scream. It was the first sound Clay had heard since he got here, not counting the clicks of the chips and roulette wheel. The player's face went from terror to surprise, and he was pulled backwards out of his chair. No thud or crash came from him hitting the floor--he was simply gone. As soon as it all started, it was over, and a new player sat in that spot, five stacks of twenty chips in front of him.

Just as Clay was thinking there was no way he wanted to go out like that, the dealer paid him his winnings, and a new memory flooded his psyche. As the accountant for CRASH-GAP, he had Gerald and Paul's undying trust. And he abused it. Twice a year he'd siphon out a chunk of money for a trip to Las Vegas. He made sure the amount was small enough to go unnoticed without a thorough check of the books--which no one but him ever did--but big enough for him to have a good time.

He took his chip off red and moved it to odd. He contemplated playing a second outer bet, but didn't want to get too far behind the two newcomers if he lost both. The black-cloaked dealer spun the ball around the wheel and it landed on Black 4. Both players ahead of him won their outer bets, meaning he was further behind if the wheel stopped at a double zero. He needed to close that gap and get one of them below him.

He kept a chip on odd and played another on the second twelve. A good win here would push him back closer, especially if one or both of them lost the spin. No such luck. He sucked in a deep breath as Black 26 hit. The dealer's bone-white hand swept away all three of his chips.

He glanced at that double zero and replaced his three chips. He then dipped back into his bank and played two more, one on black and the other on the first column. Five chips, counting the obligatory one on lucky number 13. Something would have to hit, and hopefully a bunch of them. Then he could breathe easier.

Instead his heart beat faster and sweat formed on his brow. Red 30. He'd lost each one. He now sat at 86 chips, still well ahead of the guy with just under two stacks, but further behind the other guys who still had close to their starting allotment of 100. This was stupid. Unless he wanted to race to the bottom, he needed to get back to his conservative play. Let them make the mistakes. Besides, his focus should be on Black 13; that's where the true prize lay. He placed a chip on 1 through 18 and watched the dealer make the spin.

Success! Black 10. As the dealer set his winning chip down, his next memory infiltrated his mind. He did take money from CRASH-GAP, but if he came back a winner, he returned it all. No one, neither Gerald nor Paul nor anyone else, was any the wiser. What's more, he took money only for gambling. His plane ticket, his hotel room, his wining and dining of beautiful women--be them ones he met or rented--all came from his own pocket. He only needed the CRASH-GAP money for that bit of extra fun. He wasn't a compulsive gambler, so even when he lost, he often came back with some of what he took. That chunk always went back into the company's account.

Clay put his next chip on odd. There was no point in throwing chips away on more outside bets than was required. That 13 was all that mattered. He watched the ball go round and round and gasped as it landed on the single zero. All eyes, even the dealer's, shifted to the player sitting with the lowest chip amount. He screamed and struggled, but couldn't go anywhere.

The wheel came to a halt and emitted a shrill, high-pitched whistle. The zero glowed, and the numbers around it shifted. Black 2 moved into the neighboring square inhabited by Red 14 to form a 16. That 16 moved to Black 35 to make a 51. On the other side, Black 28 invaded Red 9 to create 37. The 37 shifted over into Black 26 to form a 63. This continued on both sides of the wheel until the growing numbers met at the double zero. Both pushed into the green square and morphed together, forming a big 666.

Flames shot out of the sides of the wheel, disintegrating it. The heat assaulted Clay, but though it was uncomfortable, it didn't burn him. He glanced over at the loser and saw it affected him for the worse. His skin singed black even though he was no closer to the fire than Clay. Pain echoed in the guy's voice, his pathetic moans. A large red hand with razor-sharp claws raised out of the void the wheel left and grabbed the loser. He only managed a few weak whimpers through his now crispy lips. In the blink of an eye, the arm yanked him down the hole. The flames settled and extinguished, and the wheel reappeared, as if nothing had happened. With a flick of his boney wrist, the dealer sent the wheel back in motion, ready for the next roll of the ball.

Clay looked around and took a deep breath. A new player had replaced the one dragged down to Hell or wherever. Though he wasn't far behind, Clay had the lowest chip amount. Either a zero or double zero meant he'd suffer the same fate he just witnessed. He contemplated throwing his conservative strategy to the curb, but it was likely his best bet to get out of this mess. Less chips spent meant more time for lucky number 13 to hit, and that was the only true exit from this. He slid a chip to odd.

He didn't want to look as the ball began its descent. This time it landed nowhere near either zero, settling on Black 31. He closed his eyes and waited for the incoming memory.

"Clay, I need a minute of your time."

"Sure." Crap. Paul Marx. When did he ever make it to the office so early? Two more minutes and the money would have been back in the CRASH-GAP account. "What can I do for you, Paul?"

"I'm not going to beat around the bush, Clay. We know you've been embezzling money from us."

"But . . ."

"Don't bother denying it. We have irrefutable proof." Paul sighed. "I'm sorry, but I've called security. They'll escort you out front to meet the police."

"No, Paul, you don't understand . . ."

That's as far as he got. A shock of pain sprang through his entire body, starting on his left side, and he blacked out, never to awaken. A massive heart attack took him hours after returning from the biggest gambling weekend of his life. He'd taken ten grand on Friday and turned it into a couple hundred by Sunday. Had Paul given him that extra two minutes, he'd have deposited half of that back into the books, more than enough to square them for all the years he'd been doing it. Too late now.

He kept his chip on odd. Was all of this really random, or was it a scripted process that was a surprise only to the individual player? He hoped the game was straight, otherwise, if the memories were to be believed, he knew which way he was headed. As the ball danced out of the dealers polished fingers and sped around the rim of the wheel, he ignored the fact that lucky number 13 could be his salvation. Instead he prayed that it landed on neither zero.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

New Short Story--The Clown Killer

Happy Halloween! I'm honored to have this story chosen to be the Halloween story for The 13 Days of Horror. It's called "The Clown Killer." Check it out here. Give it a read, and let me know what you think. And when you finish my story, go give the other 12 stories a read. You won't be disappointed.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Walter's Valley (a short story)

I still have a couple of hours until it's technically my birthday, but I figured there would be no harm in publishing this now. By the time most of you read this, it'll be Monday. I thought this year I'd give everyone a gift of a short story--or I hope you enjoy it enough to consider it a gift. Personally, I like this story, and I'm guessing most of you will, as well. This isn't flash fiction, but a longer story (just over 3200 words), so be prepared for the length. I'd love to read your comments, and I hope you dig this one. I had a good time writing it. That's enough chatter from me--on with the story.

WALTERS VALLEY
by Eric J. Krause

Eli Walters looked at everything without seeing anything real. A minute ago he'd been walking along a nature trail in Sunny Valley Park, and now he was a cartoon. An actual cartoon in a cartoony meadow. The birds swooped and sang in words rather than chirps, bugs crawled out of the ground and preformed little dances for him, trees waved as if their branches were hands, and even the sun gave him a big smile and wink when he looked up. This wasn't happening; it couldn't be.

"Hi, Eli," something said. "How's it going?"

A large rabbit standing on two legs looked up at him. It held a carrot like a cigar and nibbled on the pointy tip.

"What's the matter, Eli?" the rabbit said between bites of the carrot. "Cat got your tongue?"

Eli couldn't think of anything to say except, "No, I can talk."

"Good. I hate cats. Filthy animals. I don't care what anyone says. Just last week I had one jam a mound of TNT down into my hole. Luckily it didn't know about the backdoor, so I stuffed all those explosives down its trousers right before it pushed the plunger. Blew it straight into another cartoon. Taught it to mess with ol' Hoppity-Hop."

Eli stared at the cartoon bunny. It finished its carrot, threw the green stem over its shoulder, and pulled another one out of thin air.

"Don't worry, Eli," the rabbit said. "You never remember when you first get here. It'd probably drive me nuts if I cared."

"Wait, what?" Eli said, but the rabbit had bounded on down a trail he hadn't noticed before.

He looked around and saw a little cottage off in the distance. Maybe whoever lived there could shine some light on what was going on.

As he walked, Eli found he had a bounce in his step, literally, as if his feet were made of rubber. If he pushed off just right, he could move faster without even trying. After a bit of practice, the cottage advanced at a rapid pace.

Once he arrived, he couldn't believe how tiny the cottage was. It looked to be about the size of a single bedroom, and a small one at that. The grounds made up for it, though. A white picket fence framed a lush lawn in the front and back, a vegetable garden to the right, complete with bumpy rows marked with small paper signs on little wooden stakes, just as he'd seen in countless cartoon shorts, and an apple tree to the left.

The tree smiled and waved its branches at him. "Eli! Welcome back!"

"Um, thanks." He wasn't sure what kind of conversation to make with a tree.

"Go on in," the tree said. "He's waiting for you."

"Who?"

"The professor, of course."

Eli nodded, opened the door, and gasped. It was as big as a gymnasium. He glanced at the outside walls, found them still the same puny size, and then stared back inside the massive cavern of a room. It wasn't physically possible; the corners of the shack ended mere feet from the doorway outside on either side, but inside they went for yards and yards. The distance to the backdoor was further still.

"Eli, my boy, you made it. I'm so glad to see you."

Eli followed the voice and saw a man--a cartoon man with wild white hair, a bushy white mustache, and a lab coat sitting in a plush red chair about halfway across the room. He stood up, took one step--his leg stretched all the way across the room until it planted itself in front of Eli and was followed by the rest of his body--and was right in front of Eli.

"It seems like forever since you've been here," the man, this professor, said. "I wish it was just a social call, but I summoned you back for a very important task.

"What are you talking about?" Eli said. "Summoned me? Who are you? What is this place?"

The professor laughed. "Here come the questions. Sometimes you walk through that door, chomping at the bit, ready to take on the world. Those times are my favorite. That's when I get the real you. Not that I mind seeing you on days like this. I know you'll come around sooner or later."

"I'm not following any of this," Eli said. What could he say to wring an explanation out of anyone or anything in this screwy place?

The professor shrugged. "I can't tell you. You have to get it on your own. If we don't let time run its course, you might over-think everything and not get your powers."

"My powers?"

The professor wagged his finger. "Ah-ah-ah, no hints. Now, are you hungry?"

Eli didn't have time to answer before the professor's arm stretched all the way to a door in the back of the huge room. He dragged out a long dining table piled high with various foods: roast turkeys, baked hams, slabs of steaks, mashed potatoes, barbequed beans, and a ton of other items Eli couldn't place at first glance.

The professor licked his lips and sat at one of the chairs. "Don't know about you, but I'm famished." He didn't put anything on a plate, nor use utensils, but started shoving food in. He took the whole turkey and dangled it into his mouth, which opened wider than physically possible. When he pulled it out in a swift jerk, all the meat was stripped from the bones. He tossed the skeleton over his shoulder. Another whole turkey reappeared on the serving platter, and the bones on the ground disappeared.

"Eat up, boy. You need the energy," the professor said as he emptied the entire dish of mashed potatoes down his throat. He set the bowl back down, and it refilled.

Eli shrugged and sat down. He reached for one of the steaks and before he could locate a plate, something took over his mind. He gulped it down in one bite. Delicious! He let his instincts take over and dived headfirst into the meal.

#

Eli and the professor lounged on a couch, both their stomachs puffed out like they'd stuffed basketballs under their shirts. Eli thought he should be in massive pain, but he merely felt satisfied.

"Did you cook all that?" Eli asked.

The professor looked over at him. "By the way you ate, I thought you were back. Not all the way, I guess." He leaped up, his bloated belly back to its normal size, and pulled the couch out from under Eli, who flew ten feet in the air, hung for two or three beats, then plummeted down as if an anvil were tucked into his pants. He crashed through the floor, leaving a crater in the hardwood, and climbed out. It hadn't hurt, though pale blue moons and little yellow birds circled his head. He closed his eyes and shook his head, chasing the moons and birds away. His stomach had shrunk to its normal size, too. If only he could market that diet.

The professor chuckled. "Everything but your mind. Good enough, I think. Now get out there and save the day."

Eli didn't move. "What am I supposed to do?"

The professor hustled him to the door, picked him up, and drop-kicked him. He launched hundreds of feet into the air until the land below was just splotches of greens, blues, browns, and yellows. When he hit the apex of his ascent, he hung there for a few seconds, and then plunged down.

A crow swooped down next to him and kept pace with his descent. "You gonna start flyin'?" the crow asked.

Eli, who was doing his best to remain calm, said, "I don't know how."

The crow scoffed. "The great Eli Walters don't know how to fly? How many times we fly together?"

Eli didn't know the answer. The ground rushed up at him at an alarming pace. He could make out the professor's house below. He'd crash right through the front porch.

"Oh, I get it," the crow said. "You ain't know who you are yet, and the ol' professor's usin' tough love to get you to learn. Always worked before, but I guess we see this time. If it don't work, I'm guessing you end up in another cartoon. You ever make it back from that, you let ol' Caw know how it went, right? Good luck, Eli."

The crow flew away, leaving Eli only seconds from impact. "Fly, dammit!" he yelled at himself. "Come on, fly!" His drop continued.

People didn't die from drops in cartoons, even insanely long ones like this. How many times had the impact caused the cartoon character to be in a full body cast, but once something made him happy or mad, he'd jump up and be fine? With that thought, he closed his eyes and let himself relax and wait for the impact.

Everything stopped. He hadn't realized how loud the roar of air had been around him until the silence hit. Had he crashed? Was this what high-altitude impact was like in a cartoon? Had he, like the crow suggested, fallen into another cartoon? He slowly opened his eyes, afraid of what he might find, be it one of those options or something entirely different.

He hovered just a few feet from the ground, right in front of the professor's house. The professor stood in the doorway, smiling at Eli. The crow sat perched on the roof, smiling at Eli. Even the trees, flowers, and sun smiled at Eli.

"Welcome home," the crow said.

"Yes," the professor said. "Now go get 'em!"

Eli burst up in the air with a hoot and a holler. He leveled off and spun a few loop-de-loops. He still didn't know who he was after, but he knew where to go: the giant's castle in the sky.

He crashed through the bottom of the cloud and settled down. Even though he'd flown right through, his feet settled on what might have been solid ground. He looked up at the castle, it's drawbridge down, and started towards it. The giant wasn't the target, but he'd make a formidable foe if he'd already been recruited.

As he walked towards the shimmering white castle, he felt a strange presence. This was why he was here, why the professor had called him back. From inside the castle, a voice spoke. "Eli, Eli, Eli. You made it back." It sounded familiar, and not just because he'd met this enemy before.

Once he passed the drawbridge, it rose and the portcullis slammed shut. A few more steps and he could see all around the courtyard. Nothing moved or made a sound. He could fly around for a better view, but before he took off, a figure stepped out of the shadows not ten feet from him.

Eli gasped. Other than an eye patch over the right eye, this adversary was his mirror image. "My brother," his image said. "It's been too long. We need to get together more often."

"Why are you back, Ile?" Eli didn't know where he'd pulled the name from, but it was correct.

Ile shrugged. "Is it a crime to want to come home? To kill my brother? To see my dear old daddy? To pull his illustrated guts out and feed them to my friend?"

Ile stepped aside and the Big Bad Wolf took its place at his side. Eli had bested the wolf before, as he was one of his brother's main goons, but he'd never seen it look like this. It had always been shaped like a slightly overweight man wearing a fur suit. It had a wolf's face and sharp teeth, but otherwise didn't look scary. The perfect cartoony villain. This wolf, though, scared even Eli. Its body shared more properties with animals than humans. It had always had hands in white gloves, but now had claws that looked sharp enough to harm even a cartoon. It was too realistic to belong in this particular cartoon world.

Ile sneered. "Every time you banish me, I learn things. Other places aren't always silly, neat, and happy. Some cartoons have dark undertones of death. Characters don't shake off fatal blows with a goofy grin. They realize death for what it is: final. Thanks to you, Eli, I bring that here."

Eli launched himself at Ile. He knew the charge wouldn't hurt Ile, but it'd at least stun him for a few seconds, leaving Eli enough time to deal with the Big Bad Wolf.

Ile didn't brace himself. A split second before impact, Eli grunted as the wolf tackled him, knocking them both to the ground. It bit at his neck. "You won't survive this time." Even its voice had deepened to horrific.

Eli flung the wolf off, but one of its claws stuck in his shoulder. His skin stretched out after his flying foe.

"Now, Eli," Ile said. "You shall experience my plan first hand. Too bad you won't know what hit you." Ile lifted his eye patch, showing he wasn't missing an eye, but instead had a ruby red crystal in the socket. "Goodbye, my brother. You've been an excellent foil, but I'm ready to move on."

Just as Ile's crystal eye lit up, Eli's shoulder skin snapped back, bringing the Big Bad Wolf with it. The wolf slammed into Eli at the same instant a red beam shot out of the glowing crystal. Instead of hitting Eli, it struck the Big Bad Wolf, who let out a howl and disintegrated.

"No!" Ile shouted. Before he could focus his eye beam on Eli again, Eli leapt and pulled the eye patch back over Ile's eye. He gave a mighty uppercut under Ile's chin, knocking him thirty feet into the air. Before Ile plummeted down, a huge hand shot out and grabbed him.

"Where Wolfie go?" the giant said. "You kill him!"

"It was Eli," Ile said. "He pulled Wolf in the way."

"No, you make Wolfie go away," the giant said. He started to squeeze, but Ile managed to get an arm free and whipped off the eye patch.

Eli flew up there, not wanting another iconic character gone, enemy or not. Power flowed through him, tickling up and down his arms. He pointed his hands at Ile and let fly with an energy bolt. It struck the back of the giant's hand, and the huge cartoon monstrosity let out a howl and dropped Ile. The eye beam missed.

The giant swatted at Eli, who dodged while keeping an eye on Ile, who hit the ground with a bang and cloud of dust. Both Eli and the giant stared down, waiting to see his fate. When the dust cleared, Ile stood grinning, his ruby eye glowing red, his eye patch in his hand.

Eli swooped down, maneuvering as he went to make himself a harder target to hit. The giant lifted his foot and stomped. The beam shot and hit the descending foot. The giant disappeared almost at once. Eli didn't stop his charge at Ile, who laughed as they collided.

"You can't beat me, Eli." They slammed through the wall of the castle's courtyard and tumbled over the moat and into the clouds that held it all up.

"I've beaten you before," Eli said, "and I'll do it again."

Ile laughed again, this time with the maniacal chortle of a mad scientist. "No, every time you send me to a different cartoon, I grow stronger. I made you too powerful, but you've returned the favor."

Eli's power built in his arms, and he released it at Ile. Before it hit, Ile's eye beam struck the energy and both dissipated into the nether. Eli then reached into his cartoon roots and pulled a bazooka out of thin air. That too was destroyed by the eye beam.

"I created you, Eli. I can destroy whatever you try. Shall we continue?"

"The Maker created me," Eli said, more to buy time than engage in a debate. He needed a weapon, but Ile was right. He wouldn't be able to get anything past that eye beam.

Ile laughed. "He created us, me. We were one until I chose the separation."

Eli nodded, both because he knew it was true and because he had a plan. He just needed Ile to attack him. "Fine, I'm finished," he said. "What is it you want?"

Ile motioned Eli to follow him and dropped through the clouds. They both landed softly in the field underneath. The castle faded away.

"What did you do?" Eli said. "I didn't see you shoot at it."

Ile shrugged. "I did nothing. No giant, no castle. Just like with this world. No Eli, no Walters Valley. Though I must commend you. You've done much better here than I ever could, and you did it without even trying. The goody two-shoes cartoons in this valley never could see through to your real purpose. You couldn't even see it, though that's why you always left. With all of the power I transferred to you, my one flaw was not putting enough of my ambition, my willingness to destroy, into you."

"You didn't create me, Ile, and you certainly never controlled me. We were different sides to the same coin. That's why you split us up. Now pray for a good cartoon because I'm sending you to one so far away you won't be able to make it back here for a long, long time." Eli used his power to puff out his arms as if energy flowed through them. He pointed both arms at Ile and waited for the burst from the ruby eye.

"I'm going nowhere," Ile said. "I'll enjoy remaking this valley in your honor. Maybe I'll even bring you back as my evil minion and let you kill all your friends." With that he shot the red beam at Eli, who instead of shooting energy, pulled out a huge mirror, which reflected the beam back at Ile. Ile didn't have time to move, scream, or anything. He just vanished. The ruby eye dropped to the ground. Eli picked it up, had the sudden urge to jam it into his own eye socket, but then turned his hands into huge millstones and ground it into red dust.

A leg stretched from the distance and set down in front of Eli. The rest of the professor then sprung into view.

"Mission accomplished?"

Eli nodded. "He'll never be back, but he took the Big Bad Wolf and the giant with him."

The professor shrugged. "If the Maker wills it, they'll be back."

"What about Ile?" Eli asked.

"An arch-enemy, especially one as evil and dangerous as him, makes a cartoon more exciting. But if not him, someone else. Now what do you say we head back to my house? I'm starving. But my real question to you is: Will this be another farewell meal?"

Eli thought about it for a second. Ile had been right; he had always left to protect Walters Valley. But with Ile gone, the threat inside him had left, too.

"No," Eli said. "I'm home for good."

END

Thursday, June 3, 2010

My Story for American Week

Cathy Olliffe, who runs the blog Life on the Muskoka River, is running American Week to showcase a few of the American authors in the #fridayflash crowd. I was lucky enough to have her select me as one of the representatives. My story, The High Noon Showdown (click on the story title to get to the page), is on there now. Go over, check it out, and leave a comment about my story, Cathy's write-up of me, or any of the other goodies.

Thanks, Cathy!

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!

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.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Latest Published Story--Three Seconds

My latest short story was published tonight. This one is a podcast, a first for me, so that was neat. It's also a young adult story, another first. The podcast is called "YA Literature Review." You can find it in two places: first on their website here: Three Seconds or on iTunes. Search "YA Literature Review" and download "Story Corner: Three Seconds."

I hope you enjoy the story, and please let me know what you think. I'd love to hear any comments you might have!

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Newest Short Story: The Breath of Life

I had a new short story come out today in Allegory Magazine. You can view it here: The Breath of Life. Leave me a comment about what you think. Thanks!

Friday, August 28, 2009

#fridayflash story: Jaime's Home

Earlier this week I heard about a great event each Friday. It's called #fridayflash, and the idea is to post a flash fiction story on your blog each week. I don't know if I'll participate every week, but I will try to as often as I can. So, without further ado, here is my first post for #fridayflash:

JAIME’S HOME

I swore I heard her voice yell to me, "I'm home," as I was in the shower. When I got out, she was nowhere to be seen. Then, ten minutes later, the hospital called and informed me she'd been in an accident. The paramedics had done their best, but she was gone before she reached the emergency room. I didn't bother to tell them that it was impossible; I'd heard her come in a few minutes before, and no, I didn't imagine it. Instead, I hung up the phone and folded into a ball. Jaime, my beautiful Jaime, was gone.

Only a few things caught my attention in those hours I lay there. One, our dog, Bickers, sat shaking, his tail between his legs, as he growled at nothing. Two, the kitchen light turned on and off a few times. Later I found the peanut butter jar on the counter, the lid unscrewed. I hadn't put it there, but Jaime loved peanut butter. Three, I heard the toilet flush two different times. Jaime never could go very long without having to use the bathroom.

I finally got up and did all the stuff I had to do regarding her death. I don't know how I made it through the next few weeks. I probably missed a bunch of signs. When my mind stopped spinning a few weeks later, I noticed Jaime all through the apartment. She had continued her life as if nothing had happened. That's the only way I could think to describe it. Her favorite chair always felt warm and used, though neither I nor anyone else sat there. The TV, whenever I wasn't watching, powered on and tuned to the Travel Channel, her favorite station. Plus a hundred other things I couldn't explain except that she was still there, living in death, just out of my reach.

What did she think? Could she think? Did I abandon her? Was I there in her unlife? I couldn't bear to think about it, and though neither of us was very religious, I called a priest. She needed to move on to wherever the dead went.

I don't really remember talking to anyone at the church. Like so many things after Jaime left, I ran on autopilot. When the priest showed up, I gave him a tour--a Jaime ghost tour, you might say. We watched as she made herself a sandwich, which was just the top twisting loose on the peanut butter jar and the knives vibrating in the silverware drawer. We witnessed the television turning itself on and the channels flipping through until it reached The Travel Channel. We noticed the indentation form in her chair.

I witnessed these things, anyway. The priest, for whatever reason, said none of that happened and refused to free Jaime. I got mad. It had all just happened as he stood there by my side. The only way he could calm me down was with an offer of some other kind of help. I tried to explain that the exorcism would do just that, but he said he had a better idea. He was a man of the cloth, so I believed him.

He went outside for a moment to talk on his cell phone, and when he got back, he was all smiles. In a few minutes, all my problems would be solved. I was so happy that I cried out to Jaime and asked if she had heard. She was going to be okay. Her chair creaked, and I knew she understood. She'd been alive the last time I'd felt this good.

Hours later I sat in a padded cell with a strait jacket wrapped tight around me. I had to admit it was rather comfortable. The help the padre had promised came in the form of an ambulance. He told the paramedics that I'd unscrewed a peanut butter cap, rattled the knives in the silverware drawer, turned on the television, flipped through the channels, and sat in a chair, all the while blaming it on her ghost. Ridiculous, of course. I'd been standing next to him the entire time. At least Jaime had come with me, though. Someone had stinky peanut butter breath.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Another Published Story

Here is a link to my latest published short story. It is called Find the Flag, and it is from issue 38 of Dark Fire magazine. I hope you enjoy it.

I've had this one written for over 10 years. I've always been proud of it, and my persistence in finding a home for it finally paid off. I actually had this placed with a print magazine back in the late 90s, but it went out of business before this story was put in it. Better late than never, right? Anyway, any comments you have on the story will be greatly appreciated. I hope everyone enjoys it!

Thursday, February 12, 2009

New Story Published

I'm making an extra post this week because I found out my story, "Hypnotic Therapy," was published today in the third issue of the online magazine Cerulean Rain. Here is the link: Hypnotic Therapy

The link leads to the entire issue in .pdf format. My story is on page 30, so you can go right to it by typing in "30" in the page number section of the toolbar of your trusty acrobat reader. Leave me any comments about the story here if you are so inclined. If you haven't seen them, the links to most of my other published stories are in the DEC 2008 section of this blog (or you can click here for Part 1, here for Part 2, and here for Part 3. I'd love to hear comments there, too! Enjoy!

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Holiday Stories

My wife is a crafter, and she's created special gifts for family members for many years, but I've never done anything of the sort. How can I, as a writer, really do anything with my skill to give to family at the holidays? I've seen poets write nice poems for their family and friends, but I write fiction, not poetry. I found the answer to be easy and fun to do. I decided to write a short holiday-themed story to include in our Christmas cards. I started this tradition last year, and I continued with it this holiday season.

This is a gift you can make as simple or ornate as you please. Personally, both stories I've written have been one single page long on plain white paper; this makes it feel like an easy read for anyone, even those who prefer to do their reading by watching the movie. I may experiment in the future with such ideas as colored paper and possibly even decorations around the edges. It might be something my wife and I can work on together to make it a true family gift. Really, like all of fiction writing, the possiblities are limited only by your imagination.

I wrestled with the idea of creating stories with my family members as the stars, but I felt for the purposes of this nice, simple gift, that was going too far. The story would need to be quite long to tell a convincing story (maybe not long in the traditional sense of fiction, but I would classify a story longer than a page or two as too long for this endeavour). If you feel this would be best for your family, however, go for it. It's your gift to them, afterall! In the end, all that really matters is that you give a gift that you are truly proud of, and that will give your family a sense of pride and joy that you'd take the time to construct a special story just for them.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holdays!