Thanksgiving Revolution – Two Minute Epic: Flash Fiction

Hey all, I’m thankful for choice and causality.  I’m thankful for fists and open palms.  And I’m thankful for cookies.  Enjoy this special Thanksgiving story as only I tell them.

            “We have what we have,” she said with a harrumph, plopping down at the head of the table, “Isn’t that right Roy?”  Susie had that way about her; everything she said seemed like a harrumph.  It gave her every utterance a sense of finality that vexed many, but won the heart of her husband.  Now that he was dead, few people in the family still appreciated her.

            Alex looked upon the heaping plates that littered the table and momentarily considered eating meat for the sake of social ease.  The caked brown skin of the turkey didn’t look bad.  He heard it crackled pleasantly in the mouth.  Alex had never eaten turkey, but maybe this Thanksgiving would be a new experience for him.

            His values.  What of his values?  What indeed.

            “I suppose,” said Roy with a sigh.

            Alex looked across the table at Roy’s apologetic eyes and slumped shoulders.  He shrugged, as if to say, ‘you wanted to come over, this is what it’s like.’  After years of living with his mother, and then after these last few months of helping take care of her, Roy uncomplainingly accepted her edicts.

            Up the table, with a fixed stare, Susie’s eyes bore down on him.  Her knobby eighty-year-old fingers rested tentatively on the table edge, and the full weight of her frail spine did not quite rest against the chair back.  She was waiting for him to confirm her diagnosis of the situation, waiting on him as if his consent confirmed her position as queen of the household.

            “We have what we have,” Alex said finally and Susie leaned back in the chair.

            She smiled warmly at him.

            “Why don’t you cut the turkey,” Susie said, offering the knife.

            “No,” Alex smiled brightly, “I don’t eat meat, and I don’t cut it up either.  I think I’ll enjoy those delicious looking mashed potatoes.”

            Roy brought his napkin up to cover a growing smile on his face.  Susie’s eyes narrowed, but a smirk crept onto her lips.  She opened her mouth, and then shut it, choosing her words carefully.

            “Well,” she said, ending the short silence, “we have what we have.”

Thanksgiving Sacrifice – Two Minute Epic: Scary Flash Fiction

Hey All, this year I decided to write a Thanksgiving story.  And while I intended to write a feel good moral story about appreciating what you have, something else entirely came out (in true Free Stories fashion).  I will endeavor to write another Thanksgiving story for Thanksgiving day, but for now, enjoy this bloody ode to feasts and celebrations!

I killed him after slicing the turkey.  One swift rake across the jugular and thick globs of red squirted all over the stuffing and cranberry sauce.  His jaw dropped, and his face immediately paled.  He gasped.  After long long seconds he gasped again and then reached at me with splayed fingers, his wide eyes glaring at me with malice.  The fingers of his claw like hand curled into an accusing finger which pointed at me before shaking wildly.  The flabby ball of his torso struggled to remain erect and began shaking also.  Finally, he gasped one last time and slumped forward, landing his pale fat face in the thick slice of pumpkin pie he had stubbornly insisted on eating first.

With the evening’s daunting task completed, I sat down.  I touched my face and realized I was grinning madly, my lips frozen in a sort of snarl.  I felt a ball of energy swelling in my chest and realized I was holding my breath.  I barked a laugh.  I stopped.  Was that appropriate? I wondered.  I laughed again.  I let it roll out of my chest.  Waves of laughter rolled out of my frozen lips and flooded the table, lapping at the edges of the still warm dinner rolls and the steaming turkey.

“Oh God,” I moaned when the laughter finally left me, “thank you.”

I decided not to eat.  Instead, I wrapped my thickest cloak about me and pulled out the sled.  After positioning the long planks of the sled by the dinner table, I heaved that dead body onto it and dragged it out the front door.  With a crackling torch in one hand, and the sled’s reins in the other, I plodded through the snowy woods.  The menacing crunch of my boots on the snow, the long shivering shadows and the needle thin fingers of the branches did not frighten me, nor did the wolf howls that seemed to grow closer and closer.  Good, I thought, hopefully they can smell the blood.

Upon reaching the clearing, I set to work cleaving the body into smaller pieces and scattering them in a circle.  In the middle of the circle lay the pyre of dry wood I’d been accumulating all year.  I poured oil on it and used my torch to set it ablaze.  ”Come!”  I shouted, and the wolves howled.  ”Come and eat your fill!”

In the middle of the scattered body parts I stood waiting all night.  The wolves came and I watched them creep at the edges of the light, snatching up the body parts in hungry, slobbering jaws.  But before they did, each one lowered its head, as if in thanks.

Dreaming of Death – Two Minute Epic: Flash Fiction

It’s another Tuesday and here’s another brain dropping I call a story.  This week I’m continuing my experimentation of style, structure, and content.  All comments welcome (except spam)!

            Again he sat.  The screen glowed.  His fingers paced the keyboard.

            The doorbell rang and he opened the heavy double doors.  A visitor entered.  He greeted the visitor and inquired regarding intentions.  The visitor announced their intentions and he guided the visitor inside.

            Again he sat.  The screen glowed.  His fingers paced the keyboard.

            A visitor entered.  He startled.  The doorbell did not ring.  This visitor smiled.  He smiled in return.  This visitor bowed.  He bowed in return.  This visitor lay prostrate.  He lay prostrate.  The visitor stepped on his throat and strangled him.  He died.

            He shook the dream from his mind.  He thought, third time today.

            Again he sat.  The screen glowed.  His fingers paced the keyboard.

            He looked at his watch.  He vowed not to look at his watch again until significantly more time passed.  The doorbell rang.  A visitor entered.  He greeted the visitor.  The visitor smiled.  He quit.

A Line In Sand – Two Minute Epic: Flash Fiction

Hey All, this week I decided to experiment a little with narrative and the nature of story-telling. Comments always welcome. Enjoy!

            I write a story that is a line in sand.  You follow it before it floats away on wind or water.  You follow it across the desert, laden with bricks of salt, which you trade for gold.  I write a story that is a dune.  You sit a top it and ride it along the shoreline to the sapphire bay, where you fish.  I write a story that is a tree.  You climb up the tree beyond its emerald leaves and then you climb the air until you reach the clouds and disappear; some say you reach heaven.

            I write a story that is the wind and you call me God or you call me blasphemer and burn me.  I write a story that is water and you forget I exist.  I write a story that undoes stories and you die and are reborn.

            I write a story that is a line in sand.  You follow it before it floats away on wind or water.  But this line meets itself and becomes a circle.  You follow it until you fall into your own mind and there you find yourself sitting on a beach at the edge of the world with the ever-roaring sea as company.

Bashing Heads and Vocabulary Tests – Two Minute Epic: Flash Fiction

Hey All, I’m back with just a regular flash fiction today.  I hope you all enjoyed the 12 days of Halloween!  For those of you checking in for the first time, I publish flash fiction once a week on Tuesdays or Wednesdays (I may move to Wednesdays).  Comments and constructive criticisms always welcome!

My dad once gave me advice on learning vocabulary for English Class.  He said, “You bash your head against the wall.”  I gave him an incredulous look, but he continued, “Well, you don’t bash it.  You just tap it on each syllable, works like a charm.  It’s a mnemonic device.”

So I tried it, and it worked, but half an hour later I had a splitting headache and a growing bruise.  The next day, I scored one hundred percent on my vocabulary test, but I walked around with a blue cloud on my forehead that–by the end of classes–turned purple.

“Yeah,” my dad said with a proud smile when I got home, “that’s the mark of learning the hard way.”

In retrospect, I don’t know why I hit my head against the wall that day.  It would have been just as effective to tap my finger on my palm.  I wonder if my dad ever had this realization, and if he did, why did he advise me to hit my head?  I know my dad isn’t stupid, and he’s learned many things in his lifetime, but I worry for him.  I worry that maybe he never learned not to bash his head against the wall.

Everyday Monsters – 12 Days of Halloween: Scary Flash Fiction: Story 1

Hey all, today marks the last story in the 12 Days of Halloween story sequence.  For those of you who don’t know, I wrote a short story, or a poem, for every day of the 12 days leading up to Halloween.  Tomorrow is Halloween so today is the last story.  It’s a bit of a misnomer, actually, because today’s post is a story-poem.  I always find that rhyming is a powerful device to control rhythm and tempo, and both those things contribute immensely to creating a ’scary tone.’  Or maybe it’s just that my early readings in ’scary’ literature had heavy focus on rhyme and meter.  As always, comments welcome!

 

Angry Mob by dpsullivan on Flickr.com

 

This tale we tell on Halloween
regards the frightening and unseen
horrors that might split the seam
of sanity down the middle. 

But If you listen carefully,
with open minds judgement free,
beyond our pomp hyperbole,
you might just hear a riddle. 

Sphinx our story does not hold,
but riddles make the truth unfold,
and monsters often are truth untold,
so lets tell truths on Halloween. 

Our first regards young Billy Blane,
who habits alley and dirty lane,
endures conceit and much disdain,
from most who bare to look on him. 

He lost his job and now casts spells
with condoms and lubricant jells,
he helps rid men of work day shells,
before they see their family. 

And when they burn him at the stake
a curse will smoke and fire make
so all that watch will never shake
his screams from their memory. 

For no true witches ever lived.
Those who burn them seldom forgive
the choices some folk make to live.
The monster is the mob. 

And what of Sally Tuberdale
who ran from parents raged on ale
and sleeps on streets though oft regales
she’s better off without them. 

For here can she hold the hand
of any lover, woman or man,
and public eyes daily withstand,
the sight of true love’s fancies. 

And so she sleeps beneath a bridge
content with homeless pilgrimage.
The monster is that the life she lives
resides not in a home. 

There’s Cindy Sayer, the local mayor,
who robs blind honest tax payers
to funds bad projects so she can say her
term was not for not. 

The friends she’s made with greenbacks paid,
the crowds she’s stayed with media aid,
and all the voters she has played,
will not save her humanity. 

For in her quiet well kept house,
no spoiled child or trophy spouse,
will suffice to quiet doubts,
that plague her lonely dreams. 

The truth is she would rather die
than ever admit to a single lie,  
and in the end she’d most deny,
that power makes a monster. 

And last we see those daily races,
workers working at crazy paces,
and squashing flat all of the faces
that plead for a slower lane.

The great machine we grease with blood,
the dams we built so we can flood
our verdant valleys with seas of mud,
so we can keep our jobs. 

The riddle now becomes much clearer,
if monsters live in every mirror,
appear amongst us mad or sober,
in every month, not just October,
then can we also therefore deem,
that everyday is Halloween?

 

FrankenHalloWhoDunnit? – 12 Days of Halloween: Scary Flash Fiction: Story 2

Hey all, today I decided not to try to be scary, but to make light of the formulas for certain scary movies.  Hope you enjoy!

by jgrahnen on Flickr.com

     Five guests sat down to eat dinner.  Suddenly, one of them gasped and died.

     “Oh my,” said one of the guests, “I suppose there’s a killer in the house.”

     “Why do you say that?” said another guest.

     “Because it’s Halloween,” said another guest, “no one dies of natural causes on Halloween.”

     The four remaining guests were convinced by this logic and all nodded agreement.

     “Well, it wasn’t me,” said guest number one.  The lights went out, and moments later when they came back on, guest number one was dead.

     “I think that leaves only three of us,” said guest number two.

     “We should stick together,” said guest number three.

     “We’re all going to die,” said guest number four, “I’ve had a premonition.”

     The lights went out again, and moments later, when they came back on, guest number for was also dead.

     “We should get a lantern,” said guest number two, “to save us from the dark when we are vulnerable.”

     “Why not a flashlight?” asked guest number three.

     “Don’t you have any sense of style?” accused guest number two.

     Then the lights went out a third time, and when they returned, moments later, guest number three was dead.

     “Now that’s funny,” said guest number two, “I didn’t do that.  There must be someone else in the house.”

     “It is I,” said the host, revealing himself by stepping out from behind a curtain.

     “Oh my!  But your note said you wouldn’t be here,” said guest number two.

     “I tricked you!”

     “But why?  We all liked you so much!”  despaired guest number two.

     “Because I’m secretly twisted and evil,” said the host, “and I hate you all for reasons of which you were completely unaware.”

     “Is this where I die then?” cried guest number two.

     “No,” said the host, “I will let you live so that you can live in fear, which is no life at all.  You’ll be like a zombie, or a vampire, or some other undead creature!  What greater revenge is there? Aren’t I extra scary because I’m a poetic psycho?”

     And then the host left the house and disappeared.  Guest number two, not wanting a scandal, stacked the bodies in the basement and quietly left.

Dolls – 12 Days of Halloween: Scary Flash Fiction: Story 3

Hey Everyone, here’s another one!  This one’s about dolls. How could I resist?  They are just naturally creepy!

            I chose to ignore the clouds as I raced cross-country to enjoy my wedding.  Snow would not stop me, I decided, my passion would burn a hole through any ice.  I was wrong.  By nightfall, the snow fell so thick that shortly after stopping my car, I found the windshield completely covered in white flakes.  At this rate, I would be buried and freeze to death within hours.  Realizing my great danger, I pulled my parka close around me, squeezed into my rubber boots, found a flashlight and dove into the storm.

            To my amazement, I had stopped not more than fifty feet from a tall, clearly derelict though once elegant country home.  A light in the first story window pierced the thick snow and shown like a beacon.  I raced up the driveway, hoping that the dirty and run down countenance of the home was not matched by a cold and inhospitable interior.

            A disfigured man in a crisp suit answered the door.  He easily stood over six feet, his arms hung almost to his knees, and his face—his face cannot be described.  His face was barely a face.  If it weren’t for two eyes, two holes where his nostrils should be, and a gash that revealed haphazardly arranged teeth in the skin above his chin, you could not call it a face.

            “Ah,” the disfigured man spoke with surprising articulation, “Mr. Peuter has indeed arrived before cake.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said as graciously as I could, “do I know you?”

            “Don’t be silly, Mr. Peuter,” said the disfigured man, and before I knew it, I was pulled into a warm hall, where my coat was removed.  The disfigured man was incredibly strong, and it took little more than a nudge from him to fling me onto a bench, after which he proceeded to kneel down and remove my boots.

            He ushered me into a parlor right by the door where, seated around a knee high rose wood table, sat three child sized dolls with pristine porcelain faces.  Each face wore different painted make up, but they all shared the same wide-eyed expression of delighted surprise and they all wore a bonnet on their heads.  In front of each doll sat an immaculately painted teacup, and upon the table sat several brilliantly ornate teapots.  I could barely contain my confusion when suddenly a high-pitched voice emanated from the doll seated closest to my right, which wore a green bonnet.

            “You must have a good reason for leaving your guests, Mr. Livingston,” said the voice.

            “Oh, but I do,” responded the disfigured man, “I was attending to our new guest, Mr. Peuter, who said he might not attend on account of a previous engagement, but has pleasantly surprised us all.”

            “Good show, Mr. Peuter,” said a slightly differently toned voice that emanated from the doll across the table, which wore a blue bonnet.

            “I’m sorry,” I said a second time, “but you seem to know my name.  Do I know you?”

            “Don’t be silly,” said the disfigured man, a darker tone in his voice betraying a shortening patience.  Then his throat seemed to wriggle, and though his mouth did not move, I believe it was his voice that made the noises, which emanated from the third doll seated at the table.  This doll wore a purple bonnet.

            “It’s rude to call one’s guests silly,” said the voice.

            The disfigured man roared, “Don’t contradict ME!”  The six-foot monster stormed over the table, shattering the plates and cups, then lifted the offending doll and tore out of the room into the hall.  A thin scream echoed down the hall to me in the parlor, where I sat panicking about what to do.

            Then the doll in the blue bonnet spoke in the same voice as before, “One must always mind one’s manners when at the table with Mr. Livingston.”  As if of its own will, the doll cocked its head.  “Wont you have some tea?”

            Convinced I was losing my mind, I dashed into the hall, pulled on my boots and tried to open the door, only to find it was stuck.  I heard steps echoing in the hall, so I turned to see the disfigured man standing twenty feet away, holding cotton stuffing in both hands.

            “You cannot leave yet,” he roared, “it’s rude!”

            With all my strength I pulled on the door and it broke free.  I heaved through the opening and found myself suddenly in the bright light of day.  The weather was clear, birds were chirping, and my car sat under a smattering of dried leaves at the end of an overgrown driveway.  I looked behind me to find no door at all, only the dark, rotting entrance to an abandoned country home.

            After the wedding, I would see a psychiatrist, I decided, and taking a deep breath, I strolled down the driveway to my car.  Halfway there I stopped and screamed, for in the back seat of my car sat a little girl with porcelain white skin, her neck torn open and a purple bonnet sitting on her head.

Who I’d Kill – 12 Days of Halloween: Scary Flash Fiction: Story 4

Hey all, for those of you who are new to my blog, this is the deal: I’m doing the 12 Days of Halloween as a parody of the 12 Days of Christmas.  Every day I publish a new scary short story on my blog, up until Halloween.  In today’s post, I’ve played around a little bit with story telling.  It’s a dialogue, but you don’t know who’s talking, or why.  Comments and constructive criticism always welcome!!!

Luna Eyes by kwdaustin on Flickr.com

ONE:  You know, there are so many people I would kill if I didn’t have a conscience.

THE OTHER:  Uh…  really?

ONE:  Yeah, you know?  Like, of course there’s revenge, but there’s also, you know, just plain old fun.

THE OTHER:  Uh, what do you mean?

ONE:  Like, haven’t you ever wanted to just stab someone on the street?  Like, you walk into them and say excuse me, but you’ve actually shoved a steak knife into their liver?

THE OTHER:  What?

ONE:  You know!  Just kill someone and then watch what happens.  See people freak out and start calling for help, and you just stand there and watch.  The person’s face goes white and blood sort of bubbles out into a pool.   And a mother is walking her baby, then she sees the guy dying and just starts screaming and the baby isn’t scared of blood so the baby just starts slapping it with her hands to see it squirt about.  Pandemonium breaks loose.  It makes me sort of smile just thinking about it.

THE OTHER:  But you would never do this?

ONE:  No.  Never.  I have a conscience.  Guilt would get the better of me.  I’d have to kill myself if I ever did something like that.

THE OTHER:  What if you were drunk?

ONE:  What?

THE OTHER:  What if you were too drunk to remember?

ONE:  Oh… that’s… a possibility.  I hadn’t thought about it like that.

Witch Wishes – 12 Days of Halloween: Scary Flash Fiction: Story 5

Here’s one to start off the week.  Comments welcome!

old woman in cape kaliacra ( bulgaria) by vetlife2005 on Flickr.com

            Clancy awoke one Monday morning to find a Witch in his bedroom, knitting in a rocking chair.

            “Good morning, little boy,” said the Witch.

            “Good morning,” said Clancy, “What are you doing in my room?”

            “You dreamed my name,” said the Witch, “and anyone who dreams my name gets three wishes for their trouble.  But be careful: getting what you want and being happy are two different things.”

            At hearing this, Clancy grew frightened.  He thought he was perfectly happy just the way he was, and now he had to wish for something.  Suddenly, an idea came to him.

            “I wish everything would stay the same forever,” said Clancy.

            “As you wish,” said the Witch, and the whole world turned to stone.  Clancy looked in terror as his entire room, including the blankets, the books, the toys, and even the glass of water by his bed all turned to stone.

            “Take back!” cried Clancy.

            “You mean you wish for everything to return to the way it was?” asked the Witch.

            “Yeah!”

            “I can’t,” laughed the Witch, “I can’t undo wishes.  Wishes aren’t like knitting; you can’t just pull on the string and unravel the universe.  You have to wish for a new world that was just like the old one.”

            “Okay,” said Clancy, “I wish for a new world that was just like the old one.”

            “As you wish,” said the Witch, and everything in the world returned to as it was before except Clancy was now an old man instead of a young boy.

            “Why am I old?” asked Clancy, beginning to panic.

            “Not everything can stay the same,” said the cackling Witch.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Clancy.

            “Because life’s not fair,” said the Witch, suddenly very serious, “Do you think, for example, that I really want to be a Witch?  I’d much rather be a garden toad.  Be grateful I made the change so obvious.  I could have killed your mother instead of making you old!  What is your final wish?”

            “I wish to be my old self!” demanded Clancy in a warbling voice.

            The Witch sighed, “You aren’t listening.  I can’t undo wishes.  You can’t be your old self, you have to be at least a little different.”

            “Fine!” yelled Clancy, “make me the same but different!”

            “As you wish,” said the Witch with a heavy voice, and then she disappeared.

            Clancy felt his body and saw that he was again a little boy, except he saw that three fingers were now missing from his right hand.   Ever since, every time he reached for anything with that hand, he remembered the Witch and the dangers of wishing.